#prisoners reader insert

[bunny-jpeg]

the jailbird (2)

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

part 1 | original text post

cw: (former) prisoner!simon, civilian!reader, romance & fluff, smut, size kink, sane and consensual, roleplay, rough sex, spanking, bondage & gags, tattoo kink, dom!simon, sub!reader

bunny says: love the fic? leave a comment! really love the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are encouraged!

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living with an ex-convict was interesting. he still woke up at the crack of dawn, and as a result you were up too. he didn't know where anything was in your apartment, he hated that he had to wake you up but he didn't know where the spoons were.

you were happy to help him and spend some extra time together before you went to work. the more you were around him, the more you realized how big he was compared to you.

even his hands were much larger than yours. he loved to wrap you up in his arms and hold you while you were making yourself some breakfast. those strong tattooed arms around your middle as you flipped eggs.

sometimes he'd bury his face in your neck and visibly relaxed. he was still dealing with his fair share of trauma from the previous events of his life. and while it often left him stressed, he found comfort in you.

"you're my anchor, love." he said within the first week of his return to society.

you simply smiled and tried not to blush too hard as you said, "well, si. i'll happily be your anchor, as long as your mine."

"you're anchor, your rock, your foot solider, your lover." he said as he kept his gaze on you. since he had been living with you, you found his expression had softened a little. he could relax here.

"my husband." you reached out for him. he took your hand and kissed the top of it before he held it for a moment then returned it to you.

simon had a long road ahead of him, being on the inside for so long was going to cause some problems. but, he knew even if he had nothing. he had you.

it was almost five months into living together and he managed to get an interview working in small parts manufacturing. while it was tedious, they didn't need to look at his criminal record. which greatly excited him.

when he came home from the interview, he told you that it went well. that they seemed to like his dedication and were impressed when he mentioned his time in the military. he said, "got the whole 'thank you for your service'." as he held you and kissed you deeply.

it felt like your little lives were coming together. but the one thing you hated to admit to yourself. you sort of had a dark side, it wasn't anything too aggressive or 'evil'. you thought that simon was the perfect boyfriend, he'd never hurt a hair on your head.

but the idea of being with a criminal sort of had a sexy ring to it. to be with the bad boy. you almost felt embarrassed to admit it when he'd come home with flowers for you, or when he smiled at you. or when he held your hand when you went out. with you he got to be a person with love.

deep down you wanted to know the depths of your boyfriend. you wanted to know what a man like him, with his skill set, was capable of. you wanted it to burn, ache and hurt.

it took a lot of courage, you communicated with your boyfriend about a little make believe. while hesitant at first, he slowly started to warm up to the idea. you knew he was open to it when he came home from one, actually the first day at his job, with a bundle of bondage rope.

"the blue looks good on you." he remarked as he finished tying you up on the bed. he had your arms behind your back with you on your side and one leg tied to the bed post.

you looked at him, those eyes of yours were so alluring. you tried to move your leg but was stuck to the bed. he smiled down at you and tapped the ball gag in your mouth.

"but it doesn't matter what you want. right?' he asked, "i've searched a long time for you. you're not an easy woman to catch." he got between your legs, and hiked one leg over his shoulder as he started to aggressively lick your cunt. it was already dripping from the act of him tying you up.

there was no escape for you, even if you somehow got out of the bondage. he was almost twice the size of you and could do some damage if he wanted to.

you squirmed and whimpered around the ball gag as he took long, hard licks against your clit. he wanted to make sure his girl was wet enough for his large cock.

"maybe i should breed ya. bring you back to the boys all fat with my brats.' he purred, "i don't think they can throw ya in the can if you're pregnant. but who knows, you got pregnant by a thief." he continued to lick your sweet cunt. he was in heaven.

he really was so much bigger than you. he overpowered you, he could keep you down and fuck you until he had his fill, and there was nothing you could do about it. you were bound and gagged like a good girl.

he kept at it, he even teased your hole with his thick fingers until you were squirming more with your moans getting louder. he slapped your ass and gave you a stern look over your pussy. he gripped your leg over his shoulder. "shut up." he growled, "i don't need ya causin' a scene. i'd hate to go back to prison because you can't keep your trap shut up."

you hole clenched and he chuckled. he patted where he smacked and grabbed at the flesh before he went back to his feast between your legs. it didn't take long before the slick between your thighs got all over his face.

he pulled away and sat up on his knees. he stared down at you with your thigh wrapped around his waist. he was going to fuck you at a weird angle, but it was the only way he could keep his little prize tied up. he wiped is face, "you are the best thing i've caught." he said, "stolen a lotta loose change, but they're nothin' to the sweet taste of your cunt." he got his cock out his sweatpants and started to rub it against your slick pussy. he let out a harsh sigh from the sensation, "they should be keepin' ya behind the vault door." the tip slipped in for a moment and you clenched around it.

you whimpered and tried to pushed yourself down on his cock, but it was hard to do that when you were so tied up, he pushed the hair out of your eyes, your leftover wetness got on your cheek from his movements.

"but, you need to know." he said, "you're mine to do whatever to. your mommy and daddy aren't gonna save ya. you fell in love with a bad man and now you're lettin' him fuck your cunt raw. what's gonna happen at christmas when you're all swollen with my brats. riley boys are lil hell raisers." he went back to rubbing his cock up against your slit, "you'll be mine forever. my little prize. i should've taken ya a long time ago. just snatched ya up off the train. keep ya to myself." his tongue was getting loose from the buzz of pleasure in his brain.

you whimpered around the gag and almost cried out when he slipped his large cock into you easily. you felt it in your guts and his pace was much more brutal than the other times you've made love. that was the difference, you made love before. this was dirty, primal sex between a criminal and his captive.

the sounds of sex filled the air, paired with simon's heavy breathing. his heart was thumping steadily as he pushed his cock as deep as it would go. he loomed over you as he drilled himself into you. you were a comfortably tight fit around his cock.

you dug your nails into your palms from the immense pleasure and yelped when he slapped your ass. you whimpered when he leaned further into you to get closer into your personal space. his pace was brutal and it excited you.

"i'm a bad man." he said lowly, his voice close to your ear, "my worst crime is tainting such a precious angel." he held onto your calf as he bent your hips the closer he got. his voice was hot, "fill ya right up, make sure no other man has a chance to get ya knocked up." his tattooed hand went to your stomach which he gave a small rub, "my girl carryin' my boys."

your eyes almost rolled back from the heat in your body. you were almost drooling around the rubber gag in your mouth. it was dirty, it was filth. if anyone saw the state you were in, they would be shocked!

your head felt full of lust, you felt your lover so close to him. you knew despite the roughness and the harsh words, the entire scenario was safe. you knew you could get out of this if you needed to. but it wasn't getting to be too much, it was just enough.

the wetness between your legs and the flips in your stomach only excited you. to have such a large man be so domineering. it made you feel small in a good way. it was almost like being bound made you feel protected.

that you could lay yourself over to him and he'd cherish you. even if you were his little 'prize' for the evening. the hottest part was the pace at which his cock was battering your womb.

you whimpered against your gag and felt the heat rush through you. you held onto your palms as best as you could with your arms bound. the entire situation left you spinning, there was no wonder that orgasm crept up on you so easily.

with a loud moan around your gag, you climaxed around his cock. the tightness of your cunt mid-orgasm milked his cock till he was seeing stars. he came inside of you, his seed hit against the back of your womb.

the feeling of being able to do so left him a little slack-jawed. but he kept it together, even if his cheeks were flushed. when he finished, he slowly pulled out and started to untie you. his hands were shaky from the after effects of his orgasm.

he took the gag out of your mouth and pulled you in for a kiss when he finished untying you. he fell into bed with you and laid on top of the covers with you. he held you gently and kissed your face. he gave you gentle praise as he kept you in his arms.

when he looked at you, all was right in the world. you held onto him and pressed kisses against his face. after care consisted of tea and a small snack followed by a shower together, where he washed every part of you.

even though you were capable of doing it yourself, you still appreciated how detail orientated he was in the manner of getting you clean. little did you know that biology was working its magic and simon's seed found home in your cervix.

you better hope that the line about the riley boys being hellions was untrue or you'd have your hands full. it didn't help that when simon's hand grazed your stomach as he washed you that you blushed and tucked yourself closer to him.

mama riley did have a ring to it.

[mintyys-blog]

Hellooo!! I saw ur reqs open and I've been a big fan of ur invincible x reader works so I was wondering if you can write about how the different mark variants react to the reader having twins; 1 boy and 1 girl? Or how they inter with the babies?

Regardless if u wanna write about it or not, thank you!

HEADCANON | the variants reacting to you having twins

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: pregnancy, childbirth,

MAIN MARK

Mark was stunned when the doctor first told him it was twins. He blinked at the ultrasound screen, eyes wide, hand clutched tightly in yours. “Two?” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly.

He cried when they were born.

He held your daughter first, cradling her so gently, like she was made of glass. Then came your son, who instantly grabbed Mark’s pinky finger in his tiny hand—and that was it. Mark was a goner.

He’s the kind of dad who doesn’t care how exhausted he is after hero work—he comes home and immediately scoops one of them up. He does the midnight feedings when he can, always humming softly to them, even when his eyes are barely open.

Mark makes it a point to split his attention. He reads storybooks with one on each leg, plays peekaboo until he’s sweating, and narrates entire fights from the day like bedtime stories—censored and dramatic just to make them giggle.

He’s a sucker for when they both reach for him at once. He’ll hold them at the same time, bouncing slightly while pressing kisses to their heads.

“They’re gonna be so strong,” he whispers to you one night, both twins sleeping between you two on the bed. “But we’re gonna make sure they’re kind too.”

SINISTER MARK

Mark never planned on having kids.

He didn’t think he could even want them—not with the life he lived, not with the way he was. But when you told him you were pregnant, he didn’t run. He stared at you in silence, the only sign of emotion a twitch in his jaw. And when you said it was twins, he laughed dryly under his breath and muttered, “Of course.”

He was rough around the edges during the pregnancy—aloof, distant, always out handling things—but when you went into labor, he didn’t leave your side once. Pacing, snapping at the doctors, his hands bloody from someone stupid enough to slow him down on the way in. But when the cries of your son and daughter filled the room?

Everything changed.

He held them awkwardly at first, not used to anything so fragile. But when your daughter blinked up at him with your eyes, and your son grunted softly in his arms?

Sinister Mark melted.

He didn’t show it, of course. He still had that cold, unreadable expression. But he never let them out of his sight. He rocked them gently with one arm while handling intergalactic calls with the other. He never yelled around them. Never used the same tone he used with the rest of the world.

He called them “his little monsters” in a low, amused voice.

And they adored him.

He trained them early—light strength drills, balance, focus. But never pushed too hard. Your daughter was fiery; your son was quiet. He loved them both in his own silent, possessive way. “I don’t care if they burn planets down one day,” he muttered one night, holding them both in the crook of his arms as they dozed. “As long as they come home to you.”

MOHAWK MARK

Mark wasn’t just a ruler—he was the damn Emperor.

People bowed when he walked in. Worlds knelt before his power. He’d fought armies, led conquests, spilled blood on every corner of the galaxy.

But nothing—nothing—prepared him for the moment he held his newborn son and daughter.

He stared down at them like they were made of starlight and gold. Your daughter’s tiny fists curled in his cape. Your son sneezed and made a little sound that had him laughing, almost breathless. The grin that spread across his face was so wide, so genuine, it made even the Viltrumite guards in the room look away.

“This—this is my legacy,” he murmured. “You made something stronger than a throne.”

At home, he was still intense. Still commanding. But softer in subtle ways.

He’d sit on his throne with one twin on each leg, daughter tugging at his hair and son sleeping against his chest while he held council. He’d feed them himself, not trusting anyone else to get it right.

“Only the best,” he’d say, wiping his daughter’s mouth gently with a silk cloth. “They came from you.”

He was so smug about them too. Would not shut up. Would show hologram pics of them mid-battle. “See that? That’s my kid. She threw up on me this morning. Isn’t she perfect?”

You caught him once, dead of night, sneaking into the nursery. His expression completely softened, one massive hand stroking your son’s hair while he whispered Viltrumite lullabies you didn’t even know he remembered.

He never let you carry them up the palace stairs.

You’d try—and he’d just scoop you and both babies up without blinking. “My queen,” he said, kissing your temple, “you gave me the empire I never knew I wanted.”

OMNI MARK

Omni Mark had stared down monsters. He’d broken planets with his bare hands, shattered civilizations, and rewritten the course of history in blood and fire.

But now, in the quiet of your home, he stood before two tiny cradles—his children—and he felt something he hadn’t in centuries:

Uncertainty. A boy and a girl. Twins. Perfectly healthy. Human… and yet, undeniably his.

He didn’t speak when the doctor placed them in his arms. He didn’t blink. He simply looked down at them like he was studying some foreign object. Something he didn’t quite understand.

“Mark,” you whispered from the bed, exhausted but smiling, “they’re waiting to meet their dad.”

He looked up. Then slowly, with the same care he used to disassemble machinery with lethal precision, he cradled them closer to his chest.

“They’re… small,” he said, quietly.

You smiled. “They’re babies.”

He was quiet again. His expression unreadable. You could tell he was thinking—calculating, as if trying to understand how two fragile lives could belong to him. “I don’t know if I’m… built for this,” he admitted after a long silence.

You reached over and touched his hand. “You’re learning. That’s all that matters.” And he did try. His version of love was quiet. Stiff. Awkward. He didn’t baby-talk them or cradle them for fun. He didn’t dote or coo. But he was there. He stood like a sentry when they slept.

He ensured every bottle was measured, every schedule followed. If they cried, he picked them up efficiently, holding them with a stillness that somehow made them calm. He didn’t rock or hum—but his presence was a constant reassurance. Sometimes, you caught him watching them. His eyes weren’t soft. But they were intensely focused.

One night, you walked in to find him holding your daughter, her tiny hand clinging to his cape. He wasn’t saying anything—just standing there in the moonlight, watching her sleep against his chest.

“She doesn’t understand what I am,” he murmured. “She doesn’t need to,” you whispered, walking over to lay your head against his arm. “She only needs to know you’re here.” He didn’t answer. But he stayed there. All night.

With time, he learned their patterns. Knew when they were hungry, tired, scared. He wasn’t affectionate in a traditional sense, but his version of fatherhood was methodical, devoted. Every decision, every gesture, was meant to ensure their survival.

And eventually, something in him shifted.

The first time his daughter reached up to touch his face—he froze. Then, slowly, he leaned into her palm. You watched from the doorway. Tears in your eyes. He still didn’t smile. But when she gurgled, he whispered: “Strong. You’ll be strong.”

He would never be the kind of father to kiss scraped knees or coddle fears. But he would shield them from every threat. He would teach them. Shape them. And if anything ever tried to take them from you—anything—he would make sure it never had the chance to try again.

VILTRUMITE MARK

When Mark brought you back with him, it was a choice—his choice. No council. No advisors. Just him claiming what was his. Pregnancy had come quickly.

But when the medical team delivered the results… and he saw two strong heartbeats on the screen? His expression didn’t change. But his posture did. Straightened spine. Chin slightly raised. A rare, breathless pause.

“Twins?” he repeated, voice low. Controlled. But there was something sharp beneath it—pride. “Two healthy Viltrumite hybrids,” the medic confirmed.

You looked at him, unsure if the news would please him or concern him. He was silent for a long time, arms folded, watching the scan like it was the universe itself unfolding.

Then he said, simply: “Excellent.”

That night, he was rougher in the way he pulled you close—but gentler in the way he touched your stomach. A large hand splayed against the small bump beginning to show, and for the first time in days, he kissed you without dominance—just presence.

He started planning.

Not for one child—but two. Double the training, double the strength, double the legacy. He cleared a sector for their future. Reshaped his schedule. Altered guard patterns around your quarters.

They weren’t even born yet, and he was already reshaping empires.

When your stomach grew round and heavy, he lifted you like it was nothing. When cravings hit, he summoned whatever chefs he trusted. He didn’t understand human symptoms—nausea, mood swings—but he endured them. Listened. Adjusted.

And when you winced in pain one night, he was there. Instantly. Hand on your belly, eyes sharp.

“Is it time?”

“No,” you whispered. “They just kicked.”

He dropped to one knee, resting his forehead against your bump.

“Good,” he murmured. “Fight. Even in the womb.”

By the time the twins arrived—one boy, one girl—he held them like future generals, analyzing every sound, every twitch.

But when your daughter grabbed his finger for the first time, he stilled. Truly stilled. Then, with quiet authority, he looked to you and said: “She will lead.”

“And our son?” you asked, smiling through exhaustion. He looked at the boy in his arms. “He will protect her.”

And you knew in that moment—beneath all the violence, beneath the cold rule—there was something real. His love didn’t need to be spoken. It would be carved into the future.

SHIESTY MARK

Mark was not built to be a dad. Or, that’s what everyone would’ve assumed. But then the twins came—one boy, one girl—and everything went sideways in a way he actually liked.

They screamed. A lot. Shitted on him. A lot. One threw up on his chest. He didn’t even flinch. “You little fucker,” he coughed, bouncing the tiny boy in one hand, wiping his face with a towel like this wasn’t the third shirt he’d gone through today.

And he meant that with love. Mark adored those babies like they were his entire world—but holy shit, he had no filter around them. None.

When you got home from grabbing groceries, you found him in the living room with both of them propped in a giant pillow nest like royalty, Mark crouched in front of them pointing at toys.

“Okay, this one’s a fuckin’ dragon,” he told them, holding it up dramatically. “He bites the fuckin’ shit outta anyone who tries you, alright?” You stared at him, jaw dropped. “Mark!”

“What?” He blinked innocently, like he hadn’t just made ‘fuckin’ shit’ the babies’ first lullaby. “I’m bonding with my son and daughter. You don’t want ‘em growin’ up soft, do you?”

…You ignored him.

Until two weeks later. Your daughter dropped her sippy cup. Looked you dead in the eye. And said, clear as day: “Shit.” You dropped the baby spoon in your hand. Slowly turned toward him. “Mark.” He was howling. “That’s my girl,” he said proudly, arms crossed.

You dragged him by the shirt collar into the other room. “You taught our children swear words?!”

“They gotta learn someday!”

“Not before they can say mama.”

“But they can say ‘fuck’ now.” You stared at him, seething. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He grabbed your wrist, pulled you close, grinning. “You just hate that they love me more than you already.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You married a menace.”

Later that night, he was lying in bed with both babies asleep on his chest. Your son was drooling. Your daughter had her tiny fist balled in his shirt.

And Shiesty Mark, the reckless, trash-mouthed bastard you fell in love with, was whispering: “I’ll kill anyone who fucks with you two. Y’hear me? Anyone. You’re mine now.” You watched him from the doorway, leaning against the frame. Still disappointed? Sure. But also… a little in love with him all over again.

PRISONER MARK

Mark never thought he’d see freedom again—let alone fall in love, let alone have a family.

When you told him you were pregnant, he’d stared at you in disbelief. Like you were a hallucination. A dream conjured up by a man who’d been through too much, lost too much. Twins? That was the part that made him sit down.

“…You serious?” he asked softly, as if saying it too loud might shatter the moment. But he stepped up.

He didn’t care that he had to wear disguises, that he had to duck and hide every time he left the house. If it meant keeping you and the babies safe, he’d burn himself out to do it. He’d bring home groceries with shaky hands, bruises from a fight he never told you about, smiling just because you greeted him at the door in one of his hoodies, the twins’ names already written on little post-its over the fridge.

He nearly cried during the birth. Tried to hide it—failed miserably.

He whispered to both of them that night, laying beside your hospital bed, holding one in each arm. “You’re safe now,” he promised. “No one’s ever taking you from me.”

He was so attentive. You’d wake up at 2am and he’d already be feeding one of them, quietly humming some old Earth song he barely remembered the lyrics to. He was protective in a lowkey, constant way—checking the locks three times, always standing between you and a window, never letting his kids out of his sight. His daughter liked to pull his hoodie strings while he was holding her. His son liked to curl up on his chest and nap.

Prisoner Mark was softer than the others in those moments. He smiled more. He relaxed—only around you and them. He’d lie in bed with you at night, watching them sleep in the bassinet beside you. “…Do you think they’ll ever have to see the kind of world I did?” he asked once.

You answered, “Not if we can help it.” He nodded. “Good. ‘Cause I’ll kill the world before I let it touch them.”

[tokoyamisstuff]

Hear me out…

Variants finding out that reader who is their S.O in their universe is dating somebody else in this one

All the possible reactions from them ESPECIALLY if the seeing reader again was their main motivation for coming to this dimension in the first place

(Pretty please can you include No goggles Mark and the variant that got blown up with Rex,,,,he had such an evil yet sweet and soft voice it still scratches my head so good)

Warnings: every red flag imagineable, forced relationship, abduction, manipulation, canon-typical violence + death, not proofread

He's calm. Too calm. Because he knows exactly how to resolve this.

You'd surely hate him if he was to kill your mate - which wouldn't be a hindrance, but still bothersome - so instead he resorts to more sophisticated measurements.

Got your partner dangling helplessly in the air while making it crystal clear that if he was to ever approach you again, the consequences would be worse than death.

Of course he'd be there to comfort you immediately after you get broken up with 'out of the blue'. You'll never know.

Surprisingly, I think he'd be the most chill about it. After all, he knows best what it's like to try and fill the void with meaningless partners.

But anyways, it's time you stop this bullshit, because your real soulmate is here now. He wouldn't even feel threatened by this nobody, confident that you'll eventually see just how much better he is in every way.

However, he is not a patient man. If you take too long to accept your fate, he might have to become a little more aggressive in his attempts.

Oh, so you want to make him jealous? Cute. Challenge accepted.

But don't be fooled by his confident facade, on the inside he is seething with rage and heartbreak. There's no way to calm him down, couldn't care less and didn't ask for your opinion, feelings, or whatever excuse you'd come up with to soothe his hurt pride.

He'd keep your 'pathetic attempt at replacing him' around, torturing him for his own amusement, and also as means of punishment because you 'cheated' on him. To 'mark his territory', he will constantly force your partner to watch the things he does to you.

In between his cruel way of venting his anger, he'll have brief moments of weakness, revealing just how desparate he is for your affection.

Won't harm your partner if you comply and come with him. They're insignificant either way.

He's pretty chill about the whole situation, certain that given time you'll surrender to your new circumstances. Treats you strict yet caring - as far as he is able to be - and gives you clear instructions of how to act around him.

Other than that, you'll be granted a rather peaceful life with as much freedom as he is possible to give to make you adapt easier. Asks you to never mention your ex in any way, though. Sore topic.

As far as he's concerned, your life before his arrival never existed.

This whole situation is weirdly amusing to him. He'll have a fit of laughter seeing you with this fucking loser, slapping his ankle and acting all silly, while degrading them and also you for choosing someone like this.

Will challenge your partner to a 'duel to win your favor' just for the fun of it. Might even let them land a hit or two, just to toy with them. We all know how this ends, but hey, it got the point across pretty well.

Afterwards he'll act all cheerful and whimsy, twirling you around and expecting you to be thrilled that he's here and got rid of this 'disgrace' for you.

Would be very underatanding. You are not to blame, after all. It's just that your kind is so weirdly obsessed with the concept of love, that you'd rather stay with the wrong companion than be all alone.

But now he has arrived, and by Viltrumite logic you should practically launch yourself onto the superior choice.

Acts as callous and neutral as always, claiming that this union is strictly strategical, but in reality it's eating him alive that he keeps failing to recreate a bond similar to the one you had with your partner.

At some point he pours out his heart, despite having a hard time to verbalize those feelings he was never taught. It's a beginning, though.

Amused, at least initially. But his mood is pretty erratic in general and can switch drastically.

Depending on your reaction, he might either adapt to the situation pretty easily or do something he regrets later. It's a thin line honestly, and there's no right or wrong action.

Most likely he's a petty bastard and will disregard your partner completely. Flirts with you constantly like a damn bully that tries to steal someone's girl in the most disrespectful way possible. And given his power he just knows neither of you have the guts to resist his antics. If you do play hard to get however, it only spurrs him further!

He can work with whatever you decide on doing.

This is his breaking point.

As soon as the reality of the situation sets in, he'll have a complete mental breakdown. You're finally in reach and yet so far away, with someone better that can provide a normal life for you.

Without any hope to hold onto, he'll start destroying everything in his path in a nihilistic fenzy. Without you, nothing matters anymore - it's better to end it all and take everyone with him.

You'll sacrifice yourself by making the heroic offer to stay at his side if he spares your world - and really, he'd rather have you like this than not at all.

Abducts you right then and there, no questions asked.

This man is so lost in his delusions that he seamlessly continues where he left off with his world's version of you. He refuses to acknowledge that you're a completely different person and gets unstable if you act any different than he expects you to.

The most horrifying thing is that he's a talented manipulator without even trying to be. Gaslights you into obedience by claiming it's the only way to keep you safe, and his gentle way of tending to you in huge contrast to his true nature. Over time he's able to actually make you care for him in a twisted way.

His intentions might be pure, his methods on the other hand are anything but that.

But hey, he never seeked out to be absolved anyways. All he wanted was to have you back.

Be prepared to hear all insuslts in the book being hurled at you.

Kills your partner out of a whim, but regrets his approach later on since he should have made them suffer way more. You can be glad he has a soft spot for you in his heart, otherwise would've died right then and there together.

Better make up to him after your 'mistake' by every means necessary. Get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness - even though you have no idea who he is or what he is talking about.

But hey, luckily he just can't be mad at you for too long.

Bonus: Retro Invincible

"I'm not mad, just disappointed" he states flatly with that smooth, balmy voice of his. He is definetly mad. Run.

Takes his sweet time ending the life of the person that dared defiling you with their unworthy touch, making you watch the entire thing so you'll 'learn your lesson'. And don't you dare to scream or even cry for them, or he'll unleash pain a thousand times worse.

Becomes awfully possessive afterwards. Even while holding you in captivity he'd still find reasons to lash out randomly at people he deems suspicious. You are always under his scrutiny, and the fact that you'll never truly be his is slowly driving him insane.

What a cruel turn of fate for both of you, eh?

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Prison Warden - GxG version

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: Fem 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 macrame. 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 manged 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, 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 ended up just as they did 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 two of incarceration. (Rule one 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 him 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 wouldn't feel guilt even if they stole from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned to the next page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my momma. 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 a man's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids that 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 woman's voice, neutral and respectful but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in her tone.

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

Her blond hair was scraped back into a low bun and her uniform sat on her in a way that was far more natural than any of the other 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 her 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 him a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

He 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 in to a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think you 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. She was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that she was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that she wasn't impressed with what she 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?

She was the last to leave. Her eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. She 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 she turned on her heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about her 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 her again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise her before she was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. She 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 she hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

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

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

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

Your shoulder was still an aching mess when she 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 the COs' toolbelt. 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 she returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and her keys rattling.

You turned to her with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not her though. Her 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."

She 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?"

She stayed quiet and you peaked at her over the edge of the fabric. She was much leaner than you realised, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, her forearms toned with muscle.

And tattoos. Damn, she had some sick tats.

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

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful for about two days."

She 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."

"Tell me that after you've spent five years with 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 her.

"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 her angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they're less likely to riot?

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

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

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

She was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with her. She 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."

She leaned against the cell wall, hands on her 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 she was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

She narrowed her eyes and pushed herself off the wall. "Dissapointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

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

She paused at the door.

"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 she know? Did she 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."

She shrugged. "How am I supposed to know if 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 she would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest of them.

"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."

She was looking at you again, much sharper this time. You hadn't noticed it before but her eyes were a gunmetal grey.

"Explain then."

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."

She 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..."

Her 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 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 his finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. She was still watching you, her face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

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

"How exciting," she deadpanned.

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

She 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," she 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 she smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanor just enough to make you wonder about the woman underneath.

When she 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 up 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 her past. Something, somewhere had given her enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

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

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

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

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

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

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way she 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 at around the third week after her arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You'd 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 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 on purpose.

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, slanging 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 misdemenaors. 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 a 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. She walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave her your most charming grin.

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

She 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. She'd brush her uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then she'd settle her 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 herself. Still, you kept your eye on them 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 you in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it hightening to a point. Could feel it like a dirty, oily taste in the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped her. You'd been hoping to catch her for a few days at least 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."

She narrowed her eyes.

"They're going to riot."

"Seems like it."

"When?"

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

She looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of hundreds of 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, it was in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

She must have seen the answer in your face.

She shook her head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of a job."

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.

Others were already moving forward. Three prisoners 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 yelling was enough to make your head throb. Ringing ringing ringing off the cafeteria walls.

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 cannisters 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 ran down the corridor, thinking fast.

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

That meant they'd want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find them when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of the wall and shot down the main corridor.

The showers. That's exactly what you'd do if you were her.

They 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?" green eyes snapped, barely turning to look at you.

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 her out like she 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. Her baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to her was cut her cheek, all the way from her temple to the bridge of her 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 she took issue with being called yours, she didn't show it.

"Let her 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 sharp edge. 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 she's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping her around."

She rolled her 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 dodged.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and sending 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 pummeling 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 breaking.

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. It hurt to breathe. Hopefully not cracked. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

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

She was watching you. She hadn't moved from her place. Blood was still running in thin streams down her cheek, like she was crying blood.

"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 her. 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."

She finally moved. Picked up her baton and slipped it into her belt. She grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against her face. The white starting spotting red almost immediately. You watched her 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 her without looking at her face.

She wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in her belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and her 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."

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

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at her. 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."

She started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. She 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 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 she 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 her turn to sigh.

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

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

She sighed again and walked away. You didn't see her again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary for 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 might 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 heating 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 her almost immediately. Blondie, her hair tied back in a ponytail and her usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to her, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

She 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."

She 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 water.

"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 relive every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at her and she 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 she 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?"

She looked away from you for the first time, her 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."

She 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 really 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 he wouldn't stop, even though she was bleeding and about to pass out. How you banged at his door and then finally broke in through a back window.

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 defense 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 defense 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 further run ins with the law, not even misdemenaors. 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 possibly 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.

She was 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."

She 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.

Her car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely six 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 her hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

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

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

"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."

She was quiet for a bit, but finally manged to force a smile into her voice.

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

She kept her eyes on the road, her hand loose and confident on the wheel. Her sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at her tattoos. It was a really well done piece, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

She didn't answer.

When you arrived, her house was ranch style 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."

She grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

She 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 the meagre prison possessions 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 her 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 a breath of fresh air.

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 anymore.

Home.

She showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from hers 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.

She 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. She 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. She was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did she know you weren't going to make a break the second you could, her tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You can just drink at the table and wait for her 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 her bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through her drawers. She'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of her neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to her bed, like she 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 motony. And better 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 their 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 favorite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you her life.

And she was in love with you.

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

No wonder she did what she did. No wonder she paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at her house. No wonder she 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.

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

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

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

She 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."

She 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?"

She smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past her 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."

She wrinkled her 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."

She tilted her head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell her perfume and see the flecks of green in her 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?"

She smiled that secret smile again.

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

It was true. She 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?

[animamii]

part trois of Toji's Valentine Suprise

contains smuttttt c;

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

"You wearin' that anklet I gotcha?" Toji asks, spread out on the recliner. It's only been a few hours since this little impromptu reunion (aka him actually somehow breaking out of prison to see you). You sit on the loveseat, knees bent as your back rests on the arm. Looking like a disheveled mess, hair all sex ruffled, silk slip hanging off of one shoulder. Lips all plump and swollen, glossy and red. Fuckin' perfect in Toji's eyes.

"Uh huh," you stick your pedicured foot out, golden anklet dangling, the little 'TF' written in old english font making a light sound as it softly sways.

"Looks pretty on ya, knew that gold would complement your skin," he hums, grabbing your foot and kissing the top, eyes locked on yours. Your breath hitches for a quick second, you always got so enamored with Toji after he fucks you good. Still in your sex daze, your hands bunch the fabric of the silk slip, somehow growing needy again. Toji continues to look at the anklet, your foot in his grip. "White toes too? My favorite." His thumb brushes the gel polish before he kisses the tips of your toes. But oh, he doesn't stop there.

His scarred lip curls into mischievous smile as he opens his mouth, lips wrapping around a few of your toes. a soft gasp leaves your mouth, and you clutch onto your dress even tighter. Toji's gaze is intense, burning into yours, and you can't help but be drawn in by his raw, unadulterated desire. Your heart races as Toji's mouth closes around your toes, the sensation both strange and exhilarating. You can't help but arch your back slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles from Toji’s chest as he sucks lightly on your toes, his tongue flicking against the pads before he pulls back with a wet pop. His grip tightens around your ankle, holding you in place as he smirks up at you, watching the way your thighs press together, your lip caught between your teeth.

"What?" His voice is low, teasing. "Too much?" You shake your head, swallowing hard, but your breath is uneven, your body already responding. His thumb strokes over your ankle, grazing the delicate chain, and his smirk widens. "Yeah, that’s what I thought."

Slowly, he drags his lips along the curve of your foot, kissing up your ankle, your shin, taking his sweet time as he watches you squirm. You hate how easily he gets to you, how even the softest touch makes heat pool low in your belly. He knows exactly what he’s doing—knows how to wind you up, how to keep you right on the edge. It pisses you off, really.

You exhale shakily. "You’re so—"

"So what?" Toji murmurs, pressing a kiss to your knee before running his hands up your thighs, spreading them just slightly as he inches closer. "Good to you? Thought you knew that already, baby." He chuckles as he makes that oh so true assumption.

Your nails dig into the fabric of your slip, anticipation making your heart pound against your ribs. "You’re ridiculous," you mutter, cheeks burning red.

Toji chuckles, dark and low, as his hands slide higher. "And yet you still let me do whatever I want with you." His lips ghost over your inner thigh, his breath warm against your sensitive skin. "Ain’t that right?" You bite your lip, nodding without thinking.

"Good girl." His voice is pure satisfaction before he pulls you closer, eyes gleaming with something wicked. "Now, lemme really show you how much I missed you."

Toji’s hands grip your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. He’s settled between your legs now, still lounging back like he’s got all the time in the world, like he didn’t just break out of prison to see you. The smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, keeping his touch featherlight, dragging out the moment until you’re squirming beneath his gaze.

"T-Toji—" Your breath catches as he kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft against your overheated skin. He knows just where to kiss, which spots are the most sensitive. Where his open mouthed kisses should be placed precisely that will make you whimper.

"Mm?" He hums, acting like he doesn’t notice the way your fingers twitch against the silk of your slip, gripping the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you sane. "What’s wrong, baby? You gettin’ needy on me again?" You glare at him, but it’s weak, and he knows it.

Toji grins, his scarred lip curling up as he presses another kiss, a little higher this time. "Didn’t I just take care of you, huh? Thought that’d be enough to hold you over, but look at you." His hands squeeze your plush thighs, making heat pool in your stomach. "Lookin’ all pretty and desperate again."

You hate how much his teasing affects you, how easily he has you melting under his touch, wrapped around his finger. "You’re so—"

"So good to you?" He finishes for you once again like he wants you to say it, grinning when you huff out a frustrated breath. "Yeah, I know, baby. Ain’t my fault you got no self control when it comes to me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the second you do, his hands tighten, and he pulls you forward, dragging you to the edge of the loveseat with a yelp. Before you can protest, he tugs your legs over his shoulders, his smirk widening as you gasp.

"Relax," he murmurs, thumbs stroking the inside of your thighs. "I got you, baby. I always got you, right?"

Your heart pounds as his mouth gets closer, his breath hot against your skin. "Toji—"

"Shh," he soothes, pressing a lingering kiss over the anklet, right where his initials rest against your skin. "Gonna take my time with you, princess."

Toji’s grip is firm as he spreads your thighs wider, his hands rough against your soft skin. His breath fans over your already soaked panties, making your stomach clench in anticipation. He watches you, dark eyes gleaming, eating up every little twitch, every shaky breath you take. Ohhh how he missed this. How he missed you.

"Fuck, baby." His thumb brushes over the damp fabric, feeling the heat radiating from you. Pulling his thumb back, it's sticky with your arousal, which he licks off with a swipe of his tongue. "You're drippin’ already? Thought you said I was ridiculous—but look at you." He tuts, pressing a teasing kiss right where you need him most, making your hips jerk. Fuckin' tease. "You miss me that bad?"

"Toji—" Your voice is almost a whine, hands gripping the arm of the loveseat like it’ll stop the way your body responds to him so easily. But it’s useless. You always fall apart for him.

He chuckles, low and dark, fingers hooking into the thin fabric of your panties before tugging them down slowly, deliberately, letting the cool air graze over your bare skin. He groans at the sight of you, licking his lips. "Shit, baby. Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen."

Before you can respond, his mouth is on you. A sharp gasp rips from your lips as his tongue flicks over your clit, slow at first, teasing, just to watch you squirm. But Toji’s never been a patient man, and he wants you to come undone. His tongue moves expertly, with a distinct precision because he always knows exactly what he's doing, switching between broad strokes and tight circles, sucking at just the right moments. He knows your body best, knows just what to do to make you unravel. The obscene sounds of his mouth working against you only make it worse—make you needier.

"Fuck, Toji—" You arch, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in his dark strands, tugging. He groans at that, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure straight through you. Your sweet as candy voice always made him melt, made his heartstrings tug.

"That’s it, baby," he rasps between licks, voice dripping with satisfaction. "Pull my hair, ride my fuckin’ face. I want you to. I know you want to too."

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips move on their own, grinding against his tongue as he groans, eating you like a starved man. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you exactly where he wants you, dragging you even closer, like he can’t get enough. Guiding your hips, helping you fuck his face.

"T-Toji, I—" You feel the pressure building, that tight coil in your stomach about to snap. He knows it, too. He can feel it in the way your thighs shake, in the way your fingers grip his hair even tighter. Your heel digs into his back, forcing his face into your coochie, basically having him in a headlock.

"C’mon, baby," he coaxes, voice rough with his own need. "Gimme what I want. Let me taste you."

It’s the filthy desperation in his voice that sends you over the edge. Your body tenses before shattering, pleasure rolling through you in waves as Toji keeps going, licking and sucking you through it, groaning against you as he drinks it all in. When you finally go limp, breathless and trembling, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, chin glistening with your slickness, smirking like he just won the fucking lottery.

"Told you, baby," he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to your overstimulated clit, making you whimper, your hips bucking. "I always take care of what’s mine."

Toji’s fingers trail over your trembling thighs, lazy and possessive, as you struggle to catch your breath. He’s still between your legs, lips glistening, gaze locked onto you like he’s debating whether to ruin you all over again. But his eyes drop lower—to your ankle, where that delicate gold chain rests against your skin, his initials catching in the dim light.

A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his lips. "Knew that anklet would look good on you," he murmurs, fingers tracing over it, letting the tiny ‘TF’ pendant sway against your skin. "Y’know why I got this for you, huh doll?"

You swallow hard, body still buzzing from your orgasm, but Toji doesn’t like being ignored. His fingers slide up your calf, grip tightening just enough to make you focus.

"I asked you a question, princess."

"Toji..." Your voice is soft, breathless, and he loves it.

"C’mon," he coaxes, tilting his head, fingers playing with the charm. "Why do you think I put my name right there? Hmm?" His thumb presses against the anklet, dragging over your skin. Even an innocent touch like that has you tingling in all the right places, Like anything he does to you gives you that pleasure. "Right on this pretty lil’ ankle? You know what it means, don’tcha?"

Butterflies form inside your stomach at the implication, heat rushing through your veins. He watches the realization dawn on your face, the way you shift beneath his intense gaze, biting your lip.

"Say it," he urges, voice dipping into something darker, hungrier. You hesitate, and that will not do.

With a deep chuckle, Toji moves fast—grabbing your ankle, lifting your leg up over his shoulder, your body stretched out beneath him. His free hand slides up your thigh, his grip firm, possessive. The weight of him, the heat of him, makes your head spin.

"This lil’ thing?" He flicks the charm, letting it dangle. "It means you’re mine, baby. My girl. My name right here, sittin’ pretty on your ankle—so everyone knows exactly who the fuck you belong to."

You shudder, something needy stirring deep inside you. Toji always had a way of branding you without even trying. His touch, his voice, the way he owned every piece of you without question.

"You like that, huh?" His smirk widens as he leans in, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your calf, stopping right where the anklet rests. "Bet you think about me every time you see it. Every time you feel it brush against your skin." He kisses the charm, tongue flicking against the cool metal before his teeth scrape over it. Your breath stutters.

"T-Toji—"

"Mmm, that’s right, baby," he groans against your skin, his grip tightening. "Go on, say it. Say who you belong to."

You hesitate, brain still hazy, but then he bites just below your anklet, just enough to make you gasp—just enough to send a shock of pleasure straight to your core.

"Toji—fuck! I—"

"Yeah, you do, baby," he rasps, hot and breathy against your skin. "Say it."

Your nails dig into the cushions, your body on fire, already craving more. "I’m yours, Toji."

He lets out a dark, satisfied chuckle, teeth grazing your ankle one last time before he shifts, pressing you deeper into the loveseat, his weight heavy, suffocating in the best way.

"Damn right you are," he mutters, lips trailing down your neck, hands spreading your thighs again as he fits himself in the gap. "And now I’m gonna make sure you never forget it."

With two fingers he grabs the leftover slickness that was still coating your sex, and he uses it to lube up his cock like the sick man he is. You didn't even notice that he had pulled it out, only seeing as he pumps himself a few times. With a little plaat! he slaps your clit with his heavy length, making you jolt, your puffy clit still trying to recover from the overstimulation.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, watching the way you react to him. "So fuckin’ sensitive for me. You want it, huh?" His cock drags through your folds, the thick head nudging your entrance, teasing. "Say it."

Your breath hitches, hands gripping at his arms, nails digging into the muscle. "I want it, Toji. Please."

His smirk deepens, enjoying the desperation in your voice. "That’s my good girl." And with one slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he sinks into you, stretching you open inch by inch, making sure you feel every bit of him.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as he bottoms out, your walls fluttering around him. "Shit, baby. Always so tight for me," he grits out, eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure.

He stills for a second, letting you adjust, but the way your body clenches around him has his control hanging by a thread. "You okay, princess?"

You nod frantically, fingers digging into his biceps. "Move, Toji. Please." Even through your hazy overstimulation, you were still such a needy needy girl for him.

That’s all he needs. His hips pull back before slamming forward, setting a deep, brutal pace that has your back arching off the loveseat. Each thrust pushes you further into the cushions, the force of it making your anklet jingle softly, like a taunting reminder of who you belong to.

"Listen to that," he rasps, his hand gripping your ankle again, lifting your leg higher. "That sound, baby—know what it means? Means I own this fuckin’ pussy." He looks at the anklet that is now next to his head, he smirks, "And this means I own you. Told ya this would be dangling over my shoulder soon." He flicks the charm in a cocky almost patronizing way, letting it sway back and forth, back and forth.

Your moans come faster, broken, desperate, and Toji eats it up, his pace only growing rougher. "Fuck, you take me so good," he groans, watching the way your body welcomes him, your slick coating his cock, making it easier for him to drive deeper. "No one else can have you like this. Only me. Say it."

"Only you, Toji!" You cry out, body trembling, nails raking down his back. Bottom lip jutted out, the cutest of needy pouts on your face. It makes Toji smile for a second, not smirk but smile. Even so fucked out you looked so cute. But then the way your walls squeeze around his thickness makes him go feral once more.

"That’s right, baby," he growls, leaning down, his lips ghosting over yours. "Mine. No matter what, no matter where I'm at. It's only mine." Your stomach clenches at his words, the possessiveness in his voice making your head spin. You barely manage a nod, overwhelmed by the way he’s filling you, owning you completely.

His lips crash into yours, swallowing your whimpers as he thrusts into you with deep, deliberate strokes. His grip on your ankle tightens, pressing it against his shoulder, the anklet dangling right beside his cheek, swinging in time with each snap of his hips. Toji groans, burying himself deeper, his cock dragging along that spot that has your toes curling. This turns you into a babbling, moaning mess. Toji can't help but let out a moaned-out chuckle, proud of your undoing that he caused.

His pace is ruthless now, hands gripping your hips, pulling you into every thrust. The room is filled with the sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans mixing with his low, guttural groans. The pressure in your core builds, unbearable, white-hot pleasure creeping up your spine.

"T-Toji—fuck, I—"

"I got you, baby," he grits out, sweat dripping down his temples as he keeps driving into you. "Let go. Show me who this pussy belongs to."

His fingers drop to your clit, rubbing tight, skilled circles, and that’s it—you shatter, pleasure ripping through you as you cry out his name, your body locking up before trembling beneath him.

Toji watches in awe—in that loving adoration he always does, drinking in the way your walls grip him—the way they flutter, your face twisted in pleasure—the pretty way your brow furrows and the way your eyes are glossy and glazed over, your anklet still swaying with every movement,. "Fuck, baby—gonna cum—"

He barely pulls out in time, pumping his thick length, ropes of hot cum spilling onto your stomach, your thighs. He groans your name, breath ragged, before collapsing against you, body heavy and warm.

For a moment, neither of you speak, just panting in the aftermath, bodies still buzzing. Then, Toji lifts his head, eyes flicking down to the mess he’s made of you—of your trembling thighs, the slick between them, the way his initials on that anklet stand out against your flushed skin.

A slow, satisfied smirk stretches across his lips. "Told you, baby." His fingers brush over the chain, still admiring his claim on you. "Looks even better when it’s right where it belongs."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

like the doctor ordered c; @livv-in-color

tags ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ @psoycy @yourname-exee @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @universallydepressed13 @cheolliehugs @xinarii @blendingcaramal @k-a-m232 @stainednailpolishremover

[sweaterrat]

“You’re pretty..”

Some lemlav art I made back in December heh (I never finished it bc I’d rather pull my hair out one by one than draw a background)

[pillow-coded]

To Have and to Hold — Chapter 1

Summary: finding a lost toddler's mother in the library wasn’t how Spencer expected to spend his afternoon. Later, when her mother arrives—panicked, breathless, and beautiful—Spencer starts to forget how to breathe. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Brief depiction of a lost child, mild panic from a parent, emotional vulnerability word count: 5.3k

A/N: This is the first work I had the guts to post (genuinely scared lol), slow updates! (so sorry, but uni is killing me), and lastly, English isn't my native language, so please do let me know if i got any grammar mistakes! (also not proofread cause i'm too embarrassed to show any of my friends)

Series Masterlist

Libraries have always been a great comfort for me. It’s a place full of knowledge, warmth, peace. Maybe it’s the smell of old books and how I can easily link that smell to the amiable parts of my childhood.

Those Autumn nights when everything was fine, where my wires were still intact. Mom was doing well back then. She’d read to me those old books she collected from all her years of teaching. That’s how I saw them back then... Old, decrepit books that contained the most fun stories... At least, I found them fun. Like Shakespeare’s Tales Retold – child-friendly versions of Shakespeare’s works.

Nowadays, they’re more than just fond stories or old books. Those books are relics and a memory of when my mother was... well, more lucid.

What I loved most about libraries was the quietness of it all. I spent a couple of hours of my day when I could, basking in the quiet. It was nice not to have to hear the gruesome details of some innocent woman murdered in cold blood.

Days like these only made the quietness feel even better. Soft Autumn day, nearing Winter already. We had just come back from a tough case, children were involved. Thankfully, we managed to get on time.

I had watched that boy while JJ tried to talk to him, trying to understand what had happened to him. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and he looked achingly thin. We later found that the boy’s parents held a “discipline ring.” According to his parents, it was a “behavior modification” experiment—one they claimed was “research-backed,” designed to “train” their child into being the perfect prodigy. The boy was denied food, affection, and even basic care when he disobeyed. But worse? The parents live-streamed it all on private forums for a group of like-minded “disciplinarians.”

It didn’t matter that we caught his parents. That the live-stream was shut down. That the others in that so-called “discipline ring” were going to prison. None of it mattered when he looked up at me with those eyes—hollow but obedient. Like love was something he still thought he had to earn.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated those people.

I’ve done a lot of pretending in my life. Pretended I wasn’t scared. Pretended I wasn’t lonely. Pretended I didn’t want a family of my own. But that boy—he didn’t know how to pretend. He didn’t know how to fake normal. He just waited patiently in that hospital bed for someone to love him back.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which is why I had decided to come to the library instead of resting after the case like a normal person. I needed a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

That moment of quietness was rudely interrupted—torn apart by high-pitched, desperate sobbing. I turn to my left, and there's a girl at the end of the long corridor full of bookcases. A tiny one at that, since the whole corridor looked gigantic compared to her.

She couldn’t have been more than five, barely tall enough to brush the second shelf. A statistical outlier in this ocean of silence, suddenly very, very loud. There was something unsettling about how her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes. Children cried in a language everyone understood.

“Are you lost?” I ask hesitantly, not moving from my spot in the corridor. The little girl stops crying for a brief moment. Well, not stop, but slowed down. Her big eyes are still so full of fear and tears, but they open wide to look at me as if she hadn’t been expecting someone to help.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at me—eyes still shimmering, lips trembling, chest stuttering around hiccuped sobs. She’s scared. That much is obvious. But it’s the way she clutches the fabric of her little coat that really gets me. Like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth right now.

I walk towards her. I'm not close—just close enough to show I’m not a threat. A non-threatening stranger in a cardigan and tie, kneeling among the books like I’m part of the furniture.

She stares, still trembling, still silent.

“It’s okay,” I murmur gently. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to. I just want to help.”

Her little hand scrubs clumsily at her cheek. She sniffles, her shoulders curling inward. Still holding it in. Still trying to be brave.

Then, finally—after a moment that feels like something unspooling—she shakes her head. And her voice, when it comes, is a soft, crumpled thing:

“I can’t find my mommy.”

I nod, matching her quietness. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

A pause.

“I’ll help you find her, alright? No rush. We can check the kiddie section together. That’s probably where she’ll look first.”

I didn’t offer my hand. It felt like too much for both of us. Instead, I walked beside her, slow and steady, letting the silence settle between us like soft dust. She kept sniffling quietly the whole walk down.

I desperately needed a way to make the little cries stop.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head back to look up at me—really look this time. She was so small she had to crane her neck to find my eyes. Her expression still carried that flicker of uncertainty, her trust not quite earned yet.

“I’m Spencer.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stares for a second, like she’s still deciding whether I’m safe. Then, in the tiniest voice—barely above a whisper—she says:

“...Maddie.”

Maddie.

I nod, repeating it once under my breath to make it real.

“That’s a beautiful name, Maddie.”

She says nothing, but her fingers curl tighter around the hem of her coat. She’s still scared, but she’s not looking away anymore.

Progress.

I scan the rows of shelves ahead. The kiddie section’s not far now—colorful bean bags, tiny chairs, picture books splayed on wide tables.

“Do you like magic tricks, Maddie?”

She nods her tiny head, her eyes warming up to me at the thought.

I felt something in my stomach… I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe yearning?

She nods—just once—and I see it. That flicker of trust, like a light turning on behind her eyes. Not quite safety, but something near it.

And something stirs in my stomach.

I don’t know what to call it. It’s not adrenaline, and it’s not fear. Maybe it’s yearning. Not for her, necessarily—but for what she has. What she’s lost. What she’s looking for.

For someone to come back for her.

For someone to call her name.

“Okay… how about I show you some magic tricks while we wait for your mommy to get here? that sound fun, Maddie?”

This time she nods enthusiastically. Her big eyes excited to see what sorcery I had planned to show her.

I dig the pocket of my pants, my movements slow and deliberate. I pull out a simple quarter. It’s nothing special. Just a plain, shiny quarter that for some reason, I’ve held on to for way longer than I should’ve.

“Behold,” I announce, holding it up between two fingers like it’s enchanted. “A perfectly ordinary quarter.”

She leans in, captivated—eyes locked on the coin like it’s something rare. A small smile starts to tug at her cheeks.

“It’s your everyday quarter,” I say, twirling the tiny thing between my fingers, doing my best to keep this unfamiliar girl comforted—as if her calm is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Watch closely.”

I place the coin on my open palm and slowly close my fingers around it. Then, with my free hand, I give the air above my fist a little wave—like I’m stirring something invisible.

“And now… it’s gone.”

I open my hand. Empty.

She gasps.

I see it—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes light up like I’ve just rewritten the rules of the universe.

I lean in, just a little. Not too close.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur, pretending to look around her, behind her, above her. “Where could it have gone…?”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I reach behind her ear, and pull the coin free like I just plucked a star from the sky.

Her breath catches. She stares at the quarter in my fingers like it’s a miracle.

“It was behind your ear this whole time,” I whisper, grinning.

She beams at me, her fear momentarily forgotten. Her laughter is soft but real, bright and bubbly and innocent in a way that makes something sharp tug behind my ribs.

“Are you a sorcerer?” She asks, her big, curious eyes staring into my soul, trying to get answers out of me.

I blink, “A sorcerer?”

She nods, completely serious, “like the ones in Harry Potter.”

I chuckle fondly at her question, “Well… I don’t have a broom. Or a wand. Or an Owl.”

“But you made the coin vanish…” She pouts slightly, and although the sight of her minor pout was adorable, I would’ve given anything to see her smile again.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the case that had me feeling so fond of a child I just met. Maybe it got all the loose wires within me, all frayed and sparking from things I still hadn’t worked through. But there was something about this moment—this tiny human with tear-streaked cheeks and a Harry Potter reference—that made something ache deep in my chest.

I felt it so sharply it almost hurt.

This... this mattered.

And I hated how much I wanted it—interactions like this. Not just the comfort or the connection but the permanence. The possibility of something that was mine.

Kids of my own.

I glance down at her, still wide-eyed, still waiting for more magic. Her little hands twitch with excitement like she’s ready to believe anything I say.

“Yeah, but it’s only a magic trick, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to offer the truth gently, without breaking the illusion. Without hurting her feelings.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should let her believe in it a little longer. Let her live in the dream. Give her what I wish someone had given me at that age—a reason to believe in wonder.

So I sigh, dramatically, like I’m about to confess something world-altering.

“Okay… you got me. But you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

She leans in, eyes shining.

“I’m actually a wizard.”

She gasps, delighted. A smile blooms across her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.

“I knew it!” she squeals.

“Yeah, you did,” I grin back. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She looks like she’s about to burst with thousands of questions. Eyes wide and shining with a special curiosity. I just hope her parent doesn’t murder me for fueling these wizard dreams that she has.

“Are you friends with Harry?”

I try my best to suppress a warm chuckle, but I can’t help the smile that shines through.

“Harry Potter?” She nodded so hard at my response that I worried her head might pop off. “Well… I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s mostly busy these days. But yes, we’ve met.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, and this time, I couldn’t subdue the fond chuckles that her reactions got out of me.

“Can you show me more magic?”

I smile, helpless to deny her. “Alright. One more, but you gotta sit down for this one.” I say, holding up a finger like I’m laying down a rule neither of us will actually follow.

She hurries to a small chair in the kid tables. Wiggles in place, hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something incredible.

I reach into my pocket again, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the coin.

“But you have to pay very close attention, okay? This one’s advanced wizardry.”

She nods like she’s preparing for a test at Hogwarts.

“We have, the very same coin from earlier,” I move the coin to the center of my palm, “But if I place it right here… and you keep your eyes on it…”

I curl my fingers over it, give them a little dramatic wiggle.

“This simple quarter will just…”

Disappear. Or—it’s supposed to.

Everything was going fine. The coin’s in my palm. My fingers close around it. I make the usual gesture—slight misdirection, a practiced flick of the wrist, the classic illusion.

Except this time… something goes wrong. There’s a soft metallic clink followed by—

“Ow!”

Not me. Behind me.

The little girl’s eyes go wide, delighted at first by the trick. But then her head snaps toward the voice—the one behind me, the one that just yelped in surprise.

And just like that… the magic disappears.

“Mommy!” She takes off running.

I stand and turn instinctively, ready to reassure the parent—let her know her daughter’s safe, that I was only trying to help. Maybe even apologize for the quarter that, somehow, made impact.

But then I see her.

And for a moment… I forget what I was about to say.

She’s standing there, breathless, eyes wide with relief, and the softest kind of panic still clinging to her expression. The kind that says she’s been searching—not just through the aisles, but through every possible worst-case scenario in her head.

And yet, despite the tension in her posture, despite the flurry of emotion on her face...

She’s—God, she’s beautiful.

Like something from another lifetime. Light catching in her hair. Autumn caught in her breath.

An angel.

I’ve always thrived on routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, go fulfill today’s duties… It wasn’t anything exciting, but it was dependable. Familiar.

That all changed when I had her.

My Madelyn.

Now, my mornings depend on a dozen unpredictable factors. Maybe Maddie wakes up before I do and cuts my desperately needed seven hours of sleep short. Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she wet the bed. Or—more often than not—she’s just too excited for the day and bursts out of sleep like it’s a celebration.

It’s exhausting.

But she’s my entire world. My sun. My moon. And I’d sacrifice every ounce of sleep or peace of mind a thousand times over if it meant making her life feel safe and full of joy.

Still, we do have one day of the week that rarely breaks pattern.

Saturdays.

Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, I wake up early, make pancakes, get dressed, and head to the library—the one place where time slows down, where stories open like doorways and the world feels just a little quieter.

Bringing Maddie into that routine was surprisingly easy. I started taking her when she was just a month old. I would’ve done it sooner, but I was still figuring things out—how to be a single mother to a newborn. Just surviving those first few days was its own kind of story.

She loves our Saturdays.

Every Saturday morning, once the pancakes are ready, I head to her room—and without fail, she wakes up with the biggest smile.

She always knows it’s Saturday because of the smell. Like clockwork, the scent of warm batter reaches her tiny nose, and her whole body just springs to life. She throws off her covers, races into the kitchen barefoot and beaming, already asking for her syrup before I can even plate the first stack.

This Saturday morning was different.

I should’ve known things would go wrong the moment I decided to step even slightly out of routine.

“Good morning, princess,” I sing, beaming as I step into her bedroom—blueberry pancakes in hand. “Brought you breakfast in bed. Aren’t you a spoiled little princess today?”

Her face lights up like it always does. “Good morning, Mommy!”

She spots the pancakes, and her eyes sparkle. She bounces a little beneath her blankets, already reaching for the plate. “Blueberry?”

I nod, smiling. “Well, I know how much you like them, so I decided to change things up,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Alright, eat up. The library’s waiting for us.”

She hummed as she ate, little legs swinging off the edge of the bed, syrup smeared near the corner of her mouth. It was such a small thing, but I remember thinking—this is what happiness feels like. A plate of blueberry pancakes and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the stars.

We left a little later than usual.

Just ten minutes. That’s all.

She insisted on picking out her own outfit—a striped shirt and a pink coat—and I let her. Another tiny detour from routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

The nearest library, which we were used to visiting, was a three-story building. It was old, but they kept it clean. The library had a huge variety of books, from Children’s books to cookbooks.

It was just as it always was. Quiet. Warm. A kind of sacred.

We walked in together. I remember holding the door open while she skipped inside.

I remember telling her—“Stay close, baby.”

she nodding.

And then…Then I blinked. I looked up from the shelves. And she was gone.

I’ve never lost my Maddie before. She’s a curious child, and she loves to wander off on adventures. She probably inherited that from me. This need to find whatever’s glowing. I understand it. We’re moths, both of us. Fragile, flitting things, always blinded by the glow, unaware that it might hurt us.

But I’ve gotten better at spotting the danger.

At least… when it comes to her.

I watch everything. Every step she takes. Every handrail she climbs. Every crack in the sidewalk I gently guide her around. Not even the tiniest fruit fly gets near her without me noticing. I make sure of it. I always make sure.

So how did I miss this?

how did I lose her?

“Maddie?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maddie, where are you, sweetheart?”

No reply.

Just silence. Just shelves. Just the sound of someone flipping a page somewhere far away.

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t hear her.

Panic bloomed in my chest, sharp and fast. I started moving—too quickly to think, too slowly to matter. I scanned every row, every corner of the first floor, spinning in half-circles, eyes darting, throat dry.

Think. You have to think. Breathe.

I forced myself to stop. Just for a second. Inhaled. Shaky. Exhaled. Useless.

That’s when I saw it.

A sign hanging above the staircase in soft, colorful letters:

Children’s Section – Second Floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken stairs that fast in my life.

I practically leapt two steps at a time, nearly tripping—twice—but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My heart was pounding too hard, my breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

As soon as I reached the top, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, bubbling giggles echoing from the back corner of the floor.

Maddie. My sun.

I followed the sound like it was oxygen, rounding the shelves toward the children’s section—and there she was. She was fine. Smiling. Whole. Lit up with joy I hadn’t seen since breakfast.

I was so blinded by the sight of her—so completely caught in the gravity of that relief—that I didn’t see the small, shiny object flying straight at my face.

Thunk.

“Ow!” I yelped, instinctively pressing a hand to my forehead where the coin made impact.

“Mommy!” I blinked, still holding my forehead, and finally looked up to see my daughter running full speed to me.

I dropped my hand and opened my arms just in time, catching her as she flung herself into me.

The force of her little body nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs—and I didn’t care. I clutched her to my chest, my hands smoothing over her hair, her back, her arms—like I needed to physically confirm every part of her was still here.

Still mine.

“I was looking for you,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know. I’m here.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and only then—only then—did I let myself breathe. Let myself relax and look around with a clear mind.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, gangly, cardigan-ed, and completely mortified. His wide brown eyes darted from the coin in the floor, to my face and back again like he wasn’t sure which deserved more immediate attention.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t—I mean, the coin wasn’t… is your forehead okay?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He reached down and took the quarter in his hands.

He was nervous. The poor thing couldn’t even get a full thought out without stuttering or switching pitch. He looked like a deer caught in headlights—in the most endearing way possible.

I adjusted Maddie in my arms and slowly rose to my feet, brushing a hand over the spot where the coin had hit.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay.”

“Mommy, that’s Spencer. He’s a wizard, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Maddie’s little voice cut in, muffled by my shoulder. Her tiny hands clung to my shirt like this secret was sacred. Like this moment mattered.

“Is he now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The poor man looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and he kept shifting like he wanted to disappear behind the nearest bookshelf. He was clearly mortified for making my daughter believe he was an actual wizard.

Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she might explode from sheer joy.

“He did magic, Mommy!” she beamed. “He made the coin disappear! And he’s friends with Harry Potter!”

I looked at him again—this tall, blushing stranger in a cardigan, holding a rogue quarter like it was evidence from a crime scene—and for the first time since the panic hit…

I smiled. No, not just that. I giggled.

“He’s friends with Harry Potter, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” Maddie chirped, her little head nodding furiously against my shoulder. “He told me so!”

I glanced down at Maddie, still glowing with excitement in my arms, then back at him—this stranger with a guilty expression and a coin pinched nervously between his fingers.

“So you’ve met the famous Harry Potter?” I asked softly, more amused than anything else.

His mouth opened… then closed again. He looked completely out of his depth, like he wasn’t sure whether to defend himself or disappear behind the nearest bookcase.

“I… may have implied we’d met,” he said, almost apologetically. “In a—fictional sense.”

“Fictional,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, eyes flicking anywhere but at me. “She asked if I knew him, and I just couldn’t say no. Plus, it calmed her down.”

My heart twisted, gently. Of course it did.

I crouched to set Maddie down, brushing a hand over her curls. “Don’t wander off, sweetheart.”

She nodded seriously—too seriously for someone who just believed she’d befriended a wizard—but she stayed put, her wide eyes still bouncing between me and the man standing awkwardly by the bookshelves.

When I stood, he was watching me. Not in a weird way. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or leave before he embarrassed himself further.

I finally broke the silence.

“Thank you,” I said. “For keeping her calm. And for the magic tricks. Even if one of them involved hitting a complete stranger in the face.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god—yes. I’m really sorry about that. That was not part of the trick. I swear it usually disappears. Like, away from people.”

I smiled again, gentler this time. “I believe you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got a very brave little girl.”

My chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” I whispered, looking over at Maddie, who was now spinning slowly in place, humming to herself like nothing had happened.

“She really is.”

I looked back again, and of course—despite being told not to wander—she had already drifted toward the toy shelf, her tiny fingers trailing along the edge of a plastic castle.

Moth. Always drawn to whatever glows.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to tear me open—not in a violent way, but in that quiet, curious way. Like he needed to understand what made me me. Like he was trying to read my soul the way other people read books.

I hadn’t even noticed—Not until I turned my gaze back to him, and when I did, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

There was something behind his eyes—something searching. Gentle, but sharp. Not the kind of stare meant to intimidate. No, it was worse. It was the kind that saw. Saw too much.

The kind of look that made you feel like maybe you weren’t a collection of masks and moments. Like maybe you were a story he’d just opened to the first page.

It made my skin warm.

I looked away first. Not because it was uncomfortable—But because it wasn’t.

Because I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me like that. Like I was worth reading.

“So… she read the Harry Potter series?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked a couple times, trying to shake myself free from whatever trance those hazel eyes had pulled me into.

“Has she read—? No, no. She still struggles a bit with reading. The only books she’s managed on her own so far are Frog and Toad Are Friends and The Tales of Oliver Pig.”

His lips twitched at that, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Do you mind me asking… how old is she?”

“She’s turning five in a couple weeks.”

He blinked. “And she’s reading at a first-grade level? That’s impressive.”

I smiled, soft and proud. “She’s always been a quick learner. Loves stories. I think it’s how she makes sense of the world.”

He nodded, like he understood that. Like maybe he did the same.

“So I take it she’s only seen the Harry Potter movies then?” he asked, circling back to his original question.

“Oh—no. I read to her a lot. We actually went through the entire Harry Potter series last summer.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “All seven?”

“All seven,” I nodded. “It took us a few months, but she was completely obsessed. She didn’t want me to put the books down, not even to sleep. Had a million questions. Wanted to know why Harry had to live in the cupboard, how the time-turner worked, what butterbeer tastes like.”

He chuckled softly. “She sounds like someone I would’ve been friends with at her age.”

“You read a lot as a kid?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he seemed to be sorting through too many memories at once.

“Pretty much all I did,” he said eventually. “Books were easier. Made more sense than people did.”

There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just a fun fact, but a truth he’d learned the hard way.

I didn’t push. I just nodded, quietly understanding.

“Maddie’s the same,” I offered. “She talks to books like they talk back.”

He smiled at that. “That’s the best kind of kid.”

I was about to reply—to agree with the praise of my daughter, to maybe say something more—but then she came barreling back toward us, beaming.

“Mommy, Mommy! Look!” She held up a Rapunzel doll.

“Can I have her? Please? She has real brushable hair!” Maddie clutched the box to her chest like she’d just been entrusted with state secrets.

I chuckle, “That’s yarn, sweetie. You can’t brush it.”

“Can I have her? Please, Mommy?”

I looked at him, then at my daughter’s wide, pleading eyes. The panic from earlier was still fading in my bones, but the joy on her face grounded me again.

“Fine,” I said with a knowing smile. “Let’s check her out and ask if she’s ready for a new home.”

Maddie squealed and ran ahead toward the counter.

He straightened, glancing at me with the softest grin.

“She’s something else,” he said.

I met his eyes, the warmth still lingering between us.

“She really is.”

He smiled—soft, sheepish. A little unsure.

There was a pause.

My eyes flicked between him, the floor, and Maddie standing at the counter, rocking on her heels with the raggedy doll held up against her chest.

I didn’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, so tender.

Maybe it was the way he panicked when I first approached them—all flustered and apologetic, tripping over his words like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days.

Maybe it was his eyes—big, toffee-colored, and far too curious. The way he kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.

Despite everything in me that usually resisted introducing new people into our lives, I felt it—that pull.

I wanted to know him.

“I should get going,” he said, his voice low, like he didn’t really want to.

I nodded, even though something in me quietly hoped he’d stay just a little longer.

“Of course. Thank you again. For everything.”

He looked down, then back at me, like he was still trying to memorize something.

“It was… nice meeting you. Both of you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

He took a step back, then paused.

“I hope she keeps believing in magic,” he said, glancing toward Maddie with something almost wistful in his eyes.

“She will,” I said, smiling. “She has a good reason to.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled once more—brighter this time—before turning and walking away.

And even though I knew I’d just met him… I wanted to call out after him. Maybe invite him to eat with us, I had the pretense of him keeping my daughter safe. It would be so easy, just go, “hey wait!”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because despite having every reason to call out to him, to try and integrate him into my life, the fear in me always ended up eating my intentions up.

Still. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him..

I stayed still for a moment, just watching him leave.

It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I finally moved—walking to the counter where my daughter was waiting, still cradling her new doll like a prize.

“Where did Spencer go?” she asked, as soon as I appeared beside her.

Spencer. So that's his name.

It fit him, somehow. A little old-fashioned, a little too soft around the edges for someone who carried so much weight in his eyes. But now that she’d said it out loud, I couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

“He had to leave, sweetheart.”

Her little face fell just slightly. “Will we see him again? I want to see more magic.”

I crouched beside her, brushing her hair back behind one ear as I pulled her into my arms. The weight of the day finally caught up to me—settling in my chest like something too big to name.

“Who knows, Maddie,” I murmured, holding her tight. “Maybe someday.”

I pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?”

She blinked up at me, her Rapunzel doll dangling loosely from one arm.

“Don’t ever wander off like that again. Spencer was kind, and he kept you safe. But not everyone is like him. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She nodded, serious now. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered, holding her again. “I just need you safe.”

“I promise, Mommy.” She murmured.

“Thank you, honey.” I kissed her temple. “Now… let’s buy you this doll and go get something to eat.”

She grinned, her earlier worry forgotten, clutching Rapunzel to her chest like she’d just made a new friend.

We walked out hand-in-hand, the late morning sun spilling through the library doors as they shut behind us.

And even though I told myself it was just another Saturday…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had quietly begun.

Next Chapter

[bloodblanks]

nsfw headcanons — kaneki ken

ft. different variations of kaneki throughout his character arcs

note: alternatively, this can be considered a very explicit character study of kaneki.

author’s note: this fanfiction will contain mature content, including explicit sexual acts, mentions of trauma, some overstimulation, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

kaneki ken, the college student, is a shy, flustered mess. whenever you speak, his cheeks are dusted with a warm, rosy hue. despite him anxiously tripping over his own words, he still manages to maintain a contagious smile, beaming brighter than the sun.

when the topic of sex is brought up, kaneki’s eyes instantly widen, his expression much too easy to read as the reddening of his cheeks deepens in colour. he’s surprised—surprised you want to do this at all, but even more so that you want to do this with him.

after all, the day he first laid eyes on you was the day he decided you were out of his league.

kaneki is anxious—terrified, even—at the prospect of having sex with you. simultaneously, however, he is ecstatic. he is absolutely delighted knowing that he gets to engage in such an intimate, sensual act with you.

when you tug on kaneki’s shirt and he realizes he should undress himself, he can’t help but feel a pang of insecurity. but when your hands are on his bare skin and you’re murmuring compliments in his ear, telling him words that make his heart swell and blossom, any worries he harbours will dissipate.

he asks for your explicit permission before doing anything. even just small touches, featherlight brushes of his fingers against your skin, are only done after you tell him that it’s okay.

kaneki is very sensitive and extremely vocal. as soon as your fingers wrap around him, he’s gasping, his breath hitching, small whimpers leaving his lips. he’ll bite down on his bottom lip to stop the embarrassing sounds from coming out, but it’s not long before his mind becomes hazy and he loses any semblance of self restraint, long, needy whines leaving his lips.

despite his inexperience, he’s eager to please, be it with his fingers or mouth. his movements are clumsy to begin with but he’s a quick leaner—he’ll pay close attention to your reactions and adjust accordingly for what makes you feel best.

when he enters you as last, he sharply inhales, and his breath is quivering as he tries to steady himself. his movements are slow and timid, his focus entirely on your pleasure rather than his. not that he needs to pay attention to the euphoria that flows through his veins; if anything, he fears if he lets himself enjoy it too much, he won’t last. and he desperately wants to make sure you finish before him. he needs to ensure you feel good. he doesn’t want to disappoint.

but all the nerves in his body are being set ablaze, his mind flooding with pleasure as he cries out your name. his eyes squeeze shut for a brief second as he reaches his climax, his hands trembling all the while. apologies quickly spill from his lips, the temperature in his cheeks reaching a boiling point as he frantically tries to make up for finishing so soon.

when the both of you are satiated, he’s relieved, thanking whatever gods are out there that he was able to fix his blunder. but more than that, he’s hopelessly, pitifully infatuated with you, the adoration visible in his eyes as he whispers breathless professions of his love.

kaneki ken, the centipede, is a broken, empty husk of the man he used to be. his mind has frayed and fractured from the suffering he endured at yamori’s hands. long gone is the warmth that he used to exude as a human and in his early days as a half-ghoul. in its place is a tormented soul whose last remnants of sanity are held together by threads.

but the affection he holds for you remains. his feelings for you are so deeply embedded into his heart; they are what he clings onto during the endless nights of excruciation, the only thought keeping his mind from deteriorating as he chants the ceaseless string of forsaken numbers.

it isn’t the same, though. what was once pure and untainted has now become something darker, something warped. his attachment to you is no longer rooted in innocence and hope, but rather obsession—a sick yearning.

no, kaneki doesn’t just want you; he needs you. and that’s what he tells you, his eyes wide with lunacy as his hands grasp at you with bruising force. he clutches onto you like a lifeline. in his maddened eyes, that’s what you are.

he has nothing else to soothe him after he wakes up from the nightmares that frequently haunt him. there’s no one else he can find solace in when his eyes snap open, a thin layer of sweat soaking through the fabric of his clothes, besides you. you, who peels away the matted strands of hair stuck to his forehead. you, who dries away the dampness on his forehead. you, who coddles him and caresses his hair, whispering words of comfort in his ear. words that never reach him, as the sound of rushing blood and thundering claps of his heartbeat ring in his ears, as the mocking whispers and taunts in his mind fill up his entire head.

in moments like this, all he wants is to crawl inside of your chest, to nestle himself within the confines of your ribcage and to seek refuge in your heart. but that’s not possible, so he settles for being as physically close to you as possible.

his hands are all over you, running along every arch and ridge with the intent to memorize them. to sear the sensation of your flesh underneath his fingers into his mind, to eternally etch the softness of your body into his brain.

he prepares you with his fingers, and his movements, albeit hasty, are precise. he curls his fingers into you at just the right angle, tips of his fingers brushing against the sweetest of spots as his thumb rubs delightful circles around your clit.

kaneki thrusts into you with reckless abandon, his newfound strength and stamina unrelenting as he buries himself inside you, bottoming out with each frantic slam of his hips. all he can think about is how he needs to feel closer to you, how he needs to be deeper in you, how he needs to possess every inch of you, inside and out.

although he’s desperately chasing his own high, his body far outlasts yours, and the ruthless rhythm he maintains is quick to bring you to orgasm. he can feel your walls tighten and spasm around him, he can hear the way you cry out his name, but he doesn’t stop or slow his pace. he’s yet to climax, and even if that wasn’t the case, he yearns to drag out each melodious sound from your throat. he longs to brand the sound of your voice—the catharsis of his name on your lips—into his eardrums forever.

in the darkness of the room, the two of you are all that exists, fingers interlaced with one another’s and bodies tangled in coalescence.

prisoner 240, the amnesiac, is lost amidst a sea of memories that doesn’t belong to him. he doesn’t know what they are, he just knows that the blurry events and the emotions they evoke plague him at night. the dreams are endless, constantly drowning him in a distant yet intimate feeling of anguish. they could be recollections, but they aren’t his. nothing is his. not the thin fabric draped over him nor the four walls surrounding him; a cell he doesn’t know how he ended up in.

so, when you tell him that he can have you—that you’re willing to be his—he can only accuse you of lying to him. because it’s too good to be true; it’s not possible for someone as kind and beautiful as you to love a monster like him. he fights it, but each refusal of acceptance he utters is only a mask covering his true intent of seeking more reassurance from you.

and reassurance is what you give, wrapping his trembling body up in your arms, holding him in an embrace that he doesn’t think he’s worthy of. but with each doting whisper and comforting caress, his body melts into yours and his tears begin to dry.

prisoner 240 is sensitive, painfully so. he’s starved of touch, yet at the same time traumatized by rougher hands that brought him nothing but pain. he craves physical contact as much as he’s afraid of it, but his desires overshadow his fear by a fraction of a percentage as he allows you to undress him.

he wants to see you, touch you, have your body in ways that make him feel ashamed and guilty, but he dares not ask. he’s undeserving of such tenderness and affection. yet you look at him with such sincerity that he can’t help but swallow his own shame, pushing his reservations to the back of his mind and selfishly indulging in the gentleness of your touch.

at first, he’s busy trying his best to stop himself from instinctively flinching, but once his body relaxes, he’s all whimpers and whines and meek, timid pleas for you to continue. he quivers at the sensation of your fingers wrapping around his length, his erection twitching pitifully as you stroke him, heat searing his skin and electrifying each one of his neglected nerves.

he gasps as he enters you—you’re warm in a way he’s not sure he could ever get used to, your walls squeezing around him in a way that wrings a cry of delight from his lips. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, both out of embarrassment and because he wants to be close to you, wants you to hold and cherish him.

his hips rock against yours softly, his movements gentle and uncertain. despite how much his brain is flooded with euphoria, he’s using every ounce of control to ensure you feel good; he wants to return even a fraction of the pleasure you give to him.

when he orgasms, he’s calling out your name with an utmost angelical voice, his body stiffening as he permits himself to be completely unravelled by you.

after his climax, he’s quiet, save for the hot, heavy breaths that leave his parted lips. he basks in the afterglow of the act with you, before eventually, he tentatively asks if this was okay.

when you tell prisoner 240 he did good, his smile lights up the entire room, no matter how dense the darkness that envelops you both.

haise sasaki, the ghoul investigator, is never truly emotionally present. he’s kind, gentle, and affectionate. but he always pauses before he can utter the word ‘love,’ as if he’s afraid of the very syllable itself. you think some part of him is missing, an invisible wall dividing him apart from himself, a piece of him kept at a distance and hidden away from the world.

haise thinks so, too.

in fact, he knows so—there’s a portion of his mind that doesn’t belong to him. there’s a section in his head that’s inhabited by another person, another individual. someone he’s scared of letting out, someone he worries will devour him whole. someone he fears is all too much him, more him than he’ll ever be.

and there’s a fragment of his heart that beats with so much raw emotion, it threatens to overtake all the flimsy, superficial connections he’s made.

but he doesn’t want to lose this, not quite yet. so he keeps you at arm’s length; just close enough to have you, but not enough for you to have him. he cares for you with his half of the heart, the half of the organ that obeys him.

haise doesn’t commit. it’s no strings attached, no true intimacy, only quick exchanges of your body against his in the small, impermanent space of a hotel room.

his touch is gentle but firm, exploring your body with warm, calloused hands. he kisses you with hunger, his lips deftly moving against yours and your tongues locked in a dance which he performs with practiced ease.

it’s terrifying how little he resembles the person he used to be, the one locked away in the back of his mind.

haise will sink his head between your legs and lap away at your core, sucking on the sensitive bud before delving into your folds, pushing his tongue up your dripping hole. he enjoys tasting you more than anything else; nothing compares to the pleasure of having your thighs wrapped around his head and your juices running down his chin. it’s heavenly, he thinks, unable to get enough of your nectar, your fluids tasting so delectable on his tongue.

and the sounds you make—he longs to hear more, craves to keep hearing you moan out his name like it’s the only thing you know.

haise is vocal, but everything about him is more controlled, from the steady pace he thrusts at to the soft moans and gasps of pleasure that emits from his vocal cords. he presses his lips to your neck, peppers your throat with kisses as he continues fucking you at a comfortable speed, not too fast or too slow, all the while he mumbles earnestly about how good you feel.

you can tell he’s getting close when the tightly wound restraint he constantly holds dear begins to slip, his hips snapping against yours at an accelerating pace, and he brings a hand down to the crux where your bodies converge to rub at your clit. he makes sure to bring you to orgasm first, letting your sounds of fervour unravel the last of his control as he groans loudly, burying his face in your neck.

haise’s always there for you when you come down from your high, stroking your hair and whispering words of praise as he catches his own breath. he’s tender and caring as he cleans you up, basking in the weighted silence encapsulating the room. he’s almost loving, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek before you part ways for the night.

it’s not enough, but it’s everything that he, haise sasaki, has.

kaneki ken, the black reaper, is a man who puts up walls of harsh, unforgiving defences. he’s cold and closed off, not letting anyone in behind the barrier he built. but even the sturdiest walls aren’t impenetrable, and there are still moments where his barricade cracks ever so slightly.

that is not to say you are able to push past his fortifications entirely—no one is capable of that—but your persistent company has chipped away and nestled itself into the small crevices of his guard. it’s infuriating, how much you affect him, how he finds himself slowly but surely growing fond of your presence and eventually your touch.

your encounters always start the same, with you initiating contact and asking to meet when you know he’s just finished a long day of work. his job is draining, leaving him fatigued and much in need of stress relief. you’re what he considers a distraction, but he agrees to your request nonetheless, telling himself it’s insignificant. but kaneki’s never been one to do meaningless exchanges, and him entertaining this at all implies more than he’s ready to admit.

kaneki’s sitting on the edge of the flawlessly made bed with crisp white sheets when you arrive at the hotel room. he doesn’t do much to greet you, simply muttering a quiet but firm request for you to come. you do as instructed, walking over to the bed with your usual joke about how he’s always so unfriendly.

he’ll tug you down onto his lap in one sharp pull, causing you to stumble. you don’t have the opportunity to protest; any sound you make is quickly muffled by his lips crashing against yours, his hand in your hair and the other holding your waist. the movement of his lips is methodical and detached. despite the searing warmth of his mouth—all liquid embers and velvet flames—he’s so, so cold.

knees, he’ll murmur; a selfish request for you to please him. you oblige, dropping down and undoing his pants. kaneki isn’t hasty or aggressive; he allows you to go at your own pace, save for if you’re teasing, in which case the hand he has in your hair tightens ever so slightly as a warning. as you take him into your mouth, tongue lapping and swirling around his tip, you’re rewarded with the sight of his head tilted back, cheeks flushed, uneven breaths leaving his parted lips. it’s the most vulnerable you’ll ever see of him, because that moment lasts for only so long before he pulls you off his length and bends you over the bed.

he’ll harshly shove two fingers inside you, but any complaints you have wither away as soon as the heel of his palm grinds against your clit. his movements are rough, but he’s not in any actual rush. he takes his time thoroughly preparing you until your cunt is drooling and your climax is near. he doesn’t let you finish—he never does—and instead retrieves his fingers, your denied orgasm and the sudden emptiness leaving you needy and whining for more.

when kaneki enters you at last, he stills for a moment to let you adjust. once you do, the rhythm he sets is fast and unrelenting. he’s fucking into you from behind, his hips colliding against yours in harsh snaps, the sound of skin slapping against skin a backdrop to the chorus of your moans and the ragged breaths he lets out. his hand is reaching between your legs, fingers expertly toying with the bundle of nerves in a way that quickly brings you to orgasm. if you finish before him—which you often do—he’ll slow his pace for a brief moment to let you catch your breath, before he returns to his unyielding pace.

you’re not done until he is—something he’s made clear by now. it doesn’t matter if you’re already a mess and too sensitive, he’ll simply reply saying that you can handle it.

when he finishes, it’s with the same loud moan, albeit stifled, his body shuddering in pleasure as he comes to a halt. the room is silent, save for heavy gasps and pants as you both greedily take in oxygen. it’s a while until he finally pulls out, but then he’s quick to clean you up. neither of you talk; the room is choked in a tender silence as he wipes you down in a manner that feels far more intimate, far more personal than he’d like.

he ignores it. instead, he lets his gaze linger on you for a few moments, his eyes searching you. it’s evident there’s something on his mind, but neither of you truly know what it is.

no more words are exchanged for the night—he redresses himself, and he’s gone, leaving you uncertain as to if he’ll come back.

he doesn’t admit it, not even to himself—but deep down, kaneki knows he’ll return.

kaneki ken, the one-eyed king, is a culmination of all his past experiences. he’s matured and grown, many aspects of his personality having gone through metamorphosis. but what has always been here and still remains is the caring self so deeply embedded in his nature. despite the suffering he’s endured, all the grief he’s gone through—he’s still willing to care for others. he’s still willing to open his heart for you.

kaneki doesn’t have all the nervous anxiety that bubbles up at the thought of having sex with you, but without the coldness masking his demeanour, he’s much less restrained, allowing the butterflies in his stomach to freely flap their wings. his characteristic shyness is apparent, his cheeks visibly flushing as he undresses, but you can tell by his soft smile that it’s excitement rather than unease.

he takes his time thoroughly savouring you, preparing you with both his mouth and fingers. he’s quiet as he laps at your core, his fingers simultaneously pushing up against that sweet spot nestled within your inner walls. he’ll pause briefly to ask if it feels okay, and when you nod, smiling at him as feverish words of encouragement leave your lips, he can only beam in return. pink dusts his cheeks like the fallen petals of cherry blossoms.

if you offer to return the favour, he’ll nod, quietly accepting your offer. he prefers to lay on the bed so that you can get comfortable too, rather than having you on your knees. he doesn’t hold back, not like this, letting out breathy moans and sighs of pleasure as you wrap your lips around him. all the while, he reaches to your face and brushes your hair out of your eyes so that he can see your pretty face better. he gazes at you so lovingly, as though you’re the only one in this whole entire universe for him. and you are.

when he finally enters you, it’s with your legs wrapped around both sides of his waist. he holds himself up, but leans down often to capture your lips with his. while his kisses are gentle, they’re hungry. you can taste the need as your mouths melt together, a coalescence of unadulterated passion.

the pace he sets is slow in the beginning, but soon becomes something more ardent, his hips meeting yours fervently with each hitching breath and guttural groan. hot, panting gasps of air are taken each time your lips break apart, a string of saliva connecting the both of you still, only broken by the next time his mouth finds yours.

he waits for your release first, allowing it to trigger his own. the feeling of your insides clenching and spasming around his length never fails to bring him to the edge himself, and he finishes in you soon after. it’s your name that he calls as he climaxes—an angelic cry of ecstasy, a confirmation of his devotion.

kaneki takes a minute to catch his breath, before he climbs off you, laying down beside you and pulling you close to his chest. his lips are on your neck, pressing soft kisses from your jugular to your shoulder blades as he cradles you close. as the afterglow settles, your breathing gradually returning to normal, he murmurs of his love for you, a hushed whisper like a confession of sin. it’s anything but—his feelings for you are a source of comfort for him. he’s thankful to experience such a beautiful connection with you. he’s grateful for your presence, and he tells you so, before eventually getting up, carrying you to the shower with him.

he takes the time and affectionately lathers you up with soap, his calloused hands caressing your skin with such tenderness that it makes you shiver despite the hot water cascading over the both of you. as the two of you clean away the aftermath of your intimacy, your skin against his, he finds himself thinking that it’s not about you completing him.

instead, with you, kaneki feels like he could be a whole person on his own. no longer does he feel the hollow ache of a void in his soul; instead, he’s fulfilled and content. he knows he’ll do anything to ensure you are, too.

kaneki brushes his lips over yours, sealing an unspoken promise.

if you enjoy my writing, please consider reblogging; i really appreciate the interactions.

thank you everyone for reading and supporting my work! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[venusbyline]

Fault ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 15, oct.

— pairing: Spencer Reid x girlfriend!reader

— type: smut, dark, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: safeword use

— summary: You knew things were different since Spencer came back from prison. But you never imagined he would hurt you so bad.

— word count: 1.2k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 15th day, female!reader, post-prison!Reid, dubcon, safeword use, ignored safeword, rough sex, vaginal sex, degradation, asphyxiation, breathplay, rape/non-con elements, fingering, pussy slapping, dacryphilia, crying, light bondage, overstimulation, sadism, no aftercare, ambiguous/open ending, curse words, switching, mild angst, dom!Reid, sub!reader, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

— crossposting: AO3

Ever since Spencer came back from prison, you had already noticed something different about him. You knew about the traumas and fears he went through when he was arrested, just as you knew about the constant nightmares he had, always involving those times or even involving you. He never wanted to tell you what they were about, but you figured they did not involve good things. They were probably about his traumatizing memories. His dark desires.

You also realized that Spencer was different when he did not come back refusing your touch, but searching for more. Mainly sexually. It was almost suffocating, precisely because he was a very different version of the shy, nerdy boy you had fallen in love with years ago.

Spencer always liked being submissive to you. Letting you take control of the moment. Letting you make him a whining mess, begging for more. More touches. More kisses. More sex. More of you. He always needed you to be the dominant side of sex.

But now... Everything has changed.

You knew your boyfriend better than anyone. You knew what he was doing was not just trying something new or being a switch. Spencer was punishing you.

With each rough thrust, with each cruel word spoken as he pressed you tightly against the mattress and placed his hands on your waist so he could increase his movements' speed even further.

Spencer Reid was punishing you. He was blaming you. He was blaming his own girlfriend.

You did not know exactly why. You could not remember anything wrong you could have done to him in the last few months. There was nothing that could cause such a huge change to his personality and your relationship's dynamics. There was nothing but the traumas tormenting his mind. His mental ghosts and cages.

"S-Spencie, stop. It's too much, baby..." Your voice came out trembling and tearful while he gripped your neck tighter than expected, pressing your face into the pillow so hard that your hands immediately began to grip the sheets to try to lift yourself up.

Your lungs were begging for and you tried to move beneath him, his cock practically impaling you with each thrust, fucking you like he wanted to break you. You never cared if he was rough or if you were sore afterwards — even if it was rare because you were more dominant in the relationship, but being submissive for now could be just as good. At least if he did not seem to hate you every time he fucked you in the last few weeks.

"P-please stop... Spencer, it hurts. You're really scaring me..." You muffled, starting to panic at the feeling of the pillow preventing you from breathing properly.

As soon as you managed to put your hands behind your back to touch his chest, a loud cry out echoed throughout the room when Spencer took the opportunity to pull both of your arms back, holding you and lifting your body off the mattress, continuing to fuck you like an animal. "Fuck, couldn't you breathe, little princess?"

His words were bitter and sharp, making you whimper pathetically when he stopped moving his hips to bite your neck and mock you, keeping your hands firmly behind your back. "You're weak and pathetic. You know how much I endured inside that fucking prison? You know how much I'd to suffer and feel pain? And you're crying like a spoiled little cunt 'cause you can't breathe for at least a few seconds?"

You did not know what to say. You were scared and confused. Your mind was void. Completely blank. You could only focus on the pain you were feeling, having your hands being held by your boyfriend, the pain of his deep thrusts inside you and how it all seemed too much. Why did Spencer hate you now? Why was he fucking you like he really wanted to hurt you? To break you?

You knew you needed to say something. You knew you needed to say your safeword, the one that would make him stop everything. The one that would make him go back to normal or at least make his cock come out of your sore pussy and leave you alone for a while.

You knew you needed your safeword, but you could not bring yourself to say it. You could not say anything other than sob when he pushed your body back down, pushing your face harder as you struggled, starting to cry and sob in panic, squirming as he lowered himself onto you. Now, his chest was against your back and he kept fucking you even deeper and rough, but with one hand almost crushing your breast and the other rubbing your clit.

"Your pussy makes me sick..." Spencer growled, slapping your overstimulated bud hard and making you cry out with pain, tears flowing when you realized that he was going too far. "Stupid, brainless little bitch, crying like a whore while creaming my cock. That's all you're good for. I should tie you to this bed, fill you with cum whenever I wanted, even if you—"

"SALEM!"

Spencer continued fucking you after your voice full of pain, fear and despair, but he was in complete shock. You had screamed the safeword. You had actually screamed the safeword that you two chose since your first time together, when you remembered that the first thing he said when he met you at the pub was a random curiosity about the Salem Witch Trials. You had been together for years and none of you never needed to say that. You had never gone too far with him when you were taking the dominant role, but Spencer… He had brought this on you. On both of you.

He had not realize how destroyed he was after his arrest or how your relationship was already becoming almost toxic. Spencer had not realized why he acted like he hated you until he saw what he had done to you. Until he realized that he had continued fucking you for about twenty minutes even after you said your safeword. Your face red from crying, your sobs echoing through the room, your arms gripping the bed sheets as if they were an anchor of sanity for both of you, your body weak and trembling due to the rough of the last few hours...

Spencer saw the fear in your eyes. You were scared of him. "Baby... I'm... I'm so sorry..." He began to stutter, his voice panicked, as sweet as it was before he was arrested. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

He pulled out of you, letting out a soft involuntary moan at the absence of contact, but his own eyes filled with tears when he saw how you sighed in relief amidst the crying and how your pussy looked swollen, reddish and bruised. Because of him.

“Love, I swear… I'm so—" He cut himself off the second you started sobbing and hyperventilating at his sudden touch of your hair. Spencer could not stop the tears from running down his cheeks, wetting his stubble. "Baby, please. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, love, believe me. Please, forgive me..."

Spencer Reid knew almost everything about the world. Any curiosity about physics, chemistry, mathematics, history, philosophy... but Spencer Reid did not know what had happened to his mind lately. He did not know how to fix his relationship. He did not know what to do to fix you. You were panicking. You were scared. You were so fucking broken. And it was all his fault.

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[hereforhalstead]

Shall I try someone else?

Spencer/MGG x Reader

Listen, I have no shame in using this gif

NOT PROOFREAD

*******

‘ I cant believe I’m gonna text him’

You scoffed to yourself, eyeing the phone you held in your hand, thumb hovering over his name on your chat list on whatsapp.

Almost daring yourself not to give into the desires you knew you craved and that he could so easily fulfil.

‘are you awake?’

You sounded like a foolish teenager, thinking that sounded better than the stereotypical ‘you up?’ at 3am text.

Spoiler alert, it didn’t .

You almost threw your phone on the ground, it landing face up beside you as your knees were instinctively bought to your chest in panic, regretting sending the text as soon as you pressed send.

Almost instantly, the screen lit up. You could see it from the corner of your eye, reluctant to look down.

You peered over your arm, wincing as you read the message through squinted eyes.

‘Of course, darling’

Your heart melted, your stomach flipped, your heart rate quickened.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t feel this way.

He told you not to fall for him.

Yet what did you do, oh yeah.

You fell absolutely head over heels, 100%, life consumingly in love with him. Good one.

Mere moments had passed, you hadn’t unlocked the phone as you sat and mustered a response.

He hardly gave you much to go from, did you completely out yourself and admit why you messaged him or did you play it off with a simple ‘cool’?

Your phone once again, lit up in your hand. Your eyes darting to the screen without a second thought or hesitation as you scanned the words on the screen.

‘any particular reason you wanted to know, pretty girl?’

Shit, even through a screen he had you backed against a virtual wall. Making the hunger for him to have you actually pushed up against a wall, ten times more intense.

‘just wondered if you wanted to come over, cant sleep ☹’

You laughed at the innocent sad face added to the end, feeling the complete opposite and knowing he would see through it.

The grey ticks turned to blue as soon as you sent the message, quickly exiting out of the chat as though you didn’t want to seem desperate.

Not like your phone was now stuck to your hand with your eyes not leaving the screen as you wait for his response.

‘Poor baby, not sure how I would be able to help though?’

You could practically see the smug grin on his face, arm folded behind his head to prop himself up against the headboard of the bed. Thumb dancing over the keypad as he probably typed out all the ways in which he could help, before deleting them as if nothing happened.

‘oh no!’

You yet again, sarcastically added the exclamation. Clearly having too much fun with the situation yourself now.

‘guess I will just have to try someone else’

Ordinarily you wouldn’t have sent such a text, you didn’t have anyone else you could ask, you weren’t one of those girls who had the ‘lucky’ bunch stored in your phone who you could text at early hours of the morning to come over.

Even if you did, you wouldn’t want anyone else. Just him.

You wanted to see how far you could push him, knowing the way his eyes would’ve darkened with reading the message.

Probably reading it a few times to ensure he read it right, phone clutched in his hand, bringing it up to his pursed lips in frustration.

It took a significantly less amount of time to yet again see ‘typing’, flash up next to his name on the chat. Your heart rate though the roof as you hear your phone chime.

‘baby you are funny, we both know you wouldn’t dare’

You sat on his response for a minute or two, letting him sweat as he could see you’d read the message.

‘goodnight sweet cheeks’

You were proud of yourself for your blunt response, even if he didn’t reply, you’d sure be obscenely offended but you wouldn’t be shocked.

If he had sent you a message even close to that, the phone probably would’ve been launched across the room and loud groan that could’ve been heard from down the corridor of your apartment building.

The grey ticks, stayed grey for what felt like an eternity. In fact, you stared at the screen for 4 solid minutes, waiting.

You huffed, regretting your text. Had you ruined it? Took it too far?

He could be an annoying prick sometimes and knew exactly how to push your buttons, especially when it came to making you jealous but in all honestly you couldn’t imagine him sending you a message like the one you had sent.

The room was silent, you took yourself over to the mirror as if you needed to take a long hard look at yourself, but in actual fact you just chuckled. Grow up.

You needed to test him, needed to see how he felt. If he wanted you, he would.

Simple as that.

If you were going to keep falling for him, the least you could do was find out if you were both kind of on the same page, even the same book would be good.

You continued to stare in the mirror as you got ready for bed, accepting your defeat and pondering on how you’ll deal with such rejection on a clear mind in the morning.

Scraping your hair into a ponytail, you saw your phone light up on the bed. Seeing his name flash at the top of the screen with the green and red ‘accept’, ‘decline’ buttons staring you in the face.

You froze.

He knew you hated phone calls, especially when he hadn’t told you he was going to call. Prick.

Your thumb hit the accept button before your brain could scream at you to let it go to voicemail, holding the phone to your ear to hear that raspy voice you so desperately craved.

‘I’m outside, little one. You gonna come and let me in or should I try buzzing someone else?’

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

The GDA scrambles to recoup losses. Relationships begin and end- badly.  [Invincible Variants x reader]

TW: I dunno. It's! Uhm! Ref, you shouldn't say that!

[Part one]  [4]  [Ao3] [6]

5 * Godspeed, Kid [8k]

"You broke my heart, 

I hope you die,

Emptier than how I feel inside,

And when you lay your head to rest at night I hope that you,

Never fall asleep when you think of all the things you do."

Plate Glass Apology - Apes of the State

        "He's not even gonna see it." Your nosy co-worker says. 

        "It's the principle." You say, pouring the milk slower, getting to the bottom of the pitcher where the thick foam sat. "Can't work up the guts to say something so," your words ebb as you delicately shake the pitcher, letting a glob of foam sit atop the caramel latte, "I'll do this until he notices." With a flick of the wrist, you strike the glob through. Leaving a heart of milk foam you hide under a white lid. 

        "Black Americano, London fog, and a caramel latte for Nolan." You push the drinks out all at once. A teenage boy slides off a tall chair at the center table in the lobby. You avert your gaze as he grabs the order, muttering thanks. You watch him walk away, feeling heat in your cheeks and butterflies in your belly. 

        He slides into the chair, passing out drinks. Not taking the lid off the cup, not noticing again. It's whatever, you're too scared to say what you want. Too shy. What were the chances anyway? Cute boy and a yearning barista? 

        His brick wall of a father catches your eye. Mustache twitching up at you before he turned to his son. He speaks low, so low you can't hear.  "I think that girl likes you, Mark." 

        Mark stiffens, going bright red. "T-there's no way you know that."

        Nolan sips his Americano. Nothing close as good to the real thing, but passable for a peaceful morning with his family. "Oh, I know."

        His mother laughs into her palm. The order printer spits out a ticket, you get back to work. 

        At some point, your manager sets you behind the register. The Saturday mid-morning rush is killing you. Understaffed, flooded with orders. The customers keep coming with no end in sight. You're the only cashier, and the people are getting impatient. 

        You can feel the waves of contempt wafting off everyone behind your current customer. Some middle-aged nobody who was currently driving you insane. "I want something hot, no, cold, wait, mmm, maybe hot." You make recommendations. "It has to be keto. Are any of your syrups gluten-free? What's the calorie count per squirt of syrup? Do you have sugar-free milk?" You try and try to steer her in the right direction but she won't listen. The line is growing and honestly, you want it to move so you can talk to the boy in line. Holding his cup, blushing, looking at his feet, then at his parents for moral support. 

        You shouldn't do it. Using your powers in public was a terrible idea, it always was. People don't much like mind-fuckers. You'd been demure using them. Controlling people wasn't right, it felt icky. You were determined to be good and very, very normal. 

        But you have no choice. She's not shutting her fat lip and you wanted to flirt. 

        You lean forward past the register, whispering, "You're gonna get a black coffee. Gonna love it so much you'll tip me twenty bucks. Then you're never coming back."

        Her eyes glazed. "One black coffee, please."

        "Coming right up!"

        He's two customers behind. You get them out of the way. Lean on the register, like you're too cool for fast food- or is it fast coffee? 

        He sets the cup down, looking anywhere but at you, "Tell me if I'm being weird or crazy or whatever but uhm..." He lifts the lid. The heart had melted into the latte. Oh, he hadn't seen it, had you just forgotten the caramel syrup? He didn't actually want to talk to you. 

        Across the cafe, his father loudly cleared his throat. 

        Mark forced himself to make eye contact. "Uh. I just wanted to say this is like, the best latte I've ever had and I uhm- wanted to give you something." He fumbled with a scrap in his back pocket. Pushing it into the tip jar. You see numbers hastily written on the back of his dad's receipt. Then he's flipping open his thin wallet, "I'm also gonna actually tip too don't worry, I'm not that full of myself."

        Your fingers fish the number out the jar. "This is more than enough for me." The words hit him like a mallet. He almost jumps out his shoes. Horrified a girl actually flirted with him.

        And that's how it started. A nudge from Nolan turned into texting late at night about shitty minimum wage jobs. Turned into his mom driving you to the theaters, to a first kiss for you both, after seeing a terrible adaptation of a comic book. Turned into wanting to go to college together, you'd never even thought about college before. Turned into him saying he'd help you figure out the money situation. You lived alone as a teenager, circumstances, life and powers you didn't tell him about. Turned into a single job for Machine Head, offering enough money for tuition.

        The funny thing was, Mark gave you his number the same day you caught Machine Head's camera eye. Hell, in the same five minutes. He'd been right behind the lady you'd hypnotized. Came up to the counter when the rush died two hours later. Long after he'd left, come back just to give you a sleek business card. His number, the address of his high rise suite.

        "If you ever wanna actually do something with your life." He'd said. And with him and Mark, you actually started to consider it. 

        ***

        He's leaned over her body, bandaged and still. Pulse slow but strong. Leg in a sling hung off the ceiling. His new mask resting on the edge of her bed. Not looking up when Cecil walked in, followed by you. 

        "I already told you, I'm not leaving her." He says. Back moving as he speaks. So much wider than when you knew it. Voice deeper, matured, and so tired. 

        "Yeah, yeah, they could come busting down the door any minute to kill her to get at you." Cecil says, "But I just hit them with all I've got and they're fine, Mark. So please, turn around and talk to us."

        "No."

        Cecil turns to you, jutting his jaw toward Mark. Telling you to talk. You already know your powers won't work on him. You were still weak from Narcan. Exhausted from being passed around and almost dying. So God forgive you if you don't speak with good faith.

        "You're pathetic."

        At that, he whips around. Brows twisting. "Who-" He stares, taking seconds to process, too long. You're almost unrecognizable. No light in your eyes. No teenage awkwardness. No smile. "If you're bringing her out to convince me, the answer's still no." He turns back to Eve. You're not important enough to look at longer than twenty seconds. There was none of the barely contained want you saw in the alternate Marks, no immediate recognition. 

        Your fists ball. You were just a chess piece of Cecil's to him? 

        "He almost fucking vaporized me with nukes and they're fine." You would play the role of pawn just fine. Your anger at the situation was genuine, leading you right into Cecil's trap. "If that won't work, nothing will. The planet needs you."

        "Then Eve needs me more than ever." He says hollowly.

        You want to vomit. All over him and his puppy-dog eyes. All over her and her pretty face, and altruistic personality- always thrown in your face on the news. 

        It had nothing to do with the current happenstance but it comes ripping out of you.

        "Do you even care that you ruined my life?" He doesn't respond. You want to hit something. Break someone's bones. You remember Seventeen falling to the ground dead. The swirl of emotions you felt. You think if you did it again, there'd only be one emotion. 

        You go on, watching for a reaction. A shoulder slump, a sigh, anything. "I owed Machine Head after the job because I didn't deliver. You threw me in jail. He protected me. I owed him more, and if I didn't pay up, he'd kill me. Do you even know what I had to do? Did you ever think about it? I never even got to finish High School, Mark!"

        He doesn't flinch. Braced for a lashing. You realize then and there. He'd must've known you'd gone back. He worked for the GDA long enough for someone to fill him in. Flew over the city all the time. Knew people who knew people. He'd have heard it through the grapevine at some point. He'd only come looking the once. Maybe thinking to himself in his stupid puppy brain that you were better off without him. That you could make your way in the world. That you didn't want to see him and weren't totally drowning and in such desperate need of saving.

        "Look at me." You try to grasp for power that doesn't come, you could make him, but you can't. Your lips wobble. Cheeks burning with humiliation. Not only because he wouldn't look at you but Cecil was there, witnessing the whole thing. You turn your mind to something more pressing, another thing that makes you so angry you want to rip off heads. "If you're gonna fuck the planet over, have the decency to look at me and tell me you're not helping."

        His head dips. Leaning closer into Eve's orbit. "No. The answer's no. I can't leave her."

        He won't look at you. You're nothing but an unimportant memory. Something in you breaks. The onslaught of Marks you didn't even know cared about you more. But what had you been expecting from him? Hope for a romance re-lit? Hope to have the balls to kill him? You don't know.

        You hold back tears. Force your quavering lip into a hard line. "Fine. You won't do shit? I will." Cecil looks at you, brow raised as if he wasn't wanting for one of you to step up.

        "I'll figure it out." You tell him as you storm out the room. Unable to hold the tears any longer. 

        ***

        You're gone. Gone. Blasted to dust. Dead, again.

        He knew the trap was coming, but he couldn't stop it and save you at the same time. He thought he could be stronger, faster, but that damn noise got him. Made his ears pulse and bleed even with the noise cancellation device in his suit. Hell, part of him hoped since the others seemed to care so much, maybe they'd stop the bombs.

        Now he's in the pit that used to be an island. Ocean water roaring down the ledge. Looking for pieces of you. But there is nothing but water and rock.

        He checks his tracker, coming to his senses after minutes of reeling. Your dot doesn't appear. Your vitals no longer showing in the corner of his lenses. 

        He wants Angstrom to appear. Wants to rip that engorged brain off his scalp. He should've known it was a ruse, a sick joke because you were dead everywhere but here, and no way in hell would he- or any of them- be so lucky as to hold you again. 

        Angstrom doesn't come. Nor do anymore bombs. The planet is out of defenses. 

        One by one the Marks give up. Speeding off the to nearest city to level or person to kill. Blaming this world for false hope. Leveling it more than it already had been. Suppose that's what Angstrom was planning. For that, he'd kill the bastard whenever it was time to meet at the rendezvous.

        ***

        There is nothing to do but wait. Cecil withheld the remaining heroes in safe houses across the globe. The ones that didn't listen, the ones that thought letting the Invincible's scourge the planet was stupid, never came back. Cecil's plan was simple, wait for it to be over. He'd tried taking them down one by one, tried en masse, tried everything but only a handful fell. The remaining were too much for any defense the planet had and the real Invincible wasn't lifting a finger to help. 

        So Cecil made every other hero follow suit. Biding his time. Waiting to launch the rescue missions rather than offense. 

        He did things where he could. Trying to contain. Remotely launching tear gas specially compounded to fuck up a supe, but of course it did nothing to Viltruimtes. Playing that awful sound that made Mark weak. Except most speakers on the planet couldn't play it at the correct pitch, so the most it did was cause a minor annoyance before the speaker was smashed.

      Psycopomp watched as you avoided everybody. As you went unpunished for your crimes, many of the same things she'd done, but shit. Making people do as you said was just immoral. At least with the dead, they couldn't feel or even know what was happening. 

        Cecil wanted Psychopomp to help. To zap her into areas under attack for her to raise the re-dead re-animen. She refused because he let you walk free. 

        Then he'd laid it on her like this, "There's only a handful of people on the planet left with a chance of killing any of the alternate Mark Graysons. She took one out single-handedly, that's not for nothing. Listen, if you help us we can think about opening an investigation on (Y/n) but as long as this lasts, we need her." 

        Psychopomp agreed. Glazing over the word think. She was sent into the field, one disaster after another raising the dead undead. Watching them get killed again and again. Being zapped back to the GDA just to be sent somewhere else in the next five minutes, rinse, repeat. 

        Day one was bad, day two was worse, and on the dawn of three the destruction started to lull. Cecil lost more employees than he'd thought possible. The hospital wing keeping Eve alive was down to three staffers working round the clock. They'd drop of exhaustion any moment and they'd all be fucked because Mark, the real Mark, would be so angry he'd finish the destroying the planet before his alternates could.

        Then there was you. 

        Hovering around the remains of the GDA headquarters like a ghost. Useless because you didn't understand military strategy. Petty gangwar bullshit didn't apply anywhere here. Nowhere else to go because there's nowhere to go, as if Cecil would let you leave anyway. Keeping you around as a last resort, plans tumbling around in his balding head. Nothing solid enough. 

        So he let you wander, let you have time alone in the one working bathroom, washing your body with hand soap and mineral thick water. Didn't bat an eye when you pulled the armor off a guard's corpse. Even down to the white tank top undershirt and shorts he wore under. Least you had the decency the put the guy's hands over his dick.

        Cecil wasn't blind or stupid. You dressing yourself in the black and green armor of a GDA solider was no coincidence. There were plenty of dead lab techs to take normal clothes off. 

        You looked for nearly an entire day for a pulse rifle that was fully loaded and still shot. Most of the dead guards fought for their lives before being cut down. You could shoot, but had no idea how tech this advanced was reloaded. Hell, just holding the rifle felt awkward compared to your six-shooter. It wouldn't be enough and you knew it. But you didn't know what else you could do. 

        You practiced firing, using guns with less ammo. It was the only thing that felt useful to do. The only thing that felt right, because marching into the hospital wing and shooting Mark wasn't an option.

        The last of the engineering staff reverse-engineered the remnants of the cuff they'd broken off your ankle. Barely. The signal was spotty, and his location was never exact but they had an estimate of where one of them was at all times. 

        It rose alarms when his signal was stopped above the Grayson household. Cecil cut to the closest working cameras he had, which happened to be real close since he had dozens of eyes on the Grayson's since Nolan went rogue. 

        The tracked one wasn't alone. Hovering over his childhood home was Mark, Mark, Mark, and Mark, and a handful more Mark's. They were speaking so far from the nearest micro-mic the sensor could barely pick up the words.

        "--s taking him so lon-"

        "How is he late? He--  -teleport."

        "Stop whini--"

        You push off the wall. You'd been waiting. Watching. Hoping a handful of them would group up again and you could kill Mark over and over and over. All you could think about these last two days was Mark. His back toward you. How long it'd taken him to recognize you. The memory of meeting at your shitty job. The anger boiled you alive. Made you stupid enough to stay with the GDA and not move into a safe house. Though Cecil never suggested you did. Part of him hoped you could do something.

        Their conversation carried on. You moved to Cecil's side, pulling the dead guard's helmet over your head. "I'm going." Your tone leaves no room for argument.

        He should argue. You're barely a real adult. So much to live for. So easy to kill in a Viltrumite's hands. But he doesn't, because he knows you killed one of them, you could kill more. Rest and rage have fueled you with diesel and you're ready to light the match. 

        "Are you sure?" Donald turns from the screen, monitoring the Marks. "There's no guarantee we can get you out once we send you in." The teleporter was fixed for a few hours, but sending in all those re-animen for the bombing? Fucked it over again. The first few times they sent out Psychopomp, she was fine, but the last trip went bad. You vaguely heard she refused to go back out into the field. That the teleporter didn't work when it was supposed to, that she got hurt by one of them.

       But at least she found Caligula while running for her life. Fuzzball came bounding up to her, happy to run beside her. She was smug when she'd come back despite shaking and being paler than an eggshell. Caligula sometimes came to you for love, but it wasn't enough to heal the chasm that'd opened in your chest. You shooed him away, no love to give. Psychopomp took the role of mommy dearest.

        Fine by you. 

        You weren't actively suicidal, just angry. Spiteful. In your wildest dreams, you thought of people praising you for bravery. Cash prizes and a penthouse. Everyone knowing Mark didn't go to the final confrontation, but you had. He let you go alone so he could be sad at his girlfriend's bedside. 

        Then again, you didn't give two horse shits about saving the planet. You knew you wouldn't live to see glory and that was fine. You wouldn't know how to live with glory. To uphold a shiny new hero status. You were bad and couldn't conceive of any other way you could be. 

        "I'm sure." You tilt your head toward the teleporter, "Are you going to let me go or not?" 

        Cecil's scarred lip twitched. "It's a death sentence." His words weren't meant to convince you away. They were a warning label slapped down for legal reasons.

        "I know." You made your way to the teleporter. The men trailing behind you. 

        You look back at the screen. The Marks chatter on. You let the rifle rest on your knee while your hand goes to your pocket.

        "You should know drugs like that don't actually enhance powers." Cecil nods to your soldier pants where you'd stuff the last two bottles of codeine atop your phone, wallet, keys, other odds and ends. As if you'd need them where you were going. Old habits, they say.

        "They do for me." Your foot hovers over the teleporter edge.       

        "We've done extensive testing on drugs combined with powers. Enhancements are always from a placebo." Donald says, robo jaw clinking. 

         You don't want to believe him, but you do. Because the 'power-up' was never consistent. You drop the bottle back into your pocket. Just another thing you had hoped for that wasn't true. "Well, thanks for ruining the placebo."

        "Doesn't help anyone if you overdose," Cecil says gruffly.

        A wry smile ticks your lip under the gray-tinted visor. "You saying you believe in me?"

        "You're the last chance we've got, so I have to." He can't see but you roll your eyes.

        Your foot comes down on the teleporter platform. You turn to the tech running the thing, "Get me close enough to shoot but not close enough to immediately die." They nod. 

        "Hey!" Her voice cuts the room, the finality of the moment. Psychopomp weaves around Cecil and the techies. Right side of her supersuit torn away. Banadages wrapped tight around the stump that came a few inches off her shoulder. Entire arm gone. You hadn't noticed, so lost in your own head.

        "You said there'd be an investigation." She says before Cecil tells her to go lay down. The medical staff barely saved her life yesterday. 

        "I said I'd think about it." Cecil says, waving to a tech to get started on powering up the teleporter. 

        She snarls, rearing on you. "So what? You're just gonna leave on some suicide mission before telling me where my brother is? Like it'll make up for all the shit you've done? You a hero now?"

        You blink slowly at her. Unbothered because so much worse had happened these last days you couldn't bring yourself to care. Around you, the machine rattles and glows. 

        "Tell me!" She snaps. 

        "If he wasn't dead before, he's dead now." Not an admission, by any means, but enough for her to put the puzzle pieces together.

        Just before you're zapped away to your early grave, Cecil says, "Godspeed, kid."

        The light around you apexes. You can't see anymore. "Fuck you."

        You hear her voice, not letting you get the last word in, "No!"

        You're shoved backwards. A hand on your arm. Then you're both gone. Leaving Cecil to care for the cat, already winding around his legs.

        ***

        Back-first, you hit the pavement. Head cracking against the ground. Armor absorbing the blow. 

        Psychopomp peeled herself up wobbily on her one arm. Shoddy supersuit no match for the unpaved road.

        She's going to scream questions about her brother. Going to call their attention to you. You do what needs to be done-  crack the side of her head with the rifle's butt before she can even open her mouth. Her eyes roll back as she goes limp on top of you. You look to the sky and find nothing. Carefully, you slide out from under her and begin to walk that painfully memorable trip to the Grayson household.

        You'd recognized it immediately on the GDA screens. Remembered making out on Mark's bed. Dinner with his family. Texting him while you were in the same room, giggling about it.

        The world around you is ashes. Most of the fires already gone out, all the houses eaten up. You withhold a, "Jesus Christ." Keeping the gun's muzzle tight to your body. You wonder from where Cecil watches. 

        You peak around the corner of LeBolt Street and Green Drive. Sure enough, the last house on the left stands on its last white legs. Car gone from its driveway, making you remember Debbie. You liked her, hoped she wasn't dead even though her son was a prick. 

        Above the ruin, they wait. You can't hear their conversation. You count, one, two, three... eleven. Fucking eleven. You took down one because the others were distracted, but distracting ten to remove one? Seemed impossible. 

        You were afraid, not in the traditional 'oh shit I'm going to die' sense, because you had felt like that for the better part of five years and it was easy to tune out. The feeling that filled you was more final, a righteous 'I need to kill at least half these people before I go to hell'. You figured it was best to start small, experimental. You hide in charcoal rubble and fire a single blast into the curbside in front of your hiding spot. 

        "Oh great, somebody left a survivor." Mohawk bitched, "No wonder he won't come, he's too afraid someone else is gonna see his fucked up head."

        Some of them snicker, most don't.

        "I've got it." A voice says, "Gotta work out the kinks in my back still, think that kid actually knocked a disc loose."

        "Who cares, just do it." Someone snaps.

        He's at the curb in a flash. Falling on his haunches, flicking at the still smoking debris. His swim-capped head gleaming from the distant sun's glow. "Alright guy, come out. I've got worlds to take over and I really-"

       You dare not speak for fear of being heard even at a whisper. Your arm comes out, fingers beckoning. He'd been looking in your direction. Lazy smile playing on his lips before the control sunk it's claws in.

        He hobbles over and crouches in front of your hiding spot.

        Before, you'd have drunk codeine and given it the credit but now? Credit was given to the rage this place brought you. Walking around this very block, talking about nothing and everything. Hope for the future. Mark's back to you. 

        You point through the charcoal of the shuddered window you'd been hiding behind. His eyes follow, landing on Scars. Your finger goes to your throat, crossing it in a slow, deliberate line. Kill him.

        You wish there was a universal gesture for 'come back when you're done so I can tell you to murder these other freaks'  but there wasn't. Unless he knew ASL, which you highly doubted.        

        He blasts off the ground. The shudder falls and you barely duck out of the way before it could pin you to the ground. You find another hiding spot to watch from.

        Someone already murmuring, "Took you long enough," at his return.

        Knowing these freaks, they'd jump on Swimcap the second he attacked. He'd be the one who wound up dead. Sex offense poster boy would be a nice bonus. Then they'd come, searching for what drove Swimcap kill crazy. You'd use them to kill each other. Make the last one standing snap his own neck- if you got that far, if your power didn't drain.

        Scars opened his mouth, "I didn't hear a scr-" His teeth clacked shut on his tongue. Blood filling his mouth as he's shot a mile into the sky. You watch Swimcap shoot up after him. Your puppet got above Scars head before he could regain his bearings and balled his fists over his own head before bringing them down on Scars' chest. He came back down to Earth like a meteor, smashing the remnants of the house. Sending shockwaves through the busted neighborhood.

        Swimcap flew down, feet extended, aiming to sever Scars head from his neck. Scars catches him by the ankles, rolls, and slams Swimcap  facedown into the foundation of the house. "Fuck's wrong with you?" He doesn't wait for reply, climbing atop the other version of himself, letting fists rule. 

        The others lower in the sky, curious. 

        "You can't double cross me, I was going to double cross you." Scars snaps between blows.

        Swimcap finally regains his bearings, catching one fist then the other. Four teeth knocked out of his mouth, blood vessels burst in his eyes, the lenses of his cap broken. Scars catches the look in his eye, the glaze of control before a knee slams into his dick. Swimcap gets on top.

        You lean forward. Smiling like it was the best movie you'd ever seen.  

        A fist is raised. Then grabbed by a red glove.

        "We're supposed to be working together, not killing each other." Omni-Mark says. 

        Scars sneers, "Like we weren't going to turn on each other at some point."

        Swimcap brings his free fist down. Snapping Scars head to the side. 

        "Stop it." Omni-Mark says, "Or I'll be forced to act on the aggressor."

        "I can handle this myself!" Scars hands come up to either side of Swimcap's head. "He just surprised me!" The muscles in his arms bulge, veins on his hands pulsing as he presses and presses and presses. Swimcap's jaw ticks, goes unnaturally to the side, eyes go redder, bleeding tears before they pop out, dangling on his cheeks. Then the top of his head pops up, brains squirting up in a pressurized blast. Chunks landing on the front of Omni-Mark's suit, much to his distaste.

       Scars shoves the body off, not minding the blood. Omni-Mark lets his limp wrist fall, holds out his newly freed hand to help Scars up. He slaps it away. "Didn't need your fucking help."

        "Really?" Mohawk's scratchy voice calls down, "Cuz it sure looked like you needed it to me!"

        "Shut up." Scars says.

        Together, the landed pair rejoin the group in the air. 

        "Any idea why he did that?" One of them asks.

        Looks and shrugs are shared. "Guy blew his load too early, I guess." Mohawk says. A minute passes. He speaks again, "Seriously, what's taking that guy so long?"

        "This would pass a lot faster if you'd shut up," Emperor says.

        "He knows he can't deliver on his promises anymore." The bald one looks from version of himself to version of himself. "He's scared shitless."

        "No way he can't deliver me more universes." Scars spits. 

        "Don't act like you weren't losing your shit when she died." Mohawk jerks in the air. Tense all over. Waiting for someone to come at him so he could hit something hard as he could.

        "I think it was fitting." Scars tone is all confident sarcasm, but he won't look at anybody. "Bitch deserved it."

        Two of them look at each other. A Mark in his old blue-yellow uniform, no mask. The other in what looked like a tracksuit with a fluttering mask covering his face. Puzzlement crossed between them.

        Mohawk was on him, fists twisted in the bottom of Scars mask. "I was gonna kill you eventually, but I think now's a great fuckin' t-"

        "Dregs! Dregs, you bitch! Where the fuck are you!?" Screeches through the neighborhood's exposed bones. So many of them go rigor mortis stiff. Then the sound comes again, "(Y/n)! I know you're here!"

        You peek out of your hiding spot. See Psychopomp shambling down the street where you'd popped into existence. Blood streaked down her pallid forehead. A snarl on her thin lips. 

        She's stupid. You think. She's suicidal. You think. She wants to get me killed.

        She throws her head back, "Come out!"

        Phantom is the first on top of her. Grappling her hard by the shoulder and stub. "(Y/n)? You said (Y/n)? You said (Y/n) is here?" Desperation pierces through the modulator. That of someone teetering on the edge of an endless chasm. 

        "Who-" She tries to slap his hands off and finds she can't. She switches gears, fighting not an option. She'd already seen what happened back in New York with the other contingencies. Remembered just who had ripped her arms off before Mercy healed them. Her voice held a quiver, "Yes, did you see her?" 

        "Obviously not." Emperor lands beside her. "You said she's present?"

        "We came together." Psychopomp breathes out. A nervous sweat shone on her cheeks, like she finally realized what she was doing. "Knocked me out and left."

        Jesus Christ, she'd switch sides if it meant getting at you.

        Lensless is next to touch down. "Uh, I saw those bombs go off like, right in her face. She's dead. You just know you can't escape without us catching you. I mean, shit, I'd do the same thing but-"

        In goes a breath, out comes a hateful scream, "Dregs!"

        You don't budge. She ruined everything on purpose. Most of the Marks had come from above the house to swarm around her. Only three remain above the house, impassively watching. The maskless one, the tracksuit wearer, the white-clad warrior. Eyes in the sky. If you even put a finger out of your hiding spot, they'd see. It was best to stay put, make her look crazy, let her die, then resume the plan.

        Except Phantom had sensors in his lenses. A sensor he used to scan the area, quickly picking out the outline of your crouched form behind a wall. He was on you. Tearing off the GDA helmet before you could attempt to shove him off. 

        It was you. Oh God, it was really you.

        The helmet falls out of his hands. He hugs you quick, almost imperceptibly so, before the other versions of himself round the corner with Psychopomp in tow. 

        "Stay where you are." The command is for them, not her, as if it'd work anyway. You had no idea how long they'd hold. You're not coming off Narcan so probably more than a millisecond. No longer than forty-five seconds at best.

         You dip down, snatching the helmet, pulling it back on over your head. But they'd all seen. The helmet was a matter of protection and anonymity of emotion. Protection that'd do little against them but still, it was something.

        The collective paused. Marks stiff, most of them anyway. A few seem unaffected, just waiting to see what would happen. Blood is already starting to pool at the top of your nasal passage.

         Psychopomp prowls closer, stopping when she sees a gun the size of her thigh cradled in your arms.

        "Where is Digby?" She demands. Ah, the whereabouts of her heroine skinny brother. That old chestnut.

        You watch the Marks for signs of a cracking hold. Look at Psycopomp, pale with yesterday's bloodloss. And run. 

        You can't deal with all of them at once. This was a one-by-one operation. You needed, "Cecil!" To get you the fuck out of dodge. You needed to regroup. Come back later. Not have Psychopomp fucking ruin everything.

        But the teleporter light doesn't consume you. You are not saved.

        You are grabbed from behind almost soon as your legs started pumping. Arms tight around your midsection. Pulpy eyehole pressing to the side of your visor.

        "Jeez, you're slow." Lensless says.

        "Let go."

        He does. But your control on the others had gone. They could converge on you whenever they wanted and "Cecil, God damn it," won't, "help me!"

        Help doesn't come. Rescue doesn't come. 

        Scars laughs, wiping bloodstains off his suit to little avail, "You're on your own. He never comes if it means his own neck." Just like Cecil had warned.

        Psychopomp moves through their ranks. Not accepted in, but so insignificant there'd be no point in killing her. They all had to wait for Angstrom anyways. 

        "Where is he, Dregs?"

        You're on your own unless you convince her to work with you. "Last our guys saw, he fell into the lava pits when Invincible fought Doc Seismic." You lie through your teeth. The first thing you could think of while tying in Invincible. 

        "Bullshit!" She calls. The Marks frame her back. Watching. Curious about you, your life, your enemies, your petty human squabbles. "He couldn't be in Washington, he couldn't drive."

        Crossed arms tensed over a red-white chest. "Keep speaking to my wife like that and your other arm is gone." 

        Psychopomp looks. Visabily shaking at the Omni-Man impersonator's presence. 

        You ignore him. "Machine Head sent him to do mule work there to pay off his debts." You go on, rolling with the story. "Best not to tell you so you couldn't bail him out again." 

        Her eye twitched. "I was the last person who saw him alive in New York, Dregs. Don't lie after you said that cryptic shit at the GDA. Don't I deserve to know- don't you still care about me a little bit?"

        No, but you don't say that. Instead, you pivot, "If those motherfuckers behind you don't die right now there'll be no justice system to help you find out what happened."

        Mohawk cackles, "Hah! That's so code for she killed that guy!"

        "Is it?" Psycopomp asks. 

        "Don't listen to them." You insist, fingers tightening around the pulse rifle. "They destroyed the planet, Psych. Don't be stupid. Work with me here."

         "If the planet's already destroyed, how is she going to take you to court? 'S better if you just get revenge right now." Scars grins. Knowing exactly what buttons he's pushing. 

        You have to tell the truth. Make her so blind with hatred that waiting years for supe-prisons to be rebuilt just for you to rot didn't even seem like an option.

        "Alright, fine." Your breaths come short and humid under the visitor. You're not sure you should be saying this. Before it'd definitely get you killed for sharing confidential business information, but Machine Head was out of the picture so who was going to punish you- God? "Digby's somewhere in the Colorado River." At that, her face falls, a single tear slipping hot down her cheek. His death had always been a suspicion, no evidence, no confirmation. No CCTV. Nothing. All set up by Machine Head's men. But now it was confirmed, after two years of searching, wondering. 

        "So he's..."

        "Dead, yes."

        "And you..."

        The sorrow is morphing, unstable, but in a state so fresh and raw you could mold it to your advantage. The only card you had left to play. "I had to. You know how our line of work is. If you want to kill me, I get it but if you want the actual privilege of doing me in yourself- help me deal with these assholes first." You knew the undead civilians would do nothing to them, but a minor distraction was the best thing you could pull out of this situation she'd forced you both into.

        She blinked. Tears coming faster, faster. "You..."

        You see one of their fingers twitch, wondering when he should step in. 

        "You can't kill me if they do first, Michelle." Her name is a slap to the face. Only passed about in private, such as your apartment air mattress. Anger reddens her. She's shaking her head, mentally trying to ward off your manipulation. Hands are flexing now. 

        "Kill you? What? No, babe, I'm here to take you home." Mohawk says loud and clear for all to hear. Taking a mallet to your plans.

        "He's lying." You say. "You saw that one," you nod toward Emperor Shoulder Pads, "had me by the throat. He's trying to trick you." Except you didn't think he was. 

        "You made me do it." Shoulder Pads replies. "But I wasn't going to k-"

        "Shut your mouth." You turn back to Psychopomp, desperate, "These people are not our allies or enemies of an enemy. They are going to finish the job and kill us both if you don't do something." 

        And Psychopomp saw right through your flimsy manipulation. "You're scared of what I'm going to do to you."

        She wasn't listening. You had to go in, hard, unnecessarily brutally honest. Full-on nuclear blast.

        "I didn't have to tell him to kneel." You say, telling the truth to her for once, "He knew he was screwed. You knew how deep in debt he was to Machine Head, but you just kept letting him use. Telling yourself he'd quit before he overdosed. He knew he'd never be able pay and never be able to stop." Her hands come up and start to glow. You hoped those zombies would be pointed anywhere but at you. "He wanted to die. He knew he couldn't give his daughter a good life and knew Shelly was too religious to abort."

        "Shelly-" She says, dimly remembering his brother's girlfriend. Remembering she hadn't seen her in years. The last time she saw her was with Digby. For awhile she blamed Shelly, then there was you. Machine Head. A tip from a friend. "-Was pregnant?"

        "Oh shit." One of them says. You don't look to see who.

        "Five months." You supply. "She didn't want to die but she walked in, couldn't be helped."

        "You killed my niece?" It was more a question than a statement.

        "Machine Head would've killed me if I hadn't, Michelle."

        "You killed my brother!" Her fingers curl, as if sucked in by the light vortexes of power in her palm. "My family!" The only she had left.

        Mouths twist into smiles and horrified frowns at your cruelty. 

        You don't know where to aim the pulse rifle. At them or her. "You can kill me when this is over. Fuck, throw me in the slammer even."

        "I don't give a shit about justice!" The houses around you stir with dead residents coming to life, "I'm going to fucking kill you- now!"

        "Listen!" You were losing control of the situation. Once the action started, you weren't sure you'd be able to escape. 

        "No! Jail isn't enough! I've seen what you can do. I've been there to see the kinda shit you make people do. There is something wrong with you, and you just need to die." She can't stop crying.

        The first of the undead shamble out of their broken homes. They aren't slow. On you in what feels like moments. You're forced to turn to fire green blasts into their heads. Stepping out of the way of their still reaching hands when they fall. 

        "God- Jesus- Damn it." You elbow, pistol whip, kick, and shoot at the growing horde but it's too much. You'll be overwhelmed soon. "Stop being stupid. They'll kill you." 

        They look like they will. Phantom surges forward to save you but is grabbed by the ankle by Scars.

        "I want to see this." He says.

        Phantom forces himself still. He must not reveal how deeply you'd infected him. So he watches, waiting for things to be dire enough to actually justify jumping in. As do the others, who felt that tickle of desire to play hero. 

        Some, Mohawk, Scars, Lesnless, watch because it's so nice seeing you kill. There were other approving glances, but so quiet and unnoticeable you didn't catch them in your panic.

        "I don't care! I don't fucking care!" The buzzed hair atop her scalp seems to bristle at the sight of you still living. Her palm glows brighter, extending her reach much as she can with the bloodloss. "Die! Just die!"

        No amount of coaxing will do it. You made a bet and lost. You had to take whatever winnings you could still scrap.

        You let decrepit hands hit the body armor. Forcing yourself through the crowd of gored families. Whacking heads and shoulders to make a clear lane for you to aim- and fire. The first shot is taken by a women with no eyes. She goes down. More zombies surge to block your shots. 

        The Marks twitch with nervous energy. Thinking of jumping in, but uneasy to show their weakness for you in front of the others. Deciding if you're not out in ten more seconds, they'll do something.

        You take a breath, steadying as your line of sight crowded with the dead. Their teeth gnawing at your arms and ankles. Weak fists at your back. And shot, once, twice, thrice through the bodies until the fourth blast goes through Michelle's head. Spitting her face from the top of her lip to her buzzcut. 

        Michelle hits the ground. Brains splattering on the pavement. Her minion's grip and teeth loosen. 

        Arms scoop under your knees, support your back faster than you can breathe. Taking off before you can think to scream. Shooting toward the clouds. The rifle falling out of your hands.

        He couldn't take it anymore. Seeing you covered in blood. Seeing you holding that weapon. You weren't supposed to be like that. Supposed to look like that.

        "I thought I lost you." You feel the rumble of his chest. Black and blue carbon fiber suit rubbing against your body armor. You have to force your head up against the sudden G-force. Mask covering all but the horror and relief in his tone. You can see the shell of your mask reflected back in those blue lenses. 

        You don't think just speak, "Let me go."

        He does. Involuntarily. Mortified that he did. Unmoving, waiting for your next command but you drop so fast, scream so loud, it never comes. He watches as you plummet five-thousand feet.

        "Catch me! Catch me now!" No one could hear you over the whistling of the wind. 

        All that fighting. Days of angsting, building up their deaths in your head. Only to kill one, then yourself on accident. Way to go, idiot.

        You see a white flash. Feel yourself stop. Your body jerks against the suddenness. Head snapping back, whacking against a solid arm. You are gone, nothing but black swimming unconsciousness. 

        "She's fine." You hear him say, Mark for sure, but in a tone you hadn't come to know. "To my understanding, humans can not withstand sudden changes in atmosphere."

        "Let me see! I wanna see if she's still breathing." Mohawk, definitely. "Hey, dickhead! You almost fuckin' killed her! You happy up there!? Yeah, you better stay away from me, pussy."

        "She is." The new Mark says evenly. 

        Another comes to volley. "We should get back to the rendezvous." 

        Green light penetrates past your closed eyes. Making them twitch and flutter open just in time to see him step into existence. Red lights screwed into his supermassive brain. Metal welded to his body. Power pooling at his feet, sustaining himself in the air. "No need." Eyes, one brown, the other milky with blindness, slide to you, "The location doesn't so much matter, as long as we have the guest of honor."

[bunny-jpeg]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

[mintyys-blog]

hi! i love your work! a request: face sitting with the mark variants? xo

HEADCANONS | the variants want you to sit on their face

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: sexual themes, swearing oral sex (fem. receiving)

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

MAIN MARK

Mark was panting, trembling as he gripped your thighs. “Please, please, Y/N…” His voice cracked — needy, desperate, utterly pathetic. His flushed cheeks stared up at you like you were his salvation.

You hovered just above his face, teasing mercilessly. He whimpered when you brushed your heat against his lips.

“I’ll do anything,” he gasped. “Just sit. Please sit—”

You finally sank down on him, making him groan into your folds, clutching your hips like you were his last breath. He licked feverishly, desperately, his hips jerking up instinctively even though he had nowhere to go.

“Good boy,” you purred, grinding down harder, feeling his moans vibrate against your core.

It didn’t take long — he licked, sucked, whined against you until your thighs were trembling, your orgasm crashing over you with a strangled gasp. You ground yourself down on him as you came, and he moaned under you — swallowing every drop like he was addicted. Even after you finished, he kept licking, greedily chasing more, completely broken beneath you.

SINISTER MARK

Mark snarled when you hesitated. “Sit. Down,” he barked, grabbing your thighs with bruising force. “Put all your weight on me.”

You whimpered — afraid you’d hurt him — but he growled, yanked you down hard, burying his face between your thighs.

He devoured you — relentless, brutal, lapping at you like a starved beast. He didn’t let you pull away — not even when you gasped, squirming — he forced you to grind on his mouth, hands locked around your hips.

Your orgasm hit like a punch, shattering through you. You sobbed his name, body trembling, but he didn’t stop — didn’t even slow — eating you through your climax, drowning himself in everything you gave him.

He only let you up when your body went limp against him — and even then, he licked his lips like a man savoring blood.

SHIESTY MARK

Mark grinned when you hesitated.

“Quit playin’, ma,” he chuckled. “Put that pretty pussy on my fuckin’ face.”

You barely had time to react before he hauled you down.

He licked you messily, hungrily, moaning shamelessly against your folds, hands smacking your ass occasionally to keep you moving. “Damn, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he growled, tongue plunging deep, nose buried in you.

He forced you to ride his tongue — rough, sloppy, cocky — and when you came, sobbing his name, he just groaned, sucking harder, drinking you down like he was parched.

You could barely think straight afterward, and he loved it.

“That’s right, baby. Cum all over me,” he muttered, slapping your thigh approvingly.

VILTRUMITE MARK

Mark dragged you onto his mouth without hesitation.

“Don’t hold back,” he growled. “Smother me. Drown me.”

You were scared at first — he was so strong — but he showed no weakness, no struggle. He devoured you like he was built for it.

He didn’t lick softly — he consumed you, powerful tongue dragging heavy, devastating strokes against your clit until you were trembling uncontrollably.

Your orgasm hit violently, like a supernova, and he groaned against you — savoring it, breathing you in greedily through the aftershocks.

He didn’t let go even when you begged — held you down, milking every last twitch and spasm from your wrecked body.

MOHAWK MARK

Mark grinned wide when you hesitated.

“Don’t be shy, baby,” he teased, winking.

Then he flipped you down onto his face without warning, laughing into your pussy.

He licked you wildly — sloppy, loud, completely without shame — and squeezed your thighs with calloused hands, bouncing you slightly against his mouth.

The sounds he made — the wet, messy slurping — were so filthy you couldn’t hold back long.

You cried out, grinding down hard against him, and he groaned in approval as you came, licking up every drop like he was addicted.

“Fuck yeah,” he muttered, breathless. “Ride my face any time, pretty girl.”

OMNI MARK

Mark’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Sit properly,” he said. “Now.”

When you obeyed — trembling — he gripped your hips hard, locking you down tight against his mouth.

He licked you with clinical precision — not messy, not desperate — like he was dissecting you, learning every weak point.

You whimpered and tried to squirm, but he punished you by dragging you harder against him.

When you finally came — back arching, legs shaking — he didn’t stop or even slow. He forced you to ride every second of it, to lose complete control in his hands.

“Accept it,” he murmured coldly against your soaked skin. “You’re mine to ruin.”

MASKLESS MARK

Mark sneered at your hesitation. “You afraid you’re gonna kill me?” he rasped. “Good. Try.”

He hauled you down roughly, forcing your full weight onto his face. He licked deep and slow at first, then harder — hungrier — tongue plunging inside you while his teeth grazed teasingly at your sensitive skin.

The roughness, the degradation, the dark pleasure in his eyes sent you spiraling fast.

You came hard on his tongue, whimpering brokenly. He just laughed low against you, growling hungrily as he kept licking you through your orgasm — slurping noisily, as if he couldn’t get enough.

FULL MASK MARK

Mark didn’t say a word. He waited — patient, cold — until he lost patience and yanked you down onto his mouth with brutal force.

You gasped, hands scrambling, but he didn’t give you an inch of control. He tore off his mask roughly, and immediately latched onto you, sucking and licking like it was survival.

You tried to lift off when it got too much — too intense — but he growled low in his chest and slammed you down even harder.

The way he sucked on your clit was devastating — precise, ruthless — and within minutes, you shattered, cumming all over his face with a broken cry.

He never flinched — never let you go — he kept you locked there, making you ride it out fully until you were sobbing and overstimulated, thighs shaking violently.

PRISONER MARK

Mark grabbed your thighs roughly, dragging you over his face without hesitation.

“C’mere. Need you,” he growled, voice hoarse and wrecked.

You yelped when he hauled you down hard — forcing your full weight onto him.

He buried his face in you immediately, licking messily, desperately, like he was starving.

There were no chains, no restraints — just pure need. His hands squeezed your thighs hard enough to bruise, keeping you locked in place no matter how you squirmed.

You cried out when he latched onto your clit, sucking ruthlessly, hips bucking against him.

You came fast and hard, sobbing out his name, and he just groaned against you — dragging your orgasm out brutally, refusing to let you go.

“Fuck, that’s it, Y/N,” he growled between breaths. “Gimme everything.”

TARGET/EMPIRE! MARK

Mark didn’t ask. He yanked you down roughly, slamming you onto his face without warning.

“Sit still,” he barked. “Don’t fucking move unless I tell you.”

He gripped your hips hard — bruising, possessive — and devoured you with brutal, punishing licks, tongue driving deep with every stroke.

You gasped, body trembling, but he forced you to ride his mouth, grinding you down against his tongue until you were sobbing brokenly.

When you came, he growled low — a deep, animalistic sound — and kept licking through your orgasm, dragging every last drop from you.

“Good girl,” he snarled against your sensitive flesh. “You come when I say. Understand?”

[tokoyamisstuff]

Masterlist: Invincible

A/N: This will be like 90% Alternate Mark Variants only.

💀 = Angst and/or Adult Themes 🌸 = Fluff 💌 = Personal Favourite 🔥 = Smut 🎵 = Song Fic / Contains Lyrics ✅ = Finished Series ❌ = WIP/Hiatus

Each and every Work has it's own detailed Warnings listed.

Second Chance At Love 💀 🌸 ✅️ x gn! Reader During the war, one particular variant searches for someone he once lost. [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Read here] 💀 🌸 x gn! Reader | General HC's for the variants and their past with you.

[Read here] 🌸 x gn! Reader | HC's about how the variants like to cuddle.

[Delicate] 💀 🌸 x gn! regenerator! Reader | During his involuntary stay at the wasteland dimension, Sinister Mark has developed a concerning appetite... 18+

[Read here] 🔥🌸 x f! Reader | How good is each variant at eating you out? 18+

Payback 💀 🌸 x f! Reader | After killing you in his timeline, Mohawk is seeking you out to do it again.

[Read here] 🌸 x gn! Reader | General HC's for Prisoner! Mark.

Psychosocial💀 x gn! Reader | Yandere! Sinister Mark x Reader

[Read here] 🌸 x gn! Reader | Holding Conquest while he cries for the first time in his life.

[Read here] 💀 x gn! Reader | How would the variants react if they realize you already have a different partner in the main universe?

[Read here] 🌸x f! Reader | How would the variants react to you being pregnant?

[thelostmagicians]

Sunshine and the Shadowed Heart | Spencer Reid Part : I

Shadows of the Past

Series Masterlist

Summary: Spencer hasn't been the same since prison, and you're just the rookie

Fluff, comfort, angsty, mean spencer, post-prison spencer [6.3k]

♡

He looked like the same Spencer you’d seen in a guest lecture seven years ago—the legend you’d heard about—sharp, legendary, and unmistakably handsome—but something was different. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His sharp wit had been replaced with silence. Emily had warned you it would be tough—being imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit was bound to leave a mark. But you hadn’t expected him to be so… cold.

At first, you didn’t know what it was. The Spencer you’d heard about had been animated, full of life and quirky jokes. Now, he was quiet, distant, almost like a ghost. Everyone couldn’t help but feel the weight of his absence. It wasn’t that he wasn’t physically present—he was right there, in the bullpen, behind his desk, his eyes glued to the screen. But mentally? Emotionally? He was miles away.

You weren’t around for the events that led to his imprisonment, but you were here when he came back. You were hired just a month into Spencer’s absence, after a twist of fate turned your world upside down. Fresh out of college, you had no idea that a random visit to a crime scene would lead you to the BAU. You’d stumbled across a clue—a small, seemingly insignificant detail—that no one had seen. A clue that broke the case wide open and connected the dots in a way no one had even considered.

It was Emily who saw something in you that no one else did. You’d never expected to hear from her, but one evening, as you were packing up to leave, her card had arrived in the mail. You never expected it to lead to an interview—especially not one that would end with you joining the BAU.

You were still trying to find your place in the chaos of the BAU. The team feels like a new family, but it’s hard to truly fit in when you’re still the "new kid." Every day felt like a new challenge. You’d expected the job to be like the textbook cases you’d studied in college—neat, clean, solvable. But the BAU was messy. Real lives were at stake, and sometimes, there were no perfect solutions. The pressure was constant. Every case felt like it could be the one that would break you, the one that would make you realize you didn’t belong. Every day felt like a mountain to climb, and you, fresh out of college, were still learning how to scale it. There was so much to absorb—procedures, protocols, personalities—and sometimes, it felt like you were drowning in it all. The days blurred into nights, the cases piling up, each one more complicated than the last.

The dynamic between the team was established, years in the making. They had a rhythm, an understanding that came with time and trust. You hadn’t earned that yet. You were still trying to find your place, to carve out your spot in the chaos. But there were the moments of levity—Luke’s jokes that never failed to make you laugh, Penelope’s infectious energy that seemed to brighten even the darkest days. It was their way of reminding you that, despite the darkness that came with the job, there was still room for humanity. Still room for laughter, for connection.

Still room for you to grow.

But then there was Spencer.

Spencer Reid, someone you thought you had an idea of who he was when you first saw him—the genius with the messy hair. But now, five weeks in, he’s become something different: a shadow. Brilliant, tortured, and untouchable. He barely spoke, kept to himself in a way that made him seem even more unreachable than the walls he’d built around himself. He hardly acknowledged you unless it was for work, and even then, it was a quiet exchange, all business. It wasn’t that he was rude—it was that he wasn’t… there. It was like talking to a shadow of the person everyone had described to you. The legend of Spencer Reid remained just that now, a folktale that once was.

—

You kept trying though—maybe not all at once, but little by little. You'd try to make small talk while working on the latest case, commenting on a theory, or discussing a strategy. You'd caught a glimpse of Spencer looking at something on his computer once and, with a smile, asked if he wanted to grab coffee after finishing the report. He had nodded curtly, but his response wasn’t an invitation. It was a polite rejection that you couldn’t quite place at first, until you realized it wasn’t just the work. He just didn’t want to engage.

On another occasion, when the team had gathered around the conference table for a case briefing, you shared a funny memory from a training session at the academy. It was a small anecdote, one that usually drew a laugh from Luke or JJ, but Spencer only offered a barely noticeable grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes still fixed on the file in front of him. The briefest of glances, and then he was back to his usual space, mentally miles away from the conversation. It stung more than you’d expected.

Even simple gestures didn’t seem to reach him. One day, after a long stretch of overtime, you left a fresh cup of coffee on his desk, knowing he’d be up all night. When you came by later to check in, the coffee was still there, untouched, as if he hadn’t even seen it.

It wasn’t that he was cruel—he was never outwardly dismissive or rude. But his silence spoke volumes. Every attempt to connect felt like it fell short. You’d find yourself lingering by his desk, hoping for a spark of warmth, but he remained like a stone statue, absorbed in his world of facts and logic, leaving no room for small talk, no room for you.

You knew it was because of what he’d been through—the years on the job, seeing the darkest corners of humanity, and the months he’d spent in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. You didn’t expect him to open up immediately, but you couldn’t help feeling like you were being shut out, as if you didn’t even exist in his world.

One afternoon, after another grueling case, Emily pulled Spencer aside. You watched from a distance as they spoke quietly in the hallway outside the bullpen. It wasn’t unusual for them to have private conversations, but this time, you could tell it was different. The tension in Emily’s posture spoke volumes, her usual calm demeanor strained as she spoke to him in a low, controlled voice.

"Spencer," Emily said, her tone gentle but firm. "Go easy on her. She’s still learning the ropes."

Spencer didn’t respond immediately, but you could see the furrow in his brow. He crossed his arms, a familiar sign of resistance. "I don’t know why she’s here in the first place," he muttered, his voice tight. "You brought her in like she’s going to replace me."

Emily sighed, her patience palpable. "Spencer, that’s not what’s happening. She’s here because she’s talented. She solved that case when none of us could get close. There’s something in her that we don’t have. This job has toughened us all, but she’s in tune with emotions in a way that lets her read people better. She thinks outside the box and picks up on things we miss. That’s a skill we need."

"She’s just a rookie," Spencer shot back, almost as if to dismiss her entirely.

"Rookies can make a difference," Emily replied, her voice softening. "You were a rookie once, give her a chance. She’s not here to replace you. No one ever could." She patted his shoulder before walking away, Spencer’s frown now morphing into a glare as he caught your eyes through the halfway open blinds.

—

The case was already making waves back at Quantico—a chilling pattern that left even the most seasoned agents unsettled. Young women, all in their early twenties, had been disappearing without a trace, only to be found days later in isolated, hauntingly serene locations. Each scene felt deliberate, almost ceremonial, with the victims bound and posed in ways that suggested some twisted form of reverence or ritual.

The killer’s signature was unmistakable: he wasn’t just abducting and murdering these women—he was creating a spectacle. At each scene, small tokens were left behind, items that seemed personal to the victims but whose significance the team had yet to decipher. There was no discernible link between the women—no shared acquaintances, no overlapping routines—but the precision and consistency of the unsub’s methods made it clear he was following a meticulously thought-out plan.

What pushed the case into even darker territory were the videos. Hours before each body was found, the unsub would send footage to the victim's family—a harrowing glimpse of their loved one in her final moments. The videos were devoid of color, the black and white feed only amplifying the horror. The unsub would taunt the families by delivering the footage in person, leaving USB drives on doorsteps or mailing them with cryptic, handwritten notes. It was a psychological attack as much as a physical one, designed to shatter the survivors and leave them with a burden of unanswered questions.

—

After the team wrapped up the debriefing on the jet, Emily turned to you and Spencer. “I want the two of you to work together on interviewing people associated with this case,” she said, her tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

Your eyes lit up with a flicker of hope. This was your first real assignment—no shadowing, no taking notes in the background—actual fieldwork where you’d be directly contributing to the case.

Spencer Reid—the prodigy, the one with a photographic memory and an endless well of knowledge—was someone you admired since before you joined the BAU. You smiled faintly, eager but trying to hide just how much this opportunity meant to you.

Spencer, however, didn’t share your enthusiasm. He glanced at Emily, then at you, and though he didn’t say anything, the faint tightening of his jaw and his unreadable gaze told you everything. He wasn’t thrilled about the pairing.

Still, you told yourself it didn’t matter. This was your chance—to learn from him, to prove to him and the rest of the team that you had what it took to contribute. Spencer’s reluctance might have stung, but you weren’t going to let it deter you.

—

The first stop was to interview the family of a missing woman, a college student who’d been found dead three days after her disappearance. The parents were devastated—shocked, grieving, and desperately trying to piece together anything that could help them understand who had taken their daughter. You listened intently, jotting down notes, but there was something off about one of the alibis given by a neighbor—the last person to see the girl alive. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but something felt wrong.

You brought it up to Spencer, speaking carefully but with conviction. “I don’t think he’s telling us the whole truth. Something about his story doesn’t add up.”

Spencer barely glanced at you, his tone sharp. “His alibi checks out. There’s no reason to think he’s lying.”

You shook your head, the feeling in your gut growing stronger. “But something is off, I can’t really explain it but I just feel it.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You feel it? We’re not here for feelings. This isn’t some sort of instinct game. You have to trust the evidence.”

“But something’s not adding up,” you pressed, feeling the frustration rise in your chest.

Spencer’s tone grew colder. “This isn’t a job where everything works out because you think you have some sort of spidey sense. You can’t go around guessing. You need to understand what it really takes to solve a case.”

You let the conversation drop, trying to focus on other details, but his dismissiveness was starting to sting. Spencer wasn’t just disagreeing with your instincts—he was questioning your competence, as though your opinion didn’t matter at all.

The day dragged on, with Spencer continuously shutting down your ideas. Every time you tried to offer a new perspective or suggest a potential lead, he dismissed you with a harsh, dismissive comment.

“This isn’t the job you think it is. It’s not about theories, it’s about hard work and experience,” he snapped at one point.

The more you tried, the more it felt like Spencer was deliberately undermining you. Every suggestion, no matter how thoughtful, was met with a cold refusal.

When you finally presented another lead from a witness, Spencer’s frustration exploded. “You’re inexperienced. Everyone here earned their place through hard work. You? You got in because you were in the right place at the right time. Nothing more. Maybe you wanted to experience the darkness, to see what it’s like, but you don’t really understand what it costs to live in it every day. One day, your luck is going to run out, and when it does, no instinct or gut feeling is going to save you. You don’t think like a profiler, you just react. You walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to you. But in the real world, there’s no safety net. No one’s going to follow some gut feeling into the dark and magically find their way out."

The words hit you like a slap to the face. You stood there, trying to hold yourself together, but his words tore into you. Spencer wasn’t just dismissing your ideas; he was attacking you personally, questioning your entire existence.

You kept your composure, nodding absently as though agreeing, though inside, you were cracking under the weight of his accusations.

—

When the day finally ended, you excused yourself, telling Spencer you needed to clear your head. As you stepped outside into the crisp evening air, the weight of the day pressed on your shoulders. You needed a moment to breathe, to process everything Spencer had said.

That’s when you saw him—the neighbor you’d interviewed earlier, the one you were convinced was lying. He was standing by his car, watching you. Something about his posture, the way he loomed in the shadows, sent a chill down your spine.

“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice steady.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, stepping closer. “I wasn’t completely honest earlier. Can we talk privately?”

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to leave. “Actually, I need to get back—”

Before you could finish, he lunged. You fought back, kicking and clawing, screaming as loudly as you could, but he was stronger. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries.

He wrestled you into a car, duct-taping your mouth and wrists as he muttered to himself. You could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes, the satisfaction he got from the struggle.

You forced yourself to breathe deeply, shutting out the pounding of your heart. Stay calm, you told yourself. Panic wasn’t an option. You had been trained for situations like this, and you knew fear was his weapon.

As the car sped away, you focused on observing everything around you. The unsub kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his lips twitching into a twisted grin. You realized then—Fear gave him power. That was his fuel. He didn’t just want to hurt his victims; he wanted to break them emotionally, to revel in their terror.

Don’t give him that power, you thought, straightening your posture and meeting his gaze with an icy calmness. His smirk faltered for a split second before returning, but you saw the flicker of frustration.

You started piecing together his personality. He wasn’t impulsive; this was calculated. He had planned every detail, which meant he was confident, methodical, and most likely familiar with his hunting ground. His muttering gave you a glimpse into his psyche—fragments of sentences about being “misunderstood” and “showing them” painted the picture of someone who felt wronged by the world and used his crimes as a way to reclaim control.

The car took a sharp left turn, and you counted silently. One left turn. You pressed your bound hands against the door for stability, straining to catch the noises outside. Gravel crunched under the tires as they left the pavement. Two right turns. The road sounds uneven now—it’s gravel, maybe leading to a more isolated area.

You kept your eyes sharp, scanning for anything that could give away your location. A small victory came when you caught a glimpse of a weathered sign as they passed under a flickering streetlight. The sign was faded, but you managed to make out “Thornhill Dr.”

Thornhill Dr, two right turns off the main street, and we’re heading north, you calculated.

The sound of an approaching train caught your attention, and you noted the rhythm of the horn. You mentally mapped where train tracks were in proximity to Thornhill Dr—another clue you could use later.

Your mind sharpened as adrenaline coursed through you, heightening every detail. A slight creak in the car’s suspension suggested the vehicle was older, poorly maintained. The air grew colder, hinting that you were moving into a less urban area, away from the warmth of the city’s dense buildings.

Every observation mattered. Every detail was a potential key to your survival. You couldn’t scream for help, but you could think, analyze, and stay one step ahead.

The unsub’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You’re too calm. You think you’re brave, huh? Acting like you’re not scared.”

You met his eyes through the mirror again, your face expressionless. He leaned back in his seat slightly, as though unnerved by your lack of reaction.

The car began to slow, and you braced yourself. We’ve arrived, you thought. You made a mental note of the landmarks—a rusty mailbox near a dirt driveway, the faint outline of a barn in the distance. The weathered boards of the barn seemed to match the descriptions from the case files.

I know where I am, you realized, a small surge of hope igniting within you. Now I just have to stay alive long enough for them to find me.

Your heart pounded, but your mind stayed sharp. You had everything you needed to leave a trail for your team—now it was just a matter of time

You sat stoically bound to the chair, your eyes cold and unwavering as the unsub stood before you. His anticipation was palpable, as if he expected you to break, to cry, to beg. But you didn’t. You simply met his eyes with calm indifference.

“So your dad left and your mother doesn’t love you,” you said, your voice steady. “That doesn’t give you a right to do this.”

His grin faltered for a moment, the words hitting him harder than he anticipated. There was a brief flash of anger in his eyes, but you could see the confusion behind it. He wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not with the emotional weight of his own troubled past.

“Where’s your family?” he asked, his voice low and taunting. “Don’t you have anyone who cares about you? Anyone who’s going to watch this and cry for you?” You held his gaze, emotionless. There was a chill in the air, but it wasn’t fear—it was control. “I have no one,” you said quietly, your words landing with deliberate weight. “The only ones who would care about seeing this... are my team.”

He seemed to hesitate, his fingers hovering over the phone as if unsure how to respond to your calm. But soon, his frustration took over, and he hit the ‘record’ button, turning the camera on you. The feed blinked to life, broadcasting your image across the screens of the BAU.

—

Back at the base, chaos reigned. Penelope, usually confident in her skills, was visibly breaking down. Her fingers trembled as they flew over the keyboard, trying to track the signal. Her mind raced as the seconds dragged on, but the pressure was beginning to get to her. “He’s jumping between different servers. This isn’t random. It’s deliberate,” she muttered under her breath, her voice shaky. She wiped a tear away, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. The desperation was palpable in her voice as she typed furiously, willing herself to focus.

Emily, standing beside Penelope, shot her a supportive glance, though the worry in her eyes was unmistakable. She was all business, trying to calm the team down and make sense of the situation. “We’re going to find her,” she said, voice steady but tight with the weight of leadership. Her mind was already formulating the next steps, calculating the possibilities with quick efficiency.

JJ, still pacing back and forth, shot a glance at the screen. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her gaze flicking from the monitor to the team. “We’re not losing her. We’re not,” she repeated, more to herself than to anyone else. The anxiety was evident, but so was her determination to stay focused.

Rossi stood nearby, scanning the screen. His brows furrowed as he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of the livestream. His calm, composed demeanor was cracking, and frustration bubbled to the surface.

Luke’s chest tightened as he watched the screen, unable to look away. The helplessness gnawed at him, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Matt grabbed at his hair, his thoughts racing. He couldn’t shake the fear that gripped him, the uncertainty of the situation weighing on him.

Spencer, who usually remained calm in the face of danger, was visibly shaken. His mind kept returning to his own experience, the terror he’d felt when Tobias Hankel had taken him. The helplessness, the fear—he remembered it all too vividly. Now, seeing you in the same position, his heart raced with a familiar dread.

But what gnawed at him even more was the guilt. The last conversation you had kept replaying in his mind. He had dismissed your concerns about the neighbor. If he had listened, if he had trusted your instincts like others had done for him when he first joined the BAU, you wouldn’t be in this position. The guilt ate at him. He silently begged for another chance, wishing he could take back his words and make things right.

—

As the live stream continued, the unsub’s taunting voice cut through the tension in the room. He kept his camera trained on you, trying to get a rise out of you, his twisted satisfaction evident in his every movement. But you didn’t break. You stayed calm, your mind working at full speed, calculating, analyzing. You had to focus, remain steady, and find a way to give the team the clues they needed—subtle enough for the unsub not to catch on.

“Do you think they’ll come for me?” you asked softly, eyes fixed on the camera, keeping your tone even. “Do you think they'll find me before the next train comes?”

The unsub scoffed, amused by your apparent defiance. “They won’t find you,” he spat, looking away, clearly oblivious to the significance of your words. But Spencer wasn’t. His eyes snapped to the screen, and his mind began to piece together the details. The mention of the train, the faint rhythm of the horn in the background. He knew exactly what you were doing. You were giving them a hint, telling them you were near the tracks.

The unsub didn’t respond, busy with his phone, and you knew he had his attention fully on the camera now. It was the perfect moment for you to speak in code—something only Spencer would understand.

You paused and added, almost casually, “The sky’s still gray, like it’s waiting to rain. Makes you want to drive a little farther into the hills, doesn’t it? Somewhere the roads are too narrow for anyone to follow.”

Then, as if you couldn’t keep it inside any longer, you looked straight into the camera and addressed Spencer directly. “Spencer, I don’t know why you’re so mean to me sometimes. You told me my luck was going to run out. That I walk into things blind, hoping the answer will just come to me. But you need to start trusting me, I promise I won’t lead you astray. I may be a thorn in your side, but thorns are there for a reason."

The moment you spoke those words, Spencer’s eyes widened at the base. He had caught it—the final clue. Thorn. It wasn’t just the pain of those words—it was the road. Thorn Hill Drive. It all clicked for him.

Without hesitation, he turned to Penelope. “Thorn Hill Drive. Check the train routes, the roads, everything. We need to know exactly where she is.”

Penelope worked furiously at her computer, cross-referencing the details Spencer had given her. Within moments, she found the location.

—

The team rushed into action, each agent moving with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Emily was the first to stand, her voice clear and commanding. “Penelope, pull up the map of Thorn Hill Drive. Luke, Matt, Reid you’re on the ground—get ready to go. Rossi, JJ, stay here to monitor the live stream. We need to move fast, people.”

Luke and Matt didn’t hesitate. They grabbed their gear, ready to head out the door, their determination etched across their faces. The urgency in Emily’s tone pushed them forward with a sense of purpose that only years of experience could cultivate.

As the team dispersed into their assigned tasks, Penelope’s fingers flew across her keyboard. “I’ve got it! Thorn Hill Drive is in the outskirts of the city, about twenty miles north. There’s a set of train tracks that run parallel to the road.”

Spencer’s mind raced as he watched the details unfold on the screen. He was no stranger to the chaos that followed a kidnapping, but this time, it felt personal. He couldn’t shake the guilt gnawing at him. He should’ve listened to you. Your instincts had been right, and now you were paying the price.

“She’ll be okay, Reid,” Emily’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We’re going to bring her home.”

He snapped his attention back to the task at hand, shaking off the guilt and focusing on the case. “I know, the unsub underestimated her. I underestimated her.”

Penelope’s voice was strained but full of determination. “I’ve got eyes on the location. There’s a barn near a dirt road—looks like the area she described. There’s only one way in and out.

“Perfect,” Emily said, her voice all business. “Everyone, gear up. Luke, Matt—take the lead. The rest of us will follow. Let’s move.”

The team was in motion within seconds. They moved with urgency, knowing that every second counted. Spencer was out the door before anyone else, his legs pushing him faster than he thought possible, the guilt and fear weighing heavily on his chest. He couldn’t bear the thought of you being out there, alone, in the hands of a killer who was savoring your terror.

—

You had been tied to a chair for what felt like hours, though time seemed to stretch and warp in the silence. The unsub had retreated into the shadows, likely hoping you’d break under the pressure, but you refused to give him the satisfaction. Your mind kept racing, cataloging every detail you could—every sound, every movement. You weren’t about to give up. Not when you were so close.

The sound of a car engine revving in the distance made you stiffen, but you forced yourself to remain calm. It could be him preparing to leave, or it could be the team. You’d left them all the clues you could; now, you had to trust that they were on their way.

The unsub returned, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he approached. “You think they’re coming for you?” His voice was dark, twisted with amusement. “I’m not stupid. I know they’re out there looking for you. But you know what? They’ll be too late. They always are.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your face expressionless, focusing on your breathing.

He seemed to enjoy your silence more than anything, pacing around you. “Do you want to know why I picked you?” he asked suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. “Because you’re just like me. Alone. Abandoned.”

You blinked, your pulse quickening. “You’re not alone,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “You have your family. You have your victims.”

His eyes flashed with anger at your words. “No,” he snapped. “I don’t have anyone. Not anymore. I’m the one who’s been forgotten. I’m the one who’s been ignored. But this? This is my revenge. I’ll make them remember me. I’ll make them know what it’s like to feel powerless.”

You inhaled sharply, feeling the tension between you grow. But something in his words clicked in your mind—a piece of the puzzle fitting into place. His desperation, his need to show the world his pain—it wasn’t just about power. It was about feeling seen. He wasn’t just hunting women. He was hunting validation.

As if reading your thoughts, the unsub smirked. “You’ll be the one to show them. You’ll be the one to remind them that they can’t forget.”

You didn’t have time to entertain his twisted philosophy. You needed to focus on the one thing that mattered—surviving.

The car engine noise grew louder, a flicker of hope rising in your chest. You were running out of time. You needed to find a way to break free, to survive.

Matt and Luke leapt out of the vehicle, their weapons drawn, ready for action. “We’ve got to move fast,” Luke said, his voice low and urgent. “He’ll be expecting us. Let’s breach the barn from both sides.”

They flanked the barn, eyes scanning every inch for movement.

Spencer’s heart was pounding in his chest as he finally caught up with the others. Emily’s words replayed in his mind: “You were a rookie once, give her a chance.”

The team moved with precision, no longer just a group of agents but a family, united by the mission to save you. Spencer’s chest tightened, a storm of emotions warring within him. He had to make things right. He had to.

Inside the barn, you could hear the footsteps approaching. Your heartbeat quickened.

This was it. The moment you’d been waiting for.

You closed your eyes and whispered, “Spencer.”

And then everything went black.

—

the first thing you noticed was the sterile scent of the hospital room and the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor beside you. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you sore, but there was a deeper ache—a lingering exhaustion that settled in your bones. You groaned, and it was the sound of discomfort that made Spencer stir beside you.

His head jerked up from the uncomfortable chair he was slouched in, eyes wide and clouded with sleep. The exhaustion on his face hit you all at once. He'd been there for a while. His hair was tousled, his clothes wrinkled, and his posture was stiff, as if he hadn’t moved in hours.

“Hey,” you croaked, your voice raw.

Spencer blinked at you, clearly startled by your groaning. His gaze softened as he pushed himself up from the chair, stretching his stiff neck. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice hoarse, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress.

You nodded slowly, trying to push yourself up in bed but wincing at the ache in your muscles. Spencer immediately moved to help you, his hand gently pressing against your shoulder to keep you steady.

“Don’t try to move too fast,” he warned softly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

You sank back into the pillows, feeling the weight of everything that had happened crashing down on you. “How long…?”

He didn’t answer immediately, instead running a hand through his hair and exhaling sharply. “A while,” he said quietly. “I’ve been here all night. I didn’t want to leave.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion and worry etched deep into his features. It was clear he hadn't left for hours—maybe longer. You felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away.

“Spencer,” you whispered, your throat tight. “You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to,” he said firmly, his gaze intense. He took a breath, eyes flickering with hesitation. “You did good back there. How did you stay so calm? The whole time… with everything he was doing, the livestream, the situation… you never cracked.”

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting too close to home, but you knew it was time to be honest.

“It’s not about being calm, Spencer,” you said quietly, voice trembling. “It’s about survival.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, and he leaned in a bit closer. “What do you mean?”

You inhaled shakily, struggling to find the right words. “The reason the unsub livestreamed my abduction… the reason he didn’t send the footage to my family... it’s because I don’t have anyone, Spencer. Not really.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but you held up your hand to stop him.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you continued, voice trembling, “but he knew. He knew there was no one waiting for me, no one to watch the screen and beg for my return.” You looked down at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “My parents were negligent. They were never there. My whole life… it was like I didn’t exist to them. And when they did pay attention, it wasn’t in the way a parent should. I wasn’t loved, Spencer. I wasn’t protected.”

The words felt heavy, a weight that had been buried deep inside you for so long. Spencer was silent, his expression unreadable as he watched you.

“And that’s why I’m good at this,” you said, the words coming out almost automatically. “Why I’m so focused, so good at picking up on things that others miss.” You swallowed, struggling against the lump in your throat. “I had to survive. I had to learn how to read people, to hone my instincts. It was the only way to stay safe in my own home. I lived like that for so long, always waiting for something to happen. Always trying to figure out the next move before it happened.”

Spencer’s face softened as he listened to you, his eyes filled with empathy and a sorrow that you hadn’t expected. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

You took a shaky breath, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. “It’s not about deserving it, Spencer. It’s just what happened. And I had to learn to live with it. But that’s why… that’s why I reacted the way I did. I couldn’t just let him control me. Not like that. I had to stay calm. I had to keep fighting.”

Spencer reached out, his hand gently brushing yours, a gesture of reassurance. “You’re strong,” he whispered. You’ve earned my respect.”

You looked at him, not sure how to respond at first. You were still feeling the sting of his earlier words, the harshness that he’d used to shut you down. “I don’t need your respect, Spencer,” you said quietly, your voice tinged with frustration. “But I do need you to stop taking advantage of my kindness. You’ve been so cold, so dismissive. And all I’ve tried to do is help—especially with this case. Every time I tried to contribute, you brushed me off. It’s like you think I don’t belong here.”

Spencer’s eyes widened, the guilt flooding back. He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand to stop him.

“You can’t keep doing that,” you continued, your voice steadier now, though the anger still burned in your chest. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m just the ‘rookie.’ You’re better than that.”

Spencer nodded slowly, his throat tight. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass. I… I don’t know why I’ve been so hard on you. Maybe it’s because I’ve been shutting everyone out, and it felt easier to push you away too. But that’s not your fault, and you don’t deserve it. I’m sorry for not listening to you when I should’ve.”

You stared at him for a long moment, considering his words. The apology didn’t undo the hurt, but you saw the sincerity in his eyes.

“Just… try to trust me next time,” you said quietly, your voice softening. “I know I’m new, but I’m not stupid. I’m not here by accident, Spencer. I’ve earned my place just like everyone else.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze steady but still guarded. “I’ll try to do better,” he said, his voice quieter this time, less defensive. “I’ll listen more, take you seriously. I won’t shut you out like I did before.”

There was a pause, and you could sense the effort it took for him to even say that much. It wasn’t a perfect apology, but it was a start—one that made you wonder if there could be more to this than just the professional walls he’d built around himself.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You both seemed to understand, without saying it, that this wasn’t the end of the conversation. It was only the beginning. And though Spencer’s walls were still up, there was something different in the air—a shift, a subtle change in how he was letting you in, even if just a little. Maybe, just maybe, you were both ready for whatever came next.

For now, though, you let the quiet settle between you. The weight of the case, the uncertainty of the future—it all still hung in the air. But somehow, you felt like you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. And that was enough—for now.

[animamii]

lockedup!Toji and his girlfriend that's sweeter than a Honey Bun 💞

𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥. | 𝕞𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕓𝕠𝕒𝕣𝕕. | 𝕥𝕠𝕛𝕚 + 𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕕𝕖𝕕.

𝕵𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝕾𝖜𝖎𝖗𝖑 ୨ৎ 𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖘

Kiss Me Thru The Phone ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ smut

The one that started it all; toji calls his sweetheart and things get a lil sticky

Fuck Yo Man! ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

"boy come on!", you sure are a gift from God in that moment.

one of many lockedup!Toji + reader first meet origin stories. inspired by Fuck Yo Man by King Von.

Angels Get Their [Chicken] Wings ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

what is such a pretty girl like you doing in an ugly place like this?

another first meet origin story. lockedup!Toji x sweetheart!reader

Toji's Valentine Surprise ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ smut, fluff

Just because Toji is locked up doesn't mean he forgot about Valentine's day

part deux part trois

𝕬𝖕𝖕𝖑𝖊 𝕮𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖔𝖓 ୨ৎ 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖙 𝖓' 𝖘𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖘

HoneyBunz ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ fluff

Toji needs something for his sweettooth

Love Letterz ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

You sure are sweet for sending Toji letters 💌

First Calls ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

Toji doesn't use his first phone call for anyone but you

Break It In ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ suggestive

Toji calls you after months of going MIA

His Ol' Lady ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

Toji loves his ol' lady, her pretty pictures and lovely letters

Ski Mask Mix Up ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ suggestive fluff?

Toji grabs something that isn't his ski mask

His Harley ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

Mini drabble about Toji's lil Harley Quinn

Headcanons ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪

I

𝕮𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖞 𝕮𝖚𝖗𝖑 ୨ৎ 𝕷𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖘𝖚𝖈𝖍

Un ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪ fluff

pairs with this drabble