#it was supposed to be a drabble

[pastafossa]

NSFW but you should all know the reason the tuna tober fic (prompt: 69) is delayed from me yesterday and today is because matt decided that a fic for that under 1k words was not acceptable, so here i am editing almost 5k words of completely pussy drunk matt getting his dick sucked to within an inch of his life, i am sending him directly to horny jail after this

[rogue-durin-16]

Me waiting for rogue to give us a update to feed my delusional self

On it my darling ✍🏻✍🏻

[vaciena]

Why has my “how did this affect them??” fic turned into a massive plot line

[humanjarvis]

tantrum

synopsis: what makes sylus snap?

tags: fluff, sylus is tired and grumpy bc he misses you, he obliterates his phone with his evol, sunshine reader probably, cartoonish luke and kieran appearance (sorry boys) word count: 842

a/n: after that magnum opus line i really wanted to see sylus throw a tantrum and i kept mulling over what would actually make him do that because i can’t see him doing anything much worse than this. i think he’d find Actual grown man tantrums lame. anyway i don’t like this and will maybe delete? nvm but i had the writing urge so i sacrificed this concept from my wips. 

When you arrived at the base after your three-week business trip, your long-awaited homecoming was…tame, to say the least. You’d been expecting a teasing “How nice of you to join us, sweetie,” or a cocky yet vulnerable “I was beginning to think you’d run away.” But once you’d stepped through the front door, Sylus had barely said a word. A soft “Welcome home” and a kiss on the forehead, and before you knew it, you were cradled in his arms as he carried you to his office.

He’d sat you both down in his leather armchair, making you face him in a straddle. His tired eyes had searched yours, and a moment later, he’d buried his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. 

“I missed you,” you’d murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to his hair. With a quiet groan, he’d tightened his grip on your hips and nuzzled into you even deeper.

That’d been 15 minutes ago. Basking in the comfortable silence, you’d traded kisses all the while—yours on his hair, his on your neck. 

But suddenly, a low buzzing noise cuts your reunion short: his phone is ringing.

When he makes no effort to answer, still breathing heavily in your embrace, you twist in his arms and accept the call before he can protest. 

A familiar voice crackles over the line. “Boss?” Kieran asks. “Next meeting’s in 10. The one about those stolen shipments from Linkon—we’ve been waiting to hear back for months. You coming?”

Sylus doesn’t answer.

“…Boss?” Kieran repeats. “Boss, you there? You oka—”

Red and black mist shreds the phone into pieces. 

“Sylus!” you yelp, jumping in his lap. “What’d you do that for? He’ll probably be worried. And how will I text you now?”

You pout up at him, and as you study his chronically calm expression, you see something unusual: Sylus’s eye twitches. Just for a millisecond, only moving a millimeter, but you catch it.

“I’ll have a new one delivered tomorrow. As for the meeting, I’ll stay here,” he says lightly, a tight, closed-lip smile on his face.

“But Kieran said it was important,” you reply in confusion. “Why don’t you want to go? Are you feeling sick?” you frown, starting to lift off of him.

“No,” comes his too-quick reply. “It’s just…the twins can go in my stead,” he decides simply, moving to lean into you again.

But before he can move an inch, a rhythmic sequence of knocks sounds at the door.

“Come in!” you chirp happily, too excited to see the faces you’d missed the last few weeks to notice Sylus stiffening under you.

Immediately, the door swings open, revealing two masked figures. 

“Hi Luke, hi Kieran!” you beam, and they wave back at you eagerly.

“Long time no see,” Kieran begins. “Boss, did you lose signal or something? I tried calling you about the meeting, but I think it disconnected. Anyway, we’re about to head down and—”

“Cancel it,” a frustrated growl rings out.

You all freeze.

Somehow, you’d been too wrapped up in your excitement to feel Sylus's body shaking—no, quaking—beneath you.

“W-what? But they’re already here!” Luke sputters.

“Cancel. It.” Sylus grits out the words as if holding back a snarl, and the power in his voice leaves no room for argument. 

“O…kay,” the boys say in unison, and as they back away slowly, you shoot them a sympathetic look.

Red tendrils wrench the door shut behind them, and when you’re alone once more, it’s like the man under you deflates.

His head returns to the crevice of your neck with a soft but unceremonious thud, and his deep exhales and burning hot skin tell you he’s trying to calm himself down. 

Uncertain and a little amazed—you’d never seen him lose his composure—you give his cheek a gentle poke. “Sylus,” you whisper. Nothing. 

“Psst. Sylus,” you try again, and there’s some force behind your poke this time. With bated breath, you watch as your finger sinks into the space under his cheekbone, sighing in relief when the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. 

Lifting his head up to make eye contact, you smile at him softly. “Hi.”

“…Hi,” he rumbles, and as his crimson gaze softens, the remaining annoyance dissolves from his face.

“Are you upset?” you prod gently. 

A brazen scoff precedes the dry chuckles that fall from his lips. “And what makes you say that, kitten?”

A squint and a slight tilt of your head is all it takes. 

“I haven’t had you to myself in a while,” he begins cautiously. “Three weeks is…a long time. The longest we’ve been apart. And then the moment I have you in my arms, well…” he trails off, gesturing to the shards of phone on the table. “I just want to enjoy you right now. Undisturbed.”

“Oh, I see,” you coo, cupping his face in your hands. “Is this your way of saying you missed me too?” you quirk a brow.

“Yes,” he responds through squished cheeks, honest and unabashed. “Now, won’t you stay with me like this for a little longer?”

[softaestluv]

more of Ghost’s sweet wife from this blurb! | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Ghost’s sergeant’s are still trying to figure out how a sweet thing like yourself ended up as their Lieutenant’s wife. Rumors spread, ones that bruise Ghost’s ego just a little— ‘Did you hear the Lieutenant is holding a poor lass hostage as his wife?’

It doesn’t help that anytime anyone asks he chalks it up to his ‘irresistible charm.’

The truth? Well he can’t let his team know how utterly soft he is for you.

It would ruin his image if he told them that when he’s not on base he spends his spare time at his elderly neighbor’s apartment. Carries her mail up the stairs everyday so she doesn’t have to climb up the stairs herself, helps her up them whenever he does see her shaking and stumbling up the steps.

Asks her if she needs anything from the market when he’s going shopping, takes her to get refills of her medicine. Always makes himself available to her no matter how minuscule, opens stubborn jars for her, helps her read the tiny font on her prescription bottles, fixes the time on her clocks when the time changes.

Her glorified maintenance boy, and truthfully, Simon was more than happy to help. It felt good to be needed for something normal, so he replaced her light bulbs, drained her clogged sinks, fixed her lopsided wash machine with a smile.

Every Sunday morning, the same routine, tea and biscuits while she taught him how to crochet. It wasn’t exactly easy to hold the slender hooks in his thick fingers, but he could hold them steady long enough, zero his focus through a needle after years as a sniper. He was quite a patient person, and the stitching helped pass the days he was alone, numb his mind to nothing, but loop and thread.

Loop and thread.

It’s not like she was the only one benefiting from the agreement. It was quiet, peaceful, a much needed contrast to the draining and stressful occupation he put himself in. Most days he fell asleep in her recliner, always had her heater a little warmer than needed, the smell of pastries she was baking wafting from the kitchen. Made her living room entirely too comfortable, but she didn’t mind when he took naps, even if he was sure he snored like a bear.

Insisted he call her ‘Gran,’ even if she wasn’t his grandmother. Though, he supposed she acted like she was; baked him an abundance of pastries, always made more than enough dinner for two people. Gave him left overs for lunch— ‘a little lady like myself can’t finish it all alone, Simon.’

Plus, it led him to you.

There were days their conversations strayed to his relationship status. Single, of course, something Gran tried to change, dropping hints throughout their time together:

‘A young man like yourself should have a wife and kids by now, Simon!’

‘You sure are a handy man, you’ll make a great husband someday.’

‘You should meet my granddaughter, I think you two would get along swell.’

‘You know, my granddaughter can cook just as well. Taught her all my recipes.’

He always brushed it off; he wasn’t exactly looking to be in a relationship, but Gran was cunning, sneaky, and set the two of you up. Invited him over for dinner and to watch the football game on the telly one day. Except when he walked through her front door, calling for her, he saw your figure in the kitchen, adorned in an apron, covered in flour and sugar.

And well, he already called her ‘Gran,’ why not legally make her his grand-in-law?

[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?

[batsandbirdbrains]

Inspired by the one anon who asked abt fics where Dick turns out to be younger than people think he is and the recs that were given:

What if it’s like a scenario where Dick’s parents / the circus changed his age in documents so he could perform. And his age changed all the time on paper because different countries had different rules, even different cities/counties might not be the same as the one next to it. And so Dick sort of forgets how old he actually is most of the time, he just sticks with whatever his parents last told him.

And he was told he was eight when they were in Gotham. He was just short for his age because he’s a gymnast, that’s what they told anyone who questioned them.

In reality, Dick was five years old.

And by the time he remembered he should probably tell Bruce that, it’s already been too long. It’s several months after Bruce has taken him in, after he already has been Robin, and it just hits him one day that he’s going to be turning six in March. Bruce thinks he’s turning nine.

And Dick gets this horrible terrible no good idea in his head that if Bruce finds out he lied about his age, that Bruce will get rid of him. Won’t want him anymore. Will call him a dirty liar and kick him to the curb.

And Dick can’t lose his new home. He loves Bruce. He loves Alfred. And he loves being Robin. So he keeps it a secret and tries to forget that he’s three years younger than he’s supposed to be.

It’s a damn good thing Dick’s parents were rigorous in his schooling, and by some miracle he tests into the proper grade for his age when Bruce starts him at Gotham Academy. It’s a bumpy start, but it’s easily explained away by the slight language barrier. Dick actually speaks and reads English just fine, he learned it the same time he learned French and Romani and Arabic, but it’s a good excuse for why his penmanship is clumsy and why he starts out just slightly behind his peers.

He puts so much extra effort into his school work that by the time he’s supposed to be 13, it’s recommended he skip a grade. Bruce is so proud. Dick is somehow managing to get by as a ten year old in high school, and he cannot figure out how he’s pulling this shit off. Talk about being a showman, because it feels like he’s playing the world’s most impossible role.

But then something happens when Robin is on a team mission with the young justice season 1 team. Some magic shit. Maybe Klarion does something, maybe it’s like the episode where the adults get separated from the kids, but instead of it being everyone over 18 is separated from everyone under 18, it’s anyone who’s a teenager and up being separated from the kids who are all 12 and under.

And no one can figure out where Robin is. And also Captain Marvel is missing. What the fuck.

Bruce is fucking freaking out because he cannot figure out why Dick isn’t anywhere, why he can’t get ahold of him. He’s convinced Klarion must be holding him hostage or something.

And then you have Dick and Billy saving the day on their side, and Dick convinced him to try to transform into Captain Marvel. Billy doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t want to leave Robin alone if it makes him disappear to, but Dick assures him he’ll be fine, they’ll both be fine.

And then they come up with a plan yadda yadda the world is saved Dick and Billy save the day, the rest of the episode doesn’t matter.

But Batman pulls Robin aside immediately once they’re all back together and asks him what the hell just happened.

And Dick just starts crying. He’s so stressed out. This whole situation was so scary and he wasn’t actually all that confident the plans he’d made would work he only pretended to be so sure of himself so Billy could do his part and not be scared too. And also it’s really fucking stressful being a ten year old in high school. It’s very hard. Dick’s life is very difficult, and now his dad is finding out that he’s not as old as he’s been pretending to be, and everyone else is there and going to find out to, and he’s so overwhelmed.

“I didn’t mean to,” Dick says through full on sobs, and Bruce is so concerned and he’s hugging Dick and trying to calm him down, but Dick has gotten himself all worked up. “They changed my age all the time so I could perform, I’d be six in one city and eight in the next and seven in another and I just I forgot I wasn’t really any of those and then you adopted me and I forgot I wasn’t really eight until it was almost my birthday but it was too late to tell you and you would’ve been so mad and you wouldn’t have wanted me anymore and I didn’t know what to do!”

“Hey hey hey, slow down, slow down,” Bruce tells him, “take a deep breath. You need to breathe, Robin.”

But Dick just falls against Bruce’s shoulder and cries. He doesn’t want Bruce to think his parents were bad parents. Because they weren’t, they were the best. They just had to fudge some things so Dick could perform with them, so he could have fun up in the air with them, lots of people in the circus lie about their age!

“Oh, chum,” Bruce coos, resting his cheek on top of Dick’s head, rubbing his back. “I could never not want you. I love you, it doesn’t matter how old you are.”

“You do now!”

It makes Bruce’s heart shatter into pieces. Because Dick really thinks there was ever a time he didn’t have Bruce wrapped around his little finger, he doesn’t realize that Bruce has loved him from the first moment he wrapped the tiny little acrobat in his coat and carried him away from the puddle of blood he’d been kneeling in.

“I have always loved you,” he whispers. “And I always will. But chum, this is important. I need to know how old you really are.”

Dick sobs into his shoulder one more time before he lets out in a miserable whisper that everyone manages to hear, “Ten.”

And Batman damn near breaks. He lets out a shaky gasp, and his grip tightens on Robin as his knees buckle and he falls to the floor, now holding Robin tightly in his lap.

“You were five?” he asks. “Oh my God, you were five.”

Batman has a breakdown right then and there, but he keeps it very contained. He refuses to let go of Robin, just continues hugging him close and whispering that he loves him, he’s not mad at him, he would never ever get rid of him.

Idk what would happen after this but I know for certain Dick and Billy become bffs.

[kafrcknboombaby]

favorite color

reader who wears gloves mostly at all times like ghost. not because her hands are scarred, or ugly...

quite the opposite.

you were at the pub with the gang, and after a few, your body temperature naturally rose so you peeled off a glove.

to reveal painted, perfectly manicured nails.

nails that made ghost nearly drop his bourbon.

nails that ghost had to have marking anywhere and everywhere on his body tonight.

so naturally after walking you to your room later you invited him in because he wouldn't stop eyeing you at the bar.

"tha's a pretty color," he'd said, sitting down next to you, making you blush. "my favorite really..." he trailed off.

you'd made a wager on the way home that since he'd seen your hands, you should be able to see his face. he said that wasn't a fair bet, but he didn't sound very serious.

but this was serious.

you were straddling his lap in the pale, warm light of the nightstand lamp -- your bra and panties a stark contrast to his dark cargo pants and baclava. your fingertips were teasing at the base of his mask, a smirk growing on your face. his dark, blown-out eyes trained on yours.

"you think it's fair now?" you giggled, his bourbon on your breath seeping through his nostrils.

"if you take i' off, you have no idea wha' you'll be getting yourself into," he stated matter-of-factly.

your nails dug a little more into his neck, now with a firm grasp on the fabric. you gently leaned your head forward and settled your nose on his.

"and neither do you, simon."

his fingers dug into your hips hard at the mention of his name and he exhaled desperately as if he'd been holding it back all night.

as swiftly and carefully as you could, you nudged the edge of the mask over his chin and nose. the first thing you noticed was his hair -- a sandy blonde color that was disheveled with a few greys and low-set brows to match. his slightly crooked nose led down to his chapped, full lips. pink and pouty, like he'd been gnawing at them on the walk home.

but he didn't offer you the pleasure of a kiss, no no. he flipped you over flat onto you stomach as he laid his whole weight on top of you, bare mouth tickling against the shell of your ear. "i told you love," he growled while nudging one of your legs open with his knee. "no fuckin' idea."

his belt was unbuckled in record speed as he pulled your panties down just beneath your ass. he slipped an arm beneath your hips, holding you up a bit for him. he huffed when he felt how wet you were as he teased your entrance.

just as you opened your mouth to retort something, he bullied himself into you completely, settling against your cervix with a grunted moan. the breath was knocked from your lungs in the same fashion. well, whatever air you barely had left with his entire body consuming you. it was only a strained moan that came out and simon chuckled darkly.

you nipped that in the bud quickly by reaching back and throwing a hand in his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp -- hard.

he responded with another strong thrust that only made your nails sink deeper. his other arm reached around your neck as he settled you into a headlock. not too hard, but not nearly gentle. your other hand reached up to dig your nails into his forearm.

"such clean gorgeous nails on such a filthy fuckin' girl," he cooed. he fucked into you mercilessly, not giving you any time to adjust to his size nor the speed. your eyes rolled into the back of your head as your tongue lolled over your teeth, mind completely gone. with ringing ears, you could still make out every word.

"fuuuck swee'art, 'm trying not to fuck you dumb but i think you might already be there." the coiling in your stomach was growing tight fast. "wanna see those nails wrapped around my cock later."

the sheer thought made you whimper hopelessly. your cries were mostly held in your throat, except for when you could find any sort of reprieve with fresh air as your legs began to quiver underneath him.

"god dammit, can feel you clenching 'round me baby," he gritted.

"do i really make you feel tha' good?"

"mhmm swee'art, i know what'll send you riiight over the edge."

"oh, fuck. you do like tha' yeah? you like it when i pinch your swollen little clit, huh? don't be shy sarge, tell me how you feel."

the tears were rolling your your face, hot and cold at the same time. once they reached his arm around your neck, he removed his elbow and instead grabbed your face to turn to his as he continued to pound into you while expertly rubbing your bud.

his lips and tongue consumed yours as you tried to breathe through sniffles and between open-mouthed, sloppy kisses. his tongue roamed from your throat to your cheeks, licking up all the saliva and tears he could swallow. he pulled away but rested his head on yours as his thrusts became sloppy around your tight cunt, his grunts more like whines at this point. his eyes were nearly black as they met yours, tears still pooling and overflowing at your corners.

"show me what you feel like when you come all over my cock."

"that's a fucking order, sergeant."

your walls spasmed as they gripped and let go of him, over and over again, nearly pushing him out. your wails became an incoherent mess of baby's and simon's and fuck's as you shook underneath him. his strained moans became less and less vocal for a brief moment until his thrusts stuttered and he sank so deep into you that you feared he might break through your tummy. he came with a full, deep, moan that shook your core. oh, how you needed that moan again.

and again. and again. until the next morning.

but it wasn't just that nail color.

every color you wore was his favorite.

a/n: this is my first smut publish tee hee :) hope y’all like it! also thinking of opening my ask box for submissions cause i could talk abt these boys for the rest of me life

[cheriecoke]

nanami kento, who hates dating, and didn’t do much of it in his early twenties. but now, he’s almost thirty, watching all the people he works with settle down, have kids, and he thinks he wants that. so he might as well try.

so satoru sets him up on a few dates — friends of friends, he calls them. and at the end of every one of the dinners, kento goes home empty, exhausted, because he knows what they want is not the same.

still; he thinks maybe he’s being a little self-destructive, maybe too picky, maybe he just got so used to being alone. with satoru’s insistence, he gives all the women another call, invites them over to his apartment.

the first time was a disaster… kento had barely set the dinner on the table before his cat had hissed at her, scratched her down the arm in a thin gash. and though it did draw blood, it was hardly enough to warrant that reaction.

he didn’t even try to stop her as she picked up her bag and left, huffing like she’d been morally offend. kento, though, could only smile to himself in amusement.

because maybe kento was a poor judge of character, a man who was secretly hoping nothing would pan out — but his cat could certainly tell the good from the bad.

it became a little game to him, after that. seeing if anyone could win his pet over, and if they could, perhaps they were the one. his darling animal was a fickle thing anyway. a bit too defensive, quick to bite anything threatening after years on the streets.

naturally, no one came back twice.

he was close to giving up, accepting his solitude because he was tired of empty conversations over dinner. but then, he ventured out over the weekend to a new coffee shop, during hours he normally didn’t spend out of his home, and met you.

though you only talked for a moment, kento felt like maybe he’d known you in a past life. a part of him thought maybe it was strange, the way he kept coming back to talk to you, catching you at the end of your shift to see if you wanted to grab a coffee sometime.

by the second date, kento started to think you could turn out to be his best friend.

by the third date, kento wondered if soulmates were real.

on the fourth date, almost two months later, an appropriate time to get to know someone when you were as reserved as kento, he invited you over for dinner. it was, perhaps, the final confirmation he needed to let himself be with you.

he let you through the door, smiling softly as you told him about the book you were reading, and hung his coat on the rack. a moment later, you stopped, distracted, hands covering your mouth in a gasp.

“kento! she’s the cutest cat i’ve ever seen, you didn’t even show me pictures!” you exclaim, and, a few feet away, crouched down. “look at her pretty eyes…”

“careful,” kento said, “she’s not very—“

but the cat approached your outstretched hand, sniffed once, before letting you scratch her under her chin, purring loud enough for kento to hear across the room.

“shes such a sweetheart, you told me she was mean!” you smiled, making a cooing noise as you threaded your fingers through her fur. “kento’s a liar, isn’t he… you’re so precious.”

a few moments later, she snapped her jaw at you in a biting motion, and you only laughed, withdrawing your hand. “alright, i get it, i won’t bother you anymore.”

though she still brushed against your legs, just as she did kento’s, and seemed to communicate some sort of message to him.

“do you want any help cooking?” you ask, tucking your hair behind your ears. “i’m a disaster in the kitchen, but—“

“sure,” kento said, his chest tightening as he blinked back at you, only in his apartment for minutes and already looking as at home there. he wondered if it was possible to fall in love so quickly. “but only if you want to.”

[randomshyperson]

hotel room - wanda maximoff x reader

warnings: (+18), bottom!wanda, eating out (w), soft smut.

A/n: totally inspired by this pic i literally just wrote it down.

-&-

"you've been so stressed lately, little witch. let me help you with that."

the words were whispered into her ear. the intent and meaning behind them made wanda shiver in anticipation, and as your lips descended, her hands found the headboard in a desperate search of some sort of anchor.

you weren't lying - wanda has been stressed. the separation of the avengers, the exponential and unpredictable increase of her powers, the lack of public approval. but everything becomes a background whenever she's around you , especially when your tongue teases her nipples.

a needy whine escapes her mouth and she can feel your smug smile against her chest. wanda would have pinched you for being so cocky, but the tightening of the grip on her hips showed her that her sounds were affecting you as much as your touches dismantle her.

if you wished, you could prolong this. tease her endlessly just for the pressure of hearing her beg - and lord knows she would. hips already desperate, underwear so soaked she was shamelessly leaking through the fabric.

it was all your fault obviously. you were laying down together before, soft but bold and intimate touches while she talked about her week. you worked her up so naturally and so quickly that the offer of a stress relief would actually be her suggestion if you weren't quicker.

and you have always been so unfairly good at this. good with her, her body, her needs. your mouth move down her belly, licking and teasing all the way to where she needs the most. wanda's so responsive. she gasps in anticipation for every flick of your tongue, until she's panting, ready and impatience.

the reward is sweet. she's loud when she's desperate and Wanda is so desperate. she arches her back as your tongue finds her warm and wet through the fabric. your fingers are rushed, pulling her panties out of the way, you've finally lost that thin patience to just tease her. wanda maximoff is maddening, her scent, her sounds, her taste.

you moan as you eat her out. eagerly and hungry. you lick every corner, you tease her entrance, you flick her clit.

"ah, detka." wanda shouldn't try to speak now. She physically can't form any sentences that make sense at this point. she wants to ask for more, but you start sucking and all that leaves her lips are pathetic little whines. she wants to ask "faster" but your tongue goes deep inside as your hands hold her open and all she can do is choke on throat moan.

all lights in that messy motel room flicker, maybe the whole goddam city, when she's ready to fall over the edge. when she's ready to let go.

you pull away just to whisper "come for me, witchy" before resuming your movements and it doesn't take longer for her to do just that.

she sounds so beautiful, she looks breathtaking. chest heaving, a frown of pleasure. the sweetness of her wetness on your tongue.

you messily lick her clean, make her whine a little more. she gropes around on the bed until she reaches your hair, fingers running through the soft strands until she's gripping. her original intention was to pull you up to kiss you, but you start over.

Well, maybe she just needs to de-stress a little more.

[leighsartworks216]

Sylus waking up with you in his arms and greedily curling even further around you, holding you as close to him as possible, when his hand touches something wet and warm. It's by your legs, on the covers, so his first thought is that you're on your period. But... wait, didn't you have it a couple weeks ago???

You're woken up by him roughly pulling himself away and throwing the covers off of you, turning you onto your back so he can find the source. It's hard to miss the big spot of red soaking through your shirt.

He hadn't thought to check you over, honestly. Yes, you got back from a mission and practically passed out the second you laid down, but he didn't think you got hit at all. Pissed because you didn't say anything. Pissed because you wrote off your heal so easily. Pissed because he didn't notice.

And you're left watching through a daze as he treats you. His brow is furrowed. His movements are rougher than usual, but he eases up when you wince. He staunchly refuses to meet your eyes.

But the worst part is the silence. He doesn't say anything. His teeth are clenched, jaw twitching with every stitch and bloody gauze. You try to get him to speak, but he bites his tongue. Nothing he says right now will help; it would only do more damage. So he stays silent.

Once the bandage is secure around you, he lifts you up and sets you back down on the couch to deal with the bloody sheets, but not without tossing a fresh shirt onto the arm of the couch.

You're in near tears. The guilt and ache in your heart extends to every cell in your body, all-consuming and painful. He's midway through pulling off the extensive silk sheets when you wrap your arms around him from behind, hugging him tightly, face pressed into his back, begging him to please just say anything.

The room is still. His heartbeat is erratic as ever, but it seems to stutter and jostle more right now. His breaths are deep and heavy.

He woke up, holding his love, with your blood staining his hand. It scared him to his core. Instilled so much fear into his system, he doesn't know how to cope. He can't get the words out right now, not in the calm way he needs to, but he doesn't shove you away. He relishes the contact, truly. The feeling of your breath heating up his shirt as you cling to him. The way your hands clutch at the fabric over his abs. The squeeze of your arms around his sides.

He's still so pissed. He can't- he doesn't want to hurt you, even if he was a bit harsher than strictly necessary when tending your injury.

So he places his hand over yours. You slip one out to rest over his, holding onto it like a lifeline. And he stays there.

The blood is starting to soak into the mattress. The silk is all but completely ruined. Your shirt is still stained, transferring to his own clothes in the hug.

But you're alive.

You're alive.

[keiscorner]

2:53 am

"kei." no response. you know tsukishima has to get up early for work, but the window across from your bed is open, allowing the night breeze to creep in and sting your face. you could get up yourself, but that's what husbands are for, right?

you twist around, trying to wiggle out of your husband's grasp so you can take a better look at his sleeping face. he has an arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other supporting your neck to, in his words, 'protect his ears from your constant complaints about your sore neck in the morning'.

"honey?" you poke his cheek, smiling to yourself when he grunts in response. tsukishima has always been a light sleeper. you lay in silence for a few seconds before he finally lets out a sigh, opening his eyes to look at you.

"what do you want?"

you muster up your biggest doe eyes, knowing that he hates getting out of bed just as much as you do. "close the window for me?"

"no. you do it."

you sigh dramatically, gesturing at his arms wrapped firmly around you. "i would love to, but someone is holding me hostage, so i think you're going to have to do it."

tsukishima rolls his eyes, untangling his arms from your body. "problem solved." he holds back a smile when you frown and pull the blankets away from him, turning your back towards him. you're so cute. tsukishima would do anything you ask of him without hesitation, but he can't help but tease you a bit first. he'll never get tired of your reactions, and he loves that he can be a little snarky with you.

you sigh again, this time louder and more pointed, pretending to shiver just to show your husband how cold you really are, and how cruel he is for not helping. "if only someone could hold me right now...", you trailed off.

"ok, do you want me to help you or not?" he finally gives in, getting up to reach for his glasses. you win, as usual. you turn back to face him again with a smile as bright as sunshine, and despite all of the years you've been together, his heart still stops for a second. wow. okay, maybe he is obsessed with you, but he can't help it. you've clearly worked your magic on him, considering the fact that he's getting out of the bed for you when he has to be awake in a few hours. he goes to close the windows with a firm click, walking back to his side of bed.

"kei...since you're already up...", he looks back to see your guilty smile, an empty mug in your hands. "please? last thing, i swear." he give you a look that reads, "you're lucky i love you." (you know you're the luckiest person in the world.)

he takes your mug and you hear his quiet footsteps making their way to the kitchen. he comes back, handing you a mug full of warm water. once you take a sip, he takes the mug from you again, placing it on your nightstand.

"i poisoned that," he quips, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before finally lying down and snaking his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer to him. the only reason he hates getting out of bed is that he has to let go of you, but he doesn't need to say that. he's sure you already know.

[randomfandomworks]

You pushed the eyeshadow palette to the side as Rumi laid below you, watching you decide on what to do next. You’d been bugging her for a while now about designing her show makeup and it was on this dull day in the middle of their break that she had finally agreed.

It wasn’t professional, or high effort, it was simply an idol and her partner sprawled out in bed. The weight of your chest laid on hers, your elbows propping you up just enough to look down at her as you created your masterpiece. You placed some blush to her cheeks, a light dust of color to finish off what you’d been working so hard on.

You set the blush aside, readjusting your weight to look down at Rumi once more, your eyes wandering over her features to take in what you had created. Halfway through your observations you stopped, your gaze lingering on her patterns. Slowly you brought your hand up, brushing your fingers over the patterns that spread across her forehead. Your eyes traced the movement memorizing the shape as your fingers ran along her skin.

“I’m glad you don’t cover them up.” You spoke softly, your fingers moving further up to tuck back some of her loose hairs.

She looked at you silently for a moment, watching you focus, holding onto the gentleness within your stare. “Yeah?” She responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, bringing your hand down to cup her cheek, “Yeah.” You finalized meeting her gaze.

A warmth settled in her chest, something about you, your acceptance of what she’d tried to hide for so long, made her fall even harder for you.

And maybe, she thought after a moment, you’d have to do her makeup more often.

[kiplex]

Your boyfriend was so distracting. If you look up distracting in the dictionary, you're 99% sure there would be a picture of Caleb. You were trying to get some work done in his living room, typing away at your computer when he sauntered in wearing gym clothes. He has been really good at leaving you alone for most of the day, to give you your space to work but you could tell he was up to something the second he entered the room.

“I'm gonna drink some pre-work and then head to the gym." He says casually leaning against the door frame. You look at him. Man… Caleb Xia truly was God's favorite when it came to looks. You hate that he just looks so effortlessly beautiful. Your eyes scan his body, his hair is perfectly messy, his cologne wafts your way, his biceps on display, completely unbitten- it was almost too much to bare.

Your head snaps back to your laptop. You're almost done, you have to stay focused. Work now, bite your boyfriend's biceps later. " Yeah, whatever you want to do. ”He scoffs at your audacity. “Wow Pips, if I died, your last words to me would have been ‘yeah whatever’!” He shakes his head. "My girlfriend hates me.” He hangs his head in jest, but you can see that playful smirk hiding behind his facade. He wants to play games, fine you'll bite. "Caleb, that's not what I even said!? When have I ever said I hate you?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. " Literally just now Pips, what do you mean?” You roll your eyes at him. “You are so dramatic." Caleb clutches his chest. " Wow just tell me to kill myself while your at it!” He wails, no longer even bothering to hide the grin on his face.

You shut your laptop and stand up in one fluid motion, crossing the room in big strides. "You're sooo annoying. Do you ever stop?” You huff, shoving him playfully, before tossing your laptop on to the couch. Caleb's eyes sparkle, reveling in the attention. "Ermm actually, this is the first time I've talked to you all day… soooooo…” "Yeah and in the span of a few minutes you've already managed to annoy me, that might be a personal record.” You must stay strong, you can feel your control slipping as your eyes rake over your boyfriend, who was grinning down at you like he'd won the lottery.

“Mmm not sure about that. I can get more annoying if you want." He wiggles an eyebrow at you and oddly enough that breaks your work minded demeanor. A hand flies to his cheek, you gently pinch the skin there. “One day!! That's all I asked for!!! I love you, but God living under the same roof as you is difficult. You have no idea how lethal you look right now, it's not fair; it's just distracting." You groan at him, your free hand softly poking him in the ribs. He laughs, as you continue to poke and prod at him, it's cuteness aggression at its finest.

He leans down, being a whole 2 heads taller than you, he towers over you. “Yeahhh and?" He drawls. You yank his head down farther, your lips ghosting over his. “I'm gonna do something about it." Your lips press against his, immediately you feel his smirk against your lips. Caleb 1, you 0.

Satisfied, you feel his entire body fold into yours as you kiss him with a little bit more urgency. He takes the opportunity to work his hands on your hips, pulling you in closer. “Am I still annoying you?” He asks, his hands toying with the hem of your baggy oversized shirt. "Because I can think of a lot more interesting ways to annoy you... Can keep you real distracted for the rest of the night…" He chuckles, his breath dancing across your neck.

Caleb may be a distraction, but maybe he can be welcomed one, just this time…

You can find my master list here!

My requests are also open!!

[hungharrington]

hear me out:

loverboy stevie makes a sex playlist for when things get hot and heavy in his bmw only he fumbles with the cassette and instead of hearing sexy jazz as you straddle him and start unbuckling his belt and zipping down his jeans, dustin’s mixtape of the star wars soundtrack starts playing instead

i’m crying there are real tears in my eyes

cos you’re so right, he so would. he’d be like so chuffed with himself, he spent a lot of time making sure each song on the mixtape is perfectly selected, it’s a curated mix that starts off softer and descends into something more saucy, more sexy if he dares to say.

— and he does dare say, only after he’d remembers it in a flurry of wide eyes and a shouted “wait!” during a makeout sessions in the backseat of his car- he shoots forward between the seats to fumble open the glove box, (giving you a delicious but confused view of his ass) before he pulls back, wiggling a tape between his fingers that you can read is labelled love-making mix with a scrawled heart in sharpie beside it <3

and that’s exactly how he describes it you, between heated kisses, murmuring the words, “it’s sexy, baby, it’s like, saucy ‘n’ shit, you’re gonna love it,” before he breaks your kisses again, adoring how you pout to lean back through the seats and feed it into the tape player.

it clatters a bit, but steve’s got one of those fancy tape player types, which can hold up to 4 tapes at a single time, so it feeds in just fine. steve hits play and sits back, not wasting any time in cajoling you back into his lap

you can hear the tape running in the back, that silence before some pre-made mixtape whirring in the back.

but you also can only hear the heavy breaths from steve’s mouth attached to yours, can’t really hear anything above how his roaming hands make you feel, how the core of you begins to flicker hotly and how the hard shape of him beneath you is—

the blaring trumpets of the star wars theme blast through steve’s speakers, loud enough to make you both startle in shock. steve bites your lip in surprise and then rears back, smacking his head on seats— in all in a half second.

“ow!” you say, right as steve says, “oh, what the shit.”

the theme keeps playing loudly — bah BAH bah bah bah BUH bah — as you and steve both scramble at the same time to push between the seats, desperate to stop the loud noise. steve reaches it first, hitting the stop button and then song cuts off abruptly, leaving the car suddenly very, very quiet.

you slither back from between the front seats and so does steve, the two of you side by side in the backseat. you laugh before you realise you’re doing so.

steve groans, head tilting back. “i’m gonna kill henderson.”

“sexy and saucy, huh?” you tease lightheartedly.

steve snorts, rolling his head to look at you. “i think my boner died.”

[yanderedrabbles]

A Very Yandere Valentine

In your desperation to make a man fall in love with you, you try a love spell. The results are...debatable.

February was your least favourite month for a reason. You were broke from Christmas, still single, and your resolution to go to the gym every week was coming along horribly. It was blistering cold, but without the holiday cheer and shopping sales to make the weather bearable.

And if all that wasn't enough, you were stuck seeing happy couples everywhere you looked. The Valentine themed ads were everywhere - you couldn't even watch YouTube without some company reminding you exactly how lonely you were.

But things were going to be different this year.

This year, you finally had a crush on someone. You finally had some chemistry to keep you from feeling like the most unlovable single in existence. This year, you were going to have your romantic, picture perfect Valentine’s Day.

Just one little issue. Your Valentine had a girlfriend.

Who he loved. Or at least claimed to. You were skeptical. Would a man in love follow you like a puppy? Would he open doors for you and bring you coffee every morning?

If he did that for everyone in the office, maybe you wouldn't be kneeling in a circle of candles at midnight. But no. He went out of his way everyday just for you. He wasn't a very talkative person, but when he followed you into the break room, you'd end up yapping for much longer than your HR would approve of.

He was different with you. You were special to him, you knew it in your heart.

You didn't realise he had a girlfriend until one of your other coworkers told you. And oh boy, wasn't that a fun revelation. At first you were hurt. Why was he leading you on if he had a partner? Were you reading too much into this whole situation? What if he was just being nice to you and you totally misinterpreted it?

You tried to put distance between you and him. Tried to respect that someone else had a claim to him, even if he might have been flirting with you.

It didn't work.

He would look at you with those liquid brown eyes and you'd feel your resolve and your morals just melting.

As you lit the last few candles for the ritual, you reminded yourself that at least you tried to be the better person. If this was a moral failing, it wasn't one that you gave into easily.

And maybe this was for the best. If he was comfortable enough to flirt with you, didn't that mean he wasn't happy in his relationship? If your silly little spell worked, it might give him the courage to finally break things off. It would be kinder to both him and his partner.

"It's fine if I'm doing it for love," you told yourself.

You lit the final candle and sat back on your heels. There was a shallow bowl in front of you, filled with milky white water. It certainly looked mystical with the candlight flickering across the surface. Now if it would just be mystical...

You picked up the first of your twelve roses - one for each month of the year. You plucked off the petals one by one and dropped them into the water. Like a more wiccan version of he-loves-me he-loves-me-not. With each petal, you tried to picture what you wanted from the relationship. Kindness. Loyalty. Consideration. Love.

It was easy to do. Your man was an easy man to love. You could already picture him in your home - making late morning pancakes in nothing but his sweats, sprawled on your couch reading one of your beat up paperbacks, in your bed. He was meant be yours, you could feel it. Why else-

"Ow! Shit, that hurt!" You looked down at your finger and the rose thorn embedded deep in your skin. Blood was already welling up around it.

"Goddamit. Why now?"

A single drop rolled off your finger and plinked into the bowl. It sunk past the rose petals and turned a small part of the water a sickly pinkish colour.

You carefully pulled the thorn out and stuck your finger in your mouth. It must have went in far deeper than you thought, because your whole finger throbbed. You looked down at the last rose left unplucked. So close to finishing...

You sighed and stood up, stepping carefully out of the circle. You were too worried about the chance of infection to finish your ritual. And besides, whatever daydreams you had weren't going to come back while you were still dripping blood all over the place.

In the bowl, the rose petals drifted until they covered the entire surface. When you emptied the bowl, you were too tired to wonder if the blood poisoned your spell. To tired to notice the petals curling up and wilting long before their time.

You woke up with a wine hangover and a throbbing pain all through your finger. Usually you'd power through it and go to work, but you didn't want to see your crush. Didn't want to be reminded that you were once again alone on Valentine's.

You called in sick to work, took some antibiotics for your finger and curled up under your duvet. As if the universe was sympathising with your mood, the low grey clouds that hung around all week finally burst. Cold February rain drummed on your windows while you picked out your favourite comfort movie.

Yet another romantic Valentine's all on your own. Lucky you.

You were just about drifting off when the knocking started. Loud and impatient at your front door, aggressive enough that you jerked out of bed with a yelp.

"Coming!"

You didn't have any parcels being delivered today, did you? And you certainly weren't expecting guests. Not in the middle of the week, and certainly not when it was so miserable outside.

You opened the door half expecting the person to be long gone. They couldn't have been here for you.

Your co-worker was standing on your threshold, still in his suit with his tie damp and askew.

"Y/n! Thank God, I was so worried about you."

You could only blink at him. How the hell did he know your address? You certainly never mentioned it. And what was he doing here in the middle of the work day?

"Aren't you going to let me in?"

You jumped. "Shit, sorry. Please come in."

You stood aside, self consciously trying to smooth down your hair. He was carrying a packet of some kind. He set it down on your kitchen table before shrugging out of his suit jacket and tossing it across the back of your chair. He was so oddly at ease in your apartment, like a man coming home after a long day rather than a guest in a new place.

You followed him, still feeling like this whole interaction was a fever dream. Maybe the rose thorn from last night really was poisonous and you were somehow hallucinating your office crush unpacking a whole slew of takeout onto your kitchen counter.

"Um..." You decided to abandon any ideas of tact. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't come into work today. Didn't even call me." He looked up at you. "I was worried about you."

"Oh." Despite the strangeness of this whole encounter, butterflies were fluttering in your belly. "You noticed I wasn't there?"

He shrugged and went back to arranging the stuff he brought. "I always notice you."

There were about half a dozen takeout containers, all from your favourite places. He continued, "I figured the weather must be getting to you, so I decided to check on you. Really y/n, you've got to tell me if you're not going to be around. I was frantic when you didn't show up."

It was so like him to turn a nice gesture into a lecture. So strict all the time, so proper. You couldn't help but smile - it was all part of what made you like him so much. All prickly on the outside, all care within.

He pulled out a chair and nodded at you to sit. His hair was slightly damp from the rain and falling loose from its carefully gelled back style. This was the most out of sorts you'd ever seen him. And all of it over you? Come on, how was a girl just supposed to ignore that?

He pushed your chair in behind you and leaned forward to pull a container closer to you, his arm right next to your ear and his cologne thick in your nose. Your heart leapt. He did the same thing at work all the time, one hand right by your shoulder as he pointed out your mistakes on the monitor. Maybe you were delusional, but would a guy who treasured his personal space - who stepped back whenever anyone else was within half a foot of him - really get so close to you if he didn't like you?

"Here, eat up. I got them to make it special." He was so close that his voice felt like a rumble more than anything else. You could almost feel it in your bones.

"Aren't you going to join me?" you asked.

"Nope. It's all yours."

He stayed behind you while you ate, his forearms crossed on the backrest. You were acutely aware of him watching you.

"What are you doing for Valentine's tonight?"

Were you sleep deprived or was there a hard edge to his voice when he asked you that?

"I might have a date later," you lied.

You didn't see it, but his grip on your chair tightened.

"Really? With who?"

"Just some friend from the gym."

You cringed internally. That was such a bad lie. You didn't even know anyone at the gym. You tried to change the topic.

"You? I'm sure you've got something planned with your girlfriend."

He was quiet for a moment, and then, "What girlfriend?"

Huh? You turned in your chair to look up at him. His expression was entirely serious.

"Your girlfriend? I asked Jenny from marketing and she said you were dating someone. That it was serious."

He raised a brow. "You were asking about my dating life?"

Crap. Too late to back down now.

"Mm-hmm. I was just curious. And you never really mentioned anything, so..."

"So you asked Jenny from marketing?"

Could the ground just do you a favour and swallow you now? That would be much lessless painful than admitting to your office crush that you were kind of, sort of stalking him.

"...yes? Look, I know it wasn't my place. And that I was totally invading your privacy. I'm really sorry. I can't imagine how uncomfortable I'm making you and honestly -"

"Y/n," he cut you off, "I don't have a girlfriend."

Huh?!

"But Jenny said -"

"Jenny is annoying and flirtatious. I just said that so she'd leave me alone."

"So I didn't have to do the love spell?"

You smacked a hand over your mouth. Too late. He tilted his head, smiling.

"The what?"

You turned away from him, your face on fire. Stupid love spell. Stupid brain. Stupid mouth that doesn't know when to shut up.

"Nothing. I didn't say anything. You sure you don't want some of this soup? It's great. Really robust flavour."

He leaned down and grabbed your hand before you could pick up your spoon. His face was right next to yours but you'd rather swallow a cactus than face him after what you just admitted.

"Let me get this straight," he said, sounding unfairly amused. "You asked Jenny if I was dating someone. She said yes, and your solution to that problem - instead of just, y'know, asking me about it - was to do a love spell?"

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Lord in heaven, please have mercy and send a meteor right at my apartment. Just a little one, doesn't even have to be bigger than a car.

"I was really drunk, okay? And I just... I just didn't want to be alone on Valentine's. It's the same every year, and it sucks. I'm sorry. It was dumb and stupid and naive."

"Definitely all those things, yes."

You flinched. He ignored you and continued.

"Not to mention selfish, dangerous and honestly a little bit toxic."

"Yeah, I get it." And to think you called the lonely Valentine's the worst ones. You sighed, looked down at your lap. This day couldn't possibly get worse.

"Y/n."

He didn't wait for you to answer. He just kissed you. One hand pulling your jaw up towards him, the other still resting on the back of your chair and tangling itself in your hair.

You gasped, too shocked to either pull away or kiss him back. Was this really happening?

Slowly, you brought your hand up and ran it through his hair. And oh, he practically purred.

"Silly thing. Never needed a love spell to make me like you."

He pulled you to your feet, hands coming to your waist and thumbs tracing over your ribs. You felt electric, every little movement making you buzz.

"Been wanting to do this since the first day I saw you." Another kiss, deeper, longer, somehow even hungrier. "How couldn't you notice?"

You leaned against his chest, lightheaded. "I thought you were being nice."

He laughed and you could feel it rumbling through his chest. He dropped one hand to your mid thigh, squeezed.

"I'm never nice. If you knew all the things I was thinking whenever we were next to each other, you'd run for the hills."

You met his eyes, feeling brave. "What sort of things?"

He smiled, but his eyes were dark. For a second, it scared you.

"I could show you."

Was he offering what you thought he was? You could have been modest, could have simpered and pulled away and played the blushing coquette. But you'd be a liar if you said you didn't want this, that you hadn't wanted to be in this exact scenario for weeks.

"Please," you said, looping your arms around his neck. "Show me."

He picked you up by your thighs and sat you down on the counter, your legs around his waist. His palms came to rest on your hips, heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your pyjama pants.

"This." He kissed your neck.

"And this." He ran his hand down your thigh, his thumb just barely brushing the edge of your panties.

"And very much this." He cradled your face in his hands and kissed you, tongue darting past your teeth and filling your mouth with the taste of him.

He was still slightly chilly from being outside, but you were boiling up and the contrast was a relief. You kissed him back, not quite as bold but just as wanting.

Did your drunken love spell actually work? Or were you just the luckiest girl in the city?

He loosened his tie. "I've got all day. How about I give you the best Valentine's day you've ever had?"

"Where do you want to start?"

He smirked, toying with the hem of your shirt.

"Oh, I think you know exactly where I want to start."

You takeout grew cold on the counter and the rain stopped and the sun dipped below the skyline before he was done with you.

You were still panting underneath him, your hands tied to the headboard with his tie when he finally decided he was satisfied.

"Wow... I didn't realise you had it in you," you breathed.

He wiped his mouth on his forearm, a glistening trail of spit and spunk.

"Oh yeah? Thought I was too tight buttoned to have fun?"

It was silly to be embarrassed after all the things he'd heard you say, but still...

"I honestly thought you'd be a lot more vanilla."

He laughed and crawled up your body, until his hands were on either side of your head. He leaned down and pecked your nose.

"And now?"

"And now I'm wondering what I did to get so damn lucky. My karma must be amazing."

He undid your hands, deft fingers moving through a complicated set of knots and pulls. You smiled. Oh, he was definitely a boy scout at some point.

"You should eat something. You've lost a lot of...fluids."

That made you giggle.

"And whose fault is that?"

There were slight marks on your wrists and he careful rubbed them.

"Mine. Terribly sorry about it beautiful." He didn't sound sorry in the slightest.

You were wobbly when you stood up, and it was only his arm around your waist that kept you from falling straight back into bed.

"I'm staying over tonight, by the way."

It was so like him to just decide he was invited. Still, you were absolutely not complaining. It was exactly what you wanted too. Strange, how he almost always seemed to know exactly what you wanted.

You fell asleep tucked against his side, sore and aching in the best possible way. In the rational part of your mind, you assumed that your love spell was just a silly lapse in judgement brought on by too much wine and far too many rom-coms. But if you could see the way he watched you when you slept, you might have started to question that assumption.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, half frowning.

"Silly thing. I've been in love with you for so long."

He glanced at the alarm clock on your bedside table. Hopefully you wouldn't notice it, but he'd slipped a tiny camera behind the clock face. Same with your TV, bathroom mirror and the top of your fridge. There were at least half a dozen cameras hidden throughout your apartment.

Having you tied to the bed and distracted helped. You didn't notice him slipping off for just a bit longer than getting a glass of water or using the bathroom would warrant.

Unethical, yes. A total invasion of privacy. And if you ever found them, you'd be totally justified in getting a restraining order. But still...

"It's fine if I'm doing it for love," he told himself.