🔥

He froze completely. Body tense. And muscles taught as he felt you hug his arm. Your body pressing against him so close, to tightly together it sent his senses on overdrive as his brain temporarily froze.

“Thanks so much for walking me home, Nero! See you tomorrow?”

“Y- yeah, sure. Whatever.”

He was scared of you in a way that he didn’t think was possible. He wasn’t dumb. He knew what was happening, he just didn’t think it would affect him like this. But that wouldn’t stop him. He was going to get around this crush he has on you and finally act normal! Even if it’s the last thing he does!

He would then be shot 57 times.

No matter what he did or how he prepared, you managed to sweep him off his feet without even trying.

It was your smile first. Soft, welcoming, like you were waiting for him to walk through the main doors of Devil May Cry. He was being a bit delusional, but a man could dream. It was your laugh next. He swore up, down, and sideways that you didn’t laugh like that for just anyone. That your laugh was specifically for him and that anyone else was just getting a pity laugh. There were plenty of other things too. Like how you shared your food with him, or when you always sat next to him be it being in the van or at a table or even on the couch. He tried his best to brush you off, make it seem like he didn’t mind, but most of the time his words would get caught in his throat and he would feel his cheeks, neck, and ears get dangerously hot.

And it all came to a head when you sat him down in the infirmary and started laid an icepack on his left arm.

“My wound already healed, you know. I don’t even feel the pain anymore.”

He tried his best to brush you off. To shrug off the feeling of red hot embarrassment by how close you were sitting to him. Was there still a dull ache in his arm? Yeah there was, but did he want to admit that to you? Hell no.

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say.”

Slowly he could feel the ice help, the ache disappearing almost completely as he felt himself slump a little in the chair. Then you brought the ice pack away and ran your fingers along his bicep.

“W- what are you doing?”

“Nothing,” you said with a little grin as you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his bicep, “and there. All better! My mom always told me that kissing a wound makes it heal faster. Even if you already heal fast enough.”

When you looked up at him, you noticed that he wasn’t saying anything.

“Nero?”

You placed a hand on his shoulder, only for him to fall forward onto you, making you panic.

“Nero?!”

You mess up and keep on getting fired from jobs that dont require a high school diploma. You can't even land a 9 to 5 job since you never went to college.

Even worse ... you can't even make it as a demon hunter. Cause the moment you heard some demon sob story, you are crying big, fat bubbly tears while being thrown into the nearest brick wall a second later. With the demon escaping soon after and the job being marked as incomplete or as a failure.

So, you resorted to the one thing you could do. And that was selling your organs on the black market. But it wasn't just organs. You would grow out your hair and chop it all off every few months or so. Once you even knocked out a couple of your back teeth to give to some woman in need of clean, good replacements.

And over time, you've already got cut open a few times and sold some organs you really didn’t need.

The first thing to go was your appendix. You dont know who it went to, and at the time, you didn't care. All you wanted to know was the amount you were getting. Your appendix ended up helping you get your first apartment.

Your dad and mom dying and passing their large debt they got from these loan sharks that suspiciously reminded you of the russian mafia? Easy fix. All you had to do was sell your gallbladder and spleen. You dont know what happened to your gallbladder, of course, but you do know that your spleen is currently sitting behind some serial killer's book shelf in a display case.

One time, you remember getting kidnapped and threatened. During your capture, you learned the man's daughter was deathly sick in the hospital and needed a new lung. You offered one of yours. He let you go after that. Now, you didn't get paid for said lung, but meh. You were alive. That's all that mattered. Even if you were down a lung.

When you needed money set in installments, you had decided to get large sections of your intestines removed. You admit that this was the worst one because it required you to be continuously opened up and stitched back together multiple times until they got done taking what they could. The installments were worth it, though, and took away a lot of debt (it wasn't your debt, but someone had put your name down, which made you financially responsible...).

What followed after was your reproductive organs, a kidney, your stomach (through intensive surgery, your esophagus was connected directly to the small intestine. It required dietary adjustments...), tonsils, and even three fingers and a toe, along with some

muscle.

All in all, you weren't even half the person you used to be. Physically, at least.

And when you ran out of organs to sell, you found yourself right back into demon hunting, but not before Dante found out about your ... earnings.

"Uhh... Lady... what is he doing on the black market website?"

"Tracking down your organs."

She said it so simply that it floored you for a moment.

You've been friends with Dante for a large portion of your life and due to your stubbornness and unwillingness to saddle him with your money problems (as he had his own money problems to deal with), you continually refused to work for Devil May Cry so he wouldn't have a reason to pay you or take care of you.

"Wha- how does he know about that?! How do you know about that?!"

Lady picked at her nails, completely unbothered by the question, "when you were getting patched up from the last mission, we overheard the nurse ask you where your other lung went to which you said you sold it. The other scars on your body made more sense after that. How each cut looked so clean. We all wondered how you could possibly be fighting against to make such clean cuts. Nero even suggested you got them from Vergil... only for Vergil to say he never met you before."

"So Dante is..."

"Trying to get your organs back."

"You do realize how impossible that is, right?"

Lady looked at you for a moment before jutting her thumb over to a box. Gulping, you walked over to it and opened the top of it.

Inside it of the box was a glass case with a clear liquid sloshing inside of it, and the liquid was carefully preserving something. Taking out the glass case, you set it on the table top surface and blinked a few times.

Your spleen.

"How-?"

"Dante kicked that serial killer's ass quite easily."

Ah...

You looked over at Dante, who was scribbling down his fourth address. You honestly didn't understand what the big deal was, and you couldn't fathom why Dante even cared.

"Dante," you finally said, "its just a few organs, you really shouldn't-"

He looked up at then, his eyes were ... unreadable. His expression foreign. It made you zip your mouth shut so you wouldn't say anything else. And he turned his attention back to the computer and jotted down another address.

"You're going to be whole again by the end of the night. Just you watch," he finally said.

You watch as your bones are pulled from you, one after another, stripped clean and fed into the grinding stone. The sound is unbearable, not the sharp crack of breaking bone, but the slow, relentless crunch as something that once held you upright is crushed into pale powder. Flour made from your skeleton. Then comes your blood. What spills from you is not wasted, it is collected in bowls and basins, stirred together with the powder of your own bones until it forms a thick, sticky paste. Red and white become pink, your flesh and skeleton become dough. The transformation is nauseatingly domestic. The motions are familiar, almost comforting in another context; hands kneading, folding, shaping. The sort of thing you might have seen in a kitchen countless times before.

And somehow, impossibly, you are forced to sit as witness to it all. An audience to your own post-mortem fate before death has even had the decency to claim you.

Perhaps, under different circumstances, you would have laughed. If this were a novel assigned in one of your literature classes, or an obscure poem buried in a curriculum no one actually cared about, you might have appreciated the irony. You would have pointed out how the line between human and animal was often thinner than people liked to admit. How old cookbooks, medical texts, and household records rarely treated the human body as something entirely separate from the natural world around it. You remember learning that in early England, blood, bone, urine, even human flesh found their way into remedies and recipes. Human remains were ingredients. Medicines and commodities. Something that could be consumed and traded. Back then, the thought had seemed absurd. Grotesque, certainly, but distant enough to be fascinating. Now there is nothing fascinating about it. Not when hands reach for your head with the same casual certainty a baker might reserve for a lump of dough. Not when you realize, with mounting dread, that they are going to make a pastry from your own head.

The last thing you ever see is the Joker’s gloved hands reaching toward you through the dim, flickering warehouse light, the certainty arriving all at once and without mercy that he will not arrive in time, that the distance between rescue and failure has already closed and locked itself shut, and that your life is ending not as a possibility but as an inevitability already in motion, consumed and taken before the thought of escape can even fully form. Hours later, the same man who lives so sharply in your final thought steps into that same warehouse, Red Robin moving through the silence with controlled urgency until he comes face to face with the figure responsible, the Joker standing there plainly.

"Where are they?" Tim demanded, his voice cutting through the cavernous warehouse with a sharpness that echoed off rusted beams and stained concrete walls. Every muscle in his body was wound tight beneath the uniform, every second stretching thinner than the last as his eyes swept across the room in search of some sign of you. He searched for movement, for anything that might indicate where the Joker had hidden you, but the building offered him nothing. The vast space was almost empty, stripped bare of anything useful, leaving only the clown himself standing beneath the harsh industrial lights and a long metal table positioned directly in front of him. Resting atop it was a large object concealed beneath a spotless white sheet.

The Joker's response came in the form of laughter. It burst from him suddenly, loud and grating, filling the warehouse until it seemed to crawl into every corner of the room. He doubled over slightly as though overcome by amusement, one gloved hand pressed dramatically against his chest while the other gestured aimlessly through the air. The sound was familiar enough to make Tim's stomach twist.

"Oh, don't be so serious!" he cackled, eventually straightening and wiping at an imaginary tear beneath one eye. "You'll see 'em in time."

His fingers moved to the bright purple bow-tie sitting crookedly against his collar, adjusting it with exaggerated care. The white gloves flashed beneath the warehouse lights as he fussed over the knot, appearing almost absurdly pristine compared to the grime surrounding him. Then the Joker's grin widened.

"In fact," he said, lifting a single finger as though struck by a brilliant idea, "you can see them right now." He seized the edge of the sheet and pulled. The fabric slipped away in one dramatic flourish, floating briefly through the air before collapsing onto the floor at his feet. Beneath it sat a pie. For a moment, Tim simply stared, steam rose from the pastry in thin twisting ribbons, carrying the scent of warm butter and spices into the room. The crust had been baked to a flawless golden-brown, every inch of it looked carefully prepared, delicate latticework crossed the top in neat overlapping strips, each one woven together with meticulous precision. It looked freshly made, the surface still glistening with an egg wash that caught the overhead lights. It was the sort of pie that belonged cooling on a kitchen counter or sitting in the display case of a bakery, not resting on a metal table in the middle of an abandoned warehouse while the Joker stood beside it grinning like the maniac he is.

Tim's eyes narrowed behind his mask. By all appearances it was completely ordinary, and that was precisely what made it suspicious. It was most likely drugged in some way or form, or poisoned. The clown circled the table slowly, dragging his fingertips along the edge of the pie tin as though admiring the craftsmanship of his own work. There was a strange tenderness in the gesture, an affection that made Tim's skin crawl. "You know," he began conversationally, "people don't appreciate baking anymore. It's a dying art. Everybody wants the big stuff these days. Giant plants, death rays, toxins. Nobody appreciates the dedication that goes into making something with your own two hands."

Tim remained silent. The smell continued to drift through the warehouse. Everything about it felt wrong. The Joker stopped beside the table and placed both palms flat against the metal surface, leaning forward slightly as his grin stretched wider and wider until it seemed almost painful. There was excitement shining in his eyes now, a barely contained anticipation that immediately sent alarm bells ringing through Tim's head.

"You eat this pie, Boy Wonder," the Joker said, his voice dropping into something almost gentle, "and I'll tell you exactly where your lover is."

Tim's gaze shifted from the Joker to the pie and back again, studying both with growing unease. He had spent years dealing with Gotham's worst criminals. He knew how the Joker operated. He understood threats, riddles and traps. Yet none of those instincts were helping him now because the Joker wasn't acting the way he normally did. And as Tim stared at the steaming pie resting between them, a terrible feeling began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. The Joker had gone to far too much effort for this to be meaningless.

He had to consider it, despite every instinct in his body warning him not to. The pie sat on the table beneath the warehouse lights, steam still curling from the lattice crust. It looked absurdly normal. Too normal. The Joker had your last known location, and every trail Tim had managed to uncover ended here, in this rotting warehouse with its rusted beams and stained concrete floors. If you were alive, you were close. If you were dead, the answer was here. The pie would almost certainly be contaminated with something, a toxin, a hallucinogen, some grotesque chemical experiment hidden beneath the pastry, but Tim had already dosed himself with a temporary antidote before entering the building, a cocktail designed to counter most known poisons and keep his body functioning long enough to finish the mission. It was not a guarantee, Gotham had taught him that guarantees did not exist. The antidote might fail and the pie might kill him. But refusing it might mean never finding you. The only certainty was that he could not walk away.

He had spent days tearing through Gotham searching for you, throwing himself into the work with a desperation he refused to name because stopping long enough to think meant confronting the guilt that had been gnawing at him since the moment you disappeared. Every lead that went cold left him imagining a hundred ways he could have prevented this. If he had paid more attention, if he had answered sooner, if he had insisted you stay with him instead of letting you leave. The thoughts circled endlessly, starving for acknowledgement, but he shoved them down with the same ruthless discipline he used on every mission. Regret could wait. Self-hatred could wait. Finding you came first. Slowly, Tim stepped toward the table, his staff remained collapsed in one hand while the other reached for the waiting slice. The plate felt warm beneath his fingers, and the scent rising from it was rich and inviting in a way that made his stomach twist. The Joker watched him with a smile that was maniac, and that expression unsettled Tim more than any threat could have.

He forced himself to move before doubt could take hold. The pie sat between them, still warm beneath the warehouse lights, steam curling from the lattice crust in delicate wisps that carried the scent of butter and spices through the stale air. Everything about it felt wrong. Not because of anything he could immediately identify, but because it existed at all. The Joker was many things, but subtle was rarely one of them, and yet here sat a perfectly baked pie in the middle of an abandoned warehouse as though it belonged there. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. Tim's jaw tightened. Whatever game the clown was playing, he was running out of time to solve it, and if there was even the slightest chance this would lead him to you, then he would see it through. His fingers closed around the fork waiting neatly beside the plate. The utensil felt strangely ordinary in his hand, its polished metal catching the light as he lowered it into the pie. The crust cracked beneath the pressure with a soft crunch before giving way entirely, revealing the filling beneath. Fresh steam escaped immediately, carrying a richer scent than before. It smelled savoury and warm, layered with herbs and spices that blended together so seamlessly he struggled to distinguish them individually. There was no sharp chemical tang hidden beneath it, no warning hidden in the aroma. If anything, it smelled good.

That alone unsettled him. Slowly, he lifted the fork toward his mouth. The filling settled onto his tongue, and despite himself, his attention immediately shifted toward analysing it. Years of training had conditioned him to catalogue details instinctively, to observe and evaluate everything around him whether he wanted to or not. The texture was the first thing he noticed. It was soft but substantial, tender enough to break apart easily beneath his teeth without becoming mushy. It reminded him vaguely of beef, though the comparison never quite fit. There was something different about it, something he couldn't immediately identify. The flavour itself was surprisingly mild, lacking the stronger characteristics he expected from most red meats. There was no gaminess to it, none of the lingering heaviness that usually accompanied richer cuts. Instead there was a subtle sweetness buried beneath the savoury notes, faint enough to remain pleasant while still noticeable enough to catch his attention.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he chewed. There was another quality present as well, one he struggled to place. A faint nuttiness lingered in both the scent and flavour, delicate enough that he might have overlooked it under different circumstances. It sat at the edge of perception, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. By itself it meant nothing, plenty of ingredients could create similar notes. Yet his mind continued returning to it regardless, turning the sensation over as he swallowed. Tim waited for the telltale signs he had spent years learning to recognize, but they never arrived. The flavour lingered briefly before fading. His pulse remained steady and his vision remained clear. Whatever else this pie might be, it did not appear to be laced with any obvious toxin.

Across the table, the Joker watched. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of old warehouse lights overhead. Tim became acutely aware of the man's gaze fixed upon him, following every movement with unnerving intensity. It was impossible not to notice. Refusing to acknowledge the growing discomfort in his chest, he cut off another piece and brought it to his mouth. The crust shattered delicately beneath the fork, the filling remained warm, rich, and perfectly cooked. Every bite confirmed the same unsettling conclusion: whoever had made this knew exactly what they were doing.

The Joker's grin widened. Tim tried to ignore it and tried to focus on you instead. Yet with every swallow, with every passing second spent standing in that warehouse while the Joker watched him eat, the feeling of unease continued to grow, curling tighter around his ribs until it became impossible to separate from the taste lingering at the back of his throat. Something about this was wrong. "You wanna know a secret?" he asked, his voice dropping into something conversational and intimate. Tim paused and the Joker leaned forward slightly, eyes glittering beneath the harsh lights. "They've been here the entire time," he said, drawing out the words with obvious delight. Then his grin widened. "Right there in that little pie."

The sentence landed without meaning at first. Tim heard it. He understood the individual words and yet his mind refused to assemble them into anything coherent. The warehouse seemed to grow strangely distant, as though the world had shifted several feet away from him. The slice remained in his hand, warm and solid and real. Then understanding arrived, not all at once but in a series of horrifying connections. The smell and the careful preparation. The Joker's excitement, the way he had insisted Tim eat, the way he had spoken about craftsmanship. A cold, nauseating dread opened inside his chest as the pieces locked together.

He looked down at the pie. The golden crust was unchanged. The dark filling sat beneath it exactly as before but nothing about it was ordinary anymore. Every detail became unbearable, the warmth against his fingers felt wrong, the scent turned sickening, the thought that this really had been your last known location. His mind replayed the taste he had already swallowed, now stripped of ignorance and recast in something monstrous. The realization hit with crushing certainty, and the world seemed to tilt beneath him. He had been eating you. The fork slipped from his hand and struck the concrete with a metallic clatter that echoed through the warehouse, but Tim barely heard it. His throat tightened until it hurt to breathe. His stomach lurched violently, and every instinct in his body screamed to reject what he had consumed, yet he remained frozen, staring at the slice as if it might somehow transform into something else if he looked long enough. Across from him, the Joker's laughter began quietly, almost tenderly, before building into uncontrollable hysteria. He doubled over, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he pointed at Tim with trembling fingers.

"There it is," he wheezed through the laughter. "That's the face I was waiting for. All that training and you never once asked what was in the pie."

The sound filled the warehouse, bouncing off the metal walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. Tim could not answer. The silence where your voice should have been felt suddenly enormous, a void stretching through the room and through him. In that awful stillness he understood the final cruelty of it: the Joker had never brought him here to rescue you. The entire performance, from the covered table to the warm pastry to the bargain he had offered, existed for a single purpose. The punchline had always been Tim's realization. Your life had already been consumed long before he ever managed to lift the pie to his mouth.

The laughter stopped. Not completely, not forever, but long enough for the interruption to become noticeable. The Joker's grin remained fixed in place, stretched across his pale face like a wound, yet genuine surprise flickered behind it as Tim reached for the fork again. For the first time since revealing the truth, the clown appeared momentarily uncertain of what he was seeing. He had expected anger and had expected denial. He had expected the young hero to throw the plate across the room or collapse beneath the weight of the realization, maybe even attack the clown himself. Instead, Tim's shaking hand closed around the utensil and drove it back into the pie with desperate determination, carving through the ruined crust and lifting another mouthful toward his lips before his mind could catch up with what he was doing.

His thoughts had become fragmented, scattered beneath a crushing tide of grief and horror that refused to settle into anything coherent, images forced themselves into his mind whether he wanted them there or not. He imagined cold metal tables illuminated by sterile lights. He imagined butchers' hooks and cutting boards and the mechanical indifference of processing flesh. He imagined you reduced from a living, breathing person into something measurable, something that could fit inside a tin dish and disappear beneath a woven lattice crust. Every instinct in him recoiled from the thought, every rational part of his mind screaming at him to stop, yet none of those instincts were stronger than the overwhelming certainty that after days of searching, after every sleepless night spent tearing Gotham apart piece by piece, this was all he had left of you. He moved with frantic, broken urgency, forcing the meat into his mouth in rapid, unthinking motions as if desperation alone could make this real in a way that didn’t destroy him, as if by swallowing he could undo distance, loss, and time itself, returning you, impossibly, horribly, to the only place his mind could still frame as safe, locked away inside the hollow, trembling certainty of his own body.

The bite disappeared into his mouth. He barely tasted it this time. The warmth remained, the texture remained. Yet the flavour itself had become irrelevant beneath the knowledge attached to it. Somewhere deep inside himself, buried beneath the shock and nausea and grief, a desperate, irrational part of him clung to the fact that he had finally found you, not alive, not safe, and not waiting to be rescued but found nonetheless. The search was over, the uncertainty was over. The horrible possibility that you were still out there suffering somewhere beyond his reach was over.

The Joker's silence shattered beneath another burst of laughter, louder than before and infinitely more delighted. The sound rolled through the warehouse in waves, echoing from rusted walls and steel rafters until it seemed to come from every direction at once. It became part of the atmosphere itself, an omnipresent noise that filled every corner of the room, yet Tim barely registered it. The world had narrowed to the pie sitting before him and the unbearable reality it represented. His staff slipped from his fingers and struck the concrete floor with a sharp crack, bouncing once before rolling away into the darkness, but he paid it no attention. The weapon that had accompanied him through countless battles suddenly felt meaningless compared to the object sitting on the table.

Tears had begun falling without his permission. They slipped down his face in silent streams, blurring his vision until the edges of the warehouse dissolved into indistinct shapes and shadows. He could feel them gathering at his jaw before dropping onto the table, onto his gloves, onto the remains of the pie itself. His chest ached with every breath, each inhale feeling too shallow, each exhale catching painfully in his throat, but the physical discomfort barely registered beneath the crushing pressure building inside him. At some point the fork ceased to matter. It remained abandoned somewhere on the table as Tim's hands moved forward instead, fingers digging into the shattered remains of the pastry with frantic desperation. The carefully woven crust collapsed beneath his touch. Flakes scattered across the metal surface. Filling stained his gloves. The pie that the Joker had presented so proudly only minutes earlier was reduced to a ruined mess beneath his hands, yet he continued gathering pieces of it, bringing them to his mouth with a determination that bordered on self-destruction. It was not hunger driving him. Now, as you had once been brought into him through sex, you would be taken into him again, but in a form stripped of warmth or tenderness, reduced instead to something consumed and swallowed.

You had occupied every corner of his life long before this. You had existed in his routines, in his thoughts, and in the spaces he made for you without realizing he was making them. You had become woven into the fabric of his existence so thoroughly that imagining a future without you felt impossible. Now that connection had been twisted into something grotesque and horrifying, transformed into a joke crafted entirely for the amusement of a madman, yet even then Tim found himself clinging to it. And somewhere beneath the crushing horror of what had been done to you, beneath the revulsion and the heartbreak and the unbearable weight of loss, there existed a small, desperate part of him that refused to leave anything behind. If this was all that remained, if this was truly the only piece of you the Joker had allowed to survive, then he would not abandon it. He would not turn away from it and he would not leave you alone in this warehouse.

You run your hands through his hair, messing it up a little as you lean it to kiss his forehead, eyes and cheeks. He gets all red until the ears because of that and giggles, waiting for your explanation. 

“I’m asking you if you’d let me eat you out,” you tell him without stuttering. 

Tim freezes for a second, he glances away biting his lip, trying to figure out if he heard you right. He lets out a little nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You… you don’t have to,” he says, clearly nervous. “I mean, if you’re just being nice or whatever.”

You shake your head, resting your arms on his shoulders. “Tim, I’m not just saying it. I really want to.” You reach up and cup his face gently, turning him back toward you so he can see how serious you are. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot more than you think.”

He still looks a little unsure, shy awkwardness making him even cuter. His hands fidget with the hem of his shirt. “You don’t have to force yourself or anything. I’m fine if we do other stuff.”

You smile wider and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth, then trail your lips down to his jaw. “I’m not forcing anything. I love making you feel good. Please? Let me show you how much I want it.”

Tim swallows hard, his breath catching. You can see the exact moment he believes you, because his shoulders relax a little and his eyes get his soft and needy look. “Okay,” he whispers, voice shaky. “Yeah... if you really want to.”

You don’t waste time, you guide him back against the pillows, kissing him slow and deep while your hands slide under his waistband. He lifts his hips to help you pull his pants and underwear down, and you settle between his legs, pressing soft kisses along his inner thighs. He’s already wet, and the sight makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“You’re so handsome like this,” you whisper against his skin, looking up at him. His face is flushed, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s still a little embarrassed. You gently move his arm away. “Look at me,” you say softly, glancing up. “I want you watching while I do this.”

He meets your eyes, flushed and breathing fast. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” you murmur, pressing a kiss right above his clit. “I can’t wait anymore. You smell so good already.”

Then you lean in and drag your tongue flat up his folds in one long stroke. Tim gasps sharply, hips twitching. “Oh shit! That feels…”

You hum happily against him, the taste warm and sweet and so him. “Mmm, you taste even better than I imagined. So fucking sweet.” You lick again, slower this time, circling his clit with the tip of your tongue. “Tell me how it feels, baby. I want to hear you.”

He moans low, fingers threading into your hair. “I-It’s... intense. Your tongue is so hah warm. Don’t stop, please.”

“I won’t,” you say between licks, sucking gently on his clit before pulling back just enough to talk. “I could stay here for hours.” You press your tongue inside him, fucking him with it slow and deep and he arches with a broken sound.

“F-Fuck, yes! There r-right there, baby!” he pants, thighs starting to tremble around your head.

You dive back in, licking and sucking with more pressure, moaning against him so he feels the vibrations. You’re getting wetter and wetter every time, you really want to get up and press your pussies together so you could fuck him crazy, but you stop yourself because baby steps. You keep going, faster, hungrier, telling him between breaths how much you love it, how you could do this forever. His fingers tighten in your hair, body tensing as he gets close.

“I'm... I’m gonna…” he gasps, voice cracking.

“Come for me,” you urge, sucking his clit hard while your tongue flicks fast. “Let me taste it all.”

He cries out your name as he comes, thighs clamping around your head, hips jerking while you keep licking him through every wave. You don’t stop until he’s shaking and whimpering softly, oversensitive but still grinding weakly against you.

Finally you crawl up his body, kissing his stomach, his chest, his scars and his lips so he can taste himself on you. Tim pulls you tight against him, breathing hard, face buried in your neck. “You’re too good at this shit.”

You laugh, the sound vibrating between your bodies. “Did it feel good?”

Tim breathes out, huffing a laugh and nods. “Yeah, really fucking good. We can definitely repeat this.”

You kiss his cheek with a giggle and lift your head so you can look him in the eyes. “Want to have a bath together?”

“Ohhh, yes please! I’m so sweaty right now and it’s your fault.”

a/n: it's been a long time since i don't write for tim omg!!