onyanjune

[onyanjune]

GLITTER & GOLD

pairing. yandere!dragon x gn!reader

synopsis. the expectations on you were high, to tame the father of dragons is no easy feat however you are bonded to him the moment you were born. enrolled into the obsidian academy, you're the honor student... except you keep failing one class, all because of your stubborn dragon.

content warnings. yandere tendencies, fantasy academy setting (not minors, think of university), obsessive behaviours, age-gap (he's a dragon.), enemies to lovers, angst, top student x deliquent concept, blood, gore, hurt/comfort.

word count. 4.6k

you were meant to be something greater, until him. they used to call you ‘blessed by the grove.’

you remembered the way the elderroots used to move for you before you even reached out. how the winds shifted when you breathed, how the water would curl around your fingers like it was waiting for your command. 

you never struggled — not like the others who labored for hours to coax a seedling into bloom. nature listened to you before you even spoke.

and your family held pride in that. an ancient druidic line, revered by the council, guardians of balance and law. you were their brightest, their future, their prodigy.

so when your name was chosen for the obsidian academy, there were no tears, only applause. you didn’t disappoint them, not at first.

obsidian academy was the crown jewel of the continent; half carved into the mountains, half built into the clouds. the best of the best were sent there. druids, mages, shamans, elementalists. you arrived in your green robes, marked by sacred ink, and within a week, everyone knew who you were.

the prodigy.

the whisper in the halls. they said you were destined to ascend to high druid before you even turned twenty-five.

you mastered beast-speech by your third week, wove sunlight into living armour by your second month. you were the youngest to ever summon a forest guardian without channeling through a stone. everything you touched bent to your will.

until him. until lennox.

you met him during dragon communion — an elite elective offered only to the most advanced. you weren’t even supposed to be eligible, but they made an exception for you. of course they did. you’d never fail a trial.

they didn’t warn you that the father of dragons had been summoned for the bonding ceremony.

no one expected him to show up at all. the father was ancient, untamable, above the rest. he wasn’t a student — he wasn’t even mortal in the way the rest of you were. but he appeared at the communion with fiery scales, golden eyes that saw too much, and a smile that could have been mistaken for kindness if you didn’t notice the way he enjoyed everyone trembling in his wake.

he shifted into his humanoid form and stood before you when the bonds were casted. the entire room held its breath but you knew immediately; he was yours, given by the gods. but then he laughed, mocked the bond, sneered at the gods and he refused you. openly, publicly. 

the prodigy and the dragon, a broken bond before it even began. and that was the beginning of the unraveling.

he was everything you weren’t. 

disobedient, wild, arrogant, untouchable. and somehow, impossibly, he matched you in every trial. you both aced fire-weaving, he beat you in skybinding. you broke even in battle casting. the professors were thrilled, but the whispers shifted.

“he’s testing them.”

“why haven’t they tamed him yet?”

“maybe they’re not as gifted as we thought.”

your family wrote letters. they started polite, encouraging. then came the warnings; “remember who you are.” “you are not meant to fail.” “do not embarrass the line.”

you tried. gods, you really did try. but lennox would never submit.

he called you leaf-blooded when he was irritated, sun-child when he was teasing, and little druid when he was angry. he met you in every class with that lazy grin and that spark in his eyes that promised he’d make it just hard enough to bruise your pride.

but he never left your side.

he always picked you first for pair trials, always found you when it stormed, always hovered when the teachers pushed too hard, always watched you when you bled. enemies, but never strangers.

there were moments, quiet ones, when stopped being cruel.

like when he pressed his forehead to yours after you collapsed during ether channeling, grounding your breath with his. or when he took a lightning strike for you during the summoning games and shrugged it off like it meant nothing.

still, no one cared about your moments. they cared that you couldn’t tame him. they cared that the bond stayed wild. they cared that you, the druid blessed by the grove, couldn’t bend fate to your will.

your professors pulled you aside, your classmates whispered louder, your family stopped writing. “you’re slipping,” they said. “tame him, or step aside.” “he’s mocking us all through you.” and you started to believe them.

but then there were the nights. when he would find you outside the dormitories, sitting beneath the night-blooming trees you’d once coaxed into life. when he’d sit beside you in silence, like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. when he’d say, so quietly you almost missed it. “i didn’t refuse you because i hate you. druid.”

“then why?” you’d whisper back.

“because you were born to bind things. and i was born to break them.”

you never knew what to say to that. you still don’t. but every day, you feel the bond thrumming louder. it doesn’t fade nor does it wither. it waits. and gods help you, you’re starting to wait for him too.

at least that was before the argument.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

the call came while he was sleeping.

buried deep beneath the roots of the sleeping forest, where even the wind didn’t dare to breathe too loud, lennox stirred.

at first, it was faint. a vibration in the marrow of his bones, a soft tug behind the ribs. but then it tightened — pulling, insistent, not loud but certain. like fate had reached into the hollows of his chest and begun to tug.

and that could only mean one thing. a bond.

his jaw tightened. the moss beneath him curled and shriveled from the sudden spike in heat rolling off his skin. the forest, his only sanctuary, woke with unease. he opened his eyes, golden and glowing in the dark. 

someone had been born for him, and he hated that.

the obsidian academy is exactly as arrogant as he remembers. clean-cut spires, glimmering runes, students walking in pre-determined patterns, pretending they’re free. the place reeks of purpose. of law.

no one sees him arrive. one moment, they were preparing for the annual dragon communion, all their ceremonial candles and pompous rites in place. the next — he was there, no portal, no flames. just a sudden, bone-deep stillness as every dragon and druid in the ring froze.

some fell to one knee instinctively. others backed away. but you, you didn’t flinch. 

you stood dead center, spine straight, wrapped in a druid’s green, your hands relaxed at your sides like you weren’t even remotely afraid. you looked at him like you’d been waiting.

and that’s when it happened. his heart, cold and ancient and flame-hardened, thumped. hard. then again, and again. and his first thought wasn’t confusion or fear. it was anger, not at you, but at fate.

because he knew in that instant that he could love you. that he would love you. that you had been carved from something too rare, too right to be for anyone but him. and the bond confirmed.

but love tied to a chain? that he would not accept. he refuses it, out loud, without hesitation. the word rolls off his tongue like venom. “not interested,” he says, smirking, voice lazy. the murmurs began instantly. a fated bond, rejected? in public?

he could feel your gaze on his back, sharp as steel, burning into him. he didn’t look back because if he did, he’d fall.

the next few weeks became something of a ritual. you avoided him, or tried to. but he always found you. 

dragon theory? he sat behind you, close enough to breathe down your neck if he wanted to. skybinding? you were paired together — he requested it; he never said it out loud, just walked up and stood next to you until the instructor gave up.

battle casting? he taunted you, blocked your strikes too easily, laughed when you got frustrated. he even let you trip him once, just to see the look of triumph in your eyes.

you were irritated, furious, righteous.

and every time your voice rose, every time your magic flared, his heart pounded louder in his chest. not because of the bond, but because of you. because your fire was real. because the bond wasn’t a leash — it was a mirror, and for the first time in centuries, lennox saw someone who might actually survive him.

maybe even break him.

he started calling you names, soft at first, teasing. “leaf-blood.”, “sun-child”, “little druid.”

you snapped at him once, told him to get over himself. stormed off with twigs tangled in your hair and fury glowing in your eyes. he couldn’t stop smiling for hours.

he didn’t need to follow you at night. but he did.

he perched on the edge of the upper towers when you went to the greenhouse, watching you whisper to the plants in the old language. he shadowed your path when you walked the southern woods, careful to never step too loud. he listened when you cried, he memorised the names of everyone you spoke to. he marked every person who made you flinch.

especially the ones who spoke down to you.

and when word started spreading, when the instructors started whispering that you couldn’t tame him, that the ‘prodigy’ was slipping, he watched you break quietly beneath it.

you didn’t tell anyone.

but he saw it. in the way you hunched your shoulders when you passed your professors. in how you started shrinking in every room he walked into.

he wanted to kill every last one of them for making you feel small. but you didn’t want saving. not yet, so he waited.

until the boy at the southern field opened his mouth.

it was nothing at first.

a simple training exercise. you and that beast-handler apprentice sparring with summoned familiars. harmless, controlled. he was watching from a hill above, claws sunk into the dirt to keep himself still.

then the boy said it. “you should just let someone else handle him. you were never meant for a dragon anyway.” 

and you flinched, not in anger. in hurt. and lennox saw red that day.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

you swore like you popped a blood vessel. lennox had just burned the southern training fields. 

you had just finished a brutal day of combat trials; sore, scuffed, and covered in dried blood that isn’t entirely yours. and lennox had decided to add salt to the wound by not helping — he watched and burned the training fields instead.

you passed the trial, barely.

the mentors had stopped giving out expectations for you, they say they understand that bonding with a powerful dragon such as lennox takes time, but they began doubting your capabilities, and it hurts.

your mentor specifically shook her head at the scene in front of her. “you were more competent when it was just you.” a direct blow to you, aimed at your bond.

you find him waiting outside, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he hasn’t failed to destroy everything you’ve built. like he isn’t pretending the bond doesn’t mean anything.

and something inside you finally breaks.

“you could’ve helped me,” you say, voice quiet but seething. lennox only lifts an eyebrow. “you passed, didn’t you?”

you laugh once, sharp and bitter. “is that your standard now? ‘barely survive and move on’?” he shrugs at your words. “you want me to hold your hand during combat trials? come on, druid, you’re better than that.” there was that infuriating nickname he gives you, just to annoy you.

“don’t do that.”

your voice cuts in sharper now. “don’t talk to me like i’m just some weak student begging for your approval. i’ve carried this bond. i’ve defended it. i’ve defended you.”

he looks away, jaw tightening. but he still says nothing. that silence feels worse than the thousand insults he would use to give you.

“gods, lennox. i’m exhausted.” you huffed out, tired and frustrated with him. “i’ve been failing this class, my body is wrecked, the instructors whisper every time i walk into the room because the ‘father of dragons’ still refuses to act like a bounded mount.”

his eyes flash gold at your statement. “i’m not a mount.” 

“i know that!” you finally yelled. “i never treated you like one. i never wanted to own you. but i can’t keep standing here alone while you hide behind your pride like it’s some kind of shield.”

he steps forward, voice low, claws now balled into fists. “you think i’m hiding? you think i’m doing this to hurt you?” you didn’t back down however.

“no, i think you’re scared. i think you’ve spent so long being untouchable that the idea of someone actually needing you makes you want to tear your own skin off.” you spat out. he flinches — ever so slightly you almost missed it.

“you think i want this bond?” he scoffed. “you think i chose you?”

you stare at him like you don’t recognise him anymore. that one hurts, deeply. and he knows it. but you inhale and you don’t break.

“no,” you whispered. “but i did.”

he opens his mouth, but you stopped him.

“i chose you. i fought for this bond. i defended you when the council wanted to reassign me. i stood between you and every person who said you were too arrogant to be worth riding. and what do i get for it?” 

your voice wavers now, fury giving way to heartache. “you treat me like i’m the enemy.” your fists clench. “stop making it seem like i’m manipulating you when all i’ve done is to care for you.”

silence. it’s deafening.

lennox doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. he just watches you with that same unreadable look that’s been driving you mad for months. you shake your head slowly, tears hot and unwelcome behind your eyes.

“i can’t do this anymore if you’re not willing to meet me halfway.” you walk past him, and he doesn’t stop you.

you passed a group of students who immediately turned away, whispering. one of them didn’t bother to lower her voice. 

“if the gods gave me a dragon, i’d know what to do with him.”

you kept walking and you swore that each step was heavier than the last.

you didn’t plan to go into kyrena woods, but your legs moved before your brain could stop them. you just needed to get away. from the academy, from the whispers, from him. and from the sickening echo in your chest that told you he’d heard everything — and didn’t care.

kyrena woods was forbidden for trainees. thick with unnatural fog, sharp-barked trees, and creatures that fed on broken magic. you didn’t care however. branches whipped your face, leaves curled at your steps like they knew you didn’t belong.

you walked for what felt like hours until you collapsed near a stream. your hands trembled. you had given everything. discipline, focus, time, pain, and still.. still they blamed you. all because your dragon wasn’t a weapon. he was a person, and a complex one at that.

maybe the bond was a mistake.

you were still thinking that when you heard the first branch snap. it came from the trees; massive, shifting wrong in the way nightmare logic does. too many limbs, eyes like drowned moons — a glimmerbeast, they called it. it fed on shame, on guilt, on magical exhaustion, and you were the perfect prey.

you stood, cast your first spell. it failed.

the second one worked, but barely — roots tangling one of its limbs. it roared, lashed out, and its claws slammed across your ribs, slicing through fabric and skin like paper. you flew backward, hit the tree hard enough to drop your breath in one horrible sound.

pain.

you tried to stand, one leg crumpled under you. the monster stalked forward as you whispered a protective charm. it sparked only to fizzle, you were too drained.

you realised then, that you might die here. not in battle, not as a hero. just as a failed student, a disappointment, a forgotten name on a marble wall.

and then you screamed. not for help, definitely not for lennox. you screamed because of the pain, the hopelessness, the rage at your wasted potential. it was too much all at once. and that broke the dam.

somewhere miles away, something ancient inside the father of dragons snapped. 

lennox flew like a meteor out of the sky, trailing smoke and thunder. he didn’t even land properly — just crashed into the forest in his full dragon form, splintering trees as his massive claws dug into the earth.

the glimmerbeast turned, and roared.

he roared back, not just sound, but magic and fury. flame from the depths of the world and it incinerated in seconds. when it was gone, he shifted — barefoot, blood-spattered, trembling. he dropped to his knees beside you.

“why..” his voice cracked. “why the hell would you come here alone?” you barely managed to speak. “i had to. everyone thinks i’m failing. maybe i am.” 

his jaw tightened. his hand, warm and clawed, pressed over your bleeding side. “don’t you ever,” he growled, “say that again.” you looked up at him, eyes glassy. 

“you let them tear me apart.”

“because i thought if i pushed you away, i could save you from me.” his voice was low now, shaking. he lowered his head until your foreheads touched. “but i didn’t know what it would feel like to lose you.” he whispered.

you looked up at him, taking a deep shaky breath. “then don’t. choose me. for once, choose us” you murmured as he gulped. “i will,” he promised, but you were hesitant, still unsure if he could keep to it — though a glimmer of hope does wash over you. 

his change of heart, it would lead to a better outcome, wouldn’t it?

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

you recovered slowly. the healers said that you were lucky to be alive after what that thing in the forest did to you. you don’t remember most of it. but you do remember him.

the moment lennox found you, falling out of the sky like the storm had come alive just to protect you. his panic, his rage, his warmth as he carried you back.

since then, things have... shifted.

he hasn't fought the bond. he hasn't pushed you away.

he walks beside you now. watches your sparring sessions. brings you your satchel when you forget it. sometimes says nothing at all, but he always looks at you like you're the only thing left in the world that makes sense.

the academy took that as a sign. but not everyone sees his submission as a success.

you're standing before the instructors, offering a demonstration of tactical control over bonded beasts. but you’re not partnered with lennox today. he refused to perform for them. silently. politely. without argument.

you didn’t force him. so, you’re alone. again. and they noticed.

as the class ends, the courtyard fills with murmurs. the instructors begin their reviews. you stand there, hands clasped behind your back, heart beating with that quiet, bitter familiarity.

then comes the voice you knew would start it. "strange how the prodigy can command a dozen creatures, but not the one meant for them," says instructor rethar, flipping through his evaluation scroll with disinterest.

a few students snicker.

"the father of dragons, no less," another instructor murmurs, not even hiding her smirk. "you’d think someone with your reputation would’ve had him flying laps around the peaks by now."

"maybe it’s not him that’s broken," one of the older students offers, tone dripping.

that one cuts a little deeper. you smile faintly, not because it’s funny. but because it’s not new.

"are we still pretending this pairing makes sense?" another student mutters louder, tossing their gear down. "they call them the chosen one, but they can’t even get their dragon to obey a simple command."

"maybe the gods made a mistake."

and that’s the one that does it. not for you — but for him. lennox had been leaning quietly against the far colonnade, arms crossed, silent, unreadable, just as he always is now.

but when that last comment falls, his posture changes. subtle, still. like a predator flicking its tail before it lunges.

you feel it, not through sound or movement, but through the bond. a tightening, a pressure behind your ribs. his magic doesn't rise, it coils. you speak before he can.

"it's fine," you say, calmly, evenly, to no one in particular. "let them talk." your voice carries. even lennox hears it. and for a moment... you think that’s it. you think maybe he’ll let it go.

later, you sit alone on the outer balcony, the breeze tugging at your sleeves. the sun has begun to dip, casting long shadows across the spires. you think about what they said. it doesn’t break you, but it cracks something.

you gave everything to this bond. your pride, your blood, your faith. and still, they mock. you hear the stone shift behind you.

you don’t turn. “i’m not angry,” you say quietly. lennox steps beside you. “you should be.”

you shrug. “what’s the point?”

his voice is soft. “you’re the strongest person in this place. they hate you for it.”

you smile, dry. “i don’t feel strong.”

he tilts his head. “i see you clearer than they do.” and he says it with a kind of certainty that feels like a vow. you finally look up at him.

“you’ve changed,” you murmur.

he kneels. “no.” a pause. then softer, too soft: “i’ve only stopped pretending.” the night is warm. you’re in your chambers, writing a letter you’ll never send.

outside, the bells begin to ring.

you move to the window just in time to see the main spire of the academy collapse in a wave of black flame. you freeze. screams erupt below, shadows scatter like ants.

and above it all, wings. lennox. in his full form, soaring, silent. and beneath his fire, the very stones melt. you tear out the door, heart racing, wind screaming in your ears as you run toward the courtyard.

flames engulf the halls, the sky glows with ruin. you find him in the center of it all — human again, walking slowly through the wreckage, bare-chested, covered in soot.

“lennox!” he turns, eyes glowing. not with madness, but clarity. “they hurt you,” he says simply. you stare at him, breathless, the weight of what’s happened crashing into you.

“you burned the academy.” he nods once. “they made you doubt yourself.” he steps closer, assessing you. “they shamed you for not ‘taming’ me.” his hand rises, brushing soot-streaked hair from your face.

“but they never saw the truth.”

your voice is barely audible. “what truth?” his thumb lingers at your jaw. his smile is slow. not cruel. not warm either.

“you never needed to tame me.” he leans in, lips ghosting your ear. “i already belonged to you.” you felt yourself shuddering from his words, you weren’t too sure what’s going to happen now. but all you know is that you’re going to be labeled as a terrorist. 

and you’re not sure how to handle that.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

you wake before the sun again.

the world is still grey and cold, dew clinging to the edges of leaves, soaking the hem of your cloak. the air here is cleaner than it has any right to be; untouched forest stretching endlessly in every direction, no whispers of cities or bells or judgement. just birds, just wind. just the man who sits a few feet away, watching the woods like he’s waiting for them to wake up angry.

lennox doesn’t sleep much anymore.

you think maybe it’s guilt. or maybe he’s just listening for them; the ones who’ll come for you both when the fear finally outweighs the shock.

you pull the cloak tighter and sit up. he glances at you over his shoulder, golden eyes meeting yours. he doesn’t smile, he never does, not in the mornings. his face is quiet, unreadable. but he’s glad you’re awake, you can feel it. 

the bond is still there, it always was there.

“cold?” he asks, voice low.

“no,” you lie.

he says nothing but rises anyways and walks to you, kneeling, slipping his arm around your shoulders. the heat of him sinks into your bones instantly. it’s always been like that with lennox — his warmth, a kind of comfort that doesn’t ask for permission and the kind that comes unexpectedly.

he holds you close, and for a moment, you let yourself forget how wrong everything’s gone.

you try not to think about the last time your family looked at you without fear in their eyes. about how your mother cried not because you’d gone, but because she knew you’d never come back the way they wanted you to.

“you were supposed to tame him,” she had whispered, like you were the one who failed. like he was something that needed to be fixed.

but you never tried to change him. not really. you told yourself you did, told the others what they wanted to hear. but deep down, you knew. he wasn’t made for obedience, yet you still accepted him. you still do.

“you haven’t said anything since yesterday,” lennox murmurs, his breath brushing your temple. “not even when you dreamed.” you hesitate for a moment before answering. “i didn’t know what to say.”

he doesn’t ask for more. he never pushes. it’s funny, if the souls of the dead could scream in your face, they would tell you that he was too much, too intense, too possessive. but he’s never once taken more than you’ve given freely.

except that day. the day you don’t talk about and the day that sent you both running.

he presses his forehead to yours now, gently. “we can keep going. or stay here for a few days, depends on you.”

you’re tired, not in your body, but somewhere deeper. in that place where grief becomes something dry and permanent, something you learn to carry like a scar. “where would we even go?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

his answer is immediate. “wherever you’ll be safe.” you almost laugh in response, wanting to feel bitter for the situation. “there’s no such place anymore.”

“i’ll make one.”

and you believe him. that’s the terrifying part. he would burn the world again if it meant keeping you alive and breathing beside him. you know what he’s capable of now, what it means to be loved by a dragon. and still, you stayed.

not because you’re afraid of him, you’re not. you’re afraid of what it would mean if you left.

“you don’t regret it?” you finally ask the dreading question. “any of it?”

his jaw tightens. not from anger — he doesn’t get angry at you, just at the world, the people who treated you like a leash. the ones who punished you for what he became. “i regret what it cost you,” he says, finally. “but never us.”

you rest your head against his shoulder, fingers twisting into the fabric of his tunic. you want to cry, but the tears don't come anymore. there’s nothing left to mourn. just you, just him and whatever this life is now.

you close your eyes. his arms tightens around you, steady and sure. you’re not sure where you’re going. you’re not sure who you are without your family, without your future, without the druidic purpose they carved into your spine.

but the gods have chosen you to be his rider, and he finally chose to accept it.

even if the world doesn’t understand it, especially because they don’t, you’re not running from him. you’re running with him. and that has to be enough.

[onyanjune]

tolkien characters + major arcana [3/3]

[onyanjune]

tolkien characters + major arcana [2/3]

[onyanjune]

tolkien characters + major arcana [1/3]

[onyanjune]

snoopy loves love!!!!

[onyanjune]

Semi-separated nuclei of two cells form a heart-to-heart shape. The nuclei were labeled by lamin.

By Di Lu (China)

Olympus Image Of The Year Award

[onyanjune]

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[onyanjune]

i am not dramatic—i am dissolving

@kameneva

[onyanjune]

Jack Gilbert, from a poem titled "Naked Except for the Jewelry," featured in Refusing Heaven: Poems

[onyanjune]

Savannah Brown, from a poem titled "Poet (derogatory)," featured in Closer Baby Closer: Poems

[onyanjune]

university!au where isagi is in love with you, has been the second he met you, but who also can't stand your situationship with kaiser.

everyone knows about your dynamic with kaiser, its an open secret thats been going on since freshman year, you slip him the answers to the tests so he can stay on the soccer team, he eats you out in your apartment after.

no one talks about it, lest they be subjected to kaiser's wrath. but everyone knows about it.

isagi hates it, it's not fair to you to be degraded in such a way, but you merely shake your head and tell him you're not entirely sure what he's talking about. and it's not like you mind the deal with kaiser, it's beneficial to you both; he gets good grades, you get great sex.

but it's fun to hang out with isagi, you're sure to try and keep the world's separate because you like isagi, he's so sweet and genuine, and he walks you from class to class and buys you sweet treats when you study at the cafe.

he’s only worried for your safety when he brings up kaiser in conversation as he walks you home, trying to dissuade you from ever seeing him again.

“he’s not a good person, you know,” he says sincerely.

you shrug, “most people aren’t good. i just choose to occupy my time with this one.”

“so you know he’s an asshole?”

“he makes me feel good,” you confess.

“you know he’s gotta be doing this with other girls too, right? what about the classes you’re not in with him?”

“you don’t need to worry about it, yoichi.”

the rest of the walk is silent, tense and awkward, it always is when isagi brings up kaiser, until he walks you up the stairs to your small apartment, careful to linger close by just in case.

you stop in front of the all familiar door isagi has seen countless times, but never the other side of. “this is me,” you say softly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your tensing shoulder. “thanks for walking me home, yoichi. it was really sweet of you.”

isagi smiles, “you don’t need to thank me every time i walk you home. it’s just the right thing to do, and im happy i get to do it for you.”

“even so, it’s really sweet-“

the door flies open. isagi jumps a foot in the air, but you barely move a muscle, save for your shoulder that’s now relaxing, but your face is anything but relaxed; it’s pinched in annoyance, unlike the way you were just looking at him, with kindness and patience. isagi assumes is because of the man who opened the door, who’s eyes are shooting daggers at him.

“you’re late,” kaiser hisses.

you roll your eyes, “im only here because im sick of you blowing up my phone.”

“but i got you to come home, didn’t i?”

isagi could punch him straight in the mouth if you’d let him. if looks could kill, kaiser would be a dead man. but to his dismay, you close your eyes to ground yourself before slowly opening them, they’re kind as they look at isagi and appreciative.

"bye, isagi," you smile sweetly, stepping into your apartment, and just as isagi opens his mouth, kaiser slams the door in his face, leaving your friend outside.

you sigh and shrug off your coat, briskly walking past the uninvited soccer player in your apartment. "hanging out with fucking losers now?"

“how did you get in here?” you grumble.

“roomie let me in, she knows the drill.”

“my roommate’s been home for the past week.”

“whatever,” he smirks. he’s quick to intercept you, resting his big hands on your waist and sinking his teeth into his lip. “just wanted to thank you for the 93 on last week's test. professor said it was one of the highest in the class."

"you're welcome," you sigh. he leans down to steal a kiss from you, and when you just barely return it, he pulls back with a quirked brow. he doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s confused at your slight coldness, “michael?”

“yeah?” his voice is annoyed.

“do… you do this with other girls?”

“what the fuck?” he growls.

“answer my question, please.”

“did that little rat fuck put something in your head?” he scoffs. “because he’s full of shit.”

“hey,” you pout. “don’t talk about isagi like that, he’s a good kid.”

“tell him to mind his business and i won’t have to.” there’s a twisted part of you that wants to believe kaiser. you are the only girl he does this with, your bodies belong to only each other, you’re being used for good and not for sport. he appreciates you, he enjoys having you in his life, you’re not just his pawn.

but you can’t bring yourself to believe it.

kaiser scoffs before moving his hands up to cup your cheeks, thumb stroking over the swells adoringly, sickly sweet compared to the venom in his gaze just a few moments ago, “don’t listen to him. he’s just jealous; i get the prettiest girl on campus to help me study, he doesn’t get anything.”

“study?” you correct. “you mean cheat?”

“when you say cheat, it makes us sound like villains,” he says, voice like honey and wrapping you tightly around him. you feel yourself melting into his touch, despite every red flag pinging in your brain warning you to not. “we’re not villains, we’re just having fun, yeah? just a couple of seniors,” he leans down to kiss your lips, “having some fun,” another kiss, “helping each other out,” one final kiss before he gently trails them down your lips and across your jawline and down your neck. you whimper at the feeling of his lips slowly maneuvering down, tongue laving over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“no marks,” you remind him.

he chuckles, and it vibrates across your skin, “we belong together, baby… no one else knows about how you giggle when i kiss you here-“ he moves his lips to the ticklish spot behind your ear, making you gasp softly, “no one knows about how sensitive your inner thighs are… no one knows about that pretty spot deep inside of you only my cock can find…”

you whimper as your thighs tighten in arousal, reminders of how good he is to you when you do help him cheat, how thoroughly he ravishes you, worships the ground you walk on.

how desperate he is to keep you around, how far he’s penetrated himself into your soul and wrapped you around his finger, you’re not going anywhere, you’re bound to kaiser forever, destined to give him everything his heart desires, even if it means selling your soul.

“micha…”

“ohhh, there she is,” he chuckles softly, kissing behind your ear once more to make you squeak, “my good girl. gotta keep you away from that isagi if he’s gonna make you question how much i adore you, baby…” he guides your arms to wrap around his neck, which you do, tightly. your face buries into his neck, and you press your pelvis against his.

“micha…”

“what?” he whispers. “need me to take care of you now? got you all needy for me? like hearing me talk about how much i need you?”

“please.”

you feel the shift in the air go from sticky and gooey and loving, to heavy and sinister, like it always does with kaiser. the manipulation runs deep, so deep you can barely see the surface any more.

but that’s okay.

you’ll let him jam his tongue down your throat, lacing with yours to elicit the prettiest noises from you. you let him make you whine as he pulls back, the string of saliva splattering against your chin as it breaks. you’ll let him guide you to your bedroom to lay you down on your bed and worship you like a goddess, pulling your jeans down and working himself between your thighs.

you let him pretend to love you, pretend like this is normal, you’re both supposed to be doing this, this is good for you.

kaiser is all you need.

“michael!”

“im here,” he rasps against your folds.

“never going anywhere, my angel girl.”

[onyanjune]

Yandere Prison Warden

After getting thrown into jail for a crime you refuse to talk about, one of the wardens takes a keen interest in your past. Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, blood, violence, mentions of child abuse, lowkey kind of sweet, 10k words

Being in jail is no fun. Being in a maximum security prison after being found guilty of homicide? Somehow even less fun.

You've tried to make the best of it. Got some posters to put up in your cell, started a book club, took up macramé. But you can't really paint a veneer of normalcy over incarceration.

It's violent, it's dirty, and most inmates tend to avoid you. And the thought of at least thirty more years of the same routine, day in and day out? Well, that's plain depressing.

Still, some days are worse than others. Today seemed like it was going to be a good day. The cafeteria food was actually hot, an acquaintance shared some gum with you, you managed to get a new book from the library. Things were, if not great, at least bearable.

Until the tour.

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.

Like right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.

It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.

He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.

You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.

And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."

He raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.

He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.

"Explain."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes.

 What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."

"How exciting," he deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

He snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.

When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.  

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"

He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.

It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.

You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave him your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

He scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

He narrowed his eyes.

"There's going to be a riot,” he said.

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

He must have seen the answer in your face.

He shook his head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Other prisoners  were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

 The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew,  you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.

If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.

The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.

She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.

Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.

"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."

She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.

He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to him without looking at his face.

He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

He started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”

 “You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

He sighed and walked away.

You didn't see him again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

He didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?!"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes.  How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving. 

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She’s a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

He didn't answer.

When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.

Home.

He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.

And he was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

He continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."

It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.

But, you never were very good at following the rules, were you?

[onyanjune]

A Bird in the Hand

you've been "partnered" with the nightbound who betrayed you for weeks now and neither of you are happy with how things are going.

->virgilio/reader. explicit; contains hypnosis, blood drinking, mild gore, power imbalance, aphrodisiacs, food control, mentions of conditioning.

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.

.

Every day, there’s a notebook open on the kitchen counter. You can’t miss it because it sits right next to an enormous breakfast feast, already made, plated and waiting by the time you drag yourself out in hungry desperation. Everything is artfully arranged like it came right out of an upscale restaurant’s kitchen from lightly sprinkled garnish to elegant, swirling sauce patterns. Even the fucking cereal looks like a mouthwatering food blog photo, a row of sliced fruit ringing one side of the bowl. 

There’s a pen tucked into the notebook’s spiral binding. At the top of the page, a single question is scrawled in neat cursive: What is your favorite movie?

It’s late. The sun shields are open and you can see the city skyline glittering through the windows. The only light in the room comes from a lamp perched on the counter, the thick dome shade softening the light to sunset orange. You uncap the pen, watching clouds drift across the moon. 

Fuck you, you write.

*

Some nights are spent at Cassowary Tattoo. 

It’s that or stew in your own misery for long, silent hours, because you’re not allowed to leave the house on your own yet. You claim your spot in the waiting area, stretched out on the sofa by the front windows with a stack of books on the coffee table beside you. It’s so cozy it makes you suspicious, the comforting and non-confrontational vibe almost smothering—lots of plants and pottery on the wooden wall shelves and muted rugs to soften the hardwood floor, some slow-tempo jazz playing over the speakers. Was it already like this or did they do some hasty redecorating? It feels more like a coffee shop than a tattoo parlor.

Your name is called with slow reluctance. “Hey, uh…” It’s the guy working the desk—nightbound. You saw him sipping from a blood pouch earlier. He knows what you are, too. That’s why he watches you like a hawk. He looks young but that doesn’t mean anything. What does is how nervous he is around you, anxiously vigilant whenever you shift around to get comfortable or exhale just a little sharply. Not like he’s scared of you, but scared of potentially having to handle you, like he’s watching a priceless vase wobble precariously on its stand. A lot of fledglings are like that because the older nightbound teach them that witches are some kind of endangered species, rare and skittish, necessitating firm but gentle handling.

He’ll chase you if you try to run. He doesn’t want to. He’s afraid he might hurt you by accident and then Virgilio will be mad at him, and he would sooner chop off his own hand than risk one of his superiors, his elders, being mad at him.

“Yeah?” you say. 

He flinches whether you soften your tone or not. “Are you, uh. Are you hungry? Sergeant—uh, Virgilio wants to know.” 

“I’m fine.” You pretend to be interested in the books you brought along, propped up on your side with one of the musty tomes open in front of you. It’s all dry, boring shit, leatherbound antiques on loan from the Dusk Council’s extensive library. Nightbound biology, nightbound psychology, nightbound history—there’s a lot here that you don’t know despite how they’ve been breathing down your neck your whole life. 

“Oh. Okay.” He fidgets nervously with his phone. “Well, uh. I think he ordered you something anyway.” 

He did, of course, and it shows up just a few minutes later in the hands of a delivery driver. Virgilio appears at the same moment, pushing through the curtain dividing the shop. There’s no doorbell or chime or anything. Every nightbound in the shop can hear it when somebody parks on the street right outside, or when the front door opens with a wheezy creak. Virgilio exchanges pleasantries and leaves a nice tip. He places the takeout bag on the coffee table right next to your books and then he pulls up one of the armchairs. His hair’s up in a ponytail. He’s wearing a black tank top so his tattoo sleeves are on full display—a moon and clouds, raven wings, a skull hidden among full-bloom flowers and half-melted candles. 

His smile makes your stomach twist up in angry, sickened knots. “Hey. Got you something.” 

You don’t answer and you don’t meet his gaze. Undeterred, he pulls a container out of the bag and opens it for you, steam and a garlicky scent wafting out. It’s some kind of spinach dish, sauteed leafy greens topped with crunchy garnish. 

“Smells pretty good,” he says, stirring it with a plastic fork. “Let me know if you like it and I’ll make it at home sometime. Just need some garlic and olive oil. Maybe a little amaretto if you want it fancy.” He slides the bowl across the table, closer to you. “Come on. You must be hungry. You barely touched breakfast.” You still don’t take it and his smile wanes, all that cheerful enthusiasm souring into weary resignation. “I don’t want to put you under but I will if I have to. It’s for your own good.”

“Stop saying that.” The threat of hypnosis makes you sit up, but you still don’t reach for the bowl. You don’t want it. You don’t want any of this. “‘For my own good?’ This is all for you, so you can feed as much as you want.” 

“It’s for you,” Virgilio insists. “So you don’t end up anemic or worse.” 

The wounded look on his face makes your blood boil, soft eyes and furrowed brows like he thought this would go any other way. He wants to talk? Fine. You can talk. “I wouldn’t need to worry about that if you fed from anyone or anything else sometimes. But I’m here, so you might as well take as much as you want, right? Why bother with a donor who actually likes getting fed on? Is that not as fun? You can’t get off if your blood bag is having a good time, too?” 

Virgilio catches your chin between his fingers and jerks your gaze up to meet his eyes. He’s got your mind in a vice-grip before you can even blink and for a blissful moment, there are no thoughts in your head. No anger. No fear. Nothing. Just fuzzy warmth and gentle drifting. His eyes are glittering gold and you’re sinking, all the tension leaking out of your body, all your worries evaporating—and then he lets go, slowly, like a fist loosening. He maintains just enough control that you can’t muster the energy to yell at him or tear yourself away. 

“Eat the fucking food,” he says, his voice low and ragged. You can only think clearly when he stops touching you, and even then, you find yourself picking up the bowl and spearing spinach on your fork. Virgilio leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you mutter between bites. “I didn’t choose to be what I am.” 

Virgilio takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah. Me, neither.” 

*

Every three days, your breakfast comes with roseblood. Virgilio brews it himself on the stove and the delicate garden-fresh aroma fills the whole house by the time you wake up. He pours the first dose into a black mug with a golden bird silhouette stamped on the side, and then he drops in a few colorful crystals that gently fizzle, making little prismatic bubbles at the surface. That’s nectar, condensed and edible magic. The sweet scent makes your mouth water. He sprinkles a couple leftover rosebuds on top and slides the mug over to join the rest of the trays, plates and bowls he painstakingly prepared. 

“Buon appetito,” he says with a grin. He usually makes himself scarce when you show up for food but today he’s decided to stick around. He stays on the other side of the counter, at least, a newspaper unfolded in front of him so he can pretend he isn’t watching you intently. You eat begrudgingly. Virgilio is such a talented chef that it makes you angry. His plating is immaculate and his dishes are perfect whether he’s baking, boiling or braising something—a sharp contrast to the single small plate at his elbow with nothing but a piece of toast smeared with marmalade. 

You watch him. He watches you. Neither of you speak to each other and the only sounds are the clink of your silverware and the whisper of turning paper, the occasional muted crunch when Virgilio nibbles on his toast. The roseblood is delicious, sweet like honey. You catch him smiling when you hold up the mug, enjoying the soft floral scent and the warmth against your palms, but he quickly averts his eyes back down to the newspaper. 

You think about those videos of animal shelters and people who sit with nervous dogs until they stop shaking. That’s how he sees this, you think. A selfless act. Doing you a favor. Coaxing you to him with food and gentle words, like he doesn’t already have the leash around your neck. 

Today, the notebook asks, What do you like to do in your spare time? 

Virgilio’s gaze is drawn by the scratch of the pen across the paper. You scribble quickly and furiously, then shove it aside. He doesn’t have to look to know you’ve written the same words you always do. He gathers up his newspaper and toast and finally gives you some privacy.

*

Some nights are spent in Dr. Griffiths’ office. The two of you look like a couple on the verge of divorce. Virgilio hunches like a man in a confessional booth and you’re scrunched up against the armrest of the big Victorian sofa, keeping one full cushion between the two of you. Your gaze travels across the room in careful avoidance of Virgilio, wandering from the bookshelves to the hanging paintings to the swinging pendulum of a grandfather clock. Candles flicker atop ornate brass stands. It smells like leather, parchment and incense. 

“I just don’t know what else to do,” Virgilio says. “It’s not like I don’t get it. I do. But you have to understand that the second you became active…look, you weren’t leaving that dinner party without the rug getting pulled out from under you, okay? That’s just how it is. If I didn’t do it, someone else would’ve. And I know you hate me for it, you feel like I took advantage—” 

“Let’s not assume,” Dr. Griffiths says gently. “It would benefit you both to ask each other how you feel, rather than jumping to conclusions. Even in situations where you’re certain you already know, is it not better to ask? To have the opportunity to voice those thoughts and feelings?” He’s nightbound, of course, because why would the Council send you to any other kind of therapist? His eyes glint like an animal’s and he has the uncanny, fluid grace of an elder. He dresses somewhat eccentrically for his profession, stylish and formal in a black blouse with translucent sleeves and fitted slacks, his high heels glossy like obsidian. He looks the way people expect nightbound to look, sickly pale and ghostly as though carved from marble. 

Virgilio glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “They don’t talk to me if they can help it.” 

Dr. Griffiths tilts his head, regarding you with a pensive frown. “You’re still not speaking to your partner?” 

“No,” you mutter.

“Why not?” 

“You can’t guess?” 

He smiles and pushes away from the desk. You watch him warily as he comes to stand beside you, resting his palm on the armrest of the sofa. He looks down at you, tilting his head in that odd, bird-like motion the nightbound all share, like an owl tracking a scurrying mouse. “No assumptions, remember?” he asks.

“It’s really not that hard to figure out,” you insist. He hums, urging you to continue. You don’t look at Virgilio but you can feel the weight of his stare. “My life doesn’t belong to me. I’m like his pet or something.”

“That’s not true—” Virgilio starts to say. Dr. Griffiths cuts him off with a sharp glance. 

“Go on,” he says patiently. 

There’s a lump in your throat, the burning sensation of tears forming in the corners of your eyes. You swallow hard. “And my time, that’s not mine anymore. I’m basically nocturnal now because I have to be. Even if I get up early, I can’t see the sun because of the stupid shields on the windows. It’s so dark everywhere, all the time. And my bedroom isn’t mine, it’s just the guestroom in his house. Some of my stuff’s there but it doesn’t matter. He can come in whenever he wants.”

“I would never—”

“Virgilio,” Dr. Griffiths says, firm but gentle. 

“And,” your voice cracks, “and the food, too. He picks that. And I know why, I know about roseblood and the risks and all that stuff, I know that. But it just reminds me that I don’t have anything anymore. I don’t even have myself. And…and…” Your words unravel into sobs. The sofa creaks under Virgilio’s shifting weight and you see him in your periphery looking sick with guilt. 

His hand trespasses onto the cushion between you. You hear him come closer. You know what he’s going to do and it makes you feel even worse, but you don’t try to stop him from touching your shoulder and turning you towards him. You don’t fight the gentle pressure of his fingers on your chin. You don’t squeeze your eyes shut or try to look away. Your eyes meet and Virgilio’s calming presence fills your mind, quieting your sobs to sniffles and numbing the ache in your chest.

Everything is okay for a while. Everything is light and airy, soft and sweet. You’re freed from thought and fear and worry, left with nothing but peace. When you surface, it happens slowly. You feel an arm wrapped around you, a gentle hand stroking your head. You smell chewing gum on his breath. Virgilio holds you against his chest, idly stroking your back and pressing kisses to your tear-dampened cheeks. 

Dr. Griffiths is back by his desk, frowning thoughtfully. “You have a problem with control, Virgilio,” he says. “Understandably, you crave it. You exert it however and whenever you can. Losing it makes you lash out and act impulsively. I would hope, then, that you might have some sympathy for someone who has none.”

Virgilio wraps around you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. He knows this will end badly once you get home; more tears, more distance, days of agonizing silence and refusing to meet his eye. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, you’re right.” He holds on tight while he still can. 

*

There are indents in the notebook paper, like someone scribbled furiously on the page before it. You turn back and find line after line written and then hastily crossed out. A handful are still legible:

What is your favorite breakfast food? What is your favorite food? What foods do you like? What would you like me to make you? I will make you anything you want if you ask for it. I didn’t know it upset you so much. I thought maybe it upset you, but I didn’t know what to do. I’m trying to make the best of a difficult situation. I know it’s not fair. I’m not good at this. I can’t let you go but I will do anything else, just name it and I will do it. I’m going to put a better lock on your door. Do you want a better lock on your door? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry.

On the next page, Virgilio’s handwriting reverts to its usual neatness. It simply says, List some foods that you like. 

*

Some nights are spent at home. Virgilio’s coworkers say he’s allergic to time off, which is news to you. It feels like he’s around more than he isn’t. Usually you stay in the guest room and only venture out for food but tonight, you reluctantly join him on the living room sectional. Virgilio is hunched over and doodling in a sketchbook, so shocked by your sudden appearance that you hear his pencil lead snap. You flick on the lamp and unceremoniously drop your entire stack of books on the coffee table, picking one from the pile at random to start with. 

You peek over the edge of the book. Virgilio is frozen for a moment like he thinks the slightest twitch might scare you off. You don’t think he’s even breathing. He watches you carefully, assessing you with cold focus like he’s sizing up a threat. The intensity in his stare frightens you. You don’t know what gives you away—quickening pulse? Hitched breath? Some subtle scent? He blinks and his gaze softens. He sets his sketchbook down and turns to give you his full attention. His casual lean, the way he drapes his arm over the backrest, reminds you of the night you met. 

“How about a truce?” he offers. 

You stare at him suspiciously. “What kind of truce?” 

“Less mesmerism.” 

“How about no mesmerism?” 

“Less,” he stresses with finality. The way your expression crumples with disappointment makes him sigh and rub the back of his neck. “What else do you want? Within reason.” 

You almost scoff at that but Virgilio’s anxious stare makes you reconsider. He’s trying, at least. It’s the smallest of consolations, but he’s giving it to you. “Could you talk to me the way you used to?” 

“The way I used to?” 

“Like at the party. Before…” Before he ruined your life. Betrayed your trust. Claimed you in front of the whole Council. Your heart is in your throat. “Like before,” you say quietly. 

The hoarseness of your voice makes him restless. He drums his fingers along the back of the couch and his gaze wanders. “I tried that,” he says. “When you first came here—” 

“When I was brought here,” you correct him. He clenches his jaw. “I didn’t choose to come here. You know that.” 

“The point is I tried that already. I acted like nothing was different. You still wouldn’t talk to me.” 

“Because I was angry. I still am,” you tell him. “I know I didn’t have much of a choice. I know somebody else would’ve done it if you didn’t. But it hurt. I’m allowed to be hurt. You can’t just snap your fingers and make me forgive you—”

“I could,” Virgilio says. He turns towards the kitchen windows where the moon is just a curled sliver. “I could make you. Probably not in one session. I’d need to reinforce it a few times. But I could.” He says it so plainly. Soft and contemplative, like something he’s spent long nights turning over in his mind. “Hm. That sounds extra fucked up when I say it out loud.” You flinch when he gives you a sidelong glance. “I really am sorry. About the way I did it, anyway. If we’d been anywhere else, I would’ve taken you home and talked it over first. I would’ve made you comfortable first. Been gentler about the claiming mark.” 

The reminder makes you pick at the turtleneck collar of your shirt. The scars on your neck are crescents of bumpy, gnarled tissue like the prints left by a vicious mauling. Virgilio follows the movement of your fingers intently, hoping you might peel the fabric down and show him the proof of his claim, but you won’t. You keep it covered as much as possible. The way he looks at it even through your clothing, the voyeuristic hunger in his eyes, unsettles you. 

“And yeah,” he says wryly, “I know you would’ve agreed to it. I would’ve laid out your options, and you would’ve picked me. That’s not a brag. The bar is real low and I know that. I’m perfectly happy being the lesser evil.”

He’s lying. You can’t usually tell. Before he started covering everything up with cloying, overindulgent sweetness, he hid all of his feelings behind a veneer of deadpan sarcasm. But that last part, you’re certain, was a lie. He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His voice gets small and timid, almost ashamed. You set your book down on the table slowly and take a steadying breath. 

“Do you want to feed on me?” you ask him. 

Virgilio blinks a couple times, like he’s trying to wake himself up. “Are you fucking with me?” 

You were really hoping he wouldn’t make a big deal out of this. “Remember what I said at the therapist’s? About how I’m basically your dog?” 

He frowns. “You’re not—” 

“Not looking to argue,” you cut him off tiredly. “Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to train me. Rewarding me for good behavior, punishing me for bad, all that stuff. Well, we’re trying to make things fair with a truce, right? So now I’m going to train you, too.” You lean back against the couch cushions and hook your fingers into the turtleneck, rolling down the collar until your throat is exposed. Virgilio’s pupils dilate. “If you’re good, you get extra.” 

He drags his gaze up from your neck to your face and your heart races. You don’t see him like this very often. Virgilio is old enough to control his appetite, normally unfazed by the sight or scent of bare human skin. The temptation of your blood when he didn’t expect it seems to have caught him off guard. He looks at you like a starving wolf looks at a lone deer, how the same wolf looks at a mate in heat, lust and hunger a single entity. Virgilio prowls closer on all fours, crawling towards you on the couch. You both know he’s the one in control here. He can take what he wants, when he wants. 

But he stops just short of you, one hand landing on the cushion beside your feet, and looks at you with that animalistic tilt of the head. “Have I been good?” he asks, his voice low and eager. 

Heat rushes through your body. “Yes,” you say. “You’ve been very good.” 

There’s something ritualistic about the way Virgilio feeds. You don’t know if all nightbound are like this or if it’s unique to him, but he goes slow. There’s foreplay before the bite. The approach is a dance, graceful and gradual. He caresses your leg as he shifts closer and he presses kisses everywhere, even over your clothes. To your ankle. To your knee. To your hip. They’re chaste but they linger and they feel reverential. He slides into place beside you and pulls you into his lap, hand wandering. He rubs your shoulders and strokes your sides. You see desire in his eyes but also sadness and solemn determination. This is about more than blood. 

His fingers slip beneath the hem of your turtleneck but he doesn’t take it off right away. He feels you first, his palms sliding up and down your chest. It feels good—not just the stroke of his fingers against your hardening nipples but also the undivided attention, the focus on your body and your pleasure, the weight and wanting of his stare. To Virgilio, nothing exists but you right now, you and your warmth and your pulse thudding beneath his fingertips. His lips move hungrily against yours, coaxing you to tangle your tongue with his. He makes small sounds, contented sighs and soft moans. 

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, nipping at your lower lip. Your heart flutters at the teasing prick of his fangs, his venom fizzling pleasantly on your skin. “I swear I will. Someday I’ll be worthy of this partnership.” He pulls your turtleneck off and buries his face against the side of your neck, inhaling deeply with a shudder. His hips move involuntarily, short, needy thrusts that grind his clothed, hardening cock against your ass. He presses his lips against your neck, teasing you. He knows exactly where you’re most sensitive. The marks from the last time he fed still haven’t faded. But he likes to feign ignorance, enjoying your quiet moans until he reaches the spot that really makes you squirm.

For all his protests about you not being a pet, he really does have you trained. You don’t flinch anymore when he prepares, stroking the back of his fangs with his tongue until his mouth is full of venom. Sloppy, open-mouthed kisses leave tingling numbness in their wake. Testing nips make you shiver in pleasure rather than pain. You wrap your arms around him and hold on tight, not out of fear but in anticipation. Virgilio savors you, dragging his tongue over your pulse. His hand cradles the back of your head as you turn and bare your neck to him. 

“Two and a half centuries in this shitty world,” he whispers, “and nothing has ever been as precious to me as you are.” 

Virgilio’s bite is ecstasy. The moment his venom floods your veins, your toes curl, your back arches, and you cum. If he didn’t hold onto you so tightly and keep your head still, you would thrash and flail wildly. You know he feels just as good, maybe even better, because his hips buck like he’s fucking you, rolling, languid thrusts that lightly bounce you in his lap. You’re aware, dimly and distantly, that the bite is shallow. He’s keeping it light and controlled, sucking the blood that beads to the surface rather than widening the wound, and in a state of pure instinctual want, it infuriates you. You want more, deeper, harder, everything he has filling you. He keeps a firm, steady grip on the back of your head to make sure you don’t try and impale yourself on him further. You whine when his fangs retract and he laps at the punctures left behind. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your skin, trying to soothe you. The praise goes straight to your sex, heat and arousal making you move your hips against him. “Mm, yes, you are. So sweet and delicious.” His hand dips between your legs. He doesn’t undress you but he loosens the clothes on your lower half enough to get his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, and then he’s mercilessly working your sex with his fingers. “Cum one more time.” He’s growling, so deep in his own primal need that his voice is low and rumbling. He’s not asking. It’s an order, and it makes you whimper. “One more. Come on. Sweet thing, letting me have a taste of you. Let go for me.”

Already raw and right on the edge, you cum with a sob. Virgilio doesn’t let up, still mouthing at your neck and whispering filth. He coos about the mess you made on his fingers while your hips helplessly chase his hand. He doesn’t stop until you sag against him, worn out and oversensitive. The blistering pleasure phase has run its course but his venom will keep you in an extended post-orgasmic bliss for a while longer. He lays down and keeps you tucked against his chest, gently rubbing your back. 

It’s nice, you think deliriously. Every feeding is nice, but usually you shake him off and demand to be left alone once it’s over. It was a mistake to stay. Now that you know what it feels like to be in his arms, you’re not sure you’ll be able to leave.

“You can take a nap, if you want. I’m not going anywhere,” he says softly. Warmly. He sounds happy, you think. Because you fed him without prompting? Because he’s in control again? You don't know if tonight was a step forward or back, but you aren’t going to worry about it right now. Not when the lights are low and Virgilio’s touch is so tender, and everything almost feels alright. 

*

The next night, you're up and moving a little earlier than usual. Viriglio is still cooking. You sit at the counter to watch. He looks back over his shoulder at you briefly, almost shyly, like he doesn't want to scare you into leaving. He nods in greeting. You nod back. He looks a little disappointed but he smiles anyway and returns his attention to the stove. 

You tell him your favorite movie. 

[onyanjune]

beanie baby dragon is crossing your dash

[onyanjune]

Blood Tea and Red String (2006) | dir. Christiane Cegavske

[onyanjune]

𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅'𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅

headcanons : boyfriend headcanons with the blue lock men.

characters : fem!reader x isagi yoichi, reo mikage, nagi seishiro, chigiri hyoma, bachira meguru, itoshi brothers, michael kaiser, and shidou ryusei.

𝓘𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓲 𝓨𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓱𝓲

➼ he worships his girlfriend like a god, you have this guy weak on the knees like you're literally his whole world.

➼ you're his inspiration to do better on the field, he works hard so he could come home to you and tell you about his 'victory'.

➼ he really loves your cooking since he barely gets to taste good food when he's at blue lock.

➼ he gets a bit shy when he realizes that he's bragging/talking about you to his friends, like he's not used to all the teasing and questions.

➼ he pretends to be shy sleeping next to you when he just wants to cuddle and snuggle close to you. Overtime, he got so comfortable already.

➼ you're both yappers but sometimes he'd just zip his mouth and let you talk.

𝓡𝓮𝓸 𝓜𝓲𝓴𝓪𝓰𝓮

➼ I like the idea of you both being fur parents, like you have a pet cat and he has a dog. Both your pets don't get along well but that's fine for him.

➼ He likes spoiling you with gifts, like you literally have a whole collection of plushies and you never run out of makeup.

➼ He'd be so shocked to see his hair styled in cute little braids or pigtails after waking up from a nap.

➼ He takes you out on luxurious dates, like you'd be so shocked that you both are the only people in the venue, turns out he rented the place.

➼ He forces your pet cat to sleep next to him when you're not around, his dog gets jealous and ends up also sleeping next to him.

➼ Don't ever be mean to him or else he'd pout all day and wonder what he did wrong to you.

𝓝𝓪𝓰𝓲 𝓢𝓮𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓸

➼ He's your lazy boyfriend, it's hard to get him out of bed and do something productive.

➼ You guys rarely go out on dates since he prefers to stay indoors and cuddle with you.

➼ The only time he's productive is when he's playing soccer or when he tries doing the house chores so he can bribe you to cook him food.

➼ He's a big baby who constantly needs your attention and care, he is a very demanding high maintenance child.

➼ I guess he lets you do anything you want to his face whether it's applying makeup or skincare, he's too lazy to give a damn.

➼ He has an adorable family simulator game downloaded and you both play it together, you guys have a very cute family there.

𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓲 𝓗𝔂𝓸𝓶𝓪

➼ Obviously, you both do haircare and skincare together. He's the type of boyfriend who is very much into these stuff.

➼ He's so protective of his hair like he gets so irritated when you pull it or even try to tangle it. He'll only allow you to pat and kiss his hair.

➼ You guys literally share everything you own whether its shampoo, perfume, clothes, hair ties, and many more.

➼ He definitely likes using your cute hair accessories even if they're too girl for him. Imagine him wearing a cute sanrio hair clip or a bunny hairband.

➼ I think some old people mistake you guys as girl couples at first glance.

➼ I think he's a bit of a quiet type boyfriend, he also has an attitude tho.

𝓜𝓮𝓰𝓾𝓻𝓾 𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓪

➼ definitely very annoying and childish, he's your boyfriend but also your child at the same time.

➼ he's the type of boyfriend to watch every little move you do, if you're cooking then he is sat on the kitchen counter looking at you and asking you questions.

➼ he likes pinching and squishing your cheeks when he's bored, it's no use stopping him since he won't stop.

➼ He'll fall asleep when you guys watch movies together.

➼ He'll snuggle close to you and watch what you're doing on your phone, don't turn your phone away from or else he'd pout and furrow his brows at you.

➼ He'll annoy you so early in the morning like imagine waking up to someone poking your cheeks because they want a 'morning kiss'.

𝓡𝓲𝓷 𝓘𝓽𝓸𝓼𝓱𝓲

➼ He's your grumpy clingy baby who wants to be always next to you.

➼ He's very pouty around his friends but as soon as he arrives home and receives a kiss from you, the frown on his face transforms into a smile.

➼ You're very annoying to him but he still loves you and your weird pet names, obsessions, and many other things about you.

➼ he never admits it but he likes the cute nicknames you call him, this guy loves you calling him 'rinnie or rinrin'.

➼ He's forced to go out on dates with you, but ok..? I guess he should be fine with it because his girlfriend wants to.

➼ He doesn't like talking about himself much but he's willing to listen to your rambles and gossips even if some of them barely make sense to him.

𝓢𝓪𝓮 𝓘𝓽𝓸𝓼𝓱𝓲

➼ I like the idea of you both raising a puppy together and then he ends waking up confused on why your puppy is now sleeping between you guys.

➼ He's the nonchalant type of boyfriend but he's just a touch-starved man who wants your assurance.

➼ He loves the idea of holding hands with you especially when your swinging both your intertwined fingers back-and-forth.

➼ He pretends to flinch and hate the idea of trying out new things with you but he secretly enjoys it.

➼ He probably doesn't like the puppy you both are raising but he agrees to keep it because it makes you happy.

➼ He doesn't mind you clinging unto him infact when you're not touching him it feels weird and it gives him a feeling that something is off.

𝓜𝓲𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵 𝓚𝓪𝓲𝓼𝓮𝓻

➼ This guy is annoying on the next-level, he's so confident and arrogant about himself like he thinks he's the most 'handsome' boyfriend you could ever have.

➼ He's flirty and tries to tease you everyday, this guy can't live a day not annoying his girlfriend.

➼ When you don't acknowledge him, he'd start to complain and say that 'you don't love him anymore'.

➼ He's always flexing his tattoo infront of you, sometimes he'd purposely walk around the house not wearing a shirt cause he thinks that you're going to look at him (you always do).

➼ He is insufferable, you have threatened on leaving him countless times already but you still love him dearly and he's proud of it.

➼ He'd cry if you ever tease him about losing a soccer game like you're just joking about it and then he'd frown and start wailing.

𝓢𝓱𝓲𝓭𝓸𝓾 𝓡𝔂𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓲

➼ Type of boyfriend who is 'gangster' infront of his friends but vulnerable when he's left alone with you.

➼ He'd groan and sulk when you do his hair but he doesn't have a choice anyway so he just sit still for you.

➼ He's so stubborn, he'd run around the house with you chasing after him just to get away from doing chores.

➼ He probably frowns and would just look at you the whole meal time because you didn't agree to cook his favorite food.

➼ He 'icks' when you force him to do cute things with you like why would he do that? But he ends up doing it for a kiss and cuddle.

➼ He hates having to crouch down just so you could give him a kiss but ok... if that's the only way then he'll go for it.

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𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

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[onyanjune]