Demi

The village of Rensford sat half-forgotten in a dead end of the world, boxed in by thick, clawing woods and jagged hills that never seemed to let the sun rise fully.

There were perhaps two dozen families, and they shared everything: the narrow well, the worn grazing fields, the crumbling schoolhouse that had never known more than ten children at once. They prayed each morning for health, a mild season, a neighbor’s child to be born strong and not soft in the head. Every evening, before the cold set in, everyone gathered at the church. No matter how tired they were, they always came.

You lived in the far end of the village, past the drying sheds and the old abandoned mill, alone in a squat stone house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of whitewash since your parents passed. They had been taken by fever one spring, buried out in the weeping field and after that no one asked questions. You were quiet, hardworking, helped with bread-making and tool repair.

The church was the pride of Rensford: a huge, lopsided thing of grey bricks that didn’t match, three wide iron bells, a crooked steeple that cast a long shadow at noon. It always smelled of candlewax and cold stone and no matter how fiercely the wind howled outside, it stayed still inside. The altar was plain oak, but behind it hung an immense iron crucifix flanked by dozens of dried herbs.

Father Ilan had hands like bark and a voice that never rose above a mutter. He spoke of keeping the dark at bay and sin that lurked in idleness.

The night everything changed was in early autumn. You’d helped shear the sheep that morning, your hands raw from the lanolin and your back aching. When sunset came, no bells rang.

The crops disappeared first and by dusk, the church was packed, clutching candles and holy tokens, some crying. You stood near the back, next to the door. Father Ilan was speaking, saying prayers, Latin laced with old speech you didn’t understand.

Someone screamed when the door slammed open against the wind, followed by laughter.

He stood in the frame like something ripped out of a nightmare, soaked from scalp to boot in blood. It streamed from his fingers and stained the corners of his crooked smile. Fangs glistened behind lips that parted too slowly, like he was savoring the way the whole church screamed as one.

You saw the red in his eyes, not bloodshot but glowing molten red.

“Evenin’,” he said, in a voice low and amused, like he was entertained by the scent of your terror. “Awful rude of ye lot. I was hopin’ for a warm welcome. Bit of supper…”

The floor dripped beneath him, blood ran down the aisle in lines.

“Father,” he drawled, tilting his head, “ye wound me. Been ages since I was in a house o’ God. You’d think ye’d be nicer.”

“What do you want?” Ilan barked, voice trembling but hidden well.

The thing paused. He licked his lips, eyes passed over the room, children sobbing and old folk collapsed in prayer.

He sniffed once. Twice.

Then he saw you and froze, a wolf that’s finally found the one door left unlocked.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, his grin widened slowly. The candlelight caught on the wet curves of his fangs. Your blood turned to ice as something in your belly curled and twisted like a snake.

He didn’t look at anyone else, as if he could sense something in you that caught his attention.

“Me?” he said, slow, soft and teasing, giving a wide, bloodied smile. “I just wanna be let in. Proper manners an’ all, y’know. Knock. Wait. Be welcomed.”

Then, in a voice softer than breath, but loud enough to ring in your ears, he stole another glance at you before adding, “But reckon I could make myself at home either way.”

The nights did not return to normal after that first one. He came again the next evening. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes it was the livestock: shredded open in their pens, blood sprayed so far up the barn walls it stained the rafters. Other times people who were caught off guard by the sun disappear faster than expected.

They came back different. Eyes too bright, sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger for blood.

The worst part came with dawn. They would stand outside controlled by their new owner, sobbing, eyes pleading while mothers wept to see their sons hissing in the daylight, skin burning.

The people of Rensford stopped praying for deliverance, they prayed for quickness. For Remmick to pass over them, to take a neighbor instead, but it didn’t stop.

Through every night, every horrible wail and brutal tearing, you felt his presence on your skin.

He left you things. Once, a dead rabbit on your doorstep. The second time, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers, ones that only grew deep in the cursed parts of the woods.

One morning, as you were feeding the hens, hands gentle on the wooden scoop, trying to focus on the clucking and not the ash smear across the far field, a voice called out.

It was Joran, the tanner’s son. He looked shaken, eyes red.

“Father Ilan wants to see you. At once.”

The hens kept pecking, you wiped your hands on your apron.

The scent of incense never faded as you entered the imposing structure, clinging to your tongue like old breath. The doors opened with a groan, thick oak that never quite shut all the way.

There he was, tall despite his stoop, his beard gray and wiry, robes dark as soot. His face seemed carved from old bark, creased and weathered.

His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked to you.

“Come, my child.” His voice was too soft.

You moved in, steps echoing between the pews. The place never looked smaller. The wooden benches were worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. The stained glass above the altar was mostly opaque with grime but still, there was a glory here, terrible and vast.

You sat near him at the last bench before the altar. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You could smell the oil on his skin, the wax clinging to the folds of his tunic.

“I hear you’ve been tending the animals better than ever,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mara and Doff must be fat as pigs by now.”

Your lips twitched upward. He’d remembered their names. That did something strange to your chest, a kind of pang. You hadn’t heard them spoken aloud in weeks.

“You’ve done so much for us,” he went on. “Even after all you’ve lost. You’ve never stopped serving. You’re a light in this dark world. A blessing.”

You wanted to feel proud but all you could think about was blood. Blood in the hay, on your doorstep, on teeth that smiled too wide.

Your gratitude dimmed behind memories that swam up like rot in water.

Then, without a word, the old man stood too quick for his age.

His robe dragged behind him like shadow made cloth as he approached the altar where, beside the cracked old Bible, stood a silver goblet.

He lifted it and brought it to you.

“Drink this, my child,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

A father’s tone in his voice that you craved when the cold wouldn’t go and when the fields were quiet.

It was warm in your hands, the rim was etched with faded prayer, worn down from generations.

You lifted it, excepting the sharp yet sweet taste.

What you got was thick and viscous, butter in a way. You blinked but didn’t say anything.

He sat beside you again, speaking gently.

“We are plagued by a monster. A mockery of God’s creation. A demon with the face of a man.”

Your vision blurred a little. The pew beneath you felt…too far away. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“He has set his sights on someone,” Ilan continued.

You blinked, tried to speak. Your mouth moved but made no sound.

“And it is you.” Something hot flooded your cheeks. Fear, confusion, denial.

“Only those burdened with sin call the devil’s eye,” he said, no longer gentle. “He senses and feeds from it. There is something in you, child. Something… inviting.”

You tried to speak again and this time you choked on it. Your limbs tingled, blood roared in your ears. You gripped the edge of the bench but your fingers felt like wax.

“What…?” you managed to croak.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled up from the bench, knees buckling.

“What are you… talking about…?”

He didn’t answer as you backed away, mind swimming, the walls too tall now, the light too bright.

He caught your shoulder and held you close, pressed to his chest.

“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “We’ll sing for you in the morning.”

You shook your head. Weakly and uselessly, his hand stroked your hair.

“They’ll remember you as a savior. Not… corrupted.”

His breath was warm near your ear, your knees gave out, head slumping forward on his chest.

You woke with a start that never quite reached your limbs. Your eyes blinked open, then fought to stay that way. Everything ached starting from the dull, pressing soreness of limbs held in place too long, like something had wrung you out and left you on stone to dry.

The sky above you was bruised purple, the last remnants of sunlight filtered through a heavy canopy of ancient trees. They leaned in like watchers, bark split and knotted. The light barely reached this far in and already the shadows were thickening, bleeding across the underbrush, pooling in the hollows of gnarled roots and sunken stone.

It was colder than it should have been, breath puffing slow, uneven and barely visible.

You tried to move but nothing gave. Your wrists were bound in twine so tight it bit into the skin. Ankles too, secured with rough cord that rasped against the bone. You were splayed on a wide, flat stone, its surface cold against your spine, ribs and bare thighs. You could only lift your head a little, feel the pull of the thin reed tied at your waist like a belt, nothing but a symbol to be broken.

Just like you.

The cloth over your face was rough wool, darkened at the edges with sweat and tears. It draped over your eyes, not blinding you completely but shadowing everything, like seeing through a veil of mourning. It shifted with every breath, rasping gently over your cheeks, letting only filtered light in.

You could smell iron and crushed herbs, sap and blood all over yourself, astringent and sharp.

Your chest rose shallow beneath the linen clothes they’d dressed you in, humble, ceremonial and sacrificial. Crude garments: coarse, undyed, threadbare from intent. They clung to you in places, hitched high over one thigh where the fabric had bunched from movement or from the ropes pulling tight.

They barely covered anything. Mid-thigh, no sleeves, sides cut wide and low. One hip completely exposed to the cold air, ribs visible beneath the opening, one nipple half-hidden by the threadbare drape, the thin cloth sheer soaked in sweat and blood that offered no true protection from the wind.

It moved along with the wind.

It slithered cold fingers up the exposed sides of your ribs, into the thin shift, making it flap and press in turns. When it blew from the north, the cloth lifted high enough that the stone beneath you kissed bare skin. You clenched your teeth, there was nothing you could do.

The cuts burned.

Tiny, deliberate lacerations lined your exposed skin along your thighs, your sides, even low on your neck where the collar hung loose. Thin slices that bled and they kept going, they’d used some foul herb that kept the blood wet, slick and resisting clotting.

It soaked the linen in patches, at your side under your navel, a red streak down your thigh like a line traced by a lover’s finger.

They were never meant to cleanse, but a bait for who you were meant to.

The ritual wasn’t to save you, but to offer you for the wellbeing of those that sent you.

The air was thick, damp with the coming night, pressing down like a second skin. You could hardly move, limbs splayed out and bound to the cold altar stone with cords so tight your hands throbbed. The raw scrape of rope on flesh pulsed in waves, burning and biting as you shifted your weight again, desperately twisting your wrists only for the twine to dig deeper, grooves forming beneath your skin.

The hood over your head was a mourner’s cowl, coarse and scratchy, hung low over your brow and cheeks, the itchy fibers clinging to your mouth when you tried to breathe. Every exhale fluttered the wool and every inhale dragged it back against your lips. Warm, wet fabric pressed to your tongue like a gag. You could taste your own panic.

The sky beyond the veil was bruising darker by the second from violet to black. You saw flickers of it through the frayed edge of the hood, just slivers of dying light snared in the branches high above.

A leaf cracked.

Your breath hitched, chest barely moving. You were nothing but ears and heartbeat, deaf to anything but your own blood.

Then came a violent rush of air and the stone beneath you shifted as something fast landed on it. One moment you were alone in the woods, the next his weight was upon you, towering over your restrained body.

Lips crashed down on the cuts, tongue dragged wetly down your jawline and landed at your neck.

“Ah… fuuuuck,” he groaned low, a thick rumble that passed through his chest into yours. “Yer sweet. It’s makin’ me high, darlin’.”

You arched what little you could and that mouth latched onto your inner thigh, beneath the slit of the shift. He sank his mouth to the open cut there, tongue thick and textured, pressing into the wound with slow, savoring swirls. He licked you like you were melting sugar on his tongue, the wet heat of his breath pumping fast, moans slipping up through his nose with every pass.

A graze of teeth came, something sharp dragged over the open flesh.

You jerked and it didn’t stop.

The tongue vanished. Then it was on your chest, your ribs—everywhere. He lapped from one wound to the next, following the red trails down your belly like a feast line. Your shift was useless now, soaked and half-peeled back, exposing you to the air and to him. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a body lit from within with need.

The tongue found your right pectoral and paused, a hot exhale before he opened his mouth wide and devoured it.

His mouth closed over your nipple and sucked hard, tongue working fast, swirling in sharp, maddened spirals while his teeth scraped faintly. All of it sent a shock through your spine. Your thighs twitched, bound ankles scraping against the stone.

His name wasn’t on your lips but a noise, choked, helpless and very wrong.

He pulled off with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva stretching between your nipple and his blood-smeared mouth.

Panting fast and shallow.

Could feel as he clenched his hands, claws dragging across the stone beside your head, then one of them slammed onto your cowl.

The claws caught the fabric and sank into it and they came close to gouge out your eyes. The cowl was yanked up and off, and you were met not with the sky but him.

Up close, there was nothing human left.

A red so deep in his eyes, blood coated his chin, chest, throat—your blood still dripping down his tank top in sluggish, gleaming trails. The fabric clung to his chest, tight and soaked, showing every ripple of muscle. The stench of sweat and gore clung to him like perfume, overwhelming and choking.

His lips were parted, thick and bitten red, tongue darting out to catch what slid from the corner of his mouth, teeth too sharp. Droplets hit your face, warm, slow, staining your cheek.

“Didn’t even need to see yer face,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, almost shaking with restraint. His accent hung heavy like molasses dripping from a blade. “Knew it was ye. I’d know this scent if I were blind. I been thinkin’ ‘bout ye f’ so long…”

His hand hovered near your face and then he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.

“Name’s Remmick. Tell me yer name, now, pretty thing,” he whispered, voice like gravel dragged through silk. “I wanna hear it. Been wonderin’ it ever since I saw ye standin’ ‘round all those fools. Knew right then ye didn’t belong to ‘em. Ye were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years and I seen wars, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat was screaming in your ears, every throb thundered beneath your skin, drowning out the rest of the world in that chaotic pulse. Those obscene fangs glinting beneath a grin that spoke of appetite. Death was straddling your hips and breathing through blood-slick teeth.

Somehow, you spoke first, voice cracked, dry and shivering with disbelief and pain, the knot in your throat catching every word.

“Why… why do you care…?”

That grin widened.

He liked the fear in your voice.

You could ser how it ignited something behind his crimson eyes, how the corners of his lips curled higher, how his chest began to rise and fall faster, hungrier, almost panting.

“You don’t get it, do ye?” he murmured, voice slow and damp. His gaze dropped lower to your throat, staring like a wolf eyeing the trembling of a rabbit’s muscles beneath its fur. His head tilted, entranced by the flicker of your artery pumping just beneath the surface and a thick line of drool spilled from the edge of his mouth, mingling with the blood that still glistened on his chin and lips.

He leaned in.

“Won’t kill ye,” he whispered. Hissed. “Could never waste somethin’ this perfect. Yer mine now darlin’, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ye go.”

Then he descended down into the crook of your neck where your shoulder met the column of flesh he’d been fixated on and he smothered you in blood and wetness. His mouth dragged across clean skin, leaving slick trails of spit and iron-red behind, breath steaming in the cooling air. His tongue shot out, hot and heavy as it lapped where his fangs had grazed, licking up the slow-dripping dots of blood he’d caused to spill.

You stiffened, gasped, breath catching hard as you tried again to pull away but the cords bit deeper. He could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth, and he moaned, the vibration traveling straight into your skin like a deep tremor, making your back twitch involuntarily.

“Ye ain’t scared,” he whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Ye want it. Been wantin’ it.”

You didn’t. You did. You didn’t—God, what was happening?

Then his hips rolled down hard, forcing your bound thighs wider, despite the cords keeping them flush together, as his clothed erection dragged against yours, massive and heavy. Even through the thin, bloodied fabric of his ruined pants and your torn shift, you felt every inch of it slide against your own straining length and your body responded before your mind could protest.

You arched your back, hips lifting into him by instinct and a choked, broken sound fell out of your throat. He growled at that, deep and possessive.

He snapped his hips forward again, grinding and rubbing your cocks together, smearing your shared arousal through the filthy linen. His mouth didn’t stop either, attacking your throat with hot, messy kisses, pressing lips and fangs and tongue into your skin with no rhythm, just need, moans rough and low between every wet smack of his mouth.

“I knew it,” he breathed, “knew you were diff’rent. Them other folks… they looked down their noses ‘cause they couldn’t understand ye.”

His lips trailed sloppily along your jawline, over your cheekbone, peppering your skin with red-stained kisses. The blood on his mouth smeared hot over your skin, clinging in streaks and warm smudges as he kissed harder, more frantic.

“Ye know what it’s like, don’t ye? Bein’ the one they cast out. Left to rot.”

He pulled back enough to hover right above your mouth. Iron, sweat and earth were the scents emanated from him.

His breath fanned over your lips, heavy, hot and metallic, chest heaving, a soft groan curling from the back of his throat.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked, voice low, rough and almost kind.

Your breath caught, staring up at him, wide-eyed, the trembling of your lips betraying the war in your chest. You didn’t understand why he gave you a choice. Why was he asking? Why hadn’t he torn your throat out, ripped you open like the others?

Why this?

Like he heard your thoughts. “I could hear yer heart, f’r hours,” he murmured, gaze still locked on your mouth. “When ye were all alone, prayin’ to a God who ain’t never answered ye… never loved ye.”

You didn’t even realize you’d said your name aloud. It slipped out, breathless, trembling, but real and he froze.

The wolfish grin was gone but not the hunger. One clawed finger lifted—drenched in blood—and pressed against your cheek.

It slid down gently and cradled.

Then your jaw was in his palm, his thumb barely grazing your bottom lip.

“I like yer name,” he whispered and smiled again, a dreadful smile with red-stained fangs out, shaking with restraint.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked again, voice husky and sweet, but beneath it, something cracked in desperation.

You nodded once, lips still pressed together in a blood-slick line but he didn’t move.

“Need t’hear it,” he whispered, voice breaking like a prayer. “Need t’hear it from that beautiful mouth.”

Your lips parted. “Please,” you whispered, the word trembling, wet with something half-sob, half-lust.

The sound he made wasn’t human as his mouth crashed down with feral hunger, lips too wide and hot, soaked in blood and spit. Those fangs dragged along your inner lips. You felt slices, sharp and wet, his top canine cutting lightly the skin of your lips and you gasped, stupidly, into him.

A mistake.

His tongue shoved deep at that, lapping at your gums, your teeth, under your tongue, searching for where the blood was pooling, sucking it in hungry slurps. He pressed and scraped every inch of your mouth, a nick bloomed under your tongue, light cuts decorated the inside of your mouth invaded by his sharp one.

Your cry vanished into his throat and he moaned low in response, not sweet but hoarse, the noise vibrating down through your locked jaws into your lungs. The sound is all hunger and possession, a desperate, throaty groan that trembled down your spine and coiled around your heart.

With every swirl of his tongue, you felt the blood being pulled from your small wounds, collected at the edges of his lips, drawn to the corners of his throat. His cheeks hollowed when he slurped at the cut beneath your tongue, lapping thick and greedy, every gulp obscene.

Your face twisted in shock and breathless heat, tasting copper, spit and the ghost of his earlier kills.

He kept your lips locked tight, sealing you in, mouth still grinding against yours, tongue flicking quick now, almost angry, twitching left and right like he couldn’t decide where to drink from next. You felt a sting as his fangs scraped again, carving a new slit and he—God help you— was purring. A sound that made your stomach twist with confusion and the faintest lick of fire. He sucked the blood down and his hips jerked against your side like he could taste your arousal underneath the pain.

He pressed harder, chest crushing yours, ribs grinding raw where your wounds bled again, the pressure making you see stars. You groaned into him, eyes squeezed shut and that seemed to spur him deeper, head tilted, jaw working, tongue thrusting in again, again, dragging the wet length of himself across your teeth.

When he finally pulled away, red spit snapped between your mouths, thick and glossy. It clung in ropes from your chin to his, dripping down your throat as you gasped in fresh air, chest hitching, breath ragged with lungs that screamed in relief.

Then his lips jumped down at your neck.

The wound there, half-clotted now, stood no chance, his tongue found it and jammed in. He moaned, the sound buzzed through your skin.

The warmth flooded again and he drank, mouth pressed so deep against your throat it made your pulse skip. His fingers dug into your hips, claws creating shallow arcs into your side between slurps and grunts he emanates low and thick in his throat.

His mouth never left your skin, tongue swirling through the gashes he’d opened along your ribs, teeth occasionally grinding against your wound like he didn’t care whether he made more blood, only that it was fresh and yours. Your pulse still raced, pumping that warmth up for him, feeding him like he was bred for it.

But under that satisfied hum, the words came not sweet. Not tender.

“I should tear ‘em all apart.” he rasped against your abdomen, voice muffled by flesh and blood.

His mouth pulled back, leaving a long smear of spit and gore over your abdomen. He bared his fangs at your skin like he wanted to laugh at it.

“fed ‘em their own teeth for what they did to ye.”

A lunge. He dove back to your hipbone, licking along the curve with a long, wet stroke of his tongue, then dragging his lower fangs lightly along the flesh until a thin new slit bloomed, beading red.

Around a mouthful of your blood, he snarled:

“I’ll peel that priest open. want t’see what sound he makes when his lungs start fillin’.”

You twitched under the calm finality in his tone. Remmick’s hands clenched around your thighs, fingers bruising, claws pressing divots into your muscle like he was resisting something worse, his lips just brushing your inner thigh, tongue dipping between the notch of your hip and thigh, slick and slow, licking at a thin trail of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

He followed it upward with his mouth, small kisses, wet and hot, fangs tapping gently along your trembling skin.

A ripping noise broke that intimate silence that grew, soon after pain blossomed at your side. His claws tore the shift from your body, shredding a piece of it in one huge swipe.

Three deep gashes carved from chest to hip, sharp and perfect, blood gushing.

He didn’t let it spill, immediately lunged, mouth first, onto the wounds, suckling at them like open fruit, catching every stream with frantic laps of his tongue. His fangs tickled your skin with every drag, mouth painting you redder than you already were.

His tongue trailed down again, lapping between your thighs, that blood-drenched grin already forming on his face before his claws even moved.

Two swipes and the cords at your ankles burst, fibers twanging apart under the weight of his strength. Another flash of motion and the tattered hem of your shift was gone, torn straight through, shredded into nothing.

Hot breath, soaked in the stink of blood and spit, hit the curve of your bare ass. You jolted, not even thinking and your thighs parted automatically.

“Ohhh,” Remmick rasped, already leaning in, voice sticky with amusement, “they tied ye up ‘cause they knew, didn’t they? Knew those legs’d open up for me the second I looked at ye…”

His claws gripped your thighs, fingers spanning the thickest parts with ease and locked them around his shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise as he spread them wider, forcing your knees up and out.

Your toes curled as his mouth descended, tongue dragging from your perineum up until it lapped a hot, wet line right over your hole. You made a sound you didn’t recognize, head tipped back and mouth parted in a gasp that never quite left your lungs.

He sucked in a breath, grip on your thighs tightening, claws pricking now, holding you open before his tongue dove.

A thick, forceful push, hot muscle breaching your hole in one wet plunge. “Aaahh—!” you cried, body jolting as your hips bucked instinctively upward. He didn’t stop, just grunted and shoved his face deeper, tongue spearing into you with greedy force.

The breath was punched out of you.

Each lick dragged a moan out of you. Each curl of his tongue sent sparks racing up your spine, coiling in your gut. Your cock throbbed untouched, pressed against your stomach, dripping pre-cum in slow, hot trails down your abdomen as he devoured you, tongue flattening to lap, then curling to thrust.

His fangs grazed the sensitive skin of your hole with a slow drag, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. Blood beaded instantly, warm and wet, trickling down toward your thighs in thin red lines.

He licked the blood with long, luxurious strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

His stubble scratched your thighs raw as he mouthed at you, tongue plunging back inside, curling and writhing, fucking you open while he sucked the blood.

A white-hot bolt of something unbearable ripped through your gut like lightning, your whole body convulsed, back arching, head snapping back as your untouched cock pulsed and jerked, spilling hard and hot over your chest in thick, white stripes, mouth open in a raw, cracked sob, fingers clenching at the stone beneath you as every nerve lit up.

He kept going and didn’t stop.

Remmick’s tongue worked faster, sloppier, his moans loud and unashamed as he devoured you through it.

The world tilted as arms wrapped under your waist, hauling your hips off the altar, your torso pinned by the ropes but everything below now suspended, thighs hooked tight around his head.

“R-Remmick—please—!” But he didn’t answer.

He buried his face between your cheeks again, tongue spearing deeper, licking blood and whatever else he could find with desperate hunger. His fangs scraped again, more blood and heat while his arms flexed, holding you aloft like you weighed nothing at all.

Your cock was already hard again, bobbing in the air, twitching with every suck. You could feel his breath through your entire spine, every rumble in his throat vibrating against your guts, hole raw and leaking, tongue fucking you so deep it felt like he was trying to reshape you from the inside out.

You lost count of how long it lasted, every sound he made was desperate. Worshipful. Terrifying.

His fangs dripped, breath trembling as he lifted his head and lowered your thighs, face absolutely soaked in red.

He hovered there, frame hunched and twitching like something trying to decide whether to worship or devour, biceps flexing as he reached for you again.

New red streaks were drawn with his tongue across your chest and ribs, no longer from fresh wounds, just messy strokes through blood already spilled, the warmth of it mixing with saliva and sweat as he mouthed sloppily at your skin.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your side, “fer goin’ so hard. Ain’t had anyone t’hold in so long. The things ye do t’me…”

Your breath hitched again as his hips pressed harder down, the rigid length of him grinding against your slick hole, lips parting with a weak moan as the heat of him lit your nerves like dry tinder.

Remmick’s eyes rolled slightly at the feel of it—your body soft and twitching under him, your legs wrapping tighter, your hole flexing against the hard line of his cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging slowly along his fangs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low and strangled, a sound torn from the back of his throat. “Need ye. Need t’be inside ye, now. Wantcha to feel me so deep ye can’t even fuckin’ pray unless it’s t’me.”

His clawed hand traced your neck, then slid down to your chest and pressed sharp, piercing the skin and blood welled instantly.

He was already on it, mouth slamming down, slurping and sucking with animal fervor the sound echoed like wet meat in a slaughterhouse, one claw dragging blood down your chest as he fed. The muscles in his jaw twitched with every swallow, throat moving visibly as he gulped.

You observed how it all occurred, dazed and half-wrecked, but for some reason still alive, unlike how those who betrayed you wanted it to be.

Here he was, monstrous, blood-drenched and cruel, but the only one who hadn’t lied to you.

The only one who shared the ache of abandonment and loneliness. Who even now, somehow, was holding back from ruining you too soon.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist and pulled hard. He growled low in response, mouth still latched to your bleeding chest. The sudden pull made him jolt closer, rock-hard cock pressing deep into the slick of your hole and his mouth left your shoulder with a wet, bloody gasp.

Forehead touching yours, droplets of blood slid down from his chin and landed on your parted lips. Your tongue caught one and shallowed.

His lips twitched before he leaned in and you met him halfway there, mouth opened over yours and tongue pushing deep. His fangs clinked against your teeth, a reminder that this could end in a single bite.

One clawed hand cradled your neck now, a deadly grip held in perfect check. The other dragged down between your bodies, across your abdomen, down to the base of his cock to free it.

The weight of it pressed down, tip slick from precum and blood he’d collected with his claws. You felt it glide along your entrance as he growled low at the contact.

“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek and the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “M’I invited?”

“Pleas—“ small and shaky, immediately interrupted by him pressing forward.

The stretch hit first. A slow, dragging pressure that pushed past your rim with that first devastating thrust, the head thick and already soaked with blood and slick, forcing itself deep into the slick mess he’d made with his tongue and spit.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw slack and lips wet, unable to even form words, body jolted inch by inch as the thick drag of his cock sank into your guts. It kept going, forcing your legs further apart as they twitched around his waist, hole clenching helplessly around the length that shouldn’t have fit that made your brain hum with warped, searing need.

“Hhhhhnn—‘s good,” he breathed into your ear, voice hoarse and breaking apart. Your hands clawed the altar beneath you, fingers digging at the cold stone as your hips bucked and your cock jerked where it lay against your stomach, every inch deeper made your vision blur.

When his hips met your ass, cock hilted to the root, he stilled.

Your hole stretched wide around the base of him, pulsing with raw soreness and slick heat while your whole frame shaked.

“Can’t tell if them tears’re from pain or pleasure,” he muttered, breath sticky against your lips, the taste of your blood sharp between you. “Not that it matters.” A crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Long as you keep makin’ those sounds f’ me.” He pulled out only a few inches and drove back in hard. His claws dug into your waist to hold you still as his cock rammed back inside, filling you deeper than before.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thrust hit like a punch, wet slaps echoing in the woods, your hole making slick, messy sounds as it stretched to take him. Blood smeared across your thighs where his skin met yours.

He angled his hips and hit something inside you that made your back arch like a bow.

“Ahh—nnh, Remmick—!”

“There,” he growled. “There is it.”

He slammed into it again, claws now wrapped tight around your cock and making you cry out as your hole fluttered around the thick intrusion, milking him.

His thrusts grew messier, harder, blood and slick smearing between your thighs and down your ass.

You came hard, spraying up your own chest, your stomach, onto his wrist and claws, sobbing brokenly as your hole clenched down around him.

With a final slam his whole body shuddered. He came with a guttural grunt muffled by the skin of your neck, hot ropes flooded into your gut, cock pulsing again and again as he filled you. Your hole stretched around the base, unable to stop the spill, his seed leaking out already, mixing with blood and slick as he collapsed half on top of you, panting, groaning into your throat.

He lifted his head to look at you, warm and coppery breath that came slow. He didn’t move, not one inch. His face hovered inches from yours, looming over your crumpled, used body as you trembled beneath him. Trails of red streaked down the curve of his cheek, along the ridge of his snarled jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth where his fangs still gleamed, coated in streaks of drying gore.

There was no name for what was behind those crimson pupils fixed on you, wide and unblinking. Unmoving and terrifying in that stillness. .

The claws rose, glistening with your blood and hovered beside your face, three fingers curled, two half-extended.

You knew what was coming, your eyes closed to embrace the last seconds of life you had, tilting your neck as an offering just like how you were meant to be right from the start, a sacrifice for the well being of everyone else.

A cool breeze brushed your skin and the pressure on your arms disappeared when the rops were cut clean.

A single beam, golden and sudden, lanced through the branches high above when you opened your eyes. You squinted, eyes stinging from the brightness, pupils shrinking as the canopy above shifted and spilled morning across the stone.

He was gone.

The altar beneath you felt colder now without his weight. The stone rasped against your skin as you stirred, every nerve screaming in protest, your muscles sore and trembling from use. Your spine creaked, your knees shaking as you pushed up with an elbow and slowly, painfully, sat upright.

The shift that clung to your body wasn’t even clothing anymore.

What had once been white was now a shredded ruin, barely covering anything. Slashes ran down both sides—some clean cuts, others torn by fang or claw—stained entirely through with smears of deep maroon. Your chest was bare, one side of the fabric having slipped down entirely, revealing a trail of blood and bite marks from neck to sternum.

You looked lower.

The hem barely covered your hips, and the back was shredded. Blood had dried there in dark, rusted patches, crusted into the cotton, while other stains still shimmered faintly under the new sunlight. Between your thighs, soreness pulsed steadily, a heat that lingered more from what had been taken than any wound. You shifted slightly on the altar stone.

You winced.

Then, against your better judgment, your hand lifted.

You pressed your fingers to your own throat. Felt the tacky edge of a new bruise. Then you dragged your palm slowly—slowly—across your chest.

Your skin was a mess of scratches and welts. Some are shallow, some are deep. Your fingers caught at one of the gashes near your ribs—three claw marks carved in parallel, dried blood crusting at the edges. You traced them.

Your breath hitched.

It hurts.

But beneath the sting, your skin prickled with something warmer. Your hand moved down, across your belly where more scratches fanned out across your hips, painted like strokes from a mad brush, some with teeth marks sunk between. You found the bruises on your thighs next, purple and red where his hands had held you down.

You rose slowly and a burst of pain tore down your ribs where his hand had marked you, pressed there, each step sent new flares of agony through your gut and chest. Still, you pushed upright again, leaning on trees, yanking free thick ropes of liana that hung from the forest canopy and twisted them around your frame to bind the shredded remains of the shift back into something wearable.

Hours passed like wounds: slow, bleeding and hard to count.

By the time you reached the edge of the village, the sky had turned black.

You stood in the tall grass on the hill overlooking the main clearing, hidden in the shadow of the trees and watched.

They were dancing.

Every family, every face you’d known since you were a child. They laughed around a roaring bonfire at the center of the square, the glow painting their skin gold, shadows flickering long and tall, celebrating their freedom.

Assholes.

You stood there, one hand pressed tight to your ribs where your body still throbbed from what had been done to you—no, what they had done to you. A lamb tied in white and left in the woods.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, you heard a rustle. You didn’t need to turn.

You dragged yourself forward, moving along the edge, behind houses with thatched roofs and crooked beams until you made it to the church.

One of the great wooden doors stood half-open and, gritting your teeth, you staggered to it and shoved with your shoulder.

The hinges groaned and the sound echoed inside like a bell tolling doom.

Three heads turned.

Father Ilan stood at the altar, tall and rigid in his soot-dark robes, two younger men flanked the pews, holding firewood and altar cloths, frozen mid-task. They stared.

The priest’s mouth opened slowly and his face was everything you needed to see.

Horror, recognition and best of all, fear.

You staggered forward two steps, holding your ribs, and let your voice come low. “That’s the face I made,” you said hoarsely. “When I woke up… tied down and threw away like garbage.”

He flinched but not enough, his hands folded before him, as if in prayer.

“You shouldn’t have returned. Not as you are. Not as that devil’s… plaything.”

You blinked, the words didn’t even sting, they felt expected.

Ilan turned slightly, eyes hard, lips thin.

“You brought him here. He’s taken root in your blood. You reek of him.”

You didn’t speak and he raised his voice. “This place is sanctified. He cannot touch it. But you—” he pointed now, eyes blazing—“you are the vessel for our freedom.”

To the men behind him: “End the ritual. Before the rot spreads and all suffer.”

They dropped their tasks and advanced.

Your knees trembled, but you didn’t back away. You clutched your side, pain radiating sharp and hot as one of the claw marks pulled.

“The devil,” you whispered, “ain’t in the woods.”

The men hesitated. One slowed.

You met the priest’s eyes.

“He’s in this village. In this church.”

That did it, broad hands caught your arms from behind before you could step back. Pain tore through your exhausted body as they dragged you toward the altar, feet skidding on cold stone, knees buckling.

With that last bit of breath you had, you cried out “Remmick, come in!”

The words hung in the air like sacrilege and the church doors groaned as they were pulled open, moonlit rushing in.

Remmick stood there soaked from crown to sole, he was dripping fresh crimson. It clung everywhere in his face, his throat gleamed red, boots squelched as he stepped forward, leaving sticky prints across the stone.

He grinned, fangs out, stained scarlet.

“evenin’, Father.” he drawled, raiaing one clawed hand in mock greeting, blood flinging from the tips as he gave a lazy wave.

Then his gaze shifted to you and that grin softened, something warm bloomed beneath the madness.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

The two men holding your arms froze for only a breath.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind the man on your right.

The claws sank deep before the man could even scream and sank his fangs deep in his neck.

The second man had turned to run but it didn’t matter as Remmick levitated towards him and fangs sank into the throat before the poor bastard could draw breath, ripping a full chunk out, the artery split wide open, blood spraying in a crimson arc across the air.

The priest was already scrambling, standing by the side door, eyes wild, robes flaring around his feet while holding a wooden stake ready to use to purify your corrupted body.

He gripped it with both hands, ready to complete his divine mission…

… A single clawed hand caught his arm and twisted.

The crunch was wet and loud, the elbow snapping backward, tendons unspooling. The stake fell with a clatter, useless.

“Y’oughta know,” Remmick whispered low into the priest’s ear, voice thick with smoke, “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

His other hand raked across Ilan’s face, four slashes bloomed deep and vertical from scalp to chin and blood poured down his beard, into his eyes.

Remmick caught him by the throat and lifted.

“I hope yer god’s watchin’ now,” Remmick said softly before throwing him outside.

The old man flew like straw, hitting the grounf outside with a sickening thud, bones cracking under the weight.

The firelight outside revealed everything, all of the villagers were standing in a wide circle, backlit by the flames.

Eyes gold, mouth slack with fangs bared.

Each one of them turned and moved together as one mind as they pounced. Teeth met throat, claws met ribs, screams choked in blood as the man’s body disappeared under their hunger, hands flailing once before they vanished beneath the swarm.

Inside the church, your body gave out, too weak and in too much pain.

Remmick’s arms caught you instantly and lifted you to your feet, claws anchoring around your waist like he’d never let you fall again. You sagged against him, breath hitching. His chest heaved with breath, his body soaked in blood both his and not, muscles flexed and quivering with residual fury.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck.

His breath was still ragged, wet with blood, panting. More blood smeared across your throat, fresh and hot, his mouth now streaking your skin with red over the already dried layers.

He buried those blood-caked claws into your hair, cradling your skull with terrifying gentleness, thumb brushing against your temple.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya I’d come for ya.”

He pulled back slightly and you saw it, beneath the gore and the fangs, something horrible and tender bloomed.

Devotion.

Claws against your palm as he cut just a line.

You hissed as warm blood beaded along your lifeline. Remmick bit his own hand, fangs punctured the base of his palm and thick blood poured from it in lazy rivulets.

He pressed the wounds together.

Palm to palm in a bloody path.

How marriages were made back when he was still a lad.

“Yer my kin now,” he breathed, that blood-slick smile returning, fang-bared, panting and waiting.

Your lips met his as you leaned forward, fangs brushing your tongue but you didn’t flinch.

The blood between you smeared across both chins, dripping down your joined hands. His growl melted into a moan as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one clawed hand sliding up your back to hold you close, the other still wrapped with yours.

Of course, that got his uncle in a twist, but with one hand wave, the man was inflated like a balloon. Harry wasn't the best at wandless magic around, but he never forgot the feeling of what he did to Marge and practiced until he could do it endlessly.

While his aunt was screaming, and Dudley, who, based on how young he appeared, never even knew magic was real, was crying, Harry walked off to collect his things. He took everything out of the cupboard and simply left.

He walked right through the front door, leaving it open behind him. Ignoring the woman peeking over the fence, Harry made it all the way down the street before he thought about what to do.

He had already fought a war. Had done more than his share for the Magic world. Had died for them. And now magic demanded he do it all over again?

Being forced to do this felt a lot like his name coming out of the Goblet of Fire.

When Harry was fourteen, he thought he could do nothing against a magical contract. He knew better now. He had other choices. If he had given up his name- as most magic depends on them- he would been able to escape the Triwizard tournament.

Harry Potter would never walk through Hogwarts halls, not in this timeline.

There was a spell that Ron had been working on, helped by Hermonie's muggle education and Harry's willingness to be his test subject.

Ron claimed it would sink into the genes and pull on the traits of his past ancestors. He originally created it to try and get back magical bloodlines like metamorphmagus and Parselmouths because, in his words, "they can be recessive traits!" and Harry had found that well his friend hadn't been able to get lost magical abilities he was able to tug on the genes in charge of his appearance.

This is how he can make sure no one would force him to be the Chosen One ever again.

He needed to find a wand, and he knew just the vendor who could sell him one—a wandmaker who may not be on Garrick Ollivander's level of mastery but one all the same.

A certain werewolf, Harry, had illegally helped escape the werewolf collection unit right after the war. It would be helpful if he had all the money he knew was waiting for him in the Potter and Black vaults, but if Harry wanted to hide, he needed not to have any form of connection to himself.

That includes not touching the gold his family left him. Thankfully, he knows not just a werewolf wandmake but the location of some sunken treasure that he could easily collect before the discovery can be made.

He also knows how much money some venom from Acromantula values on the market and the gold he'll get from a specific monster locked away in a secret chamber. He won't be one of the wealthiest men in magical Europe, but he will be more than comfortable.

Now, while he would like to change his name altogether, the magic that had written him into the Book of Admittance wouldn't allow it. He has to go by a name that he has since birth.

He discovered a loophole while helping Hogwarts rebuild and never told anyone about it. Now, he can use it for his own.

___________________________________________________________

On September 1st, 1991, the new batch of students arrived at King's Cross, excited to start their journey. A few are glancing around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous Harry Potter, who will be starting school too.

All their eyes pass over a young red-haired, hazel-eyed boy who strides into the train station wearing muggle clothing. He is pushing his cart of supplies, dodging families and students with soft steps. Despite the speed at which he rushes towards the train, there isn't an ounce of fear on his face or nervousness in his movements. He passes a family of redheads, more orange than his ruby locks, but despite the quick glance, he doesn't stop.

He merely finds a seat in the far back of the train, sets up his things in a way that implies he's saving the seats to discourage anyone from asking to sit with him, and settles in for a nap. By the time the train is ready to leave, and halfway to the school, the boy has not spoken a single word to anyone.

Eventually, his rest is disrupted by Hermione and Neville, who are looking for the latter's missing toad.

"I'm Hermione Granger, by the way." She says to the half-asleep redhead, "And this is Neville Longbottom. Who might you be?"

The boy offers her a small smile. "My name is James Evans. Nice to meet you."

After all, Harry Potter was his name, just like James was his middle name, and Evans was his second last name. He had claims to it since his mother was a magical Evans, and the Book of Admittance could accept that.

James Evans and Harry Potter had acceptance letters written by the Quill of Acceptance, and both owls were sent out. When one answered, the other was marked with the same results, so Hogwarts had an extra boy they never knew was not supposed to be there.

When the sorting started, there was an uproar, and despite being called up, Harry Potter never stepped out of the crowd. It was an even bigger show when they realized he wasn't there. While everyone wondered when the Boy Who Lived had gone, no one noticed an assumed muggle-born sitting comfortably at the Ravenclaw table chewing on his dinner.

Ravencalws tend to get overlooked, but James knows they are the perfect hiding place for all his knowledge of the rest of his class. His muggle upbringing couldn't be traced by anyone in the magical world (Most didn't understand that muggles did, in fact, keep records of many things). He could make anything up, and no one would be the wiser.

Harry remains anonymous in his role of reuniting the Riddles. When Tom is taken out of Wools into a stable home that has a somewhat distant but loving father, kind grandmother, and proud grandfather, he slowly starts to go from being afraid of dying to being scared of letting them down.

He still has some mental issues, but he's no longer dangerous. His father is coming around and, with Harry's help, has repaired his image with the town. They set it up that the Gaunts were illegally stealing from a Riddle water well on the far end of their property, where Riddle Sr. would be the only one to drink out of after riding his horses.

The well was supposedly contaminated because the Gaunts kept using a bucket made of silver, and that caused "madness". This is years later, but Tom eventually finds out Harry saved his father's image.

Tom sees Harry as this hero-like figure, and when he comes to Hogwarts, he finds that Harry is a popular Gryffindor. Because Harry remained at Wools Orphanage, seeing as the Potters had obliviated the potter squib he took over, he changed his name to Harry Evans and pretended to be a muggle-born.

He is one of the most talented muggle-borns to ever step into Hogwarts, and he makes the Potters sweat because he looks so familiar. They just can't tell where. (The Squib had been seven. He looks different now at eleven when he came back).

As a third-year, he's even Quidditch Captain of the Gryffindor team, and literally half the school is in love with him.

Tom Riddle, who has changed enough to be a hat stall, eventually goes to Ravenclaw because his desire for knowledge for knowledge's sake is significantly larger than his ambition in this timeline. He also discovers that in the Wizarding world, gender norms and views on sexuality are so much different than the muggle ones.

He found out that his having a crush on the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain is not an odd thing. Just a different preference and a few of the boys in Ravenclaw have the same opinion as him.

It takes him until the end of his first year to admit it, though.

Meanwhile, Harry decides to try the theory of "nature vs nurture" and live a normal life while Riddle Sr. deals with Tom. He figures that he will take him out if Tom is still a dark lord after having a different childhood.

He also swore off dating, much to the pain of many young mages. Harry had broken so many hearts that Albus Dumbledore side-eyed him, thinking of him as evil, but Harry finds that before he was the headmaster and hero of the war, Dumbledore didn't have much power over him.

If anything, he reminded him of Snape's potion class.

He just isn't prepared for Tom being....a regular teenager. One that is annoyingly open about his crush on him and, over the years, attempts to woo Harry.

Basically, a time travel Au that leads to Tom and Harry's entire relationship is like this:

Of course, after Hogwarts, Harry can't help himself, so he joins the war and, surprisingly, is the one to take down Gellert Grindelwald after taking his education seriously. He becomes the new professor at Hogwarts to become Headmaster.

He took Dumbldore's future since Dumbldore sacrificed his past.

Tom, meanwhile, is busy preparing to take over the Earlship from his father and chooses to focus his obsession with old magic and historical artifacts to become a magical archaeologist.

Gotham’s been terrorized by the worst people you could ever imagine, the kind that’ll stick with you forever and take residence to your nightmares if you were unfortunate enough. Many were hurt or even murdered as a result of the villains’ terrorization, with vigilantes running through the night to capture and send them to Arkham Asylum.

With the existence of a Psychopathic Clown, his equally psychopathic girlfriend with PHD’s that’s been wasted down the line, the Mother Nature freak, the ridiculously huge man with a gas mask on, the green coloured living question mark, and many others, no one would’ve ever thought anything could get any worse.

Until some criminals’ bodies turn up across the streets in such disturbing manner that haunts the witnesses to death.

One, a criminal who murdered young and homeless boys, gutted deeply to the point of their intestines hanging out. Another, a criminal known for kidnapping and selling people’s organs, mutilated with their torso torn back to expose the organs settled inside of them. Another one, a priest-turned-criminal who’s been violating women and children, crucified naked in his own church with his eyes gouged out, a Bible verse carved in his chest; ‘And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.’ Matthew 18:9; his penis cut off and body seemingly violated as well. Another more turns up, a governor-turned-criminal who’s been feeding into the rich despite their oath of generosity towards the poor, severely tortured with the skin on his back cut open, ribs severed from the spine and broken to the sides in order to create the illusion of wings, fluttering lungs pulled out from their chest cavity to resemble an eagle’s wings, with the word ‘traitor’ carved on his forehead.

The brutality and gruesome nature of the murders has set an alarming panic and fear across Gotham City that forced civilians into locking their doors at night. Criminals who were unidentified and not found by Gotham Police Department were also turning up in a form of miserable, tortured soul, along with the evidence and proofs of their crimes being carelessly laid beside their lifeless corpse.

The killer taunts those who are in charge of justice within their city each time the damned were unfortunate enough to be hunted down; pigs of failure written in the criminal’s blood right beside the drawing of a police’s logo.

However, despite how gruesome and disturbing the murders were, most people couldn’t deny that it was doing the city a favor. Justice System has failed more times than one could count to the extent of victims yearning to exact revenge themselves against their perpetrator, which causes most to react rather positively to the wrongful, unlikely hero who had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The haunted finally getting the chance to slay the traumatic demons with the help of another psychopath on the loose.

Another justified monstrosity shouldn’t be the counter against one inhumane monstrosity that caused so much pain, trauma, and misery. But kindness could not vanquish one’s tainted blood. Forgiveness could not suddenly wash away the sins engraved deeply into one’s soul.

Imperfect, the victims muttered. An imperfect yet perfect way to save our burning souls wrongfully condemned by the criminals.

Red Hood has heard their murmurs.

Silent whispers of gratitude that fell on deaf ears, their previously dim soul brightening in relief and sanctuary with smiles on their faces as the Universe had finally took mercy on them and sent a Fallen Angel to slay the Demons away. He’s watched their spirit uplift, no longer chained down by the trauma and fear of the monsters that once ruined their lives, able to walk the streets carefree of tormentors. He’s watched their stiff posture visibly loosen, lively peacefulness settling itself at last within their haunted eyes. He’s watched them glow with happiness not feeling the presence of their perpetrator every couple of seconds, finally capable of living without needing to constantly look over their shoulders in paranoia and fear.

Ghostface is what the serial killer’s called, nickname born out of the mask that resembled a ghost always being left behind in crime scenes, each slightly different.

Jason has seen you. He didn’t mean to, really.

The temptation to get at least one look at you was great every-time he patrolled, wishing to just catch glimpse of an immoral hero who could make sacrifices no actual heroes could — who’s doing exactly what he wished before for Batman to do.

The Universe seems to have granted his wishes when his eyes catches the void of ghostface’s eyes, your mask tainted in splatters of blood from the dead criminal below you. Jason feels his world come to a stop as you slowly rise from crouching position and reveal your unnaturally tall height, broad shoulders visible under the black hooded leather. You hold silence and calmness despite being caught, tilting your head slightly to the side.

His heartbeat quickens yet he doesn’t feel fear. Jason idiotically steps closer as if he was in a trance, burning your existence within his eyes to engrave in his memory. Your bloody knife barely grazes his neck to stop him before using it to tilt his chin up, your figure looming and towering over him while seemingly staring into his eyes through his helmet.

A sense of peacefulness overcomes Jason being in your presence despite the absolute brutality and mercilessness that surrounded your entire being. You were deadly, silent, certainly creative with your work that it deems almost artistic, as if the criminals’ bodies were your own canvas to paint on — and Jason finds solace in you. A man he always needed, someone who’d be willing to cross the line and get rid of the actual evil for the sake of victims that’d be forever haunted if it continues to exist.

“I’ve heard things about you, Red Hood.”

Low, raspy, monotone voice speaks, sending shivers down his spine. It sounds cool and handsome regardless of the obvious use of voice changer, somehow littered with tiniest hint of flirtatiousness.

It takes him quite a while to answer, barely managing to let out a “yeah?” as he feels you drag the knife slightly closer to his pulse. His heartbeat quickens, but slows down when the cold metal was finally pulled away.

“Pleasant things,” You hummed, before your voice lowered a few octaves, “Can’t say the same about Batman.” Anger seems to seep through your tone that felt a little more than just sympathy for victims of villains Batman refused to put six feet under. Jason wondered if you’re also one of the victims his father failed.

“You… You know him that much?” Jason’s voice shakes from the nerve, your presence somehow greatly affecting him.

“I think everyone knows him enough,” You chuckled, but it sounded so empty that Jason can’t help but feel the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was quite chilling to meet someone who shows only a certain amount of emotion which could even be felt expressionless due to the monotonous pitch. The ghostface mask certainly did its job of making you seem more less human, the unmoving expression of ghost being horrified to death adding to the eeriness of your toneless mechanic voice.

Jason’s breath hitched when you took one step closer.

“But I know more about you. Your little past and the sufferings you’ve endured,” It’s spoken as if his life was one of your necessary investigation in your twisted justice. “It’s unfair, don’t you think? I would’ve gutted the Joker like a fish if it were to happen to my son.” There’s a condescending way in which you spoke, not directed at Jason but to Bruce.

“How—” Jason swallowed. “How did you—”

“I can make your dreams come true,” You interrupted him with a tempting offer, shutting him up effectively. Wide grin plastered your face despite not being seen behind your mask. “I can kill the Clown for you, Red Hood. If it means it’ll silence your troubled spirit. If it’ll bring you peace. I can hurt him on your behalf just like he deserves.”

It was like a whisper from the devil, slithering its way into Jason’s heart and mind to possess his soul, mirroring the one which whispered on Adam and Eve’s ears.

He’s been wanting — needing — to hear those words come out of Bruce. His suffering and death seemingly being brushed off as a cruel accident shattered him more than he’d ever admit, Bruce’s unhealthy coping mechanism and morality getting in the way of showing his love for Jason that left the younger man feel lesser than he was. Bruce was a complex person that’s sometimes difficult to understand, his impressive ways to stick to his morals being exactly his character, but Jason wanted for once, to actually feel how important he was to his father.

Was that too much to ask for, or was he just unworthy of the entirety of it?

“Why would you do that for me?” Confusion and subtle suspicion filled his tone as Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out your intention despite the rush of hope that shot throughout his chest. He forced himself to feel nothing when you leaned in closer.

“Because you were wronged, of course.” You simply stated. “You are a victim. Not more, not less. You deserve a little more than just empty justice. And I’m a man who got tired of vigilantes that are afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.” Then, you tilt your head slightly to the side in a way that’s somehow alluring. “But I can also say I’m intrigued by you.”

Jason’s heartbeat quickens again when your big hand seems to wrap perfectly around his throat, fingers resting just above his pulse points. It makes such filthy thoughts flood themselves into his mind, your long and quite thick fingers falling victims to his tainted imagination, and he had to give everything in himself not to bare his throat more for you. You seem pleased of his lack of disobedience and bite, having expected him to shove your hand away or flinch back before you could touch him. You’ve seen Red Hood once and how his uncontrollable rage resulted in violence, heavy burdens and extreme trauma turning him into a ticking time bomb that could explode any minute with the wrong move. He was absolutely lethal, the bullets serving as the evidence of his wrath and resentment towards the underground scumbags. It’s amusing that you have the man of violence himself now somehow completely under your control, surprisingly quiet and shy and obedient. You wondered if this is how he was before he was ruined by the cruelty of the world.

“You want it, don’t you? For me to kill the Joker.”

Jason feels as if you know everything he wants. Is this what it feels like to be important?

It takes a little while for him to answer, but he eventually came up with a “You’ll do that?” which sounded vulnerable and weak for the first time in his second life. Your heart clenched at the doubt and seemingly child-like vulnerability in which he uttered the words, as if he was afraid to trust something after being betrayed countless of times, reminding you of the sole person you’ve even began doing all of this for. They were quite similar yet so different — your older brother and Jason.

You hadn’t meant to cross his boundaries and unknowingly step into the empty hole that made home in his heart. Unconsciously slithering in like a snake by touching the subject his heart was longing for, not realizing his childhood’s still remaining within his spirit.

All he wanted was love and to feel safe again. You didn’t know the Red Hood was so adorably pitiful. A smirk plastered your face.

“I will,” You reassured and leaned your face inches away from his, the hand on his throat lifting his helmet slightly.

Jason doesn’t retaliate, blinded by a meat of hope dangled in front of him. He doesn’t move as the lower half of his face was exposed, and you lifted your own mask the same using your other hand. Jason willingly, obediently closes his eyes before your lips attached to his — a kiss of death, tasting like blood and cruelty. Warm and soft despite your rough, cold-blooded, corrupted soul. A kiss from the devil.

When Jason opened his eyes, you had already disappeared into the darkness with blood stains on the ground you stood before, a single note left behind; Hell will reopen for the Clown.

After neatly tucking the note inside his jacket and making sure no evidence has been accidentally left on the crime scene, Red Hood smiles for the first time in a long while and reaches for the comms without a heavy heart.

“Batman, I found another body.”

Whatever happens, he’ll have no knowledge of the following misfortune that’ll befall on the Joker. It’s the righteous serial killer’s doing, after all.

What was used to be a maniacal laughter turned into screams of agony and pain. Strong stench of death and blood makes euphoria rush within your mind, the feeling of slicing through flesh with your knife bringing pleasure and ecstasy that made your pants tight. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the way your own actions cause serious harm and scarring to criminals who once deemed themselves powerful, being reduced into nothing but a powerless prey that could easily be gotten rid of.

You feel increasingly powerful the more you strip them of their dignity and arrogance as they shed blood on the holy ground. Your existence alone striking them with crippling fear and anxiety feeds into your ego, yet you never stray away from the sole purpose or reason for your murders — making them taste their own medicine.

From what you found on countless deep dive and research, Joker preyed on Red Hood when he was still a young child full of life and joy, having been under the name Robin at the time. Second Robin to be exact, considering he was a lot different from the first one. It actually surprisingly pained you when you’d seen how much of an adorable, dorky, nice kid he was before misfortune cut his life short. You would’ve never thought you would find a kid adorable in your entire life, the little menaces often being nothing more than a headache to be around with that caused a certain dislike to grow towards them within you, but Jason was everything a cute kid was. Just excited to be there, to be fighting alongside Batman, to be relevant.

Such a precious boy ruined for the sake of shits and giggles for the Clown. For the sake of getting under Batman’s skin. And the Bat couldn’t even make fucking amends to his flaws as a father and mentor.

Well, he didn’t need to anymore.

You’ll give Red Hood— Jason Todd —what he wants. Yearned for. Perhaps, even what the other civilians who have fallen victims to this vile criminal want. You would stop at nothing until every criminal is gurgling and choking on their own blood.

Joker’s scream shoots a jolt of electricity within your body as your knife pierce through his skinny thigh and to the ground, pinning his leg down. You had been doing an effective job of reducing the maniac into nothing but a screaming, cowering average victim by torture. Bruises, burns, gashes, and stab wounds littered his body that was done carefully enough to not be life-threatening. Fucker was laughing maniacally at first, of course. It irritated you so much that you might’ve went a little overboard.

Watching Joker heave and struggle to breathe from the pain, you tilted your head and roughly grabbed his throat. It catches him off guard and he grips your wrist, barely even having the strength to fight you off. You’re amused by the entirety of Joker’s nature, how he’s still just an average man that can easily be overpowered — nothing that makes him special enough to not be killed, becoming proof of Batman’s selfish willingness to let the victims suffer than bring them actual peace.

You’ve never uttered a word since you captured him and it unnerved Joker from the beginning, but then, words finally come out of your mouth in a form of monotonous, mechanical, emotionless, eerie voice as you lean over him; “Laugh it out, Joker. Why so serious?”

It sounded like a death sentence.

He’s right in a way, because another of your knife pierced the corner of his mouth soon as you uttered the words. Your other hand tightened on his arteries to choke him while you drag the knife to slit the side of his mouth into a grin, following the lines of his red lipstick. It was certainly not a clean cut, but an artist has their own creative ways to make their art. Tears mixed in with blood that gushes out of his face, complete horrors written across Joker’s eyes which boosts your satisfaction. You go on and do the same thing to the other side of his mouth, before finishing your art piece by carving ‘J’ on his painted cheek.

You resist the urge to moan at the sight of blood coating your fine piece, always finding it to be an amazing finishing touch.

From then on, Joker was brought to literal Hell.

Jason flinches when a playful knock sounded from his safe house’s window, cautiously approaching to see ghostface waving at him through the glass. His eyes widened and immediately opens the window to let you in, not wanting anyone to see you — your sudden appearance distracting him from the fact he’s never given anyone the location of his safe house.

He stops in track at the blood splatters across your mask, and just then had he noticed you seemed to be hiding something behind your back with one hand. It definitely strikes his curiosity, but he somehow didn’t feel like you were holding something that could harm him.

“You got something for me, ghostface?” Jason feels you grin under your mask.

“Got you a present,” Your raspy, rough voice enthusiastically quipped.

Jason’s breath hitches when you show what you were holding — the Joker’s decapitated head in a square glass container tainted by its blood. You obviously had planned to bring it barehand, but you considered the possibility of its blood dripping down on his safe house and becoming a false evidence to point him to the murder, which prompted you to put it inside the container. An unbelievably sweet gesture for a fucking psychopath like you.

Jason could feel his heart beat rapidly as he takes in the animal’s state, carved up grin and the letter J and the horrors seen in its lifeless eyes proving the absolute misery and suffering it went through before being put down. The monster was finally, finally slain and gone forever from his life. Nightmares detangles from his spirit and the past unwraps away from his soul, utter peace and relief spreading throughout his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes at the feeling of being free at last from the life long torment, breath shaking as his knees wobbled.

The child in himself, the innocent Robin that was killed unfairly, finally rests in peace.

Then he sees you, his hero, waving your seemingly new knife playfully in the air with your outfit splattered in blood without a care that you actually saved him, and Jason feels a sudden surge of arousal and will to submit. To give you everything, anything.

“Do you love it, Red Hood?”

Without answering you, Jason grabs the glass container with shaky hands and sets it aside on the counter before stepping back closer to you again, blood rushing to his veins from arousal. He removes his helmet with a thud on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, lustful and yearning emerald eyes looking up at you.

“Let me thank you, please.”

It makes you groan as your pants significantly tightens more.

You slide your knife back into the holster before cupping his beautiful face in your hands, and thank fucking Heavens there wasn’t any blood on it that would taint his face, because he’s a sight to behold. He’s truly a gem, something precious you had never seen before. “So beautiful,” You whispered, making Jason flush. “Baring yourself to me for such a simple present, doll?”

“Not a simple present,” Jason mumbled as he snuggles on the palm of your hands. “You saved me.”

You hum appreciatively, getting the itch to bare yourself to him as well. “You wanna thank me by what?”

Jason looks back at you, face flushed with a little hint of uncertainty and embarrassment, doubts. “I— uhm,” He stammers, but encouraged by your thumb’s gentle stroke on his cheek. “By… by becoming yours.”

Your cock throbs. Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable, you just wanna fuck his guts out. You’re usually tempted to gut people, not fuck their guts— which is funny to say the least— but you weren’t going to say no when the Red Hood’s so willing to offer himself up.

“You wanna take my mask off, doll?” He seems surprised by your question as if he hadn’t thought of it, making you chuckle. “If you wanna be mine, I gotta be yours too, don’t I?” It was dangerous to reveal your identity to him, but you couldn’t care less, especially when you could just fuck his brains out to shut him up. That’s the plan, first time that didn’t include butchering or cutting a body up.

Jason fucking Todd and his effects on you.

The emerald eyed male hesitantly grasped your mask when you led his hands to it, slowly lifting it over your head. He’s met with a fucking luscious feature to ever be adorned on a man and dark, lustfully murderous blood red eyes that makes a whimper slip past his lips. You merely widened your eyes at the sound he made before immediately grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, swallowing Jason’s surprised gasp.

He reciprocates the insatiable hunger you displayed, tongue dancing along with yours and moaning into the kiss when your fingers lightly tugged on his hair. You pull him up in amidst of making out and squeeze his ass, encouraging him to wrap his legs around your hips. You detach your lips from his to trail kisses down his jaw and neck as you walked towards his bedroom, questionably knowing where it is, and Jason tilts his head back to give you more access with closed eyes. Letting him stimulate both of your restrained cocks by grinding down, you sat down on the bed and sucked on his throat as Jason moaned.

“Please, please…” He whimpers, uncontrollably moving his hips in a perfect rhythm yet he seemed to want something else.

You pulled away and traced his lips with your thumb, watching as he naturally took it in and sucked, giving you a desperate look. Swiftly turning off the voice changer attached to your neck in a form of choker, you chuckled when his hands fiddled with the belt on your hooded coat. “So needy, aren’t you?” Your real voice sends shivers down his spine.

An alluring, low, slightly rough pitch and somehow more emotionless than when you were using the voice changer. It makes his cock twitch and empty hole clench down on nothing, the need to be stuffed full of your cum swarming in his belly. You’re fucking bewitching, a man made up from every guy and girl’s fantasy, wet dream, and your attractiveness mirroring the Devil’s that would tempt and lure others to sin.

How the fuck were you real?

“Speak up, pretty bird.” You smirked, “What do you want?”

“Your cock,” Jason mutters, cheeks tinted in pink. “Wanna suck your cock and make you feel good.”

“Fuck…” You shifted in place, “You’ll do that f’me? Get my cock nice and wet to take you apart? To fuck your guts out?”

Jason shakily inhales and nods, climbing off your lap and kneeling on the floor. You lean back on your hands as he unstraps your belt and slide your zipper down, slightly raising your hips to help him get rid of the excess clothes. Your thick and lengthy cock smacks against your clothed stomach, making Jason’s mouth water. Thick veins throbbed on your big shaft, the tip angry and red from arousal leaking precum. It wasn’t just big, it was long, and Jason squeezes his thighs together to keep himself from just riding your cock all day.

His hand wraps around the base, starting to stroke it with a content rhythm. God, you were so fucking big. It’d definitely split him open if you shove it in so suddenly and fill him up nice. It’d make him scream his head off from the unbearable length and girth, almost too much, and Jason wants you to force him to take it. Pin him down and fuck him despite his pleas to stop.

Jason swipes his thumb over the slit, smearing precum, pumping it for a good amount before licking a stripe up the underside of your cock. You shudder, removing your gloves to slip your bare fingers through Jason’s hair, encouraging him to take you in. He obeys, relaxing his throat first before sliding your cock inside his warm mouth, and you groaned at the warmth that surrounded you. It almost didn’t fit from how big you were, but Jason braced himself and took it in further until he gagged as the tip touched the back of his throat. Wrapping his hand around your shaft that he couldn’t take in, stroking gently as if to apologize.

A moan slips past your lips when he starts bobbing his head, tongue brushing against the underside of your dick. “Fuck… Doin’ so good,” You roll your head back. “Such a pretty face to fuck, ain’t ya?”

Jason whines, tears gathered in his eyes as he sucks and fastens his rhythm. Curses, grunts leave your lips that left him feeling all hot and bothered, his other hand moving to skillfully pull his pants down and free his aching cock.

You see him touching himself and a smirk adorns your sinful face, gently scratching his scalp with your nails which earned you a whimper from him. “Go on, fuck yourself. We both know it wouldn’t fit that easily without proper prep,” Expression twisting into a cocky one, your grip on his hair tightened. “I’ll do as I please with your mouth until you’re done.”

Without waiting for his approval, you roughly shoved your cock deep down his throat and moaned loudly, throwing your head back. Jason gagged with a loud whimper as his eyes rolled back into his skull and cum shot out from his throbbing cock, hips jutting forward and twitching due to the sudden orgasm. You chuckle lowly, amusement and lust glinting in your bright red eyes, before you pull back and ram on his throat again.

Jason’s cries and moans were muffled as you ruthlessly use his throat to gain pleasure. His mind has already turned into mush from your assaults, white cum and precum staining the floor yet he doesn’t put up a fight. Taking it all like the good, obedient boy that he is. He’s reached behind him to insert two fingers in his awaiting hole, walls clamping down on the digits from the arousal of his throat being utterly wrecked.

Yesyesyes, please. He chanted in his mind. Use me, mark me, cum in my throat, make me yours.

The moment you fulfilled your promise and delivered him the head of his enemy, he was already yours. It’s all he ever wanted. Unquenchable thirst that always gnawed on his throat and hunger that left his stomach restless, his soul practically teared in half from being battered and beaten. He matters now — mattered enough to you, that you went ahead and killed the source of his misery. The love exploding in his chest was almost unbearable; he was already high on cloud nine from the moment he’s seen you present the head so cheerfully.

You see how he looks up at you, emerald eyes almost displaying hearts with how much he was melting. He’s taken your murderous act as an affection, and you couldn’t be more happy, because it’s what you intended.

“Shit, baby… Gonna cum soon,” You panted, thrusting vigorously. Jason hums and flexes his throat to provide you more pleasure, making you tighten the grip on his hair. “You want me to cum down your throat?”

You earned a desperate whine from him, closing his eyes to prove he was waiting for it. His fingers kept their own assault on his prostate, scissoring and stretching the squishy walls, muffled moans escaping him.

God, he looked so fucking gorgeous. He’d look even more gorgeous with your dick ramming inside him.

Jason feels your big cock throb in his mouth and his fingers move more aggressively to pleasure himself, wanting to reach his high at the same time as you. Stimulating your tip with the back of his throat a few times, you moaned loudly with a curse when Jason slightly flicks his tongue over your sensitive underside, forcing an orgasm out of your body. White, thick, warm seeds spurt out from your slit to his awaiting throat as Jason whimpered in delight and shot another layer of cum on the wet stained floor, hips thrusting in the air.

He greedily swallows every drop that spilled down his mouth despite the euphoria making him feel dizzy as his body slightly trembles.

You chuckled, breathing heavily, pleased expression spread across your face. “Good boy. That was such a good throat-fuck.”

The raspy, sultry tone of your voice makes electricity and chills run through Jason’s spine as his walls clench down on his fingers, yearning to be filled. Jason certainly doesn’t have a womb — it’s anatomically impossible — yet he couldn’t help but feel like it’s there, waiting and aching to be fucked and bred. He needs your cum to be pushed so far inside him. Need to be marked entirely as yours inside and out. Need you to rearrange his guts, fuck his brains out, breed him full, then fuck your cum further back into him.

Jason pulled his fingers out, whimpering at the loss of contact, before looking back up at you with begging eyes. “Can you-?” His voice cracks as he swallows, “Take me apart, please. Make me yours, fuck, I wanna be yours.”

You noticed tears gathering in his eyes, as if being rejected of his want to be your possession would be an ultimate heartbreak in his life; a life-threatening, gnawing thorn in his heart that’ll tear him apart piece by piece and shredding his soul. Jason thinks he can’t live without becoming yours, his savior’s. He can’t live without the source of his safety, the man that fulfilled his silly little dream and sacrificed his own sanity for it.

It absolutely amuses you that he’s become so attached just because you’ve driven him away from harm’s way. A little dumb, but he was your little dumb doll.

You gently caress his face and Jason leans into your touch, making your lips curl upwards into a smile. “Of course, doll.”

It leads to Jason being pressed face first on the mattress as you rail him from behind, sinful and alluring noises leaving his lips stained in drool. Your name escapes him like a chanted prayer, hands gripping the sheets, electricity sparking within his mind that left him dumb and unable to think coherently.

“Fuh-fuck! mgh, ah- yes, oh my god—!” He cries out when you pulled almost entirely back and rammed your cock roughly into him, almost seeing stars in his vision.

The roughness in which you handled him, the perfect angle of your hips allowing you to force pleasure out of his body every-time you thrust, the way you push his back down on the mattress to make him arch more into your merciless tactic, leaves Jason absolutely delirious. You didn’t just fuck him good; you fucked him with absolute vigor and violence, occasionally biting strongly on his shoulder to draw blood, showcasing your natural instincts as a serial killer. He feels your big fucking dick throb and gets impossibly bigger inside him each time his blood seeps out the broken skin, and Jason’s head spins at how much it drove arousal in his core.

“Good fuckin’ sex toy,” You grunted, roughly slamming your hips against his and causing a sharp moan to erupt from Jason.

“B-big—! s’too big- fuck!” Jason whines, tears spilling endlessly down his cheeks.

You smirk as you feel your ego skyrocket at being able to reduce a rather muscular man into nothing but a whining, blabbering bitch. “Yeah? I do split you open, don’t I? But you love it since you’re such a fuckin’ slut.”

“oh- aghn! y-yours— hnngh! Your s-slut! No one else’s-!” He chokes out, desperately reaching for you behind him.

“So fuckin’ adorable,” You chuckled and grabbed his hand, pinning it back to the mattress as you hover over him. You seem to fit against each other perfectly well, your large and tall body able to encage him that left Jason’s stomach fluttering. He’s taken a lot liking of the fact you’re bigger than him, considering he’s never been the smaller one when he was with others. It gives him a sense of shelter.

“p-please— pleaseplease- oh! cum— fuck… cum in me again!” Jason blabbered.

You can’t help but comply to his request, fastening your pace and drilling more into him. Incoherent sentences spill from his drooling mouth when he feels your cock pulse within his walls that signified your soon release. There’s a purpose in which you thrust your hips now — more sharp and angled yet a little sloppy, aimed to brush against his prostate and make him feel utterly good.

“Shit… Cummin’, doll.” You grunted right in his ear before shoving him on the mattress by the back of his nape and slamming all the way down on his already gaping hole.

Jason nearly screams, voice cracking, as his orgasm hits like a strong tide of wave at the same time you spilled thick layer of white semen into his fucked out guts. You ride out your orgasm by thrusting slowly a few times as Jason’s body violently shakes from the aftershock. He subconsciously whines in annoyance when some of your previous cum seems to overflow and replaced by your recent one, bucking his hips as if to use your big cock as a plug to keep them all in. His belly felt full from how much you’ve been filling him with your seed yet it still didn’t feel enough. Jason wanted more; he knew you weren’t going full on him yet.

You swiftly turned him around on his back without pulling out and kissed him roughly. Jason mewls into the kiss when the position makes you push more deeper into him, his hands immediately clasping at the back of his thick thighs to pull them up and make it easier for you to fuck.

“My cute little thing,” You murmured against his lips and bit the skin to draw blood, Jason’s hole squeezing down on you from both the pain and pet name. He greedily whimpers your name, holding onto you for life and yearning for more of you despite already receiving what he wants.

It was so fucking adorable and arousing to see him desperate for not just you, but your entire being as well, willing to welcome such darkness with open arms and tearful smile. You weren’t really a desirable person; so many people have thrown themselves at you for your conventionally attractive features and masculine body type that swoons hundreds yet cower away in fear and speak of you in disgrace when shown the demons living inside of you. No one could seem to look past your murderous, cold-blooded psychopathy — some have attempted to, which only resulted in your darkness growing bigger when they break their own promises. You weren’t meant to be loved. Your destiny was written in the stars and the Gods have cursed you with eternity of living in loneliness and madness without cure. You were meant to be feared, a lonely and violent soul that couldn’t be tamed, your sole purpose of existence being a destroyer; nothing more or less.

Jason, however, seems indifferent to your fate.

Instead of running away in disgust and fear at your acts of violence around the city, he was seeking for you. He’s seen what you’ve done, what you could do without feeling remorse, what monsters lie beneath your existence — and still, he graciously opens his heart (and legs) for you. There’s love and desire within his eyes where distaste should be, touch so soft and warm it baptizes your tainted skin. You’re soaked in blood yet Jason takes his time with you to clean them up. Born with thorns yet he willingly prickles his fingers on them.

You’re a danger everywhere you go, but to him, you were home.

It makes your heart clench; he’s broken the Gods curse and it costs him his freedom, because now he’s caught up in your webs. You wouldn’t let him go, like a snake that’s wrapped itself around its prey in a death grip.

Jason wanted to be yours. What better ways to fulfill his wish if not possessing his body, soul, and spirit?

“Sweet dumb thing,” You purred, hips thrusting slow and sensual, unable to forgive parts of his walls that weren’t touched by your cum. “Mine to fuck, ruin, or make love to. That’s right, yeah?”

Jason nods, moaning softly. Your hands now replaced where his were on the back of his thighs, bending him almost in half as you roll your hips to gently brush against every weak spot he has. The sudden shift in rhythm and atmosphere confuses Jason for a bit, his fogged mind unable to comprehend the situation at hand, but the intimacy strikes a further pleasure that was nearly mind-breaking. He’s been reduced to a moaning mess, blood, sweat, tears and cum coating his body.

“p-please,” Jason keened, like it felt agonizing to be loved ever so gently. “I— ah… I want- I want you,” He stuttered out between moans.

“You’re having me, aren’t you?” Replying, you nipped on his neck and sucked, leaving behind a purple bruise.

He nearly cries, shaking his head. A waterfall of tears streamed down his face, and you find yourself captivated by them. It was almost ethereal despite being one of human’s responses to most things imaginable; your victims always shed one or two accompanied by begs of mercy, but all you’ve ever thought of them was amusing. It’s been used as an escaping tactic from you before, which was never successful due to your lack of morality and sympathy towards your target. They were pathetic, but Jason was divine. Tears suited him— not tears of fear, but tears of pleasure and utopia.

Your focus snaps back on reality when Jason suddenly pulled you down by the nape and bit down hard on your shoulder. A pleasured groan leaves your lips at the pain, hips bucking, making him whimper.

“Jason—”

“Please,” He cuts you off and finally murmurs; “Wanna f-feel how… mhm-! how you actually love…”

It strikes something in your core. Despite your perfect skills of hiding your true nature and never being caught, Jason saw it right through you, how you were holding yourself back for his sake. Quite ironic to witness a cold-blooded killer care for someone enough to go soft, even though it looked like you were going rough on him, and it warmed Jason’s heart. But he was a greedy, fucked up human being who wanted all of you. It wouldn’t be enough until he knows he’s taken you fully.

An amused laughter erupts from your chest. Eyes darkening in lust, Jason feels one of your hands wrap around his throat warningly as the other pushed his torso flat down on the mattress. “You… You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, Todd.”

You pull all the way back before ramming in, making Jason let out a loud, choked up moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. Your thrusts relentless and powerful, slamming against Jason’s body with an intensity that made his head spin, your hand holding his throat as a leverage. Your name spills from his lips like a prayer, something that seems to ignite a possessive feeling within you. Jason can’t help but mewl when your grip tightened on his arteries, throwing his head back to let you gain fully control.

The way he’s so obedient and putty in your hands despite knowing you can kill him if you truly meant to makes you love him even more, fucking him and taking away his ability to breathe wasn’t enough. Greediness turning overboard with the darkness and psychopathy that lies within your existence; you almost wanted to cut him open and crawl inside his guts so you could truly claim Jason, inside and out. You wanted to be more closer to him, see how far you can go without Jason pushing you away or getting disturbed.

Jason’s eyes widened when a cold metallic silver touched his cheek, seeing you holding your signature knife through blurred vision from his tears. However, he doesn’t flinch away like you expected him to, instead his walls squeezes down on your cock and his own twitched against his stomach. The unexpected reaction pulls a loud groan out of you, your hips bucking.

“Shit, Jay… You lettin’ me kill you or somethin’? Good fucking cunt just tightened on me,” You rasped, thrusting your cock against his prostate.

Jason gasps, his hands grabbing the mattress and holding it in a tight grip. It’s so shameful how turned on he was at the danger that lurked around you, his usually sharp instincts relinquished to be replaced by naiveté and stupidity for love. He must’ve gone insane; getting killed was one of his triggers because of his past yet his soul yielded nothing in retaliation to the possibility of your blade slicing through him. All of him seems to have come to love and trust you too much just because you’ve decapitated the beast his entire existence feared, which a part of him found utterly ridiculous and idiotic, but not enough to stop.

He wouldn’t stop himself from loving you — not when you’ve given him the love he always yearned for.

You lean in and ghost your lips over his as you dragged the knife on his torso, lightly scraping him. Jason’s breath quickens, his pupils blown wide in lust and need, anticipation seemingly running through his body as his moans turned into desperate whines.

“p-please…!” He chokes out a whisper, rolling his head to the side and whimpering when you snapped your hips warningly on his. “feels— fuck! feels g-good—! c-carve me… hngh! carve me u-up-! shit… make me fuckin’ bleed…! please,” Jason nearly cries for you.

Groaning out a curse, you reflexively bite down hard on the crook of his neck and push more of your cock inside him, causing a loud keen to erupt from Jason as he squirms and cums on his own stomach at the addictive sense of pleasure and pain shooting through his body.

You licked the blood that seeped out from his skin, satisfied at the clear bite mark you’ve left visible before sensually grinding your hips. Jason whimpered quietly, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“That’s it, doll. Let go, feel good. m’not gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. It’ll all feel good,” Whispering sweet words, you slowly press the tip of the knife just above the v line of his hip and drag it down. Jason hissed at the prickle of pain and tensed up, but the pleasure of your cock stimulating his sensitive walls was too great that forced him to relax. “It’s alright, doll. Jus’ carving you up with my name, so you’ll be mine forever. Isn’t that what you want? Be fuckin’ mine?”

Jason moaned softly, nodding his head. Series of pleasepleaseplease blabber out of him accompanied by heavenly noises he’s been making since you started taking him apart, his brain too fucked out that forcibly twisted pain into pleasure as all he could think about was becoming yours. You, his savior, his God, claiming him by marking him up with your name. Jason feels like he could fucking squirt from just that thought alone.

His blood seeping out from the letters of your name arouses you to no end, your cock throbbing inside him while you continue to move, the darkness within you being thoroughly fed of its bloodthirsty hunger. This is the first time it doesn’t gnaw at your skin to drive your knife deeper, pull the guts out, and splatter redness everywhere; instead, it wanted to be gentle, as if Jason was a significant existence too precious to hurt even for the Devil. A proof that Jason was always meant to be yours, the only one who the monster inside you would rather love than kill.

Carving the last letter, you laughed breathlessly in satisfaction and stabbed the knife on the headboard before slamming your lips against his, devouring his pleasurable noises. Jason whines, arms wrapping around your neck to pull you impossibly closer, arching his back when you switched into a much faster and rougher pace.

“Cummin’, fuck!” You grunted, to which Jason wrapped his legs around your hips to make sure it stays in.

“I-in— in me… fuck- oh my god— please… please, cum in me. Make me full again, p-please…” He begs, clenching his walls around you to push you over the edge, his own orgasm nearing.

Seeing him covered in his own tears, sweat, blood and drool fills you with nothing but pure ecstasy knowing it’s all because of you. The most appealing, ravishing man being a slutty mess right beneath you, begging to be bred and full of your cum, does feed too much into your ego. No one can do anything to take you away from him now, because you’re wrapped around his fingers as much as he is around yours.

“Anythin’ for ya, doll.” You chuckled, thrusting a couple more times before shoving your twitching cock deep into his guts with a moan and releasing your load. Jason mewls, his hole throbbing and squeezing down on you as he throws his head back, tainting his abdomen once more.

Riding out both of your highs, you let out a raspy groan and kissed his lips again, Jason weakly reciprocating due to the overstimulation. His body trembled hard, mind almost shutting down from the exhaustion and too much euphoria. “So good, doll. Took me like a good fuckin’ boy. Fuckin’ amazing.” You praised.

Jason could still see darkness in your eyes, the murderous devil, but there’s a hint of happiness he didn’t recognize before. Love and adoration filled your expression despite the violence engraved in your soul, and Jason finds himself smiling against your lips lightheadedly.

He whispers your name like a forbidden secret, then a curse that completely binds you to him; “I love you.”

You could get used to this, you suppose. There’s nothing more poetic than violence meeting love — two opposites can’t coexist with each other, but perhaps it’ll be forced to. After all, the Devil in you decided he was an untouchable divinity no one shall ever harm, not even yourself, despite its never-ending monstrosity towards humanity.

“I love you too, my Jason.”

When Joker’s decapitated head on a makeshift spear turned up that night, stacked upright in front of Arkham Asylum with blood splattered across the ground in words ‘True Justice for the Tortured Souls’ and a bloody ghostface mask laid aside for everyone else to see, Jason knew he was now in safe hands.

People say, never make a deal with the devil.

They never said he couldn’t love one, did they?

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarizing, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

Gotham’s been terrorized by the worst people you could ever imagine, the kind that’ll stick with you forever and take residence to your nightmares if you were unfortunate enough. Many were hurt or even murdered as a result of the villains’ terrorization, with vigilantes running through the night to capture and send them to Arkham Asylum.

With the existence of a Psychopathic Clown, his equally psychopathic girlfriend with PHD’s that’s been wasted down the line, the Mother Nature freak, the ridiculously huge man with a gas mask on, the green coloured living question mark, and many others, no one would’ve ever thought anything could get any worse.

Until some criminals’ bodies turn up across the streets in such disturbing manner that haunts the witnesses to death.

One, a criminal who murdered young and homeless boys, gutted deeply to the point of their intestines hanging out. Another, a criminal known for kidnapping and selling people’s organs, mutilated with their torso torn back to expose the organs settled inside of them. Another one, a priest-turned-criminal who’s been violating women and children, crucified naked in his own church with his eyes gouged out, a Bible verse carved in his chest; ‘And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.’ Matthew 18:9; his penis cut off and body seemingly violated as well. Another more turns up, a governor-turned-criminal who’s been feeding into the rich despite their oath of generosity towards the poor, severely tortured with the skin on his back cut open, ribs severed from the spine and broken to the sides in order to create the illusion of wings, fluttering lungs pulled out from their chest cavity to resemble an eagle’s wings, with the word ‘traitor’ carved on his forehead.

The brutality and gruesome nature of the murders has set an alarming panic and fear across Gotham City that forced civilians into locking their doors at night. Criminals who were unidentified and not found by Gotham Police Department were also turning up in a form of miserable, tortured soul, along with the evidence and proofs of their crimes being carelessly laid beside their lifeless corpse.

The killer taunts those who are in charge of justice within their city each time the damned were unfortunate enough to be hunted down; pigs of failure written in the criminal’s blood right beside the drawing of a police’s logo.

However, despite how gruesome and disturbing the murders were, most people couldn’t deny that it was doing the city a favor. Justice System has failed more times than one could count to the extent of victims yearning to exact revenge themselves against their perpetrator, which causes most to react rather positively to the wrongful, unlikely hero who had seem to suddenly appear out of nowhere. The haunted finally getting the chance to slay the traumatic demons with the help of another psychopath on the loose.

Another justified monstrosity shouldn’t be the counter against one inhumane monstrosity that caused so much pain, trauma, and misery. But kindness could not vanquish one’s tainted blood. Forgiveness could not suddenly wash away the sins engraved deeply into one’s soul.

Imperfect, the victims muttered. An imperfect yet perfect way to save our burning souls wrongfully condemned by the criminals.

Red Hood has heard their murmurs.

Silent whispers of gratitude that fell on deaf ears, their previously dim soul brightening in relief and sanctuary with smiles on their faces as the Universe had finally took mercy on them and sent a Fallen Angel to slay the Demons away. He’s watched their spirit uplift, no longer chained down by the trauma and fear of the monsters that once ruined their lives, able to walk the streets carefree of tormentors. He’s watched their stiff posture visibly loosen, lively peacefulness settling itself at last within their haunted eyes. He’s watched them glow with happiness not feeling the presence of their perpetrator every couple of seconds, finally capable of living without needing to constantly look over their shoulders in paranoia and fear.

Ghostface is what the serial killer’s called, nickname born out of the mask that resembled a ghost always being left behind in crime scenes, each slightly different.

Jason has seen you. He didn’t mean to, really.

The temptation to get at least one look at you was great every-time he patrolled, wishing to just catch glimpse of an immoral hero who could make sacrifices no actual heroes could — who’s doing exactly what he wished before for Batman to do.

The Universe seems to have granted his wishes when his eyes catches the void of ghostface’s eyes, your mask tainted in splatters of blood from the dead criminal below you. Jason feels his world come to a stop as you slowly rise from crouching position and reveal your unnaturally tall height, broad shoulders visible under the black hooded leather. You hold silence and calmness despite being caught, tilting your head slightly to the side.

His heartbeat quickens yet he doesn’t feel fear. Jason idiotically steps closer as if he was in a trance, burning your existence within his eyes to engrave in his memory. Your bloody knife barely grazes his neck to stop him before using it to tilt his chin up, your figure looming and towering over him while seemingly staring into his eyes through his helmet.

A sense of peacefulness overcomes Jason being in your presence despite the absolute brutality and mercilessness that surrounded your entire being. You were deadly, silent, certainly creative with your work that it deems almost artistic, as if the criminals’ bodies were your own canvas to paint on — and Jason finds solace in you. A man he always needed, someone who’d be willing to cross the line and get rid of the actual evil for the sake of victims that’d be forever haunted if it continues to exist.

“I’ve heard things about you, Red Hood.”

Low, raspy, monotone voice speaks, sending shivers down his spine. It sounds cool and handsome regardless of the obvious use of voice changer, somehow littered with tiniest hint of flirtatiousness.

It takes him quite a while to answer, barely managing to let out a “yeah?” as he feels you drag the knife slightly closer to his pulse. His heartbeat quickens, but slows down when the cold metal was finally pulled away.

“Pleasant things,” You hummed, before your voice lowered a few octaves, “Can’t say the same about Batman.” Anger seems to seep through your tone that felt a little more than just sympathy for victims of villains Batman refused to put six feet under. Jason wondered if you’re also one of the victims his father failed.

“You… You know him that much?” Jason’s voice shakes from the nerve, your presence somehow greatly affecting him.

“I think everyone knows him enough,” You chuckled, but it sounded so empty that Jason can’t help but feel the goosebumps rise on his skin. It was quite chilling to meet someone who shows only a certain amount of emotion which could even be felt expressionless due to the monotonous pitch. The ghostface mask certainly did its job of making you seem more less human, the unmoving expression of ghost being horrified to death adding to the eeriness of your toneless mechanic voice.

Jason’s breath hitched when you took one step closer.

“But I know more about you. Your little past and the sufferings you’ve endured,” It’s spoken as if his life was one of your necessary investigation in your twisted justice. “It’s unfair, don’t you think? I would’ve gutted the Joker like a fish if it were to happen to my son.” There’s a condescending way in which you spoke, not directed at Jason but to Bruce.

“How—” Jason swallowed. “How did you—”

“I can make your dreams come true,” You interrupted him with a tempting offer, shutting him up effectively. Wide grin plastered your face despite not being seen behind your mask. “I can kill the Clown for you, Red Hood. If it means it’ll silence your troubled spirit. If it’ll bring you peace. I can hurt him on your behalf just like he deserves.”

It was like a whisper from the devil, slithering its way into Jason’s heart and mind to possess his soul, mirroring the one which whispered on Adam and Eve’s ears.

He’s been wanting — needing — to hear those words come out of Bruce. His suffering and death seemingly being brushed off as a cruel accident shattered him more than he’d ever admit, Bruce’s unhealthy coping mechanism and morality getting in the way of showing his love for Jason that left the younger man feel lesser than he was. Bruce was a complex person that’s sometimes difficult to understand, his impressive ways to stick to his morals being exactly his character, but Jason wanted for once, to actually feel how important he was to his father.

Was that too much to ask for, or was he just unworthy of the entirety of it?

“Why would you do that for me?” Confusion and subtle suspicion filled his tone as Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out your intention despite the rush of hope that shot throughout his chest. He forced himself to feel nothing when you leaned in closer.

“Because you were wronged, of course.” You simply stated. “You are a victim. Not more, not less. You deserve a little more than just empty justice. And I’m a man who got tired of vigilantes that are afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good.” Then, you tilt your head slightly to the side in a way that’s somehow alluring. “But I can also say I’m intrigued by you.”

Jason’s heartbeat quickens again when your big hand seems to wrap perfectly around his throat, fingers resting just above his pulse points. It makes such filthy thoughts flood themselves into his mind, your long and quite thick fingers falling victims to his tainted imagination, and he had to give everything in himself not to bare his throat more for you. You seem pleased of his lack of disobedience and bite, having expected him to shove your hand away or flinch back before you could touch him. You’ve seen Red Hood once and how his uncontrollable rage resulted in violence, heavy burdens and extreme trauma turning him into a ticking time bomb that could explode any minute with the wrong move. He was absolutely lethal, the bullets serving as the evidence of his wrath and resentment towards the underground scumbags. It’s amusing that you have the man of violence himself now somehow completely under your control, surprisingly quiet and shy and obedient. You wondered if this is how he was before he was ruined by the cruelty of the world.

“You want it, don’t you? For me to kill the Joker.”

Jason feels as if you know everything he wants. Is this what it feels like to be important?

It takes a little while for him to answer, but he eventually came up with a “You’ll do that?” which sounded vulnerable and weak for the first time in his second life. Your heart clenched at the doubt and seemingly child-like vulnerability in which he uttered the words, as if he was afraid to trust something after being betrayed countless of times, reminding you of the sole person you’ve even began doing all of this for. They were quite similar yet so different — your older brother and Jason.

You hadn’t meant to cross his boundaries and unknowingly step into the empty hole that made home in his heart. Unconsciously slithering in like a snake by touching the subject his heart was longing for, not realizing his childhood’s still remaining within his spirit.

All he wanted was love and to feel safe again. You didn’t know the Red Hood was so adorably pitiful. A smirk plastered your face.

“I will,” You reassured and leaned your face inches away from his, the hand on his throat lifting his helmet slightly.

Jason doesn’t retaliate, blinded by a meat of hope dangled in front of him. He doesn’t move as the lower half of his face was exposed, and you lifted your own mask the same using your other hand. Jason willingly, obediently closes his eyes before your lips attached to his — a kiss of death, tasting like blood and cruelty. Warm and soft despite your rough, cold-blooded, corrupted soul. A kiss from the devil.

When Jason opened his eyes, you had already disappeared into the darkness with blood stains on the ground you stood before, a single note left behind; Hell will reopen for the Clown.

After neatly tucking the note inside his jacket and making sure no evidence has been accidentally left on the crime scene, Red Hood smiles for the first time in a long while and reaches for the comms without a heavy heart.

“Batman, I found another body.”

Whatever happens, he’ll have no knowledge of the following misfortune that’ll befall on the Joker. It’s the righteous serial killer’s doing, after all.

What was used to be a maniacal laughter turned into screams of agony and pain. Strong stench of death and blood makes euphoria rush within your mind, the feeling of slicing through flesh with your knife bringing pleasure and ecstasy that made your pants tight. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the way your own actions cause serious harm and scarring to criminals who once deemed themselves powerful, being reduced into nothing but a powerless prey that could easily be gotten rid of.

You feel increasingly powerful the more you strip them of their dignity and arrogance as they shed blood on the holy ground. Your existence alone striking them with crippling fear and anxiety feeds into your ego, yet you never stray away from the sole purpose or reason for your murders — making them taste their own medicine.

From what you found on countless deep dive and research, Joker preyed on Red Hood when he was still a young child full of life and joy, having been under the name Robin at the time. Second Robin to be exact, considering he was a lot different from the first one. It actually surprisingly pained you when you’d seen how much of an adorable, dorky, nice kid he was before misfortune cut his life short. You would’ve never thought you would find a kid adorable in your entire life, the little menaces often being nothing more than a headache to be around with that caused a certain dislike to grow towards them within you, but Jason was everything a cute kid was. Just excited to be there, to be fighting alongside Batman, to be relevant.

Such a precious boy ruined for the sake of shits and giggles for the Clown. For the sake of getting under Batman’s skin. And the Bat couldn’t even make fucking amends to his flaws as a father and mentor.

Well, he didn’t need to anymore.

You’ll give Red Hood— Jason Todd —what he wants. Yearned for. Perhaps, even what the other civilians who have fallen victims to this vile criminal want. You would stop at nothing until every criminal is gurgling and choking on their own blood.

Joker’s scream shoots a jolt of electricity within your body as your knife pierce through his skinny thigh and to the ground, pinning his leg down. You had been doing an effective job of reducing the maniac into nothing but a screaming, cowering average victim by torture. Bruises, burns, gashes, and stab wounds littered his body that was done carefully enough to not be life-threatening. Fucker was laughing maniacally at first, of course. It irritated you so much that you might’ve went a little overboard.

Watching Joker heave and struggle to breathe from the pain, you tilted your head and roughly grabbed his throat. It catches him off guard and he grips your wrist, barely even having the strength to fight you off. You’re amused by the entirety of Joker’s nature, how he’s still just an average man that can easily be overpowered — nothing that makes him special enough to not be killed, becoming proof of Batman’s selfish willingness to let the victims suffer than bring them actual peace.

You’ve never uttered a word since you captured him and it unnerved Joker from the beginning, but then, words finally come out of your mouth in a form of monotonous, mechanical, emotionless, eerie voice as you lean over him; “Laugh it out, Joker. Why so serious?”

It sounded like a death sentence.

He’s right in a way, because another of your knife pierced the corner of his mouth soon as you uttered the words. Your other hand tightened on his arteries to choke him while you drag the knife to slit the side of his mouth into a grin, following the lines of his red lipstick. It was certainly not a clean cut, but an artist has their own creative ways to make their art. Tears mixed in with blood that gushes out of his face, complete horrors written across Joker’s eyes which boosts your satisfaction. You go on and do the same thing to the other side of his mouth, before finishing your art piece by carving ‘J’ on his painted cheek.

You resist the urge to moan at the sight of blood coating your fine piece, always finding it to be an amazing finishing touch.

From then on, Joker was brought to literal Hell.

Jason flinches when a playful knock sounded from his safe house’s window, cautiously approaching to see ghostface waving at him through the glass. His eyes widened and immediately opens the window to let you in, not wanting anyone to see you — your sudden appearance distracting him from the fact he’s never given anyone the location of his safe house.

He stops in track at the blood splatters across your mask, and just then had he noticed you seemed to be hiding something behind your back with one hand. It definitely strikes his curiosity, but he somehow didn’t feel like you were holding something that could harm him.

“You got something for me, ghostface?” Jason feels you grin under your mask.

“Got you a present,” Your raspy, rough voice enthusiastically quipped.

Jason’s breath hitches when you show what you were holding — the Joker’s decapitated head in a square glass container tainted by its blood. You obviously had planned to bring it barehand, but you considered the possibility of its blood dripping down on his safe house and becoming a false evidence to point him to the murder, which prompted you to put it inside the container. An unbelievably sweet gesture for a fucking psychopath like you.

Jason could feel his heart beat rapidly as he takes in the animal’s state, carved up grin and the letter J and the horrors seen in its lifeless eyes proving the absolute misery and suffering it went through before being put down. The monster was finally, finally slain and gone forever from his life. Nightmares detangles from his spirit and the past unwraps away from his soul, utter peace and relief spreading throughout his chest. Tears gathered in his eyes at the feeling of being free at last from the life long torment, breath shaking as his knees wobbled.

The child in himself, the innocent Robin that was killed unfairly, finally rests in peace.

Then he sees you, his hero, waving your seemingly new knife playfully in the air with your outfit splattered in blood without a care that you actually saved him, and Jason feels a sudden surge of arousal and will to submit. To give you everything, anything.

“Do you love it, Red Hood?”

Without answering you, Jason grabs the glass container with shaky hands and sets it aside on the counter before stepping back closer to you again, blood rushing to his veins from arousal. He removes his helmet with a thud on the floor and falls to his knees in front of you, lustful and yearning emerald eyes looking up at you.

“Let me thank you, please.”

It makes you groan as your pants significantly tightens more.

You slide your knife back into the holster before cupping his beautiful face in your hands, and thank fucking Heavens there wasn’t any blood on it that would taint his face, because he’s a sight to behold. He’s truly a gem, something precious you had never seen before. “So beautiful,” You whispered, making Jason flush. “Baring yourself to me for such a simple present, doll?”

“Not a simple present,” Jason mumbled as he snuggles on the palm of your hands. “You saved me.”

You hum appreciatively, getting the itch to bare yourself to him as well. “You wanna thank me by what?”

Jason looks back at you, face flushed with a little hint of uncertainty and embarrassment, doubts. “I— uhm,” He stammers, but encouraged by your thumb’s gentle stroke on his cheek. “By… by becoming yours.”

Your cock throbs. Fuck, he’s so fucking adorable, you just wanna fuck his guts out. You’re usually tempted to gut people, not fuck their guts— which is funny to say the least— but you weren’t going to say no when the Red Hood’s so willing to offer himself up.

“You wanna take my mask off, doll?” He seems surprised by your question as if he hadn’t thought of it, making you chuckle. “If you wanna be mine, I gotta be yours too, don’t I?” It was dangerous to reveal your identity to him, but you couldn’t care less, especially when you could just fuck his brains out to shut him up. That’s the plan, first time that didn’t include butchering or cutting a body up.

Jason fucking Todd and his effects on you.

The emerald eyed male hesitantly grasped your mask when you led his hands to it, slowly lifting it over your head. He’s met with a fucking luscious feature to ever be adorned on a man and dark, lustfully murderous blood red eyes that makes a whimper slip past his lips. You merely widened your eyes at the sound he made before immediately grabbing his jaw and smashing your lips against his, swallowing Jason’s surprised gasp.

He reciprocates the insatiable hunger you displayed, tongue dancing along with yours and moaning into the kiss when your fingers lightly tugged on his hair. You pull him up in amidst of making out and squeeze his ass, encouraging him to wrap his legs around your hips. You detach your lips from his to trail kisses down his jaw and neck as you walked towards his bedroom, questionably knowing where it is, and Jason tilts his head back to give you more access with closed eyes. Letting him stimulate both of your restrained cocks by grinding down, you sat down on the bed and sucked on his throat as Jason moaned.

“Please, please…” He whimpers, uncontrollably moving his hips in a perfect rhythm yet he seemed to want something else.

You pulled away and traced his lips with your thumb, watching as he naturally took it in and sucked, giving you a desperate look. Swiftly turning off the voice changer attached to your neck in a form of choker, you chuckled when his hands fiddled with the belt on your hooded coat. “So needy, aren’t you?” Your real voice sends shivers down his spine.

An alluring, low, slightly rough pitch and somehow more emotionless than when you were using the voice changer. It makes his cock twitch and empty hole clench down on nothing, the need to be stuffed full of your cum swarming in his belly. You’re fucking bewitching, a man made up from every guy and girl’s fantasy, wet dream, and your attractiveness mirroring the Devil’s that would tempt and lure others to sin.

How the fuck were you real?

“Speak up, pretty bird.” You smirked, “What do you want?”

“Your cock,” Jason mutters, cheeks tinted in pink. “Wanna suck your cock and make you feel good.”

“Fuck…” You shifted in place, “You’ll do that f’me? Get my cock nice and wet to take you apart? To fuck your guts out?”

Jason shakily inhales and nods, climbing off your lap and kneeling on the floor. You lean back on your hands as he unstraps your belt and slide your zipper down, slightly raising your hips to help him get rid of the excess clothes. Your thick and lengthy cock smacks against your clothed stomach, making Jason’s mouth water. Thick veins throbbed on your big shaft, the tip angry and red from arousal leaking precum. It wasn’t just big, it was long, and Jason squeezes his thighs together to keep himself from just riding your cock all day.

His hand wraps around the base, starting to stroke it with a content rhythm. God, you were so fucking big. It’d definitely split him open if you shove it in so suddenly and fill him up nice. It’d make him scream his head off from the unbearable length and girth, almost too much, and Jason wants you to force him to take it. Pin him down and fuck him despite his pleas to stop.

Jason swipes his thumb over the slit, smearing precum, pumping it for a good amount before licking a stripe up the underside of your cock. You shudder, removing your gloves to slip your bare fingers through Jason’s hair, encouraging him to take you in. He obeys, relaxing his throat first before sliding your cock inside his warm mouth, and you groaned at the warmth that surrounded you. It almost didn’t fit from how big you were, but Jason braced himself and took it in further until he gagged as the tip touched the back of his throat. Wrapping his hand around your shaft that he couldn’t take in, stroking gently as if to apologize.

A moan slips past your lips when he starts bobbing his head, tongue brushing against the underside of your dick. “Fuck… Doin’ so good,” You roll your head back. “Such a pretty face to fuck, ain’t ya?”

Jason whines, tears gathered in his eyes as he sucks and fastens his rhythm. Curses, grunts leave your lips that left him feeling all hot and bothered, his other hand moving to skillfully pull his pants down and free his aching cock.

You see him touching himself and a smirk adorns your sinful face, gently scratching his scalp with your nails which earned you a whimper from him. “Go on, fuck yourself. We both know it wouldn’t fit that easily without proper prep,” Expression twisting into a cocky one, your grip on his hair tightened. “I’ll do as I please with your mouth until you’re done.”

Without waiting for his approval, you roughly shoved your cock deep down his throat and moaned loudly, throwing your head back. Jason gagged with a loud whimper as his eyes rolled back into his skull and cum shot out from his throbbing cock, hips jutting forward and twitching due to the sudden orgasm. You chuckle lowly, amusement and lust glinting in your bright red eyes, before you pull back and ram on his throat again.

Jason’s cries and moans were muffled as you ruthlessly use his throat to gain pleasure. His mind has already turned into mush from your assaults, white cum and precum staining the floor yet he doesn’t put up a fight. Taking it all like the good, obedient boy that he is. He’s reached behind him to insert two fingers in his awaiting hole, walls clamping down on the digits from the arousal of his throat being utterly wrecked.

Yesyesyes, please. He chanted in his mind. Use me, mark me, cum in my throat, make me yours.

The moment you fulfilled your promise and delivered him the head of his enemy, he was already yours. It’s all he ever wanted. Unquenchable thirst that always gnawed on his throat and hunger that left his stomach restless, his soul practically teared in half from being battered and beaten. He matters now — mattered enough to you, that you went ahead and killed the source of his misery. The love exploding in his chest was almost unbearable; he was already high on cloud nine from the moment he’s seen you present the head so cheerfully.

You see how he looks up at you, emerald eyes almost displaying hearts with how much he was melting. He’s taken your murderous act as an affection, and you couldn’t be more happy, because it’s what you intended.

“Shit, baby… Gonna cum soon,” You panted, thrusting vigorously. Jason hums and flexes his throat to provide you more pleasure, making you tighten the grip on his hair. “You want me to cum down your throat?”

You earned a desperate whine from him, closing his eyes to prove he was waiting for it. His fingers kept their own assault on his prostate, scissoring and stretching the squishy walls, muffled moans escaping him.

God, he looked so fucking gorgeous. He’d look even more gorgeous with your dick ramming inside him.

Jason feels your big cock throb in his mouth and his fingers move more aggressively to pleasure himself, wanting to reach his high at the same time as you. Stimulating your tip with the back of his throat a few times, you moaned loudly with a curse when Jason slightly flicks his tongue over your sensitive underside, forcing an orgasm out of your body. White, thick, warm seeds spurt out from your slit to his awaiting throat as Jason whimpered in delight and shot another layer of cum on the wet stained floor, hips thrusting in the air.

He greedily swallows every drop that spilled down his mouth despite the euphoria making him feel dizzy as his body slightly trembles.

You chuckled, breathing heavily, pleased expression spread across your face. “Good boy. That was such a good throat-fuck.”

The raspy, sultry tone of your voice makes electricity and chills run through Jason’s spine as his walls clench down on his fingers, yearning to be filled. Jason certainly doesn’t have a womb — it’s anatomically impossible — yet he couldn’t help but feel like it’s there, waiting and aching to be fucked and bred. He needs your cum to be pushed so far inside him. Need to be marked entirely as yours inside and out. Need you to rearrange his guts, fuck his brains out, breed him full, then fuck your cum further back into him.

Jason pulled his fingers out, whimpering at the loss of contact, before looking back up at you with begging eyes. “Can you-?” His voice cracks as he swallows, “Take me apart, please. Make me yours, fuck, I wanna be yours.”

You noticed tears gathering in his eyes, as if being rejected of his want to be your possession would be an ultimate heartbreak in his life; a life-threatening, gnawing thorn in his heart that’ll tear him apart piece by piece and shredding his soul. Jason thinks he can’t live without becoming yours, his savior’s. He can’t live without the source of his safety, the man that fulfilled his silly little dream and sacrificed his own sanity for it.

It absolutely amuses you that he’s become so attached just because you’ve driven him away from harm’s way. A little dumb, but he was your little dumb doll.

You gently caress his face and Jason leans into your touch, making your lips curl upwards into a smile. “Of course, doll.”

It leads to Jason being pressed face first on the mattress as you rail him from behind, sinful and alluring noises leaving his lips stained in drool. Your name escapes him like a chanted prayer, hands gripping the sheets, electricity sparking within his mind that left him dumb and unable to think coherently.

“Fuh-fuck! mgh, ah- yes, oh my god—!” He cries out when you pulled almost entirely back and rammed your cock roughly into him, almost seeing stars in his vision.

The roughness in which you handled him, the perfect angle of your hips allowing you to force pleasure out of his body every-time you thrust, the way you push his back down on the mattress to make him arch more into your merciless tactic, leaves Jason absolutely delirious. You didn’t just fuck him good; you fucked him with absolute vigor and violence, occasionally biting strongly on his shoulder to draw blood, showcasing your natural instincts as a serial killer. He feels your big fucking dick throb and gets impossibly bigger inside him each time his blood seeps out the broken skin, and Jason’s head spins at how much it drove arousal in his core.

“Good fuckin’ sex toy,” You grunted, roughly slamming your hips against his and causing a sharp moan to erupt from Jason.

“B-big—! s’too big- fuck!” Jason whines, tears spilling endlessly down his cheeks.

You smirk as you feel your ego skyrocket at being able to reduce a rather muscular man into nothing but a whining, blabbering bitch. “Yeah? I do split you open, don’t I? But you love it since you’re such a fuckin’ slut.”

“oh- aghn! y-yours— hnngh! Your s-slut! No one else’s-!” He chokes out, desperately reaching for you behind him.

“So fuckin’ adorable,” You chuckled and grabbed his hand, pinning it back to the mattress as you hover over him. You seem to fit against each other perfectly well, your large and tall body able to encage him that left Jason’s stomach fluttering. He’s taken a lot liking of the fact you’re bigger than him, considering he’s never been the smaller one when he was with others. It gives him a sense of shelter.

“p-please— pleaseplease- oh! cum— fuck… cum in me again!” Jason blabbered.

You can’t help but comply to his request, fastening your pace and drilling more into him. Incoherent sentences spill from his drooling mouth when he feels your cock pulse within his walls that signified your soon release. There’s a purpose in which you thrust your hips now — more sharp and angled yet a little sloppy, aimed to brush against his prostate and make him feel utterly good.

“Shit… Cummin’, doll.” You grunted right in his ear before shoving him on the mattress by the back of his nape and slamming all the way down on his already gaping hole.

Jason nearly screams, voice cracking, as his orgasm hits like a strong tide of wave at the same time you spilled thick layer of white semen into his fucked out guts. You ride out your orgasm by thrusting slowly a few times as Jason’s body violently shakes from the aftershock. He subconsciously whines in annoyance when some of your previous cum seems to overflow and replaced by your recent one, bucking his hips as if to use your big cock as a plug to keep them all in. His belly felt full from how much you’ve been filling him with your seed yet it still didn’t feel enough. Jason wanted more; he knew you weren’t going full on him yet.

You swiftly turned him around on his back without pulling out and kissed him roughly. Jason mewls into the kiss when the position makes you push more deeper into him, his hands immediately clasping at the back of his thick thighs to pull them up and make it easier for you to fuck.

“My cute little thing,” You murmured against his lips and bit the skin to draw blood, Jason’s hole squeezing down on you from both the pain and pet name. He greedily whimpers your name, holding onto you for life and yearning for more of you despite already receiving what he wants.

It was so fucking adorable and arousing to see him desperate for not just you, but your entire being as well, willing to welcome such darkness with open arms and tearful smile. You weren’t really a desirable person; so many people have thrown themselves at you for your conventionally attractive features and masculine body type that swoons hundreds yet cower away in fear and speak of you in disgrace when shown the demons living inside of you. No one could seem to look past your murderous, cold-blooded psychopathy — some have attempted to, which only resulted in your darkness growing bigger when they break their own promises. You weren’t meant to be loved. Your destiny was written in the stars and the Gods have cursed you with eternity of living in loneliness and madness without cure. You were meant to be feared, a lonely and violent soul that couldn’t be tamed, your sole purpose of existence being a destroyer; nothing more or less.

Jason, however, seems indifferent to your fate.

Instead of running away in disgust and fear at your acts of violence around the city, he was seeking for you. He’s seen what you’ve done, what you could do without feeling remorse, what monsters lie beneath your existence — and still, he graciously opens his heart (and legs) for you. There’s love and desire within his eyes where distaste should be, touch so soft and warm it baptizes your tainted skin. You’re soaked in blood yet Jason takes his time with you to clean them up. Born with thorns yet he willingly prickles his fingers on them.

You’re a danger everywhere you go, but to him, you were home.

It makes your heart clench; he’s broken the Gods curse and it costs him his freedom, because now he’s caught up in your webs. You wouldn’t let him go, like a snake that’s wrapped itself around its prey in a death grip.

Jason wanted to be yours. What better ways to fulfill his wish if not possessing his body, soul, and spirit?

“Sweet dumb thing,” You purred, hips thrusting slow and sensual, unable to forgive parts of his walls that weren’t touched by your cum. “Mine to fuck, ruin, or make love to. That’s right, yeah?”

Jason nods, moaning softly. Your hands now replaced where his were on the back of his thighs, bending him almost in half as you roll your hips to gently brush against every weak spot he has. The sudden shift in rhythm and atmosphere confuses Jason for a bit, his fogged mind unable to comprehend the situation at hand, but the intimacy strikes a further pleasure that was nearly mind-breaking. He’s been reduced to a moaning mess, blood, sweat, tears and cum coating his body.

“p-please,” Jason keened, like it felt agonizing to be loved ever so gently. “I— ah… I want- I want you,” He stuttered out between moans.

“You’re having me, aren’t you?” Replying, you nipped on his neck and sucked, leaving behind a purple bruise.

He nearly cries, shaking his head. A waterfall of tears streamed down his face, and you find yourself captivated by them. It was almost ethereal despite being one of human’s responses to most things imaginable; your victims always shed one or two accompanied by begs of mercy, but all you’ve ever thought of them was amusing. It’s been used as an escaping tactic from you before, which was never successful due to your lack of morality and sympathy towards your target. They were pathetic, but Jason was divine. Tears suited him— not tears of fear, but tears of pleasure and utopia.

Your focus snaps back on reality when Jason suddenly pulled you down by the nape and bit down hard on your shoulder. A pleasured groan leaves your lips at the pain, hips bucking, making him whimper.

“Jason—”

“Please,” He cuts you off and finally murmurs; “Wanna f-feel how… mhm-! how you actually love…”

It strikes something in your core. Despite your perfect skills of hiding your true nature and never being caught, Jason saw it right through you, how you were holding yourself back for his sake. Quite ironic to witness a cold-blooded killer care for someone enough to go soft, even though it looked like you were going rough on him, and it warmed Jason’s heart. But he was a greedy, fucked up human being who wanted all of you. It wouldn’t be enough until he knows he’s taken you fully.

An amused laughter erupts from your chest. Eyes darkening in lust, Jason feels one of your hands wrap around his throat warningly as the other pushed his torso flat down on the mattress. “You… You’ll be the fuckin’ death of me, Todd.”

You pull all the way back before ramming in, making Jason let out a loud, choked up moan as his eyes rolled back into his head. Your thrusts relentless and powerful, slamming against Jason’s body with an intensity that made his head spin, your hand holding his throat as a leverage. Your name spills from his lips like a prayer, something that seems to ignite a possessive feeling within you. Jason can’t help but mewl when your grip tightened on his arteries, throwing his head back to let you gain fully control.

The way he’s so obedient and putty in your hands despite knowing you can kill him if you truly meant to makes you love him even more, fucking him and taking away his ability to breathe wasn’t enough. Greediness turning overboard with the darkness and psychopathy that lies within your existence; you almost wanted to cut him open and crawl inside his guts so you could truly claim Jason, inside and out. You wanted to be more closer to him, see how far you can go without Jason pushing you away or getting disturbed.

Jason’s eyes widened when a cold metallic silver touched his cheek, seeing you holding your signature knife through blurred vision from his tears. However, he doesn’t flinch away like you expected him to, instead his walls squeezes down on your cock and his own twitched against his stomach. The unexpected reaction pulls a loud groan out of you, your hips bucking.

“Shit, Jay… You lettin’ me kill you or somethin’? Good fucking cunt just tightened on me,” You rasped, thrusting your cock against his prostate.

Jason gasps, his hands grabbing the mattress and holding it in a tight grip. It’s so shameful how turned on he was at the danger that lurked around you, his usually sharp instincts relinquished to be replaced by naiveté and stupidity for love. He must’ve gone insane; getting killed was one of his triggers because of his past yet his soul yielded nothing in retaliation to the possibility of your blade slicing through him. All of him seems to have come to love and trust you too much just because you’ve decapitated the beast his entire existence feared, which a part of him found utterly ridiculous and idiotic, but not enough to stop.

He wouldn’t stop himself from loving you — not when you’ve given him the love he always yearned for.

You lean in and ghost your lips over his as you dragged the knife on his torso, lightly scraping him. Jason’s breath quickens, his pupils blown wide in lust and need, anticipation seemingly running through his body as his moans turned into desperate whines.

“p-please…!” He chokes out a whisper, rolling his head to the side and whimpering when you snapped your hips warningly on his. “feels— fuck! feels g-good—! c-carve me… hngh! carve me u-up-! shit… make me fuckin’ bleed…! please,” Jason nearly cries for you.

Groaning out a curse, you reflexively bite down hard on the crook of his neck and push more of your cock inside him, causing a loud keen to erupt from Jason as he squirms and cums on his own stomach at the addictive sense of pleasure and pain shooting through his body.

You licked the blood that seeped out from his skin, satisfied at the clear bite mark you’ve left visible before sensually grinding your hips. Jason whimpered quietly, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm.

“That’s it, doll. Let go, feel good. m’not gonna hurt ya, sweetheart. It’ll all feel good,” Whispering sweet words, you slowly press the tip of the knife just above the v line of his hip and drag it down. Jason hissed at the prickle of pain and tensed up, but the pleasure of your cock stimulating his sensitive walls was too great that forced him to relax. “It’s alright, doll. Jus’ carving you up with my name, so you’ll be mine forever. Isn’t that what you want? Be fuckin’ mine?”

Jason moaned softly, nodding his head. Series of pleasepleaseplease blabber out of him accompanied by heavenly noises he’s been making since you started taking him apart, his brain too fucked out that forcibly twisted pain into pleasure as all he could think about was becoming yours. You, his savior, his God, claiming him by marking him up with your name. Jason feels like he could fucking squirt from just that thought alone.

His blood seeping out from the letters of your name arouses you to no end, your cock throbbing inside him while you continue to move, the darkness within you being thoroughly fed of its bloodthirsty hunger. This is the first time it doesn’t gnaw at your skin to drive your knife deeper, pull the guts out, and splatter redness everywhere; instead, it wanted to be gentle, as if Jason was a significant existence too precious to hurt even for the Devil. A proof that Jason was always meant to be yours, the only one who the monster inside you would rather love than kill.

Carving the last letter, you laughed breathlessly in satisfaction and stabbed the knife on the headboard before slamming your lips against his, devouring his pleasurable noises. Jason whines, arms wrapping around your neck to pull you impossibly closer, arching his back when you switched into a much faster and rougher pace.

“Cummin’, fuck!” You grunted, to which Jason wrapped his legs around your hips to make sure it stays in.

“I-in— in me… fuck- oh my god— please… please, cum in me. Make me full again, p-please…” He begs, clenching his walls around you to push you over the edge, his own orgasm nearing.

Seeing him covered in his own tears, sweat, blood and drool fills you with nothing but pure ecstasy knowing it’s all because of you. The most appealing, ravishing man being a slutty mess right beneath you, begging to be bred and full of your cum, does feed too much into your ego. No one can do anything to take you away from him now, because you’re wrapped around his fingers as much as he is around yours.

“Anythin’ for ya, doll.” You chuckled, thrusting a couple more times before shoving your twitching cock deep into his guts with a moan and releasing your load. Jason mewls, his hole throbbing and squeezing down on you as he throws his head back, tainting his abdomen once more.

Riding out both of your highs, you let out a raspy groan and kissed his lips again, Jason weakly reciprocating due to the overstimulation. His body trembled hard, mind almost shutting down from the exhaustion and too much euphoria. “So good, doll. Took me like a good fuckin’ boy. Fuckin’ amazing.” You praised.

Jason could still see darkness in your eyes, the murderous devil, but there’s a hint of happiness he didn’t recognize before. Love and adoration filled your expression despite the violence engraved in your soul, and Jason finds himself smiling against your lips lightheadedly.

He whispers your name like a forbidden secret, then a curse that completely binds you to him; “I love you.”

You could get used to this, you suppose. There’s nothing more poetic than violence meeting love — two opposites can’t coexist with each other, but perhaps it’ll be forced to. After all, the Devil in you decided he was an untouchable divinity no one shall ever harm, not even yourself, despite its never-ending monstrosity towards humanity.

“I love you too, my Jason.”

When Joker’s decapitated head on a makeshift spear turned up that night, stacked upright in front of Arkham Asylum with blood splattered across the ground in words ‘True Justice for the Tortured Souls’ and a bloody ghostface mask laid aside for everyone else to see, Jason knew he was now in safe hands.

People say, never make a deal with the devil.

They never said he couldn’t love one, did they?