#and obviously there are exception to every rule

[littlespoonevan]

sometimes i think about how 4x14 was the first season finale i experienced live and how it RUINED every other finale for me going forward bc it set my expectations So High by just.........giving us everything we wanted and more??? like, a big emergency that solely focused on buck and eddie, buck dragging eddie to safety, everything in the ambulance, "are you hurt?", buck telling chris what happened, buck breaking down crying when he finds out eddie survived surgery, buck staying with chris at the diaz house, buck running to eddie instead of chasing after taylor, "because evan", "you act like you're expendable but you're wrong", the fuCKING WILL?!?!?!? and all of this is happening in the space of 40 minutes while other things are Also happening and it's like. i'd only been in the fandom 2-3 months maybe??? buck and eddie had barely interacted in the 3 episodes prior to 4x12. i, quite frankly, expected nothing (i was actually afraid eddie would die lol) and they gave us this fanfiction ass episode. and it's amazing obviously but it meant with s6 and s7 and s8 when they were actually Building to stories that i expected a specific resolution for the comedown just hit me even harder??? year after year it's just tim minear reminding that 4x14 is the exception and not the rule 😭

[lover-of-mine]

Remember how I made the big framing in buddie conversations meta and then another one when the gym stills came out that comes down to how conversations about Buck, Buck is sitting down.

About Eddie, both of them are sitting down.

About Chris, they are sitting on the same surface

But when they are on the same level and standing up, the conversation tends to be about their relationship with each other.

I know it looks pretty obvious that this is them talking about their relationship, but following patterns on the show, this is them talking about their relationship.

And I'm also interested in what camera angles we are going to get on this scene, because the tsunami for instance they are facing each other but they make a point that for parts of the scene we can see both of their faces, not just them speaking and reacting to each other like in the grocery store for example. I am so curious.

[fjordfolk]

Talking about culture in dog breeding with fellow norwegians lately and figuring I don't mind 4 being a maximum litter number on a bitch, granted she's an easy birther of reasonably sized (not too big) litters and bounces back well. And that is a highly individual thing. And obvs I come from a breed where the litter average is 3.5 and complications are relatively rare.

What I've come to be a little more bothered about is having litters on bitches that are 2yo (and younger - but thats a full dealbreaker for me) - I don't feel like either of our dogs have seemed like full adults until ~3? Troj is 3 now and shes really come into herself in the past year, I can't imagine her with puppies at 2.

[turtlemagnum]

one of my favorite parts of strategy games like chess and advance wars is that feeling when you haven't quite won yet but the enemy has no real options so it feels like you're just sloowly wrapping around them like a snake. when all your enemy has is their king and you've managed to turn 3 of your pawns into queens, and all you've gotta do is get in juust the right position, and in the meantime all they can do is squirm. god, that's such a wonderful feeling. nothing quite like it

[the-acid-pear]

Regarding that argument at least one of you will see me featured in: I did it only because I'd had a breakdown so I was feeling weird and needed a distraction but I still stand by all I said. I think a lot of ppl nowadays are just childish and petty like teens and don't understand basic concepts of respect, and REFUSE to understand them too to ad insult to injury. They're not rebelling more than a child refusing to eat food and it's just kinda pathetic to be honest. Like you can be clear as day with what you say and they'll still find excuses to never change bc . Right. This website is full of white americans who else is as full of themselves. I forget sometimes...

[summerhighlandfalls]

I’m always very suspicious when I encounter fanworks where there’s a child of two men and one of the men is called ‘mom’ by the kid. Because a) it reminds me very strongly of ‘who’s the woman and who’s the man in this relationship’ style homophobia and b) if it’s, like, an mpreg scenario, there’s a lot of gender politics wrapped up in that and calling the parent who gave birth ‘mom’ (in a work of fiction, not referring to real life trans parents and their preferred terms) does raise alarm bells wrt feminizing trans men in fanfiction and fanart

[dreamboyf]

usamericans just *hate* being told what to do because they were raised in Boostraps Nation like you tell someone to be considerate of others in public and theyll throw a fit and scream over their "rights" or whatever even tho deep down they might even KNOW theyre being the jackass but theyll try to pull any excuse to keep being rude in communal spaces because they just have this bizarre deep seated aversion to listening to others and CARING enough to take feedback and stop being a jerk . individualism is a disease

[yanderedrabbles]

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?

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Waking Up in Vegas"

Prologue, Chapter one:, Chapter 2,Chapter 3, Chapter 4:

ok guys! we're back and reader's hot girl summer has started! Sorry I was gonna put this chapter out earlier today but i've just been so busy today plus i'm cooking up a 3rd part for "older" I got my period AND i have a math test and english essay coming up. If some parts don't make sense, its on purpose. Reader is disoriented and drunk half the time, the days blur together for her. Lmk what yall think of readers hot girl summer and what you want/think will happen in the next chapter .Sorry for any mistakes! Comments, reblogs and ASKS make my dayyyy and encourage me.

Saint-Tropez wasn’t just a place, it was a playground, a haven for those who didn’t care about consequences or anyone else’s rules.

And you? Well, you were done with rules.

For the last two weeks, you’d been living like this, untouchable, free, and completely lying to your family.

You had told Bruce you were staying with Ariel and her father, which was true, for the first two days anyway.

Ariel's father is a busy man, he couldn't take 2 and a half months off work to babysit two 16 year olds who would do what they wanted anyway. As soon as he left, Ariel began calling your two other close friends, Claire and Rory. Together, all four of you were unstoppable at school though it was an unspoken rule that you and Ariel were the dynamic duo. All four of you stayed in Ariel's ocean front villa, relaxing, tanning, and just getting settled.

God, let's not even start on how drastically everything changed while you were at boarding school and the family found out Tiffany's true colors. They were all so.....protective now. You got calls everyday, from each of your 'siblings' separately, dozens of texts asking you what you ate, who you were with, and what you were doing. You didn't entertain them. The only person you replied to was Bruce, and that's only because you knew if he wanted to, he could call off this whole trip.

You didn't answer Tim's random, vague questions like, "Who's that on your story? Do you know them? Are you sure they're safe to be with?" He was asking about a simple sunset dinner picture you posted with Ariel, so you blocked him. He's way too nosy.

You didn't reply to the groupchat the girls, Barbra, Steph, and Cass added you in called "The girls!!"

What a creative name!

You left after you saw 'Tiffany was removed from this conversation'. Maybe you were being petty but they obviously had this chat before and didn't bother to add you to it before Tiffany was exposed. It was your turn to ignore them.

You definitely didn't reply to Damian's outright threatening messages that he sent almost every other day, they all sounded something along the lines of "You will regret this. You cannot simply leave and run away from your family. Come home or else."

He's such a strange little boy, he spoke and acted like an angry Victorian prince. He texted you like you were close before, like it wasn't him who pushed you away. You were coming back in two months and yet he acted like ran away and changed your name.

Jason, Bruce, and Dick were the most consistent and annoying, in that order exactly.

Jason texted you every morning at 8 and every night 11, like clockwork. His texts were daily updates what he was planning on doing that day, asking you the same, and reminding you that he's sorry and that he loves you. It tugged at your heart not to answer him, and sometimes, you gave in and you could feel the joy in his response when you replied. You and Jason's conversations went like this, on the odd occasion you replied,

"Good morning." - Jason

"How are you? No trouble in paradise I hope."- Jason

"My days gonna be pretty dull today, nothing much except patrol. Might go to that bookstore you used to like." - Jason

Your cold heart would melt when he said things like that and you would reply,

"awww! jason, thats so sweet." and follow with "I'm good!! how bout you??? staying out of trouble?"

Jason was your softest spot and he knew it.

Bruce texted you three times a day. Morning, afternoon, and evening. His messages were dry and authorative, demanding answers. He wanted to know who you were with, what you were doing, if you left the house, and if you were okay. The fatherly care and authority isn't something your used to, it was strange. You weren't sure if you felt cared for or suffocated. You answered Bruce once a day, your tone straight to the point, answering only what he asked, nothing more.

Dick is by far the worst. He texted you constantly, as if trying to make up for 11 years of not texting you at all. He texted you when he woke up, when he slept, when he ate, what he ate, and sent you pictures of everything. Once he sent you a picture of a tiny bird saying it reminded him of you. You nearly blocked him after that, the only reason you didn't was because you liked how desperate he was. Not long ago, it was you spamming him like that. Plus he can be funny most of the time. You don't even want to think of the constant selfies he sent. You only ever replied once.

Dick sent a selfie of him hanging with some of the Titans, you forgot why or what he said along with it, but you do remember seeing Connor Kent shirtless in the background. You giggled and showed Ariel how hot he is. You replied to Dick almost instantly hearting the picture, screen shotting it, and drawing a heart around Connor saying something like, "WHO DAT IN THE BACK????" and "Tell superboy to hmu".

Dick was not happy about that, that was the last group selfie he ever sent. He got more frequent with his texts after that. He must've snitched to Jason because not even five minutes after you got a text from him.

"Remember what I said. No boys, i'll kick his ass." - Jason

You ignored him of course.

The sun beat down in the south of France, but you were far from concerned with the blistering heat. Not when there was a private yacht at your disposal, a poolside filled with strangers and familiar faces alike, and the soundtrack of Drake keeping your pulse racing. You felt the vibration of your phone against your palm for the third time in ten minutes. Another text from Bruce. He was becoming more insistent you answer him the longer you were gone. It's only been two weeks! Another "where are you?" or "be careful." As if you were gonna listen. Or reply to him.

Bruce. The man who'd ignored you for the better part of your life, suddenly acting like a worried father because Tiffany, the perfect sister, had betrayed them all. Tiffany, the adopted daughter who had somehow replaced you in their world. Now, she was the enemy, the traitor, the spy, and she was gone. That meant you had all the freedom you could ever want.

The more you thought about Tiffany the angrier you got. She had everything. How many summers has she spent on yatchs partying? How many times has she blown thousands of Bruce's dollars? Why were you forgiving them so easily? Why were you even listening to him?

Just because he apologized and said he'd change?

Why should you forgive Jason so easily and respect his rules, he ignored you for years and replaced you with Tiffany. The more you drank, the more you thought and the angrier you got. Who do they think they are? You've always been too nice, too obedient, and they're still taking advantage of it. You'd show them, show them what its like to be ignored and forgotten and made fun of.

For the next two months, you were going to ignore them. Bruce and jason included. You've been too nice, too good these two weeks, your friends were begging to party but you didn't want to, you were scared of disappointing them.

You were so angry nothing changed in you that you finally caved and decided to do what Claire and Rory were doing, give your phone to a worker here and have them turn the location on and send updates to Bruce. You still used the same icloud so you could read their messages and make sure they weren't suspicous.

He'd think you were always at the villa or just going into town, they won't know what hit them.

You turn to Ariel and grin, "I'm free. What are we doing tonight?" You were done obeying their rules and living your life for them. Who knows when you'd be alone in Europe with your best friends again.

Ariel hopped off her chair and squealed, her dark skin glowing from the sun, she grabbed you and twirled you around, your giggles echoing through the yacht and drawing Claire and Rory's attention.

Ariel grinned and explained to Rory and Claire, "Little Miss good girl finally came to her senses and went M.I.A with her dad. Now we can finally party! Hot girl summer starts now."

All three girls start squealing and join Ariel in her celebration.

You rolled your eyes feeling guilty, "I told you, you could've gone without me!"

Ariel wrapped her arm around you, "Nonsense, it's not a party without you. Now, come on we gotta go shopping if we're going out tonight. It's lucky that we both have daddy's black cards. It's really lucky that they have Dior, Hermes, and YSL down the street."

You weren't sure how much you spent and the drinks kept you from feeling guilty. Bruce is like, a bajilionaire, what you spent won't make a dent.

Somehow, you ended up on an even bigger yacht filled with guys, in your brand new Dior bikini with a matching bag.

By the time night fell, the yacht was buzzing, the VIP lounge overrun by people who hadn’t even been invited. The bass was so loud you felt it in your bones. You didn’t care. You've never felt so alive.

Your new phone wasn't getting any messages except DMs, and the woman you hired confirming Bruce thought you were sound asleep in the villa.

You can practically taste the summer air as you step onto the deck of the boat, laughing with Ariel and your friends and the others you’ve met along the way. No one cares about where you’ve been, where you’re going, or who your family is.

As the DJ cranks up the volume, a cute guy with long blonde hair catches your eye. You wink at him and saunter over. This summer is all about freedom, and you’re ready for it. His hands are already on your waist, pulling you close, and suddenly you’re lost in the rhythm, spinning and laughing, his lips brushing against your ear.

The night wears on, you drink more, laugh louder, flirt harder. The yacht turns into a blur of lights, drinks, and music. As midnight rolls around, the party shows no signs of slowing. You could stay here forever, with no rules but your own.

But then it happens. You wake up in a completely different city.

London.

You’re sprawled on a plush couch in a ridiculously luxurious flat, a half-empty bottle of champagne next to you. The room smells like expensive perfume, and the decor is all sleek lines and minimalist chic. You sit up slowly, your head pounding from last night.

You sit up straighter, rubbing your eyes.You vaguely remember a private jet, but it’s all blurry. One moment, you were on the deck of the yacht, living it up, and the next, you're waking up in an entirely new country.

You look around the room in panic and spot Ariel sleeping on the couch and a random guy, butt naked on the floor next to her. You sigh in relief at Ariel being okay and the fact you weren't kidnapped.

There’s a knock at the room door, and when you answer, it's a random guy from last night, British accent, disheveled hair, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He grins at you sheepishly. “Hey, you good?”

You, Ariel, the naked boy named Christian, and the Brit named Thomas, have breakfast and exchange stories of what you remember from last night. It was fun, but you and Ariel flew back to St. Tropez where a jealous Claire and a worried Rory were waiting.

Last night was fun, but it couldn't happen again. It was dangerous and if anything happened Bruce wouldn't know.

Except it did happen again, and again, all summer long.

The next weeks were a blur, Venice, Monaco, and Madrid, with stops in Dubai and Los Angeles along the way. Each city more vibrant and intoxicating than the last. Every place you went, you had the freedom to be whoever you wanted to be. There was always a fresh crop of people, and you reveled in not having to answer to anyone. No father, no brothers, no sisters, just you and your friends against the world.

You and Ariel lived your lives like you were gonna die tomorrow. You were unstoppable, no family, no rules, no responsibility. Your abilities weren't acting up at all, everything was perfect. Bruce and the family were off your back, being made to think you were at the villa all day.

The “No Boys Rule” was completely disregarded, though. It seemed that whenever you let your guard down for just a moment, you’d end up surrounded by someone new. Whether it was a guy from a club in Monaco or a guy you met on a private yacht in Venice, you were always finding someone new

Despite all the parties, the alcohol, and the private Instagram posts, and funny Tik Toks, there was still a growing sense that you weren’t living this life for you, you were living it for the rebellion, to spite Bruce.

It wasn’t just about freedom anymore. It was about finally being seen, even if that meant drifting away from everyone you once called family.

You only had one month left of absolute freedom, and you were gonna make the most of it. With Ariel, Rory, and Claire by your side, you partied in just about every city.

The final month of your wild European escapade had arrived, and things were only getting wilder.

The clock had no meaning anymore. Days and nights blended into each other as you danced from one city to the next, your world a whirlwind of music, champagne, and endless laughter. Ariel, Rory, and Claire had become your partners in crime, literally when you got arrested, but thats not important.

Each morning you woke up in a new place, groggy and confused, only to remember the night before—flashing lights, pounding beats, and the promise of more. Cannes, Monte Carlo, Paris, or Dubai, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the freedom you’d found in them, and in yourself. You were more than the neglected, ignored girl from Gotham; now, you were the life of the party.

there was always someone waiting to whisk you away to the next nightclub, the next gala, the next beach party where the world’s richest men tried to get your attention.

First, it was Paris. You could feel the eyes on you as soon as you entered the hotel lobby. The air smelled of expensive perfume, freshly polished marble, and the faintest trace of guilt, because in some corner of your mind, you could still hear Bruce’s voice echoing in your ears. But it quickly faded as the first private yacht rolled up to the dock. The deck was crowded with Parisian socialites and half-drunk billionaires, but it wasn’t about the crowd, it was about the feeling of being wanted. Being worshipped.

It was in Paris that you really started feeling the distance between you and the life you’d left behind. The champagne flowed easily, the laughter came effortlessly, but there was an ache you hadn’t anticipated. A pang that struck at the edges of your satisfaction, the kind you couldn’t drink away.

You thought about Bruce. His pleading words, his desperation, and how, for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him. But only for a moment. You couldn’t let him win. Couldn’t let them see that you’d needed them. Because that would mean giving up everything you had now, the freedom, the endless nights, the city hopping, the boys who adored you.

You let it all sink in, just for a second, how much control you had over them now. How much they wanted you back, how much they needed you back. It felt good, knowing that you could walk away and have them chase after you, like you used to chase them.

Maybe it was the brief, fleeting moments when you thought about Gotham, about Bruce, about your family, and how none of it felt real anymore. They’d played their games, ignored you, and now it was your turn.

Meanwhile, your phone was a constant buzz of messages. Tim had sent at least five texts, each one more urgent than the last. Jason called twice, his voice sharp and filled with that annoying overprotectiveness he just developed. And Bruce… well, Bruce sent you one long, pleading message, something about understanding, about giving him another chance, and answering his calls. You didn’t even bother reading it all. You didn’t need to. You didn’t care enough to respond.

You had no intention of being tied down by anyone, but when a French prince with dark, tousled hair and eyes that burned through your soul offered you a glass of champagne and a seat next to him, you took it.

You didn’t even have to look for him, he found you. He was the one with the perfect jawline, the one who could be a model if he wasn’t already a prince. His eyes, blue locked onto yours the second you entered the VIP area. A raised brow, a subtle smirk, and you knew that for tonight, he was yours.

You didn’t speak much. He didn’t ask questions, and that was the kind of energy you craved. A few words, some flirting, fleeting touches, and then you were in his Lambo, the leather seats smooth under your skin as the city sped by. He went as fast as you wanted, loving the thrill and impressed look in your eyes.

The thrill was intoxicating, the feeling of being someone else, someone free. The kind of person who didn’t have to answer to anyone. A few hours later, you were standing on a balcony, watching the sunrise, your lips tingling from the kiss he’d stolen.

Your mind was a haze of laughter and the aftertaste of expensive whiskey. The view of the French Riviera was far too beautiful to appreciate right now, and your thoughts wandered back to Gotham, to the family you’d abandoned, the ones who had never cared for you.

But as the days wore on, it was harder to ignore the hollow feeling creeping in. The message from Dick, the one where he told you that he loved you, stayed in your mind longer than it should have. You told yourself it didn’t matter. You didn’t owe him anything. But you couldn’t help but wonder, just for a second, what it would have been like if things were different.

You turned away from those thoughts quickly. You couldn’t afford to get attached. Not now. Not when you were on the verge of something bigger. The freedom you had now was everything you wanted. No one could take that from you.

You couldn’t let them control you. You wouldn’t let them.

You and Ariel were inseparable now, pulling Claire and Rory into your whirlwind of recklessness. You all had your roles, Ariel was the carefree partier, Claire the quiet one who always managed to keep ya'll out of trouble, and Rory was the one always ready with a camera and a new Tik Tok idea. You were the star, the one they all gravitated toward.

Each day was a new city, a new set of challenges, a new set of eyes who wanted to be close to you. You knew the game, knew how to play it. You knew how to keep them guessing, how to make them want you more.

So, you danced. You partied. You lived in the moment and let your life spiral further from Gotham’s grasp.

From there, it was off to the next city.

Las Vegas; Sin City, there was no place like it. You couldn’t even remember how you got there, your mind fuzzy with a mix of adrenaline and whatever was in that last glass of tequila. The strip was lit up like daylight, people everywhere, the air thick with smoke and the sound of slot machines ringing through the night.

You woke up in a penthouse suite that could have been mistaken for an entire floor of the Bellagio, the morning sunlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And there he was, a prince. The same French prince, draped in a robe embroidered with gold thread, a fresh glass of mimosas on the table beside him. He was smirking, lounging on the couch like this was all part of his daily routine. You couldn’t even remember how you got to the suite. What had happened between the bar and now? You didn’t care.

He didn’t seem to care either, his hand casually tracing the rim of his glass, his eyes never leaving you. You laughed, feeling the surrealness of it all wash over you, the weight of your last 48 hours in Ibiza and Monaco still fresh on your skin. One minute, you were dancing at a celebrity’s secret after-party in Monaco, and the next, you were here, on the other side of the world with some mysterious prince who had probably already forgotten your name.

The rest of the night was spent taking private jet rides to exclusive clubs, partying with people whose names you couldn’t even pronounce, and waking up to the flashing lights of a casino floor. Vegas was the kind of place where everything felt fake, but that didn’t matter. You really are Brucie Wayne's daughter.

Next stop, Ibiza, the heart of Europe’s clubbing scene. Ariel and you slipped into the club, stepping past the velvet ropes like it was second nature. The security guard practically bowed as you walked by. The crowd parted for you, the clinking of champagne glasses and the hum of expensive conversations filling the air.

This was where you belonged. The heat of the island, the night that stretched into forever. You and Ariel danced on top of the table at Pacha, popping bottles like they were nothing, the music vibrating in your bones, the crowd chanting your name like you were the star of the show. It was your second night there, and you had already met a Spanish duke who was more interested in buying you a yacht than actually getting to know you. There was white powder everywhere, tempting you to try but you didn't give in. Who knows what could be in it. Your friends and most people at the club didn't share the same idea.

You just wanted to enjoy the view and keep the party going but you were worried, maybe this was too much.

“we’ve got to live for the moment,” Ariel grinned, taking a shot of something that made her eyes water. “Who cares if we’re in a foreign country surrounded by dangerous people? It’s the best kind of chaos. When else are we gonna do this?”

Somehow you ended up on a private yacht again, this time surrounded by Ibiza’s elite. You weren’t sure how many shots of tequila you’d had, but you knew that the man at your side had given you a diamond bracelet to match your dress. You accepted with a grin asking him to put it on for you, your hair wild, your makeup smudged from hours of dancing, but it didn’t matter. You were untouchable.

It was getting close to 3 AM, and the music hadn’t stopped. The drinks kept flowing, and the Duke’s yacht you somehow ended up on was finally leaving the dock. You couldn’t remember how you ended up on the boat, but you were there now, floating on a million-dollar boat with peopl you’d only seen on TV. One of the men from the night before was already making eye contact, his glass of sangria in hand.

It was hard to be shy in a setting like this. Rory, who’d never been afraid of attention, was deep in conversation with a couple of supermodels who were likely on their third or fourth drink. Claire was wrapped up in a flirtation with the duke who owned this yacht, and Arie was in her own world, laughing with a group of guys who were definitely not short on cash.

The next morning, you woke up on the yacht, the sun blazing over the Mediterranean. You stretched lazily, your body still buzzing from the night before, and found yourself face-to-face with the man from last night.

He smirked, “Care for another round?” he asked, his accent thick, the sound of the waves crashing against the boat providing an oddly peaceful background.

You laughed and agreed. It was all so easy, this life. This endless, carefree abandon. No rules, no family to answer to, no obligations. It was just you, your friends, and a bunch of gorgeous strangers who only saw you for the party girl you had become. And for now, that was enough.

Next, Monaco, the grandest of them all. You didn’t just go to Monaco, you ruled it. You, Ariel, Claire and Rory crashing the most exclusive gala in the world; rich industrialists, F1 drivers ,tech moguls, the faces that appeared on the front of every magazine. But to you, it was just another game to play. Every conversation was a carefully curated performance, everyone vying for your attention, for your approval.

The days blurred together. Each city more beautiful, each party more decadent than the last. Monaco was wild, filled with the world’s elite and their very bored children. The private yacht parties were nothing short of a movie set, jet skis, champagne, drugs, and the sun beating down relentlessly. The thrill of it all never left, and every night you found a new billionaire, actor, or race car driver to distract you. It wasn’t about them, not really, it was about keeping the power in your hands, it was about feeling good. Taking away the pain that came with your powers, fortunately, men were jumping into your bed.

You didn’t even have to try. One wink, one smile, and suddenly you were in a Bentley, whisked away to a private after-party in a hidden corner of Monaco’s coastline. The prince of some oil-rich kingdom was at your side, and the night was long, filled with laughter and stolen kisses under the stars. You didn’t care what his name was, where he came from, or who he was, he was just another prince who could buy you anything you wanted.

You met guy, almost as rich as Bruce, who you beat at poker, he was more than happy to throw a yacht party in your honor. The invitation was clear: “Come party with us. No rules. No limits.”

Ariel had already decided to make a game of seeing how many men she could flirt before sunset, while Rory was doing her usual thing, charming people with her wit. You, on the other hand, had become the center of attention, as if the whole event was designed around you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a conversation that didn’t involve someone trying to buy you a drink, or a private island.

As the weeks stretched on, you could barely keep track of all the cities you had visited. You spent one night in Berlin, dancing until dawn in one of the city’s most infamous clubs. The next, you were in Milan, draped in designer clothing and laughing with the most influential fashion people in the world. Every day felt like a new chapter, filled with new people, new parties, and a new sense of power.

It was intoxicating. Everyone loved you here, you were the life of every party. You had so many friends, you'd never be alone again.

There was something so exhilarating about being surrounded by people who knew your last name, who were used to rubbing elbows with people like Bruce Wayne, but didn’t realize you were his daughter.

You felt it in your bones now, the distance between you and Gotham was growing wider. The weight of the past, the guilt that had once threatened to crush you, was nothing more than a distant memory. Each city, each new face, each new party was a reminder that you didn’t need them. You didn’t need anyone.

But deep down, something shifted. Maybe it was the late-night conversations with Ariel on the balcony of a villa in Santorini, the wine flowing freely as you discussed the future, her dreams, your dreams, how you’d never go back to the way things were. Maybe it was the quiet moments alone on the edge of some private infinity pool, staring out at a horizon that seemed endless and just… empty.

You didn’t know when you started to feel it, but you knew one thing for sure: when you finally did come back to Gotham, you weren’t going to be the same person who had left.

The Final Stop, St. Tropez. You did a full circle. Your last hurrah before you returned home, or where your family assumed you were all this time. The private beach parties, the yachts that lined the harbor, the whispers of billionaires in their private jets. You danced in the sand, surrounded by flashes from cameras and jealous glares from women who had no idea who you were, but wanted to be you all the same.

A private villa awaited you, and there, amidst the most extravagant décor, you found yourself facing yet another prince, yet another man eager to claim you as his own.

You turned to find a prince—probably from denmark—standing next to you. You immediately recognized his face from magazines. He was the one who was always pictured at galas with his equally famous family. He was beautiful, dark-haired and dangerous, with a body like chiseled stone. But the only thing you could think about was how long it would take before you got bored of him, before you moved on to the next.

His thick accented voice cut through your thoughts, "Well, if it isn't the infamous party girl." He smirked eyeing you up and down.

"Oh, so you've heard of me" You said smiling. You had no idea how he knew you, all your socials were private and theres no way you had mutual friends. You froze for a second, just how far has your reputation proceeded you, did Bruce hear?

You brushed the thought away as soon as it came, Bruce didn't exist. Not tonight, your last actual night of freedom. Not when you were boarding the flight to gotham after tomorrow.

"Hard not to. You've been everywhere. Paris, London, Ibiza, Monaco, Dubai, Vegas. You're practically the princess of Europe." He grinned leaning closer.

After two months you were finally starting to feel the rush of it all catching up to you. But for now? Who cared? You were a 16-year-old filled with confidence, chaos, and fun. The world was yours, and there was no one who could stop you, least of all, your father, who were still clueless about your whereabouts and secretly obsessing over your every move. You were too busy living in the moment to care about that.

You were officially the European Party Girl, the one everyone wanted to be friends with, the one they all wanted to take selfies with.

Ariel once called you a prince magnet, she wasn't wrong. You woke up next to him the next morning, his strong arms around your waist.

When you went back to Gotham, you weren’t just going to show up. You were going to treat them like they treated you all these years, you were going to laugh in their faces, ignore them like they ignored you.

As you and Ariel spent your last night together packing, you couldn't help but smile. In these two months with her, you lived more than you had in your entire life.

When you boarded the plane back to Gotham, you were different. You were someone new, someone who had tasted freedom and wasn’t sure if she could ever go back. The Waynes had no idea what was coming for them, but you were ready. The game had shifted, and you were about to play it all the way to the end.

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[hotchnerwrites]

“Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.” Saw this concept on here and got me thinking—reader works at the bau and thinks hotch hates her, but in reality it’s the opposite and she’s misreading his signals?

Mixed Signals

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: SFW, idiots in love, good ending, swear words

A/N: Hi hi hi hi!!! sorry for the long wait!!! finally have some time on hand from exams and im getting all reqs done!!! chose to go down a dry humour/funny route for this. honestly reminded me of my olive branch fic, except it's reversed ahahah. anyway, thank you so much for your patience. i hope you enjoy this!!!! so much love, mwah mwah mwah <3

My requests are open. Send me stuff! Please read the rules before asking, and be advised there is a slight wait time right now. But I will post for sure. :)

ps- i kind of maybe forgot to proofread so let's pretend any errors don't exist 😬 

At the end of the day, it was just work.

You all were colleagues— professionals selected for their skills, all crammed together into one bullpen and expected to play nice. That didn’t mean you had to be friends. People were allowed to dislike each other if they wanted. It happened. Tensions flared, personalities clashed, and someone always ate the last yoghurt tub.

And if Aaron Hotchner happened to hate you in particular, well, that was his right. It was just part of the job. And you were aware of it. Oh, so aware. Acute, constantly and embarrassingly aware.

There was no question about it: he hated you. Not disliked. Not tolerated with professional indifference. No— this was loathing. Cold, calculated, deep-in-his-bones hatred. 

You felt it in your blood every time Hotch walked into the bullpen and skipped over you when saying good morning. It radiated from his office like a laser death ray whenever you laughed a bit too loud. 

It wasn’t paranoia. You’d done the math.

Morgan? A nod of approval. Prentiss? Professional respect. Reid? Indulgent patience. Rossi? Best friends. You? Fuck all.

You were sick of the stone-faced silence. And that look he did. That little glance from the corner of his eye, paired with a crease between his brows. Like your presence caused him physical pain. You’d once made a joke in the SUV, and he sighed. Not laughed. Sighed. It was actually quite impressive, how consistent he was about it. 

You’d retaliated by calling Hotch all kinds of names. Mentally, of course. It was childish and dramatic, you know. But no more dramatic than the way he had once corrected your paperwork with a red pen, and hadn’t even told you— just left it on your desk like a cursed object. 

You tried not to take it personally. For a while, it worked. But then he started doing this thing— this new thing— where he’d enter a room, and leave as soon as you walked in. It had only happened twice, but it had been the same excuse both times: that superiors called him away. Suspicious.

So you did what any well-adjusted and emotionally mature adult would do. You went straight to Garcia’s office and told her that your boss hated you and you were going to get fired because he could smell your weakness. She’d gasped, handed you a bejewelled stress ball, and offered to hack into some database on your behalf (you declined, but it was nice to feel loved for a change).

Still, you couldn’t shake it. It seemed like he couldn’t be in your orbit for more than three and a half minutes without the need to file an HR report.

So when the moment came, you weren’t prepared.

●・○・●・○・●・

You were in the briefing room, finishing up your notes after everyone else had gone. The case had closed. People were smiling. Even Hotch had smiled at someone. (Not you. Obviously. But still.)

You were alone now, sorting through crime scene photos, muttering under your breath about timelines, when his voice startled you.

“You missed lunch.”

You jumped. Clutched a photo like a weapon. “Hotch—you can’t just sneak up on people like that.”

He looked vaguely alarmed. “I knocked.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” he insisted, like someone trying to explain doorbells to a raccoon.

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you want?”

He paused. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and—without ceremony—placed a sandwich in front of you. Neatly wrapped. Labelled with your name. From your favourite place.

You blinked. “…What is this?”

“You didn’t eat.” A beat. “It’s been a while since the brief ended.”

“I— I was going to—”

“I’ve noticed.”

You stare at the sandwich like it’s a bomb. Then at him.

“You got me food?”

“Yes.”

“Because you hate me and you’re trying to poison me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s fine,” you said, hands raised in mock surrender. “I respect it. A clean kill. No one would suspect a thing.”

“…Why would I hate you?”

You let out a single, disbelieving laugh. “Are you kidding? You avoid me like I’m radioactive. You only talk to me when absolutely necessary, and even then, you struggle. You sigh when I speak.”

Hotch looked absolutely, entirely baffled.

“I sigh at everyone.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. It’s a thinking thing.”

You scoffed. “Well, you don’t think around Morgan that much, apparently.”

He exhaled. Then, before you could launch into Exhibit D (the Unspoken Broom Closet Incident), he said:

“I’ve always valued your insight.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your reports are consistently the most thorough. Your geographic profiling is precise. You’re one of the most detail-oriented agents I’ve worked with.”

You stared at him. “…So you don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Quite the opposite.”

Silence.

You opened your mouth, about to ask what the opposite of hate even meant in Hotch-speak, but he was already turning away, clearing his throat.

“Anyway,” he said, suddenly very interested in the wallpaper, “I thought you might want lunch. That’s all.”

And then he was gone. Just—left. Like he hadn’t just lobbed that cryptic grenade over his shoulder and walked away.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t eat it right away. Not because you’re still suspicious—it’s from your favourite deli and has your name written on the brown paper in what can only be described as Hotch's weird, neat serial killer handwriting—but because you're too busy mentally disassociating.

Quite the opposite.

What on earth did he mean?

The rest of the day passes in a weird, slow-motion haze. JJ gives you a weird look when you accidentally sit in her chair. Reid asks if you’ve seen his recent paper, and you blink at him like you’ve just returned from war.

Because you’re thinking. Hard.

Like:

That time Hotch asked if you were staying late and then looked weirdly panicked when you said you were walking home.

The morning you came in limping from breaking your ankle, and he said, “You shouldn’t be here,” in the flattest tone imaginable.

How he called you by your first name once, and you almost fell out of your chair because he never uses anyone’s first names. You chalked it up to a lapse. 

And then. Then, the worst one.

Last month. You’d been coughing like a maniac during a briefing. He had placed a bottle of water in front of you with a dull thunk. At the time, you had taken it to be his passive-aggressive way of saying please shut the fuck up right now. Only to find out later from JJ that he’d actually gotten up and left mid-meeting to get that water for you.

Now you're sitting at your desk rewatching it all in your head like the twist ending of a psychological thriller.

●・○・●・○・●・

You don’t see Hotch again until nearly 6 p.m., and when you do, he’s at his office door, jacket folded over one arm, clearly intending to head out.

You’re not even thinking when you get up and intercept him halfway down the hall.

He stops mid-step when he sees you. “Everything alright?”

“I… need you to clarify what’s going on.”

He exhales like someone who just got caught by airport security. “About what?”

You try to keep your expression neutral, but your heart is pounding like you’re about to ask your boss if he’s mad at you—because that’s exactly what you’re doing.

“You’ve been… weird,” you say finally. “With me. For months.”

Hotch tilts his head. “Weird.”

“You barely speak to me unless it’s about a case. You avoid sitting near me on the jet. I brought cookies in last week, and you took one, then put it back. Who does that?”

He has the audacity to look mildly horrified. “I didn’t mean to put it back.”

“That’s not the point.”

You’re spiralling and he knows it. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens like he’s trying not to laugh. You, on the other hand, are mortified.

“I just need to know,” you continue, quieter now. “If I did something wrong. If I’ve annoyed you somehow, or if you genuinely just… can’t stand me.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you want to crawl into the floor tiles.

Hotch runs a hand down his face. “I don’t hate you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I—” He pauses, and then, with all the charisma of a man giving a congressional hearing, says, “You make me nervous.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You… distract me,” he mutters, like he’s admitting to tax fraud. “I didn’t mean to be distant. I thought it would help.”

“Oh.” It comes out stupidly small, because your brain is too busy cataloguing every single interaction the two of you have ever had and realising, oh no, he was just emotionally repressed and completely, tragically bad at this.

You swallow. “So… you don’t think I’m annoying?”

“No,” he says, almost immediately, and then after a pause, “Not even a little. Not even when you talk over me in briefings.”

You almost laugh. “That’s because you talk like we’re in court.”

“And you talk like you’re arguing with your GPS.”

Now you do laugh, and something about the way his shoulders ease tells you this is maybe the most honest conversation you’ve ever had with him.

You look at him for a second longer, searching his face. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just said you liked me.”

“I’m saying it now,” he says, softer.

And okay—maybe Hotch didn’t confess it with a rose in his teeth and violins playing in the background. Maybe it came out like a man filing paperwork for a broken heart. But it’s still something.

“You want to get coffee or something?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t know what this is yet. But it doesn’t feel like work. And this time, he didn’t glare— so, by your standards, that was basically a proposal.

Thanks for reading! I appreciate any likes/comments/reblogs/follows. Constructive criticism is welcome. Do not plagiarise my content and/or post it anywhere without crediting me.

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[pixzstickz]

*not proof read*

friend!bakugo who genuinely gives a slight fuck about you

which is completely crazy to say because…well, because it’s thee katsuki bakugo. he treats everyone the same shitty way, except for you. but hey, at least he’s not yelling in your ear every 5 seconds telling you to die.

friend!bakugo who attempts to tutor you, but fails

not because you're stupid or anything. it's the patience being a tutor requires and bakugo has none of that. every session is like a ticking time bomb game and a wrong answer equals the wrong wire.

friend!bakugo who finds himself buying things you said you like or ‘just because’ things

sure, you didn't mind, but it was quite odd how every trip he went on something was brought back for you. trinkets, snacks, even a bracelet. you never let the thought linger too much though, maybe he was just being nice?

friend!bakugo who is your late night convenience store buddy

surprisingly enough, it's not denki. it started when you mentioned being hungry and awake late at night during one of your tutoring sessions, but was quickly dropped after he scolded you for worrying about food instead of the work at hand. 

but later he hit you with a ‘you up?’ message asking if you were hungry. which you were both. after a bit of tip-toeing and whisper yells, y’all snuck out and bought snacks at a nearby store. it soon became a little hangout sesh with you finding yourself waking up in his dorm 2x a week.

friend!bakugo who realizes he has you in his bed after these trips

you fall asleep quickly, so after returning back from a successful heist, you find yourself flopping onto his beanbag chair. curled up into a position that’s most definitely going to hurt in the morning, bakugo can't leave you like that.

he picks you up and gently places you in the inner corner of his bed. he follows right after and accidentally big spoons you. both of you are turned to the side, you're pressed up against his front, and his arm is around your waist. upon this realization, bakugo curses himself for allowing him to do this, but he can't help it.

crushing!bakugo who gets this weird feeling when he’s around you

“it’s not a feeling of love, it's a feeling of tolerance” he tells kirishima. for him tolerance is love. it is deniable the things he does for you is 100% out of character for him. not screaming in your ear whatsoever, actually trying to tutor you, buying your things, ruining his sleep schedule, breaking ua rules, and cuddling with you? boy was he fucked.

crushing!bakugo who tries to downplay his feelings for you

he tries to push down his feelings for you, he really does. but its not enough. his ears turn red and his insides do backflips every time you're around. you obviously notice, but decide to let him bring it up whenever he’s ready.

crushing!bakugo who is in fact never ready

he would rather you be the person to say it instead of him. what if you don't like him like that and reject him? he thinks he might spiral out and kill everyone out of pure embarrassment.

bf!bakugo who accepts your confession

youve liked him for a while now, might as well get it all out since he won't. it was a simple confession. y’all had just come back from a convenience store run, and were chilling on his bed finishing up some snacks when you let the bomb drop. 

“you know i like you right?”

“yeah.”

“and you like me back too?”

“duh? why else would i let you stay in my room?”

“i know. just wanted to hear it from you.”

you put your phone on his nightstand and cuddled up to him face to face. you caressed his face wondering why it took you this long to confess but nonetheless you did it. you had the boy you wanted in bed with you and his hand placing your thigh on top of his and rubbing it.

“i could get used to this.” you smiled

“i already have”

a/n: might become a bakugo/mark only account

[xoxolaw]

if you would be so kind…. seongje x reader but she’s insanely dense??? like very nice and kind sorta dense. “aw you were watching me? good to know u care so much” and he’s lowkey tweakin out. she just thinks they friends for all of the time he spends around her until maybe he just has to get over his avoidance issues or something. anyways feel free to twist this however you want, thank you !!!

+ YOU CARE SO MUCH

in which seong-je can't help but feel frustrated due to how oblivious the sweet, dense girl he's hopelessly into is.

Geum Seong-je x reader

fluff

Seong-je had a rule. Three seconds.

If someone pissed him off for more than three seconds, they got dropped.

No hesitation. No exceptions.

People learned fast. Keep your eyes down. Don’t talk to him unless spoken to. Never test his patience.

And yet, here you were. Walking, talking, smiling proof that his rule had its limits.

“Seong-je!” you called from across the hallway, waving at him like he hadn’t just finished beating some second-year half to death behind the gym.

You didn’t even flinch when you saw the blood still on his knuckles.

“You’re bleeding,” you said, pulling a napkin from your bag.

“I know I’m bleeding.” He sneered, but his voice didn’t have its usual bite. “I like it that way.”

You just tilted your head, eyes soft. “Still, you’ll get it on your uniform.”

And then you were dabbing at his hand. Touching him.

He could’ve killed you for that.

He didn’t.

---

You weren’t like the people he surrounded himself with. You weren’t strong. Not by his standards. Not violent. Not cunning. Just stupidly kind.

And dense.

God, so dense.

When he made fun of you, you laughed.

When he skipped class to sit on the rooftop, you brought him snacks.

When he stared at you too long, too hard, too obviously—you’d just smile and say, “Good to know you care so much.”

Care?

He should’ve punched a wall.

He almost did.

Instead, he smoked. He watched. He loomed.

And you kept letting him.

---

The tipping point came on a Thursday.

You were in the courtyard, sitting on the grass with your legs tucked under you, reading something stupid—he could tell it was stupid by the way your face lit up at every page.

“Why do you always look so damn happy?” he said, dropping into the grass beside you without asking.

You blinked, surprised. “Am I not allowed?”

He smirked. “Most people have the decency to be miserable around me.”

You just shrugged. “You’re not that scary, Seong-je.”

He barked out a laugh. “Says the girl who saw me break a guy’s nose last week.”

“You were grinning like a maniac,” you said. “So I figured you were having fun.”

He stared at you. “You think this is a game to me?”

You tilted your head. “No. I think you like being strong. And I think you don’t know what to do when people aren’t scared.”

He blinked. For once, words failed him.

You smiled again, so gently, and went back to your book like you hadn’t just dismantled his entire persona with a casual sentence.

Seong-je lit a cigarette with shaking hands.

Three seconds.

Three seconds.

Three fucking seconds.

---

He started seeing you everywhere.

Not on purpose. He wasn’t following you.

(He was.)

You asked him to walk you to the bus stop once.

He said no.

Then did it anyway.

You offered to share your drink.

He said it was gross.

Then drank from the same straw.

He didn’t get it. You weren’t strong. You weren’t even interesting. But you made his chest feel like it was on fire every time you called his name like it meant something.

Like he was someone good.

And that pissed him off.

---

“You have no self-preservation,” he growled one afternoon, pinning some third-year to the wall after they grabbed your arm in the hallway.

You blinked up at him. “He just wanted help finding the music room.”

“He touched you.”

“So?”

“So I broke his nose.”

You knelt beside the bleeding guy, already pulling out tissues. “You really need to stop doing that.”

“Then stop letting people near you,” he snapped.

You looked up at him, confused. “But why?”

And that was it.

That was when something cracked.

He hauled you up by your wrist and dragged you into the empty stairwell. The door slammed behind you, echoing like gunfire.

“Are you stupid?” he snapped. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doing what?” you asked, honestly bewildered.

He laughed—mean and bitter. “Acting like I’m just some school friend. Like I’m some loyal dog who follows you around because I’ve got nothing better to do.”

You blinked.

He stepped closer, voice low, dangerous. “You think I do all this—pick fights, skip class, smoke my nerves out, bleed for you—because I like being your emotional punching bag?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“You’ve got three seconds,” he hissed.

“Three seconds for what?”

“To tell me you know.”

You swallowed. “Know… what?”

He stared at you like he wanted to strangle you and kiss you at the same time.

“I want you,” he said, voice sharp as a blade. “And I don’t mean your sweet little friendship. I mean your time. Your body. Your attention. I want you, and I’m two seconds away from going insane if you keep pretending you don’t see it.”

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t do kindness,” he continued, almost panting now. “I don’t do softness. I break things. I like breaking things. But when you smile at me, I—”

He cut himself off.

Ran a hand through his hair. Laughed bitterly.

“And you’re still just staring.”

“I didn’t know,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I really didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, backing off. “You do now.”

Silence.

Then you said, “I don’t know what to do with this.”

Seong-je’s jaw clenched.

He turned away, bracing a hand against the wall like it might keep him from doing something stupid—like yelling, or kissing you, or punching through the drywall.

“Then forget it,” he said, biting the words out like glass. “Pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I don’t want to pretend.”

His head snapped toward you.

You were still staring at him—eyes wide, voice soft, hands balled in the hem of your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” you repeated. “But I don’t want to ignore it either.”

He stared.

Waited.

Waited for the punchline.

Waited for you to laugh it off, the way you always did, like everything he did was just another joke in your day.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stepped closer.

“Seong-je,” you said, carefully, “I’m… not good at this.”

“No shit.”

“But I don’t think you’re just some friend.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then what the hell am I?”

You hesitated, cheeks coloring, fingers twitching at your sides. “Something… important?”

“Something important?” he echoed flatly.

You nodded.

His mouth twisted. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrifying,” you said, smiling faintly. “But I still sit with you. Still talk to you. Still bring you snacks.”

“I thought you were just stupid,” he muttered.

“Maybe I am.” You took another step forward. “But if you want me, and you’re not just messing with me, then maybe you should do something about it.”

His breath caught.

Then he laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“You think I haven’t been doing something about it?” he said, stepping into your space. “I’ve been holding myself back. Every damn day. You think restraint comes naturally to me?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because suddenly his hand was on your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

And for a second—just a second—the world froze.

Then he kissed you.

Not gently.

Not sweetly.

It was rough, like a warning, like he was staking a claim. Like he’d been starving and just found his first meal.

You gasped into it, hands flying to his jacket, unsure whether to push or pull, but he was already gripping your waist, dragging you closer until there was nothing between you but heat and breath and every unspoken thing.

When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, expression wild.

You were flushed, dazed, your fingers still curled in his shirt.

He smirked.

“There,” he said, voice hoarse. “That clear enough for you?”

You nodded, speechless.

But then, like always, you tilted your head and smiled.

“I still think you’re not that scary.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Too late,” you whispered.

And he laughed—actually laughed—before kissing you again, slower this time, like maybe three seconds would never be enough.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

Really enjoyed writing this request!!! I hope you enjoyed reading it as well!!

[lucylockets]

oh nothing just thinking about mark grayson x super!reader.

super!reader, who is involved in her community. she uses her strength and flight to help build homeless shelters. she volunteers at soup kitchens. saves residents from burning buildings. helps old ladies cross the road. saves cats from trees. carries endangered animals away from hunting grounds. she turned the colours blue and red into a sign of hope, trust, and protection.

super!reader, who knows omniman before mark gets his powers.

super!reader, who enjoys omnimans company. sure, the man is a little grumpy and a bit . . . intense. but he’s the only one who she knows that understands missing their home planet. she talks to him about Krypton, and he listens. he talks to her about Viltrum, and she listens. she noticed that he seems very passionate about the planet, but doesn’t judge. she pins it as repressed homesickness.

super!reader, who points out they both have red capes with a certain excitement, like a child fitting in with the cool kids. nolan decides to keep her around. perhaps she’d swear loyalty to viltrum soon and help him with his mission.

she isn’t a member of the Teen Team, or Fight Force, and wants to keep it that way. she helps out when needed, of course. sometimes she’ll take care of matters on other planets for Cecil, but she doesn’t work for the GDA. nolan respects that.

there’s a few things they disagree about. super!reader has a strict ‘no-kill rule’. nolan doesn’t. she purses her lips as she watches nolan kill thousands of Flaxans.

“you realise they would just return to earth to kill even more humans?”

(insert big sigh) “but what if we set up a rehabilitation centre on their planet?”

“either put that laser vision to good use kid, or lift those buildings out of the way for me.”

super!reader, who is invited to the grayson house for dinner, and she accepts because she doesn’t have any family of her own (except for Krypto), and often struggles with domestic tasks.

super!reader, who loves helping debbie with dinner. she really likes the woman, and wants to be a good guest. except, she often forgets her own strength. after debbie cleaned up one too many smashed plates, she assigned super!reader to the job of setting the utensils on the table. she had to hide the forks she accidentally bent in half from debbie or else be banned from the kitchen forever.

mark grayson, who first meets super!reader at dinner. his dad came into the house, still in his suit, but this time had a girl hovering at his shoulder. literally hovering. she greets him with a kind smile and he instantly becomes awkward.

“so . . . uh, hi. I’m Mark.” He holds out his hand. Nolan blinks. Debbie smiles to herself.

“I’m (name).” She shakes his hand. Mark blushes at the skin contact.

“You can sit next to me.” He says far too quickly. He adds on: “if you want.”

mark grayson, who goes red when nolan expresses worries to super!reader about mark not developing powers, because why is his dad embarrassing him in front of the pretty girl?

he gives her a “thank you,” when she dismisses nolan’s worries with a laugh and a small hand wave. she claims there’s nothing to worry about. nolan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t speak about it anymore. she doesn’t actually have any qualifications to say that, but for some reason, her words seem to be took as the truth.

mark grayson, who practically wills himself to get powers sooner so he can join you and his dad (and impress you).

super!reader, who is excited for mark to get his powers. she looks forward to mark joining her and nolan on missions, and their hangouts will become so much more fun!

when mark does get his powers, he, super!reader, and krypto fly around the garden, playing catch with the dog.

mark loves krypto. debbie denied every request for a dog when he was younger, claiming that the animal would end up her responsibility and just add to her plate. so, krypto comes along with you. he’s a pretty friendly dog, but obviously especially loves superheroes a little more, because he flies excited circles around mark whenever he sees him.

mark grayson, who talks to super!reader about Seance Dog, and shows her the comics. he worries about her viewing him as a complete nerd, and she does tease him, but she listens to him talk. krypto took great interest in the hero dog, and seemed to become jealous whenever mark praised the character.

one time, super!reader found krypto in marks room, with ripped pieces of the comic around him, looking quite pleased with himself (if dogs can look like that). she had to fly across five states to get that issue and replace it before mark saw.

(she has to reassure krypto that he’s the only hero dog in her heart. she asks mark to tell him the same. he does.)

super!reader, who is asked by nolan to help with marks training. she helps mark with his flying, and is much kinder than his father while guiding him through the air. she jokes that she’s ready to catch him if he falls. mark laughs, but is secretly imagining it.

and one day, on some mission, she does catch him. he’s in her arms, bridal style, and she’s smirking at him. he goes red, and mumbles something about how he was “just about to catch himself.” she laughs. he’s never noticed how . . . firm her arms were before, but now he can feel them. after that, he has to make an effort to not stare at her arms for too long.

even though she’s helping nolan train mark, viltrumites can be different to kryptonians so she’s quiet for some parts. she laughs behind her hand as nolan asks mark to hit him and mark misses. mark punches her in the shoulder, and she gasps at the power which was able to send her away a few meters. she retaliates by sending him into the atmosphere. (all in good fun of course) (nolan gave them both a lecture on “professional and mature usage of powers.”)

super!reader, who likes her newfound trio of superhero’s. she laughs about their costumes. about how hers is red and blue, nolan’s is red, and marks is blue. she likes their matching colours, even if they’re different shades. because those colours mean something to her.

mark grayson, who asks super!reader about Krypton. what it’s like, if she misses it, the people, the customs, the language. she answers all his questions with a twinge of sadness and longing.

super!reader, who mutters and mumbles under her breath in kryptonian, and then looks up at mark as if expecting him to respond or nod at what she just said. mark blinks back at her and gives her a slow thumbs-up, hoping that it’s appropriate for whatever she just said.

super!reader, who over pronounces some words and has a discreet accent in her voice. mark loves it. he notices it and can’t quite place it to any country. he imitates her one day as a tease, but instantly regrets it when he sees her shoulders fall and she becomes quiet. she’s gifted to a million apologies from him, and now he only ever encourages her to talk because he “likes hearing her voice.”

super!reader, who scribbles notes to mark and nolan. they’re mostly updates on any long term missions, or sometimes notes of gratitude to debbie. except, her handwriting is the messiest any of them has ever seen and a lot of words are just simply indistinguishable. mark sneaks them into his pockets and keeps them.

super!reader, who tunes into marks heartbeat when the night goes quiet. she doesn’t know why it brings her a sense of calm to hear the steady thumping, but it does, so she doesn’t complain.

super!reader, who instantly bonds with atom eve at first meeting. she immediately loves the girl, as she’s her first female friend. she marvels at her powers, and atom eve marvels at super!readers. sometimes atom eve will construct a heavy object (like a car) and super!reader will bench it. it gives them a both a chance to show off.

one time super!reader asked nolan for a penny. he was confused, but handed her one anyway. she thanked him before excitedly pressing it into atom eves hand. she watched in awe as atom eve changed the faces into the different people she called out.

super!reader and atom eve, who whisper and giggle to each other over nonsense while mark rolls his eyes and mutters “girls . . .” under his breath.

mark grayson, who basks in the praise that super!reader gives him when he shows her his costume for the first time. she compliments the ‘i’ on it. he thanked her, but doesn’t admit that he took inspiration from the ‘S’ on her suit.

he does tell her eventually. months later, when they’re sitting on a rooftop somewhere. she smiles and says, “that’s flattering, but I didn’t choose the ‘S’ because of my name.”

he gives her a confused look and asks what it means then. she looks at the sky for a moment and replies, “on my planet, it means ‘hope.”

and that’s what she’s provided him with. that’s what she’s provided Earth with. and he couldn’t be more grateful.

[masoncantthinkofaname]

Death, respawning, and more

I've had multiple people approach me about these topics recently, and I have also seen a few posts about it. So I decided to throw in my two cents, for those interested.

Obviously, be warned for the topics that will be discussed here, skip past this if you're uncomfortable. But if anything this is meant to be reassuring, not scary. Also keep in mind I'm not promoting anything, simply educating.

Yes, I have died before, in a reality similar to the one we're in right now. Got an internal bleeding in my stomach, died, and went to an afterlife. That afterlife was more like a waiting room of some kind, I don't know whether it had all the comforts I needed, or if things manifested instantly, but my husband was there, it was nothing scary. When I realised I died, and wanted to go back, I came to a version of this place where I didn't die.

You are immortal. You always will be immortal. Death is an experience in the 3d. You are not the 3d, you are simply experiencing it. Nothing, and I mean nothing can ever stop you from shifting. You die? You shift. You want to shift? You shift. You don't want to shift? You still shift. There's no end, no beginning, just existence.

That's why I always say there's no pressure, no rush, no hurry. There's no clock you're racing, because you literally have infinite time.

Whatever you want to happen after death is exactly what you will experience. You're always in control.

What about respawning? Permashifting? ''Cutting ties''

To be very direct. It's made up, just a comfort belief. There is no cutting ties when there were no ties to begin with. There's nothing to cut, nothing to let go of. You're not connected to this reality any more than you are connected to the reality where you have eyes between your buttcheeks.

Not only is there nothing you have to do to cut ties with here, there's also nothing you CAN do. The most you can intend for is that you simply don't remember this place, if you truly don't want to associate with it at all. But I promise you, nothing is tying you here, nothing is connecting you to this place.

But that also means, you always can come back, if you want to. You're infinite, remember? You always have a choice, in every single thing you do. Even if you permashift, respawn, or anything else, you can always come back if you feel like it. And similarly, you can always forget about this place and decide you never want to return.

As many of you probably know by now, me and my husband have sort of respawned ourselves. A fresh start, a new life, with no memory of this place. Except we intended to remember it at some point, which, after like 300, maybe 400 years, brought us back here for now.

Again, it's your life. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want it, however you want it. Like I've said before, the only rule is that there are no rules.

You're exactly where you're meant to be. No need to put pressure on yourself, enjoy the ride. Nothing can take this ability away from you, I promise! 💚

[tinysunshine]

‎ 𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 & 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 ━━━ ✧˖°

‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘, 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐓?

‎ part one + dbf! rick and daryl masterlist

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” Daryl asks, holding back a scoff at the expression on Rick’s face. As close as they’ve gotten over these last few years, like brothers, and even closer now with everything involving you, Daryl still doesn’t like to feel on the spot. He’s uncomfortable with the way Rick’s looking at him. 

Like he’s smug. Or a little pissed. Or jealous? Shit, maybe the reason Daryl hates it so much is because he can’t read Rick at all. 

Rick shrugs. They’re sitting in the living room, and Rick’s drinking a beer while Daryl holds your glass of water while you grab something upstairs. He could set the cup on the table, sure - but it didn’t even cross his mind. You were cuddling against his side, tucked up all nice and snug under his arm, and then you got up and pecked his cheek when Rick told you to go get ready for dinner, asked if he could hold your water for you since you’d been sipping on it. 

Daryl follows rules really fuckin’ well. He’s not the rebel people make him out to be, not even close. But now he feels a little embarrassed about it, with Rick looking at him and all, so he puts the cup down and wipes the condensation off on his pant leg. He grunts, while Rick laughs and shakes his head. Daryl scowls. 

“Nothin’, man,” Rick promises, although it’s obvious now that he’s teasing Daryl. He always does, whenever he sees how far gone the older man is for you. How in love he is. Which is funny, because Rick still thinks he plays it cool around you. Still thinks nobody can tell that he’d ask how high if you told him to jump, that he tries to satisfy your every whim as long as it doesn’t jeopardize your safety - pretends he’s all dominant and Daddy and whatever else, and that might be the case in the bedroom…

But it ain’t the case in regular, day to day life, that’s for sure. 

Daryl’s the same way. He just loves you, is all. You’re like an Apocalypse Barbie, all pink and soft and cute and sweet but tough when you need to be, in a world where women like that don’t exist anymore. Daryl never realized how much he missed femininity, until you came along with all your frills and princess demands and pink panties and makeup, keep trying to put blush on his cheeks just to See, Daryl, you’ve got great cheekbones. Look! 

Don’t even get him started about what he saw the other day, when he walked in on you tying a purple ribbon around the handle of an axe.

Daryl wants to tell Rick that it’s obviously not nothing, and to stop fucking teasing him because he hates that shit, but then you come down the stairs and you plop yourself down next to him again, looking to your water glass on the table. There’s strawberries in the glass because you wanted fancy water so you cut them up and added them to the pitcher in the fridge, and it must be for decoration because Daryl tasted those strawberries and they tasted sour. They taste like ass, except - 

Well, Daryl’s only tasted one ass, and it was yours, and truth be told, you didn’t taste bad at all. Better than those strawberries at least. God, he’s blushing, so he turns his focus on you, except you’re glaring at him. 

Like an angry kitten. Big eyes, nose sort of scrunched up. You still look cute, even when you’re pissed. He’s confused, until you poke him in the chest with your little finger, nails painted with something sparkly. “I told you to hold my water, Daryl,” you’re pouting, and you’re upset over something so stupid that Daryl just kind of wants to kiss the pout off of you. He tries to, but you pull away. 

So you’re doing this game again. The brat role, where nothing is good enough for you until Daryl or Rick forces you to take it. Which is fine, he supposes. Daryl can work with that. 

“No kisses. I told you to hold it, and you put it on the table. You never listen to me, Daryl. I swear, it’s like,” but Rick cuts you off, as he always does when you start your little filibuster of fake crimes either one of them committed. Sometimes Daryl hates that Rick always cuts you off, because he likes to hear the bullshit you’re spewing because it’s just so damn ridiculous. You’re smart, the way you can make mountains out of molehills. Actually takes some brains to be so ridiculous. 

But Rick cuts in. “Leave him alone, would you?” Daryl thinks Rick is standing up for him, but instead he says, “I could’ve held it for you. You didn’t even ask.” 

It’s been like that lately. Petty between the two of them, and Daryl hates it. As close as he and Rick are, nothing can really prepare a man for sharing the woman he loves. 

Daryl’s just glad Merle’s not alive to see him like this - sharing a bed most nights with Rick and you. The other night his foot accidentally brushed against Rick’s and it was so uncomfortable. Somehow even more uncomfortable than the way their dicks accidentally touched when they were both inside of you a few weeks ago. Daryl’s face is definitely pink from the memory of double penetrating you with his best friend, but your bickering with Rick stops his boner before it even starts. 

You roll your eyes, one of your favorite things to do around them. “I’m just teasing him, Rick. Just wanted him to put me in my place,” Daryl actually lets out a laugh at that. You’re so funny. So honest. “You’ve both been neglecting me so much lately,” you whine, and while you’re definitely being a little dramatic, especially since one of them is almost always somewhere around you if not physically with you, the both of them have had their hands full with duties in the community. 

On the walker front, things are stable. The community has enough supplies, and plenty of trustworthy, able bodied residents. Every job is filled, every person has a place to sleep, and things are good. Better than ever, although sometimes Daryl wonders if that’s just because he’s in love. 

Maybe everything looks better with you in his heart. 

But that sappy shit still makes him feel weird, so he just replies to you. Places a hand on your thigh. 

“Just busy, you know. With all those threats. You know we’ve all been on guard, tryin’ to figure out what we saw out there,” Daryl doesn’t say as much as he planned to, because Rick shoots him a look that reminds Daryl that they talked about this. Disagreed actually, because Rick doesn’t want you to know about the potential danger outside of this community, and Daryl thinks you deserve a right to know about everything. You’re grown. You’re smart.

But Daryl’s kept his mouth shut to avoid any drama between him and Rick. He already hears enough bullshit from him about making your hair smell like cigarette smoke whenever you join him on a smoke break (and you still won’t admit to Rick that you like to smoke too), or from keeping you up too late when you play cards with him and Abraham over at Abe’s place that he shares with some of the others from the group. Shit like that.

Daryl doesn’t need anything else to create tension between him and Rick. So he’s kept the secret from you, about the dead bodies that they’ve found when they’re on runs, bodies that have been brutally murdered, and the people they’ve met that have tried to harm them.

Alexandria has been doing great, but there’s shit scarier than walkers out behind the gates. Rick doesn’t want to worry you, and neither does Daryl, but - 

He supposes it’s a worry for another time. You’ve all got to get to dinner, remind the rest of the group that Daryl and Rick aren’t a pair of perverts that keep you locked up in the house. 

Your brows furrow, and then you place your hand on top of Daryl’s and lean up to kiss him. “Alright,” you grumble against his lips, surprisingly agreeable. Daryl’s focused on you, but he can feel Rick staring, probably a little tipsy from his beer and maybe even a little turned on, watching the two of you together. He’s admitted he likes it before, watching, but it still feels weird to Daryl. 

He’s into this whole thing because of you. He loves you, and he wants whatever you want. Sure, it’s hot, watching you blow Rick, or call him Daddy while you ride the cock of a man that was already grown before you were even born. But that’s just because he’s a man, and any man seeing that shit would pop a boner.

But it’s not the main thing that turns him on, the two of you together. You turn him on, and it’s not because of Rick, or what you two do together. What the three of you do together. Daryl realizes that he’s so into you because he trusts you, has bonded with you emotionally, which is why he’s able to get intimate with you in more ways than just fucking you. He loves you, and it’s the first time in his entire life that he’s ever felt this way. 

“Good girl,” they both praise, accidentally at the same time - although Rick’s has a tone of something degrading and mocking, while Daryl’s good girl is genuine. The silence that follows them saying the same thing at the same time is long, and you freeze before letting out a laugh, standing up and taking Daryl’s hand. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” you say, and it sounds innocent coming out of your mouth, but it’s far from it. When you say it, you look directly at Daryl, and maybe you just really want him right now, because you get like that sometimes, horny for just one of them, which is understandable. Daryl can’t believe you’re even able to walk with the amount they both fuck you, honestly.

Or maybe you're just trying to piss Rick off - which you do, every damn day. Daryl doesn’t know your reasoning.

What he does know, is that his dick starts chubbing up almost immediately as the name leaves your pretty mouth, and he lets go of your hand to rudely re-adjust himself in his jeans before smacking you on the ass on the way out of the door. 

He doesn't have to look behind him at Rick to know that he’s jealous. 

Rick says that he doesn’t get jealous, but Daryl knows that he does. Doesn’t know why Rick even pretends like he doesn’t, because it’s natural and it makes pretty damn good sense why he’d feel that way. 

Daryl feels it all the time. When Rick gets you all to himself some nights, when he hears the headboard pounding against the wall and neither one of you invited him in the room. He feels it, burning hot in his chest, when people say you guys are such a cute couple when they see you and Rick together, and a million more examples he could think of that hurt. 

But Daryl takes it out on you in bed, in the way that you like, with his tongue or his fingers or his cock, sometimes with a hand placed carefully around your throat. And sometimes he gives Rick a taste of his own medicine. Daryl planned to do that tonight, but you beat him to it, calling him Daddy when that’s a word meant for Rick. 

It’s just that - you’ve been doing it more and more lately. Calling Daryl Daddy. For a long while, he had a feeling that he was just the third wheel in whatever romantic adventure you and Rick were on. He thought that you liked Rick but you didn’t want Daryl to lose feelings for you, so you let him hang around. You assured him that wasn’t the case, but still - it was hard not to feel that way. But as time has gone on, he’s starting to believe you. 

Daddy. The most special word to you. You call Daryl by that name all the time now, but it’s less about sex and dominance with him like it is with Rick, and more about the feeling of safety. Being taken care of.

Daryl loves it. 

Daddy, open my soda can? I got a scratch on my finger, you’ll say, as if those things are correlated in any way, as if you need to make up reasons for Daryl to dote on you, but you’ll hop on yout tip toes for a second, looking all cute and innocent, or your tits will jiggle when you bend over the counter to hand the can to him - and, fuck. Truth is, you ask and Daryl always delivers, so he does whatever you need and kisses the tip of your nose. 

Sometimes you get scared at night, because the world is a fucking scary place, and sometimes you just want some extra comfort. Will sit on his lap on the couch and ask him to hold you (as if you have to ask) or pull the covers halfway up over your head when you’re in his bed, head on his chest, just seeking some comfort with the soft murmur of Daddy leaving your mouth. 

And, yeah, okay - it’s sexual too. Whining Daddy and damn near ripping his hair out when he’s between your thighs with two fingers curved inside your tight pussy and his tongue on your throbbing clit, or when you’re bouncing on his cock like a fucking bunny. 

The jealousy that Rick feels is valid, and Daryl understands. In a way, that feeling just goes straight to his dick. Makes him horny and angry and fired up when the roles are reversed, but for right now? He enjoys the feeling of Rick’s eyes on your hand that’s interlocked with his. ‘S what the fucker gets anyway, for hogging you the entire night last night. 

Rick’s just jealous ‘cause Daryl’s got himself a title now too.

Daddy. Yeah, Daryl’s pretty sure Daddy is better than boyfriend any day.

────

When the community is doing well, it usually means that Rick is exhausted. 

Granted, he’s been exhausted every single day, every single second, for the last few years - and he’s pretty sure everyone still alive feels the same way. If there’s ever a day, or a week, where things feel hopeful and exciting and good - he can pretty much guarantee a storm of shit will follow soon after, a pattern he’s starting to recognize by now. 

Rick’s a little scared at what he’s discovered outside of the gates. Miles and miles away from home base, sure, but seeing the bodies of people strung up to trees, gutted like fish, branded and hurt and just - 

He doesn’t really want to think about it at dinner. Told Daryl he’d put those thoughts away for tonight, because the likelihood of anything happening over a plate of Deanna’s shitty brussel sprouts and Carol’s potato salad really isn’t likely. So Rick’s trying to enjoy himself, taking whatever alcohol is offered and keeping his eyes on you. 

Everyone wants to talk to him, because he’s the leader, so he listens and answers and tells Deanna he doesn’t care if the chicken meat she’s serving is white or dark, but he’s not really paying attention to anything except for you. Nothing else matters when you’re around - and that’s amazing, but it’s also really fucking dangerous, but it’s not your fault. You can’t control how lovable you are, but sometimes Rick wishes he could go back in time and kick your dad’s ass for making such a perfect woman. 

He has those thoughts in his more insane bouts of anger and frustration, but. You know what? He’s going to drink to that. Takes a big sip of wine and pretends like he's a normal boyfriend. That he doesn’t share his girlfriend, who’s young enough to be his daughter, with his best friend who’s also old enough to be her father. That he’s not going to take you home after this and fuck you until it hurts to walk, just to take all his frustration out on you. Sexually, that is.

Because you love that shit. It’s never hard enough for you, never rough enough. And maybe you’re just a brat, trying to get Rick to go deeper and faster to get a rise out of him, but sometimes he feels like he can’t keep up with you. 

Little Miss Virgin, his ass. You might’ve been a virgin when he first fucked you, but you were far from sexually inexperienced, and Rick feels jealous all over again just thinking about you with other guys. 

And a little turned on, which further irritates him. Maybe what you said is true - told him you learned, in a psychology course, that men deal with anxiety by getting angry. You’re a little smarty pants, and Rick loves you so much, but.

He’s just in a mood today.

Daryl always tells him to stop being so rough with you. Left fuckin’ bruises on her man, he said the other day, flipped out about you limping after they fucked you at the same time, and he really hates it if he’s around whenever Rick gives you a little slap on the cheek. It doesn’t matter how many times you tell Daryl that you want it, it still upsets him to witness you getting hurt. Because Daryl can be rough because that’s just who he is. It’s accidental. He’s big, a little uncoordinated, whereas Rick really does try to make you take more. 

It’s hard sharing you, but Rick knew it would be. But he also knows Daryl, and he knows you, and for a situation like this, he quite literally couldn't pick a better man to share his girl with. Daryl’s such a great guy, such a good friend, and he treats you so damn well that it feels nice to know you've got someone else. In case something ever happened to Rick, or even the other way around. 

He and Daryl have talked about it, what it would be like if something happened to either one of them. At least you’d still be taken care of, because the likelihood of one of them getting hurt isn't zero. Not in this world. It feels nice to know that no matter what, you’d be okay.

And, both Rick and Daryl tell themselves that to feel better, to push away the guilt of double-teaming their dead friend’s daughter. To keep her safe. But, hey. Whatever gets them through the day.

Maggie asks Rick something too serious for this dinner, so he brushes her off as nicely as he can, but then he sees you from the corner of his eye giggling with Spencer, and Rick wants you to have friends, but come on. What could you possibly talk about with Spencer? Rick just doesn’t like the guy, never has. Even before you said he looked like he could be a model for a surfing brand one night to Rosita. Whatever. 

Rick is not having a good time tonight. Just internally. He feels edgy and he feels like he wants you, all to himself, with a lock on the bedroom door and his dick buried so far inside of you he could get you pregnant in just one shot, but. Here he is. 

When you laugh a little louder, Rick hears Daryl call Spencer’s name to take his attention off of you, and he does it so smoothly that nobody else probably realizes why he did it. Or maybe they do, because the entire group does know about the three of you. They think it’s weird as shit. Rick knows this, and has had people in the community question just how reliable and trustworthy and good both him and Daryl are, but the other man set them straight. 

Really, people are more afraid of Daryl than they are of Rick. 

“The fuck you care for? Don’t needa tell anyone who I’m stickin’ my dick in. Rick don’t have to tell you shit neither,” he snapped at the first person to voice their concern, and then followed it up with, “‘And ‘s not gay, before one of you fucks tries to say sumthin.’ More gay to worry about who I’m fuckin’, if you ask me.” 

And, yeah, that shut people up. But both Daryl and Rick still try to keep the PDA to a minimum around you, although you make it impossible. It’s why he’s sitting across from you, and Daryl is a few people down from you at this large table, because they both want to give the group space from this. They know it’s weird. Saw the looks on people’s faces when they were leaving for a few days on a run and you hugged and kissed them both, practically sandwiched between them in front of everyone.

People think it’s wrong, or they don’t want to think about it at all. They don’t like it. Rick gets that. If he wasn’t apart of it, he’d probably think the same thing too.

But for right now, he’s just glad that Daryl hates Spencer just as much as he does. 

Without Spencer to talk to, you finally focus on eating. Rick watches you push a pea around your plate, thinks the way you tease Eugene and try to take a bite of his mashed potatoes is funny, until he retaliates and grabs your bread roll off your plate, and since Gabriel is sitting next to Rick, he notices when the man almost falls out of his chair, making a scene until someone says there’s cake. 

Rick doesn’t even have to hear him say it to know you fucked up with a game of footsie. Which sucks, because Rick would’ve had fun playing with you right now. Too far to the right, sweetheart, he wants to tell you, but you brush it off rather well, stick your tongue out at Daryl who shakes his head like you’re crazy, and Rick just feels sorry for Glenn and Eugene who’re sitting between you two. 

Finally, when dinner is about to end, when Rick starts to feel some relief - 

It happens. 

It starts with Deanna offering someone the last scoop of mashed potatoes, and then you say you want it, are about to split it with Tara, and everything is fine. Rick doesn’t even know he’s supposed to be bracing himself for what’s about to happen. The mashed potatoes are on your plate, you’re bragging to Eugene that you got the last serving, and then -

“Daddy, can you please pass the salt?” 

It’s like he’s on autopilot. The name is just so familiar, Rick’s trained to answer to it. There’s some salt in the middle of the table, a cute little ceramic shaker that Deanna must’ve paid a lot for before, handpainted, and he reaches for it while in a conversation with Carol when his fingers brush against Daryl’s, and -

Fucking hell.

Rick’s never felt so awkward. And in all the time he’s spent with Daryl out on the road, seeing terrifying things - the look on the other man’s face when they both realize what happened has more terror on it than Rick has ever seen before.

He swears his entire body turns the color of a tomato, and his neck starts heating up, so much so that he jerks his hand away from the salt shaker and starts pulling at the collar of his shirt. Daryl clears his throat, but he does hand you the salt, all the while Abraham hoots with laughter at the end of the table, slamming his hands down so hard his plate almost bounces off.

“Oh, shit,” he teases, shaking his head like he’s proud. “You know what they said. The prettiest girls got the worst daddy issues. It’s in the Bible or something,” and he’s drunk, and he’s wrong, and Rosita smacks him so hard on the back of the head that Rick’s actually a little concerned, but you seem just jolly.

Pouring your salt and complimenting Deanna on the potatoes, while Daryl literally gets up and walks outside, grumbling something about never coming to another dinner again, and all Rick can think about is the fact that you could’ve easily grabbed the salt shaker yourself. Spoiled brat.

You know what?, Rick thinks. Fuck it. The truth is out, he can’t take it back. So much for no PDA or keeping your bedroom activities and the dynamic of the relationship on the down low. He stands up, says he’ll see everyone bright and early tomorrow, and fixes you with a look. You’re familiar with it.

It’s the same one he wears when he tells you to get on your knees or lectures you about running off. You’re well trained, and you show it by quickly standing up, no longer the playful little minx that had Rick walking on eggshells during dinner.

Rick walks to you and grabs your hand while you say a quick goodnight to everyone, then he tugs you along back to the house you share.

“You need to be more fuckin’ careful,” he warns, dropping your hand to pinch at the back of your neck while he leads you to the house. Not too rough, but enough to get you to know that he’s serious. That it’s not cool to pull that shit, although something like pride is starting to rear its head inside of him as you both make your way up the porch steps, where Rick can see Daryl, already in the living room with the lights on, from the window.

“You’re so grumpy today,” you complain, but Rick ignores you. Doesn’t want to start bickering before he gets to fuck you.

Mine, he thinks, knowing you pulled that whole stunt on purpose. Mine, mine, mine. Everyone knows that you’re his. Daryl’s. Theirs. What’s he got to be embarrassed about? Rick’s done enough for this entire community to have what he wants without judgment, hasn’t he? Daryl too. ‘S what he deserves. What Daryl deserves. A pretty girl like you, even when you’re an attention seeking little brat.

And a pretty girl like you deserves two men who know how to give you what you want. They’re better for you than some idiot guy around your age. Better for you than someone like Spencer, who couldn’t be the man you needed him to be even if he tried.

Rick’s not jealous. Seriously. He just hates that guy.

Rick’s in a significantly better mood now that he’s away from everyone, knowing that he can charge you with some petty crimes to punish you, and hopefully this time - get Daryl in on it, instead of that good cop, bad cop shit. If they tire you out enough, maybe you won’t make such a big fucking fuss when he tells you they’re leaving tomorrow to go investigate the threats outside the walls.

But tonight is for fun.

“Can’t have two Daddies, you know. Gotta think of sumthin’ else to call Daryl,” Rick says. He leads you up the stairs, and he follows with Daryl following him, and he can’t see it but the other man just shakes his head.

“Think I earned that title fair and square, man. Made her cum six times the other night,” a little pause, when they get to the door of the Rick’s bedroom and block the doorway while you get on the bed. Your dress is slipping off your shoulder, and later that night, Rick will tell you he knows you did that salt thing on purpose, because you’re an exhibitionist little brat. Could see how wet you were, from the spot on your panties as you took your clothes off for him and Daryl while you were on the bed.

But for now, in the present, Daryl takes his shirt off. “She can have two Daddies if she wants. Can have anything she wants,” he promises, walking closer to the bed.

Rick’s already taking his belt off. He laughs, loves how much Daryl loves you, before shutting the bedroom door. And just in case, he locks it.

“Whatever you say, Uncle Daryl.”

“Fuck off,” Daryl replies, and then you whine, tossing your panties in the direction of the both of them.

“No, fuck me already!”

‎ just a little oneshot bc i missed my bfs 🩷 part two coming soon!

[cavernsandcod]

(visit part one and two if you haven't.)

fig. 3 of price asking simon a favor. (i.e, the cuck au atp) | 0.9k

cw: nsfw themes, smut, marital issues, infidelity, stalking?

───────────────

Simon was more excited than he would ever admit.

At least at first, he was.

You’re a seriously boring person. Sleep, wake up, eat, binge a show, sleep again. Might go to the shops for a day if he’s lucky—but then he’s got to watch you spend an hour shopping for underwear.

Exhausting, really. Not the drama he was expecting from watching Price’s neglected wife.

Bedtime became the most interesting. Probably his favorite. From the brush, he had a perfect few of your little routines.

If John was home that night, you’d give him a goodnight kiss and lay beside him in the dark until he fell asleep, and he always did first. You’d turn on the lamp and pull out a good book, giggling and blushing at damn near every page. Pathetic.

Those nights were nothing compared to when your husband wasn’t home. When you knew John would have a late one and end up snoring into paperwork until early morning. The bored housewife, too repressed to open up about her needs. If he only watched you during day hours, he might think you were a prude.

How wrong he was.

The goodnight text from John was your signal to finally let loose.

The moment your shoulders relax and you sink into the sheets to dig in your bedside drawer. You spend at least ten minutes writhing and moaning against them, teasing your cunt with your favorite vibrator. Probably imagining the shirtless, washboard ab blokes from the books. Even more pathetic.

It got to a point where Simon was tempted to break the rules. To storm in there and put an end to the way you danced around each other. John was obviously at a standstill, some sort of mid-life, war dog crisis.

And you, rightfully so, were bored out of your mind.

You ache for someone with a bite. Someone static, yet not monotonous. Someone like the ghost watching from your yard.

Thank Christ for spontaneity.

The night you found out your husband would be gone for weeks in Istanbul, you were determined for action. Instead of staying at home and rinsing and repeating your sad routine, you went on the hunt for company; a rough fuck without strings.

It was so, so wrong. But, there you were. A lonely bird in a pub with wandering eyes.

Simon knew it was wrong, too. Not enough to stop. Fucking you was the one thing he could never ever take back or mitigate when all was said and done.

He stood at the entrance and snuffed out his cigarette, balaclava shoved in his pocket. He needed his face for this on the off chance you ever took note of him on base.

The sneaking suspicion in him says you won’t be looking at it much, though.

That’s not why you’re here. It’s obvious you’re on the prowl. God knows how many offers you’d be getting if he weren’t here to hold them off.

You bat your lashes at almost every bloke that walks by, even though your rock is on full display. None of the young, eager ones catch your eye.

You’re looking for grit. Experience. Mass. Everything in your husband except the man himself. Thankfully, that paints a perfect picture of the man stalking toward you.

“Kentucky, on the rocks.” Simon places his hands on the bartop, his right dangerously close to the shiny diamond on your left one.

His voice is gravel and curt, reeking of sin. Of course you look.

You don’t say anything at first. His mug is more intimidating than the mask. He lifts his first drink and takes a quick sip, hooded eyes burning through you.

“You ‘ere alone?” He asks gruffly, eyeing the perk of your tits. Even better up close than the pictures in the captain’s office. “Or are you waiting for a someone special?”

“Yes and no.” You reply, raising a skinny, black straw to your glossy lips. Your voice is smoother with the cocktail in your system, oozing from the holes in your life that need filled. “Are you special?”

"Could be." He chuckles and it's a chilling sound. You don't flinch, only wave down the bartender and eye-fuck him for the nth time. Simon could've taken you right there, in front of everyone, wedding ring still on and all.

Simon sniffs, setting down his now empty drink.

"I've got a better bottle in my flat. Has your name on it." His tone hardly sounds like flirting—barely polite, even—and you still swoon, practically drooling. There's no way he's making the short drive without being inside you.

A thick pinky settles on your left hand, twitching against the diamond to remember the man who gave it to you.

"Do whatever you have to."

You nod at him, teeth digging into your bottom lip; a nervous tick he picked up on weeks ago. It doesn't stop you from scooting off the stool and following him out of the pub either, giggling up at what you believe to be a willing stranger.

"You're the only one I trust, Simon."

He knows why now. It's better a trusted gun in your pants than some sleaze. Perhaps this wasn't what the captain had in mind when he asked him to keep you safe.

Maybe this, maybe that.

It all goes out the window when he's looking down at you splayed across his backseat, eyes pooling with tears that beg for love. Your fingers bite into his ribs as an anchor, legs wide from being split open more than you've ever been before.

Instead of giving you comfort the way a husband would—he licks at them and pistons his cock into you harder.

It's what you need. Whatever it takes.