#Pen pals to lovers

[ghostlyfleur]

today’s daydream:

signing up for a pen-pal and meeting steve through it. you become best friends, share secrets and dreams and everything about yourselves. a few months in, you exchange pictures. a month later, numbers. he starts asking to facetime. you’re anxious and shy, but for your stevie you’ll try your best. he’s so in love with you, but scared to say it. through your letters and the little gifts you send each other inside the envelopes and the nightly facetime calls, you two confess your love.

just extremely fluffy long distance friends to lovers, you start dating before ever meeting in person. one day, stevie comes to visit you for a week. that’s when you have your first kiss with your stevie. he goes back home and it’s heartbreaking and excruciating, but what you have is worth it.

in the end, you move close to him and live happily ever after.

previously posted on my old acc: june 27, 2023.

[revivify-inn]

Honestly?

The crossed-out words make it for me

[hairmetal666]

Eddie walks through Washington Square Park on his way to work, basking at the chill in the air even though it’s only early September. Soon the leaves will turn yellow and orange and red, littering the sidewalks and grass with color. The air will cool in earnest, and he can bring out his favorite flannels as all the NYU students pull on their beanies and puffy coats and polar fleece.

In his most private thoughts, Eddie believes that New York City is at its most warm and welcoming in the fall; that the scent of coffee and roasted apples and cinnamon lingers in the air, that the yellow lights of warm apartments and the slow creep of fake spiderwebs and carved pumpkins calm the hearts and minds of scared tourists and jaded New Yorkers alike.

Eddie has this thing about fall in the city, right, but if you were to ask him his feelings about leaf peeping, or what-the-fuck-ever, he’d laugh in your face. Not that anyone ever asked him. He wasn’t the sort of man that gave the impression he cared about seasons. Honestly, his closest friends would probably express doubt Eddie even knew what the seasons were. 

He stops at a coffee shop, picking up drinks and pastries, before walking the remaining few blocks to his store.

He unlocks the security awning and the door, and as he pushes it wide, he takes the same deep breath he’s taken since the moment he stepped inside five years ago, inhaling the scent of paper, ink, dust, and patchouli, letting it fill his lungs and level him out.

God, he loves this place. He doesn’t know shit about books or running a business, but this place is his place, even before he owned it. He loves the built-in hardwood shelves, the polished floors, the crown moldings, the soft blue paint of the walls; the too-fancy crystal light fixtures; the solid wood chunk of the front counter, barely big enough for two people to stand behind; the way the smaller store front opens into a wide, inviting space; the swinging half-door into the tiny office that’s cluttered on a good day and a beloved disaster zone normally.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense, in the chronology of his life and interests, that he’d find himself owning a queer, new age bookstore in New York City at the ripe old age of twenty-five, but here he is. Making it work. Mostly.

Full fic live now on ao3!

[jigglypuff1994]

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

I am SO excited to tease my new and upcoming fic as part of the @mlbigbang2024

****

'Dear Ladybug, Love Adrien'

Summary:

Marinette decides it’s time to switch it up when she realizes that Adrien Agreste will never see her as more than a friend. She writes an anonymous letter, hoping someone new will come along and sweep her off her feet. 

While exploring his favorite bookshop, Adrien discovers Ladybug’s hidden letter and finds himself intrigued with the girl behind it. 

Swiftly becoming pen pals, Ladybug and Adrien fill their letters with romantic poems, cheesy puns, and their innermost dreams and fears, both quickly falling for their anonymous pals. 

But as the question of who is on the other side grows, the pair are put to the test. 

Through some faith, silly shenanigans, and a little help from their friends, can their in-person selves find the same spark as their written identities or has their romance been doomed from the start?

****

Teaser:

Somewhere in the 21st arrondissement of Paris, between rows and rows of books, stood a lovesick girl and her patient best friend. 

Last night was certainly… something. Fed up with her nonexistent love life and in a heat of passion, Marinette came up with the brilliant idea of leaving a love letter anonymously, hoping to catch a new beau. 

The girls had been going round and round since. 

Alya, the supportive best friend she was, encouraged Marinette to trust her heart and to go for it! Try something new! What did Marinette have to lose? 

Marinette’s “Sunshine,” one of Alya’s many coveted nicknames for the blonde supermodel, wasn’t any closer to figuring out one of his best friends was absolutely head over heels for him. For four years, everyone at The Nook stood by and watched as Marinette had pined after a certain oblivious boy. 

No matter how many times Marinette waited with bated breath, she would try and fail to woo her crush, leaving her more and more heartbroken. It was so embarrassing! How was it possible to keep tripping at the finish line? Yet, without fail, she found a way. Every. Single. Time. 

It’s almost as if the universe was trying to tell her something. 

Maybe Alya was right, and in Alya’s words, she needed to “taste a new flavor of love.” One that would actually reciprocate her feelings. Someone bold and daring! Someone who would fill out some silly challenge from a letter they found in a book. 

Even though it was Marinette’s idea, she was reluctant. How could she give up the boy who she had been attached to for years? Like a cavity she had grown strangely attached to, with his tooth-rotting goodness, Adrien Agreste had created a hole in her heart. One that she desperately wanted him to fill. 

Marinette fussed with the end of her long, pink sleeve and nibbled on her freshly applied strawberry lipgloss. “I don’t know, Alya.” She stared helplessly, nervous about attempting something like this. “Should I rewrite it? Shouldn't I leave the letter somewhere else? I mean, who’s even going to respond to it? The Merchant of Venice isn’t a love story!” 

Alya sighed heavily, trying her best not to bang her head against a wall. “What are you talking about? It has two different types of love: love within friendship and love in marriage.” 

Marinette paled and threw her arms up. “I’m trying to avoid staying in the friendzone! What if the person gets the wrong idea and thinks I only want friendship?!” Her hands flailed about like a tennis match, back and forth as she spelled out each scenario. “Or what if someone never responds? Or what if someone does respond, but they end up being creepy or someone who I don’t like? Or worse! What if they don’t end up liking me but I end up liking them? I’m basically back in the same position as I am with Adrien!” She placed her head in her hands in frustration and rubbed the heel deeply into her eye sockets, groaning. 

Alya plucked a copy of The Merchant of Venice off the shelf, removed her friend’s hands from her eyeballs and placed the book firmly into them. “Well, if they can't take the hint that you want more from them after all of the hints you dropped in your Ladybug letter then they're just as oblivious as Sunshine is.” She eyed her panicked friend with an amused smirk. 

Marinette stared down at the gently used book and second-guessed herself. She really shouldn’t be doing this. It was stupid! It was completely absurd! She was crazy for doing it! But that’s precisely why she should do it. 

Alya rested her hands atop Marinette's and looked her squarely in the eyes. “Girl, you have to let fate take the wheel on this one. Some random guy could find it, and he could end up being your soulmate. You never know!” 

Marinette tore her eyes from Alya’s fierce gaze and glanced down at the battered copy of Shakespeare’s work. Reluctantly, she opened the cover and took out a folded red letter from her pocket. She grimaced as she placed the letter inside and closed the book. 

Marinette’s head swirled with the absurd thought that someone, anyone, would respond to her Ladybug letter. The letter that should spark someone's interest in her. This book now held the weight of all her hopes and desires in finding the right boy. 

****

Quick s/o to the following:

@aidanchaser for beta'ing and correcting my millions of grammar errors and reassuring me along the way!

@curlyheartart and @i-wiggle-i-squirm-bc-i-am-a-worm for your hard work on the artwork for the fic! Seriously, you both are incredible artists! I can't wait to share the beautiful way you made this fic come to life.

and for everyone else who has supported me along the way :)

[liillyliilly]

All Night Long

iwaizumi hajime x reader words; 1162 synopsis; the whole pen pal thing had been his mom's idea. now? he was glad that he had someone like her to tell everything to.

(So, if you just give me a chance, I can still show you romance)

Iwaizumi doesn’t quite remember when he started sending letters to Y/n. All he remembers is that his mom wanted him to diversify his communication skills, since he had only really ever talked to the boys on his volleyball team.

So, sending letters back and forth with a girl from Tokyo seemed like a rational solution to Mrs. Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi would send one letter one week and then she would send a letter the next one. And that’s how it had been for four years.

At first the letters were strictly professional. Asking about goals, academics, and life plans. Gradually, the shells of both Iwaizumi and Y/N were chipped away at. Divulging details of a bad kiss, or something hilarious a friend did. When she started to cut out classic memes, putting cardstock editions of volleyball player trading cards and writing out various links to Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up", Iwaizumi thought he met his almost heavenly match.

While she didn't play volleyball, she treated it like something special, and respected Iwaizumi's love for the sport. He felt proud when she acknowledged how much of a hard-worker he must have been to be ranked so highly in his prefecture with his team.

She also always knew what to write to him to help motivate him. Quotes from famous people never made an appearance, she just had the old soul wisdom to articulate exactly what needed to be said to him.

Iwaizumi does remember when he started to wait right next to the mailbox just so he could read her letter as soon as possible. And he does remember when it starts to take him longer than five hours to write a response. And he definitely remembers when Oikawa starts to tease him about his hobby.

“You actually write to her every week?” Oikawa holds up the basket that Iwaizumi keeps all of her letters in. Carefully they are sectioned off by year and then by month. He has written the date they arrived in the corner of the envelope so he can keep all of them organized. When Oikawa starts to pull out letters, Iwaizumi rips the basket out of his hands and holds it close to his chest.

“No, Shittykawa. It’s every other week.” Iwaizumi sides the basket under his bed before slumping back down into his beanbag.

Oikawa grins before sitting down on a chair opposite to Iwaizumi. “Have you ever thought about asking her for her number?”

“Why would I?”

“Because then you guys can talk, without having to wait two weeks before the other responds.” Oikawa shrugs pulling out his phone to mess around on it, eyes peeking out over his glasses to look at Iwaizumi. “Unless, of course, you're afraid.”

“I am not afraid.” Iwaizumi grabs his clipboard to start writing his response letter, her most recent letter sitting on his side table so he can reference it.

Except, this time, instead of a nice long handwritten letter, it’s a simple series of numbers. And a small phrase. “Text me?” Iwaizumi considers drawing a smiley face, or even just a small shrugging stick figure drawing. But he thinks that what he wrote is enough. He hopes it’s enough for her to contact him.

The walk to drop off the letter in his mailbox is agonizing. He retreats twice before his mom yells at him and tells him he needs to send it today or else the letter schedule will be all messed up. The thought of Y/N having to wait longer than seven days to get his letter suddenly becomes more of a worry than his potential rejection of swapping numbers.

On day one, the day after the mailperson picked up the letter, Iwaizumi's hands were perpetually sweaty.

On day two, Iwaizumi felt a little better, he could forget all about his pen pal and then it would be perfectly fine. Except he could never forget her.

Days three to six were a blur. His phone felt heavier each day, and he even decided to leave it home from school on day six because he kept looking at it for too long. Checking again and again for any new messages.

(I wanna get real close to you)

Iwaizumi almost faints when an unrecognized number sends the phrase, “I know who you are Hajime.” He grips at his heart before easing up when the next message is sent. “Because it's me! Y/n L/n.”

She sends him a lot of Godzilla memes. She talks about her day. She asks him about volleyball. She rants about the people she goes to school with. She is perfect to him.

His palms are sweaty as he wipes them onto his joggers as he stares at Y/n’s contact. The phone icon mocking him for his nervousness. He takes a deep breath. She had told him that she’s used to having her friends call her an obnoxious number of times, but that she likes talking on the phone because she likes hearing people’s voices. Iwaizumi leans back on his desk chair and runs his hands through his hair.

He had drank his mother's throat soothing honey lemon tea for at least a week leading up to his decision to call her. But the nerves about what his voice sounded like still irked him. He had been told that he had a rough voice by his friends. A dorky voice from Oikawa. A lovely voice by his mom. What would she think though? Her opinion was the only one that really mattered anyway.

He stands up and shakes his legs and hands in an effort to get rid of his anxiety. He jumps around in his room for a bit as he tries to get his energy out. Iwaizumi puts his hands on his face and reminds himself, calling people is normal. Totally and completely normal. But his reminder does nothing to ease how his right hand is shaking while it hovers over the call button.

He presses the button and hold his phone to his ear, biting down on his lip.

“Hello?” Y/n’s voice asks. And Iwaizumi’s heart races as it tries to find a way to ingrain her voice upon itself.

“Y/n! Hi, it's me Hajime!” He cringes when he realizes how alike he sounds to Oikawa. Enthusiasm didn’t fit the way he acted, but the way Y/n interacted with him made him want to be as keen as possible.

“Hajime! What’s up?” A large smile overwhelms his face as he rubs the back of his head.

Neither really knows how long they spent on the phone talking. But by the time it was around two in the morning, Y/n was snoring softly over the phone and Iwaizumi was breathing at an even pace with his phone sitting on his pillow close to his ear.

(All night long)

[wangxianficrecs]

A Promise in Ink by Witch_Nova221

A Promise in Ink

by Witch_Nova221 (@witchnova221)

G, 1k, Wangxian

Summary: Lan Zhan is given a pen pal in school. For ten years, they write to one another, sharing their lives but never seeing each others' faces until, one day, Wei Ying comes home. Kay's comments: Really loved this idea of Wangxian being pen pals and Wei Wuxian traveling across the world as a diplomat's son. Very sweet and soft story, no angst at all. Excerpt: 'Wei Ying?' he said, the sound of his name coming out a little strange and he cursed that all the poise he had hoped to greet his friend with chose that moment to flee him at the sight of a face far more handsome than he had ever dared imagine it. 'It's me,' said Wei Ying, 'And you're you and I'm finally getting to meet you. Lan Zhan, can I hug you? I've wanted to hug you for years.' Lan Zhan didn't get a chance to answer as strong, warm arms came around him, hugging him tightly. Their friendship had been nothing but words, pages and pages of stories and feelings, but, in that moment, no words were needed. Lan Zhan didn't care how many people looked on as he stood embracing his friend, if anyone thought it strange just how long they stood still and silent, breathing in the reality of one another. All he cared about was that Wei Ying was real, solid and warm in his arms, years of ink made into a man who was everything Lan Zhan hoped he would be.

pov lan wangji, modern setting, modern no powers, getting together, first meetings, friends to lovers, pen pals, childhood friends, short & sweet, long-distance friendship, fluff, no angst

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[freakshowcowboy]

im still saying instead of killing off marina for eloise to marry her stupid husband eloise and marina should fall in love

[prettyboyprettyeyes]

Hihi! i’m really looking for friends, as i don’t have any, and thought this would be a fun way to try and see if anyone would like to be friends or maybe even pen pals

[tenebrius-excellium]

You should know that there is a sense of peace, love and community fun waving through Germany during the European Soccer Championship right now that I don't think I have seen before in my lifetime

Germany and Scotland have fallen in love with each other. Germans think the Scots are super cute. Like an elephant finds a human cute cute. Germany has adopted Scotland. They're offering to make them the 17th state of Germany so they can be in the EU again, even giving the island of Mallorca back to Spain in return (which is a huge deal if you know what I'm talking about) lol (!it's a running gag! chillax)

No but in all earnestness, when the German soccer team is good (which it seems like again, after two very bad seasons), we get what we call a "summer fairytale" - our grudgy, grey, square and proper country loosening up a bit and finding common joy in the soccer championship. It's pretty much the only thing we get to be innocently proud of after you-know-what. It's the only place where we get to wave our flag and display a teeny-tiny bit of open emotion and a teeny-tiny bit of national pride. All other days, it's this constant pressure to be humble, to be hard-working, to be rational, to second-guess our every thought because. You-know what. Well, we do carry the generational memory. Which is okay. It's important. But this means that soccer as a positive emotional release is massive for us.

So yeah, just wanted to report on overall good vibes and chill over here in Germany

And before this post gets hijacked for any political agenda, I am also pleased to report that my town has started to plant so, soooo many wildflower meadows. Bees are returning. Butterflies are returning. Ants are returning. Snails are returning. It's nowhere near the amount of bugs that I had been used to as a child, but it's looking hopeful!!! Especially within the very short amount of time of one (1) summer!!!

There is so much good in the world despite all that's going on

Let this be a positive post please and thank you!

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: You’ve Got Mail

Aziraphale and Crowley are hereditary enemies, rival book shop owners engaged in corporate warfare. They are also pen pals that are perfect for one another. They don’t know about that bit though.

Length: 68,184 Words

AO3 Rating: Teen and Up

Best for: Safe in Public, Human AU, Enemies to Lovers

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by SouthDrarryReturned

*Minor Spoilers* This is a You've Got Mail but Good Omens remake. I've never seen You've Got Mail, and I'm not planning to, but if you told me this was a completely original human AU for Aziraphale and Crowley, I would have absolutely believed it! Tons of fun, lots of adventure, and I'm a sucker for pen pals.

So if you also don't know the plot of the movie, here's the summary for this fic. Crowley is the heir to a massive book retailer, and he is opening a new store right down the road from Aziraphale's cozy and struggling bookshop. They meet and sparks are already igniting, but once Aziraphale learns who Crowley is, it's all-out war, with plenty of misunderstandings and accusations flying. At least at the end of the day, Aziraphale has the comfort of a new email from his dear pen pal Anthony. You get the picture.

I love how this very much feels like its own thing, but still follows a very cinematic storyline. I don't know how close of a remake it is, but I'm assuming it veers off from the movie, at least with its Hastur and Ligur scenes, but possibly others as well. It gets a little action movie in the middle of its rom-com, but I found it pretty fun. Full of clumsy and awkward Crowley, which is always a good time. Their emails are definitely a highlight, I like their more formal tone and how instantly they fall for each other through that medium. I will never tire of their chemistry! Completely safe in public, and I think it's a great low-stakes casual read!

Read it here, fic by SouthDrarryReturned

[liyahmackenzie]

A perfectly sound Long-distance relationship: Difficult to have Thousands of miles Can separate two lovers, But never divide. Faraway partners Have some sweet perks of their own. They make good pen pals!

Haiku with the theme “faraway”. I’m in a long-distance relationship of my own, and it’s going swimmingly. I hope everyone else has a good experience.

[bostonpapers]

Stickers anyone!?

I have so many different ones, but my favorite are animal stickers. Fun fact- I actually have 2 dogs and 4 cats! Is anyone else an animal lover? 🐾❤️

[historian-crown]

Dropping this on tumblr as well. If you like slow burn, friends to lovers, love letters and some kind of mystery case in an old catholic abbey that is now housing devil worshipers you are at the right place.

[hairmetal666]

Dropping on ao3 next week!

[angelsdean]

plagued with too many fic ideas i'll never write (bc it takes me like 2.5 yrs to write a long fic RIP)

[saintrosalyn]

JAILBIRD

Ghost becomes pen pals with an inmate before deciding that he wants to adopt his little jailbird.

Word count: 4.1k

Tw: inmate reader, reader is kept as vauge as possible but is implied to be younger than Ghost, violence, stalking, ghost is a perv, p in v, oral (f! Receiving), creampie, spanking (once), orgasm denial if you squint, unprotected sex, NOT edited we die like men.

Edited to Add: Part Two is posted :)

Notes: Baby’s first fanfic, please be gentle. Let me know if I missed any trigger warnings or if you want to see more! I have an idea for a second part but I don’t know if anyone wants it, right now it’s tucked away safely in my drafts. Enjoy! :)

P.S. I’m thinking about making an ao3 account and publishing an edited version of this on there. I’ll link it if I do! I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating finals but christmas break is around the corner so who knows.

The letter came with the top serrated, already opened, as all your letters came. You mostly ignored them. There were a couple of programs that allowed people to become pen pals with prisoners but you’d been there long enough to know what they often contained. 

Many of the women milked poor losers on the outside. Money given and sent. Promises of butterfly kisses and blowjobs whispered over the phone. Exchanges. Some were even able to sweet talk their honeys into giving bribes. Money passed into hands of guards, currency that was then exchanged for cigarettes, which were much more valuable on the inside than the bills used on the outside.

You don’t know why you read this letter. It certainly wasn’t the penmanship, a scrawled handwriting that lay between cursive and print. Maybe it was the blue pen, you’d recognize a Bic anywhere, or maybe it was the fact that it smelled a bit like top-shelf liquor. 

It was rather blunt. But not in an obscene way. Simple and straight to the point as if constrained by an unknown word count. It wasn’t memorable, but what else was there to do? Pace your cell back and forth and wait for zoochosis to settle further in your bones. Close your eyes and remember what freedom tasted like before it dissolved in your mouth.

The pen they gave you was cheap, the paper even cheaper, but you were used to making things work. Your reply was shorter than his, than Simon’s, but it got the job done. If he wanted to write back he would. If he didn’t, well, the new prison guard was starting to get rather handsy with you. The time will pass no matter what.

___

His replies came in strange patterns. Some weeks you’d get eight in a week, other times you wouldn’t hear from him for a few months. It took a year for the first phone call of which lasted less than a minute and consisted mostly of him grunting on the other end and a schlick sound you pretended not to notice. It was his fourth phone call that he finally said a few words in a voice so low it made the phone buzz against your ear, tickling like a lover's breath. Eventually, you had some semblance of conversations, even if they were interrupted by a recorded voice warning you of the time you had left. 

He told you he was a soldier and at first, you planned on cutting the whole penpal idea off. Even before you got arrested you hated bootlickers more than anything. But Simon grew on you, and your friends all suggested you get in his good graces to see if he could pull some strings. You would’ve felt guilty if he was anything other than glorified government property. Both of you were.

The first thing he gave you was a book, The Yellow Wallpaper, which was thicker than you remembered from the time you read it in school. It was only when you cracked open the spine did you find a pack of cigarettes inside, the pages carved out so your real present could be placed inside. You couldn’t help the smile that split your lips as you pressed one between your lips, not noticing the tiny S carved into it.

You thank him for the gift by whispering his name into the phone. A mantra, a prayer, it didn’t matter as long as you kept your voice breathy. He promises to get you more and you learn not to refuse him. At one point, you notice that little robotic voice doesn’t time you anymore. The guard who couldn’t keep his hands to himself was replaced with a woman, hair pulled back into a military-style bun. And you got an extra cookie with your meals.

It took a year for him to visit. You knew it was coming eventually, men are only fine with their imagination for so long before they crave something tangible. Hell, even you were curious about the man who wanted to sink his teeth into you. It almost felt like getting ready for a date. Butterflies dropped like lead in your stomach as you tried to tidy your appearance as much as you could. You smelled, but there wasn’t much you could do about that. The whole damn prison smelled like a county fair bathroom. The lack of air conditioning in the heat of summer just added a sweet BO tinge. 

The first thing you noticed about Simon was his size. You had never met a man as big as he was. The next was the thick scar tissue that marred his face. Though, even without the scars you would be hesitant to ever call him handsome.

Intimidating.

That was what came to mind staring at the thick cords of muscle that covered his arms and the broadness of his shoulders wasn’t just genetics. And he just stared at you. You glanced at the phone that connected to his on the other side of the glass and back at him but decided against it.

You offered him a small smile and an awkward wave. It unnerved you. The focus and attention pinned you in place. Normally you kinned yourself to a tiger you saw at a zoo when you were a child. One that paced back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. A habit you understood all too well. But sitting in front of your pen pal you realized you were rather off. 

Simon was the tiger and you were the bird that caught his attention.

It took far too long for the guard to come and collect you. For once you were grateful to retreat back to your cell, so much so that in your retreat you failed to notice the nod your warden gave Simon.

___

After that Simon met with you in person as often as was allowed. He never said anything and neither did you. Eventually, the novelty of him wore off. Humans were rather adaptable creatures, and you could only be scared of the man for so long before your body adjusted to him. Despite your silence, Simon didn’t appear displeased with you. In fact, it was almost the opposite of it. More gifts arrived.

A pillow, high-end shampoo, a toothbrush (that you had a strange suspicion was used before being given to you), nail polish, and more cigarettes. Some of the women were jealous of the attention given to you, others tried to get with you to share your bounty. Somehow you dodged most of the conflict. But you can only run so long while trapped with so many women.

When you showed up to your meeting sporting a bruised cheek and split lip the air quickly changed. Before you thought Simon looked like a predator. 

You were wrong.

Fear coursed through your veins and you recognized the look in his eyes. Every woman in the damn place knows what a hunger for violence looked like. Slowly he reached out an arm, the sleeve of his hoodie riding up slightly showing off tattoos, before grabbing the phone and pressing it to his ear. With a shaking hand, you did the same.

“Bird.” His voice was somehow deeper in real life than over the phone.

“You should see the other guy.”

His lips twitched.

There was something uncanny about his eyes. They weren’t brown, they were black. Obsidian. You realized that before, the first time you met him, he wasn’t trying to scare you. Though, you were pretty sure it wasn’t directed at you.

“Just a little spat is all Simon. Everything sorted itself out.”

All over a bottle of nail polish. Tempers run short in prison. You spend most of your days in a cell, and what little free time you get surrounded by the same insufferable bitches, it’s a mystery there isn’t more violence. For the most part, things were settled with words. The more physical an inmate gets the more time spent in your cell. There were some weeks where you spent twenty-three hours a day in that little room. 

Simon let out a sigh as if dealing with you was the most insufferable part of his day.

“Did ye’ get medical attention a’ least?”

You nodded your head.

He gave a grunt.

That seemed to be his preferred method of communication with you. Caveman grunts and growls, the occasional moan over the phone he couldn’t hold back. You figured it had something to do with his job. He was quite tight-lipped about it, but you gathered he has co-workers (his squad? Platoon? What was the proper lingo?). Despite this, you were under the impression he spent the majority of his time alone. He always seemed more primal after those month-long stints of silence.

You always wondered how you would feel if he never contacted you again. Went out and didn’t come back. Would you assume he was dead? That he moved on to prettier things that aren’t locked away? Would it make a difference to you? 

No. It wouldn’t.

Even now you got letters upon letters from other men. Though none were as giving as Simon was.

It was back to silence and staring contests that you were used to. The both of you slipping into a familiarity. He never put the phone back. Even when your warden came and escorted you back. You didn’t glance back at him. 

Tucked away in your cell you didn’t get to watch Simon slowly rise out of his seat, chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. You didn’t see Simon lurk in the back as the inmates met with their loved ones on the out. Didn’t see him take notice of a particular girls with nails painted the same shade as his gift to you. The same shade as the tip of his cock.

___

The girl was transferred. For a singular moment, you thought Simon had something to do with it. Then laughed at the idea. Simon may be in the military, but you highly doubted he had anything to do with the bitch who got transferred. At least you got your nail polish back. It was a strange shade, and the idea of a man as big as Simon standing in an isle trying to pick out a shade made you chuckle, it was the thought that counted.

Time marched on. Penpals came and went but Simon stayed the consistent part in your life. 

Eventually, the possibility of parole was on the horizon. 

Freedom. 

So close you could practically taste it.

Unfortunately, that meant a laundry list of to-do items. Court hearings, lawyers bankrolled by Simon, arranging for transportation and housing. Simon handled most of it. By now, the lingering guilt of using your soldier fiance had long left you. He seemed like the kind of man who needed to learn lessons the hard way, and entering a relationship with a felon was a lesson most didn’t need to learn. Still, he had been putting in quite a hard amount of work. He deserved a treat.

And after years of forced celibacy, you needed it bad.

The two of you would enjoy each other for a week or two. Simon would realize he made a mistake moving you in. He would kick you out. You’d pawn the ring he’d give you and use the money as a cushion as you landed, getting back on your feet. The two of you would go your separate ways and never see each other again.

Being in prison taught you a lot of things. Despite everything, patience wasn’t one of those lessons. The day you were gaining your freedom passed was the slowest part of your life. The checking, double checking, retrieving your stuff, checking again, until finally,

Finally,

You were outside. You were outside in something other than a uniform that stunk of sweat, there were no handcuffs. Anxiety crept everywhere. You wanted to get as far away from the prison as you could, if you breathed wrong a warden would drag you back. A pair of arms snatched you.

You looked up and couldn’t help but laugh, pressing your lips against his scarred ones.

“Fucking Christ your tall.”

He chuckled against your lips before taking them again, hands digging near painfully into your ass. The two of you somehow managed to walk back to his car peeling off one another before Simon peeled away, hand clutching the fat of your thighs as he drove.

“Never pictured you as a reckless driver.” You giggled.

The adrenaline and giddiness of being free hadn’t worn off yet. If anything it seemed to slowly be morphing into a different beast entirely. You pressed your lips against his bicep causing him to groan. You glanced up at him, watching as his jaw clenched weaving in and out of traffic in a way that was certainly not legal. You would’ve been worried about being pulled over if he wasn’t driving a military vehicle. They answered to a different police, or so he told you.

Eventually, he pulled into the yard of a house with an honest-to-God white picket fence. You smiled as you got out, curiosity creeping in about what his house was like. Simon opened the door for you, which would probably should’ve made you swoon at his gentleman-like behavior, but truthfully it was how he hauled you out of the card and dragged you inside that got your heart racing. 

Impatient.

The door barely closed before his body was pressed against yours and his lips were pressed against your jugular. One of his rough hands slipped up your shirt, grunting when he found a clear path to your tits instead of meeting the edge of a bra. The other dipped into the waistband of your pants, running over your clothed cunt, no doubt feeling the wet spot against your underwear. Your hands slid over his arms, squeezing at the muscle, before slowly sliding them up and up, going to the back of his neck, a hand threading through his short hair the other cupping his face to kiss yours. 

A large thumb found your clit, only the thin cotton stopped him from rubbing directly against it. He pressed down hard on it, causing your breath to catch in your throat, his thumb moving down your slit. The seam of your mouth parted in a moan and he used that to stick his tongue down your throat. 

The kiss was obscenely wet, beastly as his spit passed from his mouth into yours. Before prison, you would’ve pulled away with a grimace. Too much tongue, too much teeth, too much. But your whole body was on fire, years of pent-up orgasms made you desperate for it all. For someone to press against you, to be inside you.

Simon was oh-so-convenient. 

You tried to pull away, lungs burning enough to convince you that air was in fact a need, but the door stopped you. Pressed between it and Simon you had no escape. You whimpered against his mouth, again and again until he finally got the hint and pulled away, a string of spit connecting your mouths as if it too was reluctant to pull away from you.

“Bedroom?” You panted, though if he took you here against the door you would die happy.

Simon threw you over his shoulder and took his stairs two at a time before tossing you on his bed making you laugh. The caveman and his prize. Simon took the moment of being away from you to pull at the collar of his shirt. You watched in appreciation as it lifted higher and higher until it was discarded on his carpet. 

His body was marred in scar tissue, muscle, and a layer of fat that made for a solid fine specimen of the male species. His pants were discarded next, and either he pulled his underwear down with them or he just wasn’t wearing any to begin with. You didn’t have much time to ponder that thought distracted by his hard cock.

Jesus Christ.

Big was an understatement, monster was the word that popped into your mind. It crossed the territory between delicious into scary. Large and thicker than you thought possible. You swallowed and for a second hoped he would forget about the blowjob you promised him after he gave you a pillow. 

“Yer’ wearin’ too many clothes Birdie.” 

Quickly, though not as quickly as Simon was, you wiggled out of your pants, shrugged off your shirt throwing it in the same pile as his clothes. He stepped closer to you, one large hand grabbing your ankle before retching you towards him.

He leaned down, mouthing at your bare tits, slobbering over them. The soft press of his tongue flicked over your nipple before he moved to the other and grazed his teeth over it. His hands were everywhere. He was everywhere. Impossibly big and pressed against you everywhere. Until all your senses were filled with him. As if Simon was the only thing that mattered in the world.

The artificial sun in your glass cage.

His mouth moved lower, nipping at your skin before he moved between your legs. He settled his body in between them, the calloused palm of his hands pressing your legs further and further apart until the stretch burned in the muscles where your legs met your pelvis. Quickly the pain faded into the background as he pressed a kiss against your bare clit, before taking it in his mouth and sucking. You felt the rough pad of his fingertips press against your hole rubbing against it but never quite dipping inside. Again and again, he moved it against you but never in you. 

It was maddening.

You tilted your pelvis against his mouth, trying to coax his fingers into your welcoming body. He growled against your clit, removing his mouth causing you to whine. A sharp sting met your ass cheek and you yelped.

He spanked you.

“Behave.”

You never took the man to be hungry for anything other than missionary, but it seemed he had learned a few tricks over the years. He did have a few on you, you were sure of it. Your thoughts leaked out of your ears as he moved back up, slotting his hips in between your legs. Liquid lust ran through your veins at the sight of him rubbing his dick against your mound, a mess of your slick and his pre dragging along your pussy and up to your belly button. Your poor hole clenching around nothing at the image of how deep he was about to be in you.

You took a deep breath, mesmerized as he pressed the tip against your entrance, catching it before pressing himself inside. He went slowly, and you couldn’t help the moan that left you as he finally began to sink home. Throwing your head back you closed your eyes as he stretched your body out.

You weren’t a virgin before you were locked away, but years of celibacy made you feel born again. Hell, with the size Simon was even if you had fucked him before he would’ve made you feel virginal with the way he was splitting you open.

When you opened them again you caught his gaze, he stared at you watching your expression pinch as he gave small thrusts, working the last of him inside you. When his balls pressed against your ass you let out a shaky breath. You had passed your limit two inches ago but somehow Simon had managed to coax your sweet pussy to take the last of him inside. The pain of him had taken you away from the edge of an orgasm he was working you towards, but when his hand found your clit again you knew you weren’t going to last long.

If his shaky breaths were anything to go by Simon wasn’t going to last long either. 

He kissed you again, this time it was softer. Sweeter. Made your stomach turn in a moment of guilt. It was replaced when he drew out of you, slowly letting you feel inch after inch leave your body, before slamming back in.

He moved again against you. And again. Building up a punishing rhythm. You couldn’t help the small ah ah ah’s that left your lips as he rutted in you. Your hips pushed against his, working with him as you both chased your highs. 

His hand never left your clit, as if glued to it working in tight fast circles. His other hand traveled along your body as if he couldn’t get enough of you. Squeezing at your tits so hard you thought it might bruise, running up your bare skin, constantly moving and feeling. As if he couldn’t believe that you were real. That you were out of your cage and underneath him panting his name in his ear instead of against the end of a phone. 

Your own hands wandered. Moving over his arms, God’s gift to you, his chest. But mostly they moved down his back, feeling his muscles move and contract under your hands. Before you left you would convince him to put a mirror over his bed, so you could watch his shoulders shift and move as he thrust inside you.

It was too much. The feel of Simon, the stimulation on your clit, the thick cock pistoning like a machine inside you, pressure built and built inside you. Your nails dug into his back, dragging down as he pushed you off that ledge.

Simon’s thrusts stuttered as he felt your walls fluttering around him, suckling at his cock, coaxing him. He came with a groan soon after you, painting your walls with thick globs of his cum.

You panted as he rested against you, letting his cock soften inside you as you ran your nails over the nape of his neck and caressed his short hair. It was oddly soft, comforting to run your hands over.

Simon began to untangle himself from you, slowly as if reluctant to part from your embrace. He moved to what you now realize was the on-suite connected to his bedroom. You could feel his cum start to drip out of your cunt and down your asshole, shifting at the uncomfortable feeling. You couldn’t find the energy yet to move, not even sure if your legs could support you right now. Simon came back to you, wash-cloth in hand, and began wiping up the mess he made.

“We’ll have to get a Plan B tomorrow.” You murmured as he crawled back into bed next to you.

Simon didn’t say anything, but he had always been a quiet man. He maneuvered the both of you until you rested under the covers, your hand running along his bare chest. Tracing his happy trail before moving back up, not ready to go again.

The adrenaline from before had worn off, leaving you suddenly exhausted. Sated and free you dozed off against him.

When you woke up again it was darker outside. Not yet the full black of night but rather the soft blue that came after the sun had only just dipped out of sight. Simon wasn’t in bed next to you. You rolled over with a sigh, sitting up and smoothing your hair. Thirsty you threw the covers off your body and padded across out of his room entering into a small hallway. There was a door directly across his room and with a shrug, you went into it. 

It wasn’t snooping if you lived here now too. Even if you were only going to stay for a little bit.

The handle turned easily but the room was darker than you expected, no windows to let in any natural light. Your hands patted at the wall until you found the edge of a light switch, with a click the room was bathed in a soft glow.

Your breath hitched.

The room was bare except for a small desk and chair, the walls were covered in photos. Photos of you. Old photos, from before your prison stint. Mugshots. But what made your skin crawl were photos of you in your cell. You sprawled out on your uncomfortable cot. You sitting cross-legged across from your cellmate. Images of you in the cafeteria. Images of you in the yard. 

You took a step back, then another, and another.

You flicked the light back off and slowly closed the door. You took a shuddering breath and yelped when you felt a chest pressed against yours. 

Simon’s hands dug into your hips, pulling you tight against him.

“You look like you’ve seen a Ghost, Birdie.”

Poor little bird, trading one cage for another.

___

Part Two