#prisoners imagine

[charliehoennam]

beyond the badge pt. 1

a/n: request made by @harmonity-vibes. had been thinking about this specific plot for a long time and this lovely angel gave me the inspiration i needed. this will divided into three parts because it's simply too big lmao that's what she said. s/o to @strangergraphics-archive for the cute divider <3

pairing: david loki x f!reader

summary: his fianceé is abducted and a distraught david realizes some rules must be broken in order to save the one he loves.

warnings: 18+, dark themes such as language, violence, eventual smut, suicide, death, physical injuries, threats, abuse of power and blood.

SHARING IS CARING, SO REBLOG IF YOU LIKE IT

two | three | four | five

What was once a home filled with love, laughter and passionate moans is now hollow and empty.

The haunting silence of the house only fuels his self-hatred. He can’t stop blaming himself because he knows, deep inside, that he could’ve avoided all this mess if he had only listened to you.

When a dead body showed up in the river by the old mill, David was quickly assigned the case. It might have taken him a couple of months, but he successfully found the man responsible for a such a horrendous crime.

The man was Frankie Donovan, a bus driver and self-made drug dealer. You would’ve never guessed by simply looking at the man, due to his scruffy appearance and uneducated demeanor, but he had successfully made around 500 thousand dollars from producing and selling meth.

It might not have been much to some people, but to a man who grew on the country skirts of Conyers, bouncing around from trailer park to trailer park and addict parents, that money was more precious to him than his own life.

No one would’ve believed that Donovan was capable of making so much money. Most people underestimated him either because of his job, his poor background or, what appeared to seem like, his friendly nature. He might have fooled many, but not David.

In the empty house that belongs to both of you, David stands in front of the foggy bathroom mirror with a towel wrapped his hip.

He stares at his stoic reflection and takes in the physical effects your absence has had on him. Dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Hollowed cheeks from the loss of appetite. The prickly 5 o’clock shadow growing out that he refuses to waste time shaving.

The lingering heat from his hot shower constricts the air around him. He leans down to splash some cold water on his face, hoping that it will provide just a little bit of relief. Although the water soothes him on the surface, it fails to subdue him within.

He runs a trembling hand over his face to try and keep his composure, but he’s losing it. His breath shortens as the room spins around him. What feels like rocks settle in his throat. His chest tightens with rage until he finally explodes and punches the mirror before him repeatedly.

“It’s your fucking fault!” he repeatedly shouts at himself.

Dangerous shards shatter into the sink and onto the counter. David doesn’t feel it just yet, but blood drips from his knuckles over the shards. He takes a look at his hand. His fit of fury let out a bit of the steam that he had pent up inside him, but it’s not enough to make him better.

Nothing will make him feel better until you’re home, safe and sound. He promised he would always keep you safe and he feels like he failed you. There's nothing that can silence that thought in his mind.

Once he’s poorly rinsed and wrapped his knuckles with gauze to stop the bleeding, he drags himself into the bedroom that lingers with the scent of you and haphazardly chooses a few items of clothing. He doesn’t bother with the usual button-up shirt. A simple black thermal, a pair of pants and usual boxers. He tries to get dressed as fast as he can.

David hates being in the house for too long, but he tries to avoid the bedroom as much as he can. Not only does everything there remind him of you, but it’s all still the same as you left it before you went to work that day and he wants to keep it that way.

The uncertainty of the future fucking terrifies him. He doesn’t know if you’re alive, he doesn’t know if you’re hurt. His colleagues are doing their best to find you, but the fear he secretly has of you not coming home is ever present. So, he keeps the bedroom the way you left it to create a false sensation that you’re somehow still there almost like a ghost.  Like you're still coming home, even though he's not sure you will.

It’s been almost two days since you’ve been missing. The captain made it very clear to David that he could not, under any circumstances, take the case due to his close relationship to the victim. Being off your case drives him insane, but it’s not enough to make him stop looking for you.

He might not be able to professionally investigate, but it doesn't stop him from questioning the local thugs in the neighborhood about the recent kidnapping. After coming to a dead-end last night, he spent the rest of the night driving aimlessly, hoping he might find you somewhere.

He came home for a quick shower before resuming his illegal search for you. He’s tired beyond belief, but his mind can’t concentrate on anything else besides his missing fianceé.

Sat on the edge of the bed you used to share, he looks over at the engagement ring still sealed in a plastic baggie on your nightstand and reaches over to hold it in his hands. Letting his head hang low, he lifts his bloodied hand and holds his forehead in it. His head pounds as memories flood his thoughts.

When a call about an abduction came in from a co-worker of yours, David could feel his heart sink down to his stomach. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the thought that you could’ve been the one kidnapped scared him to death.

He is in another town, a more populated, small and neighboring town who’s courthouse Conyers was appointed to. David hadn’t been aware of the newly opened case until he made it back to his car and saw 3 missed calls from his captain.

When he arrives at your workplace’s parking lot, he climbs out of his car so quickly that he doesn’t even remember to close the door to take the keys out of the ignition. It all feels like a dream, like nothing is real, everything around his is far from touch and he’s floating through the air

“Tell me it’s not her,” he begs already fearing the worst as he marches towards the blockade of police officers preserving the scene.

“Loki, I’m sorry, but you can’t be here right now. I can’t let you through.”

O’Malley has to hold him up as David’s knees give in and sits him on the curb. Kneeling in front of him, he instructs David to breathe as the air thickens in his throat.

“I-I gotta find her, captain. I gotta-“

“What you gotta do is let us do our job, Loki. You can’t work on this case and you know why. Tell me what you know.”

The truth, at the time where he can barely remember his own name, is that he doesn’t know who could have taken you. He’d put away so many bad guys already and, just like the Keller-Birch case, kidnapping were becoming more and more often in the small town of Conyers.

David is in no condition to answer most of the questions that his boss needed to ask. At least, not right there.

“David, let’s go back to the station. We can talk better there.”

“No. I’m not fucking leave. I need to be here. I need to find her!” he insists, wide eyes locked on the scene as the forensic investigators search the area.

His watchful eye notices one of the investigators lift something up from the ground after taking pictures of the object. As the woman places the small item into a plastic bad to preserve for DNA or prints, he quickly stands on his feet. Despite the dizziness that strikes him suddenly, he pushes his way through the uniformed cops, but there are too many of them to hold him back from the scene.

“Get the fuck of- Let me go! That’s her ring! That’s my fianceé’s fucking ring!” he shouts at the investigator while being restrained.

She looks at O’Malley who nods and allows her to show David the evidence. Walking towards David, he finally calms down enough and complies in order to make sure it is yours. And, just as he fears, it is indeed yours.

His hands tremble as he looks at the plastic evidence baggie containing your engagement ring. He closes his eyes as dread floods his chest.

The ring is technically evidence and is actually supposed with the forensics team to process, but David stole it from the scene to bring it home with him.

Tears drip against the plastic. He just wants you to come home.

The buzzing cellphone he'd left on your nightstand snaps him back to the present. Quickly wiping his tired blue eyes, he looks over at the phone placed beside his gun and badge. The thought of taking his weapon to his head to end the agonizing pain and guilty flashes in his mind.

Before he finds the courage to reach for the firearm, his gaze drifts and lands on a book you had been reading when you were home and he recalls one specific conversation you had had one night.

“You got a strange call today on the landline.”

You’re sat on the bed with your back against the headboard and a book in hand.

“Yeah? What’d they say?” he asks lying tiredly on the bed beside you.

Lifting your arm to make way for him, he nestles himself into your side with his strong arms locked around your hips while his face nuzzles into your waist with closed tired eyes.

“I dunno. I mean, I do, but it was just strange,” you lower your book, combing the fingers of your free hand into his luscious brown hair. “The guy just said told you to call him back or you’d regret it.”

“Probably just a prank call, sweetheart. Nothing to worry about.”

“But they asked for you. They said your full name and they know you’re a detective. Isn’t that a bit too personal?”

“I’m a cop, babe. That information is public. Anyone can find that out if you know where to look.”

You nod and stay silent as you try to continue reading, but it’s unsettling.

“I’m just saying,” you start as David groans tiredly. “Why would someone call and threaten you? Not to mention you just recently closed the Donovan case.”

Rolling over onto his back, he looks up at you from his side of the bed.

“Babe, Donovan is a small-town meth head. He doesn’t have the balls to come after a cop.”

“It’s just a strong coincidence, David.”

A lightbulb goes in his mind. Finally, a lead he could work on. How the hell didn’t he think about this before?

He shoots up onto his feet to get dressed and, just after he slides his boxer briefs on, his phone buzzes again with another incoming text.

Due to his close relationship with you, O’Malley didn’t allow him to take the lead on the case. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have thought twice, but he knows the close relationship could impair David’s judgment. David’s already known for his temper and the last thing he needs is him risking the case because he didn’t follow procedure.

Instead, Chemelinski’s been assigned as the lead detective on the case. And, influenced by their close friendship, he’s ignored the direct and important order O’Malley had given him of keeping any new information from David.

The way he sees it, David’s a smart detective. If it hadn’t been for the close relationship, the case would’ve been his because he’s the only one that has solved and closed difficult disappearance cases like this.

“Evidence found at Penn Aire Motel, 46th and western. No vics”

“Didn’t hear this from me”

He wastes no time replying to his co-worker’s texts. His heart pounds with hope and adrenaline as his mind races with a thousand thoughts, wondering what kind of evidence they found. Even without a body or blood, assumptions can still be made based on the scene which is why he needs to be there.

Speeding in his car, his stomach churns contemplating what he might find once he’s there. He knows the procedure in case of dead victims. If you were dead, he would’ve already heard about it, so he’s hopeful it’s not the case.

As his car pulls up, O’Malley sighs already feeling the heavy headache setting in of having to deal with a distraught David.

“Who the hell told him?”

Chemelinski shrugs avoiding his accusing eyes, but mutters it wasn’t him as David quickly marches over to the captain, ducking under the yellow ‘do not cross’ tape with curious eyes scanning the scene to understand what’s going on.

“Loki, I told you-“

“I know, I’m off it. I know, I just wanna know what you found.”

David keeps a strong facade with hands up in surrender as O’Malley approaches him.

“You know I can’t share that information with you. You’re involved with the victim and it ca-“

“Yeah, I fucking know it can cloud my judgement! I know!” he shouts back.

O’Malley watches him take a deep breath to compose himself. He understands how stressful this is, especially for a detective.

“Captain, I-I’m losing my fucking mind. Please, j-just tell me something. I-I need something.”

He can’t ignore David’s pleading blue eyes or the crack in his voice. David’s a strong man who’s endured some of the most awful things life could throw at anyone. It takes a lot to scare him to this point.

He informs David that they’d tracked down the car from the location of your kidnapping. After identifying the vehicle with the help of local security surveillance footage, a dispatcher had ID’d it after receiving a call about an abandoned car in a rundown motel parking lot, just off the freeway.

No one saw you at the motel; the clerk working the desk that night said a man checked in alone, but a maid who had been getting off her shift mentioned she saw the man – who was staying in the room in question – putting something in the trunk of a different car before driving away in it alone.

The forensic investigation is still processing the scene, but the unit was able to find a small earring in the truck of the car, which was now in a small plastic bag labeled evidence in O’Malley’s hands.

O’Malley would’ve asked him if the earring was familiar, but the way David froze and stared down at the small accessory with swelling tears in his eyes is enough to confirm his belief.

He’d given you the beautiful jewel on your first anniversary. He remembers how happy you got when you opened the gift and saw the sparking, delicate pair in the small velvet box. His heart broke a little when you mentioned no one had ever given you jewelry before. You loved them so much that you wore them proudly every day to work.

He never thought he’d be the one having to identify a personal item of a victim.

“Y-yeah,” he sniffles blinking away his tears. “That’s hers.”

“We’re gonna find her, Loki. Loki!”

David can’t stand it anymore. The ring found at the site of the kidnapping and the newly discovered earring leads him to believe they weren’t left there on accident. He knows these are items you treasure more than anything and you would never take them off unless you were at home to avoid the risk of losing your precious accessories due to their sentimental value.

They’re breadcrumbs. They’re clues you’re leaving behind, calling out for him to save you. He needs to take matters into his hands.

[rebelliousstories]

Candy Hearts

ValenFics

Relationship: David Loki x Reader

Fandom: Prisoners

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 657

Main Masterlist: Here

Jake Gyllenhaal & Co. Masterlist: Here

Summary: Having a lover at home that packs lunches for him is always sweet. And there are sometimes extra sweets involved.

Consider Donating: Here

Currently, David found himself in a predicament. On one hand, he loved being next to his girlfriend in the morning, just bathing in warmth, and enjoying life. On the other, he needed to go to work to pay their bills. When the cold winter threatened to seep into their house, there was nothing he wanted more than to stay in. Pennsylvanian winters were not for the weak.

In the dead middle of February, there was another issue. Everyone was going on and on about Valentine’s Day that was right around the corner. And while Loki wanted to join in, he was just so unused to doing so. The amount that he worked, and the nature of it has never lended itself to being totally in the moment when he was home, no matter how he tried.

And while David always tried to make her feel appreciated when he was home, regardless of a holiday, it never hurt to do something extra in the case of. But he was not sure what to do. She always took such good care of him. What was he going to be able to do?

Rolling over in their bed, he pressed a kiss to her head, watching how she slept for just another minute or two. Reluctantly, David began his process of getting ready. A scalding shower that only lasted just long enough for him to scrub down his body. Clothes that were thrown on haphazardly as he prepared to brace that familiar chill. Hearty breakfast of no less than two cups of black coffee, with three sugars but he would never let anyone know.

As he ran out the door to make it down to the station, Loki made sure that he snagged his lunch box that his girlfriend that lovingly prepared the night before. It was a small token, but one that he cherished very much. Ducking back into the bedroom, David snuck a final kiss to her sleeping figure, and then he was finally out the door.

Going into the station, he went about his usual routine of doing his work, arguing with his captain, and getting headaches that he would end up medicating with endless cups of coffee. In spite of all of this, David continued to try and find a way to spoil his girlfriend for Valentine’s Day that was within budget. She had not mentioned anything in particular that she wanted as of late. And that just would not work.

Maybe he would get her those ruby droplet earrings that he knew she had saved on her Etsy page. Yeah, that would be a nice treat. Those and a nice dinner the next town over. But for now, he was stuck at work planning about what to do.

Sometimes, he wondered how he got so lucky. He was a man of few words, did not show emotions most of the time, and worked one of the most demanding jobs he could. Which is why Loki wanted to spoil her for the holiday.

When he went to grab yet another cup of coffee, the time on the clock startled him. It was somehow already two in the afternoon, which meant that the window for a lunch break was slowly closing. Bringing his mug back over to the desk he called his own, he grabbed his lunch bag from underneath to dig in.

However, something tumbled out as soon as he opened it. A box of conversation candy hearts. Chuckling, David picked them up, and shook them softly. The rattle inside made him smile. He was not sure why such a small thing was bringing him so much joy; maybe it was because his girlfriend had packed it. But it made him feel better to break them open and enjoy his sweet snack.

Sighing deeply, he knew he needed to pick up another box on his way home to give to his girlfriend as a thank you.

[cassiopeia-grimm]

[dreamyblanket]

Yearning from the nothing dimension [rambling in tags ^^]

[synthaphone]

i suspect they cut the 3rd stage of the manectric line for being incredibly stupid looking, but i think they should have kept it, exactly like that with no revisions. dog that got stuck in its one of its owners shirts and is trying to act like it wants to be there and can leave at any time

[ozzgin]

hear me out...

yandere prison..

runs normally, but the warden hired very specific people

and you just got falsely accused of a heinous crime

Yandere!Prison x Reader

A few years back I actually wanted to make a dating sim with a similar premise! So I might just redraw my old cover and recycle the characters, haha. content: gender neutral reader, violence

You've been accused of a crime you didn't commit. Even worse, you were speedily shipped to a maximum-security prison, despite your horror and your desperate protests. Your lawyers are scrambling to get you out as soon as possible, but it's not a guarantee.

You thought you'd be killed within the first moments after arriving. The three men you're sharing a cell with, however, turned out to be reasonable enough. Unexpectedly so.

The blonde one greeted you with a wide, merry smile. He's the friendliest of the bunch, despite his heavily scarred features. One of them seems to wear a mask at all times, and he doesn't speak much. The last one is polite, though he keeps his distance. His answers are curt and to the point.

You quickly noticed that all other inmates avoid you religiously. The tables empty when you put down your lunch tray, and during breaktime the yard fluctuates with people migrating to whatever corner is farthest away from you.

Today, you finally found out why: one of the prisoners happened to bump into you, and he promptly fell to his knees, begging you to not mention it to your cellmates. You are apparently sleeping next to the leaders of the biggest gang around. Even the guards are terrified to approach them the wrong way; the last one to do so was placed on permanent medical leave.

And yet, they are nice to you. In fact, you'd go as far as to say they're strangely protective of you, always looking out for your safety and hovering in your vicinity like trained dogs.

On your way back, you find the inmate who pleaded for your silence; his head nearly cracked open, held against the bathroom sink by your beloved blonde bunkie.

"Oops! You weren't supposed to see this," he laughs awkwardly. "Why don't you return to our room? I'll join you in a moment."

He flashes you his usual smile, innocent and somewhat silly. This time it appears particularly eerie, given it's stained by fresh splatters of blood.

[More yandere stories]

[jaysbaefie]

sanctuary | psh

synopsis: in which a prison escapee breaks in for shelter, but finds something he wants to keep and ruin.

genre: prison escapee au

pairing: escapee!sunghoon x afab!reader

warnings: yandre!sunghoon, possesive!sunghoon, reader is held hostage, non-con, lots of threatening, forced submission, oral (m.rec), slapping, choking, hair pulling, manhandling, fingering, gagging, spanking ass + pussy, light male masterbation, some blood. i think that’s it …

wc: 10.4k

a/n: a bit of a darker fic.. so please do take warnings seriously. my first time trying to write a yandre character so if it’s a bit meh i’m sorry!! ‘bullshit’ won the poll so stay tuned for that fic it’ll b out by the end of the month (hopefully) as well as the first chapter of ‘double trouble’. notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy!!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the sound of what you assume is your window shattering wakes you up from your sleep. still half asleep, you sit up on your bed—your heart racing as you look around your room with sleepy eyes.

"what the-" your murmur, eyes shooting to your window which was still in tact. a part of you wanted to get up and search the rest of your home, but the tired side of you convinces you to stay in bed. it was probably just the neighbour's cat again.

you had finally finished your finals, the lack of sleep and energy outweighing the thought of searching your home.

grumbling, you allow yourself to shut your eyes and fall back into your bed. the warmth of your blanket and sheets surrounding you as you sign in bliss—the thought of possibly being a victim to a break and enter slipping your mind.

you hear rustling outside your room, however choose to over look it.

not a good idea..

you shift under the blanket, tugging it higher over your shoulders with a sleepy sigh. the rustling sound outside your room grows louder for a moment, then stills. your mind barely registers it—dismissing it as the wind, or maybe the pipes, or maybe just your imagination playing tricks on you in the haze of half-sleep.

the room is quiet again.

too quiet.

but your body, still tense beneath the comfort of the sheets, eventually relaxes. the softness of your bed lulls you back into that cozy liminal space between dreams and awareness.

until a sound has your eyes snapping wide open.

click.

a door hinge.

your bedroom door.

you freeze in position, a chill creeping across your spine as your eyes widened in horror—looking up at your ceiling in fear.

that wasn't your imagination.

you sit up again, slower this time, heart pounding loud in your ears. the door is cracked open now. you know you closed it when you came to bed. you always do.

your voice catches in your throat.

"hello?" you call out weakly, trying to sound firm. "is someone there?"

no answer.

just more rustling. closer this time.

your hand reaches for your phone on the nightstand—but it's not there. your fingers scramble across the empty surface, your panic now matching the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat.

it's gone.

the silence presses in, thick and suffocating.

and then—you feel it. the weight.

a presence. in the room.

you whip your head toward the corner, breath catching in your lungs. a figure is standing there, shadowed and still. you can barely make out the sharp outline of him—tall, lean, covered in darkness like it's part of his skin.

the stranger steps forward, and the dim light from your bedside lamp finally catches his face.

a familiar face comes into view, thick prominent eyebrows, a sharp face, plump lips and midnight black locks. as if his usual appearance wasn't enough to send you off into panic he was covered in blood and dirt. his hair disheveled and wild, accompanied with glassy eyes.

it takes only a second for recognition to hit you like a punch to the gut.

park sunghoon.

your legs move before your mind does, kicking your blanket away as you lunge out of bed—only to be shoved back down hard.

his hand clamps around your wrist, and in a terrifying blur of strength and precision, he's on top of you—pinning you to the mattress with one knee between your legs, the other hand already pulling something from his back pocket.

"stop fighting," he grits out, voice low and breathless, like he's already on the edge. "i'm not here to hurt you. just need you to shut up and stay still."

you struggle harder, panic flaring hot and raw—but he's stronger. faster.

the zip-ties are around your wrists before you can scream. the sound of them tightening feels louder than your own heartbeat.

he pulls the covers off you completely, checking your legs, then curses under his breath. "should've grabbed more ties..."

you scream.

or try to.

but he's already pushing something between your lips—a shirt, wadded up and shoved into your mouth. it tastes like cotton and salt and tears. his hand presses it deeper, muffling the sound of your screams completely.

he stares down at you for a moment, chest heaving. then, slowly, he lifts his hand away from your mouth.

your eyes are wide. blown with terror.

he doesn't look angry. just tired.

"i wasn't supposed to pick a house that had anyone in it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "just needed a place. just needed time."

you try to kick him. scream. thrash beneath him.

his hands pin your legs down with an easy shift of his weight, and his voice turns sharp again.

"don't," he warns. "i really don't want to hurt you. but i will."

the words hang in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, dangerous.

you stop moving.

and for a moment, the room is silent again.

sunghoon runs a hand down his face, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he tries to calm the adrenaline surging through him. when he opens them again, his gaze is locked on yours.

"i'll let you go... eventually," he says. "but if you do anything stupid—I won't feel bad about tying you to this bed and gagging you all over again."

he reaches out slowly, brushing hair out of your face like he hasn't just shattered your entire sense of safety. his touch is oddly gentle. confusingly careful.

"i'm not the monster they say i am," he whispers, almost as if he was convincing himself.

but right now, lying beneath him, helpless and bound, you can't tell the difference.

he finally pulls himself off you, but not before trailing his eyes down your body again—slow, deliberate, lingering far too long on the way your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.

suddenly, you regretted wearing your tiny sleep shorts and tank top to bed.

you want to yell at him. fight him. spit in his face. but your mouth is stuffed, your wrists burn, and your fear makes your limbs too heavy to move.

he walks across the room without urgency, opening your closet like he lives here. like this is his place now. he pulls out one of your hoodies, yanks it over his bloodstained shirt, then grabs a pair of your socks and wipes the dirt from his face.

he doesn't say a word.

you watch, helpless, as he rummages through your drawers. your shelves. your life.

he's looking for something.

eventually, he finds it—your phone charger.

"need to use your hotspot," he mutters, plugging your phone in and sitting on the edge of your bed like the act of invading your home and tying you up was just some minor inconvenience.

your body jerks when the mattress dips beneath his weight.

he doesn't look at you, but his voice lowers again.

"you're gonna stay quiet," he says. "you're gonna stay still. and you're not gonna do anything that'll make me regret sparing you."

you glare at him, muffled curses twisting behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

finally, he turns to you. cold eyes meeting yours.

and then he smiles.

a small, tired, fucked-up smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"we'll get along just fine."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you wake up in the exact same position you passed out in.

arms aching. wrists burning. legs numb from being tied up too long. your mouth is dry, your lips cracked around the fabric still shoved between them. every part of your body feels used—like even your skin remembers the panic of last night.

you blink slowly.

the room is bathed in warm daylight, soft and almost cruel in how normal it looks. like nothing's wrong. like this isn't a crime scene waiting to happen.

your eyes drag toward the door when it creaks open.

and then he walks in.

park sunghoon.

your body freezes up in fear, you knew him and of his crimes.

you were half-asleep at the library, head buried in a textbook, highlighter in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. finals week was already draining what little life you had left in you, and the last thing you cared about was whatever the old guy at the next table was watching on his phone at full volume.

but then you heard it.

"—escaped late last night during a prison transfer. armed, dangerous, do not approach—"

your eyes flicked up, annoyance flashing before curiosity took over. you caught a glimpse of the screen—blurry, low-res, but clear enough. a mugshot.

young. dark hair. sharp eyes, jaw clenched like he'd rather eat glass than be photographed.

park sunghoon, the name beneath it read.

the guy beside you muttered something about the justice system falling apart before going back to his crossword.

you hadn't thought much of it. just another headline. another manhunt. the world was full of danger you'd never come close to.

well, until last night.

he looked cleaner now. fresher. his hair is damp, like he's showered. one of your hoodies is draped over his frame, sleeves pushed up casually as he carries in a glass of water and a granola bar—like this is some sick sleepover and not a hostage situation.

he glances at you, expression unreadable. then smirks faintly.

"you're awake."

you glare at him, rage bubbling beneath the surface of your exhaustion.

he walks over, crouches beside the bed, and places the glass on your nightstand.

"you gonna be good?" he asks. "nod if you are. shake your head if you want that gag shoved deeper."

your jaw clenches. you hold his gaze.

then, slowly, you nod.

he watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion—then reaches up and pulls the crumpled shirt from your mouth. your jaw aches instantly, tongue thick and raw.

you cough, your voice barely a whisper. "fuck you."

he chuckles, it would've been cute if he wasn't holding you hostage in your own home, "thought we were starting over."

you don't respond.

he stands, pacing your room slowly as he opens the granola bar and bites into it. "you're lucky it was me. anyone else who broke in would've done worse than tie you up and take a shower."

he says it so casually it makes your stomach turn.

and for a few moments, you just lie there. breathing through the pain, waiting for an opening.

when he turns his back—your chance comes.

you twist, rolling off the edge of the bed. it's sloppy. painful. you hit the floor hard, knees burning as you try to scramble to your feet, legs still partially bound. you hop, trip, catch yourself on the dresser and launch toward the window.

you don't think. you just scream.

loud. broken. bloody murder.

sunghoon is on you in seconds.

"no—fuck—stop!"

you scream again, louder.

he grabs you from behind, one hand over your mouth, the other wrenching you back against his chest. your heart is hammering. you're kicking, thrashing, desperate. but he's stronger. faster.

again.

he spins you and shoves you against the wall, arm across your chest as he digs something from his pocket.

a black gag.

fabric. straps. thick and menacing.

"you had one chance," he growls. "just one. and you blew it."

your scream is muffled the second he stuffs the gag between your lips and tightens it around the back of your head. it's snug. suffocating. humiliating.

he holds your jaw, tilting your head up, breathing heavy against your cheek.

"next time you open that mouth without permission—" he growls, voice low and venomous, "—i'll gag you with my dick. understood?"

your breath stutters. your eyes burn with tears.

he pulls back, studying you. watching how your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. then, he lets go and takes a step back.

"new rules," he says calmly, like he hasn't just threatened to fuck your throat as punishment.

he raises a finger.

"one—no screaming. not once. i hear so much as a whimper out of you without my say-so, i'll make you regret it."

a second finger.

"two—you don't try to escape. you don't touch the door. you don't look at the window. you so much as think about running, i'll tie you up worse than before. i'll make it so you beg me not to leave you alone."

a third finger.

"three—you do what i say. when i say it. no attitude. no tricks. no more chances."

he steps forward again, slow and looming, until you feel his breath against your gagged mouth.

"break any of them," he whispers, "and next time, i'm not stopping at just words."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you don't speak.

you don't scream.

you sit perfectly still on the edge of your bed, wrists still raw from the zip ties, legs aching—but obedient.

sunghoon watches you from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a slow, unreadable expression on his face. then, finally, he moves.

he walks in with the glass of water and a granola bar again, this time crouching in front of you and reaching behind your head to undo the gag. it slips from your mouth, slick with your spit.

you gasp softly, jaw stiff and sore, but say nothing—his threats still fresh in your mind.

he offers the water first, and you drink—slow, cautious sips. then the granola bar. you take it with trembling fingers, never breaking eye contact.

"good girl," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. you flinch at his touch, but he just smirks.

he leaves you untied this time.

your limbs are stiff, but you pretend not to notice. you chew slowly, swallow, nod when he tells you to stay put.

but your eyes are already moving. scanning. searching.

his phone is in his back pocket. but yours—your phone—is on the desk.

screen dark. unplugged. untouched.

you wait. bide your time. he leaves the room for a second. maybe to grab something. maybe just to test you.

you count your heartbeats. one. two. three—

you move.

you slide off the bed as quietly as possible, fingers creeping toward the desk. one foot in front of the other. your hand is just about to touch the edge of your phone when—

"what do you think you're doing?"

his voice is quiet. dangerously soft.

you freeze. your hand lingers over the phone, not daring to close the distance.

you turn slowly.

he's standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

for a moment, you expect him to snap. to yell. to grab you by the hair and throw you back on the bed.

but he doesn't.

he smiles.

walks over slowly and picks the phone up himself, slipping it into his back pocket.

"strike one," he says calmly. "but i'll be nice. just this once."

he brushes past you, but there's tension in his movements now. less patience. more heat behind his stare.

you return to the bed, defeated but not broken. not yet.

and then—

ding-dong.

the doorbell.

you don't even think this time.

your body moves before your brain catches up. you run. toward the door, toward the one fucking hope you've had since this nightmare started.

you run down the stairs, your body trembling in fear and adrenaline as you make it to the last step—leaping for the door.

but he's faster.

he slams you against the wall with one arm across your chest, the other pressing tight around your throat.

you gasp—your feet nearly leave the floor as he holds you there.

his grip isn't bruising—yet—but it's tight enough to keep you from moving, from breathing too deep, from making a single sound.

you can hear the footsteps outside. then a knock.

sunghoon leans in, his lips brushing your ear.

"you make a sound," he hisses, "and i'll kill whoever is outside. right here."

snapping on the safety chain, sunghoon grabs a hold of the door knob. he opens it with a click before his hand reaches into his pocket—a gun. he makes sure that you can see it, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'don't test me.'

"oh! hey—sorry to bother you," a familiar voice says. "i'm looking for my cat again. little bastard slipped out last night. have you seen him?"

it's mr. han. your sweet old neighbor.

your eyes burn. your fingers twitch.

you try to speak, but sunghoon tightens his hand around your throat and leans his head out the door.

"hi," he says, perfectly pleasant. "i'm her boyfriend. she's in the shower right now, but i'll tell her you stopped by."

mr. han blinks in confusion, his soft smile slipping. "oh. i didn't know she had a boyfriend."

sunghoon glances at you over his shoulder, a smirk creeping across his face as he presses you harder into the wall.

"yeah, hasn't been to long. just moved in."

"well, good for her!" mr. han chuckles. "if you see a tabby, let me know, will you?"

"of course," sunghoon says, eyes squinting as he forces a smile. "have a good one."

sunghoon watches the elder man walk off the porch and zoom off of the lawn, he shuts the door.

locks it and turns to you slowly.

his grip around your throat doesn't loosen. it tightens.

"you just don't fucking learn." he slams you back against the wall hard enough to make the frame shake. your head knocks into the plaster, breath choking in your throat.

"you think i'm stupid? you think just 'cause you stayed quiet for a day that you could get bold?" his free hand moves, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark. wild. no trace of the calm he faked a minute ago.

"what do i do to brats who don't listen?" he growls, voice low and threatening. "hmm? what did i promise i'd do?"

your heart drops in your chest.

his hand drops to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he manhandles you away from the wall and drags you up the stairs and towards your bed again, shoving you face-first into the mattress.

sunghoon's eyes snap to your behind, the vulnerable position you were in leaving little to his imagination of what you hid underneath your flimsy shorts.

"you want attention so bad?" he snaps. "fine. i'll give you attention."

his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, pinned like prey. his other hands smoothens over your behind, grabbing a hold of the fat on your ass making you whine into the sheets.

"but after this—" he breathes against your ear, "—you'll beg to follow the rules."

"you remember what i said i'd gag you with next time you pulled shit like that?"

his voice is low. dangerous. every word laced with venom and heat before he's griping your jaw, thumb dragging over your trembling lips.

your silence earns you nothing. he flips you around, pushing you down onto the bed with your back against your soft sheets.

he tilts your head back further, pressing your skull against the headboard now, his body wedged between your knees.

"oh, now you're quiet?" he mocks, fingers tightening around your face in a grip that you were sure would leave bruises. "no attitude now that you know what's coming?"

you try to speak, to plead maybe—but your mouth barely opens before he shoves two fingers past your lips, forcing them deep against your tongue.

sunghoon holds back a groan when he feels how warm and wet your mouth was around his digits, pressing down on your tongue making you gag.

"nah," he growls, "you don't get to talk. you had your chance."

he pulls his fingers out, dripping with spit, and pulls down his pants with ease without taking his eyes off you.

"since you can't keep your fucking mouth shut, i'll put it to better use."

he's straddling your waist, knees on either side of your body as his cock stands proud in front of you.

he fists your hair, yanking your head toward his cock, already thick and flushed with need. the first tap of it against your lips is sharp, mean.

"open."

you hesitate—so he slaps it against your cheek. hard.

"i said open."

your lips part automatically. it's instinct at this point—survival.

he doesn't ease in.

he shoves, thick and heavy, making you choke on the first thrust. both hands grip your head now, holding you exactly where he wants you, using your mouth like he promised.

"there you go. that's better. this is how i like you—stuffed full, not making a sound," sunghoon grunts out, basking in the way your warm mouth seemed to suck him in.

you gag as he pushes deeper, spit dripping from your chin as he rocks his hips, forcing you to take it all.

his voice stays in your ear, low and taunting.

"next time you scream? next time you run? i'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't even remember your own name."

your eyes water, throat stretched, his cock filling every inch. but he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. the tip of his length hits the back of your throat repeatedly as you try to push yourself away from his brutal thrusts. sunghoon sees this and his grip in your hair becomes stronger, stuffing his cock deeper so your nose touched his pelvis and your breathing stuttered.

"you like this, don't you? being punished. being used. my little brat who acts tough but melts the second i get my hands on her."

his pace quickens, brutal now, the sound of your wet gagging and his filthy growls echoing off the walls.

"better than screaming, isn't it?" he sneers. "go ahead—choke on it, since you couldn't behave."

your hands claw weakly at his thighs, but he just holds you there, hips snapping forward, using your mouth until your throat is raw.

"fuck. your mouth is so good when it's used right," he mutters lowly, feeling that familiar feeling tighten in his lower stomach as he watches your tear stained face take his cock over and over again.

with no warning, he shoots his load into your mouth—coating it white. you gag at the feeling, your eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen begins to really get to you.

and only when he's satisfied—only when he's sure you won't be trying to run again—does he finally pull out, dragging his spit and cum covered cock over your lips.

"swallow," he demands.

afraid of what he'd do if you disobeyed, you obliged.

"look at you," he pants, gripping your chin. "fucking perfect like this."

he leans down, mouth against your ear.

"you make a sound again—and next time, it won't just be your mouth i use."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

it's been days.

you don't know how many, exactly—time feels warped in here. sunlight comes and goes through the windows, but you're barely conscious enough to count the difference anymore.

you're weak. too weak.

he barely feeds you. you get enough to survive, some water, maybe crackers or a half-eaten bar—but not enough to fight back. not enough to scream through the gag still strapped tightly across your mouth.

your wrists are red, raw from how often he binds them. sometimes behind your back, sometimes above your head. your legs, too—he likes to keep you where he can see you, spread open and helpless, arms cinched tight and useless at your sides.

he doesn't talk much now. just watches you. moves you. like a thing he owns.

it was supposed to be temporary for him.

a place to hide. one night—maybe two. long enough to lay low, avoid the flashing lights and barking dogs. just long enough to scrape by without being seen.

he didn't expect the house to be so quiet.

so soft.

he didn't expect to hear the sound of slow breathing upstairs—the kind that came from deep sleep. vulnerable. defenseless.

and he definitely didn't expect you.

the first time he crept into your room and saw you lying there, curled beneath the sheets, skin glowing under moonlight, he nearly forgot to breathe. fuck, you were pretty. a cute little thing in a tank top and sleep shorts, completely unaware of the danger breathing over you.

it should've ended there. he should've turned around and used the basement or the attic or anywhere else.

but you shifted in your sleep—lips parting, a soft whimper slipping from your throat—and it hit him.

you didn't know he was there. you didn't know anything, he could do whatever he wanted.

and no one would stop him.

his chest tightened. not with guilt. not with hesitation.

with possibility.

he could make this place more than a hiding spot.

he could make you his.

his to keep. to touch. to break.

he had ruined your peaceful sleep when he knocked over a vase that you had placed on your vanity. he knew what he had to do from there.

he told himself he'd leave eventually. but the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to go.

he started to crave the way you looked at him—wide-eyed and shaking. he started to need the way your body recoiled, only to soften when he touched you gently. the way you flinched, but didn't fight—not right away at least.

he could mold you.

he could make you something new. something better.

his.

the house became his kingdom. and you—his prize.

he told himself you were safer this way.

he was safer this way.

because if he let you go—if he walked out and left you behind—there was no guarantee you wouldn't take something from him with you.

and if he had to be on the run... might as well have a pet to keep him company. one that couldn't run. one that knew who she belonged to.

you try not to look at him anymore.

but then—this time—it's different.

he walks in with that quiet menace, dragging a chair with one hand and a towel with the other.

you're curled in the corner of your bed, wrists tied, gag biting into your cheeks. your limbs shake with the effort of just staying upright. your skin feels oily, dirty, your scalp itchy from days without washing.

you've never wanted a bath more.

but not from him.

"you stink," he says flatly, his plump lips pulled into a thin line.

you look up, exhausted eyes narrowed.

he walks over, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet like you weigh nothing.

you stumble, legs buckling—but his grip stays locked around your bicep, dragging you down the hall and into the bathroom.

"don't fight me," he mutters. "you don't have the strength."

he's not wrong.

but your pride forces you to resist anyway—so he slams you against the sink.

you grunt, head hitting the mirror lightly. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down.

you scream against the gag, but it's useless. muffled. pitiful.

he turns the faucet on in the tub, steam rising slowly. the water looks too warm—comforting, tempting—and it makes you hate him more.

you look up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to let you free so you could at the very least bathe yourself. his cold eyes remain the same, reaching down to grip the flimsy straps of your tank top.

he doesn't undress you gently. he yanks your shirt up over your head, roughly tugging it off your arms even with your wrists bound. your shorts follow. he doesn't avert his eyes—he drinks you in, every shiver, every twitch, every part of you exposed and vulnerable.

his eyes linger on your tits, sitting on your chest with your nipples hard from the cold air in the room. he swallows harshly, dragging his gaze down to instead linger on your thighs and your uncovered core.

you're trembling now, from weakness or humiliation or both.

he grabs your waist and lifts you into the tub like you're nothing but a doll. the hot water stings your skin at first, but you sink into it anyway—your body aching for warmth, for some kind of relief.

you expect him to leave, to have some mercy. he doesn't.

he kneels beside the tub and grabs a cup, filling it before dumping it over your head. your hair clings to your face, your gag soaked.

he works a bottle of shampoo into his hands and starts lathering it into your scalp. not gentle—but not cruel either. just firm. efficient. like this is just another task.

his hands roam as he scrubs. over your shoulders. down your back. between your thighs. you jerk when he gets there—more out of instinct than strength—but his hand tightens on your thigh.

"stay still."

his fingers drag along your inner thigh, slow, invasive. he doesn't go further, just lets you know he could if he really wanted to.

and you're forced to sit there, bound and gagged, water lapping at your chest while he washes the filth from your skin like you're some helpless pet.

"next time," he says lowly, rinsing your hair, "you listen. you don't fight. you don't run."

you can't even respond. all you can do is whimper beneath the wet gag, body trembling in his grasp. he finishes washing you, lifting you out of the tub, wrapping you in the towel like he cares.

but the second your feet hit the floor, he's gripping your arm again—dragging you back to the room.

you don't even resist.

you're too tired. too humiliated. too broken in.

he throws you on the bed, ties your wrists to the headboard again with a new set of restraints. this time tighter, less forgiving.

he fixes the gag and adjusts the straps. he brushes your wet hair back from your face with a mockingly sweet touch, his hands gentle as he looks down at you with affection.

"see?" he whispers, brushing his lips just above your ear. "i take care of what's mine."

he dries you off just enough so the sheets won't get soaked—then he tosses the towel aside like it means nothing and grabs your ankles, dragging your body up the bed like dead weight.

you try to squirm, but he slaps your thigh. hard.

"don't start."

you're still gagged. your wrists are already tied above your head. there's no room for rebellion here—and he knows it.

he climbs on top of you, straddling your hips with his knees. he's not naked, but you are. he doesn't need to be. the only thing that matters right now is you.

your body.

your obedience.

he cups your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks roughly, pulling your gaze to meet his.

"look at you," he sneers. "a fucking mess. barely standing. can't talk. can't run. all that fire you had—where the fuck did it go?" you can't answer—not with the gag pressing your tongue down, soaking with your spit. you just blink up at him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

"you wanted to be saved, didn't you?" he mocks, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to slap it again. "thought someone would come for you. knock on the door, maybe hear you screaming."

he laughs. bitter.

"they came. and you failed. just like everything else you've tried since i got here."

his hands start roaming again—gripping your breasts, digging into your ribs, sliding down to your stomach like he's taking inventory of every inch he owns.

"this body?" he mutters. "not yours anymore. it's mine. to touch. to punish. to fuck."

he grabs your thighs, spreading them roughly, pushing your knees apart like you don't even get a say.

"you're not a person right now," he breathes. "you're a hole. a toy. and you'll be whatever i say you are until i get bored."

you whimper against the gag, eyes starting to sting. but that only seems to turn him on more. he leans down, mouth at your ear again, voice sickeningly sweet.

"cry. beg. scream into that gag. it won't change a fucking thing. no one's going to save you."

his hand finds your core, pressing his fingers against you with no warning, no care. "already wet," he mutters, almost smug. "pathetic."

he drags his fingers up slowly, deliberately—just enough to make you flinch, to remind you how little control you have over yourself.

"you'll learn, baby. you'll learn. and when you do—when you stop fighting and just take it like the good little thing you are? it'll be easier."

he slaps between your legs. hard. you jolt.

"until then? i'll break you."

you don't know when the pain became pleasure. maybe it was the moment he touched you without hurting you. maybe it was how long it's been since you felt anything that wasn't fear or humiliation. or maybe it's just that your body's giving in, finally breaking, surrendering to him because it's the only option left.

sunghoon sees it. feels it.

his fingers slide over you again—slow this time, calculated. he presses two between your chubby folds, dragging them through your slick like he's proving a point. he presses hard on your clit before rubbing right circles, watching your face contort into one of discomfort and pleasure.

"look at this," he breathes out heavily, watching your body twitch with his every touch. "you like it."

you shake your head, gag muffling your protests—but your hips twitch forward without your permission.

his smile is cold. smug.

"no?" he mocks, rubbing lazy circles around your clit with the pads of his fingers. "then why are you so fucking wet? you're soaking my fingers, honey."

you squeeze your thighs together instinctively—but he shoves them apart again, gripping them wide open and holding them there in a bruising manner.

"don't hide from me. not after this."

his other hand slides up your body, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat, not squeezing—yet. just enough to make you feel it. make you still.

"you want to cum?" he asks, cocking his head—his dark locks falling over his forehead as his lips curl into a smirk. "is that what this is? you think i'll reward you after the shit you pulled? after how bad you've been, you think you deserve it? hm?"

his fingers slow down, barely touching now. feather-light. teasing. "maybe i should edge you until you break. over and over. never let you finish. see how long it takes before you're begging."

your breath stutters—every inch of you tense, desperate.

he sees it. loves it.

"or..."

he leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

"...maybe you can earn it."

you freeze.

his fingers start circling again, more firmly now, making your hips buck involuntarily as you chase your release desperately. your heart aches at the feeling, shame filling you.

"yeah. that's right. i'll let you cum—but only when you prove you're mine. when you stop fighting. when you're good."

he pulls the gag down, slow and wet with spit. your lips are trembling, red and swollen. sunghoon watches your lips twitch, your chest heave up and down as you struggle to keep in your lewd sounds.

"say it," he whispers.

you hesitate.

his hand leaves your throat, trailing back down your chest. he pinches your nipple hard, making you jolt in pain.

"say it."

your voice cracks when it comes out. weak. wrecked. ashamed.

"...i'm yours."

he grins. dark. dangerous.

"again."

"i'm... i'm yours, sunghoon," your voice coming out weak and strangled as he continues to tweak at your nipple and rub at your core.

his hand between your legs moves faster now, relentless, cruel in how perfectly it works your body—building that ache, that pressure, that need.

"you cum only when i say," he growls. "not before. not without permission."

you nod. frantically. desperate for a release, desperate for any other feeling besides pain and humiliation.

your thighs start to shake, breath stuttering, but just when you're about to fall over the edge—

he pulls away. completely.

you sob. instantly. broken, needy.

he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, mockingly sweet.

"not yet, baby. you're not there yet."

he strokes his cock lazily now, right in front of your face—watching you unravel. you hadn't noticed when he had pulled himself free from the restraints of his pants, watching him touch himself as he made you squirm and beg.

"you want to cum?"

you nod again, more desperate.

"then earn it. really earn it."

he slides two fingers back inside you—slow, deep, hitting exactly where he knows will make you cry.

"submit."

his fingers curl deep inside you again—slow, precise, knowing.

you arch, back bowing against the mattress involuntarily, your wrists straining in their binds. it feels too good, too dangerous. you bite your lip to keep from moaning, but it slips out anyway—a soft, shaky sound that betrays everything you want to hide.

he grins, "there she is."

you glare at him. breathing hard. eyes glassy, but still sharp. "fuck... you," you hiss.

he chuckles, low and unbothered, never stopping the rhythm of his hand.

"yeah?" he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw. "you say that, but your pussy's soaking my fingers."

his thumb moves to your clit—just a light press, a tease—and your whole body flinches. you clench your teeth, swallowing a moan. he notices.

"still fighting," he murmurs. "i love that."

he stops stroking himself, his hand snaking up to your throat again, squeezing this time. firm enough to make your breath hitch.

"but it won't save you."

his pace picks up. fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles. the pressure builds fast—your body's too sensitive, too deprived—and you hate how close you are, how easily he has you trembling.

"don't you dare cum," he growls. "not until i say." the sound of wet smacking fills the room, you could hear yourself squelch against his fingers, your lower stomach tightening as you buck your hips against his hands.

you try. you really try.

but your hips keep rolling into his touch, your walls clenching around his fingers, the pleasure dragging you closer and closer to the edge. your moans break free, desperate, breathless, despite every part of you screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

he watches it happen with dark amusement. "look at you," he says. "trying so hard to hold out. you're pathetic."

you meet his eyes, defiant even through the haze.

"i'm not... yours," you whisper.

his hand stops.

your whole body seizes up with the sudden loss, a sob catching in your throat.

"no?" he murmurs.

he pulls his fingers out, slow and sticky, then slaps your inner thigh hard enough to sting.

"then you don't get to cum."

you cry out, body trembling. your thighs rub together, instinctively chasing friction, but he grabs your jaw hard and yanks your face toward his before landing a strong smack to your puffy cunt.

"say it again," he demands. "go on. tell me you're not mine."

you don't. not right away. he smirks.

"thought so."

he leans in, lips brushing yours—but not kissing. just hovering. "you'll break," he whispers. "piece by piece. you'll cum when i let you. breathe when i let you. and someday, you'll say it and mean it—i'm yours, sunghoon."

you spit in his face.

it lands right below his eye.

he pauses. then he laughs—low and deadly—and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"good," he says, gripping your chin harder. "keep fighting. it makes owning you so much sweeter."

he shoves the gag back into your mouth, tight, unforgiving. your jaw begins to ache again, crying against the restraint.

"no more chances."

he ties your legs open, so you can't even squirm now. exposed. vulnerable. soaked.

"you'll cum when you beg. and mean it."

he slides his fingers back inside, slower now. torturous. your gummy walls welcome his fingers, stretching to accommodate the girth of his digits.

"let's see how long you last."

he thinks he has you right where he wants you.

tied, gagged, spread open—body sensitive, on edge, desperate. but he's predictable now. obsessive. careless in the way he touches you, in the way he lingers. like you're not just a hostage anymore—like you're something more.

and that? that's a weakness.

he's working you with his fingers again—slow, deep strokes meant to drag out the ache, to make you beg.

but this time, you don't squirm.

you start moaning for him.

soft at first—just breathy little sounds muffled through the gag—but enough to make his head tilt. enough to make his fingers pause for a second.

you moan again. louder this time. exaggerated. needy. you flutter your lashes, shift your hips just the way you know he likes.

his gaze flickers down to your face, suspicious. "what're you doing?" he mutters, voice low with suspicion.

you blink up at him—wide-eyed, innocent—then roll your hips into his hand with a soft, choked sound.

he curses under his breath.

you can feel it—the tension in him, the way his fingers falter for half a second. he likes this. too much. he likes seeing you like this. needy. soft. wanting him.

so you give it to him.

you moan into the gag again—arching your back a little, letting your thighs tremble, pretending to lose yourself.

his hand tightens on your leg. his breathing shifts as he curls his fingers in your cunt making you delirious.

"fuck," he mutters. "look at you. finally learning."

you nod. slow. deliberate.

then you hold his gaze. and you smirk. just a twitch of your lips—barely there. but he sees it and he freezes.

his eyes darken, narrowing, hand yanking back from between your legs like he's been burned.

you tilt your head, mockingly sweet.

"you think you're clever, huh?" he growls.

you nod again, smug, even through the gag. he grabs your throat—hard this time, his thumb pressing into the side just enough to make your vision pulse.

"you think you can manipulate me?"

your lashes flutter, but you don't stop smiling—not with your eyes. not with your body still glistening, still wanting.

you're challenging him. and he lives for it.

"fine," he breathes, voice shaking with something between rage and arousal. "you want to play that game? we'll play."

he rips the gag out of your mouth, shoving two fingers in right after, deep, gagging you all over again.

"suck."

you choke, but your lips wrap around them anyway—defiance still burning in your eyes, even as he uses your mouth like it's his.

he groans.

"you want to be in control?" he snarls, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. "then earn it."

he flips you over onto your stomach, rough—palms pressing your face into the mattress.

"but don't forget who you belong to."

he grabs your hips, yanking you back until your ass is flush against him, his breath hot against your spine.

"mine," he growls. "you'll always be mine."

you're still face down when he lets go of your hips. your cheek's pressed to the mattress, wrists raw from the binds, your body trembling—but not just from exhaustion anymore.

you got to him.

you felt it—the hesitation, the way he gripped you too tightly, the way his voice shook when you moaned just the right way. he's not just trying to break you now. he's unraveling with you.

you breathe slowly, letting your body go limp—making him think he's won again.

he grabs your jaw, turns your face toward him. "what's that look for?" he mutters. your lips are swollen, spit-slick, and you part them just enough to whisper, "i thought you liked when i was good."

his jaw tightens. you can see it—how those words land somewhere deep, how they confuse him. punish him. "you're playing games."

you blink up at him, feigning innocence. "no, sunghoon. i'm just... learning how to please you."

he stares.

and in that pause—in that split-second hesitation—you win again.

he pulls back just a little, his hand still on your throat, but lighter. his thumb drags up the side of your neck, over your pulse. he can feel how fast your heart is racing—but he can't tell anymore if it's fear... or excitement.

"you think i'll go easy on you just because you moan a little and look pretty?" he growls, but the edge in his voice is starting to waver.

"no," you whisper. "but you liked it."

his eyes flicker down your body—bruised, bitten, wrecked. then back up to your lips, still curved into the faintest smirk.

"you don't get to control me," he says, but it's not as sharp as before. you lean forward slowly, as much as the binds will allow, lips brushing his ear.

"don't i already?"

he grabs your hair—rough, punishing—but it's reactionary now. desperate. his breathing's shallow, his cock pushing up against your ass, you feel how hard he is.

"you're mine," he snaps.

you hum, soft and sweet. "then make me feel like it."

it's the final push.

he curses, shoves you back onto your back, climbs on top of you again—but this time, something's changed. his hands are still rough, but they tremble. his eyes burn with hunger, but there's conflict behind it.

because now? you're not just a hostage anymore.

you're a temptation. a threat.

he kisses you—finally. messy, punishing. full of frustration and need and something deeper he doesn't want to name. and when he pulls back, his voice is strained.

"keep playing with fire," he says. "but don't forget—i'll burn you."

you smile, lips swollen, blood on your teeth.

"maybe i want to burn."

he stares at you like you just did the unthinkable.

because you did.

you made him want you—not just in the brutal, instinctive way he always has—but in that dangerous way. the way that makes him hesitate. that makes him feel.

your smile is slow. calculated. seductive in its smugness.

"what's wrong?" you whisper, still tied down, but holding all the power in your eyes. "can't handle someone else pulling the strings?"

sunghoon doesn't move at first.

he just breathes. shaky. tense.

you think you've done it—you've finally broken through. made him doubt himself.

but then—

his hand wraps around your throat and slams you into the mattress, pinning you so hard the air punches out of your lungs.

"you think this is a game?" he snarls, voice low and trembling with rage. "you think i don't see what you're doing?"

your legs kick instinctively, wrists pulling hard against the binds. your chest rises in shallow, panicked breaths beneath him.

he leans in—forehead pressed to yours, wild eyes burning into you as he stares at you with a crazed look.

"you almost had me," he says, like it's a confession. like it kills him to admit it. "but you're not the one in control."

his hand grabs your jaw—fingers digging in bruisingly tight.

"i gave you a taste," he growls. "a sliver of reward. and you thought you could twist it. twist me."

he shoves your thighs apart again, this time using his own knees to keep them there. immobilizing you completely.

you try to turn your face away—deny him the satisfaction—but he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.

"no more teasing. no more playing smart. you want to win? then earn it the way you were always meant to."

his fingers are back between your legs in seconds—this time rough, relentless. punishing. no teasing, no slow build.

you scream into the room, not out of fear—but at the overload. he's not holding back anymore.

you could feel every drag of his digits in your slick walls, your body convulsing as he hooks his fingers in you—pounding into your cunt.

he's reclaiming every ounce of control you tried to steal. "you cum when i say," he hisses, voice right against your lips. "you break when i decide."

you whimper beneath him, still resisting—still fighting with what little strength you have—but your body's traitorous. you're already dripping, already twitching under his touch.

he sees it. feels it.

and that's what snaps the last bit of restraint in him.

he presses his mouth to your ear, voice dark and ragged.

"i'll keep you right here until your body forgets what it was like to disobey."

his rhythm doesn't stop—not even when your legs start to shake, not even when your head thrashes side to side, overwhelmed.

"you want to manipulate me?" he pants. "go ahead. try. but every time you do..."

his fingers curl deep, making you scream.

"...i'll make you cum harder than you ever have in your life. and then i'll deny you again."

your tears spill. your hips jerk. your moans are breaking free even when you try to swallow them back.

and sunghoon smiles. wide. unhinged.

"you don't win, baby."

he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth softly—mockingly.

"you submit."

you're gasping beneath him, body limp, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs still twitching from the assault he just dragged you through. your chest rises and falls in jagged, uneven breaths. your wrists ache from how hard you pulled and you taste blood from biting at you lip to contain yourself.

but your eyes? still burning.

sunghoon hovers over you—breathing heavy, watching the way your body trembles. there's pride in his gaze. possession. satisfaction.

he leans in again, brushing your lips with his, voice low and mocking.

"there she is," he breathes. "my good girl."

you pause—breathing, blinking, letting the silence hang.

then you smile.

bloody lip, tear-stained cheeks, body ruined...

you still fucking smile.

"you're pathetic," you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked but sharp like a blade. "all that, just to prove you're in charge."

his jaw tightens. the grip on your face hardens again, but you don't flinch. not this time.

"i made you lose control," you rasp. "again."

his nostrils flare.

you lean forward, barely—just enough for your lips to graze his cheek.

"and you'll keep doing it," you breathe. "because you need me more than i'll ever need you. you sick fuck."

for a second, just a second—his whole body stills.

and you know. you got to him again.

your words linger in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, taunting. and sunghoon just stares at you.

quiet. too quiet.

you feel the shift in the room immediately—like the oxygen's been sucked out, like the world itself is holding its breath.

his hand slides from your jaw to your throat.

slow. calm. dangerous.

his gaze never leaves yours.

"say it again," he murmurs. dead calm. deadly.

you blink—swallowing hard, but refusing to look away.

and that's what makes him snap.

his hand slams you into the mattress again—choking, bruising, cutting off your breath as he straddles your body with renewed fury.

"you think this is about need?" he hisses, low and shaking. "you think i'm the one that's weak?"

his free hand grabs your wrists, rips the bindings tighter, yanking your arms above your head so hard your shoulders strain.

"look at you," he sneers. "lying here soaked, shaking, moaning for me like a fucking whore—" his voice cracks. "—and you think you have control?"

you try to twist your body, to squirm away—but there's nowhere to go. his grip on your throat tightens.

your lips part in a gasping cry—but he's already reaching for the gag again.

"you want to talk?" he growls. "you lost that right."

he stuffs it in rougher this time—no care, no softness—pressing it deep into your mouth before tying it so tight behind your head your jaw aches.

he doesn't give you time to breathe. doesn't give you space to recover.

he flips you again, stomach down—your body limp, wrists still bound tight above your head, legs spread.

he grabs your hair, pulls your head back so you're arched beneath him.

"you want to twist me around your finger?" he breathes against your ear, his voice shaking with pure rage. "then i'll fucking break every single bone in your body until there's nothing left to twist."

his hand slides back between your thighs—rougher now, punishing.

no more rhythm. just control.

you scream into the gag—muffled, helpless, as your hips buck and shake without your permission.

"no more pretending," he growls. "no more teasing, no more games."

he grabs your ass, slapping it hard, again and again, until the skin stings raw beneath his palm.

your legs kick, your body trembles, your sobs spill out in broken little whimpers.

but it only excites him more.

"you want to be smart?" he snarls, pressing his body down over yours, fully covering you. caging you. "then learn something, baby."

he thrusts his fingers back in, curling them cruelly until your entire body jerks beneath him.

"you don't win," he hisses. "you submit. you obey. and if you don't..."

his mouth trails down your spine, hot breath against your skin.

"...i'll make you beg for mercy."

your body's shaking beneath him. raw. used. aching in ways you didn't know were possible.

your jaw throbs from the gag, your throat burns from choked sobs, your wrists are nearly numb from how tight he's bound you. your skin stings where he slapped you, and your thighs are soaked, muscles twitching from overstimulation.

you're a mess. his mess.

he kneels behind you, breath heavy, chest rising and falling like a man who just won a war.

but when he grabs your hair again and yanks your face up from the mattress—

he sees it.

that look.

that tiny, fucking spark that shouldn't be there.

he growls, yanks the gag down—ripped so fast it leaves a burn around your mouth—and grabs your jaw.

"go on," he hisses. "say something smart. i fucking dare you."

you cough, breathless and wrecked, lips parted, face smeared with sweat and tears. you look at him—eyes glassy but locked onto his.

then—

you smile.

small. crooked. blood at the corner of your mouth.

but it's a smile.

"...that all you got?"

he stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. his chest heaves. fists clenched. he doesn't know if he wants to destroy you or worship you.

and that's what makes you laugh. soft. strained. broken, but alive. you spit the blood from your mouth onto the mattress.

"you can break my body all you want, sunghoon," you whisper, voice rasped raw. "but you'll never be more than the scared little boy who needed rope and violence just to keep a girl in his bed."

his hand flies.

your head jerks to the side, cheek stinging, but you don't cry out. instead—you turn your face back slowly, looking up at him through swollen eyes.

smiling again.

"you're pathetic," you breathe.

sunghoon's whole body tenses. you can see it. feel it. his eyes darken. his hands shake.

but for the first time, there's hesitation. you've planted the seed. and now? he doesn't just want to dominate you. he wants to own you. fully. mind, body, soul.

and that means breaking what's left of your fire.

completely.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the days blend like bruises—fading into one another, painful, discolored, ugly reminders of time passed. your body is thin now, your limbs weak, skin pale from lack of sunlight. everything smells like sweat and confinement. the bindings around your wrists and ankles chafe more with each passing hour, and even when he unties them briefly—to "care" for you, to feed or bathe you—you never forget what they're there for.

sunghoon has shifted. less violent now, more possessive. frighteningly tender, like the calm after a storm that knows it'll return.

"you're mine now," he whispers as he brushes your hair, the back of his knuckles grazing your cheek. "you stopped screaming. that means you understand."

you don't answer. you haven't in a while.

he likes it that way. but that doesn't mean your mind has gone silent.

you're just... waiting.

and on this morning, as sunlight spills across the floor and he leaves the room to scavenge the kitchen, you push yourself off the bed. legs wobble beneath you, almost giving out. your mouth is dry, lips cracked. your arms are sore from the way they've been pulled above your head for hours.

but you stand.

bare feet drag across the hardwood toward the cracked-open window. you lean against it, arms limp over the sill, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

movement outside.

him.

mr. han, the older man from next door, wearing his usual cap and jacket, walking past with a leash in hand and no cat at the end of it. he's scanning the street.

your breath catches. you shift—just barely. the curtain twitches with you.

he glances up.

and freezes.

his mouth opens slightly, confused. then worried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the window frame.

a second passes. he squints. takes a step closer.

and you nod. the smallest movement. a desperate one.

his eyes widen.

he takes off down the street—fast, but not frantic, trying not to draw attention. your legs give out, and you slump to the floor just as the front door clicks open again.

"where are you?" sunghoon calls out.

panic races through you, but your limbs won't move fast enough.

he appears in the doorway a second later.

eyes drop to you.

your body crumpled by the window.

and that's all it takes.

he lunges.

his hands are on you instantly—grabbing your arms, dragging you up with no care for your trembling body. he spins you toward the bed, but you're dead weight now, slumping in his grip.

"what the fuck did you do," he growls, voice tight with fear. "did someone see you?"

you don't answer.

he shakes you hard, fingers digging into your arms. "did he see you?"

your silence is enough.

his breathing becomes frantic. he shoves you back onto the bed and runs to the front window. peeks through the blinds.

and curses.

"fuck. fuck!"

he spins around, pacing.

then—

sirens.

distant.

not close yet, but unmistakable. your heart surges.

sunghoon's entire face crumples with fury and panic.

he grabs a bag—throws it across the room. opens drawers. grabs knives. rope.

sirens grow louder.

closer.

you're still lying on the bed, too weak to fight, but your eyes track his every movement.

he moves to the door. he's going to run, but something stops him.

you.

he turns, stares at you for a beat. long and quiet. then walks back toward you slowly. you flinch when he reaches for your face—but he doesn't hurt you.

instead, he cups your cheek. wipes a streak of something off your skin. sweat or tears. maybe both.

"you did this," he whispers.

his voice is calm again.

the sirens are just outside now—cars skidding, doors slamming.

he leans in closer. kisses your forehead.

"i'll see you again."

and then—

bang—bang—BANG.

"police! open up!"

the door doesn't wait for an answer. it bursts open in seconds. officers storm inside—guns raised, shouting commands.

sunghoon stands tall. his hands rise slowly. he doesn't struggle.

but he never takes his eyes off you.

not once.

as they shove him to the ground, shouting, cuffing him, dragging him away—

he turns his head back to look at you.

eyes wide. wild and devoted.

"i'll find you," he calls, voice breaking. "no matter where they take me. you belong to me."

he never thought it would end like this.

face pressed to the hardwood, cold metal biting into his wrists. police shouting over each other, boots stomping through his space—your space.

they're dragging him away now. but his eyes won't leave you.

not once.

you're huddled near the corner of the bed—blanket pulled over your shoulders, shivering, pale, but awake. not limp. not broken. your eyes are on him.

terrified and defiant.

just like the first time you stared him down.

he thought he'd taken that out of you. smoothed your edges, broken your fight. he thought you'd learned.

but now, looking at you...he sees it.

you never stopped burning. you just waited for the moment to breathe.

it makes his teeth grit.

he remembers the first night he stood over your bed, zip ties in his hands, heart thudding not with fear but need. the thrill of control, the high of being wanted—or at least needed—by something warm, soft, his.

you were supposed to need him by now.

he told himself he'd remake you. that it was fate you were the one sleeping in this house, with the window left open like an invitation.

you were supposed to belong to him.

but now? they're hauling him away and he's powerless.

just like he was before. before the escape. before he found you. before he felt that sick sense of purpose in your screams and silence alike.

you're slipping from him.

you're blinking and breathing and safe in someone else's arms now. and he knows—knows deep in the marrow of his bones—that they're going to take you far away from him.

his lip curls. he twists in the officer's grip, eyes locked on yours.

"i'll see you again," he growls, voice hoarse with rage and obsession. "you hear me? you're mine."

you don't reply.

you just watch him disappear down the hallway.

no more ropes. no more gags. no more silence.

just the ghost of his voice echoing down the corridor, and the sound of your own breath finally filling your lungs—free.

you tremble.

someone rushes to your side—a medic. hands on your face, checking your vitals, voice soft and reassuring. but all you can do is stare at the door.

where he disappeared.

and pray he never keeps that promise.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[sauerhundz]

Yan!Prisoner who thought you looked adorable in your nurse uniform. He could tell you were new by the way you couldn’t stop shifting every couple seconds. Or maybe it was the way your eyes hadn’t lost their sparkle yet.

Yan!Prisoner who only wants to be treated by you (his lovely nurse) and won't let anyone else touch him. Who was always so patient even when you make mistakes.

Yan!Prisoner who thought the apprehensive looks on everyone's faces were amusing when he asked you how you were liking the job so far and was anyone giving you trouble.

Yan!Prisoner who is there when you need someone to rant about work. Who always listens attempt to lose to your every need as if it were divine scripture (and to him it might as well be).

Yan!Prisoner who gets quiet when you ask about his family. Who’d much rather listen to you and subtly changes the subject.

Yan!Prisoner who was honored when you gave him a nickname

Yan!Prisoner who can't wait to get to know you better in a more domestic setting.

[venusbyline]

GUYS YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!!! I NEED TO RIDE THIS MAN IMMEDIATELY

[charliehoennam]

just need you.

a/n : I blame @joshlmbrt for this. u asked for it and it got me horny so here you go 🧡

prompt: men who knead your thighs and hip as you sit on their lap with their big hands as you slick their hair back and tell them about your day. who get so hard when you kiss their forehead and tell them you have to go shower. who don’t let you go and fuck you on the couch — deep, thoroughly, filled with love

pairing: david loki x f!reader

warnings: 18+ only, no minors please. language, smut, creampie, cockwarming, david gets horny from feeling loved.

SHARING IS CARING, REBLOG IF YOU LIKE IT

Parking your car in the driveway just behind David’s Crown Vic, you switch the alarm on as you make your way over the grassy pathway paved from David’s walking over time.

Despite the dull day you had, you smile at the butterflies that still flutter every time you’re about to see him. Using the spare key he had gifted you, you unlock the front door and step inside.

You take the liberty of making yourself at home by kicking your shoes off and walking further inside towards the kitchen, you set your bag on a chair and drape your coat over its’ back.

“Baby, that you?” he asks from the living room.

“Yeah, it’s me, honey” you reply walking over with a smile.

He leans back and manspreads against the couch after crouching over the files and documents all fanned out over his coffee table along with his gun holster and badge. You take in the sight of him, hair slicked back from his shower, dressed in a tight white tank that accentuates his muscles. He usually wears them under his button-ups, but you love it when he wears them in the house, paired with a pair of gray sweatpants.

“You look so tired, baby.”

“I am tired” he smiles reaching for your thighs to guide you closer and unspokenly invites you to sit on his welcoming lap.

You accept and lean against his broad solid figure, lazily draping one arm around his neck while your other hand rests against his chest.

“Too tired for me?” You smirk watching his eyes trail down your body to your crossed thighs.

“Never too tired for you, honey” he replies taking your knee and pulling it towards him to let you drape your leg over his as his other hands sits at your waist.

“I hope not” you chuckle and press your lips against his to properly say hello. “I missed you” you whisper.

“I missed you too, honey… Didn’t get to see you this morning.”

His eyes close as he nuzzles his nose into your neck, taking in the lingering scent of your sweet perfume as his palm glides up and down your thigh.

“I know. You spent the whole night on duty, so I figured we wouldn’t anyways. But we’re together now hm?”

“Yeah, honey. You’re right. How was your day, hm?” he questions lifting his head to admire the gentle details of your face.

He listens to you vent about your day, kneading your thigh as his other hand slowly rubs your back up and down. He listens thoroughly, making a comment here and there, asking questions as you go on, but the glimpses he takes down your shirt and at your thighs don’t go unnoticed by you.

They make you feel loved and desired although you decide not to call them out because you’re drinking him in just the same; eye roaming up and down his chest, fingers gently twirling the hairs that peek out from the top of his tank or delicately squeezing at his biceps as you mindlessly rub his strong arm.

“How about your day, baby?”

“I don’t wanna talk about my day, honey. Just…” he sighs closing his eyes.

You know how his job takes a toll on him. Being a detective means having to see and witness things that are generally hard to stomach, let alone forget. And, although he can never forget certain things he wishes he could, he’d rather treasure the moments you get to spend together because, not only are they too few, they help him shut the rest of the world out. These moments with you melt away all worries he carries as a detective and allows him to just be David, a loving and caring boyfriend.

“It’s ok, babe. You don’t have to,” you answer with a tender kiss to his forehead.

You let your kiss linger there for a moment as he groans contently, wrapping his arms around your waist to hold you closer. You’re almost certain you could feel his dick hardening as your fingers comb through his damp hair.

You chuckle imagining how good and relaxed he must when you take care of him.

“Why don’t you put this stuff away then and order us a pizza? Or whatever you’re in the mood for? I’m gonna go shower.”

You move to try to stand up, but he shakes his head. His arms tighten around you and hold you in place.

“No, baby. Stay here with me. Wanna be with you” he pleads wrinkling his forehead as his brows pinch together. His hand rises from your waist and his palm rests against your cheek when his lips meet yours. “Missed you so much, honey. Feel so good when you’re with me.”

You smirk noting how his breathing hitches and his cock twitches when you kiss his forehead again.

Gently peppering his forehead with kisses, he exhales sharply clenching his jaw as he pulls your legs to fully straddle his lap. His hands greedily grope at your thighs, at your hips and at your ass, enjoying your body’s fullness through your stretchy leggings.

You pull your head back a bit, letting your fingers meet at the back of his head to continue their therapeutic scratching on his scalp.

“I haven’t even showered yet, babe” you whisper shyly concerned, fearing your natural scent might be slightly more noticeable.

“No, honey, no. You smell so good for me” he frowns with eyes closed and shakes his head. “Just wanna be with you right now.”

“Yeah?” you whisper letting him kiss on your neck as he grinds his hardened dick against your sex.

“Yeah, baby. Feel so good on me like this. Can you feel it?”

“Y-yeah” you answer breathlessly as you give in and grind your dampening pussy against his crotch. “I feel your cock, baby. Feels so nice and hard.”

“Yeah? You like how it feels like this?”

You nod licking your dry lips as you continue dry humping his clothed cock, whispering how you love his dick so much as it throbs in his sweatpants when his hands pull your leggings up to make your ass and mound more noticeable.

He groans gently biting at your collarbone as he relishes the friction your body provides. Panting softly, you move your hips faster as his hard dick rubs against your sensitive nub.

“Fuck, Dave. Right there… That feels so good.”

“Ride me, baby. Just like that. It’s ok, I got you.”

Lost in the intoxicating pleasure that is washing over you, he rests his forehead against yours watching your face contort as you chase your orgasm.

“Cum for me, baby girl. You can do it. Feels so good, right? You like it, don’t you?”

“Fucking love it” you whimper feeling it build in your core. “So close, Dave. F-Fuck!” you pant as his hands grip your hips to pull them closer. “Gonna-gonna cum!”

“That’s my baby girl. Cum for me, sweetheart.”

The pleasure snaps in your core as you moan and slowly still your hip to soothe yourself with slow thrusts against his dick.

Running his fingers up and down your obvious camel toe, he clenches his jaw realizing how wet your leggings are from the dry humping and your orgasm.

“Honey, can I rip these? Please? Please? I need to feel you.”

“But they’re new, babe. I just got them.”

“I’ll get you new ones, I promise. Promise you” he quietly begs with the softest voice. “I’ll get you a hundred if you let me rip these right now. I’m so fucking hard, it’s hurting.”

He might as well; you’re almost sure they’re ruined now from the slick that’s gushing out. 

The second you nod and approve, all eyes go straight to your crotch. You hold onto his knees as you angle your hips forward for him. David quickly gropes at the fabric, pulling it carefully away from your skin. Digging his finger into a small tear, he rips a hole into the middle of your leggings to expose your wet panties. 

"Hold them for me, honey" he asks, fumbling with his sweatpants to push them down enough to free his dick. 

You eagerly obey and pull your panties to the side to reveal your soaking cunt. With one hand on your hip, he pscoots you close as his other hand holds his cock to guide it against your folds. 

"Fucking..." he sighs closing his eyes as his head lulls back at the pleasure of your warmth against his cock. 

Taking advantage of the moment, you dip your head to kiss his neck but David's quick to capture your lips with his. He stills his kiss for a moment as he stares hungrily at you, letting his hands do the work of guiding his dick into your entrance. 

You smirk as you ease down slowly on his cock, watching how his mouth slowly opens into an O. The pained expression is purely based on the pleasure and self control he's got over himself to not cum right away. 

"Easy, baby. Easy." You remind him by pressing kisses to his forehead as you start to slowly move your hips. 

His hands squeeze at your hips and ass, so desperate to sink his fingers into your soft flesh. 

"Fuck, you're wet on my cock, honey. Can't hold back too long" he begs. 

"I got you, baby. It's ok" you pant riding his cock. 

You gently grip at his hair while his mouth mauls at your neck. The moans he elicits out of you are aphrodisiacal music that weave through his veins and make straight for his dick. 

He replaces your hand  with his, holding your panties to the side from behind with his hand resting against your ass. 

"Tell me you love me" he pleads, shutting his eyes hard as he feels his orgasm building. 

"I love you, baby. I love you so fucking much. Love every single bit of you" you pant heavily rocking your hips roughly against his. 

"God, don't stop, honey. Don't stop!"

I love you's spill from your mouth as you chase his release until you feel his broad  body tense under your arms that hug him, filling you with hot white cum. Noting the way he stills your hip from the sensitivity, you pause long enough to let him calm down and slowly regain your movements to help soothe him. 

Lifting his head, he kisses you, letting his tongue invade your mouth hungrily as his arms lock around your waist like a belt to hold your pussy on his bottoming out dick. 

"God, I fucking love you too."

[rebelliousstories]

Spirit

25 Days of Ficmas

Relationship: David Loki x Reader

Fandom: Prisoners

Request: No

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Alcohol

Word Count: 1,222

Main Masterlist: Here

Jake Gyllenhaal and Co. Masterlist: Here

Summary: Getting Loki into the Christmas spirit is like pulling teeth. But a few days off might change that.

Consider Donating: Here

“No.”

“Please, Dave. Just this once.”

Scrubbing his hands over his face, David Loki was trying to keep his cool. It was not even his girlfriend’s fault. She was being wonderful, and sweet as usual. No, this was his own hang up.

Resting the edge of the phone against his temple, he looked towards the clock above his desk. Just thirty minutes to go until he was free for five days. He would have to come back the twenty-sixth but that was alright. Loki would definitely take having Christmas off over New Years.

“Babe, I’m gonna let you go. Alright? I’ll be home soon. Love you.” Waiting just long enough to hear her say her own goodbye back, the call was disconnected.

Sighing again, David threw himself into his work. If there was one thing he needed right now, it was to not be late getting home. When he could make it home for dinner, he did. However, he was a little reluctant. That phone call played in his head on repeat all through the rest of his shift.

Not a second after the clock chimed, he was out of his seat and on his way out the door. The chilly Pennsylvanian air nipped at his cheeks. It pushed that pep into his step to make it to his car before the cold could truly seep in. But the second he started driving, the heat that he had kicked on was unbearable. And even though it was beginning to snow outside, Loki shut off the heater and rolled his window down.

Wind whipped against his face, grounding him in the moment. He was looking forward to staying home for a few days, but he was not looking forward to memories that it was going to dredge up. However, David just continued on, until he saw the familiar image of his house.

Hands scrubbed over his face once more, before shutting off the vehicle and making his way inside. The steps up to the door were a bit slippery as the ice had finally come in. They were set to have a white Christmas this year, it seemed. David scratched the bit of ice off of the door handle before being able to slip his key inside.

“Babe,” he called out, unlacing and slipping his shoes off in the foyer.

“Baby!” Loki tried again, walking deeper into the house.

“In the kitchen,” she replied.

As David walked in, he was taken aback. There were declarations everywhere and a whole re-theme of the kitchen. It legitimately looked like a section of Santa’s workshop in there. And, of course, dressed in nothing but an oversized Christmas sweater, with a doe and silver threads, and some knee high knitted socks to keep her feet warm, was his girlfriend at the stove. It looked to be some sort of pasta sauce in the pot.

“Dave, you’re home.” Gleefully, she dropped the spoon that she was stirring with to come over and wrap her arms around him.

“Yeah, I’m home.” Pressing a kiss to her head, the man wrapped his own arms around her body while looking around. “You got enough decorations, princess?”

“They’re pretty.” Her words were muffled from where her face was smushed into her partner’s chest. However, despite the warmth, she pulled back just enough to see his face.

“Go get changed, and I’ll dish up some dinner for us.” She pressed her lips against his finally. They both could feel Loki’s body relax as he accepted the affection.

Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from his girlfriend’s arms in order to go back into their bedroom. While she was busy fixing up dinner, David took a shower to wash off the exhaustion of today. With a towel around his waist, he came back out into the bedroom to find some clothes when he noticed something he had not before. On the bed was a pair of his sweat, some clean socks and underwear, and a sweater. A Christmas sweater specifically.

And then he thought about what they had talked about earlier in the day.

David sat at his desk, trying to finish up the grueling paperwork that he had to get done before his time off. He had less than an hour until freedom, which made him try and work harder and faster. All of the sudden, a ringing came through o his personal cell phone. Taking a quick look around and making sure that his captain was not watching to get him in trouble, he answered.

“This is Detective Loki.”

“Hey, honey. How’s your day going?” A sigh of relief tore through him. It was just his girlfriend.

“Hey, baby. It’s going alright. A little slow but alright. How’s yours?” His eyes kept scanning his surroundings.

“It’s fine. Gonna get started on dinner here in a bit. I just wanted to know if you wanted to go have Christmas dinner with my folks when the time comes? We got invited today.” There was the sound of rustling on her end, like she was moving clothing around.

“Sure, baby. That’s fine. What are you doing,” came his ask as his eyebrows were scrunching together.

“I got a thing.” Her words came out incredibly fast that they nearly slurred together.

“What thing? I swear, if you brought home another stray dog-”

“It’s not a dog, David.” She cut him off, rolling her eyes even though he could not see them.

“What did you get?” He pressed. Instead of answering him fully, she murmured lowly. ���Speak up, babe. I can’t hear you.”

“Matching Christmas sweaters.” David sighed the second the words left her mouth.

“No.”

“Please, Dave. Just this once.”

His was just laying there on the bed. All red knit and golden threads. It was not even a bright red, which warmed his heart. Against a maroon background, a gorgeous stag was embedded in the fibers. Hesitantly, Loki trailed his fingers over the soft, warm wool that his girlfriend had gifted him.

He got dressed in the clothing around the sweater, trying not to let his mind wander. But each time David reached for a new piece of clothing, he kept coming back to that sweater. Memories of different Christmas’s of years past kept running through his mind; memories that he would rather not relive. But, then, flashes of his last few Christmas’s followed, bringing his mood back up.

David left the bedroom shortly after, coming into the dining room through the kitchen. His lover was already beginning to sit down, plates of penne alla vodka steaming hot on the table. Making a final check, she put a light beer next to his plate, and a glass of rosé next to hers. When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned around.

Before she could control it, she began beaming. Loki was wearing the sweater that she had laid out for him. The color was stunning on him, making him look healthier than he usually did. But she did not comment on it. She knew that if she did, this would never happen again. Instead, she just walked over, planted a kiss to his lips, and led him back over to the table.

If this was the kind of rewards he would get for indulging her every now and then, David might find holiday spirit more often.

[januaryembrs]

YOU WERE LIKE AN ANGEL TO ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: my DARLING @avis-writeshq says- i’m a menace but i ADORED the spencer fic u posted 🥹 UGH THEYRE SO CUTE YOUR HONOURRRR 👹if it’s okay, may i request another fic with the same couple 🙈 perhaps one day reader is not as sweet or chirpy as she usually is, or she gets injured or threatened in the field? much love and lots of kisses xoxo 🫶

Description: Spencer swore he wanted to hate her. She was too happy, too chirpy, too much for a guy who spent months rotting in prison. But how could he ever hate her when she cried in his chest like that?

Length: 5k (I'm feral for these two)

warnings: post prison reid. Angst. depiction of suicide from the Unsub. gory language used. guns mentioned. mention of $nuff video and other murders. Nothing that hasn't been done on CM already.

authors note: if y'all want to see more with these two just SAY because I am all ears I would die on this ship

There were a lot of times in his time at the BAU that Spencer had wished he could have changed the outcome of their bad guy, surprisingly enough. There was the time they found their UnSub a few minutes too late, and one of the victims fathers decided to take him out then and there with a shotgun to the head. He was just a kid. There was the entire time he was with Tobias Hankel, and he lived in a state of both fear and sympathy for the boy trapped in his own body after years of abuse. There was Nathan Harris, the kid who had stopped him at the subway station and practically begged him for help to stop his urges to murder, only to slit his own wrists before Spencer could get to him because he thought he was tainted. 

He could see how it was easy in their job to get wrapped up in saving the day, in saving everyone they could. He just had hoped, on some stupid grace of a god he didn’t even believe in, that she would have at least remained untouched by the bad luck. 

Spencer had always thought, since the first day he had arrived back into the office after his stint in prison, that she seemed to just waltz through life easier than anyone else. He knew the concept of luck was not quantifiable, that it was just a coincidence that good things happened to some people, and bad things happened to others. He always grouped himself in with the latter, because what was his entire life if not one bad hand of cards after another?

Part of him had been seething with vitriol jealousy when he first met her. He hated how the elevator doors seemed to open without hesitation for her, no waiting required. He hated how her hair never seemed to fall out of place, while his required primping and preening to upkeep. He hated how she was always so happy, whether it had been she’d been given an extra cookie at the bakery for free, or her coffee had just tasted super delicious that morning, or the road works clogging the city had been put on hold the one day she needed to drive into the office. She was one of those people, he had decided, that life just seemed to smile down upon, and she beamed back in that dazzling grin. 

He felt sick to his stomach for ever wishing it gone, especially when she looked like she might never smile again. 

They never liked to say that they had easy cases and hard ones, all of their cases were difficult to process. But this one had been a handful above the rest. 

“UnSub has been killed on site, all units stand down,” Luke said into the radio, and the entire squadron took a sigh of relief, all of them except him. 

Because he saw that look in her eye, the way everything sparkly about her seemed to have vanished.

They had been following Bobbie Wrids for a week. Five bodies in, five men shot between the eyes execution style, almost six by the time they’d arrived on the scene. 

She’d gone with Tara around the front of the abandoned building; Penelope tracked their newest victim, Henry Frond, through his phone pinging off the nearest satellite towers, and it had been straight forward from there. Or at least it should have been. 

Because by the time Spencer and Luke arrived in their own SUV, Penelope had time to access the rest of Henry’s phone, and it was clear to see the victimology behind all six men. 

They were distributing snuff videos of women, some between themselves, some to other usernames on the darkweb, and Bobbie Wrids’ daughter had been one of them.

Bobbie had become somewhat of a vigilante, but he was a grieving father above all. He was a wounded animal chomping at the bit to soothe the ripping pain of his daughter's murder, the same one those men were getting off to. 

Tara and her exchanged a glance as Penelope relayed the information over their headsets, her once serious expression falling into something sombre and sorrowful. How could she arrest a man she couldn’t help but feel sorry for, one she couldn’t help but think wasn’t entirely wrong in his actions. 

“Bobbie Wrids,” Tara’s voice was stern, cutting through the silence of the desolate building. Their footsteps were careful as they made their way through the hallway, down to what had once been a rec-room, or perhaps a staff room, where they knew Bobbie had Henry, “This is the FBI, we’d like to talk,” 

They heard nothing, and she looked up to the older woman hesitantly, her finger hovering over the trigger the way Spencer had taught her. Tara took a minute, knowing she was leading the charge here with the girl being so inexperienced, before she nodded to the door knob and the rookie twisted the handle, pushing the peeling wood open gently. 

Bobbie Wrids stood in the centre of the room, moth eaten couches either side of the damp rug, the ceiling tiles half caved in from wear and tear. Henry Frond was already a pulp in the UnSub’s arms, and yet it was Bobbie that her eyes shot to first, sympathy shooting through every fibre of her being when she saw the distraught look on the father’s face. 

He was grieving. He was grieving his little girl’s death. He was looking for a solution, and this seemed to be his best bet. 

“Bobbie,” Her voice was shaky, her and Tara frozen in the doorway as the man brought the pistol to Henry’s beaten face, cocking it towards his temple before they could even explain themselves. “We’re going to come in, is that okay? We just want to talk, just let us talk-”

They had only edged closer by three paces between them as she was speaking before his knuckles turned white and he squeezed the gun tighter to Henry’s skin, the barrel contorting the flesh, “Don’t come any closer, this pig isn’t worth your mercy,”

“We know,” She said, her and Tara slowly stepping over a fallen ceiling tile, cracking under her boot as she met his desolate gaze for the first time, his head snapping to her. “We know what he did, Bobbie. What they all did.”

His throat bobbed, his bottom lip quivering and the sight of it, a man so broken, forced a frog into her oesophagus, and she willed herself not to cry. 

“They hurt my little girl,” Bobbie choked out, his face turning mauve as the tears began to build behind his eyes, “She was my girl. She was only eighteen.” 

She nodded, his wetted hues seemingly permissive when she stepped closer to where he held Henry hostage. 

“I know, I’m so sorry for what happened to her,” She said, her voice croaky, unstable as she wrenched it into something audible, “I’m so sorry,” 

“He doesn’t deserve mercy, none of them did,” Bobbie spat, his forearm crushing against Henry’s trachea in a vice-like grip. The man floundered, a wheeze coming from his lungs, not that she felt much sympathy for him. 

She sprung into action, flicking her gun onto safety and holstering it, Tara doing the same as she lowered her weapon to her side. He profiled as a vigilante; he had no reason to hurt them. 

“Bobbie, listen, I know they didn’t deserve to walk free, okay?” She said, taking the smallest step towards where the men stood, “But she wouldn’t want this for you, would she?”

The man flinched, his jaw hard as a rock with how he clenched his teeth together, as if holding back a sob. 

“Come on, Bobbie. Let him go, we have enough evidence to get him sentenced. We can get you a plea deal, I know a good lawyer,” She begged, because she wasn’t beneath it, because she knew he was a good man backed into a corner, “Please,”

Maybe it was the way her eyes were soft when she looked at him, or the fact two more agents burst into the room from the hallway, Spencer’s eye immediately falling to where she was stood so close to their UnSub, her gun out of hand. Tara stood by, but that wasn’t good enough for him. He edged with light footsteps until he was behind her, his gaze cautious, never leaving the gun in Bobbie’s hand. 

“Please,” She repeated, and Spencer saw Bobbie’s shoulders drop, every sliver of resolve draining from his body at her gentle tone, a deer approaching a hunter. 

Henry was thrown to the floor, the man practically dead weight as he gasped, almost retching at the feeling of air sucking back into his chest frantically, and Luke and Tara were quick to wrestle him into cuffs, the woman reading him his Miranda rights. 

Spencer almost made a grab for her then, because she was still creeping forward towards the man who had a loaded gun still live in his hand. He didn’t care for one second that the statistics said Bobbie wouldn’t lay a hand on her since she wasn’t part of his list. He didn’t care that every sign pointed to their UnSub being benevolent towards women, especially younger ones, that she fit his daughter’s description. Spencer didn’t care, he wanted her as far away from that gun as possible. 

His heart lurched into his throat when Bobbie did in fact make a lunge for her, just not the way he’d feared. Because she had grabbed him. She’d pulled him into an embrace, a hug, kind and sweet as she always was. 

Spencer cursed her for being so soft. It was going to get her killed. 

“Agent,” His voice was terse, worried if you dug a little deeper than the sharp surface, but she didn’t listen to him. She held Bobbie tight as the man unravelled on her shoulder, falling into heart breaking sobs and it was then Spencer realised she was crying with him. 

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay,” She was shushing him, the killer, reassuring him he was safe, as if the killing thing wasn’t still between his fingers that clutched at her back with rough hands. 

“They killed my girl, they took her from me, and then they laughed about it,” He wailed, and she nodded, squeezing him even tighter if that was so possible, “No one would listen, the police didn’t listen, I had to do something,”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” This was wrong. She wasn’t supposed to be sympathising with the criminals. But she couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help the gasping urge to comfort the man who had lost his whole world, “I’m listening. Tell me about her,” 

“She was so beautiful,” Bobbie whimpered, sniffling into her shoulder. Spencer felt his chest twinge at the scene. He hated that she was so soft. “She never hurt a soul,”

She cried with him, though hers were choked down as much as she could get them, her wet cheeks the only proof she had ever let them slip. 

“I’m sorry,” She said again, because no matter how many times she repeated those two little words, it would never bring his daughter back, “I can help you,”

He pulled away from her shoulder, and it was only then that Bobbie Wrids even noticed Spencer, his face taut in anxiety as he watched the man’s hands still holding onto her body as if she was the only thing that kept him upright, which Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. 

He fished the cuffs out of his back pocket, his finger never leaving the trigger as he stared down at their UnSub cautiously. He knew he may be being cruel, knew that ten years ago he would be just as caring as her. But that Spencer was long gone. And what remained was screaming in terror that she was in the line of danger, that she was holding the danger in her bare hands like she didn’t see the jeopardy she was putting herself in. 

Bobbie pulled away to look at her, the creases around his eyes deep chasms, and even with the smattering of grey hair, the stubble, the cold, empty look of someone with nothing left, she thought he might have been a handsome man once. He looked at her with a ghost of a smile, and one of his callused hands came up to tuck her hair behind her ear as if it had been second nature to him for eighteen years. 

“You’re a sweet girl,” He murmured, and she blinked at him, her chest easing at the way his wails had subsided into something quiet. She could help him, she swore she would help him. He was a good man beneath it all. “But no one can help me anymore, sweet girl,”

And with that he lifted the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger.

—

She heard someone scream before she realised it was coming from her own throat, but her ears were ringing and she couldn’t open her eyes. Her face was wet and hot, and for a second she thought it was tears, but she was beyond crying now. She felt arms pulling her back into a strong chest, and someone was murmuring to her, or perhaps they were speaking normally and the sound of the gunshot had knocked her hearing. Either way, it was like someone had pulled a bag over her head as she brought her shaking hands up to her eyes to wipe. 

She managed to crack her lids then when the sludge was gone, only to see the room still a blurry mess. She could make out, in the haze of blobs and crimson tint, Bobbie’s body slumped to the floor, a dark puddle seeping into the rug as those long arms tugged her out of the room. She only then looked down to her hands where she had rubbed her face and she caught the same claret plasma coating her fingers, her white shirt, her pants, her arms. It covered her head to toe. 

It was in her eyes, she realised when she saw the ichor coating her fingertips. It was blocking her vision, turning the world a vivid wine colour, and she thinks she whimpered, or perhaps it was a moan of horror seeing the puddle beneath Bobbie’s body growing larger by the second. 

“I don’t understand,” She said out loud, her head spinning, and she brought her fingertips up to her eyes again, maybe to get the blood out, god there was so much blood on her face, or maybe because she hoped to everything out there that she would clear her sight and find it all a terrible hallucination, the product of one too many nights of sleepless tossing. 

But when she rubbed her lids again, this time seeing the scene a little better, Bobbie was still dead. She had still been too late. 

“You’re in shock, you need to breathe,” A voice instructed her over her shoulder, and it was from the same person who had their hands around her waist, pulling her away from the crime scene, as CSI filed in from behind them. 

She tried pushing the arms off her, weak because she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t the horror in her stomach, and it took her a second before she listened to their words and realised she was holding a breath in her chest, the way a toddler does when they’re overwhelmed. 

“I don’t-” She gasped, the air rushing through her lungs, so fast it made her cough, “I don’t understand, I was going to help him- I don’t understand- why?”

“I know, just breathe for me, sweetheart,” Spencer. She only just realised it was Spencer speaking, because he had never called her that and the gentle tone he’d taken was nothing like his usual, civil cadence. He had been dropping a few jokes the past few weeks since she’d driven him home, had been more touchy feely with correcting her form when she was at the shooting range, had delicately touched the small of her back when they were navigating a crowd together. He was slowly cracking from his statuesque expression that hadn’t left his face since he’d gotten out of prison, but the softness with which he held her waist was entirely new. 

“Spencer, I don’t- I don’t get it,” She said, her voice bubbling into a sob as she allowed herself to be pulled away with no fight left in her. He took her into the hallway, turning her body from the sight of his hand lifeless on the floor with little to no effort. She was damn near limp in his arms, “Spencer, I don’t under-understand, I was going to h-help him, why would h-he do that-”

“Shhh, you need to breathe,” He murmured into her hair, trying to lead her out the front of the building and far away from where she’d just been front row seats to a messy suicide, “Come on, just breathe for me, baby, and then we can talk,”

But she wasn’t listening, and he wasn’t offended. Spencer knew it was the shock. He knew the symptoms by how her respiratory system had picked up in a matter of seconds and it was like she had gone from zero to a hundred. She let out a long whine, tears collecting the blood on her lash line and her chest seized into action, gulping down air, too short to do anything for her lungs, and her legs began to buckle beneath the two of them. 

Spencer stopped in the hallway, realising she was in more shock than he must have thought. He knew she was sensitive, hell it was one of his favourite things about her. He knew she felt everything so deeply, burned too easily, like a daisy wilting in a dry heat, or candyfloss melting in his mouth. Spencer knew, as awful as watching death up close was for any agent, it would hit her hardest of all of them. 

He moved around to her front, his hands migrating from her waist up to her shoulders, brushing over her upper arms soothingly. But her body felt numb, her head felt heavy, and her eyes were glazed over, down a rabbit hole entirely away from him, even when one of his hands cupped her wetted cheek gently. 

“Just breathe, hey, look at me,” He tried a firmer tone, and she bent to his will too easily. It was a punch in the gut seeing everything shining and pretty leached out of her eyes, as if she had become soulless in a matter of minutes, as if she had lost all hope in the world the second Bobbie pulled that trigger. She looked like hell, blood still fresh on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared around her eye sockets where she had scrubbed so hard to get it off her skin, “You need to calm down, you’re going to faint if you don’t breathe,”

She nodded, or something close to it, her eyes falling down to the floor, and she seemed to wrestle for control over her chest then. But what came after was worse, Spencer thought. Her brows screwed together, her eyes welling up with more of those fat tears, and her lips dropping into a devastated pout, her eyes trailing over the mess on her uniform, on her hands. 

“Spencer, I don’t understand, I tried to help him, I wanted to help him,” She sobbed, sniffling to herself miserably, and he barely even thought about it when he pulled her into his chest, not caring that her skin would dirty his shirt. 

His hand wound into her hair, stroking her sweetly as she buried her wails into his vest. He used his other arm to pull her close to him, which she seemed to have zero qualms about as she clawed at his back to keep him close, as if she didn’t want to face what was going to happen when they left that building. 

Spencer regretted ever thinking her sunshine was too bright for him. 

–

She hadn’t smiled in a whole week. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had given Penny a very forced smile when she had fussed over the younger woman the first day she got back, had said thankyou with downcast eyes and a fragile grin when the blonde presented her with a framed picture of a puppy to keep on her desk ‘incase she needed something nice to think about,’

She hadn’t looked at it once, because they both knew it wouldn’t do anything, no matter how much she pretended for Penelope’s sake that she would put it to good use. 

He had taken her out for coffee on him that first day, but by the time they had got to the front of the queue, he had been doing almost all of the talking, which had become rare nowadays since he had come home from Mexico. Usually, it had been her filling the silences, because he knew in her right mind she hated the sound of static nothingness, she found it awkward and unnecessary when she could talk to anyone without thinking about it too hard. 

They had got to the desk, the barista smiling up at him as he ordered his usual, before he turned to look at her as the woman serving asked her what she would like. But she wasn’t listening, she was watching out the window, nothing particularly invigorating beside a bird cleaning its feathers on top of a stop sign. 

He said her name, putting his hand on her back and her head whipped around, her eyes empty as they looked up at him expectantly, “What do you want to drink?” 

She blinked, waking herself from a stupor, and looked at the barista with an embarrassed expression, “Hot chocolate, please,” 

And that was all she really had to say until lunch rolled around, and she excused herself to head home early. Emily smiled at her reassuringly, her eyes wary as she watched their happy-go-lucky rookie head for the elevators with a desolate look in her eyes. 

Spencer hoped she would come around on her own, or maybe even be brave enough to talk to someone about the thoughts rattling around that head of hers, but she just didn’t. She stayed as silent as possible, only ever speaking when spoken to, asking Emily if she could finish off her reports at home, to which the Prentiss woman never protested. 

But Spencer had had enough. He’d worried himself sick over her, and where all thoughts of how endearing and lovely and charming she was had sat in his head before, now it was all just ways he could think to make her smile again. 

It was the following Tuesday by the time he braved action. She had gone home after their midday briefing, apologising to Emily with tired eyes that seemed to be growing more and more heavy by the day, like she hadn’t slept a wink in a fortnight. Which Spencer thought was entirely possible. 

He pulled up to the house Penelope had not so discreetly told him was hers, definitely not because he’d asked, and definitely, definitely not breaching any human resource policies about distributing fellow workers information (meaning Spencer had almost certainly not begged Penelope for the address with those puppy eyes of his he knew could bag him anything). 

The peonies in the window bays were wilting but her house was something out of a fairytale. He wasn’t sure why he was really so surprised. It screamed her, everything about it, from the toadstool post box to the little green, cast iron bench that sat in the garden, the metal forged to look like florets of ivy holding the sitter upright. 

He rapped the brass knocker, the metal cold under his long fingers. Brushing invisible dirt off his shirt, he hoped she would answer as the present squirmed at his feet. 

“Just a second,” He hushed, and as if she heard him, the front door swung open to reveal her bare face he hadn’t seen since he’d helped her wipe the blood from her skin in the back of the ambulance. 

She looked at him with furrowed brows, before they quickly shot to the floor, to her cobbled pathway that had clicked under his shoes, and her face washed with a shock. 

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She crouched to her knees, a slobbery lick immediately meeting her cheek as the Spaniel rubbed his wet nose up to her ear, sniffing her unique smell, as if it was a bag of Class A’s, “I never knew you had a dog,” 

“I don’t,” He replied, kneeling with her to ruffle the soft fur behind the canine’s ear, “This is Ace. He retired from the Bomb Unit a month ago and Penelope sent me his handler’s number. They said he’s the happiest dog in the world,” 

 “I would be too if I stopped so many people from blowing up,” She said, but before he could ask what she meant exactly by that, Ace had jumped up and attacked her entire face with kisses as if he too thought that statement was worth silencing. 

And she laughed. She laughed louder than she had in days, weeks, her eyes crinkling in joy as the little pink tongue stole away her sorrow, tickled away the traces of the blood that had tainted her skin. 

Spencer smiled, his eyes watching her face scrunch in a squeal, hands eventually coming up to the elderly dog’s jowls to gently push him down. 

“Oh, you are the sweetest guy,” She said, and the words had him tugging at the leash to lick her all over again, “Yes you are, you’re the sweetest little guy around, huh?” 

She chuckled, scratching down the mutt’s neck, and her eyes flicked back up to Spencer, who watched her with more intent than she’d realised. 

“Petting and receiving affection from pets causes spikes in serotonin in our brain and reduces anxiety, did you know that?” Spencer said, Ace pushing his muzzle into the palm of her hand to prove a point. 

Her smile wavered slightly, and she looked at his hazel hues that seemed to see right through her, “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately, I just can’t sleep at the moment-”

 “Don’t apologise,” He cut in, though his tone was kind, and the two of them stood back up to their full height, “What happened was horrifying, even some of the longest serving agents I know would struggle seeing that,” 

She scoffed, unusually pessimistic coming out of her mouth, “You wouldn’t,”

His head tilted, not quite understanding what she meant, because she hadn’t sounded cruel when she said it. Then again, he didn’t think she was actually capable of that emotion. 

She looked at him, a flash of something vulnerable in her eyes, something like that day he’d held her in the hallway; too fast he almost missed it.

“You’re so brave, Spencer, you’re like invincible. I mean, you survived prison and your mom getting kidnapped and you bounced straight back to work like it was nothing. I can’t even watch a murderer die without spiralling out of control,” She huffed, rubbing the bridge of her nose and before he could respond on just how wrong she was, before he could tell her that that was exactly the opposite of what had happened because he had damn near changed every inch of himself in prison to stop himself from breaking, he caught her murmuring and he thought he might just have been punched all over again, “I wish I was like you,”

His jaw clenched, eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he stepped towards her, and her head shot to him, worried she may have said the wrong thing by mentioning everything that had happened, everything Pen had specifically said was a touchy subject, and she opened her mouth to apologise. 

“Do you know how unbelievably glad I am that you are nothing like me?” Spencer said, his voice bordering on furious and her fumbled for a reply, worried she had truly pissed him off. 

She wouldn’t blame him for hating her. She’d always worried, until perhaps that day they’d gotten into her car and she’d driven him home, that her very essence annoyed him. 

“I’m sorry-” She started, but he shook his head.

“Stop apologising,” He said, his hand reaching up to grab where her fingers tugged together nervously, his hold featherlike, his face softening when he saw her expression, “I don’t want you to be anything like me. I like you just how you are,” 

She sighed, eyes doe like with emotion as she looked at him, “Really?”

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile as she seemed to glow under his words, “Yes, really.” Spencer allowed himself to enjoy the way that the twinkle returned to her expression when he smiled at her with something almost like the old Spencer in him, before he cleared his throat, “We all like you. Everyone on the team likes how you are,”

She paused, nodding to herself as if knocking herself out of a silly daze, and Ace bounced on his hind legs trying to get her attention again. 

“You don’t think I’m too sensitive?” She asked, holding her palm out for the dog to nuzzle at with that wet nose of his. 

Spencer shook his head, “Sensitive is good. It means you feel something. Means you feel the good things deeper too,” 

Her smile was blinding, because she’d never thought of it that way before, and she looked like her old self again. Spencer wasn’t stupid enough to think she was never going to think about Bobbie again, he still thought about that first UnSub he’d tried to save. He still thought about Tobias Hankel. He thought about them all. 

But he was going to make sure she never turned into him. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself if she did. He’d protect her sunlight even if it burned him to know he could never have her the way he wanted. Because she was everything good, and he was him. 

She looked down at Ace, the life returning to her as she stood aside for the two of them to enter her house, “Tea?”

Yep. Spencer felt something run hot knowing she would always be out of reach. Didn’t stop him from thinking about it, though. 

[fear-is-truth]

mature content ; mdni

˖˚⊹ 𝓙’s note: post-prison spence is just sooo pent-up but also touch-starved during sex, someone sedate me pls

after everything, he’s finally back, and it’s almost unreal having him here again. spencer’s different now, though. prison’s left its mark on him.

maybe he thinks you’re the only part of him left that feels unsullied. he’s quieter, more intense, less of the nervous, endearing man who fumbled with his words and shyly avoided your gaze. instead, his eyes are locked on you, never drifting when he’s fucking you.

almost as if he’s lost pieces of himself in those walls and found something else he hadn’t known was there.

there’s a possessiveness to him now that wasn’t there before. the old spence was gentle, careful, almost timid in how he’d reach for you. but now, he is ravenous. even when the two of you were connected in the most physically intimate way possible—with him grinding his pelvis against yours and burying himself into the deepest parts of you, somehow it’s still not enough. his hands are tracing greedily across the planes of your skin, the curve of your spine, relearning the lines of your body. mapping you in a way that feels both familiar and foreign.

sometimes, the spencer you knew surfaces. his hips stutters—that tale-tell throb accompanied by the catch of his breath, you can feel the tremors running through his entire body as he clings to you, pressing his face into your shoulder. when you thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, he lets out a broken whimper as he spills himself inside of you.

there are also moments when you catch a glimpse of something darker in his eyes, a hardness that wasn’t there before. it unsettles you just as much as it thrills you, but even with that edge, he’s still your boy. your spence.

[ozzgin]

I would drop the soap in yandere prison

I know what you're thinking, but you (sadly) don't have to worry about that. You've got your own personal bodyguards to protect your precious bottom.

"Christ," you shout, covering your privacies. "What on Earth are you doing?"

Your eyes freeze towards the floor, too afraid to look up at the glistening men, standing proud in all their glory and fencing you against the wall.

"We have to make sure you're safe."

"Safe? I was the only one in here!"

Another successful day of ensuring your cheeks won't be clapped by anyone else.

[Yandere Prison] | [More Yandere Stories]

[inkdrinkerworld]

hi! Could I land of snow with sunshine!reader and post prison!spencer and "you know you didn't have to get me anything.." please?

“You know you didn't have to get me anything.” Spencer says as you place the neatly wrapped gift on his desk.

“It’s your first Christmas back, I thought it would be nice to end the year better.” You say almost shyly to him but you really mean it.

Spencer looks up at you in shock and a little bit of adoration. He’s got a look in his eyes, it makes your heart race a little.

“You have to open it but if you hate it don’t tell me.”

Spencer doesn’t think he could hate anything you get him. Or anything you do if he’s honest with himself.

You’d wormed your way into meaning a lot to him in a few short months, and your friendship right now makes his days a lot more fun.

“I won’t hate it.” He assures you, pulling the gift closer to him.

It’s wrapped expertly and Spencer decides then he’s keeping the gift tag in his drawer. Your handwriting is scrawling, loopy and very pretty- just like you.

Spencer opens the gift delicately, and the gasp he lets out makes your nibble at the corners of your fingers.

“You got me original versions of The Odyssey and The Iliad?”

“As original as I could’ve found. I know you have the Emily Wilson translations,”

Spencer nods, “The best ones.” You share that sentiment wholeheartedly.

“So I thought this one would be nice to have too. They’re translations to English on the page beside the Greek. I thought you could compare them with the Emily Wilson ones.”

Like Spencer, you ramble a little when you’re excited or nervous, this time it would be the latter.

“Thank you.” He’s earnest as he says it, heart beating a little faster when you smile down at him. “I’ll read them over the weekend and tell you how they compare.”

Just then Emily comes down to the bullpen, “We have a case. Pack warm, we’re heading to Washington.”

You give Spencer another smile and he feels like he’s won the lottery. “Maybe on the plane ride back you can squeeze a bit of light reading in.”

Spencer thinks of it and if it’ll get you to sit next to him while he does it, he will. “Maybe.”

[nugulover69]

Sounds like Cardassians would like howcatchems more than whodunits

Would Cardassians like Columbo? now that's a question worth pondering