Kyree

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar. His hair is newly washed, hanging in curly bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut. 

“What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar.

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested. Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start piling up your plate.

While stuffing your face, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s it, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, you hadn’t proved to be very normal at all so far.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild curiosity, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way, at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your earlier concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello? What’s so funny?” you ask again.

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, looking for answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t actually buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it, given the man’s your cannibalistic captor you shouldn't be goofing around with. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as taking a fake sick-day just to get out of work.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual or abstinent while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to test your eye for precautions.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You drop back down with a pout at the boring response, staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your stomach.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s boring, you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something more, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him anymore to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

“Damn, I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever managed to make you cum. Our little chase must have really turned you on, baby. Makes me wonder how fast I can make you cum with my dick… maybe we’ll even beat our last record. We’re going to have some fun tonight…” 

He studied you for another moment, then raised an eyebrow. “Can I let you get up?” he asked, his voice calm despite the warning underneath it. “You're not going to run again, are you?”

You hesitated just long enough to make it believable before giving him a small nod. “No,” you replied quietly. “I won't.”

Suspicion flickered across Dick's face. He searched your expression for any sign of deception, but all he found was exhaustion and what looked like reluctant acceptance. After a brief pause, he slowly climbed to his feet, never taking his eyes off you.

You could feel his gaze following your every movement as you pushed yourself up from the floor. Instead of standing immediately, you slowly lowered yourself onto your knees in front of him, your eyes fixed on the floor as though you had finally accepted your situation.

Dick stared down at you in silence. A small part of him remained cautious, waiting for another desperate attempt to escape. But the moment your eyes finally lifted to meet his—wide, hesitant, almost innocent—something inside him tightened.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something dangerously soft. “Already on your knees where you belong.”

A satisfied smirk spread across his face as he stepped closer. He reached down, gently cupping your chin between his fingers, guiding your face upward until your eyes met his once more. His thumb brushed slowly across your bottom lip, his touch almost unbearably gentle compared to everything that had happened only minutes earlier.

You hated how familiar it felt. Hated that, despite everything, your body still remembered the countless times he had touched you with the same tenderness.

Without breaking eye contact, Dick's free hand drifted to the waistband of his trousers. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to give you every opportunity to watch. One button. Then another.

Your breath caught. You instinctively wet your lips before you could stop yourself.

God, get it together, you scolded yourself silently. Fear, adrenaline, muscle memory—you didn't even know anymore. All you knew was that this was exactly what he wanted: for you to look at him, to hesitate, to forget, even for a second, that he was the man who had murdered your best friend.

Without breaking eye contact, he shoves boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, freeing his cock. It sprang out, thick and heavy, the flushed head already glistening with a bead of precum. He wrapped a hand around the base and gave one slow stroke. Dick moved closer, one hand tangling gently in your hair as he guided the head of his cock to your mouth, tapping it against your lower lip once, then twice.

“Open up for me, pretty girl. Let it see how deep you can take me.” Your pussy clenched at the words. You looked up at him through your lashes, then parted your lips before taking him in.

The first slide of his cock over your tongue drew a deep, guttural groan from his chest. He was thick—stretching your mouth in that perfect, slightly overwhelming way. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked, tongue swirling around the head before you sank lower, taking as much of him as you could. All thoughts of escape disappeared from your head.

“Fuck,” Dick hissed, fingers tightening in your hair.

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward his eyes. He kept one hand in your hair as he started to rock his hips, fucking your mouth in slow thrusts.

“Gods, you look so perfect like this,” he rasped, voice strained with pleasure. “My perfect little doll.”

You hummed, the sound muffled and obscene. Drool had started to slip from the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin but you didn’t care. You bobbed your head faster, one hand coming up to stroke what you couldn’t fit, twisting gently on every upstroke the way you knew he liked.

Dick’s head tipped back for a moment, a low, broken moan escaping him. His stomach flexed visibly under the hem of his shirt, and his cock throbbed against your tongue. “Shit—slow down or I’m gonna come too fast,” he warned, but he didn’t pull away. “So fucking good with that pretty mouth… that’s my girl,” he groaned.

He pulled out suddenly, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped for air, lips swollen and shiny, and he immediately tapped his cock against your tongue. Suddenly, cum shot out of his cock right into your open mouth. You closed your lips around the tip and licked it a few times, making sure you licked up every drop of cum.

Dick let out a slow, satisfied breath as he looked down at you. You looked beautiful beneath him—your hair hopelessly tousled, your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your lips swollen. A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hand rose to your face almost instinctively. Warm fingers brushed your cheek before his thumb slowly traced over your bottom lip with surprising tenderness.

Now, you thought. Before he could react, you sank your teeth into his thumb as hard as you could.

"Fuck!" Dick hissed, immediately jerking his hand away. His eyes widened in surprise before narrowing in pain as a thin line of blood welled around the bite mark. "Jesus Christ..."

You scrambled to your feet without a second thought. Your eyes darted frantically around the room until they landed on the bathroom just a few steps away. You ran.

Throwing yourself through the doorway, you slammed the door shut behind you. Your trembling fingers barely managed to turn the lock before you stumbled backward, your chest rising and falling with frantic breaths.

For one brief, precious second… Silence.

Then something crashed violently against the other side of the door. You flinched so hard your back hit the sink. Another deafening bang rattled the thin wooden frame.

"Open the fucking door!" Dick roared, all traces of his playful tone gone. Rage bled through every word as he pounded against the wood hard enough to make the hinges groan. "Honey, don't do this," Dick called through the door, forcing his voice back into something gentle. "Open the door. I'm not mad, I promise. Just let me in, and we'll talk."

You knew he was lying. You had known him long enough to recognize the subtle edge beneath his calm voice. He wasn't just angry. He was furious.

Your eyes darted around the tiny bathroom, desperately searching for another way out. They landed on the small window overlooking the backyard. Your heart lurched. The police station. It was only fifteen minutes away on foot.

Fifteen minutes didn't sound impossible... 

...unless Dick caught you first.

A violent crash against the bathroom door made you flinch. The frame groaned. He wouldn't need much longer. Without giving yourself time to think, you rushed to the window and shoved it open. Cool night air rushed into the room. You swung one leg over the windowsill, then the other. For one brief moment, you glanced back at the bathroom door as another deafening bang echoed through the room.

He was almost inside. You jumped.

You landed awkwardly on the damp grass, pain shooting through your ankles, but adrenaline kept you moving. Without looking back, you sprinted across the yard and disappeared into the dark streets.

Dick let out a frustrated growl and slammed his shoulder into the bathroom door one final time. The lock gave way with a loud crack. He stumbled inside, immediately scanning the room.

Empty.

His gaze snapped toward the open window. "Shit."

He crossed the room in seconds and looked outside just in time to catch the faint silhouette of your figure disappearing around the corner of the neighboring house. 

His jaw clenched. Chasing you now would only make things worse. If anyone saw him dragging you back, everything would fall apart. No. He'd let you run. Because he already knew what came next.

By the time you stumbled through the doors of the police station, your lungs burned with every breath. Every head in the room turned toward you. Your clothes were wrinkled, your hair a mess, and tears blurred your vision.

"Please..." you whispered between ragged breaths. "Please help me."

A young police officer hurried over immediately, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "You're safe now," she said softly. "Come with me."

She led you into a small interview room, handed you a bottle of water, and asked you to wait while she informed her superior. The next ten minutes felt endless. Your leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table as your mind replayed the last few hours over and over again. Then the door opened.

Commissioner Gordon stepped inside.

"Please," you blurted out before he even had a chance to sit down. "You have to believe me. It's Dick. Dick Grayson. He's Ghostface."

Gordon froze. For a long moment, he said nothing. His eyes carefully studied your face—your trembling hands, the tears clinging to your lashes, the bruises already beginning to bloom against your skin. You looked terrified. Not confused. Not hysterical. Terrified. He had seen enough victims over the years to recognize genuine fear when it was sitting right in front of him.

Dick Grayson...

Gordon had quietly suspected him for weeks. There had been too many coincidences, too many loose ends that somehow always led back to Bruce Wayne's adopted son. But suspicion wasn't evidence, and evidence was exactly what he lacked.

Arresting Dick Grayson wouldn't be easy. He wasn't just another suspect. He was Bruce Wayne's son. Gotham's golden boy. Without solid proof, no judge would sign off on keeping him behind bars for long. Gordon slowly pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, keeping his voice calm.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Take a deep breath." He slid a box of tissues across the table. "Start from the beginning." His expression hardened almost imperceptibly. "Tell me everything."

You talked for what felt like hours. Every detail. From finding the box beneath Dick's bed to the knife stained with dried blood. The mask. Stephanie. The chase through the house. Every word that had come out of his mouth. Maybe you just left out the parts where he put his fingers in your pussy and you sucked his cock. 

The room remained silent otherwise, broken only by the scratching of a pen across paper. When you finally finished, your voice was barely above a whisper. "...and then I ran."

Silence settled between you. Gordon closed the file in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "I believe you." The words almost made you cry. "But believing you and proving it are two different things."

You lowered your gaze. "I know."

He stood, reaching for his jacket. "I'm going to the Grayson apartment myself."

Twenty minutes later, three police cruisers rolled to a stop outside Dick's house.

The porch lights were still on. The front door opened before anyone had the chance to knock. Dick Grayson stood there in a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his expression calm—almost curious. His blue eyes swept over the officers before settling on Gordon.

"Commissioner."

"You know why we're here?" Dick tilted his head slightly.

"I have a feeling this is about my girlfriend’s lies."

Gordon's jaw tightened. "Dick Grayson, you're under arrest on suspicion of multiple counts of homicide."

For the briefest moment… Dick smiled. Not nervously. Not in disbelief. Just... amused. He slowly raised both hands. "I'll cooperate."

One officer stepped forward and secured his wrists behind his back. The metallic click of the handcuffs echoed through the quiet house. Dick didn't resist. He didn't argue. He didn't even ask for a lawyer. Instead, his gaze wandered past the officers toward the staircase leading upstairs.

Everything's gone. The costume. The knife. The phone. Every trace that mattered had disappeared.

The ride back to the station passed in complete silence. Dick sat in the back of the cruiser with his cuffed hands resting in his lap. He looked almost relaxed. As if this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

You were standing outside the interview room when you heard footsteps approaching. Then voices. Several officers rounded the corner. And between them...

Dick.

His wrists were bound in steel cuffs, yet he carried himself with the same effortless confidence he always had. When he saw you, he stopped walking. One of the officers nudged him forward. "Keep moving."

But Dick's eyes never left yours. There wasn't an ounce of panic in them. Only quiet certainty. A slow smile spread across his face. "There you are," he said softly.

You felt your stomach twist.

One of the officers shoved him again. "Move."

Dick obeyed without complaint. As he passed you, he leaned his head just enough for only you to hear. "You did the right thing." Your brow furrowed in confusion. His smile widened. "I would've gone looking for you eventually." A chill ran down your spine. Then his voice dropped even lower. "So enjoy the peace while it lasts." He glanced briefly at the handcuffs around his wrists before looking back at you. "They won't keep me here for long." Your blood ran cold. "I'll see you again soon."

Today was going to be perfect. You stepped back and admired your work. The dining table was covered with a crisp white tablecloth, the plates and silverware arranged perfectly, and candles flickered softly around the room, casting a warm golden glow. But something was still missing… Pictures. Maybe you could scatter a few photographs of the two of you around the living room.

Smiling to yourself, you hurried upstairs to Dick's room. He kept dozens of framed photos on his shelves, and you figured he wouldn't mind if you borrowed a few for the evening. As you stepped inside, your eyes immediately scanned the room, locating the familiar frames. Then something else caught your attention. A corner of a cardboard box stuck awkwardly out from beneath the bed, as if Dick had shoved it there in a hurry and forgotten to push it all the way in.

Maybe it's a gift for me. The thought immediately brought a grin to your face. You knew you shouldn't snoop. Really, you did. But before you could stop yourself, your feet were already carrying you toward the bed. Just a quick peek, you promised yourself. One glance and then I'll put it back exactly where it was. Maybe it was that dress you'd shown him last week… Or a necklace… Or maybe a spicy little toy you could use after dinner...

Biting back a smile, you carefully lifted the lid. Then you froze. This was definitely not a gift.

Hunting knife stained with dried blood, a black hooded robe, and that mask. That fucking Ghostface mask. The same one plastered all over the news for the past month. The same one worn by the psycho who had been butchering people across Gotham.

“Y/N,” Dick's voice made your blood run cold. You looked up. He stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the exit completely. His expression was tight, almost desperate, as he took a cautious step forward. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Today marked seven months since you started dating, and Dick Grayson had been the best boyfriend you’d ever had. Loving, charming, funny, attentive - and so unbelievably handsome it almost felt unfair. Until this moment, being with Bruce Wayne’s adopted son had seemed like the best thing that had ever happened to you. Until now.

Your stomach twisted violently.

Dick? Your Dick? The boy who followed you around like a lovesick puppy, constantly touching you, kissing your forehead, making you laugh until your ribs hurt. He couldn’t possibly be a cold-blooded murderer. …Right? 

“Hey, baby, look at me,” he says softly, lifting his hands as if approaching a frightened animal. “Don’t look at that. Don’t you trust me?” He takes another careful step toward you.

Instantly, you recoil, your back hitting the desk behind you. “Don’t come any closer!” you shout, your voice cracking. Dick freezes. For a second, neither of you moves. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too heavy to breathe. Then his expression crumbles.

“Y/N…” he whispers, almost hurt. “Please. You know me.” But do you? Because the boy standing in front of you suddenly feels like a stranger.

“Please,” he says carefully, his voice softer now, calmer - the same tone he always used whenever you were upset. “Just calm down, sit with me, and let me explain.” But behind the gentle expression, his mind is racing. He couldn’t let you go to the police. Not after everything he’d done. He had gone too far already, crossed too many lines to turn back now. 

He couldn’t let you leave. But the worst part? He didn’t want to hurt you anymore. Not the way he originally planned to when this whole thing started.

At first, it had been simple.

Commissioner Gordon had started looking into the Ghostface murders more closely, asking sharper questions, noticing details Dick had worked carefully to hide. He needed a distraction. Something convincing enough to take suspicion away from him completely.

And then he met you.

Sitting alone in that tiny university café, smiling politely when he accidentally stole your order. The plan had formed almost immediately.

If Ghostface murdered a girl, nobody would ever suspect the grieving, heartbroken boyfriend hiding beneath the mask. What kind of psychopath would kill the person they loved most?

It was perfect. At least, it was supposed to be.

Because somewhere between the late-night phone calls, movie nights, sleepy kisses, and the way your face lit up every time you saw him… everything got completely fucked. He fell in love with you. Really, truly in love. Dick hated admitting it, even to himself. But he loved how kind you were, how gentle. The way you cared about everyone so naturally, even strangers. He loved your laugh, your terrible jokes, the way you always reached for his hand absentmindedly like it belonged there. You were never supposed to become real to him. You were supposed to be part of the plan.

Your hands started shaking uncontrollably, your eyes darting frantically around the room, searching for anything - anything at all - that could help you.

A weapon. A way out. Something.

Because now that you knew his secret, you were sure of one thing: Dick Grayson was never going to let you leave this house alive.

“What exactly do you want to explain?” you snap, your voice trembling despite your attempt to sound strong. “That you’re a murderer? That you’ve been running around the city for a month slaughtering innocent people, that you…” Suddenly, the words die in your throat. Your entire body goes cold. “Oh my God…”

Dick’s expression changes instantly. You stare at him in horror, the realization crashing into you so violently it almost makes you sick. The mask of guilt disappeared, replaced by a mocking smile.

“You killed Stephanie,” you whisper. “Oh my God… you killed Steph.” Your voice breaks completely.

Your best friend. The same Stephanie who spent hours talking about her future, her dream job, the apartment she wanted after graduation. Stephanie, who dragged you out whenever you were sad. Stephanie, who trusted Dick enough to joke around with him every time the three of you hung out together.

And all this time… He knew.

He had killed her, then held you while you cried yourself to sleep afterward. He kissed your forehead, wiped away your tears, whispered comforting lies into your skin while her blood was probably still under his fingernails.

Your stomach turns violently. Your eyes drift toward the open box again, landing on the knife resting on top of the costume. And suddenly, all you can picture is Stephanie’s face. Her smile. Her laugh. Everything she could’ve become before Dick slit her throat and took it all away from her.

Your hands curl into fists. No. You weren’t going to let him hurt anyone else.

“Y/N…” Dick says quietly, but there’s something sharper underneath his voice now. A warning. “Don’t.” His gaze flicks toward the knife for half a second before returning to you. “Please,” he says again, slower this time. “Don’t make this worse.”

He really, really doesn’t want to hurt you. But if you try to attack him? Then he’ll do whatever he has to.

You lunged for the box. The second your fingers brushed the knife handle, Dick moved too.

“Shit-”

He caught you before you could grab it properly, both of you crashing hard onto the floor beside the bed. The knife clattered somewhere between your bodies as panic surged through you. You reached for it desperately. Dick grabbed you first.

His hands locked around your wrists and slammed them against the floor above your head with terrifying ease. A strangled gasp left your throat as his weight pinned you beneath him completely.

Too strong. Way too strong.

He had always brushed it off with lazy jokes about spending too much time at the gym, but this wasn’t normal. No average guy could overpower you this effortlessly.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dick murmurs, tilting his head slightly. There’s something dark behind his blue eyes now, something almost frighteningly calm. “Don’t do this.” The nickname makes your skin crawl.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snap, thrashing violently beneath him.

You jerk your knee upward, aiming straight for his crotch. Dick catches your leg instantly.

“Easy,” he mutters, gripping your thigh tightly before pinning your leg down beside the other. “You’re gonna hurt me, honey.”

The slightly playful tone in his voice only makes your anger explode further. Even now, he was flirting. Like this was some stupid game instead of a nightmare.

“You fucking liar,” you spit, glaring up at him with pure hatred.

A slow grin spreads across Dick’s face.

“Mmm,” he hums teasingly, leaning closer as he keeps you trapped beneath him effortlessly. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

His grip tightens just slightly around your wrists - not enough to injure you, just enough to remind you exactly who was in control here. Your breathing turns uneven. Not because of him. Because no matter how much you fought, no matter how hard you twisted beneath him - You couldn’t get free.

“Can I ask you a question?” Dick murmurs.

Before you can answer, he leans down closer, so close you can feel his breath against your skin. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he whispers softly: “What’s your favorite horror movie?”

A shiver runs violently down your spine. Goosebumps spread across your skin instantly, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a brief second, silently cursing yourself. Because even now - even like this - Dick still affected you like a drug.

From the very first date, keeping your hands off him had been nearly impossible. The stupid smirk, the teasing touches, the way he always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And it definitely wasn’t one-sided. Some days, if Dick had his way, he probably wouldn’t let you leave his bed at all, keeping you tangled beneath him for hours while he kissed and touched you until neither of you could think straight. You hated that your body still remembered those feelings now.

“The one where the final girl kills the psychotic serial killer,” you say through clenched teeth.

Dick pulls back just enough to look at you properly. For a second, his expression almost softens. One of his hands keeps your wrists pinned effortlessly while the other rises slowly to your face. His fingertips brush against your cheek with such unbearable gentleness that your resolve wavers for half a heartbeat.

Then you bite him.

Hard.

“Fuck!” Dick jerks back with a sharp hiss of pain, instinctively loosening his grip for just a second.

Enough.

You rip one hand free immediately and scramble for the knife lying beside the open box. Dick stumbles back a step, clutching the hand you bit while glaring at you in irritation. And then he sees the knife. The atmosphere changes instantly. You push yourself upright slowly, gripping the handle tightly despite your shaking hands, keeping the blade pointed directly at him as you begin backing toward the bedroom door.

Dick watches your every movement carefully. A pained wince crosses his face as he rubs the fresh bite mark forming on his hand. You were far feistier than he’d expected when this started. Not that he minded.

Actually… It was kind of attractive. His eyes drag slowly over you before he lets out a quiet laugh, low and almost breathless.

“There she is,” he murmurs, staring at you like he’s seeing something beautiful instead of terrifying. “That’s my girl. Now, sweetheart…” Dick says softly, raising both hands in mock surrender as he stalks toward you down the hallway. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” you snap, backing away from him carefully, the knife trembling in your grip. “About how you lied to me this entire time? About how you pretended to love me while planning how to kill me? Or maybe about the fifteen people you murdered? About Stephanie?” Your voice cracks violently. “How exactly do you expect me to have a conversation with you right now?!”

Dick keeps walking toward you slowly, hands still raised, expression calm in a way that makes your stomach twist. The sight of you backing away from him with his knife clenched in your hands does something dangerous to him. His pulse races unexpectedly as his mind flickers through every possible outcome of this situation.

You looked terrified. Cornered. Desperate.

And somehow, it only made him want you more.

“You probably won’t believe me,” he says evenly, his voice smooth despite the tension hanging between you both, “but I really do love you.” Another slow step. “I didn’t plan for that part,” he admits with a quiet laugh under his breath. “But I fucking love you, sweetheart. And if you hadn’t found that box…” His eyes soften slightly. “I never would’ve hurt you.”

“Fucking liar!” you spit instantly.

Dick laughs outright at that. It’s warm. Genuine. Completely insane.

He takes another step closer while you continue backing away from him down the staircase landing. You looked so furious, glaring at him like you hated him with every ounce of your being - and yet the most you could do was curse at him and threaten him with shaking hands. You both knew you weren’t winning this fight.

“You’re really cute when you’re angry,” he teases casually. Then his grin widens. “Besides… you have to admit you’re ridiculously easy to manipulate sometimes.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“Manipulate?” you repeat sharply. “Please. You were the one begging me to be your girlfriend. You practically got on your knees thanking me when I finally agreed to sleep with you.” Dick’s smile twitches wider. “You were the one panicking every time I met your fucked-up rich family,” you continue bitterly, voice shaking as you descend another step backward. “You’re the one who begged me not to leave you. And every single time we had sex, you were whining about how much you loved me and how you’d do anything for me while I rode-”

“Jesus Christ,” Dick laughs breathlessly, rubbing a hand over his mouth for a second like he’s genuinely entertained despite the situation.

You reach the stairs. Your eyes flick downward briefly. Then you turn and run.

“Y/N-”

You sprint down the staircase as fast as possible, your heartbeat roaring in your ears while footsteps thunder behind you instantly. Too fast… He was too fast...

The moment you reach the bottom floor and lunge toward the front door, a violent yank jerks you backward by the back of your silk shirt - the one you wore tonight specifically because Dick once told you it made you look irresistible.

You stumble hard. The knife flies from your grasp as you crash painfully onto the floor. Before you can even react, Dick is already on top of you. He kneels over your legs, pinning you effortlessly beneath him again, wearing that same lazy grin like this is all just some twisted game of cat and mouse he already knew he’d win.

“You really thought I wouldn’t plan for this?” he muses, reaching past you to grab the knife from the floor. “Sweetheart…” He twirls the blade lazily between his fingers. “I live for the chase.” Then he leans down slightly, resting his elbows on his knees like he has all the time in the world. A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “And honestly?” he murmurs softly, blue eyes dragging slowly over your trembling form, “you’re making this way too fun for me.”

You forced yourself to pull away as much as you could beneath him, your mind racing desperately for any possible way out. Then an idea hit you.

Slowly, cautiously, you shifted your hips against him. Dick froze for half a second. A dark, dangerous chuckle rumbled from his chest as he felt the movement, his pupils dilating briefly before his expression smoothed back into something teasing and controlled.

“Oh no,” he murmured, voice low with amusement. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to distract me. That’s so… low of you.”

He shifted deliberately against you once, just enough to make your breath hitch involuntarily.

“Clever girl,” he whispers near your ear. “Too bad I’m not that easy to manipulate. Now behave,” he says sweetly. “Or this is going to become very unpleasant for both of us.”

Panic claws at your chest. You had no chance against him physically. You knew that. Dick was stronger, faster, calmer - and worst of all, he was enjoying this. But there was one thing you weren’t completely sure about.

His feelings. He may have lied about loving you, but you know him well enough to know he can't resist your body.

You swallowed hard and made your choice. Without warning, you grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. Dick goes completely still. For one brief second, he doesn’t react at all, clearly caught off guard. Then you bite his lower lip lightly - just enough to make him inhale sharply. And that’s all it takes.

The restraint in him cracks immediately. A low sound escapes his throat as he kisses you back hard, one hand tangling tightly into your hair while the other presses against your waist possessively. The kiss turns messy and desperate almost instantly, fueled by adrenaline, anger, fear, and something far more dangerous underneath it all. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as you try to keep him distracted.

For a moment, it actually works.

Dick breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down the side of your neck, his breathing rougher now despite his earlier confidence. “You really think this is enough to distract me?” he mutters against your skin, voice strained with amusement. “Sweetheart… I’m barely losing focus.”

“We’ll see,” you whisper back shakily. You press another kiss against his neck, subtly shifting beneath him again while your eyes dart around desperately, still searching for some kind of escape. A curse slips under Dick’s breath. His hands tighten around your hips automatically, fingers pressing hard enough to remind you how strong he really is.

And for the first time since this started…He actually sounds affected.

“Mmph… damn,” Dick murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, roughened by the way you’re moving beneath him. His head tilts slightly, giving you better access to his neck while his thumb traces slow circles against your hip. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. “You think that because you’re rubbing against me I’m suddenly gonna go soft on you?” he asks teasingly. “You think I’m just some hormonal teenager who can’t think straight?” One of his hands slides up to your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Sweetheart,” he says softly, almost amused, “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

Fuck. Your pulse stutters nervously. You swallow hard and arch your back slightly beneath him, trying to keep your movements natural despite the panic clawing at your chest. You moved your hand and with a quick movement, pulled the shirt in opposite directions, and the buttons running down the middle came undone, revealing what you had underneath. Revealing a new lace bra in his favorite color. Rich Navy Blue.

Dick goes quiet. For a second, all he does is stare.

That new set of lingerie was supposed to be a surprise for later. After dinner. After wine and flirting and teasing kisses against his jaw while he smiled at you like you hung the moon. You had spent way too long picking out that matching set because you knew exactly what kind of things Dick liked.

But then you found the box.

And suddenly the entire night became something else entirely. Dick’s gaze drags slowly over your body stretched beneath him, dark and hungry enough to make heat crawl embarrassingly up your neck despite everything.

“Damn…” he whispers. The word comes out almost breathless. “You really wore this for me, huh?”

A pause. Then his mouth curls into a crooked grin.

“Were you planning on letting me take it off, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you snap bitterly. “But then you started trying to kill me like a fucking psychopath, so I figured you didn’t deserve it anymore.”

Dick actually laughs softly at that.

“Ouch,” he murmurs. “You’re hurting my feelings, doll.”

His hand slides slowly across your exposed stomach while the other still keeps your wrists trapped above your head. Warm fingers drag upward deliberately, inch by inch, until they stop right beneath the edge of your bra. Your breath catches involuntarily.

“Oh, I’m hurting your feelings?” you laugh bitterly, squirming beneath him. “You’re the one lying to me, murdering people…”

“And yet,” Dick interrupts quietly. He leans closer until his breath brushes against your lips. “I bet you’re still wet for me.” A smug smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You can hate me all you want,” he murmurs softly, eyes locked onto yours. “But your body still responds to me.”

“What do I have to do to make you stop wanting to kill me?” you ask quietly, wetting your lips nervously with your tongue. You really don't want to fucking die today. Dick’s eyes drop to your mouth instantly. The hunger in his expression darkens so fast it almost startles you.

His fingers tracing lazily along the strap of your bra. A low chuckle escapes him. His gaze drags over you again, slow and openly possessive. “Oh, this will be fun..”

You swallow hard beneath him. “What can I do to survive?”

For the first time since this started, Dick hesitates. A sigh leaves him quietly, almost frustrated with himself, like he already knows he’s making a mistake just by considering your question. His thumb strokes absentminded circles against your hip.

“If you really want me to let you live…” he says slowly, studying your face carefully, “then I have two conditions.”

Your stomach twists.

“You’re gonna hate it, though.”

“Try me, Dickie.”

He laughs softly at the nickname, shaking his head. It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He’s pinning you beneath him, holding your life in his hands, and somehow you still find the nerve to tease him.

Honestly? It makes him want you even more.

“I’m surprised you still have the energy to mouth off right now,” he murmurs, tightening his grip on your waist slightly. “But I guess you’ve never been the type to back down from a challenge.”

He leans closer until his lips barely brush yours. He lifts one finger between you.

“First condition… You listen to me. No more running. No more fighting me. No more trying to stab me with my own knife.” His eyes lock onto yours completely. “I’m the one in control here, sweetheart. If you want to stay alive, you do what I say. Understand?”

You stare into his eyes for a long moment. Every instinct in your body screams not to trust him. But you also know you don’t have a choice right now.

“I understand,” you whisper carefully.

Dick studies your face like he’s searching for any sign you’re lying. When he finds none, something warm flickers across his expression. “Good girl,” he murmurs softly. The praise sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. “I knew you’d eventually start thinking clearly.” His fingers brush some hair away from your face gently - disturbingly gentle for someone threatening your life minutes ago. “You’ve always been smarter than most people.”

Surprisingly his grip loosened. Just slightly. Not enough to let you go, but enough that you feel the difference immediately. His gaze stays locked on yours, searching for your reaction.

“If you want me to stop seeing you like a problem I need to solve…” he continues, thumb brushing once over your wrist, no longer restraining, just touching, “then you stop fighting me like I’m your enemy.”

His eyes flicker briefly over your lips again, but slower this time. Less hungry. More focused.

His hand shifts from your hip to your wrist, but instead of pinning it, he turns it over slowly, palm up, like he’s deciding something. “You stay with me willingly.” he adds.A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “And in return… I stop treating you like something I have to catch.”

Silence stretches between you. Then, softer: “You choose that… You choose me” he murmurs. “Or we go back to me keeping you pinned and you hating every second of it.” His eyes narrow slightly. “Your call, sweetheart.”

A low rumble of a chuckle escaped his throat, a dangerous sound as his free hand came up to grip the back of your thigh. He tightened his grip on the back of your thigh, slowly spreading your legs open and positioning himself between them.

"You'll be a good little doll for me, won't you?"

You slowly nodded in agreement. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just behind your ear as he spoke, his voice low and controlled. One of his hands slid down to your covered crotch. His fingers pressed hard against your pants, and a moment later his hand slid under them, landing on your pussy. “And condition number two… You don't get to come unless I say so."

He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, just enough to make your breath hitch-but not enough to give you what you wanted.

"You know how I love making people beg.”

"Oh I know… You like it when I ask for permission… when I beg for you…" you replied, voice softer now, breath uneven as you shifted against him instinctively, chasing more of his touch.

He growled under his breath, his eyes darkening as you ground your hips against his fingers. You gasped when two thick fingers slipped inside you without warning, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the floor. Another finger curled in and you moaned. His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.

A broken cry escaped your throat as pleasure crashed over you in relentless pulses. He didn’t stop, of course not. His fingers moved steadily, drawing it out until you were trembling and oversensitive. You cry out, hips jerking against his hand, but he pins you down, keeping you exactly where he wants. You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves.

You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself. Fuck…This isn’t how it was supposed to go, I thought. I watched as he pulled his hand out of my clothes and, looking me straight in the eyes, licked my cum from his fingers. A look of pleasure appeared on his face, and I could feel his hard dick pressing against my thigh.

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

It's only been a week since her return.

She's unusually quiet and keeping her safe, only touching you when necessary.

She's even chosen to sleep in the guest room since her return.

You want to scream, so what?

You don't care that she's a vampire, or vampire like creature, you just care about her.

The one time you tried, she shut you right down.

Something about how she's a danger to you now. She won't risk anything happening to you, and heaven forbid it's because of her.

Her and Chris had been trying to find something to do but every solution has quickly failed.

Wesker was smart, in the worst way, he provided only human blood to Jill to keep her alive.

Her body can't handle surviving on animal blood. It's almost like an allergic reaction, she can't keep it down let alone use it to survive.

As you assumed she would, she is having trouble accepting feeding from humans, now that is she is conscious about it.

She is getting more and more frail as the days past. Almost a week without eating and she's lost practically all her strength.

Chris is off trying to find her a supply of blood bags but you've begun to worry he won't find any in time.

With all the breakouts that have happened, people don't risk giving blood.

There's only one other solution you've thought of, but you already know how Jill will react to the suggestion.

It's morning now and Jill is still in bed.

You're in the process of drinking some coffee and making a bagel when she approaches.

"Morning." She whispers.

"Morning! How'd you sleep?" You know the answer, how can you possibly sleep well while you're starving?

"Fine." You watch in silence as she pours herself a mug. You've learned she can eat and drink human things still, but it won't fill her hunger.

She doesn't need it for energy, but she drinks coffee every morning like before to feel a sense of normalcy.

"Want a bagel?" You ask, trying to extend a hand to her attempt to behave like normal.

"No." She mumbles, knowing it won't fill her hunger.

"Any word from Chris?"

"No."

A silence falls between the two of you. An awkward silence that you're not used to having with her.

"I have an idea.." You start to say, she cuts you off with a harsh shake of her head.

"Not happening."

"You don't even know what I was going to suggest."

"I am not going to feed of you." She declares firmly. She's not leaving any room for discussion.

"What? You'd rather starve to death?"

"Chris will find something."

"Where? How? People don't donate blood anymore, Jill. He's looking for something he won't find."

You see her chest rise and fall with a harsh sigh, "you don't know that."

"Just let me help you."

"I don't-"

"Please." You grasp her hand, one of the only times you've touched since she's been back.

"It's too dangerous," she rips her away away from yours as if it had burnt her, "I won't risk it."

You take a step in her direction. "And I won't risk you withering a away like this when I just got you back. If I have to give a little blood to keep you here then I will. No matter the risk."

She backs away, her hips hitting the kitchen counter behind her.

"I can't.. everyone I drank from died." Her eyes glisten over.

"Honey, you were being brainwashed.. I know you, I know how strong you are. You wouldn't let that happen." You're eyes well up as well. So many emotions are coursing through you as you speak. Anger at Wesker, anger at the world, sadness for everything that's happened to her, sadness for how she sees herself now.

"What if Chris can't find blood," she bites her lip nervously, "I can't live off you forever."

You take another step forward, only inches away from her. You don't want to overwhelm her but you want her to know you're here.

"That won't matter if you're dead before he even gets back."

You watch her take another deep breath. She's clearly starting to consider your proposal.

"I hate everything about this." She looks at you.

"I want to," you sniffle a little, "but I'm just so glad you're back and I'm so glad I can help you."

"Can we just," she sighs, "sit down for a while. Let me think."

"Yeah," You nod happily, "We should sit."

You follow her into the living room, bringing your coffee along. Jill left hers on the counter, talking about blood was too strong for the coffee to override.

You sit together on the couch, only an inch between you. Before, you would've basically been in each others skin but she's still getting used to the overwhelming senses. Now that she can acknowledge them.

You let some show run in the background while you're consumed with thoughts. Her neck lay bare now, her necklace irritates her skin. Apparently silver does affect them, good to know.

You tense up when she grabs your hand in hers.

"You're right."

"I am?" You blurt out, slightly shocked she relented.

"I want more time with you." She confesses, "We spent as much time apart as we did together, I want to be with you."

A smile consumes you, "good," you whisper, tears almost falling, "I need more time with you."

Of course now that she has agreed a wave of nerves filling your stomach. You've never exactly been bitten by a vampire before and it seems like it would hurt like a bitch.

"You can tell me if you change your mind." She looks into your soul as she says it.

You fight the urge to kiss her. She's always been so considerate of you.

"Bring it on." She laughs aloud at your words, no words can describe how you've missed her raspy laugh.

You can feel her still smiling when she leans into your neck.

You take a deep breath and bite when lol when you feel her hot breathe against your skin.

Your nerves melt slightly when you feel her land a kiss against you first.

Her fangs, weird to have a girlfriend with fangs, bite into you and your hands instinctively grasp her shoulders. You can feel her tense when you cry out but you lean into her to encourage her.

It's an experience far stranger than you were expecting but it doesn't hurt as much as you thought.

You specifically enjoy when her tongue laps against your neck to get every last drop..

A breathy sigh escapes you as she pulls away, her lips stained a touch red.

She immediately pulls you into a kiss to show her appreciation. Your mind falls somewhere else real fast, after all she's been gone over two years.

"Full?" You ask in a slightly mocking offense. You knew she'd feel better afterwards.

"So full."

"Good because we're definitely gonna do that again."

She pulls away from you just enough to give you a strange glare.

"What? Can't I enjoy feeding my girlfriend?"

She smiles wildly at you as she chuckles softly in amused shock. Her forehead lands against yours when she pulls you closer into her.

"You are something else." She breathes out against your lips.

"Just for you." You grin. You slide yourself a touch until you land in her lap, straddling her. "Now that you got some strength left..."

"No!" She laughs. "You just experienced blood loss."

"It's two years, a little blood loss ain't gonna stop nothing." You also note how she doesn't push you off.

She blinks a few times at you, trying to decipher if you'd lost your mind.

"Baby, our first time in so long will not end with you passing out," you give her your best pouty face.

"Why not? It happened before..and as I recall you were pretty happy with it." She clicks her tongue at you.

"Do I need to explain how blood loss is different from other times?"

"Well you could show me. It's not like you took that much." You shrug in her hold.

"Alright gorgeous, you get up and walk around and we'll do it your way."

You go to stand from her lap but the faintness hits you like a truck. "On second thought, it might be smart to wait."

She pulls you down against her and chuckles against your lips. "You are way too excited for your own good."

"I just missed you."

"We're in no rush, we have the rest of our lives."

Your heart skips a beat as she says it.

"You're right. I guess I'm just trying to make up for lost time."

"We can make it up later. You need to rest."

She gives you a swift kiss and places her hands on your waist. You bring your arms up to wrap loosely around her neck.

"Fine, but I'm staying here."

"I think I can let that happen."

"Although I must admit I'm surprised, you've never kept your hands to yourself before."

She gives you a smirk, "well it's strange what being brainwashed will do to your libedo."

"Ew why'd you say that?" You whine at her dramatically.

"What? Libedo? It's the correct word for the sentence."

"It sounds so scientifical."

"You are so ridiculous."

"Yeah ridiculously crazy for you." You pair your joke with an exaggerated wink. Jill gives you a blank look. "Tough crowd."

You lay your head on her shoulder, still smiling at your own humor.

She brings her fingers up to scratch your lower back.

You sigh and melt further into her. You are so unbelievably happy she's back.