#deadpool yaps

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The precinct smelled like stale coffee, toner from the ancient printer, and the faint metallic bite of old blood that never quite washed out of the evidence room.

It was past midnight, the graveyard shift had cleared out, and the bullpen lights were dimmed to half-power.

Only two desks were still occupied: yours and Manon’s.

You sat with your feet kicked up on the bottom drawer, chair tilted back, staring at the case board like it was a puzzle you’d already solved. Because you had.

Four bodies in six months.

All women in their twenties, all found in their own apartments, throats slit clean, bodies arranged in the bathtub with the water running cold. There was never forced entry, defensive wounds, DNA, and prints.

The press had named him “The Bath Killer.” You’d almost laughed when you first heard it. Almost.

Manon was hunched over her desk across from you, sleeves rolled up, hair falling in her face as she scrolled through crime scene photos on her laptop. She’d been quiet tonight—quieter than usual.

You watched her fingers hover over the trackpad, the way her jaw tightened when she zoomed in on the latest victim’s neck wound. Its clean and precise. Surgical, almost.

She looked up suddenly, caught you staring.

“What?” she asked, not unkindly.

You shrugged, dropped your feet to the floor. “Nothing. Just thinking you look tired.”

She snorted, leaned back in her chair, stretched her arms over her head. Her shirt rode up just enough to show a sliver of stomach. Your eyes flicked down before you could stop them.

“I am tired,” she said. “This case is eating me alive.”

You nodded like you understood. “He’s careful. But he’s getting cocky. The gaps between kills are shrinking, its like he wants attention now.”

She tilted her head. “That’s what I said last week. You disagreed.”

You smiled—small, practiced. “I changed my mind.”

She studied you for a second too long. Then she closed her laptop, rubbed her eyes. “I’m heading home. You coming?”

You shook your head. “Gonna stay a bit. Run a few more cross-references.”

She stood, grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair. “Don’t stay too late. You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

She paused at the door, looked back. “Seriously. Get some sleep.”

“I will.”

She left.

You waited exactly seven minutes after the elevator dinged.

Then you pulled up the encrypted drive on your laptop. The one labeled “Case Files - Confidential.”

Password-protected, of course. You typed the string you’d memorized months ago—her birthday plus the day she got her detective shield.

Inside were the real files. The ones the department would never see.

Photos you’d taken yourself. Close-ups of throats you’d cut. Bathtub arrangements you’d posed. And one folder labeled “M.”

Hundreds of photos of Manon.

Her laughing at a bar. Her sleeping on the break room couch. Her changing in the locker room (taken from the vent you’d drilled into last summer).

Her in the shower at her apartment (hidden camera behind the mirror you’d installed during that “friendly” visit when she asked you to help move furniture).

You scrolled until you found the newest one: her in the precinct bathroom last week, skirt hiked up, panties around her ankles, mid-stream. You’d been in the stall next to her, phone held low, recording through the gap under the partition.

Your cock was already hard.

You palmed yourself through your slacks, breathing shallow.

Then you stood.

Grabbed your keys.

Drove to her building.

She lived on the fourth floor, corner unit. You had a key—copied it months ago when she lent you her spare to “feed the cat” while she was on a weekend stakeout. You let yourself in quietly.

The apartment was dark. She’d left the kitchen light on—warm yellow spilling into the hallway. You moved silently, shoes off, steps soft on the hardwood.

Her bedroom door was cracked.

You pushed it open.

She was asleep on her stomach, sheet kicked down to her waist, wearing nothing but a black thong. One leg bent, ass curved perfectly in the moonlight from the window. Her breathing was slow, even.

You stood there for a long time—just watching her chest rise and fall, the way her hair fanned across the pillow, the faint freckles on her shoulder blades.

Then you moved.

You went to her laundry hamper first.

On top there is yesterday’s black lace panties. Still damp in the crotch. You picked them up, brought them to your face, inhaled deep. Musky, sweet, a little salty. Her. You groaned low, cock throbbing painfully in your pants.

You stuffed them in your pocket.

Then you moved to the bed.

She stirred when the mattress dipped, but didn’t wake until you were already on top of her—knee between her thighs, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other pinning her wrist to the mattress.

Her eyes snapped open—wide, terrified.

She thrashed immediately—strong, trained, bucking hard. You pressed your weight down, used your knees to pin her legs, kept your hand sealed over her mouth.

“Shh,” you whispered. “It’s me.”

She froze. Recognition hit—then confusion, then fury.

She tried to scream against your palm. Muffled curses, thrashing renewed.

You leaned close, lips against her ear. “Stop fighting. You’ll hurt yourself.”

She stilled, breathing hard through her nose, eyes blazing up at you.

You slowly lifted your hand—just enough for her to speak.

“What the fuck—” she hissed. “Get off me.”

You didn’t.

You kept her pinned, free hand sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, slipping under the waistband of her thong.

She bucked again. “Don’t—”

You lowered your head, nose brushing her cheek, inhaling deep like you were trying to memorize her scent. She felt the tremor in your arms, the way your cock—already hard—pressed against her stomach through your jeans.

“You smell like coconut,” you whispered. “And coffee. And that menthol gum you always bring with you”

Her stomach turned.

She tried to twist her face away. You followed, lips grazing her jaw.

“I’ve been watching you for months,” you said, voice cracking on the last word. “Every shift. Every late night. Every time you went home alone. I know how you take your coffee. I know you leave your bedroom window cracked when it’s hot. I know you hum when you’re brushing your teeth.”

She stopped breathing for a second.

Then she forced the words out, low and shaking. “It… It was you. you’re The Bath Killer...”

You didn’t flinch, just nodded. Almost shy.

“Yeah.”

She stared at you—really stared—like she was seeing you for the first time.

The quiet one in the bullpen. The one who always had her coffee ready before she asked. The one who fixed her printer when it jammed, who stayed late when everyone else left, who looked at her like she hung the moon.

The killer.

Her voice came out small. “Why?”

You swallowed. “Because they weren’t you.”

Her stomach lurched.

You kept talking, words spilling out like you couldn’t hold them back anymore. “Every time I’m with someone who looks exactly like you, every time I fucked some slut i met in a bar, every time i realized they are not you… I pictured them in the tub. Throat open a-and eyes empty. Then I did it. Just to feel something other than this… this thing inside me that wants you so bad it hurts.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks now. You didn’t wipe them away.

“I tried to stop,” you whispered. “I swear I tried. But then you started looking at me. Really looking. And I couldn’t anymore.”

She stared up at you—chest tight, pulse roaring in her ears.

You were crying.

The girl who’d killed four people was crying on top of her love life.

And she was hard.

She felt it—thick, insistent—pressing against her stomach through your pants.

Your voice dropped even lower. “I took your panties once. From the locker room hamper. Black lace. You wore them on Tuesday. I… I smelled them. Jerked off with them wrapped around my cock. Came so hard I almost blacked out.”

Her breath hitched.

You kept going, words tumbling faster.

“I’ve watched you shower. I have videos. I’ve listened to you fuck yourself with that vibrator you keep in the nightstand drawer. I know the exact sound you make when you come—, like you’re surprised every time.”

You leaned down, nose brushing her cheek. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the day you called me ‘detective’ instead of ‘tech gal’ I’d kill for you. I have killed for you.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Okay,” she repeated. “You want me. I get it. I see it.”

Your eyes searched hers—wild, hopeful, terrified.

She swallowed. “If you untie me… I’ll let you have me.”

You froze.

She kept her voice steady. “I’ll let you fuck me. I’ll let you do whatever you want. But you have to let me go first.”

You stared at her for a long second.

Then you loose up your grip. Her wrists were red. You rubbed them gently.

She didn’t run.

Instead she pushed you gently onto your back—slowly until you were flat on the mattress. She climbed on top, straddling your hips, hands braced on your chest.

“Good girl,” she whispered—soft, soothing, like she was calming a frightened child. “Just lay back. Let me take care of you.”

Your breath hitched. “M-Manon… I… I love you.”

She leaned down, kissed your forehead—gentle, almost tender.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

Then she reared back—and punched you.

Manon’s fist connected with your cheekbone—hard, sharp, a clean crack that snapped your head to the side and filled your mouth with the copper taste of blood.

Pain bloomed instant and bright, a white-hot flare that made your vision swim for a second. You staggered back one step, hand flying to your face, feeling the skin already swelling under your fingertips.

She didn’t wait to see the damage.

She bolted.

Bare feet slapping hardwood, hair whipping behind her as she sprinted for the front door. The apartment wasn’t big—living room to hallway to foyer in maybe eight strides—but she was fast, fueled by pure adrenaline and terror.

You tasted blood. Felt it trickle down your chin. Heard it drip onto the floor in soft, wet plops.

Something inside you snapped.

Pure, boiling rage.

“COME BACK HERE.”

The words ripped out of you like a blade.

You lunged.

She was halfway to the door, fingers already brushing the knob when your hand clamped around her ankle again. This time you didn’t just grab. You yanked—hard, vicious, putting your full body weight into it.

Her feet flew out from under her. She went down face-first—knees, palms, chin slamming the floor with a sickening thud. She cried out and tried to crawl forward, nails scraping wood.

You didn’t let her.

You dragged her back—her tank riding up, shorts twisting, ponytail coming completely undone so her hair fanned across her shoulders like spilled ink.

She kicked—heel catching your wrist, nails raking your forearm, drawing blood.

You didn’t care.

You hauled her back into the bedroom doorway, kicked the door shut so hard the frame rattled. The lock clicked—loud, final.

She twisted onto her back, scrambling, trying to kick again. You caught both her ankles this time—crossed them, pinned them under one arm—and dragged her the rest of the way across the threshold.

She was crying now—real tears, angry and terrified, streaking her mascara into black rivers down her cheeks.

“Get off me—” she choked out. “You fucking psycho—get OFF—”

You dropped your weight on her hips, straddling her thighs, knees pinning her legs together. She bucked, trying to throw you off. You rode it out, leaned forward, grabbed her bound wrists and slammed them above her head again.

She screamed—thrashing under you like a trapped animal.

You pressed your forehead to hers—close enough that your noses touched, your bloodied lip brushing her cheek.

“You punched me,” you said quietly. “You lied—“

She spat in your face.

Blood and spit mixed on your cheek. You didn’t flinch.

You licked it off slowly—tasting copper and salt and her—then kissed her.

Hard.

Teeth clacking, tongue forcing its way past her lips. She bit you—hard enough to draw fresh blood—but you didn’t stop. You kissed her like you were trying to devour her, like you could crawl inside her ribcage and live there.

She stopped fighting for a second—stunned, frozen—then bit harder.

You pulled back, lip bleeding, smiling through it.

“You’re gonna regret that,” you said.

You released her wrists just long enough to rip her tank top down the front—fabric tearing loud in the quiet room. Her breasts spilled out—nipples hard from fear and adrenaline and the cold air. You palmed one roughly, thumb flicking the nipple while your other hand yanked her shorts and thong down her thighs in one violent tug.

She tried to buck again. Weak and exhausted. You barely had to lean your weight forward to hold her still.

“Stop squirming,” you said quietly. Your voice came out rougher than you meant—cracked from the adrenaline and the crying you’d done earlier.

She let out a muffled sound—half growl, half sob.

You reached down, hooked two fingers under the waistband of her thong at the small of her back, and pulled. The fabric stretched, then snapped to the side, baring her completely.

She flinched.

You spread her cheeks gently with both hands—slow, careful—exposing her pussy. She was swollen, lips puffy.

You lowered your head.

The first lick was tentative—just the flat of your tongue dragging from her clit all the way up to the tight pucker of her asshole. She jolted, thighs clenching, a choked noise escaping her.

You did it again—slower—tongue flat and broad, tasting her arousal, and the faint musk of her skin after the fight. She tasted like salt and heat and something faintly sweet underneath, like she’d been turned on even when she was terrified.

She tried to close her legs. You wedged your shoulders between her thighs, forcing them apart wider.

“Don’t,” you murmured against her. Your breath ghosted over her clit and she shivered hard.

You licked again—deeper this time—tongue pushing inside her pussy, scooping out the thick remnants of her juice. She moaned—low, involuntary—hips twitching up toward your mouth before she caught herself and tried to pull away.

You followed.

You sealed your lips around her clit, sucked gently, then harder when she gasped. Your tongue flicked fast little circles while your fingers spread her open wider, holding her still. She was dripping now—fresh wetness coating your chin, running down your neck, soaking into the collar of your shirt.

“Stop—” she gasped, voice muffled against the carpet. “Please—fuck—stop—”

You didn’t.

You pushed your tongue deeper, fucking her with it—slow, steady thrusts—while your thumb rubbed tight circles over her clit. She was shaking, thighs quivering, hips jerking in tiny helpless movements.

You pulled back just long enough to spit on her clit—wet and messy—then dove back in, sucking hard, tongue lashing.

She came suddenly—body locking up, a strangled cry ripping out of her throat as her pussy pulsed against your mouth. Fresh wetness flooded your tongue, hot and sweet. You kept licking—slow, gentle now—lapping up every drop while she shuddered and sobbed beneath you.

When her shaking finally slowed you pulled back, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and looked down at her.

Her face was turned to the side, cheek pressed to the carpet, tears streaking from the corner of her eye. Her lips were parted, breath coming in shallow pants. She looked wrecked—hair tangled, mascara smudged, thighs trembling.

You leaned down, kissed the back of her neck—soft, almost tender.

“You taste so fucking good,” you whispered. “I could do this all night.”

She made a small, broken sound—half sob, half moan.

You reached down, rubbed the head of your cock through her folds again—slow, teasing—spreading her wetness and your cum around her entrance.

She whimpered.

You pushed in—watching her face the whole time. She gasped, walls fluttering around you as you filled her again.

You started moving, letting her feel every inch.

She moaned—hips starting to rock back despite herself.

“Fuck—” she gasped.

You fucked her slow and deep—hands on her hips, pulling her back onto you with every thrust. She was loud now—moaning, gasping, cursing under her breath.

“Harder—” she whispered. “Please—”

You sped up—deeper, harder—until the bed frame was creaking again, headboard tapping the wall. She was pushing back to meet you, moaning your name like a prayer.

You reached down and rubbed her swollen clit with rough circles.

Manon’s eyes rolled back. “No, not there, fuck—”

You kept going, thrusting deep until you came inside her with a low groan, filling her until it leaked out around you.

You kept moving, thumb never leaving her clit. Her moans started to change, pain bleeding into something else, hips lifting to meet you despite the tears.

You could feel her getting close again, walls fluttering faster, and her breathing turning sharp and shallow.

“Come for me,” you whispered. “Even if you hate it.”

She came hard, pussy clamping down around you as she cried out. Ssoaking your thighs. You kept thrusting, slow and deep, drawing it out until she was sobbing, begging incoherently.

“Please—it’s too much, I can’t come again.”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, until she came again, harder this time, screaming into the carpet, walls pulsing so tight it almost hurt.

Only then did you let yourself go. You thrust deep and came inside her with a low groan, filling her with your thick spurts.

She clenched around you, coming again with a broken cry.

You collapsed on top of her, both of you gasping for air. Manon turned her face away, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

“You’re a fucking monster,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

You kissed her shoulder, soft and slow.

“That’s what everyone told me.”