Summary - Having survived another beating from Leland Coyle, he creates a small document for you to read out loud to prove your loyalty to him. However, his literacy skills leave a lot to be desired and the threat of further punishment only makes things more difficult. (1.5k)
The pain in your knees is almost worse than anything else which afflicts your bruised body. The sheer pressure of having to stay on them for so long while they press into the cold stone of the prison cell – the one which Coyle had designated as your personal cell – only grows worse as the minutes pass. With one hand holding the crumpled and barely legible sliver of off-white paper which Coyle had only just thrust within your palm, your other hand is gripped lightly around his cock as he stands before you.
Cigarette clenched firmly between his teeth, Coyle stares down at you from behind his dark sunglasses – his lips curling at the corners to display his yellow, stained smile. His expression is one which you are more than familiar with, somewhere between a glare and a snarl and yet glowing with sadistic delight.
“Get to reading, honey.” He hums, cock twitching in your grasp as he taps the very top of your head with the side of his stun baton in wordless threat. “I wanna hear you tell me exactly what you are. What you mean to me. Since you’ve promised to be so good an’ all.”
Wincing at his reminder, the memory of the previous day’s beating is still fresh in both your mind and the various injuries which litter your body. The split lip is one of the worst, every slight movement of your mouth making fresh pain flare in the swollen flesh where his gloved hand had smacked the skin into your teeth hard enough to rip it open. You hadn’t even done anything, his mood already terrible due to a failed trial against a quartet of reagents who had presumably ran rings around him as he stomped his way through the prison farm. That didn’t matter though. It never mattered.
A shadowy mark sat close to Coyle’s temple, a hint of a deep, developing bruise which you suspect had come from a thrown brick or bottle which he had been unable to avoid in time.
It looks painful.
You hope it’s painful.
You hope it fucking throbs every time he so much as breathes.
So out of it due to terror and pain, you aren’t even sure what the hell you had promised him as he pushed your ‘discipline’ to its limits; his rage easily splitting his attention across your body as he beat you like a dog with his gloved fists and thick boots as you cowered and curled into a defensive ball. One mark on your thigh is so deep and vivid that you could visibly measure out the tread which decorates the sole of his boot.
“Yes, Sir.” You answer him immediately and with as much painful enthusiasm as you can muster through your busted face – the words sparking pain in your torn lip even as your hand never ceases in its rough jerking of his cock, too afraid to even stutter. “I’ll read it all. Just like you want.”
Bringing the sheet closer to your face, a sinking feeling hollows out your chest as you take in the state of the script which you are being forced to follow. It’s not the length which bothers you since Coyle could have written out the entire Gettysburg address and you would have followed it to the letter if it meant that you might satisfy him, if for only a moment.
The issue was the writing itself as you blink rapidly as though that is going to make things better as you begin.
To Sargent Coyle,
I promis to serv obay and not be a bitch. I promiss to fuck and sukk and do what you say. Put me to work. Disapline me. Dastract me from the stink. I am a bitch. A communist. Junkee whore. And you can show me how too be better.
You repeat each written word verbatim, your mind working double time to interpret both the chicken scratch, scrawled handwriting and the obvious spelling errors to ensure that you did not make any punishable errors. The shame of the statements you are being forced to read don’t even register, your panic so great that you cannot take any attention away from either the reading or your hand as Coyle rocks his hips and fucks himself through your fist as you continue – his satisfaction apparent in the way his head nods and his chest hums with every sentence.
I will not tell lyes. If I am bad then I desarve to be punishd.
“I will not tell lies.” You whimper out as Coyle’s boot shifts and raises slightly to rub between your legs, the thin underwear there the only clothing you were permitted to wear in his presence. His boot is rough and the way he grinds it into your cunt only sparks discomfort as you remain totally still, knowing better than to try to escape it. “If I am bad then I deserve to be punished.”
“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” Coyle interrupts as he tilts his head down and blows out a thick plume of cigarette smoke into your face. “You cause a good man, a man of justice, any kind of pain and you are asking to get your teeth stomped out. A nice taste of the law.”
“Yes, Leland. Yes, Sir.” You nod frantically, agreeing with him and a sharp pain flares in your knees as you shift them in a desperate attempt to find even a little comfort.
Dropping eyes back to the sheet, the following line which you are supposed to read is borderline incomprehensible and fear catches in your throat as you realise you don’t have a damned clue what he is trying to say.
I will not cumplyn.
“I will not….cu…cump…”
Grunting at the verbal pause as your hand continues to work along his cock, Coyle leans down slightly and rips the paper from your fingers with a sharp tug. Squinting at his own terrible spelling, it takes him a solid, terrible moment to properly decipher it.
“I will not complain.” He barks, anger filling his expression as he stomps his foot with the petulance of a misunderstood child. “Ain’t that difficult to comprehend. Stupid fuck. Open your damn eyes.”
Pain explodes in your right shoulder as Coyle rips his cigarette from his mouth and extinguishes the last of it out on your unsuspecting shoulder blade – the skin there already mottled with bruises in various stages of healing.
“You’re a dumb bitch, you know that?” Hissing and snarling, Coyle’s previous smugness is gone in a flash to be replaced with the rage which he so rarely has any control of. “Can’t even read basic words. It’s like you’re down there trying to piss me off.”
“Sir, I’m not- I promise I’m not.” You splutter your apologies with desperation, your entire body trembling with fear. “I’m trying so hard, daddy.”
“I ain’t built for this kinda schooling. I prefer a lesson learned through fists and blood and righteous justice. Matter of fact…” His voice trails off as his hand drops to his own cock, quickly knocking your hand off his length as he grips himself firmly.
Sensing the danger, your eyes instantly fill with tears and you look up at him with a bleary gaze as your hands wrap around his ankles and squeeze in a silent plea for mercy.
“Sir, pleas-”
“I think it’s about time you showed some thanks for all this free schoolin’ I’ve been giving.” Coyle continues, jabbing the very tip of his stun baton into your collarbone until a sharp pain tells you that the metal spokes have broken the skin there. “Little justice is throbbin’ to be thrust down that throat and shown a real good time. No point breaking in a hole if you ain’t gonna use it.”
His gloved hand lowering to wrap around your throat so tightly that you can barely take in a solid breath, there is a small, broken part of you which is genuinely thankful that he’s chosen to simply choke rather than hit you with a solid hook – the markings from your last black eye only really having just reduced itself to a deep shadow which could be mistaken for a serious lack of sleep.
“Yes, Sir. Leland. Daddy. Sergeant.” Using all of his favourite titles in a frantic blur of desperate submission, you open your mouth wide and wince as the taste of fresh blood fills your mouth. Without having to touch it, you know that you have re-opened your lip wound but you can’t take a moment to care about it as you push your head forward and wrap your mouth around the swollen tip of Coyle’s cock.
Again thankful for the reprieve of him using your mouth instead of one of your other holes, you accept his immediate and rough thrusting without complaint as your ‘broken in’ throat accepts him with barely any affect to your gag reflex. Coyle tastes like salt and sweat, the musk of his thick pubic bush only an inch from your nose as you are forced to deepthroat him.
Even as you suffer through his rough use, your attention can’t help but drift to the writing piece which is still clenched between the fingers of your left hand. There was clearly something wrong with him, outside of the obvious. No one with a basic education wrote like that and it felt fitting that such a terrible, monstrous man really was the dumb fuck where it counted.
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Summary - Stumbling across Leland Coyle hooked up to one of Franco Barbi's milking machines, the opportunity for a little payback is too sweet to pass up. (2.1k)
(I also have a male!reader version which is posted HERE)
Every day in Sinyala was its own fresh hell but there was something painfully amusing in how, even after what felt like an eternity, there was still new bullshit to be experienced. Walking into one of the side rooms of the ChemCo. Labs, an area which seemed painfully deserted of all ex-pops and the elusive Franco Barbi who had chosen to focus his attention on the train depot, to find Sergeant Leland Coyle hooked up to one of the many milking machines which littered the space was certainly a new experience.
With his body fully restrained to the thick wooden chair which held him in place, his jacket and shirt have been ripped open enough to expose most of his chest while the rest of him remains as clothed as ever. His hat and glasses are in place, boots tied to the legs of the chair with thin lengths of strong rope, but you barely notice these extra details as your attention is almost completely take up by the milking machine which is slowly whirring away against his hair-covered chest.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” Coyle speaks first, his voice a mixture of confusion and anger as he angles his head and bares his teeth at you while barking the question as though this was somehow your fault.
Your ongoing predator and prey dynamic with the sadistic cop tied before you is one which you are surprised Easterman and the rest of the scientists have not really interfered with in any way. Engaging in the trials since that first fateful encounter where Coyle had captured and fucked you roughly against the shuttle doors before allowing you to live had not seen any real changes in your trial parameters. The random selection of locations and tasks did not seem to favour placing you either against or away from him in any significant way and you were thankful for that at least.
It was no romance. It was no great story of affection. It was a fulfilment of physical needs amidst violence and blood and incredibly dubious consent on your part. If Coyle discovered you present within his trial then you were hunted, it was as simple as that. If he caught you, he got what he wanted, and you could only make yourself available in a way which allowed you to scrape together a pleasure which was denied everywhere else.
This was…something else.
The look of furious relief which flows into Coyle’s expression as he watches you approach from behind his familiar dark glasses fills you with a dark feeling which you press down to be further examined when you weren’t vaguely fighting for your life.
“Well, look at the mess. I didn’t think you were into something like this.” Made confident by his obvious restraints and inability to actually do anything about it, you know you are playing with fire as you stand before him and make no obvious movements to help him free from his current predicament.
“Quit fucking around and let me loose before I stamp those teeth of yours loose with the heel of my boot and fuck the mess it makes.”
“No.” Your reply is simple, hand smoothing out the fabric of your pants as you watch him with a wicked flare of arousal slowly growing to heat your lower half.
“No? You crazy bitch. You’re playin’ a dangerous game with a dangerous man. This is perversion!” He hisses, spit flying from between his teeth. “You’re now an accomplice to-”
You flick one of the pumps, testing how secure it is against his skin, and the sudden action stops Coyle’s words in their tracks as he hisses at the sensation of the tube pulling at his already sensitive skin. The suction is tight, tight enough that you know you would need to pull pretty hard to dislodge them and that fact makes you a little more confident as your next steps settle into your mind with a wicked delight.
Dropping into Coyle’s lap, you wrap one arm around the back of the chair to steady yourself as you make sure to leave enough room between your groin and his tented cock that you can release his cock from his pants with ease if you feel like it. Borderline feral by the sheer humiliation which is rolling through his veins as you straddle him, Coyle’s head snaps forward as his teeth made a decent effort to sink themselves into whatever flesh they can find.
Dodging him, from this position you can see just how uncomfortable Coyle really is with the whole situation. His face is pinched and tight with distress, the physical pain of the relentless pumps obviously affecting him despite the small flush of colour which sits high on his cheeks – a mixture of the anger and arousal which fills him like a wicked storm. A fact which is only doubled down on by the very obvious tent in the groin of his familiar police uniform.
You press the palm of your hand into his cock, feeling the stiffness there as Coyle’s head falls back slightly at the rough touch, his unkempt beard drawing your attention for a moment.
“Bad dog.” You chastise him with a sharp tone, drinking in the swapped dynamic with a perverse delight. “If you try to bite me again then I’ll turn around and walk out, leaving the door open for the next person to decide what they want to do with you. I don’t think they’ll be nearly as nice.”
Coyle’s mouth twisting in open calculation as he snaps his head back down to stare into your face, the truth in your words seems to land heavily on him and he immediately ceases his violent pulling as he settles into a more seething, quiet rage.
“You’re a dead cunt if I get out of here. Oh yeah, you’re gonna feel the full brunt of the law for engaging in this kind of junkie perversion. You think I’ve been mean before? Oh, honey, you don’t know what kind of hell is waiting for you at the end of these hands and boot heels. I’ll cook you until there’s nothing left but char.”
Ignoring him as you watch the small internal mechanisms of the pistons expand and contract against his chest, there’s something delicious hypnotic in the way that the soft puffing noise pairs with the constant twitch of discomfort that afflicts Coyle’s suffering face.
“I think I could make you like it. Let’s see if I can change your mind.”
Releasing his cock from its confines with a quick dip of your hand, his dick springs to attention without shame. His cockhead, swollen with need and damp from his own leaking pre-cum, begs for attention but you ignore it fully as you loop your thumb and forefinger around the very base of his cock. You squeeze his length roughly, knowing how much he enjoys the harsher touch, and you are immediately rewarded with a low grown and his hips jerking into your hand.
“Control yourself, Sergeant.” You tease him lightly, releasing his cock and returning your attention to his upper half as you splay your fingers across his ribcage – half your fingers touching his skin while the others touch what remains of his closed shirt. “You’re acting like a bitch in heat.”
“Torturing me like this.” Coyle snarls, the cheeky words easily slipping him into a fresh flush of rage. “Just you wait ‘til I’m out of here. I’ll show you who the bitch is! Dick and baton, I’ll do the kind of damage that body of yours won’t recover from.”
“And what if I give you what you want? Not letting you out, but I could make you feel nice.” Stroking along his cock with a teasing pressure which was barely enough to give him anything, you stare into the darkness of his glasses as you free hand taps along the wiry hair of his salt-and-pepper beard. “Will you still be so mean? I’m happy to co-operate, officer, if you tell me what to do.”
“Get these fucking things off me.” The words snapping from him like a bullwhip, Coyle bares his teeth like an animal as he leans ever-so-slightly into your hand. “Sucking away at me like a piece of meat. Ain’t no way for a man to be treated.”
Taking a moment to release both his cock and his cheek, you drag the ragged ends of your nails harshly down his chest and admire how quickly they leave red marks in their wake as you tactfully avoid disturbing the small pumps. The upper part of his chest is covered in dark hair, most of it flecked with grey, and you admire the various scars which cut through the hair as they wind their way across his flesh. Wrapping a hand around each pump, you tut at the amount of strength is takes to break the seal of the suction and pull them free of his suffering chest.
As the milking pumps fall noisily to the floor, you can’t help but gasp at the results they have managed to achieve in, what must have been, such a short amount of time. Both of Coyle’s nipples are fat and puffy, each one sitting stiff and fully peaked against his chest as they jut from the skin in all their reddened glory. Their colouring is angry and you can imagine how sensitive they must be from all that pressure which was trying to steal a liquid that didn’t exist.
“Wow.”
Gently tracing the pads of your thumbs across both nipples simultaneously, the noise which slips free of Coyle’s throat is so sudden and raw that you flinch in place.
“Fucking damn! That feels-” Coyle cuts his own words off with a low groan as you repeat the move, feeling the almost elastic way in which the nipples bounce back as you drag your thumbs across them. “Jesus fucking Christ on a crutch!”
Knowing you will never have this opportunity again as arousal makes your panties feel damp against your aching cunt, the decision to play with Coyle comes as easily as breathing and you avoid touching his cock with your groin as you set about teasing him wickedly.
Taking his left nipple into your mouth, you flick your tongue across the hardened bud before sucking on it gently. At the same moment, the thumb of your other hand shifts up to massage lightly at Coyle’s right nipple so that both were being stimulated in equal measure.
Unable to help himself, the way in which Coyle’s body humps and jerks into your own is wild as whatever delicious sensations you are delivering to his chest seem to roll through his veins and make his cock jerk untouched and desperate for some attention. Pre-cum weeps from the tip of his cock and you’ve fucked him enough times to know when he’s actively fighting off an orgasm.
“You’re so close, Sergeant. Maybe if I just-” Winking at him as you cut off your own musings, you bring both of your hands to his chest and pinch harshly at his puffy nipples – catching them between your thumb and forefinger as you apply a firm pressure which you know will feel in equal parts terrible and wonderful.
The roar which Coyle makes is terrifying in just how desperate it feels and you gasp in surprise as you watch his cock pulse twice before shooting its release all over his stomach as he reaches his peak without any direct stimulation. Pain and pleasure so intertwined in his mind, you’re not surprised that the agony of having his overly sensitive nipples tormented is enough to get him there. However, you are a little taken aback that he didn’t even need any additional electro stimulation – his baton a constant feature of your own games as he enjoyed shocking himself as much as he did charring small black marks into your skin.
Speaking of games…
“I think you have another one in you, sergeant.” You coo as your fingers loop around the back of his head – tactfully avoiding the rim of his police hat – and force his head to meet your own. “Do you think you can be a good dog and give me what I want? We’re going to find out.”
Rage and arousal at war within his twisting face, Coyle remains stubbornly silent and you take his lack of protest as an open invitation to continue to play with him until he’s so exhausted that you know you can unlock him and escape without any risk of immediate consequence.
Okay, so the trial opening with Coyle getting a blowjob with a whole finger up his ass really was not what I was expecting but I ain't complaining. He also likes having his balls played with! Also, canon and repeated "daddy" usage 😩 He truly remains an absolute worst cunt of an individual.
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[doesn't understand jacking off] and I'm supposed to... touch my penis? [shaking my head and smiling, murmuring to myself] touching my own penis... [chuckles] what will they come up with next
Summary - Knocked to the floor and captured by Sergeant Leland Coyle, Dwight is forced to 'apologise' for his crimes by showing the twisted officer a good time. (2.2k) (This piece is a comm from the absolutely stellar @loathsome-goblin and I thank them again for the opportunity 🥺)
Wheezing pathetically from the strong arm which had just struck his chest hard enough to throw him to the floor as he attempted to bolt towards the opened shuttles which would take him to safety, Dwight struggled to pull a solid breath into his lungs as he gazed up with open fear at the leering visage of Leland Coyle while the leather-clad officer loomed over him.
“Evading arrest. Destruction of property. General perversion. Attempted assault on an officer. You really are gonna be one sorry piece of shit.”
Dwight made one final effort to escape, his body valiantly attempting to scramble backwards across the flooring of the police station; a process made difficult by the way his torn shirt and trousers kept getting caught on the various stains and messes which decorated the filthy floor. However, it was a pointless venture as he had barely made it a few feet before Coyle’s thick boot dropped to press harshly at his ankle – the pressure enough to pull a pained sound from Dwight’s throat as he swore he felt the bone creak.
“Still tryna slip away? I’ll break your ankle, asshole.”
His brain short-circuiting due to the loss of control which washed through his veins, instinct forced Dwight to still as he froze in place like little more than a prey animal finally cornered by a very dangerous predator.
“Y’know, if that bottle you threw’d hit me,” Coyle announced with a flash of anger as he shifted his positioning enough to allow him stroke the prongs of his baton along Dwight’s covered chest and groin, “I’d have smashed it over your skull and fucked you to death with the broken pieces. Ain’t no level of beggin’ that’d make me forget an insult like that.”
Having no doubt that Coyle meant every word, the genuine fear which rattled through Dwight’s body was like a shock of freezing water.
“I’m sorry.”
The words were like an activation phrase, immediately sparking a wolfish smile and a freshly sadistic glint in Coyle’s eyes as he leapt on the apology without shame.
“Then show me how sorry you are. On your knees, inmate.”
The sharp end of the prongs dropped to press roughly enough into the fabric which covered Dwight’s groin that it hurt but not enough to pierce through to the skin beneath. He knew what was coming and that there was nothing he could do about it. Before Dwight could even breathe or beg for mercy, lightning shot through his veins and his cock felt as though it were being lit on fire from the inside out as he screamed at the terrible, torturous sensation.
The rush of blood in his ears made his head spin as his breath returned with violent inhales but even through the haze he heard Coyle’s voice once more.
“Another one for every five seconds you make me wait.”
Scrambling onto his knees as demanded, Dwight’s body twitched and jerked with the residual tremors of the stun batons effects. Being on his knees didn’t bother him, this he knew. This he was good at. And he could only hope it would be enough to keep Coyle from destroying anything that he would miss in the long run.
Coyle made short work of his own fly, releasing his cock from its confines as it sprang into the air – already hard and heavy and swollen at the tip from the promise of a little attention. Dwight stared at it for a moment, surprised at how normal it looked and an immediate shame filled him as the masochistic part of himself that always led him to situations like this delighted in getting to service such a pretty, thick cock.
A gloved hand laced around the back of his head, pulling Dwight closer to Coyle’s cock as Coyle himself guided the head of his cock towards Dwight’s mouth.
“Well, it ain’t gon’ suck itself, fucko.”
Wasting no time and offering no comfort, Coyle drove the thick head of his cock past Dwight’s lips as he immediately attempted to sink his entire length as far down the offered throat as he could. Dwight, unprepared and yet not surprised, tried his best to keep his composure even as his throat spasmed and he actively fought the urge to retch against the stuff invader.
He’s done this before, had his face fucked like any other hole with no thought to his own comfort or wants, but that never made it any easier.
Coyle’s grip of Dwight’s hair did not help matters. His hold absolute, the gloved hands which were now threaded through his hair tugged sharply at the strands as Coyle used the purchase to force Dwight’s head along his cock – setting an unforgiving pace as fire burned across the skin of Dwight’s scalp in protest at the rough treatment.
As the frantic face fuck continued, tears sprang into Dwight’s eyes and he could sense a growing frustration in Coyle as his movements grew sloppier and less co-ordinated. Burying his cock deep, Coyle glanced down to meet Dwight’s watery gaze.
“Damn drugs those fucking quacks have me on. Can’t even shoot a load in peace.” Huffing with disappointment, Coyle pushed Dwight off his cock with the thick tread of his boot, pressing it hard enough into his chest to knock him off-balance and send him tumbling to the filthy floor once more. “Bad news for you, shitbird. Just means I’ve still got juice to hurt ya with. Now let me see what I’m working with. Strip.”
Ashamed of how eagerly his hands dropped to what remained of his shirt buttons, Dwight could not deny the tug of pure arousal which sat low and cold in his gut as he followed Coyle’s instructions. The traitorous part of him which loved this treatment pushed his gaze down, his eyes meeting the dulled shine of Coyle’s thick leather boots as an image of him forced to his belly to lick them clean flashed in his mind’s eye.
So focused on the small fantasy, Dwight barely noticed that he had fully complied with Coyle’s instructions until the frigid cold which lanced through the police station brushed his shivering skin. Exposed and with his hands balled to his side, there was no ignoring the flash of confusion which crossed Coyle’s expression as he stared openly between Dwight’s legs. In one sharp stride, Coyle closed the space between them and Dwight yelped as a thick gloved hand dropped to cup roughly between his thighs.
“That’s a tiny little dick.” Coyle’s laughter was practically a bark. “No wonder you’re so quick to let a real man fuck you up like this. If my cock was all messed up like that then I’d shoot myself in the fucking skull to save face.”
Dwight keened out a terrible noise as Coyle stroked two gloved fingers along his engorged cock, the terrified arousal flowing through his veins making the engorged nub extra sensitive to his touch. The cool leather could have felt wonderful, but the pressure with which it squeezed his cock sparked more of a desperate response than actual pleasure.
“A damned disappointment you don’t have the tits to match.”
Staring at his exposed chest, Dwight trembled as Coyle pulled his hand free of his cock to instead trace his gloved fingers along the scarred skin which decorated his chest.
“Damn, someone really fucked you up before I got here. A real shame I don’t have my switchblade today,” Coyle grumbled mostly to himself, “such a pretty used canvas for some new writing. Could have had me a new snitch to play with. But, hey-”
Plucking the cigarette from his mouth from where it was so delicately held in place by his sharp canines, Coyle tapped off the excess ash before lowering his hand and stabbing the glowing ember of the lit end into the soft skin just above Dwight’s left nipple
“-gotta make do.”
The second half of his sentence was almost drowned out by the cry of pain which broke free of Dwight’s lips, his body trained to keep in place even as the sharp, stabbing pain of the fresh burn begged him to at least try to pull away.
“Please!” Dwight cried out; the single word desperate.
“Please what, inmate?” Coyle scowled, pressing his thumb into the burn mark and delighting in how it made Dwight shudder. “Please stop? Please and thank you? The fuck you think you’re asking for?”
“Please just fuck me.”
“Well, since you ask so nicely.”
Grabbing Dwight by the throat, Coyle wasted no time in tossing him back to the floor and the impact of his naked body on the hard flooring was enough to knock the wind from Dwight’s lungs as he lay on his front and clutched at his stomach in a vain attempt to recover. However, before he could even think, Coyle’s hands were back on him – pulling him up on all fours and presenting his ass for easy access.
“Mm, two holes to choose from. Both look like they’ve seen the action only a whore would know about.” Coyle mused; his accented tones rougher than they were a moment ago as the excitement of a fresh fuck powered him. “You a whore? The way you swallowed my cock got me thinking you might be some kinda pro.”
Dwight’s cheek pressed into the floor as he blinked rapidly at the nearby set of filing cabinets, his voice lost somewhere between the pain which flared across his abused body and the quiet shattering of his mind as he entered that familiar floating space where the line between pleasure and agony seemed pointless. Receiving no answer didn’t seem to bother Coyle, his focus purely on his own pleasure as he quickly pressed the blunted head of his thick cock against Dwight’s cunt – rubbing himself against the skin to gather the arousal which had gathered there.
“You ready for some rehabilitation?” A rhetorical question and one which only gave Dwight a second to prepare for what came next.
Coyle slammed his hips, sinking himself in one fluid movement which had no room for comfort or mercy, the roughness no doubt causing him some discomfort even as it felt like he was tearing Dwight apart. He wasted no time in setting a brutal pace, slamming his cock into Dwight’s cunt like he was actively trying to ream him out and cause as much discomfort as possible. But there, under the stinging, hollow discomfort whispered the slightest pleasure and Dwight clung to it like a lifeline as attempted to relax and widen his knees for a more comfortable angle.
A sharp pain in his lower back told Dwight that Coyle had placed the metal tips of his baton against the skin there but he did not even have time to scream before lightning once again flooded his veins and his body went as rigid as a board. Electricity was cruel in a way which he had forgotten, its sting never dulling as the nerves were forced to respond in kind every time.
“Oh, honey. You’re so fucking tight when you convulse like that.” Coyle groaned and he immediately set his baton back to work. Ensuring to shift his point of attention with each shock, the almost continuous torture of the electricity frying his nerves and making his limbs jerks wildly left Dwight with no choice but to howl and scream with each assault.
Somewhere in the agony, the pleasure also grew with it. Dwight’s natural masochism taking the horrors of his predicament and making the most of it in a way which his body could process as he scrambled his fingers into the floor and tried to make a little noise as possible. Behind him, he could feel the growing erraticism of Coyle’s thrusts as his release approached. Already thoroughly fluffed by his brutal use of Dwight’s throat, he couldn’t be too surprised that the fuck was going to be over so soon.
Heat flooded deep within his hole as Coyle’s gloved hand locked around the back of his as he hilted himself fully, his lips parts in a growing moan which was more animal than man. His grip of Dwight’s neck was uncomfortable, fingertips digging into the sensitive skin as he pinned his prey into place to ensure he took every droplet which he had to offer.
Coyle pulled free as carelessly as he had entered, his cock dragging some of his release with it as it dripped free of Dwight’s stinging hole to fall to the filthy floor below. He tucked himself away with a low, satisfied whistle as Dwight struggled to control the residual twitch in his limbs while he lay there like a puppet with its strings cut. His brain woefully fuzzy, the mixture of sensations which afflicted his body made speech impossible as he barely managed to run his tongue along his cracked lips.
Burned, bleeding, fucked and almost broken, any relief which could have washed through Dwight’s frame as he watched Coyle further fix himself and stalk off back towards the prisoner cells was killed in an instant as he heard Coyle’s accented words barking back at him.
“Might want to go on and get a move on, honey. I hear the Berserker is doing the rounds today and he won’t treat you half as nice as I did. Hell, he gets you and you’ll think you’ve been fucked by a train and those holes of yours won’t be worth diddly-shit anymore.”
With darkness encroaching on his senses, the last thought Dwight had before passing out was that at least if the Berserker found him he would be unconscious for whatever terrible things that particular beast planned for him.
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This is a list of the fics I am currently working on. I will try to update it every few days and I will remove any fic which has been published from the list to keep it neat and tidy 💋👏 xx
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Summary: An offhand comment sends you spiralling as you realise that the sickness afflicting you might be more than just a simple bug. With everything on the line, you try to hide from Jonathan as you work out your next steps but things quickly fall apart as you realise that trying to conceal anything from the Scarecrow is a fools errand. (6.2k)
Having only slipped out to grab some early morning groceries, the nausea which slams into your throat as you gaze as the rows of raw chicken which are begging to be picked through for the most appealing cut is so intense that you abandon your sparse basket where it sits. Eyes scanning the walls for a sign, you bolt towards the nearby bathrooms and burst through the door with more force than is probably necessary.
Thankfully, there’s only one woman in the bathroom – her startled body having just left the furthest away stall – and her eyes widen with shock as you launch yourself into the only other opened stall and fall to your knees. Throwing up is never a pleasant experience and you hate how pathetic your retching sounds as you quickly bring up the cheap bowl of cereal which had made up your earlier breakfast. The burn in your throat makes your spine shudder as you retch again, for good measure. Giving a soft courtesy flush of the toilet, you lean your forehead on your arm and wait for the remaining nausea to pass as you fight to steady your breathing.
“You okay, honey?”
A gentle voice washes overhead and you have to imagine it’s the poor women who you have probably frightened with your sudden entrance. Wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand, you give a second flush and stand to your feet on surprisingly steady legs as you turn to face her. Soap covers her hands as she stands just outside of the stall door, fingers working the suds across the digits as she watches you with a wary yet concerned look.
“I’m okay.” You confirm, shuffling past her to the closest sink as you offer her a small smile. “Thanks for asking. I really hate throwing up. I’m not brave about it”
“Oh, believe me, I remember how shitty it can feel.” The woman giggles, drying her hands off with some paper towels before depositing them in the wastebin. “Morning sickness totally blows. Try using ginger, that shit can work miracles! And best of luck with it all!” She leaves with a friendly wave, disappearing from the bathroom with the squeak of her sneakers on the tiles lighting her way back to the main store.
Morning sickness.
The implication pulls a snort from you, the sound echoing across the now empty space as you immediately laugh the idea off. However, as you begin to wash your hands in the sink, the words circle back to echo in your head and you pause to consider why the hell you are throwing up anyway.
You feel pretty fine now, the only residual nausea coming from the vague taste of bile which lingers within your mouth. You haven’t eaten anything suspect in the last day or so which would warrant possible sickness. No questionable meats or seafood or re-heated foods. You aren’t sick in any way which suggests you are coming down with something. No headache. No pains.
There really is no reason for such a sudden onslaught of nausea.
Could it-
Thrown into a sudden wash of panic, you steady your wet hands against the sink as you perform some very quick maths. The side-effects from your last batch of birth control had become too irritating to manage and the change to the new pills you have been taking still need another few weeks for the full side-effects to really present. Even with all that taken in consideration, the last time your period has shown up was…
…a while ago.
Definitely more than a month.
“It could just be the birth control.” You mutter to yourself, voice so unsteady that you might as well have not bothered to move your lips. “It can fuck things up for months. That’s what the instructions said.”
Staring up into the mirror which watches you back with wide, panicked eyes, something terrified cracks open in your chest and you know it is a crack which will never be patched up with simple, internal reassurances.
Could you be pregnant?
Hands falling down to your stomach, the math could work out but it would mean that you were barely more than six weeks. Enough for symptoms to start showing up but also enough that you could easily test yourself and confirm it.
Stumbling out from the bathroom as you wipe the remaining damp on the front of your denims, you walk listlessly to the pharmacy section of the store. Feeling surprisingly numb despite the wicked churn within your stomach, the pregnancy tests which sit on the shelves feel as weighty as bricks as you snatch up a handful of them and walk straight to the pharmacy counter.
The pharmacist is an older man with kindly eyes which shine from behind his thin glasses. His white hair is thin across his head and he glances between the tests which your shaking hands drop to the counter and the no-doubt complicated expression which is pulling at your features.
“Is this all for you today, dear?”
“Yes.”
Your voice sounds devoid of anything and the pharmacist looks at you sharply before his expression softens into something like understanding. “I hope you get whatever result it is you’re looking for.” He offers quietly as he rings up the various tests. “You look a little bit lost.”
Swiping your card to pay for the goods, you shove the thick handful of tests within your handbag as you give him a shaky smile and leave the store – abandoning all thoughts of buying the groceries you actually need as your appetite is now long gone.
The drive home proves to be uneventful and you fall into your apartment with a grateful sigh as you lock the door behind you and throw the keys into the nearby bowl. A soft buzz from your front pocket startles you in place and you pick it up to find a text from Crane.
Is 9pm still acceptable?
Fuck.
You had forgotten that you have plans to meet with him later.
Absolutely unable to face him at the moment, you stare at the text for a full minute before springing into action. Hands shaking slightly, you click on his name and pull the phone to your ear as the soft ring of the outgoing call echoes in your ear.
“A phone call?” Jonathan’s casual tone comes through the speaker after a moment. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’m sick.” You blurt out, a freshly nauseous mixture of guilt and anxiety swirling in your gut as you lie through your teeth. “I can’t make it- can’t come tonight. Sorry.”
“You sound strange.” As perceptive as ever, Jonathan’s throat hums as he listens. “If you are unwell, would you like your doctor to take a look at you? There’s more than one way to take a temperature, you know.”
“Sickness and a terrible headache. I think it’s a head cold. Or the flu. Or- I don’t know, something.” You continue to lie, panic making you stutter as you ignore his deadpan attempt at flirting. “Can we take a raincheck until the weekend?”
“If you want.” Jonathan agrees. “But I hope you feel better in the meantime.”
Hanging up after confirming that you will do everything you can to keep yourself healthy, your body seems to know what it wants as it drags you towards the nearby couch and you fall to the comfortable fabric with a deep sigh.
Later, you’ll do what has to be done but for now, a nap would take the edge of the stress migraine which you could feel threatening the edge of your consciousness.
x-x-x-x-x
“No known phobias but that is ideal for today’s experiment.”
Jonathan’s voice is calm but filled with a familiar excitement as he taps at the clipboard in his hand and fixes you with a soft smile. His costume fills him out with the only missing components being both his mask and beloved needle glove. However, most of his clothing is covered by the stark white lab coat which hangs low to the floor as he shifts to stand by the terrified, gagged figure who is staring between you both with abject horror in his wide eyes.
“Sounds good to me, handsome.”
You hear your own voice as though it came from someone else and the sudden shock of it forces you to clasp your hands together. In doing so, you are surprised to find that your hands are gloved by a soft brown fabric which extends up past your elbows. Glancing down at your body, a bolt of pure surprise escapes your lungs as you take in the strange ensemble. Similar to Jonathan, your body is encased in a form-fitting costume which seems to be made up of sewn patches of various shades of brown and tan – the sewing between the fabrics exaggerated and excessive to give a patchwork effect.
The dress is also surprisingly low-cut, with the tops of your breasts visible and slightly elevated by a supportive cup beneath, not quite a corset but something less intense. All of it sits flush to your body but surprisingly comfortable as you run your hands down your sides and take in its shape.
“Do you like it?” Jonathan interrupts, his eyes shining and tone glowing with pride as you look up at him once more. “My beautiful Mistress of Fear deserves no less.”
Blinking rapidly, his words land like a punch, “Mistress of- what? What’s going on?”
Jonathan’s expression remains placid, shockingly calm and sweet as he watches you with something almost like open adoration, “This is all for you. Today is your experiment, sweetheart. You chose him.” Indicating to the bound man with a thumb, Jonathan tilts his head down at you. “And what a marvellous choice he is. I know the last few haven’t survived past this opening stage but I have faith that your formula will work.”
“My formula.” Repeating the words, your eyes flick back to the gagged man and how desperately he is pulling at his restraints as muffled pleas struggle to slip past his lips.
“Are you feeling okay?” Jonathan asks, his eyes narrowing with concern as he steps closer to your position. “If you’re feeling light-headed you can leave. There is nothing more important to me than your comfort. I will stay, administer the toxin, and handle the clean-up. You can head home early and whip up some dinner for the three of us.”
“Three of us?”
Jonathan only smiles as he glances down at your costume. Following his gaze, you also look down and your heart stops in your chest as you take in the thick swell of your stomach – the skin distended where it pushes the fabric of your costume up over the massive bump. A sick feeling rises in your throat as you watch the skin shift and ripple as something very alive and very active starts to move within.
“What the fuck?” The question is more of a scream as your hands drop to your swollen stomach. However, the touch barely has time to register against your skin as a shocking darkness claims you once more and your body feels suddenly weightless.
Awaking with a start, you can’t help the way your hands fly to your gut as you grasp desperately at the familiar shape of yourself. Your heart thumping in your chest, the panic in your body is impossible to ignore as your eyes struggle to acclimatise to the sudden need to perceive the world around you as it truly is.
No bump.
Slickened by your own sweat where it pools across your body and seeps into your clothing, the deep sigh which slips from you feels like it is coming more from your chest than your throat as you run your palms across your face.
“God, I need a shower.”
Announcing the words to no one, you stand from the couch and shakily make your way over towards the bathroom – tactfully avoiding placing your gaze anywhere near the opened handbag which sat on the side table.
x-x-x-x-x
Post-shower, your mood is considerably lighter as you throw on some comfortable sweats and focus your scattered thoughts into some productive cleaning. The elephant in the room continues to trumpet from your handbag but you can ignore it for now as you head towards your kitchen.
The thought of dinner makes your stomach lurch so you push the thought aside as you begin to pull the glasses from the cupboard above your worktop to deep clean the space within. Every action is soothing, the minimal grime wiping away with a satisfaction which is easy to sink into as you avoid giving any time to the other thoughts which are pressing at you like a dead weight. The repetitive nature of the work – empty, spray, wipe, reassemble – feels satisfying and the room is quick to fill with the scents of the various spray bottles.
A knock at the door interrupts you. Casting eyes from the pantry cupboard, you glance down towards the hallway like the noise has somehow offended you. Pulled from the joyful haze of productivity, you drop your gloves into the sink and pad down to the door with the vague hope that it was an early delivery of those new books you had ordered online just a few mornings ago. Opening the door, you plaster a soft smile of thanks to your lips as you prepare to meet your unexpected visitor.
Only to find Jonathan Crane standing there in a simple shirt and pants; his civilian clothes when he is so desperately trying to move among people without being discovered. The sight of him sparks something so darkly complicated within your heart than you don’t even try to bother unpacking it as you stare at him wordlessly, mouth slack.
“May I come in?”
You hesitate, a desire to straight-up decline the request knocking at your lips but you push it down knowing that a sudden refusal will seem stranger than anything else.
“Remember I’m sick. I don’t want you to catch wha-”
Jonathan’s eyes narrow, suspicion alighting in his typical neutral expression as he senses your obvious hesitation like a shark detecting blood. He holds his chin steady as he places a firm hand on the doorframe and takes a solid step into your apartment, “Don’t worry. I will not stay long.”
Barely feeling the carpet beneath your feet as all the hells in the world seem to be afflicting you at once, you close the door behind Jonathan and take a deep, steadying breath before turning to follow him back into your living room. Taking his usual spot, Jonathan’s nose crinkles at the overly clean scent which fills your apartment; the mixture of pine and cotton strong enough that you watch him cough politely as he sinks into the single, plush chair which sits near your main couch.
“I’m sick.” You repeat the words like a protective barrier, hoping that they’ll somehow make him disappear in a puff of smoke.
Remaining delightfully corporeal, Jonathan watches you with a clinical, passive gaze.
“I heard you. Luckily, my latest batch of toxin needs time to develop so I found myself with a spare few hours to hand. I thought you would appreciate the visit since you so often criticise my more caring attributes.”
“What caring attributes?” Despite it all, you can’t help the sarcastic mutter as you shuffle towards the kitchen and pause at the wooden table which sits in the middle of the space.
“Exactly.” Jonathan smiles; his expression putting an end to the matter.
Rolling your eyes, you turn towards the recently cleaned cabinets. “Do you want a drink? This isn’t a bar so I’m only offering up some soda, water or juice. Like hell you’re getting smashed on my couch while I’m sick.”
Silence.
“Jonathan?” You repeat louder, casting the words over your shoulder. “Hey? Do you hear me? No alcohol tonight. I can offer you soda, water or jui-”
The final word dies in your throat as you turn back and take in Jonathan’s frozen expression, his gaze locked on the couch which sits opposite him. Following his sightline your heart stops in your chest as you realise he’s looking, not at the couch itself, but within your opened handbag and directly at the handful of pregnancy tests which are clearly visible within.
Body freezing as though someone has shucked a full bucket of frozen water over it, you can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe for a moment as Jonathan stands and darts over to the handbag with such speed that you can’t help but startle a little.
“What the hell is this?” Jonathan holds one of the tests between his hands like it was something ready to bite his fingers off at the first opportunity, bringing it up to the overhead light as though hoping it would prove to be anything but what he knew it was.
“A pregnancy test.” More of a deflated sigh than an actual answer as the air escapes your body in one fell swoop, the answer forces Jonathan back to his ass as he sits heavily on the couch – his body seeming to give out slightly.
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Until finally, he speaks and his tone is bereft of any emotion, "And how long have you known?"
"There's nothing to know." The words blurt from you in a panicked stream as you dash back to the couch and sit next to Jonathan, filling the space between him and the opened handbag – forming a human barrier that demands his attention. "I'm late. I have new meds. I was sick as hell. A lady in the bathroom said something and it sent me spiralling. I'm just," you falter, "I need to know. It could be my new birth control meds messing up my cycle or it could be-" stopping, you can't bring yourself to say it.
"Unconfirmed.” Jonathan confirms, his voice so slow that it feels painfully measured. “And yet, all of that secrecy and lying over the phone. Would you have told me?"
The question appears to slip from Jonathan’s mouth accidentally if the slight cringe in his shoulders is anything to go by.
"Of course, but only if-" You stop, again unable to finish a simple sentence.
Jonathan remains silent. His eyes fixated so precisely on the far-off wall in front of him that you know better than to interrupt as he thinks through the various outcomes of this development. You know that look, had seen it in your own eyes as you gazed at yourself in the bathroom mirror earlier. Finally, the silence becomes too much as it presses down on you like a fresh physical weight, making your breathing come more erratically as you struggle to maintain composure.
"Jonathan, you have to know this wasn’t - I swear this wasn't planned-" you begin, reaching across the small space between you as he sits so painfully still on the couch that you can't help but feel it must be uncomfortable for his stiff limbs.
However, as your fingers reach for his arm, he flinches away and the movement is so small, so almost imperceptible, that you can't help but inhale sharply as you pull your hand away like he'd slapped at it. Tears well in your eyes and you bring your palms to each socket to rub at them and dispel the hot tears before they can fall.
He flinched.
He hates you.
Seemingly realising his faux-pas even through his shock, Jonathan allows his body to loosen slightly as he pushes his foot out to tap at the side of your own. It was something at least. Not enough to quell the hurt but it was something and you clutch at the small movement like a lifeline.
“When do you plan on confirming?” Jonathan says, his voice filling with such a faux-casualness that it’s hard to listen to.
“I can do it now if you want. Then we can both know.”
Unable to answer, Jonathan nods and the movement is so stunted that you know it has to have hurt his neck on some level. Sighing as he remains mostly unresponsive, you pick up one of the pregnancy tests from inside the bag and grip it against your palm as you make the short journey to your bathroom. You close the door behind you and grip the edge of the sink for strength before shuffling your sweats and underwear free of your lower half and sitting down on the toilet.
Inhaling deeply, you try to relax as you slip the test between your legs and do what needs to be done.
x-x-x-x-x
Watching his witty girl disappear into the bathroom, Jonathan waited until he heard the latch of the door lock shut before he unleashed the faltering breath which he had been so carefully concealing deep within his chest. Dragging his thin hands up, he raked the fingers through his wild hair; tugging the ends slightly and revelling in the slight, grounding discomfort which it brought.
He was no fool. He had very quickly sensed something was wrong with his little mouse during her unexpected phone call where she claimed illness. She was a terrible liar and he immediately knew that she was attempting to hide something by avoiding him.
But this?
This he could not have imagined.
For the first time in a long time, Jonathan was willing to acknowledge that the uncomfortable feeling which sat so heavily in his chest was a genuine and very natural fear. Fear. An emotion so familiar to him that he had almost forgotten the thrill of it. He had faced potential death with less anxiety than the hollow, almost gutting sensation which currently filled his body as he stared holes into the simple wallpaper which covered the wall opposite him.
Dr. Jonathan Crane.
A father.
His own father had been a ghost, a deadbeat who was long gone before he ever took his first miserable breath. No presence, no support, no guidance. Hell, even when he had killed the man, Jonathan had barely felt anything aside from a vague satisfaction that he had righted some wrong which had been done to him so many years ago.
Had his father stepped up, perhaps he would not have been left to the child-rearing experience which he had endured at the hands of his dear old great granny Keeny. If he was a monster then he was only made so by the mould which she had so willingly forced him into and punished him terribly for daring to step out with. His body bore her scars and he was an educated enough man to understand that the scars she left on his psyche were far more terrible than the physical.
His father and his great granny.
Two peas in a pod; negligence and malice.
Care giving examples which his work had only served to underpin as he encountered an almost limitless resource of terrible parents. Mothers who lived vicariously through children who were terrified of disappointing her to the point where their own thoughts or wants no longer mattered. Fathers who regarded the use of physical discipline to be as natural as breathing the air around them, violent men who were furious at having being referred to himself for treatment after leaving their children broken and terrified in ways which may never be fixed.
Biologically, he should want a child. The desire to breed, to procreate, was something which was built into the human race as a species. He should want a progeny to carry his genetics and bloodline long after he was wiped from the face of the planet. However, time and experience had robbed him of any illusion that he had anything to offer a child which would enrich their experience in any meaningful way.
Biting the inside of his lip until he could taste copper, Jonathan allowed his eyes to wander back to the closed bathroom door.
His witty girl would probably make a good mother.
She held a nurturing edge which was so foreign to him that he found himself fascinated by it at times. His little mouse who so willingly put herself in danger for him, soothed him at his worst, even attempted to defend his honour against total strangers. She would make a good caregiver as she possessed both the soft qualities necessary to nurture but also a fierceness which would allow her to protect that which she loved.
Unable to prevent the mental image, Jonathan’s mind flicked between snapshots of a potential, terrifying future to come. His witty girl, heavy with child and glowing in that way people claim expectant mothers’ glow. Her cradling a small bundle close to her exhausted expression. A tiny hand cradled within her own as the other hand reached out to an empty space where a father should be.
Within his chest, the deep anxiety which refused to let up only tightened its grip as Jonathan was ripped from his thoughts by the bathroom door opening once more.
x-x-x-x-x
Washing your hands thoroughly, you return to the couch and place the test face down on the small coffee table with a small wad of fresh toilet paper beneath to keep it from touching the table itself. Re-taking your earlier space, you are not surprised to find that Jonathan hasn’t moved an inch since you entered the bathroom.
Again, the quiet which sits between you is only broken by the vague sounds of movement from your upstairs neighbour as they shuffle around their own apartment; completely unaware of the chaos which reigned below.
"Please." The word is soft as you finally turn to gaze at Jonathan. "Say something. I didn’t want this as much as you clearly don’t. Is it something I’ve done?” Growing slightly more hysterical with the question, you pause to calm your tone. “I only realised today but is the problem me? Do you regret-"
Jonathan answers quickly enough that you feel the honesty in the refusal as he twists his head to meet your own.
"No. Not you. If anything, I would tru-" he cuts himself off with a slight head shake as a little bit of life returns to his face. "But no. Rest assured it's not you, witty girl."
"Then wh-?"
"I cannot raise a child." Jonathan exclaims bluntly.
You ask the question which has been hovering around the more frightened parts of your scattered thoughts, "Would you hurt me? To hurt the baby? If you didn’t want it."
"Not physically, not intentionally. But emotionally, I cannot provide you with what you would want from me.” Jonathan’s hands shift and you pretend not to see the way his fingers pinch sharply at his left wrist. “You would attend all appointments and classes alone, witness other fathers who can freely give what I cannot and resentment would bloom. It would rot whatever this is from the inside out. You would give up eventually and cut me from your life like a cancer, or perhaps I will finally be sent back to Arkham and that will be the end of it all."
Taken aback by his candidness, you can’t stop the questions from coming, “You wouldn’t want anything to do with me or the baby?”
"It would not be in the child’s best interest. The child would be safer to grow up with an unknown deadbeat father than for the world to know they are the product of a monster. You would also suffer. The people at large have no sympathy for women who lay with murderers and have children with them.”
Flinching at how he describes himself, you argue the point, “I would never tell. No one would need to know.”
“The truth always comes out in the end.” Jonathan sighs. “At that point, I suppose you could lie. Claim innocence on your part and paint me as a far greater monster than I am. But in doing so you then risk a child who will believe they were created through an act of terrible violence than simple, foolish passion."
Genuinely surprised at how well considered his points are, a sneaking suspicion that the potential of an event like this has crossed his mind before gnaws at your thoughts until you can't help but blurt it out.
"Have you thought about this before? Me? Us? A baby?" You try not to sound accusatory but fail miserably.
"We frequently have unprotected sex and, while I do trust your honesty and ability to keep up with your own birth control, I am not foolish enough to believe that it would always be enough."
Well, if that wasn’t the truth.
"More than two minutes have passed." You state, eyes looking anywhere but at the downturned pregnancy test which sits between you like a live grenade.
"I know. The choice to look is yours."
"Like taking off a bandaid. Just rip it off." You whisper to yourself as you inhale, flip the test over, and peer down at it with shaking hands.
Nothing.
No line.
No baby.
The relief which sweeps through you is enough to make you feel light-headed as an absurd bubble of laughter rises in your throat - the hysteric noise coming out as more of a gurgle than anything resembling genuine humour.
"And that's that."
Jonathan's voice is strong but empty of anything resembling disappointment or relief and you drag your eyes back up to meet his own. He stares back at you unblinking and something passes between you; a shared moment of something impossible to describe but one which causes your chest to tighten like it was being gripped by some unseen force.
"And that's that. My cycle must be off because of the new birth control."
Borderline faint due to the day’s events, you stand to unsteady legs as you place a bracing hand on Jonathan’s thin shoulder and unleash a stuttering breath.
"I'm going to bed.” You announce quietly. “Join me. Leave. Do what you want. I’ll be in bed."
"It's not even 7pm."
You're not sure what he sees in the look you fix him with but to watch him mentally walk his flippant comment back in real time causes the smallest flash of amusement as you walk into your bedroom and drop yourself to the familiar bed.
Knees instinctively curling up towards your chest, you make yourself comfortable as you hear the faintest sounds of shuffling movements from the living room. Before too long can pass, you hear your bedroom door creak open and you turn slightly to watch Jonathan approach your curled-up position.
He hesitates for a solid moment, his gaze unseen but clearly deliberating something before the weight of his body sinks into the other side of the bed. You roll to your back, body not quite touching his but positioned enough that you can both see each other fully. Jonathan lies beside you, stock-still as he faces the ceiling with an unreadable expression. His shirt is loosened around the neck and his shoes seem to have been discarded back in the living room. He makes no move to comfort you, clearly unsure or unwilling to put himself in a position where he may be rejected.
"Would it have been so terrible?" You ask, so quietly that he could ignore the question if he really wanted to.
"Yes.” Jonathan replies in a blink. “You know it would. But, for what it's worth, I think you would be a good mother. You are built with an empathy and fire that would make you a formidable force."
Unsure what to do with that, you swallow the praise down for later consideration. "I think you could be a good father. Y'know, if it wasn't for the-" you falter, realising that the list of reasons he would be a terrible caregiver could go chronologically or alphabetically given the vast points that could be scribbled on it.
"Let's not go down that path tonight, witty girl. My heart hasn't quite recovered from your earlier dramatics. Fatherhood is not on the cards for me."
"Some master of fear," you mutter loud enough for him to hear you clearly as you try to inject some levity into the moment, "frightened by a little piece of plastic."
Finally, Jonathan moves to touch you and his arm loops around your waist to pull your stiff position closer into his side - his fingers splaying across your stomach as they settle and you feel the move is deliberate as he relaxes slightly more into the mattress.
"A sane man knows his limits." He replies evenly. “However, I suppose there could be some benefit to be enjoyed should the absolute worst happen. Physically, the enhanced sensitivity you would experience would be something to behold. Chest swollen, painfully sensitive, and hormones driving you wild with a need that I’m not even sure I could satisfy.”
Mouth falling opening at the mixture of his words and the teasing way which his hand is now trailing across your skin as it slips up within your t-shirt, your voice is almost sharp with incredulity as you speak.
"You cannot possibly be horny right now."
Somehow unashamed, Jonathan doesn’t deny the accusation, "Fear and arousal, little mouse. That was some scare you dared to give me, now my nerves are shot and my body is thrumming with residual adrenaline."
“I’m too tired for a session, Doctor Crane.” You confess with a sigh, the tiny hint of arousal his touch always inspires nowhere near enough to tempt you into anything intense. “I just want to sleep.”
“Not a session, witty girl.” Jonathan purrs, his thumb dipping to tease the edge of your waistband. “Turn away from me and allow for a small indulgence. The pleasure is all yours.”
You follow his command gently as you both turn to your sides, curling your ass and back in such a way that he is able to wrap around you with a surprising flushness as his hand drops to gently grope at the swell of your ass. Still not in the mood for anything vigorous, you can never really say no to a little bit of personal attention and so you push into him in silent agreement at whatever he’s thinking.
“Just a touch. Nothing more.” Jonathan huffs into your scalp and his fingers trail down your covered spine to slip within your comfy sweats as they delve beneath your panties and tease along your slit. His touch is electric, exhaustion making you feel somehow more sensitive and you don’t even try to hide the gasps and soft moans which escape your lips as you adjust your legs to give him easier access.
Your body reacts to him with a fond familiarity, arousal quick to build within your gut as his fingers grow rapidly damp as they continue to split their attention between your fluttering hole and your clit – the sensitive nub throbbing slightly with every gentle harassment he grazes across it. True to his word, Jonathan’s attention seems focused on your pleasure and his only selfish indulgence comes from the slight grind of his groin into your ass, his cock hard yet unseen as it remains hidden away beneath his pants.
“Jonathan.” You sing his name with a gasp, repeating the single word over and over as he drags you over the edge into a satisfying release – one which rips most of the residual tension from your body as you increase the pressure of your ass on his groin and ride your pleasure out on his fingers.
Lost in the delightful sensations as they roll and wave across your tense body, you feel the tension in Jonathan’s body as his hand tightens on your inner thigh before his body relaxes. His breath puffs across your scalp once more and a low satisfied hum escapes you as you wrap a hand around his wrist and tug at it gently as you enjoy the post-orgasmic hum in your skin.
“Did you-”
“Like I said,” Jonathan murmurs, “residual adrenaline. The body seeks its own release with a borderline pathetic desperation.”
“That’s kind of hot, y’know. Doing that.” You make the confession just as quietly as you raise your arm and allow Jonathan to slip it around your waist as he makes no attempt to move or save either of you from the sticky messes you have both found yourselves in. “Makes me feel sexy.”
Jonathan buzzed a small noise of consideration at that but says nothing.
“I was actually sick today.” You admit. “I wasn’t lying about that. I don’t feel sick, but I was sick so if you also end up sick then I’m not taking any blame for it.”
Sighing, Jonathan slips his hand up to press one finger to your lips as he remains loosely curling around your body.
“I could not be more clearly trying to fall asleep, witty girl. This prattling away is giving me nothing but terrible memories of sharing a cell in Arkham with your new friend, Edward Nygma.”
Closing your eyes, you pull your lips free of his shushing finger and giggle to yourself as you ask, “Did he also let you spoon him like this?”
Jonathan’s mouth presses against the back of your head and you feel the sigh which escapes his chest as he answers, “As always, I regret coming here without my glove.”
