#all might x fem!reader

[owuwi]

cw: porn w/o plot, sub!jinx, top!afab!reader, one slap (jinx receiving), drooling, squirting, TOO SHORT

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jinx is the type of girl who's just too fucking obsessed with you in every single possible way.

no matter what she's doing, you're always on her mind—your soft whispers being the only voice she accepts in her mind, your figure the only shadow she loves to see.

she's not afraid to show who she really is with you, not when she knows you're nothing but supportive; so she's not shy to act like a bitch in heat when you fuck her.

the sight of the blue-haired girl's tongue lolled out as you slide your thick strap in and out of her tight pussy was one that deserved to be in the filthiest porn video possible—maybe one day you'd record her and make her witness the mess you always turn her into.

she uses her own drool that's now dribbling down her chest as moisture to play with her perky, pink nipples; thin and shaky fingers harshly pulling on the hardened buds as you thrust into her with a torturous pace.

with your slow yet deep movements, it doesn't take the girl long before she spaces out—in a good way—. the sinful sounds her needy cunt makes as you fuck her are louder than her moans, which is definitely quite surprising for the both of you, though it only makes her get even more lost on the pleasure you're providing her.

the firm yet gentle smack of your hand against her pale cheek is what pulls her out of her daydreaming, magenta eyes opening to meet your own gaze. "focus on me.." your rough voice only serves to make her wetter —the light sting your palm burned in the side of her face being the reason why she gushes against your strap, soaking the towel beneath her cute ass.

as she rides out her orgasm, she's not shy to buck against the length of your cock; broken whines and whimpers leaving her chapped lips, painted nails desperately scratching over your back.

to say jinx isn't shy is an understanding.

[stellewriites]

simon is a he/him lesbian in this fic. he’s a gender nonconforming cis woman & prefers using a masc name and pronouns

huge thank you to woolie, birdy, gougie, báir & three for being so encouraging and helping me with this fic and to kitty for making all of my oc names as always :3

this is a love letter to butches <33

Riley (he/him), 31, female.

Looking for a roommate ASAP. DM for details, don’t fuck me about.

you’d found the post on an online forum asking for a roommate and hadn’t hesitated to reach out immediately when you saw you were in the same city. your current roommate was only a few weeks away from moving in with her boyfriend, which would leave you with an apartment you couldn’t afford on your own.

although the post left everything to the imagination, the options for roommates were slim pickings and the single room apartments on the market were no cheaper, meaning you were getting desperate.

after a brief back and forth online with riley, he explained that his own roommate was moving out which was why he was looking for someone new to fill the spot. the apartment was cheap for the area - not that he told you where it was- and you’d have your own bedroom but you’d share the living room and kitchen, there were two small bathrooms, and storage in the shallow loft since it was the top floor apartment.

standard stuff but it sounded perfect.

riley was a blunt texter, but you assumed he’d maybe had his fill of people messing him about so far and just wanted to get down to business and find a roommate before he was stuck in the same position as you; paying double rent for a place that wasn’t worth it, digging into savings to stay afloat.

after covering whether you smoked (quit last year), had any pets (allergic), or liked frequent house parties (too shy), he offered to meet up to go into more detail about the place and you’d jumped at the chance, naming a cafe you liked to frequent near your work.

you weren’t sure what you’d been expecting when you arrived and found a table near the window - or more accurately, what you’d been picturing riley to look like - but you’d had to school your features into something less flustered when a tall woman in a baggy hoody and a pair of black work out shorts walked in and bee-lined for your corner.

as he walked your eyes glued themselves to his nike shorts as they rose up his thighs, indecently tight, showing off the thick muscle covered in a smattering of soft, unshaven hair, light enough that it glistened in the afternoon light. as he got closer you noticed a smattering of scars leading up his shins to his knees and stretch marks curving around the inside of his thighs.

you felt the urge to reach out and touch when you felt the weight of his own gaze taking you in for the first time.

“riley?” you’d asked hesitantly, when you finally managed to lift your head up to face him, cheeks ablaze. beneath his hood you could see that the scars continued on his face; almost prominently one ran from mid chin through his lips and up his cheek, another, smaller but thicker, ran from his hairline to two inches down his forehead slightly off centre.

you were mesmerised.

“prefer simon,” he’d corrected but nodded, his voice lighter than you’d expected but thickly accented.

he pulled down his hood with a scant look around the cafe to reveal a short cropped haircut, a little shaggy at the top. he took the seat opposite you and you sat up straight when your knees bumped accidentally. you snatched your legs back beneath your chair and clenched your thighs tightly together as the warmth of his bare skin throbbed through your jeans.

christ what was wrong with you? you had the attention of one hot, tall butch and suddenly you were a bag of nerves and fumbling all over the place. get it together.

“oh! yeah ok, cool,” you said and tried to smile normally. “simon.��

“not what you were expecting?” he asked wryly.

“uhm, no,” you admitted with an embarrassed little huff. “not exactly; i don’t really know what i was expecting though to be fair.”

“want to back out? no ‘ard feelings,” simon offered indifferently. guarded.

“no! no, i’m still very interested,” you insisted, biting your cheek when he raised an eyebrow at you in amusement. “i ordered already, uhm. got here a little early after work so i figured why not? i just got you a latte, i should’ve maybe asked.”

you felt wrong footed in front of his confidence. his legs were spread wide beneath the table, feet planted on the outside of yours and suddenly this felt less like a first meeting for a roommate and instead like your ideal first date.

you looked over at the counter and tapped your leg impatiently when you couldn’t see your drinks.

“that’s nice of ya.”

“i wanted to make a good first impression if we’re gonna be roomies,” you joked.

“mm.” he looked you up and down. “you messy?”

“excuse me?”

“i like to keep the place clean. deal breaker if you’re messy, it’s why soap had to move out.”

“soap? i don’t— yeah, i’m clean. tidy. i can keep my shit tidy,” you insisted. a waitress brought your drinks over on a tray and you thanked her quietly.

he smiled. “good, then this should be fine.” his foot tapped yours under the table. “relax. you said you came here after work?”

“yeah, i work nearby. sales calls, nothing interesting,” you shrugged and took a big sip. “pay is shit, but it covers half of the bills. what about you?”

“construction,” he said simply and your eyes drifted without permission to his hands wrapped around his mug then up to his arms hidden beneath his hoody.

“nice,” you choked out, visions of simon in a sweaty tank top throwing back a sledge hammer, not at all helping with the heat on your face and between your legs. “long hours?”

“sometimes,” he conceded. “s’why i asked about parties. don’t need to be coming home from work to an ‘ouse full’a dick’eads.”

you snorted.

“i can promise no house parties. well, maybe one around my birthday but i mean does inviting four people around for pizza really count as a house party?”

simon squinted his eyes playfully. “guess i can allow a little leniency here and there.”

you grinned behind your cup.

“what about your own friends? they swing by often?”

“not if i can help it,” simon huffed, a smile pulling at his scarred lip as you chuffed a surprised laugh. “tend to go to gaz’s or price’s house if his bird in’t home.”

the idea of a bunch of lads around the flat wouldn’t have necessarily been a deal breaker, but it was a relief to know it wasn’t going to be often regardless.

the pair of you stayed long enough to order a second drink while you discussed rent prices, tenancy agreements, and simon showed you photos of the area it was in.

“can show you the place now if you don’t need to head home yet?” he’d offered. “not too far to walk from here. could get an idea of the place and see if it fits.”

you’d nodded eagerly and followed him a couple of blocks away to a cosy, hidden away flat near the centre of town. you were surprised it was as cheap as he’d said given the location, but when the water refused to get hot in the kitchen sink when he went to wash a singular mug you soon caught on.

“boiler goes every other month, but i know how to fix it,” he’d said with a sigh, popping the kettle on instead. “taps, radiators ‘n shower all go cold.”

you winced, but it wasn’t enough to put you off. “landlord refuses to get it sorted?”

“landlord doesn’t answer my texts or calls anymore, think he got pissy w’me after i complained about him doin’ fuck all about the single glazed windows to the council few winters back.” you pursed your lips in order to not laugh but simon saw your expression and shrugged unrepentant. “arsehole needed tellin’, di’nt he?”

“i think this place will be perfect,” you settled on saying. you looked out of the nearest window and noted the working locks; the traffic was loud outside but you’d always preferred the constant buzz to send you off to sleep, the few times you’d been camping you’d not slept a wink in the silence.

he told you about the few other residents and explained the shortcuts you could take to get to work or for the shops and by time simon had finished giving you the tour of the place - a deceptively long space towards the back, hiding its double bathroom and bedrooms - you’d noticed it had gotten dark outside. when he noticed your furtive glance however, simon offered to drive you home without a second thought.

and again, not thirty minutes later when you were about to climb out of his truck with one last deep breath of his cologne, he offered to help you move in next week.

if that works for you, he’d said.

you’d started packing as soon as you got inside.

the only issue with moving in with simon - an issue you’d only noticed after having lived together for 6 months already, an issue your friends had to point out to you - was that the dating pool in manchester suddenly seemed a little drab. a little pathetic.

“i really don’t think si has anything to do with the fact that i can’t find anyone i’m interested in when we go out anymore, i think it makes more sense that all the hot women are just no longer single now,” you’d laughed when your friend had suggested it.

sure you thought simon was insanely hot, and that opinion had only solidified after spending the last half a year with him; seeing him braless more often than not beneath his muscle shirts when he lounged around the flat on his off days, pressing closer than necessary after a shower when you tried to pass by in the hallway, working out in the living room grunting and groaning as he hit his push-up goal, sweating and stretching obscenely as you tried to keep your eyes respectfully locked on your phone or the tv.

you were well aware that simon was sexy but more importantly off limits, so you didn’t let it affect your dating life. or so you thought.

“doesn’t help that you barely come out on a night with us,” emma pouted. “even less now that you hang out with simon most evenings.”

“when was the last time you hooked up with someone? even just kissed someone?” ash asked before you could defend your lack of social life, their eyebrow raised as if to prove their point.

you sighed. it had been a while, and taking care of things by yourself wasn’t really working out too well. simon always seemed to come home just when the frustration peaked enough for you to grab your vibrator, and you knew from the girls he’d taken home in the first few months that the walls were in fact thin enough to hear everything. with gritted teeth and wet panties, you always had to put it back in your drawer and wait for another day for some ‘me time’.

quotas for no nut november were being accidentally exceeded so much so that you were heading into catholic nun absolution. it was almost mid may; you needed to find someone to break you out of your funk sooner than later. get over by getting under or whatever.

“we’re not trying to guilt you into coming out with us,” emma added kindly, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. “we know you don’t always like the crowd and that’s fine. but we just want you to be getting the dick or pussy that you deserve.”

you snorted and rolled your eyes. “what do you suggest then?”

emma shared a look with ash. “well…”

it hadn’t taken much more convincing from your friends to set up an account for you on tinder after that.

you spent some time on your profile, trying to find the right blend of funny but not too snarky, sexy but still approachable. it was a nightmare but the thought of getting your tits kissed and played with by someone else after almost half a year was enough to keep you on track. you just needed to focus and get it done.

——

as you walked back to your flat with ash after grabbing lunch together, you flicked through the options in your area.

“oh, she’s cute!” ash scrolled through the photos before cackling. “she’s funny too, listen, ‘if you google top places to eat out in the city, i’m the number one spot. better make your reservation quick’.”

you laughed. “oh that’s bad, si would find that funny.”

ash sent you a deadpan stare before going back to the profile. “so swiping right?”

you hummed and glanced at the phone again. “i don’t know, i don’t think she’s my type.”

“the last ten profiles ‘haven’t been your type,’ admit you’re just being picky,” ash pointed out.

“i’ve got standards is all,” you huffed. “i’m not just going to say yes to everyone.”

“she was exactly what you normally go for; strong build, blonde and funny in a dumb way according to the bio, aka you catnip,” they said. “hell, i’m surprised she’s not one of your exes.”

“fuck you,” you laughed and elbowed them. “i don’t even have a type, i don’t know why i said that.”

“oh please,” ash guffawed. “i can and will list the many attributes your exes all share if i have to.”

you sent them a scathing look and they held up their hands in defeat, a smug smile ruining their supposedly conceding pose.

“the only outlier was that weird austrian that i told you not to give the time of day to,” they continued. their face crumpled into a look of disgust, nose wrinkled and eyes pained. “could tell as soon as he opened his mouth that he doesn’t wash his dick.”

you pouted and ground your teeth in a grimace, unable to disagree on any count. he was certainly a lapse in judgement, you wouldn’t deny it.

“i’m just not feeling it, ash. i don’t want to waste her time when i don’t see the attraction. it’s not fair on her.” you shrugged and took back your phone to swipe left. “maybe my type has changed.”

ash stayed quiet a moment, looking contemplative as you both continued walking.

“ok you have a point. there’s no need to waste people’s time, but - and hear me out - everyone on there is just treading water trying to figure out who they want to fuck. she might spend a week talking to you and then ghost,” ash explained.

“great, cheers for that,” you chuffed.

“you know what i mean,” they rolled their eyes. “everyone’s figuring out if they want to go on a date or jump in bed with each other on there, you’re not wasting anyone’s time by giving them a chance. let yourself be wooed.”

“‘wooed’, i’m not looking for a mr darcy,” you joked.

“then actually give these people a shot, it’s not like they’re looking for marriage either,” ash countered. “or maybe you’ve got a specific person in mind distracting you that you’re making unfair comparisons to.”

you glared as you entered the apartment building. “i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sniffed. you opened the app up again and bit your lip before swiping right on the first five profiles that appeared, showing your friend as you did. “there, happy?”

your phone buzzed and you looked down with wide eyes as all five accounts matched you back. the app directed you to the messaging centre and you looked at ash sheepishly.

“don’t you dare unmatch them,” they warned teasingly, pointing their finger at you with squinted eyes as you waited in the elevator. “go on a few dates and be spoiled for once. if nothing else, you get a good meal and some fresh air.”

you laughed as you finally reached your floor. you unlocked the door to your flat and dropped your coat on the back of a dining chair before slumping on the sofa with ash joining a second after sans their boots and coat.

“fine, fine. i’m on here for a reason, right? i might as well give them a chance,” you agreed a little reluctantly.

“give who a chance?” simon asked as he came from the back of the flat, passing through to the kitchen.

“my lovely bestie is finally on tinder,” ash said with a sharp grin aimed at simon. “hoping to find someone to fuck out the last six months of—“

“yeah thanks, ash! feel free to shut the fuck up, i don’t think simon cares about the details of my sex life,” you interrupted, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“no?” ash asked playing dumb. they pouted and turned back to simon. “my bad.”

you hadn’t noticed simon had grown reserved and quiet at ash’s outburst, too busy trying to save face and distract yourself with thinking of a decent opening message.

“and anyway, i’m just going a few dates first,” you corrected and looked at simon. “so don’t worry about me inviting anyone around to the flat or anything.”

simon nodded tersely before swallowing. “s’fine.” he looked shiftily over to the kitchen before moving to lean over the back of your seat, arms resting behind your head as he peered over your shoulder.

“show me,” he ordered softly. you shivered at the feel of his breath on your neck as he spoke and immediately opened the app again.

you chuffed an unimpressed laugh at the profile that popped up first. “‘want to surprise my boyfriend with a threesome for his birthday, any takers?’ jesus christ, the dating pool is so dire,” you whined.

simon chuckled behind you. “bloke looks like he’d barely be able to handle ya either, look at ‘im. he’d ruin his pants before you even took ya bra off.”

“at least i’d be able to concentrate on the girlfriend then,” you snickered along with him.

“nah, best you’d get from her is a bit o’ tongue for show,” simon said. “can tell by the profile ‘er heart’s not in it.”

you swiped left and simon was immediately ready to point out the failings of this profile too, and then again when you swiped left after laughing along, and again after that.

the way he leant over you blocked your friend from your view, but simon could see the knowing look ash was giving him directly in his peripheral, but he chose to ignore it. especially when he lowered one hand into your lap to start swiping left himself.

you let your free hand rise to play with simon’s long shirt sleeve before you suddenly took in his attire and frowned.

“why are you dressed for work?” you turned to sit on your knees facing the back of the sofa as he rose up to his full height to see him wearing his work trousers and steel-toe boots, his hi-vis vest tucked into his waistband.

“john rang, asked me to cover soap’s shift when he went home sick after lunch. i’ll be back from the lot later; might be late in the evening if i have to go grab a few things for ‘im from b&q before it closes for tomorrow,” he said, contrite.

you pouted heavy and exaggerated. “movie night’s cancelled? fuck you, john price.”

simon snorted, his scarred lip lifting at one side in obvious mirth. “i’ll tell ‘im y’said that, shall i?”

“fine with me, i’m not afraid of him,” you goaded.

“he’s ex military you know,” simon winced jokingly.

you rolled your eyes. “no duh. so are you.”

he hummed a low single note.

“and you wouldn’t let him touch a hair on my head, right si?” you continued shamelessly.

“i’d tell him there’s no point wasting time trying to teach you manners. any time i try to knock some sense into ya noggin it just echoes,” he huffed, holding back a smile as he tapped his knuckles on your crown for emphasis.

you swiped at his fist with a hiss.

“you can piss off to your job already then if you’re going to take the mick,” you laughed. you kept your hands to yourself otherwise, knowing better than to try and push him away after one too many failed attempts. his stomach was always firm enough to keep your best efforts from moving him, but topped with a thick and soft enough layer that it gave way beneath your prodding fingers and roaming palm.

“i’ll make it up t’ya. another night,” he promised lowly, bending down close again to whisper. as your pout lessened he nodded before heading out.

“wooow,” ash exaggerated and lengthened the word sarcastically as they sat watching you slump back to sit normally now that simon was gone. “it’s somehow worse than i thought.”

“hm?”

“does he always fold like a cheap suit when you flash the puppy dog eyes at him?” ash laughed.

“you’re seeing things, he literally just cancelled on me,” you argued and turned to the tv to channel surf. “are you staying for tea? think i’ve got the stuff in for a curry, could pirate that new horror with kyle gallner.”

ash rubbed at their chin. “don’t think i didn’t notice the subject change… but i’m listening.”

——

you got your movie night with si a few days later with the pair of you lounged on the couch, simon’s heavy, long legs draped across your lap as you waited for the take out you’d ordered to arrive.

your phone buzzed with a notification and simon perked up. “food here?”

you took a moment to respond, looking at your phone and tapping away for a second before shaking your head. “no, just a message.”

you phone buzzed again just before you could put it back down and you unlocked it again with a growing smile.

“oh, ‘s emma asking about dog sittin’ again?” he guessed.

“it’s not emma,” you said easily, without further detail, distracted by your phone.

before simon could ask, a knock at the door had him swinging his legs down and heading to grab the bag of food. he grabbed some cutlery from the kitchen on the way back before slumping heavily down next to you, spreading his thighs wide enough to press against yours.

he frowned when he saw you were still engrossed in your phone, a little secretive smile pulling at your lips. at the smell of the food you looked up and your eyes brightened, you put your phone back on the table and ignored it when it buzzed, helping simon instead, sitting back when you had your share and pressing play on your movie. when the phone buzzed twice more in quick succession you bit your lip and glanced at it.

“answer it,” simon said bitingly, having figured out who’d be messaging you by that point. the stupid, bloody app. “but tell ‘em you’re busy with a woman already.”

your eyes widened and you coughed out a surprised laugh. “si.”

“tell ‘em you’re not hanging out with ‘em next week either, you can’t make it. you’re busy with me instead,” he continued, the weight of his hooded gaze heavy and stifling.

“but i’m not busy, we don’t have plans next week,” you said weakly, confused.

simon huffed heavily through his nose. you’d almost think it was bordering on angry but for the entire time you’d known him, simon had never gotten angry at you, even when you accidentally shrunk his brand new sports bra on a too-hot wash.

you both tensed when your phone buzzed again.

“let me turn off my notifications,” you said and reached for the phone furtively. you skimmed your notifications and felt something bloom in your chest at the mention of a date from one of your matches, but you didn’t mention it to simon. “there we go, now we can focus on movie night,” you said with a grin, scooping another forkful of sweet & sour chicken into your mouth.

simon’s shoulders dropped and he nodded. he looked to your half empty glass and stood up. “want me to grab you another drink?”

you smiled, mouth closed and cheeks full of rice, and nodded as he chuckled. he turned away before the urge to poke your puffy cheeks won out and you accidentally spat rice out on the rug.

——

>> any new matches? 👀👀👀

you pursed your lips as you read the text from emma.

<< a few. might have a date next week

<< depends if she plays her cards right

>> lol is it the librarian or the electrician?

<< electrician. might give me mates rates if i ask her to check out the faulty leccy wiring in the flat :p

>> more like dates rates ;)

>> she was cute 😍 where’s the date?

<< she mentioned getting dinner, a new place that just opened up that she said was meant to be cool

>> the thai place? omgggg i’ve been meaning to go! give me ur review after pls and ty

>> and i mean the food, but any dirty deets are welcome too 👀👀

<< ???

<< i haven’t agreed to go yet

>> 🙄 girl…

>> what happened to giving them a chance, ash said you were on board

<< idk si was acting really weird the other day

<< he got really moody about it all, practically told me to fob it all off and just hang out with him instead

<< i think he’s worried

you had been watching a few murder documentaries lately, and one too many of them had started off as innocent dates or first meet ups that ended in tragedy.

>> i think he’s jealous

you stared at the text as your stomach flipped.

<< ???

>> he’s literallyyyy had a huge crush on u since forever

>> this is not news 😐

you scoffed but felt your stomach clench and hesitated to text back.

>> don’t believe me? just watch how he acts around you over the next few days and see if he does any of these repeatedly

emma sent a screenshot from a website listing ‘things she does if she likes you’ and you snorted. it felt trivial, like you were a teenager again, but you decided to play along.

<< fine. but he won’t.

you sent your quick affirmative back before putting your phone down and finishing your break.

the idea of simon liking you was an impossible one in your mind. simon had brought home women from the moment you’d moved in, it had never been a deterrent and he’d always said you were welcome to do the same as long as they didn’t stick around when he had a day off.

recently though, you thought, there’d been less and less women traipsing out of si’s room giggling and flushed, staring adoringly up at the tall butch woman. sadly, you knew exactly how good simon was in bed from the enthusiastic sounds of his previous partners over the months, so you couldn’t blame them for tripping over their feet as they were ushered towards the exit, an eager ‘call me, yeah?’ breathed out just before the door was closed forever.

that was another reason you’d never made a move. even if sometimes there had been moments where you had thought simon’s gaze lingered too long or his touch couldn’t be excused as just friendly; you couldn’t take being a one night stand. not with him, and not when you’d have to move out when your feelings inevitably bubbled over.

you bit your lip as you cooked that evening. simon was chopping the veg for your bolognese as you were left to watch over the pasta - last time you’d burnt it when you’d turned away and gotten distracted and you refused to let simon hold that over you for any longer.

“you know i can go stay at ash’s or with emma and her partner for a day or two if you want,” you offered out of the blue.

simon stopped cutting and looked at you.

“why the fuck would i want tha’?”

you swallowed. “i just noticed you haven’t had many people ‘round recently and thought maybe it was because i was home,” you said, barely meeting his eyes. “so i can make myself sparse for a few days, it’s no bother. i don’t mind.”

“i had johnny over just the other day,” simon said as though you might have forgotten. the boisterous scot had managed to fondly wiggle his way into gaining your friendship the few times he’d popped by for simon. “and gaz and the lads are all coming by next week. y’dont need t’ leave.” he went back to chopping though much more forcefully now, the chopping board dully thumping with each downward cut he made through the courgette.

“yeah… but what about other visitors?” you hedged. “the walls are thin, si, so i thought maybe you’d want the place to yourself again temporarily so you can—“

“no. i don’t want the place to m’self. i like havin’ you here, like hearing you move around in the night and in the mornings,” he interrupted without looking up. “you stay.” he paused for a moment, doubting himself even as you nodded along. “unless you want to go?”

“god no! no, i just thought i should offer,” you laughed a little awkwardly.

he frowned deeper.

“do you want me to go?”

you paused, you mouth flapping like a fish. this was an option you’d not considered. you noticed simon’s eyes grow more and more desperate, his grip on the veg in front of him tightening as he waited for your response.

“no. never, si,” you said.

he watched you a moment more before nodding. “good. wouldn’t have anyway.”

you snorted a laugh and looked back to the spaghetti, hissing when you saw it had stuck to the bottom of the pan. “shit.”

“…tell me you haven’t managed to burn it a second time.”

——

your conversation with simon reminded you of the article emma had sent you. it took less than a week to notice how differently simon acted with others in comparison to how considerate he was with you.

he made the effort to hold eye contact at the start of your conversations, and if you ever paused too long in your reply his eyes would flicker back up from where they’d drifted to his food or phone to check why. you’d never doubted he was always listening, but seeing it first hand reassured you that he was without fail. and it only highlighted, now that you looked for it, how closely he kept to himself when strangers tried to pick up a conversation with him, how he used as few words as possible on the off chance he did reply.

you wouldn’t hesitate to consider simon tactile, soft-handed and gentle. but you knew that was a privilege. the same with his smiles, spotted in flash of crooked teeth or the slow crinkle of his dark eyes paired with the pull of his scar on the occasion he wore his mask.

at your realisation, you began to check the list religiously each night in the safety of your bed as though trying to convince yourself that you hadn’t noticed the way simon mirrored your own behaviour. how he’d lean opposite you in the small kitchen, tilting his head a second after yours as you complained about work, boiling the kettle for a cuppa after a long day.

you’d pretend not to notice him on the phone twenty minutes later, cancelling going out with his friends, again, so he could stay with you while you relax for the weekend.

you found he’d swapped the brand of peanut butter you usually bought after the last one gave you a tummy ache without mentioning it, he’d asked about your grandad’s birthday even though you’d brought it up offhandedly weeks before, he let you run your hands through his hair near his scar when he napped on the sofa. the list went on.

but you’d already agreed to that date with the electrician.

——

“i don’t know if i’ve come down with something, my stomachs not right. i don’t think think i should go,” you complained as you got ready for your date, your phone propped up on your dresser with ash and emma’s faces on screen as you video called. “i feel queasy.”

“that’s just the nerves, you’ll be ok once you get there,” emma soothed.

“want us to meet you afterwards?” ash asked.

“maybe, yeah,” you hummed. “or maybe call me an hour in just in case it isn’t going well so i can have an excuse to leave?”

“how does ‘your long lost brother just woke from a coma and you’re the only one he remembers’ sound?” ash asked.

“dramatic enough for me to make my escape,” you laughed.

“you won’t need it,” emma reassured. “you’ll be too busy flirting and fawning over her muscles to even answer the phone.”

you laughed harder and the ache in your stomach faded ever so slightly as you pulled on your shoes and got ready to leave. simon was still at work, pulling some extra hours to get the job back on schedule after johnny’s time off, which meant the flat was empty as you left.

you bit your lip and headed to the restaurant, waving shyly from the entrance when you saw jessi, the electrician, already seated and waiting on you.

“hey, been here long?” you asked as you took your seat.

“barely five minutes,” she reassured you with an easy smile. “you look stunning, by the way. worth the wait.”

you thanked her, and took in her styled hair and half unbuttoned dress shirt from across the table. you felt a little underdressed in comparison but hid your insecurity when you smiled at her across the table.

“are you always this shy?” she asked when you stayed silent a beat too long, her grin turning sly and teasing.

you laughed a little self depreciatingly and shrugged. “it’s been a little while since i went on a date,” you admitted, butterflies starting to flutter at her sharp gaze.

“i’ll go easy on you then,” she promised and winked before handing you a menu. “what looks good to you?”

——

you’d thought the date was going fine, good, even. the thought of leaving hadn’t crossed your mind and when emma had called you’d screened it and smiled at the winky face she’d sent a moment later.

jessi was fun to talk to; her humour was maybe a little more forced than what you liked but it wasn’t a deal breaker. you’d thought she was enjoying herself too given the flirtatious comments, the lingering looks and how her ankle kept brushing yours.

but just before you could suggest ordering desserts, she stood and grabbed her coat.

“this has been…” she trailed off. “maybe you’re not ready for dating, you know?”

she’d dropped a few twenty notes on the table and left before you could ask what the fuck that meant.

you called over the waiter, covered the rest of the bill and made your own downtrodden exit soon after, dessert suddenly not seeming so appetising.

“tell me you’re going to her house to stay the night and that this is a safety call,” ash said as soon as they answered.

you huffed a sarcastic laugh. “nope.” you popped the ‘p’ and scuffed your toe along the pavement as you walked.

“fuck, this isn’t a good sign then. no dessert?” you heard emma mumble in the background.

“put me on speaker if you two are still hanging out,” you said and hugged your thin jacket tighter with your free arm as you started heading down the dark street towards your apartment.

“how’d it go?” emma asked a moment later.

“i thought it was going good,” you whined. “she was nice, we were chatting, i was engaging! but she just… left?”

“what were you chatting about?” ash asked.

“just the basics; work, friends, hobbies, roommates,” you listed.

“oh god,” emma groaned on the other end of the line. you heard her voice become muffled as though her face was in a pillow as she grumbled, “you didn’t.”

“what?” you asked with a frown. “it was good, she was being flirty.”

“yeah no shit, it was a date,” ash snorted. “how many times did simon come up?”

“don’t start this again—“

“because you were literally talking about him other day when we walked by a black and white cat just because it had little ‘socks’ and it reminded you to do laundry when you got back.”

“i promised to do simon’s while he’s been picking up extra hours,” you defended yourself. “he literally had to walk around shirtless the other week when i forgot to add them in for him.”

“oh, the grown woman who can and often does do his own washing just had to walk around with just a flimsy little sports bra and boxers on all day? sure, sure.” you could practically hear ash roll their eyes. emma snickered in the background and there was a slight shuffling which was never a good sign. “yep, here it is. and i quote ‘the way he’s built… like a damn chew toy. need to sink my teeth in to him, it’s like my jaw buzzes every time i see him with the urge to clamp down on his bicep.’ those are your texts to our group chat from that same day.”

“the texts i send when im ovulating should never be repeated out loud,” you hissed. “and do we really need more evidence that he’s synonymous with my wet dreams now, i’ve already admitted that i like him.”

“so you know this is a safe space,” ash said facetiously. “answer the question: how many times do you think you managed to bring him up in conversation?”

you chewed your cheek in frustration. ash would know if you lied but thinking back on it you didn’t really want to admit how many times you managed to bring up simon for your own dignity.

“look they had the same boots on, ok? and when she talked about her work it was the only way i could try to relate if i told her how simon had mentioned the same things,” you reasoned.

ash cackled on the other end of the phone and suddenly emma was talking while their laughter grew faded.

“have you looked at that list i sent you?” she asked, her tone oddly low and sobering.

“yeah, i can’t stop thinking about it,” you huffed. you paused to cross the street. “but it feels like i’m just making them up because i like him and he’s just being a normal roommate.”

“you’re not and he’s definitely not,” emma chuffed. “and i think you know that too.”

you were silent as you walked, your steps slow and careful even as the bitter cold wind snapped at your cheeks.

“he likes me?” you asked softly.

“no duh,” ash’s voice rang from the background making you laugh. they got closer and you could picture your friends crammed on emma’s shitty little couch as they spoke to you. “why do you think he’s always walking around flexing his muscles like that, huh? we’re in manchester, i don’t care if it’s almost summer, it’s not bloody warm enough for it!”

“and simon has you as his lock screen,” emma added like a 1-2 punch before you had chance to try and explain any of it away. “he always cancels on his mates to see you instead, and don’t get me started on how touchy he is with you.”

“he’s tactile…” even as you said it you didn’t believe it. though you couldn’t keep count of how many times this week alone si had let a warm hand land on your shoulder, knee, back, wrist, neck; you knew he barely touched anyone else.

"girl. simon?" emma snorted probably thinking the same thing as you.

“he likes me,” you said more confidently into the phone.

“oh thank fuck, she’s finally caught on,” ash said as emma laughed.

“i could literally be swapping spit with him right now and instead i’ve just wasted like two hours on a shitty date, oh my god,” you bemoaned.

you don’t know when you’d stopped walking but in a second you were speeding up to a jog as you said goodbye to your friends and hung up, fumbling to put your phone in you bag. eager to get back home and to see simon.

——

you crammed your key into the front door’s lock when you got home and groaned exaggeratedly when it didn’t turn. simon must’ve left his key in the door, again. of all the bloody times.

you knocked hurriedly, loudly, impatiently.

“siiiimon, open the door, come on i’m cold out here, you wouldn’t leave me shivering and lonely just because you forgot to put your key on the keyhook i specifically bought for—“ you cut off your joking whine when the most stunningly beautiful woman you’d ever seen opened the door to you, a knowing smile on her plush lips.

“oh,” you croaked. almost reflexively, your throat closed up and your eyes started to sting. “i must have the wrong flat.”

“what? no, you’re—” her smile dropped slightly and her dark eyes grew curious, but you didn’t stick around long enough to see.

“sorry, my fault! i’m meant to be on the floor above,” you rushed out and pretended to laugh. “silly me. sorry again.” tucking tail you turned to the fire exit at the top of the small staircase without waiting for a reply.

you knew the short staircase lead to the roof, simon had shown you one time and there were enough signs pointing it out. on the other side of the door was a small, flat balcony that stuck out of the slanted roof, and had old metal ladders that dropped 3/4 of the way down along the side of the building, in between the detached restaurant next door.

given you were the top flat in this little rinkydink building the woman at your door had probably thought you were an idiot and you couldn’t blame her. you decided to stick it out for ten minutes outside before sneaking back down and heading over to emma’s with your heart in your hands ready to be mended with the power of friendship and alcohol and food.

you sat down on the shitty little balcony and groaned loudly, desperately holding back your tears lest you fell into a despair and ended up accidentally falling asleep out of exhaustion and dramatics up there instead.

you’d finally realised your feelings and it was too late; simon had clearly taken your previous offers on board and moved on. you’d given him a free night while you went on a stupid date, what else was he going to do since you’ve been continually - though not purposely - pushing him aside like he was disposable.

“fuck,” you sighed shakily.

“date that bad you’re thinking of jumping?”

you swore in surprise and span in your spot to see simon leant in the fire exit doorway.

you couldn’t help but huff a weak laugh. “yeah it was,” you said before looking back down to your hands. “sorry, i didn’t know you were busy or i’d have gone to a friend’s instead.”

simon frowned and stood up straight. “stop saying you want to go somewhere else,” he said stiffly, swallowing thickly before taking the few steps to sit next to you. “when i’m here.” he knocked your shoulders together. “gaz said you freaked out at the door?”

you looked up at him in confusion. “gaz? that was ky— she’s called kylie, not kyle isn’t she?” you asked with wide eyes. simon’s accent had hidden her real name and convinced you all his mates were men and you’d never thought to second guess it. “christ, i thought she was— never mind.”

simon tilted his head as a knowing smile grew on his face.

“you thought i’d brought someone round for a shag?”

“well, she’s very fucking gorgeous,” you said defensively, crossing your arms. he leant his weight further into your side.

“mm. haven’t noticed.” at your unimpressed look he shrugged. “got my eye on someone else, ‘aven’t i?”

you nodded but avoided his eyes. seeing an unknown woman answer your door - gaz or not - had knocked your confidence more than you’d have liked to admit.

simon snorted.

“talk t’me, thought i was meant to be the quiet, brooding one.”

you looked across at him for a moment before leaning in to hug him tightly. you let the scent of his aftershave soak in and sighed when his own arms automatically wrapped around you too.

“you’re an amazing friend, si,” you whispered. and with how close you were pressed together, you easily felt how he stiffened at the title. you squeezed him harder in response, garnering yourself some more confidence at the same time, and sucked in a cold breath to speak. “and i think i’m a little bit in love with you.”

you felt a whoosh of air against your neck as the breath left simon’s body; he went loose in your hold and you buried your head deeper into his shoulder.

he tried to catch your eyes, ducking his head as best he could, but you’d thoroughly tucked yourself in against him as you felt a stinging heat spread from your cheeks outwards, your heart kicking its way through your chest and likely thumping noticeably against his own.

with gentle and patient cajoling, he managed to nudge you back up to face him and you offered up a wobbly smile.

“are you serious?” he asked breathlessly.

you nodded. “i’m sorry it took me so long to reali—“

simon coughed out a wet and surprised laugh and pulled you in for a kiss, his scar catching against your dry lips before you were able to slip your tongue out to wet them briefly. his hands were firm as they cupped your round cheeks, not letting you break for a breath until the very last second, determined to take all he could get before it came crashing down on him.

“y’r an idiot, so fuckin into ya. been a nightmare living with you, unable t’touch,” he mumbled against your lips and suddenly it was your turn to laugh into the kiss.

“unable? all you do is touch me,” you giggled, gasping when he took the chance to flick his tongue against yours.

“yeah?”

“yeah,” you huffed. “drives me mad, si.”

“only gonna get worse here on,” he promised. “never taking my hands off ya, off your fat arse and soft tits.”

you sucked in a shaky breath. “fuck.” you’d be dripping like a tap at all times if that was the case and going by simon’s smirk, he knew it.

“i’ve had to deal with your dumb mate fucking teasing me about liking ya for months now too,” he grumbled.

“they’re not dumb.” you leant in to bite his lip meanly. “and i’m sure your friends will be teasing me for what just happened too, never mind me being so blind to be on dating apps while we were practically already together.”

simon groaned. “i fucking hated those apps.”

you kissed him sweetly in apology, a soft peck to the lips then each cheek as he greedily chased your lips.

“they’re gone now. my date was ruined because i could only talk about you the whole time. all i want is you.”

“yeah?” his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them as he tugged your jacket openand slid a hand under your shirt. his rough fingertips teased at the thin material of your bra and your nipples stood to attention under his ministrations and from the chill of fresh air biting at your tummy, bared when his arm rumpled your shirt. “want me right now?”

“always,” you panted. “but…”

you furtively glanced to the door.

“no one comes up here. i can be quick.”

“your friends are waiting,” you reminded him.

“fuck my friends,” he scoffed and tweaked at a nipple, grinning at the squeak you let out.

“would rather fuck you,” you joked weakly even as he pulled his hand back to pluck at your jean’s button and zipper.

“then what are we waiting for?” he asked.

you moaned and gasped when he slipped his hand down the front gusset of your jeans and into your panties before you gained the cognisance to pull it back out with a groan. “later, later,” you promised. “wanna get you naked.”

simon stared at you for a second and you worried he was annoyed at you for putting your foot down. he nodded however, licked his lips as he glanced back to the door and then dipped down to kiss you lightly.

“i’m kicking the lads out then, gimme five.” he stood and took few broad strides to get back to the stairs inside.

you laughed and called after him as he darted back down, taking two at a time as you followed with a grin, struggling with your jeans. “si, don’t be daft.”

“smartest move i’ve made in a long time.” he said as he walked back in to your flat. “everyone out. want some time wiv my girl.”

“ayy congrats!” soap called from the couch.

“that means now, soap.”

“don’t hafta tell us twice,” the scot stood with a slap to his knees and saluted simon on his way out. “ye coming, ky?”

“it was nice meeting ya,” gaz said as she wandered past, winking. you hid your hot cheeks in your shoulders but couldn’t help the flustered grin that spread as simon barely waited for the door to be closed before shedding his shirt, leaving him in a sports bra and his baggy trackies.

“get comfy. not letting ya leave til i’ve had m’fill.”

“funny you think it won’t be me dragging you back for more. let’s see if you can keep up, si. i’ve been told i’m pretty demanding.”

“always loved a challenge.”

you grinned wickedly. “come and get me then.”

butch/stud masterlist

updated mood board below (kept working on it after seeing kitty’s absolutely fantastic oc mood board and felt inspired by them!)

[averycutesalamander]

When I Feel the Snake Bite Enter My Veins

Chapter 1

Boothill x fem reader || 19k words || also available on ao3

You would love nothing more to rip out your husband's teeth for all he's done to you – but it seems you're sorely lacking the means. How fortunate that Boothill has such a strong grip.

WARNINGS: mentions of noncon, nonconsentual body modification (nothing extreme), threatening and possessive behavior, and domestic abuse, none of which are on Boothill's part. Additional warning for violence and gore, which is not inflicted on the reader.

You hate – no, despise – no, abhor your husband. He is a despicable, disgusting, wicked, greedy, heartless man, and were it not for this wretched fucking collar, you would have killed him years ago, a thousand times over.

You first met him when you were young and stupid and bafflingly naive, caught up in your passion as a singer. You'd been performing for years, bouncing between miserably low-paying gigs at bars and private events and all sorts of sketchy places; you were certain you'd hit the jackpot when you managed to call in a favor from a friend of a friend and secured a single night at a sizable casino – but with pay like that, a single night would be all you'd need to cover your expenses for half a year if you stayed frugal. Not just that, but you could meet people there – people with power, people with an eye for finer things, people that would like your talent enough that they'd pay you something livable.

And indeed, you got just that.

Words couldn't express how shocked you were when you were approached by Silas Morghani – a businessman, by the look of him, with dark hair and darker eyes. You didn't miss the IPC guards that tailed him, either – but the allure of his undeniable status momentarily blinded you. 

(You should've known better.)

He bought you some obscenely expensive yet absolutely revolting wine, then bragged that he was near the top of the food chain at the Marketing Development Department, acting lordly and boastful, as if it were something to be proud of – as if the name didn't make your skin crawl with the childhood memories of your mother bluntly discussing the slaughter of billions over dinner. ("Trimming the fat," she always said, chewing on her steak like it wasn't once a living creature. "It's ludicrous to call it anything more.")

(You'll never forget the moment you realized what your mother's job really was. You were doing research for a school paper, sifting through the dusty files in your late father's office in hopes of getting a leg up; you'd just broken open an exceptionally stubborn locked drawer when you stumbled across an obscure newsletter from a long-defunct station that you don't recognize. IPC Condemns Two Dozen Planets to Slavery: Where Will the Cruelty End? Its only labeled author was anonymous.)

(Cluelessly, you'd skimmed the article, practically burning with curiosity; why would your father have this tucked away in a locked drawer? And then you saw it: "One interviewee answered, 'We're only trimming the fat.' She added later that 'the citizens are only being relocated, not enslaved. It's ludicrous to call it anything more.'")

(And for the first time, you wondered if your father really had thrown himself off the rooftop after being fired from his job at the newspaper, like mother said he had.)

But you were desperate. You'd been in the rat race for years at that point, struggling for scraps, being taken advantage of by shrewd business owners that could somehow smell the desperation on you. You were fucking tired of networking, tired of being fleeced, tired of all of it. You grew up in a lion’s den of deceit and half-truths, and you managed to slip away from all of the teeth and claws; this couldn't be any different, surely? You just needed to stay alert. 

So when he offered to let you do a show at his lounge, situated at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city, you snatched up the opportunity like a mangy dog being offered shelter from a storm.

(Little did you know that you would be chained and collared and starved – not merely thrown into the lion's den, but skinned and filleted as well. "For your own good," he'd coo, as if he didn't have the knife sitting bloody in his palm.)

After Silas hired you to perform full-time at his lounge, the jaws of the trap fully closed around you. He rooted himself into your life with frightening ease, no matter how subtly you tried to dodge his invitations to dinner or tried to end conversations so you could go home for the night. You learned very quickly that you couldn't refuse him – that no one could refuse him and get away with it; you've seen the corpses to prove it.

When he asked you to stay a bit longer to chat after business hours, he wasn't asking. When he asked you to do an extra show after-hours for his work friends, he wasn't asking. When he asked you if you wanted to move into the penthouse on the floor above the lounge, he wasn't asking. When he pinned you against your vanity and looked down at you with those horrible, soulless eyes and asked to kiss you, he wasn't asking. When he pressed you up against your door and asked if you wanted him to fuck you, he wasn't asking.

When he gifted you a heavy, diamond-encrusted necklace that sat like a choker and asked if he could put it on you, he wasn't asking. "The color matches perfectly with everything," he said, his smile just a bit too wide. "So you won't have to change it for different outfits. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he climbed up onto your stage after the biggest performance you'd ever held, he didn't kneel for you. He cupped your face under the spotlight, subtly pressing his pinkies into the tender skin beneath your jaw with just a bit too much force to be innocent, and when he asked you to marry him in front of that fully packed audience of IPC coworkers–

He wasn't asking.

—

You first tried to kill him only two months after your wedding.

You'd been essentially forced into taking sleeping pills because, shockingly, you didn’t have the most restful sleep in the same bed as the man who held a half-metaphorical gun to your head. He ran his thumb beneath your tired, exhausted eyes, his brows furrowed like his prized bird had fallen ill.

"We should make sure you get some rest, pet." (He always calls you pet, like it's cute. Never in your life have you been so nauseated by a single word.) "Can't have you getting sloppy during performances, right?"

"Of course, sweetie," you said, giving him the same practiced smile you'd mastered ever since meeting him.

You tested the pills – experimented to see if you could taste the medication in a drink. Too bitter, you decided – so you fought through the drug to stay awake and told him that you'd have to try another. "It made me so nauseous, and it didn't even make me sleep," you said faintly, furrowing your brows as if you were ashamed to admit it.

The next wouldn't quite dissolve in water or alcohol – too gritty.

The next had an off taste as well – too metallic.

The next was perfect. Utterly tasteless – absolutely no change to texture.

So you slipped it into the gin you served him one night and settled into your recliner to wait, your stomach churning with unease as you nonchalantly flipped open your book. You watched in your peripheral as he took a sip, your palms clammy against the paper. No reaction – although there was a faint, nearly indistinguishable pop, like a car engine had sputtered in the streets hundreds of stories below.

Silas hummed in apparent interest, like he'd noticed something peculiar about a painting on the wall.

Then – a blinding flash of searing, white-hot pain, like you were being struck by lightning. The air was punched straight from your lungs, strangled from your throat. When you came to, you were dry heaving over the carpet, your neck tingling with some unnameable, boundless pain between burning and stabbing.

That stupid, ugly, piece-of-shit necklace.

You watched with a detached sense of horror as a pair of dress shoes stepped into your peripheral, a hand coming down beneath your chin to yank your head up. He reached up and pressed his fingers into his mouth, gripping something and pulling.

And there, in his palm: a false, hollow tooth with a tiny hole burst from one side. Through your blurry eyes, you could see the remnants of some kind of powder where his fingers held it.

He smiled in the same way he always has – cold and unfeeling. "It's filled with a reactive agent," he said, so utterly unmoved that it sent a chill up your spine. "It pops when exposed to blacklisted chemicals. Quite convenient, yes?"

When he leaned in, you held your breath instinctively. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, fear running cold in your veins. (Would it be the first time he hit you? Would he finally lose his patience and reveal the undeniable reality that he's a monster?)

Instead, he murmured, "If you try that again, pet, I fear I'll have to have your tongue cut out. And what is a songbird without her tongue?"

You always know when he's expecting an answer. With a dry rasp, you answered, "Worthless."

His smile was like a rabid wolf baring its teeth. "That's right, doll. Now, let's get your medicine, shall we? It's getting terribly late."

He wasn't asking.

—

You learned very quickly after that. If you're going to escape the gilded cage he's locked you in, you'll need to be much, much subtler.

(As a child, you asked your father how he came to know so many secrets. “That's what true journalism is about,” he once told you, and he was skilled in the art of knowing things that people of his ilk never should.)

("It's simple, poppet," he said, grinning down at you with a smile brighter than the sun. "You've gotta be a mouse.")

(You had blinked cluelessly at him. "Mice aren't very strong, papa.")

(He laughed. "Depends on how you look at it. Mice are fast, and quiet, and smart, and resourceful. They know when to freeze when a hawk passes over them." He ruffled your hair, turning back to his work. "That's how you learn the things I do, and how you get as good at poker as me.")

(There was one hawk he clearly couldn't hide from, though. If you want to escape the talons of your hunter, you'll need to be faster, quieter, smarter, and even more resourceful.)

So, you learn to be a mouse – and a stubborn one, at that.

You endure the degradation of every single right and privilege being ripped away from you, then drip-fed back as if it's a kindness and not the bare minimum. You don't get to choose what you wear, what color your hair is, when you sleep, when you wake. You don’t get to choose what or when you eat without begging for it, because the kitchen lies beyond a set of locked doors that only the servants can enter. You don't get to choose what songs you perform, nor when you perform them, and you certainly don't get to choose who your audience is. You don't get to choose what books you have access to, nor what TV channels you watch. The bastard doesn't even grant you access to emails, let alone anything more modern. 

Once, you go to sleep and wake up in a hospital room with no memory of how you got there. Two stitched incisions lay below your navel. Neither the nurse nor the doctor nor Silas will tell you what they even did. 

It grates on you. No, it does far more than that; it torments you. Every instinct in your body is urging you to bite his fucking throat out while he sleeps, to hurl yourself out one of the windows and pray you grow wings before you hit the ground, to wrench a gun from one of those horrible, soulless guards and paint the bleak white walls with red.

You endure it. You endure it all, because you will not let this monster ruin you.

You spend your abundant, empty time testing his limits – seeing what he'll allow before he yanks at your leash again, seeing how far his possessiveness goes. You prod carefully at his security, trying to pinpoint the locations of all of the cameras you know must be scattered around the penthouse. You take all of the little pieces and tuck them into the depths of your mind for safekeeping, memorizing the schedule of the most lenient and laziest guards, keeping track of which maids are most gullible and agreeable. You're very careful not to tempt Silas's wrath again; you fear it'll get him in the habit of using that fucking shock collar, and you simultaneously worry that it might destroy your voice. 

(After all, what use does a despicable, vile man like him have for a songbird that can't sing? He's already cut off your wings; best not to test if he'll do the same to your head.)

You let him think he's broken you. You let him think he's won, though you're careful to make the effect seem gradual, as if the hope is draining out of you like blood from a severed artery. You make a grand show of it all – and one day, nearly a year after you were locked in this gilded cage, you let it all out in the first sobbing meltdown you've had this whole time. He holds you in those horrible arms as if he isn't your tormentor, soothing you through the tears that aren't quite genuine but aren't quite fake.

"You understand, now, don't you?" he murmurs, combing through your hair as you sniffle. "This is where you belong, pet. You don't need to fight."

You let your expression collapse like a house of cards, nodding limply. For what might be the first time, you aren't afraid when he smiles.

Because that's the thing with arrogant men like him–

They never, ever doubt if they’re right.

—

The months drain past you like water through gravel. You watch, you observe, you listen – and good fucking god, do you learn.  

After your meltdown, Silas returns some crumbs of autonomy to you. You’re granted the privilege of going outside on occasion – tailed by guards and at his discretion, of course. Every aspect of your life is still chained to his desires, but with every month that passes, you loosen the binds just a millimeter further, oiled by your apparent compliance. 

You get in the habit of spending more time with him while he's working in his office; your skin crawls whenever he touches you, but your best vantage point is right on his lap, so you grit your teeth and bear it. You ply him with sex whenever his hands wander, because although you want to break off every one of his fingers, the information you glean in your periphery from his work documents is quite valuable. He's in charge of some very important decisions, you discover – and he's responsible for the displacement and deaths of many, many civilians. The details are foggy, but he seems to handle the paperwork of some incredibly profitable gem mining networks. You can't imagine how many people he's sentenced to death because they were unlucky enough to be living on valuable land. 

(You can't stop thinking about your father – about that damn article. Where Will the Cruelty End? Every time he crosses your mind, you recall all of the times that people said you took after him rather than your mother, which she always seemed a bit bitter about.)

(You never intended to follow his legacy – but it seems like it followed you instead.)

Even mere glimpses of those papers make you nauseous, but if there's some sliver of a chance that you'll find something of use, you can't let it slip away. And, as it turns out, you were right to think so. You've been seeing mentions about some kind of criminal that's been a huge pain for his supply chain, and you've caught snippets of some of his other crimes in the documents: arson, theft, destruction of property, and even kidnapping and murder of IPC members, though their ranking is unclear. One day, you even catch a sliver of a photo from some kind of security footage; all you manage to see before the paper is turned are his sharp eyes and even sharper teeth, but it's enough to tell you one important fact–

A man with a gaze like that is not meant to be trifled with. 

It's an extremely promising lead, but you'll need more information if you want to actually use it – so you bide your time, waiting for Silas to make that final, fatal slip. 

—

People have always thought you were stupid, ever since you became involved with Silas; you're convinced it's the persona he's forced you to adopt ever since he closed his claws around you, or the way he handles you like his ditzy little trophy wife that could never hurt a fly – a pretty, empty-headed doll that's never dealt with anything troublesome in her life. It's something you've always resented, but never corrected. Now, you're thankful you never went through the trouble – because people are very, very loose-lipped when they think you're stupid.

It's from the mouth of the devil himself that you first hear the name Boothill.

Silas has you in his lap in one of the lounge’s private rooms, idly thumbing just a bit too low at your waist like the lecher he is as he contemplates his poker hand; you don't even need to peek at the others to know he's going to win regardless of how good it is. ("Word of advice, sweetie? Never trust a man that's too good at poker," your mother once said, only days after you'd graduated high school. "They're all rotten liars.")

Silas is sipping at his scotch, ranting with his scumbag coworkers about something or other; you're only paying enough attention to keep an ear out for potential escape routes, not to truly absorb any of the endless drivel about money, money, money. You always despise when he has this group over at the lounge, because they all get tipsy, and tipsy means handsy, and Silas is only possessive when it serves to piss you off, so he loves letting these disgusting fucking pigs put their hands on you – like you're a little toy that he wants to show off to his friends. 

("It's just a bit of fun, pet," he always sighs, as if you're the one being difficult. "You love wearing those skimpy dresses when you perform. How's this any different?")

(He never acknowledges that he's the one that has complete control of your wardrobe. God, you can't wait to break his fucking fingers. You'll shatter his knees under the highest heels in your closet. You'll make him choke on his teeth after you bash them in with this wretched fucking collar. You'll make him choke on this hideous wedding ring. You'll– well. Best not to get too carried away, lest you break character.)

Now, as he leisurely gestures with his cards, he huffs, "And I've lost damn near five percent of my profit because of this mess."

The pig-nosed man to your right pipes up, simmering with anger. "And of course none of those stupid fucks at the security department can catch the guy. What was his name?"

You can't see it from your position, but you get the feeling that Silas is scowling like he's just stepped in shit. "Boothill. Just some idiot hick, but nobody's managed to kill him yet. I'd say they should just double his bounty and be done with it."

"Did you hear about that shipment of pure Caladorian ore he destroyed last quarter? The astronium?" the blonde across from you spits. "A good portion of that was my stock. Exploded! He didn't even steal it!"

The stoic, long-haired man on your left sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I could live with the losses, truthfully, but the press has gotten so noisy about him that it's starting to piss me off."

The pig-nosed one takes a sip of his own drink, the ice clinking against the glass like the rustle of a rattlesnake. "Didn't he kill that Vidyadhara bitch of yours, Jenn? Heard something about that yesterday."

The lanky man who's been otherwise silent sighs in what can only be irritation. "Yeah – kidnapped her while she was under triple security, no less. Horrible timing. All I needed was her signature to close that deal." He takes a sip of his scotch, a sour look on his face. “Ugh. All of that sex for nothing. The bitch couldn't give good head to save her life.”

(You resent that you've grown so used to their blatant misogyny. They'll say the most disgusting, lecherous things about women – including you, but that's hardly shocking – as if you aren't sitting right there. They treat you like you're little more than decor; the only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that you can benefit from their stupidity.)

More importantly, though…

Kidnapped under triple security? That certainly piques your interest. If you recall correctly, they're talking about a woman you've only ever known as Weasel. She is– well, was a very powerful information broker tied to the IPC, known best for her paranoia and shrewd practices. Her normal security was apparently already absurd, and if this guy managed to get to her with three times that amount...

Well, perhaps you're more acquainted with his deeds than you would've guessed. 

—

You had friends, before Silas locked you away in this ivory tower; perhaps your closest was Iris. You met her in school, so long ago that you can't even remember it. Between the two of you, she was the clever, mischievous one – and perhaps that's where you got your wits from, because she always knew just how to push your buttons in a way that made you want to be better than her. You got up to all sorts of trouble as teens; the most memorable was when you decided to pass poorly coded notes during class, and when you got caught, you refused to tell your teacher what it meant – so the clever old hag decoded it herself and read out whatever embarrassing nonsense you'd written about dating or after-school plans or what-have-you. 

Thus began what you both liked to call the Code Wars – you and her versus Miss Kravitz.

It became a contest of how complex you could make your codes, how sneakily you could pass your notes, the difficulty ramping higher and higher when your teacher kept catching you. You came up with secret passphrases to cheat on tests; whenever you needed help, you'd write, verbatim, “We should hang out soon.” After, you'd ask about a specific date – however many days ahead it was from the present indicated which question you needed the answer for. Then, if the receiver didn't know the answer either, they'd indicate how fucked the two of you were by asking the sender if they wanted to play games. Video games were the mildest, followed by checkers, blackjack, poker, or, god fucking forbid, chess – which both of you were absolute shit at, hence its place as the most brutal.

So, when you write a letter to a woman you haven't even been able to text in years, asking if she'd like to play chess sometime – the sooner the better, but you can be patient – you can only pray. You write down your measurements, asking her to make a dress for you to wear during your next big show – an event for some very important figures in the IPC. I'm a bit uncertain on the details, you write, but I have a rough idea of what I'd like done. Perhaps we could schedule a consultation? 

You're certain the letter is going to be checked thoroughly before it even leaves the building – most likely by Silas himself. The framing as a surprise will buy you some wiggle room, which you'll need desperately. Keep this on the down-low if you can, you write. It needs to be a surprise for my husband.

(The last time you spoke to Iris, you said something about being terrified that Silas was going to try to marry you. She told you to run, naturally – but she wasn't as familiar with the inner workings of the IPC as you were. She didn't see the mutilated bodies of the people that showed him the slightest disrespect – never by his own hand, but instead callously passed off to his lackeys. She didn't see the guillotine that still hangs over your neck to this very day, ready to plunge downward at any moment. She didn't see the cold look in your mother's eye the first and only time you tried to reach out to her for help. “You got yourself into this mess, sweetie,” she said blandly, looking down at her phone in apparent disinterest. “I can't afford to make an enemy of your paramour. You're on your own.” Maybe you'll kill her one day, too.)

(Now, you pray Iris remembers the fear in your eyes when you last hugged her goodbye for the evening. You can only hope that it wasn't for the final time.)

Last you knew, she was working as a tailor in a very high-end shop, climbing her way up the ladder until she got better and better projects. In the years that have passed, it's perfectly reasonable to assume that she moved on. You have to hope against hope that she hasn't.

When it's time to send the letter out, you think carefully about which maid you'll choose to target. The most skittish of them all is too obvious, so you'll instead go for the sweetest: Willow, the one that seems to grant you the most leeway, and the one that will probably make the best case for you when she inevitably reports you. (You suspect all of the maids and guards are under strict orders to report any suspicious behavior on your part. You're very confident that this will slip past your wretched husband's watch, however – even when it passes right under his nose.)

You approach her one afternoon while Silas is out and she's tidying up. "Willow, dear... Could I ask a favor of you?"

She jumps to attention in an instant. "Oh, of course, Mrs. Morghani!" 

(You fight back the urge to gag. Ugh. You've tried telling the maids not to call you that, framing it as if you simply think it's too formal. None of them have ever listened; you have to wonder if Silas ordered them to do that just to piss you off.)

You smile through your disgust, making a show of looking around for any potential eavesdroppers – the perfect picture of a stupid, airheaded trophy wife. "Well... I have a letter I need delivered. Oh, but Silas can't know. It's a surprise."

It's very subtle, and you probably would've missed it if you weren't watching so closely, but you can see a particular look cross her eyes – a look that tells you that she's absolutely going to be handing this directly to Silas, first and foremost. 

Willow leans in, dropping her voice. "A surprise? What for, ma'am?"

You give her a secretive little smile. "Well, there's that big event coming up – the one for the IPC? I really would like to look the part, and nothing in my wardrobe feels appropriate." Then, you wink. “So I'm thinking of getting a dress commissioned – one that Silas will love, I'm sure."

Willow makes a noise of understanding, smiling innocently as you pass her the envelope. “Of course, Mrs. Morghani. I'll deliver it to her myself.” 

(You find it a bit frightening that, if you weren't already certain she was going to sell you out, you never would've guessed she was deceiving you.)

—

You have to bite back tears when Willow brings you a response letter only two days later. You smile evenly as you thank her, careful not to seem too excited as you open the envelope.

The moment you see that Iris mentions "catching up with Miss Kravitz just the other day," you know your real message was received; your old teacher died in your last year of school. You resist the urge to scan the letter thoroughly right then and there, determined to keep up appearances. She does mention that she'd appreciate some broad details for what you'd like the dress to look like, which gives you the perfect excuse to contemplate with the letter in hand.

You offhandedly mention to Willow that you'll need to write a response, and you'll need some time to pin down what exactly you'd like the seamstress to make. "Check back with me tomorrow, won't you? I should have everything down by then."

Then, you get to work.

Iris mentions that she'd be happy to schedule an appointment, and asks if a date between five to seven days from the mailing date would be acceptable. You scrutinize it for a moment, uncertain what exactly she could be pointing to – if anything at all. You check the capitalized letters – nothing. You check the vertical columns at the start of each line – nothing. You stare at the fifth line and the fifth sentence, then the seventh, certain that there must be something there...

Then, a memory snaps into place. 

One of the last tricks you'd come up with back in school involved hiding a message throughout a note by looking at letters a certain interval apart. You'd usually count by fives, since that was often the easiest. And sure enough…

The fifth letter of the fifth sentence is a G. The tenth letter in the same sentence is a U. Five more is an A. Then, counting into the sixth sentence gives an R. Then, a D. Counting into the seventh gives an S – and that sentence ends with a question mark.

GUARDS?

You have to clench your teeth to stop yourself from leaping out of your chair in excitement. That can't be a coincidence.

Every time you leave the penthouse – which isn’t often, because Silas has very little tolerance for even the slightest shows of independence – you’re accompanied by two IPC guards, though you suspect that you’re also followed by at least one plainclothes agent as well. They could be a problem, but you'll get the opportunity to be alone with Iris when you're trying on the dress. 

You write back that the seventh day would work perfectly – and it would, because you actually had no shows planned for you then. In the seventh line, using the same method that she did, you hide your response: TWO?

After that, you get to work on the specifications for the dress itself, though that part is mostly an afterthought. You'd like it to be red, you think; the color of blood should be the last thing that Silas sees. You add that you'd like it to be breathable, and not too difficult to move around in; you say that it's because you want to do a bit of dancing for your show, but you're really thinking about how miserable it would be to torture your wretched husband if you were in an obscenely tight corset. You tell her to take as many liberties as she likes, since you trust her judgement wholeheartedly – which is the truth, because she was always more fashionable than you.

With that, you mark the day on the calendar with shaking fingers, then hand off your letter to Willow once more. 

You can't remember the last time you were this thrilled about something, nor the last time you really had something to look forward to. 

Now, you just have to avoid fucking it all up. 

—

The day of your meeting arrives mercifully quickly. You exercise your tiny privilege to ask your guards about going on a little shopping trip, and the fact that they don't ask Silas first is incredibly telling. You direct the driver to the shop that Iris works at, fighting every muscle in your body to stop yourself from shaking. 

The door chimes as you step inside, a faint and pleasant floral scent singing in your nose. One of your guards follows inside and stands menacingly by the door, while the other remains just outside. You'd visited Iris at work a few times, a lifetime ago, and it's just as obscenely fancy as you remember it being – though you could swear that the dresses on display are even more intricate. Her handiwork, you'd wager. 

You're barely kept waiting for a minute before she strides out from behind the curtain to the fitting room. She's aged quite nicely in your absence, you'd say; her cheeks are still a bit plump with that charming baby fat she never managed to lose, and her eyes are sharper than ever. She's dyed her hair a dark, metallic purple, fading to black toward the roots – a deliberate choice, no doubt, because her natural color is black. She was always pragmatic in her stylistic choices. 

You can't help but smile, soft and earnest, as you meet her gaze; the expression feels alien on your face. Her eyes brighten with glee, but you can tell she's restraining herself for the sake of appearances; Silas knows that you were friends, no doubt – you learned very quickly that he had an unbelievable amount of surveillance on you from the day you met – but for all he's concerned, you merely drifted apart. Hysterical, really, because he was the one that facilitated your isolation. 

"It's so good to see you again," you say as she walks closer, and you wonder if that might be the first genuine, completely innocuous thing you've said in months – maybe even years. "I'm sorry for being absent for so long, but I've been very busy. You know how it goes.”

“Oh, nonsense,” she huffs, waving you off. “I know you have your reasons, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re here.”

You make small talk for a moment, chattering idly, doing your best not to seem too eager. Before long, though, she says, “Well, enough dilly-dallying! Let's get to work, love.”

She leads you to the dressing room, holding the curtain back for you and ducking in after; she always was obscenely tall. The moment the curtain falls behind you, Iris pins you with a subtle, questioning gaze.

You nod your head briskly, covering your eyes. They can't see us. 

She points at her mouth, then her ear. Can anyone hear what we're saying?

You nod again, pinching that horrible collar for emphasis, then motion like you're writing on your palm. Yes. Writing only. 

"Alright," she suddenly chirps, innocent as can be. "I'm actually running a bit behind, so I'll need a moment to get everything ready.” As she speaks, she plucks a small notebook from her pocket, clicking the pen in time with a syllable to hide the noise. “I'm very sorry for the delay.”

"Not a problem at all,” you reply, carefully taking the book from her as she guides you to sit on the chaise lounge beside her. Your fingers shake subtly around the pen as you ready it over the paper.  

You cut straight to the meat of things. I need someone to kill Silas to ever stand a chance of escaping, you write, and I think I know of someone that could get the job done. Do you know the name Boothill?

Yes, Iris writes quickly. You want me to try contacting him?

If you can. I have an opportunity that could help him take down dozens of IPC higher-ups. If he attacks on the night of my next big show, they'd all be in the same place. I'll need some way to disable this collar or communicate silently if he wants to meet ahead of time. 

Iris nods slowly as she reads your message. I'll convince him. 

Be careful, you write, almost frantically. Silas might have someone watch you after this. He can pull Synesthesia Beacon records for location pings, and he'll probably watch your calls and texts. 

Her brow furrows, but not in a distressed manner. No, this is a look you became quite familiar with in school–

That's the look she makes when she's facing a difficult problem, getting ready to either vault straight over it or dismantle it with her bare hands. And by fucking god, she always does it. 

So when she unflinchingly writes, I'll figure it out, you can't help but believe her. I'll burn these notes the moment you leave. 

I owe you my life, you reply with a shaking hand, swallowing hard through the tension building in your throat. (The words don't even come close to properly expressing your gratitude.) 

She gives you the sweetest, gentlest smile you've ever seen on her face, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to hold back tears – even more so when she places a tender hand atop yours, stroking her thumb over your knuckles. You take a deep, deep breath, turning your hands to link your fingers and squeezing her tightly. Your chest aches with an inescapable yearning, so strong that it nearly strangles you.

Then, you put the pen back onto the paper. Go time. 

She nods, standing slowly and walking toward the back. She ducks behind the curtain and returns only a moment later with a dress on a hanger, zipped safely in a garment bag. “So sorry for the wait. Everything is good to go now.” 

“You're perfectly fine, dear,” you say, fixing the same plastic smile on your face that you've been wearing for years. 

The rest of the visit is like an elaborate game of pretend, and you despise how easily you sink back into your role as a ditzy little trophy wife. Your awe when she reveals the dress is quite genuine, though; it's drop-dead gorgeous. It's the color of a vibrant red wine, fading into black toward the bottom hem. The ruffled fabric sparkles like it's made of glitter, but the texture is sinfully soft against your skin. It's quite tasteful, framing your bust without being lewd, and although there is a deep cut in the back, your skin is still covered by a thin window of sheer fabric; it strikes a perfect balance of feeling provocative, yet actually remaining rather conservative. (Good. The less these pigs pay attention to your body, the better. Their eyes make your skin crawl.) The most eye-catching part of it all is the rubies, set in silver and woven masterfully into an intricate pattern of lace. 

Admittedly, your favorite feature of the entire thing is probably the pockets hidden into the folds. If you needed any more proof that Iris still knows you perfectly, you need look no further. 

And, sure enough, it fits you like a glove. Briefly, you wonder just how many all-nighters she had to pull to get this done so quickly – especially considering that this was supposed to be the consultation, but you suppose she's always been an overachiever. 

For a spell, you can't help but admire yourself in the mirror, tracing the curve of your waist and the way the fabric curls around your thighs. 

You… You can't remember the last time you wanted to wear a dress. Even when you bought things yourself, it was always for a purpose – to soften up Silas for one of your investigations, or to distract him with sex instead of interrogating you about your scheming, or any number of things. 

But this? This would be something you'd buy for yourself. 

“Iris, this is…” you breathe, running your fingers gingerly along the gems. “This is… phenomenal.”

Her smile is sweet and earnest. “It's only because you're wearing it, love. You really make it shine.” 

You smile – a soft, tender thing, wavering at the edges. “You're too sweet for your own good.” 

She says there are a few places she needs to tighten or loosen, just to make sure it's perfect, although you admittedly wonder if it's just a ploy, because you could swear it already fits you flawlessly. The appointment is unfortunately brief, since you don't want to arouse any suspicion; you're fortunate that Silas has made the mistake of letting you visit an old friend, and you don't want to push your luck. You hug her tightly before you leave, and your body feels strange; you don't think you've felt a pleasant touch in years, and although you thought you'd surpassed the loneliness, it seems like these crumbs are enough to awaken your ravenous appetite. 

You'll have to starve for a while longer, unfortunately. 

—

Some time later, you receive another letter; your heart pounds in anticipation as you take it from Willow. In the note, Iris asks if you could schedule one more appointment to be absolutely certain that the dress didn't need any more tweaks. I made a few more modifications, she adds, but I'd like to double check that it fits perfectly. I want you looking your best!  

The real purpose of the message becomes clear when she mentions meeting ten to twelve days from now. Sure enough, you use the same technique – though you're momentarily confused when it spits out gibberish. You try a few different intervals, finally landing on three; she must've decided to change it just to be safe.

Your confusion only increases when you see her message. 

KIDNAP.

Not a question – a statement. 

Well, that's... a bit more vague than you'd like.

Is it a distress signal? Is she saying she was kidnapped? Surely she would've added some kind of other signifier… right? A “help,” at the very least?

As it is, you don't think you have any way to help her either way – not yet. You write back, though you can't spend as much time as you'd like working on it, lest you draw suspicion by spending too much time writing what should be a simple letter. In the return note, you add, Please let me know if I can assist you in any way. If nothing else, I would love to spend time with you again. 

You hate this feeling – this terror, this dread, this helplessness. 

The only thing you can do now is wait. 

—

The explanation comes only two days later, to your surprise. 

You're out shopping for a gift for Iris in return for all of the hassle you've doubtlessly put her through – though you refuse to consider the increasing possibility that you'll never have the chance to give it to her. You've paused outside of an antique store, peering through the window at the quaint little figurines they have on display. There's an incredibly cute sculpture of a chameleon with a sun hat that reminds you of her. Idly, you wonder if she still likes reptiles, just like she did years ago. 

Worth checking out, at least. You hum, grabbing onto the door handle to–

You hear the glass shatter before you hear the gunshot. 

Blood splatters on the window next to you; there's a clattering noise, like dead weight and armor hitting concrete. 

The streets erupt into chaos and screaming. 

You hear one of your guards – perhaps the only remaining one – blurt out a string of curses as she grabs you and pulls you down, covering you with her body as she barks into her communicator. 

“This is Agent S-421! Officer down! Suspect is armed–”

Another gunshot, and her weight hits you like a brick wall, crushing you into the sidewalk below. Two more shots – they sound closer than the others – and then a final bang rings through the air; you think you hear another body hit the ground some ways away. You hold your breath, staring wide-eyed at the reflections in the glass door, frantically trying to locate the shooter. 

You hear his spurs before you see him. They jingle with every step, cutting right through the cacophony from the crowd around you. 

The first thing you see is the red glint of his eyes. 

You know that face. You've seen it while subtly peeking at Silas's files, in wanted posters, once or twice on the news–

It's Boothill, and he's walking right toward you. 

Your heart stops dead in your chest when he hauls the corpse off of you single handedly, the helmet hitting the concrete with a brutal crack. His lethal eyes meet yours in the reflection of the blood-stained glass. He's smiling, so wide that you swear you can see every single one of his sharp, menacing teeth. 

“Sorry ‘bout this, ma’am,” he drawls as he levels the barrel of his gun to the back of your head, “but you'll be comin’ on a lil’ trip with me.”

Well. 

This is… unexpected. 

Very, very slowly, you get to your feet, swallowing heavily; you turn with all the caution of a rabbit being hunted by a fox, clenching your jaw as your heart pounds faster and faster. His grin widens into something feline and satisfied when you meet his eyes. 

“I knew you'd be a good sport,” he purrs, looking far too pleased.

He leads you into an automatic taxi that waits on the street, oh-so-politely slamming the door behind you once you climb inside. Your skin prickles when he gets in on the other side, lounging in the seat like you’re a cute couple off on a date. His revolver remains in his hand, but he isn’t aiming it at you – and he barely looks at you as the cab takes off down the road, winding down the streets. 

All the while, your mind is running a mile a minute. Is this what Iris meant when she said kidnap? You’re not exactly sure what you were expecting, but you can’t say this ever occurred to you. 

It’s only when you arrive at a nearly empty shipyard that you realize what exactly he’s planning. He gets out first, circling around to open the door for you; he’d be the perfect picture of a gentleman if not for the pistol held loosely in his hand. 

“Ladies first,” he drawls, gesturing to a small transport ship sitting nearby, its hatch sliding open.

(How polite.)

You do not appreciate that you have to turn your back to him to climb up the ramp, but you grit your teeth and bear it. His spurs clink as he follows after you, the hatch closing with an ominous hiss. You turn just in time to watch him holster his gun, and although you’re careful to create some distance, that does admittedly soothe your heart a bit.

“Now, why don’t ya sit right there while I get us movin’, yeah?” he says pleasantly. “We’ve got plenty to chat about. I’d hate for somebody to interrupt.”  

Without waiting for a reply, he strides off to the cockpit without looking back. 

You sigh as he disappears, resting one hand on your chest to settle your racing heart. You’d hoped that all of these years living in the lion’s den would’ve toughened you, but it seems like it’s only made you more skittish – as demonstrated by the way you flinch when the ship whirrs to life under your feet, causing you to sway as it takes off.

…Best to sit down now, in case he jumps into hyperspace.

Sure enough, only a few minutes later, you feel the tell-tale buzz of energy begin to build in the walls, singing a chorus in your bones; you can’t remember the last time you felt the sublime hum of FTL travel against your skin – like the sweet tang of freedom on your tongue, rich and full and tantalizing. The entire ship jolts as it enters supercruise, the aged hull groaning against the pressure of warping space.

The moment the ship settles, you stand again, eager to stay on your feet – and not thirty seconds later, Boothill strolls out of the cockpit, his gaze pinning you down.

“Now, I've heard some real interestin’ things ‘bout that husband a’ yours,” he begins without fanfare, tilting his head as he examines you. “N’ I've heard you're sweeter than honey. Surely you can help a fella out, huh? Just got a few questions for ya.”

For a heartbeat, you actually wonder if this is a genuine kidnapping – if you've just set yourself up as a victim that won't get so much as a morsel in return. 

But then, he reaches up, tapping his neck – right where your collar rests on you. 

You swallow heavily and nod, right before you stutter, “I– I don't know what you've heard, but I'm– I don't know anything.”

He hums as if in disbelief, and when he takes a step toward you, your heart skips despite yourself. “Oh, I'm not so sure ‘bout that, miss.” Another step; you clench your jaw, fighting the urge to back up. “But first… That's an awfully pretty necklace, huh?” 

You add just the right amount of alarm in your voice when you say, “W–Wait, don't– It was a gift.” 

The way he laughs sends a shiver up your spine. “It's cute that ya think I give a rat's ash,” he coos, taking another step, bringing him within reach of you. “Now sit still so I can get a better look.”

You remain perfectly motionless, but he snarls like you'd disobeyed. He reaches down toward his revolver, and your heart jumps into your throat, but when he puts his hand on it, he only cocks it with a loud, ominous click, leaving it holstered. 

“You deaf, ya stupid lil' fudgehead?” he growls, but his eyes are perfectly calm, if a bit amused. “I told ya to sit still, ya forkin' brat.”

Slowly, almost carefully, he reaches up toward your neck, and you have to fight to keep your pulse in check. He's helping you. He's helping you, god damn it. 

(This reaction – this instinctual terror – isn't because of Silas. This is not because of Silas. It can't be. That fucking rat bastard could never damage you like that. This must be from something else – something unrelated. It’s perfectly reasonable to be skittish in a scenario like this. Perfectly understandable.) 

His cold, metal fingers brush your throat as they clench around the collar, and bizarrely, something about how they feel nothing like flesh is soothing to you. Then, without so much as an ounce of strain, he breaks the accursed fucking thing in half, pulling it away in two pieces of dense metal and garish diamonds. The moment he does, you reach up to your neck, carefully running your fingers across the skin that was hidden beneath.

(You can't remember the last time you took a breath that wasn't at least slightly strained by the weight of the metal. You can't remember when you became used to it, either.)

He gives the collar an evaluating look, twisting the pieces around in his hands. Then, he barks out a laugh. 

“Ha! Shoot, I'm good,” he chuckles, tapping a tiny, almost invisible removable plate on the back. “I knew the energy signature on this fudgin’ thing was weird. Bet ya were hopin’ I wouldn't find the tracker in this bad boy, huh? Too bad.” 

Then, he unceremoniously drops it to the ground and slams his foot down into it. You watch with no small amount of satisfaction as the metal bends and crunches beneath his heel, the diamonds sparkling as they come loose. Never in your life have you thought it looked beautiful – not until this very moment, watching as the tool of your imprisonment is shattered beneath the ruthless heel of a stranger. 

Once he's done, he crouches down, sifting through the pieces for a moment before he finds some kind of electric component. He holds it up to the light for only a moment before he crushes it to dust in his palm. 

Finally, all is silent except for the quiet hum of the ship. He gives you a questioning look as he stands, his brows raised.

You take a deep, cleansing breath; you can't remember the last time your body felt so light. 

For the first time in years, you speak without being strangled by that collar – without your every word being recorded for that rotten bastard to sift through. 

“Should be all clear, now.” 

He gives you a once-over, nonchalantly reaching back toward his revolver to decock it. “Don't see nothin’ on my scanners, so I'll wager you're right.”

A moment passes before you smile, wide and broad and earnest; it feels unfamiliar on your face. Then, you hold out your hand for him to shake, grinning ear-to-ear. “It's wonderful to finally meet you, Boothill.”

He blinks at you for a moment, then laughs, bright and loud. “Oh, you're a funny one, huh?” Without fuss, he clasps your hand in his, giving it a firm shake; the cool metal of his palm is strangely pleasant against your skin. “The pleasure’s all mine, miss. Heard you've got a pest problem?”

“Oh, more than just a problem,” you say, your smile sharpening into something dangerous. “It's a damn infestation.”

A lethal glint shines in his eyes. “Well, consider me your exterminator.” 

(Oh, you like him already.)

"I'll cut through the noise, then,” you say, a harder look entering your gaze. “I can deliver Silas to you – and an entire pig sty of IPC executives – on a silver platter.” You pin him with an evaluating look. "But I have a few conditions."

He raises a brow at you, perhaps a bit skeptically. "I don't do bargains, but now you've got me curious. Shoot."

When you smile, you suspect you look like the perfect picture of the devil ready to snatch up the soul of a sinner. "You'll help me pull out his teeth, and then you'll let me pull the trigger. And once you wrap up your business with the lounge, I'd like you to blow the place to hell."

His brows just about shoot into his hairline, and when he looks at you now, it's clearly in a new light. He breathes out a chuckle caught between blatant admiration and disbelief. Slowly, he drawls, "Why the teeth?"

You cock your head innocently. "Well, he always loved threatening to cut out my tongue. 'What's a songbird without its tongue,' he'd say." Then, your smile twists impossibly higher, your canines glinting in the light. "So let me ask you this: what's a snake without its fangs?"

There's a brief pause before he laughs, deranged and delighted. "Oh, I think we're gonna get along just fine, partner."

You hum in agreement, your smile settling into something more pleasant. “Wonderful. Let's get to the meat of things, then.” 

Over the next twenty minutes or so, the two of you hash out the details – the most critical information about the operations of the IPC that you've gleaned over the years, as well as potential weak points he could exploit at a later date. Then, you go into detail about the upcoming event – who's going to be there, the layout of the floor, the typical placement of the guards, the start and estimated end time, your overall plan, so on and so forth. Boothill agrees that the upcoming meeting at the lounge would be the perfect time to strike. 

“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” he drawls. “Two floors down from the roof, ya said?”

“Yes. You'll have a rather tedious task ahead of you if you choose to go straight up from the ground floor, not to mention all of the rigmarole to get access to the elevators, so I recommend trying to get access from the roof if you can.” You tilt your head, considering the height of the buildings that surround it. “There's a few helipads on the top of the building – heavily guarded, as you can imagine. It's the tallest tower for a good few blocks, but there's one that’s about half the height just beside it. Make of that what you will.”

He hums in thought. “And the whole buildin’ is full to forkin’ burstin’ with those IPC muddle-fudgers?” 

You absolutely should not find his odd vocabulary charming, but you frankly can't help yourself. “It's one of their critical headquarters on the planet, yes.” Then, you eye him a bit more carefully, trying to feel out his intentions. “Why? Are you planning on leaving a little gift for them?” 

He grins so wide that you can almost see all of his teeth. “I dunno,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “Would ya call bringin’ the whole buildin’ down a gift?”

You laugh openly, delight curling in your heart. “A gift to me, certainly.”

You're interrupted by a series of quick, harsh beeps from the cockpit. 

“Son of a bench,” he hisses. “Was wonderin’ when they'd show up. They're ‘bout to interdict us. Get ready.” 

A note of dread rings in the back of your mind. Back to your tormentor, you suppose. “Alright,” you reply with no small amount of bitterness, sitting yourself in one of the corners of the room as Boothill turns to walk into the cockpit. 

Now, you just need to make yourself cry. 

(You have quite a bit in the backlog, so it probably won't be very difficult.)

“Wait. One more thing,” you say quickly, an idea striking you. “You should backhand me.”

He whips around to look at you so quickly that it almost looks like he was slapped. “What the fudge did you just say?”

You sigh, anxiety tickling the back of your throat, winding tighter in your chest. “Slap me. Leave a bruise if you can. It'll make this seem more legitimate.”

He gawks at you like you've just transformed into a five-headed hydra before his very eyes. Finally, after several seconds of silence, he shakes his head. “No way. I– I don't know what kinda man you think I am, miss, but–” 

“Forget it, then.” As the knot unwinds from around your heart, you're torn between frustration and gratitude. “Could you at least tie my hands?” 

This is the first time you've seen him look even remotely uncomfortable, which is incredible considering all of the terrible things you've heard he's done to IPC employees of all types. This is all it takes to get him squeamish?

“Guess I can do that,” he mumbles, looking distinctly displeased. 

You turn and hold your wrists behind your back, simultaneously trying to harness your fear, your anger, your grief. As he winds the rope around your wrists, you clench your eyes shut and imagine instead that it's Silas, that you're back in that prison of a penthouse, that he's about to put his disgusting hands on you again. You think about all the time he's stolen from you – how many years he's wasted keeping you as his caged pet. You think about how little he truly appreciates you – your skill, your personality, your wit, your intelligence. 

You can feel the budding tension behind your eyes, but no tears yet. 

Deeper, then. 

As Boothill ties the final knot in the rope, you dig further into the recesses of your mind, unearthing the fears you've never allowed yourself to fully unpack. You think about how terrified you've always been that Silas was going to pass you around that poker table to let those fucking pigs do more than just touch you. You think about the ever-expanding fear that he'll get bored of you now that you've stopped outwardly struggling, and that he could order one of your supposed guards to shoot you at any time. You think about the paranoia you've held all this time that he was going to find you out – that he'd figure out this plot of yours and use that fucking collar on you until it fried your brain and truly left you mindless and helpless.  

Heat prickles in your waterline, but it's not enough. 

So you finally think about what might be the most terrifying piece of all of this: Silas finding out about Iris’s involvement. 

You think of him having her kidnapped and brought to that wretched fucking penthouse, of heartless lackeys tying her up and holding both of you in the living room. You think of them flaying her alive, of the way she'd scream, of the way her blood would stain that pristine white carpet. 

(And, in a way, it would be your fault, too.)

The dam finally bursts, and the tears spill down onto your cheeks. You need to be careful here; you can't let yourself slip too deep, or you'll lose it all, but you need to keep the tears going. You shut your eyes tighter, clenching your fists as you focus on the precarious balance beam you've been forced onto. 

“Hey,” Boothill says suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. You open your blurry eyes to find him kneeling in front of you, and–

Is that… Is that genuine concern on his face? 

“What's goin’ on?” he asks, so gently that it actually makes your throat clench tighter. “You want me to untie ya?”

Your brain takes several seconds to catch up. “No, no,” you say quickly, sniffling through the tears. “I'm– I just need to make this look real. That rotten fucking bastard thinks I'm so pitiful that he'd get suspicious if I wasn't crying.”

You thought that would immediately dispel the worry in his gaze, but if anything, that seems to make it worse. His brow furrows, and he slowly nods. “...Right. Okay, that– Yeah.”

Then, he clears his throat and stands, and somehow he's more awkward about this than you are. Right when he opens his mouth again, the whole spacecraft jolts with a groan, rocking the ground underneath you. He belts out a colorful series of swears – well, substitute swears – as sirens begin to howl, leaping into the cockpit with a jangle of spurs. 

Go time, then. 

You clench your eyes shut once more, scooping up even more terror from that seemingly endless well to keep the tears coming. You're almost thrown onto your back from where you sit when the ship leaves hyperspace with a cantankerous wail, the walls rattling dangerously. Only half a minute later, there's the screech of metal on metal toward the hatch – no doubt they've latched on with a breacher bridge to pry it open. Sure enough, you can already hear the door starting to creak from the pressure – until Boothill yanks the ship hard in the other direction, and the connection breaks with a terrible groan. 

You don't concern yourself with any of that. The true life or death scenario will come when you're “rescued.” 

You keep the tears flowing, hoping that your eyes will be suitably red by the time they break in. You keep yourself hunkered down in the corner, bracing yourself as best you can with your hands tied behind you. 

Suddenly, Boothill rushes out of the cockpit, scowling like he's just eaten a particularly sour lemon. You watch with some measure of confusion as he stops right in front of the hatch – and then leaps. He grabs onto the ledge above the door, hauling himself up and precariously perching like a monkey in a tree. 

When you give him a bewildered look, he merely grins, pressing a finger over his mouth as if to shush you. 

…Well, you suppose you'll just have to wait and see. 

Now, without him actively steering the ship away, the next attempt to bridge goes uncontested. The hatch groans, the hydraulics fighting to stay closed – until Boothill hits something on his wrist, and the doors fly open. 

You're careful to make yourself look as pitiful as possible when five IPC guards come rushing in, guns at the ready. They sweep the room, confirming that it's clear except for you – to their knowledge, at least. One beelines straight for you, one stays to guard the hatch, two head to the cockpit, and one to what you assume is the cargo bay. All the while, you struggle not to so much as glance at the spot where Boothill is settled.

“Are you injured?” the guard asks you, kneeling down by your side and moving to cut the ropes binding you.

You shake your head with a sniffle, quickly squeezing your eyes shut so fresh tears run down your cheeks. 

Then, a gunshot damn near makes you jump out of your skin. 

Your eyes fly open just in time to watch as Boothill lands cleanly on his feet, the body of the one that was guarding the door falling limp to the floor. He leaps through the open hatch in a blink, saluting right as the guard next to you whips around, fumbling for his gun. 

“Thanks for the new ship, fudgeheads,” Boothill laughs, and the doors promptly snap shut behind him right as the guard fires.

Well, he certainly has a flair for the dramatic. 

(You can’t even pretend that you mind. You’re nothing if not a performer, after all.)

—

As you expected, Silas is utterly unconcerned about you; rather, he’s worried about the information you might’ve leaked.

The moment you get back to the penthouse, he practically hustles you into the living room to interrogate you. He doesn’t even bother asking if you’re alright before bombarding you with questions. 

You tell him “that scary outlaw” demanded to know everything you knew about him and Jenn. “I– I didn’t know anything, other than that he comes by for poker sometimes,” you sob, hiding your face in your hands. (And to stare at my chest like the fucking lecher he is, you don’t bother adding.) 

You can feel his icy, unsympathetic stare slicing into you. “And what did you tell him about me?”

“Nothing! There's– I don't even know what your job is, besides the department you're in,” you babble. “He was so angry, I thought– I thought he was going to–”

You force yourself to break down into hysterics, your whole body shaking. After a long moment, you hear Silas sigh, dramatic and weary. You have to grit your teeth to contain a flinch when he puts his hand on your head, petting you like you’re a fucking dog.  

“It’s alright, pet,” he says, and that disgusting sweetness finally sinks into his voice. “You did well.”

You nod and sniffle, rubbing at your eyes to hide the fact that you can’t quite conjure any more tears. 

When your lips tremble, you’re sure he thinks it’s because you’re about to cry again, but you’re really biting back a smile. 

He doesn’t have a fucking clue just how well you did.

—

As you expected, Silas's security practically quadruples, and your leash becomes shorter than ever. Your appointment with Iris was cancelled, obviously, but it’s of little consequence other than admittedly disappointing you a bit. If all goes well, you'll be able to visit her many, many times after this. 

The stage is set. Now, all you need to do is say your lines in rehearsal, and wait for the show to begin. 

Silas, the fucking bastard, has your collar replaced before you even get to go to bed the night you were “kidnapped.” This one feels tighter, heavier, even more gaudy – but you're sure you're making it all up, because it looks identical to the last. The days creep by, hour by hour, minute by minute. You're finding it harder to keep up your mask now that you've truly gotten a taste of freedom. You keep having dreams of beating Silas to death, and every time you wake up, you yearn. 

Patience, patience, patience. You'll get your dues very shortly. 

(You also have a nightmare about the event coming and going without your rescuer coming in to steal the show. You dream of a thousand hands touching you, of a thousand eyes watching you, of a thousand ears tracking you; you're pinned by their horribly warm hands, bruising under their fleshy grip as they drag you down, down, down into the ocean of ink. No one comes to save you. No one answers your muffled, drowning screams. All of your planning, your plotting, your sleuthing, your struggling – it's all been for nothing.)

(You wake up with your face damp with tears, immeasurably grateful that Silas has already left for the morning.)

You refuse to think yourself into a corner when the final day dawns. You hold fast, keeping your mind on a single track; you know that if you let it stray, you'll be risking it all. When the event grows near, you don your new dress and prop yourself up with the most tolerable heels in your wardrobe; you think about piercing his eyes with them as you tighten the straps, and you can't help but smile. 

You tolerate the touches of your makeup artist begrudgingly, and you bite your tongue through the tugs and pulls and yanks from your hair stylist, chanting in your mind that you'll never need to deal with this again after today. You'll get a gun, and you'll get training, and you'll shoot anyone that dares to touch you without asking. 

By the time you're ready to walk on stage, your skin is prickling with irritation and you're gritting your teeth to stop yourself from biting the next person that touches you. You clench your jaw twice as hard when Silas strolls into the dressing room, his eyes roaming over you lecherously. 

“Stunning as always, doll,” he says, and you have to smile as if the weight of his gaze doesn't make you want to rip off your skin. “That dress makes you look marvelous.”

You bat your lashes coyly, fussing with your necklace like the bashful little toy you're supposed to be. “Oh, you really think so? You're too kind.” 

His chuckle is so smarmy and overconfident that it makes you want to scratch his eyes out. Patience, patience, patience. He wanders closer to you, running his fingers up your back; you hope your shiver reads as eagerness rather than disgust. “I know you're still a bit out of sorts from that, hm… incident. You'll be able to perform, won't you? I have quite a few important names in the audience, after all.” 

(He isn't asking.)

You give him a shaky little smile for effect. “Of course, sweetie. I could never let you down.”

He pats your shoulder in a way that tells you he would've pet your head like a dog if he weren't worried about disturbing the elaborate knot your hair has been bound into. “Very good. We'll talk after, then.” 

You manage to contain the full force of your smile until he closes the door behind him. 

Oh, no. You'll do more than talk. 

—

Despite the many, many eyes of important people on you tonight, the stage doesn't feel as horribly oppressive as it has these last few years. 

You genuinely can't remember the last time you had fun performing. You've never enjoyed singing at the lounge, of course – not even on the first night, because you could already taste the danger in the air. The casino was just work; you prefer quieter venues anyway. Most things before that had paid so terribly that it spoiled the entire experience for you. 

But now? Oh, you feel alive. 

You're certain it shows in your performance, this fresh bout of liveliness and glee. You sing your fucking heart out – not for any of these worthless, disgusting rats, but for yourself. The lounge is rich with the sound of your voice, and the whole audience is spellbound, and you're certain you look positively ethereal in the spotlight – but you don't think about any of that. Instead, you think about how this will be the last show you ever perform at this wretched fucking place, and how you'll wake up tomorrow a free woman. You think about how you'll be able to wear comfortable, casual clothes; about how you'll be able to trim your nails however short you'd like, or bite them down for the hell of it; about how you'll be able to eat whatever junk food you want; about how you'll be able to sleep late whenever you damn well please without someone badgering you; about how you'll never step foot in that prison of a penthouse again; about how every drop of fear and paranoia and stress over this plan will be worth it when you get to plant a bullet in Silas’s skull. 

Your entire show goes flawlessly, and you let yourself breathe, playing for an audience of one – perhaps two, if Boothill is listening. You hit the high note in the final song perfectly, feeling your heart swell with joy, your lips curling– 

And then that crazy fucking cyborg crashes through the window. 

The entire world goes still as he rolls and bounces back onto his feet, a maniacal grin stretching across his face as he spins his revolver in his hand. 

You hear his voice, loud and crisp in your ear, as if he was standing right next to you. 

“Draw.”

The world erupts. 

Screaming and gunfire fill the entire space, and you don't hesitate before spinning around and ducking behind the curtain, rushing straight for the dressing room in the back to escape the crossfire; it would be frankly embarrassing if you went through all of this rigmarole only to die right before the finale. You slam the door behind you and lock it, the sounds muffled through the wall; the loudest noise of all is your heart beating wildly in your chest. 

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you realize you're grinning just as wide as Boothill was. 

Now, you wait – because the real show has yet to begin. 

You sit down at your vanity without a care in the world, eager to free yourself from this horrendous updo and remove this wretched fucking makeup that you're forced to wear every goddamn day. You aren't putting on so much as a speck of mascara for a year at an absolute minimum. No necklaces, either. 

With that thought in mind, you pause, turning your gaze down to the gaudy wedding ring that's remained like a brand on your finger all this time. You've always found it hideously ugly – and while you'd love to make him choke on it, you are still a pragmatic woman above all. 

And there's truly no better fate for a ring like this than to be thoughtlessly sold – for it to be the foundation of your new life of freedom. 

With a tiny smile, you wriggle it off of your finger and tuck it into one of the pockets hidden in the folds of your dress. 

You continue to wipe every piece of your mask away, pulling out three dozen pins from your hair, letting your shoulders go lax to the tune of the slowly quieting gunfire coming from the rest of the lounge. When you finally toss the final makeup wipe aside, you take a moment to truly, truly look at yourself. 

Were it not for this hideous collar, you would look more like yourself than you have in years – but you suppose that won’t be a problem for much longer. 

Damn, this dress looks good on you. You’ll have to be careful when you’re breaking Silas down into a pulp; it'd be a shame to stain it with pig’s blood. 

On that note…

By the time you come out of your daze, the building is utterly quiet. Perhaps if you weren’t an accomplice, you might call it too quiet.

As it is? The only way it could be better is if you heard–

Then, just outside, you hear the subtle jangling of spurs. 

Metal knuckles rap once, twice on the door. 

“Knock knock, chickadee,” comes Boothill’s voice, cheerful and bright. “I've got a gift for ya.”

You have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from snickering – then you remember that you don't need to anymore, and you burst into laughter. You walk over and undo the lock, smiling madly as you open the door. 

And there he is: Boothill in all his glory – the true star of the show for the night, not a hair out of place, looking utterly untouched aside from the smears of red that coat him from head to toe. (You're certain not a drop of it is his own.)

“You look very handsome covered in blood,” you say earnestly, your lips curling higher as his eyes widen slightly, clearly caught off guard by such a direct, strangely-timed compliment. Before he can fire back with anything, your eyes fall to the mess of a man he's got slumped at his side. 

Silas has been gagged with his own tie, his arms bound helplessly behind his back. He's got a fair amount of blood on him, smeared on his rumpled dress shirt, though he could certainly do with a bit more; it looks like his nose has been broken as well, because a veritable fountain of blood is gushing down from it. The cowboy’s metal fist is clenched ruthlessly in his hair, holding him up like a child does a broken doll. 

You smile, wide and wicked and positively lethal, and sadistic delight curls in your chest at the way his eyes widen, darting between you and the cyborg. 

Perhaps his miniscule brain is finally catching up. 

“I see you've done marvelous work already,” you say, turning your gaze back to Boothill. Then, you step aside, opening the door wider with a grand gesture. “Won't you join me for a moment, darling?”

He chuckles, tipping his hat, all leisurely and gentlemanly. “Oh, it'd be my pleasure, angel.” 

(From any other mouth, such a name would make your skin crawl – but you think it sounds rather sweet on his tongue.)

He steps inside, dragging Silas in by his hair; your lips twitch at the agonized look on his face, his brows wound tight. You close the door behind them, locking it with a click, just for effect. (It's not like anyone's alive to disturb you, after all.)

You turn just in time to watch Boothill drop him unceremoniously to the floor in a lump, wiping off his hands on his pants like he's just touched something absolutely vile – which you suppose he has. 

“Sorry ‘bout the nose, by the way,” he drawls – but he's not talking to Silas. “Seems like your package got a lil’, heh, damaged in transit. Wanted him to be in mint condition for ya, but…”

Your lips twitch in open amusement. “Let me guess,” you say slowly. “He said something stupid, didn't he?”

He harrumphs in blatant disapproval. “More like rude.” He gives Silas a sharp glare, and you have to laugh at the way the sniveling little weasel flinches. “You ain't ever meant to talk about a lady like that. Bet you're real sorry now, huh?” 

Your heart practically sings at the quiet whimper that escapes him. 

“Got anything to drink in here, by the way?” Boothill drawls, completely nonchalant. “Worked up a mighty thirst takin’ out all that trash.”

You hum in thought as you stroll slowly towards Silas, your heels clicking on the tile, your eyes fixed on him like a cat stalking its prey. “There should be a small selection in the mini-fridge. They're all quite bad, to be frank – other than the whiskey, but that's because I picked it.” Then, you narrow your eyes accusingly. “You've always had horrible taste in drinks, Silas. Add that to the list.”

The moment Boothill starts to turn his back, the little rat starts to push himself away, sweating profusely. In a flash, Boothill whips around, aims, and fires – and for a heartbeat, you wonder if he actually shot him–

No. There is a fresh bullet hole right next to his knee, though. 

“You'd best stay still, ya worthless shirtbag,” the cyborg growls, “‘less you're eager for me to put a bullet or two in your knees.” 

What a fantastic idea. 

But first…

“Just a moment,” you say mildly, strolling slowly towards them. You circle around to get a look at Silas's hands where they're tied behind his back, your eyes locking onto his watch. “Oh, wonderful.”

You kneel down, laughing openly at the way he flinches the moment you grab hold of his wrist. You quickly undo the buckle on his watch, sliding it off and pressing his thumb against the screen to unlock it. Then, you stand to examine it more closely. You fiddle with it for a moment, swiping between options and apps and menus in your search. 

You're tempted to demand that he tell you the exact location of the collar controls and threaten to skin him alive if he doesn't, but you find the right menu before long. (Interestingly, you note that the default voltage is labeled as dangerous. Much to consider.) You tap the button to disengage the lock, then twice more to confirm. 

The latch in the back opens with a click. You smile widely as you pull the wretched fucking thing away for the last time, your chest expanding with fresh air for what feels like the first time in ages. 

Then, you turn to look at yourself in the vanity, finding the newly freed stretch of skin, and–

Is that…?

…

There's a scar below where it sat. 

It's certainly faint, but it's undeniable. The place where the collar’s bottom edge rested has not only a deep indent where it pressed in, but also a broad surface of scar tissue where your skin was rubbed raw, over and over and over. You stroke your thumb over the mark, feeling the slightly rough texture that you must've missed back in the ship. 

(Now, you remember all of the times you've woken up in a cold sweat, your nails aching from scratching at the collar and your skin stinging from all of the movement. You just never realized– You never thought…)

Finally, your eyes drift just a few inches over, and you're a bit startled to find Boothill already looking at you in the mirror, his eyes uncharacteristically soft and somber. 

“Should fade eventually, now that ya don't have the pressure on it,” he rasps, “but it never should've been there at all.”

…He's right.

And just like that, the kindling of your fury is lit anew. 

With a flinty edge to your eyes, you spin around once more to look down at the subject of your rage; he's still facing opposite to you, held stiff by the threat of Boothill's revolver. Without a moment of hesitation, you bend down and fasten the collar around his throat, yanking it so hard that he chokes as you secure the latch. 

Then, you stand, circling around until you can look Silas in the eye, your gaze burning with hatred. Slowly, you smile as you examine him. 

“I think that looks much better on you, don't you think?” you say, your lips curling higher as you lift the watch in your hands. 

His eyes widen just before you press the button to activate the collar. 

He goes rigid as the shock bursts ruthlessly through him, his whole body shaking and spasming as it seizes him. A strangled noise escapes him, caught between a scream and a wail, but the muscles of his throat are so tight under the grip of the electricity that he's nearly strangled into silence. You keep the button held, watching dispassionately as he writhes, and you only let up when the faint scent of burning flesh meets your nose. He falls flat like a puppet with cut strings, twitching and spasming and coughing like a dying animal. 

You watch him pant and heave for a long moment before Boothill smoothly flips his revolver in his hand, holding it out to you grip-first. 

“Five more shots, partner. Lemme know if ya want more,” he says evenly, utterly unperturbed by the worm writhing by your feet. “Just so ya know, I'm sure some alarm got triggered while I was wreckin’ shop. I'm keepin’ an eye on the scanners, but I'll wager you've got about fifteen minutes before we gotta haul ash.”

The gun feels perfect in your palm – reassuringly heavy, cool and unyielding, sharp and deadly; the grip feels like it was made for your hand. 

Oh, yes. This will do nicely.  

“Fifteen minutes is all I'll need,” you purr, running your thumb slowly along the barrel. Then, you gesture toward the chair at your vanity. “Take a seat, darling.” You smile, tilting your head. “The real show is about to begin.”

He chuckles, deep and low in a way that makes your spine tingle pleasantly. He turns toward the fridge – to test out that whiskey, you wager. 

Now, you finally turn your eyes back to the subject of your hatred. 

He's always looked pathetic to you, but this is truly a new low. He's battered and bruised and filthy with his own blood, and he's staring up at you, wide-eyed and trembling like a terrified child. You think this fits him much better; now, he fits the perfect picture of the sniveling little rat that he is. 

You lean down, yanking the tie out of his mouth and tossing it aside, grimacing in disgust at the sheer amount of spit that goes with it. Immediately, he sputters and coughs, his throat clenching as if he's struggling to breathe. 

Good. You've been struggling to breathe for years. 

Finally, when he manages to keep himself together, his eyes tentatively meet yours. For what might be the first time, Silas utters your name, breathless and terrified. 

Your eyes narrow in unfettered fury, the anger rising to a boil in an instant. God, you hate his voice. “Keep my name out of your fucking mouth, you sniveling piece of shit.” You raise the gun to aim it straight at his face, pulling back the hammer. 

He sputters, paling significantly. “W-Wait, love. This isn't– Surely we can come to an agreement? I can–”

You bare your teeth, the rage in your gut bursting through the seams. You plant your foot on his chest and pin him down, looming over him like a wraith out for blood. “You're not in a position to negotiate,” you snarl, digging the sharp point of your heel into his diaphragm until he's struggling to breathe. “You're in a position to beg.”

Then, you see it. You watch with sick satisfaction as the final dregs of hope drain from his eyes, as the reality sinks in, as the fear begins to swallow him whole. 

You watch as he realizes that you were never broken at all. 

It tastes like ambrosia, intoxicatingly sweet on your tongue.

“I'm– I'm sorry,” he finally sputters, his lips trembling. “I'm– I only ever wanted to treat you right. I– I thought you were happy, once you–”

You aim the gun at his knee and pull the trigger. 

You swear you can hear the crunch of his kneecap as it shatters. You think you should feel horrified by the scream that wrenches out of his throat, by the way his eyes stretch wide in pain, by the way his whole body begins to writhe, but you can't even conjure a scrap of pity. Oh, the euphoria you feel when you spot tears budding in his eyes – it’s unparalleled. 

“Try again,” you grit out, once his wailing finally settles into sobbing. He’s practically hyperventilating, but with your heel digging so ruthlessly into his diaphragm, he can't take a full breath; you twist it a little harder just to feel his muscles strain. 

He’s terrified of you. Silas is terrified of you. The untouchable, unbeatable Silas Morghani is looking up at his broken wife with the most petrified look you've ever seen on a person. You feel alive, flourishing like a plant under the sun, your roots nourished by the blood of the man who's crushed your flowers into dust time and time again.

“I'm sorry,” he whimpers, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “I'm– I wanted you. I wanted you the moment I saw you. I thought– You never told me– I didn't think–”

You cock the hammer again. 

If he wasn't pale already, he certainly is now. 

You jump when Boothill suddenly speaks up, having almost forgotten he was there. “Worst spot to get shot is in the gut, for what it's worth.” When you look up at him, he's taking a sip of the whiskey straight from the bottle as he lounges in front of your vanity, his lips curled deviously. “Stomach’s just below the ribs, a bit off to his left. Shoot there, n’ the bile will eat him from the inside out. Burns like hellfire.”

You blink at him for a moment. Then, you grin like a madwoman. “I could kiss you,” you purr, and you're not quite sure if you're joking or not. 

Based on the abrupt bashfulness that floods his expression, neither does he.

(Very briefly, you actually think about it. You think about shooting Silas dead without even bothering to look while you kiss another man – one that might actually treat you decently. You wonder if his lips would taste like blood; you wonder how those sharp teeth would feel against your tongue.)

(A moment later, you excise the thought from your brain.)

You return your gaze to Silas, and the terror in his eyes feels like a ray of sunshine on your face. He takes a trembling breath when you finally lift your foot away, taking a step back and aiming at the spot Boothill directed you to. 

You really would hate to get blood on this dress. 

“W–Wait, love– Wait, you don't need to–” 

You pull the trigger. 

The scream that tears out of his throat is grating, but the transparent agony on his face is worth it. Blood seeps quickly through the pale fabric of his dress shirt as he writhes, his arms straining against his binds as he shudders. 

He looks much better in red.  

Yet somehow, you aren't satisfied. So, you pull back the hammer again and fire right at the same spot. He clearly isn't prepared for this one, because he practically howls, ragged and anguished and animalistic; it might've garnered some pity if he hadn't spent the last few years treating you like a doll whose fate was to be used and discarded. 

You watch him dispassionately as he settles into sobs and wails, his face wet with tears that are steadily rehydrating the dried blood from his nose. The stain on his shirt steadily grows larger and larger, unimpeded. You've trapped him in a cycle of endless strangulation; he winces when his muscles flex as he breathes, and the flinch only exacerbates the pain. His voice muffled to a whimper, he begs, “Mercy, mercy, mercy–”

You owe him nothing but suffering. 

You glance up at Boothill again. “Could I ask a favor of you, darling?” 

His smile is simultaneously devious and quite charming. “Anything at all, sugar.” 

You tilt your head, your gaze darting back down to the pathetic, shivering form at your feet. “Would you be a dear and pull out his teeth while I hold him down?”

You swear Silas stops breathing. 

“Well, who am I to deny such a lovely lady?” Boothill drawls, and the menacing twist to his voice is like music to your ears. He stands with a creak of leather and the subtle noise of whirring machinery, his spurs clinking ominously as he steps toward his prey. 

“Wait– Hold on,” Silas chokes, his eyes darting wildly between you and the cyborg as you descend on him like a duo of hungry lions to a wounded gazelle. “Wait, please! You don't–” 

Now, you cock the hammer once more, your eyes narrowing on him as you stare him down like the roach he is. 

His mouth shuts with a clatter of teeth. A fresh bead of sweat trails down his forehead. 

“No, no. Keep talking,” you say lightly, staring at him unblinkingly. “I'd love to see what new low you're digging yourself to.”

“I don't– I…” he sputters, his lips trembling. “What can I say? What– What do you want from me?” 

You smile in a way that might've seemed pleasant if you didn't have a gun pointed to his head. “You want the truth, sweetie?” you spit, kneeling down by his head; you don't miss the way he quivers, subtly leaning away from you. “There's nothing you can say. You've already said everything I needed to hear.” 

Your smile widens as he gapes at you, the fresh terror lighting up his eyes. 

“Now, it's my turn to speak.” Slowly, you decock the gun, mimicking the motion that Boothill made back on the ship. “As for what I want?” You set the revolver down with a heavy thunk, far out of his reach, although his hands are still bound. “I want you to sit still, and to keep your fucking mouth open. You never had trouble doing that before, hmm?” 

You lean over him, blocking out the bright lights and casting a menacing shadow. Ruthlessly, you clench your fist in his hair, narrowing your eyes. 

“And if you bite me,” you snarl, “I'll pour that shitty vodka on your stomach until you're begging me to kill you.”

Without waiting for a response, you grip his jaw in your free hand, wrenching his mouth open with your nails digging ruthlessly into his skin. Right on cue, Boothill crouches down opposite to you, caging him in, and you pointedly ignore the way he starts to squirm – though you're pleased to note that he isn't fighting your hold just yet. 

“Consider me your pliers,” Boothill drawls, openly amused by the pathetic sight at his feet. “You point, n’ I'll pull.”

You smile up at him, truly delighted. It's wonderful to have a partner in crime for an occasion like this. “So kind of you.” 

You lean over, looking down into Silas’s mouth like he isn't writhing like the worm he is. You release his hair and point to one of his upper canine teeth, tapping it with your nail just to watch him flinch, just to feel his breath stutter with terror. “That one first.”

Boothill makes an affirmative noise as you clench your fist in Silas's hair again, wrenching his jaw further open. As the cyborg's hand nears his mouth, you can feel him starting to fight your grip, perhaps instinctually, but it only takes a sharp squeeze from your pointed nails to still him. As Boothill's fingers squeeze around his tooth, his tongue starts to squirm restlessly in his mouth. 

“Keep your slimy tongue off a’ me, or I'll cut it out,” he snarls, and you swear his eyes flash red. 

You don't doubt him for a moment; clearly, neither does Silas, because he goes so still that his breath stalls in his chest, a whimper escaping from his throat. 

Without any hesitation, Boothill pinches down on the tooth again, so hard that you can actually hear the bone creak from the stress. 

And then he starts to pull. 

Silas immediately starts to writhe uncontrollably from the pressure, his jaw starting to close in earnest no matter how hard you fight him. Boothill has accounted for this already, clearly, because he stuffs his free thumb back between Silas's molars, wedging his mouth open with no hope of escape. You put your entire weight into pinning him down by his hair, the skin taut with the strain. 

Blood springs up at his gum line, stark against the pale white of his bleached teeth. If you thought he screamed when you shot him, this makes it sound like a whimper. His whole body fights and squirms, his head bucking and shaking, but Boothill's grip is utterly unshakable. You clench your jaw, your spine tingling with an instinctual sympathy that he doesn't deserve; you can't imagine how badly it must hurt. 

Good. You hope it stings like nothing else he's ever felt. You hope he tastes every drop of the suffering that he's delivered to you, day after day after day.  

Crimson pools rapidly in the back of his throat, the flow only increasing as he chokes on the fluid. He's forced to swallow it, his throat spasming as he gags, tiny droplets of red spattering on his lips, beading against Boothill's metal. 

It almost feels like a mercy when the tooth finally comes loose, a nauseating mess of blood pouring out as a thin layer of his gums is torn away. He coughs and sputters, red spilling from the sides of his mouth as he cries, and cries, and cries. Without ceremony, Boothill drops the piece of bone onto the floor. 

You're not sure why this part is making your gut churn so horribly. Perhaps it's because of how close you are to the action, unconcealed by blood or cloth; perhaps it's the vague familiarity with pain like this; perhaps it's an instinctual kind of empathy. 

You ball up the feeling and stuff it back down your throat, swallowing it like a bitter pill. 

He would've done the same to you. He would've done worse. The only reason he didn't is because you never gave him the excuse of discipline. 

This is what he's earned. 

“The other one, too,” you say flatly, your gaze cold, but not distant.

If you look away now, you'll never be able to look back. 

Boothill obeys without a word, his fingers reaching for the tooth’s twin. Immediately, Silas starts to thrash in earnest, fighting your hold with all of his might, but the cyborg pins him effortlessly without even batting an eye. A thin fracture runs up his tooth from the force he's using, but it bleeds just the same. 

The second goes mercifully quickly – or perhaps you don't quite process the length of time correctly. You've grown numb to the wailing of the man who ruined your life. 

“I suppose that's enough,” you rasp, your grip loosening against his scalp. You never want to touch him again. “I'm sick of his whining.”

The sobbing is so loud that you fear Boothill doesn't hear you, but he nods without fuss, dropping his hold and standing without fanfare – though he does wipe off the blood on his hands onto Silas's clean pant leg before he does. The moment he's free, Silas turns over and coughs a veritable fountain of blood onto the tile, his whole body shaking. 

He's disgusting. He's pathetic. 

Your cold fingers seek out Boothill's gun before you rise to your feet, your jaw tight as you stare down at the quivering form beneath you. Vaguely, you register that Boothill has stepped away again, but it's like your vision has tunneled, your focus narrowing to a pinpoint. 

For a long moment, you merely watch Silas as he pieces himself back together, feeling slightly lightheaded. 

In the back of your mind, you hear the toll of a bell, distant and ominous. 

Daybreak is on the horizon. The night has been long and bloody, and plenty of justice has been dealt… 

But there's one more monster due to be put down. 

When Silas looks up at you, he barely registers as human in your mind. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair disheveled, his chin red with blood. 

You're not sure what he sees in your eyes, but he looks up at you like you're the incarnation of death itself, here to collect its dues. 

“Let… Please let me go,” he whispers, trembling and childish. “Please. I'll… You'll never see me again. Just let me go, and I'll–”

In a flash, you cock the hammer and fire, inches away from his head. He flinches so hard that his whole body jolts, a gasp of pain wrenching from his mouth from the movement.

He's done plenty of talking, and you're sick of hearing his obnoxious fucking voice. 

“And what? Make someone else your little pet? Keep their leash even tighter, so they'll never have the chance to get away?” you snarl, rage bubbling in your gut. “I know you. I know how you think. I know what you want, you disgusting little pig.”  

Your eyes glint in the light as you level the barrel straight at his head. 

“And I know you'll never hurt anyone again.” 

You cock the hammer, and the final bullet sits ready in the chamber. 

You watch the air stall in his lungs. 

You smile. 

“Consider this a divorce.” 

It's over in a blink. His horrified eyes light up in the flash from the muzzle, and his head jerks back from the force of the final bullet. He falls back against the ground like an abused ragdoll, the life ripped unceremoniously from his body. 

The room is utterly silent except for the ringing in your ears. 

He's…

He's actually dead. 

He'll never hurt you again. 

He'll never lay hands on you again. 

He'll never call you pet or doll again. 

You're free.

For a long, long moment, you stare down at his corpse, watching the blood seep slowly out of his still body. 

It barely feels real. 

Even though you can see the wound you've left in his head, part of you is almost expecting him to sit back up. 

Another part of you is expecting all of this to be an elaborate ruse, and at any moment, you'll be snapped back into that collar and beaten within an inch of your life for your insolence. 

Another part of you is convinced this is a dream. 

But there's no question about the weight of the gun in your hand, about the soreness of your feet from your heels, about the unimpeded air hitting your neck. 

It's…

It's actually over. 

There's truly no words to express how completely and utterly relieved you feel. 

And yet…

“Was this too cruel of me?” you suddenly murmur, mostly to yourself. 

You're not sure what you're expecting, but it's not for Boothill to bark out a laugh. “You serious?” he chuckles, raising his brows as you finally rip your eyes away from the corpse to meet his gaze. “If anything, I'd say ya went too easy on him. I didn't even have to slap him conscious again.” 

You're quiet for a spell, caught up in the riptide of your spiraling thoughts. 

It's not that you regret killing him, and you don't particularly regret the torture, either. But…

Something about it just makes you feel… dirty, in a way – like you've stooped to his level. It almost feels like the weight of his sins stained your hands when you killed him – like a bloodborne curse spread into your veins from the moment you signed his death warrant. The sound of his screaming is still ringing in your ears, and you're nauseated by the dichotomy of disgust and pleasure churning in your gut. 

After a long moment of silence, Boothill adds, “If ya ask me? There ain't no point measurin’ morals with a man like him.” 

You blink, your gaze focusing back onto him. (His eyes are very pretty.) “What do you mean?”

“I'll wager that he was never concerned with righteousness.” He gestures loosely with one hand. “Same with all the rest a’ these IPC shirtbags. They all think they're above justice – above fairness, above honor, above morals.”

There's a particular sort of rage in his expression – an anger that's fused into the core of his soul, irreversibly intertwined. You can't bring yourself to look away. 

“And I'll bet that he never thought a’ you like anythin' more than a toy,” he continues, clenching his fists. “That's how all these guys think. To them, everyone's an object – an asset,” he spits, and the venom in his voice is contagious. “They look at you, n’ they see a price tag.”

There's an odd distance in his gaze, like he's lost in the fire burning within him. Then, he seems to come back to you, and his eyes soften slightly, his fists relaxing. 

“So ask yourself this: why should you treat a man with honor if he never did anything honorable in his life?”

And in an instant, the vague sense of guilt evaporates like smoke. 

He's right. 

Silas has never had morals – never had a code that considered anything beyond his own desires. Every single day, he signed documents condemning millions to death or slavery or poverty, sealing their fates with little more than the flick of a pen. He ripped off your wings and stuffed you in a cage, always with one finger on the trigger, waiting for you to slip up. 

He would've killed you without batting an eye – like he was throwing away a broken doll that had long fulfilled its purpose. And when he killed countless people from his desk, he never thought of them as people. 

They were only assets. 

(Just trimming the fat.)

Now, as your eyes drift over to the corpse, you understand one thing more intimately than ever before–

Beasts have no capacity for morality. Naturally, those without morals should be treated like beasts.

You were doing the galaxy a favor, really, ridding it of such a blight. 

Suddenly, Boothill grimaces, turning his eyes toward the door of the dressing room. “Hate to say it, but we're outta time.”

You nod slowly, and you turn away from the corpse of your jailer for the last time.

This chapter of your life is over – and with it, you will wash your hands clean. 

“I'm ready.” 

He makes an affirmative noise and stands, throwing down the half-empty bottle of whiskey without a care in the world. As he grows nearer to you, you turn his revolver in your hand, offering it back to him just as he did to you. He gives you a charming little grin as he holsters it with a flourish. 

“Now, let's make tracks, yeah?” he says lightly, and a beat later, he rips the door open, completely shattering the lock in the process. 

You smile, your heart swelling with some emotion that you've forgotten the name of. 

(Oh, well. You have plenty of time to relearn them all.)

He leads you out into the main area of the lounge, and it truly looks like a horror movie was filmed here. Corpses litter the floor indiscriminately, and the air reeks of blood; never before have you thought of such a smell as pleasant – until now, that is. Through the shattered window, you can hear the howl of wind and the noise of what must be at least a few helicopters circling the building. The space is lit ominously by the wandering search lights, sparkling against the blood and shattered glass on the carpet. 

Briefly, you wonder how exactly Boothill is planning on escaping; you have no doubt that the IPC is swarming the building like ants to sugar, so the ground certainly isn't an option. The roof, maybe? Although, that would still be quite risky; there's almost certainly going to be snipers on the lookout for him. 

When you grow near the edge of the stage, Boothill speaks up. “Ah, ya might wanna take a step back,” he warns nonchalantly. 

You throw him a curious look, and you damn near jump out of your skin when a cacophonous crash shakes the building, glass shattering loudly in your ears. You whip around, only to find that part of a ship has smashed in through the already broken window, using the breacher bridge as both a battering ram and a boarding ramp. 

What a fucking lunatic. You can't get enough of it. 

“That's one way to make an entrance, I guess,” you laugh. 

He shrugs, grinning widely. “What can I say? I like puttin’ on a show. N’ what's the point of havin’ autopilot on a ship if ya don't use it?” Shielded from the helicopters lurking outside, he strolls onto the ramp, turning back to you and making a grand, sweeping gesture toward the inside. “Climb aboard, chickadee,” he chimes, light and charming. “We've got one more chore for the night.”

For a moment, you look into his eyes, examining the red pinpricks of his pupils. 

This is a night of celebration – and it's time to bid your dire mood goodbye. 

You make a grand show of curtsying before moving inside, snickering quietly as the two of you board. Once you're on, the bridge slowly retracts, although the hatch doesn't close. You stand at the edge with Boothill at your side, and although you waver slightly when the ship begins to move away from the building, he holds one arm in front of you to prevent you from falling. (He's rather sweet, isn't he?)

As the ship pulls away with the clatter of shifting glass, the wind begins to bite into your skin, but you can't even say you mind. 

It feels like home. It feels like freedom. 

The ship halts some distance away, and the way you're positioned adjacent to the building means you're still shielded from the roaming helicopters; going by the reflections in the glass, your ship is the focus of all of their spotlights. You watch as Boothill pulls a dark red bullet from his mouth (since when can he do that?) and flick it into the air. With a flourish, he swings his gun and snaps it cleanly into the cylinder, perfectly accounting for the billowing wind – all of this without even batting an eye. 

You're still staring at him with open awe when he turns to you, holding out his revolver grip-first, a wild, wicked grin stretching across his face. 

“Would ya like to do the honors?” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the howl of the wind. 

Your smile is a slow, creeping thing. What a gentleman. “It'd be my pleasure.”

The grip feels oddly familiar in your hand, like an old companion you haven't seen in years, even though you'd never even held a gun before today. You admire it again for only a moment, tracing the details with your eyes, following the way it shines. It's truly beautiful for a tool of death and destruction. 

Then, you cock the hammer and aim at the hole in the window leading to the lounge–

And you fire. 

The bright flash of the explosion stings your eyes, but you don't even blink, not even as the deafening boom rocks the ship in the air, the heat warming your skin like a blazing fire. 

And then the building really starts to blow. 

Floor by floor, explosives go off in a chain reaction of brilliant light and fire and debris, the sound so loud that it makes your ears ring. It's a truly spectacular sight, and you can finally identify that mysterious, lingering emotion.

Pure, unfiltered elation. 

You lean carefully toward the edge to watch the explosions go further down, level by level, slightly disturbed by how much you're trusting him not to let you fall. The crash of the building crumbling is truly deafening, and the heat is nearly blistering, but it's all worth it to watch the beams fold under their own weight. In barely any time at all, the IPC headquarters is little more than a mountain of burning rubble spilling into the streets – and with it, all remnants of your prison. 

Tragically, you are allowed only a moment to marvel before the hatch slides closed, instantly silencing the howl of the wind.

“Best get a move-on, before they get any bright ideas involvin’ missiles,” Boothill says lightly.

You blink up at him in open alarm, caught in the middle of offering his gun back to him. “What?”

He laughs without a care in the world as he plucks the weapon from your hands, holstering it with a flourish. “Just pullin’ your leg. The shirtbags want me alive, anyway, so it's not like–”

With flawless timing, the ship rocks hard in the air, the unmistakable patter of bullets hitting the metal hull. 

“Son of a forkin’ bench!” he spits, whipping around and bolting for the cockpit. 

Despite the very real threat to your life, you can't help but burst into laughter as you scramble after him, stumbling against the wall as the thrusters activate, your heels buckling beneath you. You manage to collapse into the copilot's chair a moment before he activates the boosters, the force leaving you clutching onto the arm rests for dear life. 

While Boothill is doubtlessly a reckless flier, he's undeniably efficient; the chase barely lasts for a minute before he manages to escape orbit, the hull rumbling with the buildup to FTL travel. Your stomach lurches into your throat when the ship bursts into hyperdrive, and by the time the ride evens out, you're completely breathless with laughter. 

You wipe tears from your eyes as you look over, only to find that he's already staring at you with an emotion you can't quite name. 

“You went n’ lost your mind?” he chuckles, even though he's grinning just as widely as you. 

You take your first full breath in some time, slumping down in your seat. “Only because you lost yours. Who the fuck gave you your license?”

The two of you burst into laughter all at once, and for a moment, you're utterly captivated by the absurdity of it all – laughing yourself to tears with the man that helped you kill your…

Well, he was hardly ever your husband, was he?

“How did you even get up to the roof, by the way?” you ask, once you've caught your breath again. “I noticed that you swung down into the lounge.”

He grins at you, wild and manic. “I climbed.”

You quite frankly cannot stop your jaw from dropping. “Climbed? From the ground floor?”

“Nah. Too much work,” he says, somehow smiling even wider. “I jumped from the next buildin’ over. Then I climbed.”

Holy shit. He’s crazy crazy.

“You can't be serious. There are – or, well.” You blink for a moment, then rephrase, “There were over a hundred stories.”

When he shrugs carelessly, all you can do is laugh, shaking your head in fond exasperation. 

Then, you turn your gaze to the world outside of the windshield, to the stars streaking by in bright lines of light. You've always found hyperspace to be unbelievably gorgeous – a kaleidoscope of blurring colors, too fast for your eyes to follow. It's been so long since you were able to leave the planet that you'd nearly forgotten the scope of its beauty. 

(You'll have plenty of time to look at it now, won't you?)

“Where are you headed next?” you ask, a bit quiet, a bit thoughtful. 

“Was just about to ask you the same thing.” His chair creaks as he turns to face you, but you can't bring yourself to look away from the world outside of the ship just yet. “I'm happy to drop ya off wherever you'd like, y'know. No skin off my nose.”

(Momentarily, you're startled by his generosity – both by how earnestly he spoke and how easily he offered. Then again, you suppose he's been quite generous all this time.) 

Truthfully, though, you haven't even thought about your destination. 

This moment – standing on the precipice of a new chapter of your life, with a near-infinite number of paths before you… It almost felt dangerous to think about this in advance. But now you're here, and all of the universe is laid out in front of you. 

Now, you have as many options as your mind can ponder. 

After a long moment, you reply, “I think I'll see where the wind takes me.” Then, you tear your eyes away from the stars, meeting his gaze with a tiny smile. “But I'm open to travel recommendations, if you have any.” 

He raises a brow, grinning playfully. “You sure that I'm the kinda man you wanna ask for travel advice, chickadee?” 

“I can't think of anyone I'd rather ask.” Your smile widens into something eager, something thrilled. “I'll be getting a gun, if that helps increase your options.”

He laughs, bright and warm, and a hot spark of delight flares up in your chest. (He's very pretty when he laughs.)

“Well, I'm sure I can think of somethin’,” he drawls, leaning back in his seat. Then, a look of excitement crosses his face – the contagious sort, so infectious that you can't help but lean closer. “You ever been to the Frigherix system?” 

You tilt your head. “Can't say I have.” 

The grin on his face damn near quadruples. “Oh, if I'm goin' off that whiskey you had back there, you'll love the stuff they've got. Finest fudgin' malt juice this side of the cosmos, if ya ask me – like molten gold n’ honey lit on fire.” He chuckles, readjusting his hat. “Kicks like a forkin’ mule, that stuff.” 

(He's…. quite charming like this, isn't he?)

Before you can say a word, he perks up again. “Oh! N’ after that, you've gotta get a taste of the stuff in Aloniir! Got a buddy from out there, n’ nobody does it like them. Craziest muddle-fudgers I ever done met. I told ‘em I couldn't get drunk anymore, n’ they acted like I dared ‘em!” He speaks faster and faster as he gets more invested, gesturing emphatically with so much passion that it lights up his whole face. “They've got this drink – uh… Vantoor’s Kiss, I think. It's a two-parter, y’see, ‘cause they put poison and venom in the first glass, n’ the antidote in the second! Burns like nothin’ else, but the taste is–” 

You settle into your seat as you listen – well, more like half-listen, at this point. 

It's hardly your fault that he's so handsome. Really, you'd be crazy to be able to pay attention to anything else. 

As for your destination, well… You'll figure that out sooner or later. 

You have plenty of time to choose, after all.

To be continued...

[actuallysaiyan]

Deeper(All Might x Fem!Reader)

warnings: smut, oral sex(male receiving), size kink, size difference, bodily fluids(cum) word count: 1.2k pairings: All Might x Fem!Reader summary: he's very aware of the size difference, but you don't care. you just want to make him feel good. a/n: full rendition of this thirst dividers by @adornedwithlight

Toshinori was always aware of how much bigger he is than you. He takes careful precautions never to exert too much force on you. He’ll never get too rough with you. Besides that, he is a very gentle man. He enjoys being soft and tender with you whenever he  can.

The only time that caution seems to be thrown out the window is when you’re on your knees and trying to fit that big cock into your mouth. Something about seeing you struggle to take him into your mouth makes a part of him snap deep inside. It makes him want to shove you down onto his cock completely.

Yet he never does. And he most likely never will. You are far too precious to him for him to even consider hurting you like that. He’d have to ask your consent and find ways to make sure you’re so comfortable with it. Even then, he’s sure it would just have to remain a fantasy.

One night, he comes home to you. He’s a little pent up, a little more tired than usual. Seeing you being so domestic for him causes him to become even more aroused. Toshinori could never lie and say he doesn’t find you attractive, especially when you do everything in your power to take good care of him.

You’re finishing up dinner in the kitchen when he gets home. He towers over you, pulling you in so close that you can feel his muscles pressing into your soft body. Oh how he craves to be able to hold you like this. His breath is warm on your skin as he whispers in your ear.

“I am here, home at last.” 

You smirk playfully, turning a little just to be able to give him a sweet kiss. You’re too good for him, he thinks. He believes that you must be an angel sent down to earth just for him. Despite thinking that he is in no way deserving of the love you give to him, Toshinori soaks it all in and appreciates every single moment of it.

“Welcome home, sunflower. Are you hungry?”

He chuckles, his voice booming. “Yes! Very!”

You turn around completely and look up at him. All you can see is just the most beautiful human you’ve ever laid eyes on. The feelings you have for him are tender, deep and so real. With love on your mind, you guide him to the table and you serve him his dinner.

Conversation is kept light and Toshinori hangs onto your every word. He could never tire of the things you say to him. The more he hears your voice, the more it begins to affect him. He’s growing aroused just watching your lips move.

“Darling,” he breathes softly after he’s done eating. “I must admit that I’m feeling…” he then blushes.

“Feeling?” You ask, reaching over to gently soothe your thumb over his knuckles.

That little move alone has him shuddering. There’s a dark look in his eyes when he speaks to you once more. You know what’s going on, but you desperately want to hear him say it.

��I’m aroused.”

You bite your lip seductively. You thought that maybe you’d have to coax it out of him. But he spilled it so quickly, it makes your head whirl. You grab his hand and lead him into the comfort of your bedroom.

It takes you very little time to be on your knees and tugging off his costume. Though you love how that spandex clings to his every muscle, having him bare to you is so alluring as well. His cock springs out, twitching and throbbing, begging for a little attention.

“Have you been so pent up, sunflower?”

He doesn’t even know how to respond. When you’re on your knees like this, looking up at him with his cock in your hand, he’s barely able to string together coherent thoughts. You giggle softly before pressing a kiss to the frenulum. The hulking blond above you lets out a raspy moan.

“I’ve…I’ve been pent up. I didn’t want to bother you with…this.” Toshinori admits.

You coo softly, continuing your soft little kisses and kitten licks. He’s not even sure how he’s going to manage to last if you continue to tease him like this. His cock keeps throbbing in your hand. But before he can even say or do anything, you wrap your lips around the tip and begin stroking the shaft.

His head falls back and his hips thrust ever so slightly. That last shred of self-control is what brings him back to reality and he stills himself. You look up at him with this cute lovesick look in your eyes, and he’s almost done for just by this. His large hand reaches down to stroke your cheek, and he’s mesmerized by the way you seem to worship him.

Slowly, you begin to bob your head up and down on the tip and part of his shaft. You’re confident in wanting to take more, but your lover is quick to stop you. He would never want you to hurt yourself just for the sake of his own pleasure. Your eyes meet once more when you look up at him, and he looks so lewd. His cheeks are pink, eyes half-open and his lips part as he grunts and whimpers.

“D-don’t do anything to hurt yourself. It already feels so divine, my love.”

His words make you shudder. You desperately want to take more of him into your mouth. You’re stubborn about certain things, and this is something you know you’d want to do even if he said it was okay. You want to feel him even deeper into your mouth. His size may be intimidating, but you’re ready to take on more.

You push down a little more, and Toshinori is shaking. His knees are buckling. Your drool lubricates his dick a little more, easing the passage into your mouth. He wonders how he’s even managed to hold on for this long. A choked moan falls from his lips as you swallow around him.

“P-pace yourself. It’s okay, don’t take on too much.”

Once again, your willingness to please this big man is so strong. You look up at him, your tongue swirling around the tip before you reach behind him and you grab his ass. He grunts loudly, shuddering under your touch. Your hands push him further into your mouth; further than he’s ever been.

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “I’m gonna—”

His whole body tenses as his balls draw up. He doesn’t have time to warn you before shot after shot of thick, hot cum begins to splash down your throat. As you struggle to swallow it all, he’s in the throes of his orgasm. His grip on you tightens for a moment, holding you there so he can finish completely down your throat. Then he snaps out of it and helps you off his cock.

“Darling, are you alright? I’m so sorry. Can you breathe?” Apologies fall from his lips as he looks down at you. His cheeks are so red right now.

You laugh sweetly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and standing up. Toshinori helps you to your feet, pulling you close. His hands are gentle as he tenderly caresses your hair.

“I’m happy I was able to do that for you,” you tell him. 

He smiles sweetly, “I really don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you.”

You squeal in surprise when he picks you up and tosses you onto the bed, his hands working to undress you as quickly as possible. Then he kisses his way down your body, spreading your thighs.

“But I know what I’ll do to keep you happy.”

reblogs and comments always appreciated!

©actuallysaiyan 2024-- do not repost on other platforms, copy, translate or edit my works!

[captain-n-crunchies]

AllMight Thots

Allmight x reader ( A little nsfw)

Allmight was the perfect man. Never letting you get groceries alone, always has a hand on the lower part of your back for protection, so emotionally available what more could you want?

Well.. when a man so gentle with you those thoughts of a more mature relationship develop in your mind, what if your big strong man felt a little pissed off today? Villains coming up the masses, students get hurt a lot easier equaling more paperwork, and he didn't take out the trash and do the dishes so now you his pretty little darling is nagging him; his resolve slipping each word as you parade your thick ass around his penthouse.

" And then you couldn't even clean the kitchen a little Tohi? Like I understand it early but-"

" Do you ever shut the hell up dear?" His body now relaxed but, the tense is thick.

Getting up from the couch and pouring himself a smooth glass of whiskey, only a little shot before he downs it and turns his blue eyes towards your confused frame. Stalking towards you slowly you back away now hitting the counter his body traps you in as filthy words flew out his mouth

"The hell am I asking you that for? Even with my hand over than filthy mouth you still can't shut up. But maybe I need to reinforce some old rules into you hm?"

" N-no I was just set back a few minutes cause of these dishes and-"

" Dear, I'm going to say this as respectfully as I can at this moment, but I don't give a fuck about those dishes. What I seem to care about is what your safeword for the next few hours?"

And that your gentleman of a husband said for the next few hours as he degrades every little thing about with his hips pushing against your ass your body up and down, an arm around your throat tightening every time he forces another thick glob of cum in your guts. Without fail maneuvering your body in every position he feels will set you straight he pushes and pushes your body to feel his cock; every inch, vein, and the tip scrapping against your walls draws heaps and heaps of moan from your pretty throat

" Take it- ah fuck TAKE IT"

Moans and pleas for him to slow down go unheard as he pushes deep inside you, your thighs now creamy and wet wraps around his hips and your one thrust away from the verge of passing out when you feel warm again, another load falls into like nothing, that is when he pulls out and a waterfall of cum gushes out that poor pussy of yours. Too bad for you because he wasn't done yet baby

" Can't have none of this leaking hm dear? I still got a few more loads to fill but your pussy filled quite nicely"

Looking up at him you gulp as his thick cock lays upon those chubby cheeks of yours, precum oozing from the tip onto your nose

" Open up darling, you've still got two more holes but as your husband and not some fuck buddy, I let you suckle on this till your energy up"

What a gentle man he is.

A.N: ( I don't know abt yall but why smut is easier to write than fluffy ideas? But tell me if this is good because I got some ideas and remember I love yall!)

[honeyandberryjuice]

Into Wonderland

summary: you have a very questionable situation with the man of your dreams. literally. relationship(s): reader/yagi toshinori (all might) word count: 938 warning(s): 18+, MINORS DNI

author's note: originally written for @lavenderovercast of their oc, but edited it for reader x toshinori. specifially small might because i love him. if you enjoyed this, any interaction is appreciated ♡ if anyone would like this rewritten for male, gender neutral or otherwise, please let me know!! tags: small might, fem!reader, cheating reader, well not really because it's a dream, emotional cheating?, whatever it is probably isn't morally correct, very guilty conscience. but it's sexy??

🍯 prefer to read on ao3? 🍯

 The room is hot. So fucking hot.

 Maybe it’s the fact that Japan was experiencing a dry spell, not even an ounce of any signs of rain for the last four days. Or, perhaps, it’s because Toshinori was moaning into your ear, breathy and so, so hot against you. If you weren’t so warm in your cheeks, and so very much distracted by the man’s very large fingers rubbing against your clit, you might’ve giggled as the air tickled your skin.

 Nothing seems very funny right now and, to be honest, your thoughts have been a garbled mess for the past few minutes. It was only the feeling of perspiration clinging to your back that had awakened the internal complaint—Though, really, you had absolutely nothing to complain about when Toshinori’s rough, calloused fingers swirled so hypnotically on your pussy.

 “Fuck,” You gasp out, a familiar pressure building inside your stomach. If the man continued this much longer, you’d come apart. There was something embarrassing about that, even though you trusted him with your entire life… Perhaps it was because this had all come on so unexpectedly, and you should feel shame about this, you should think about your husband—But, shit, it felt so fucking good.

 The blonde man lifted his soft lips from your neck, his eyebrows furrowing in worry. The pressure wanes, and you realise that his hands have slowed their pace. His voice, deliciously gravelly and cracking from lust, asks softly, “Are you okay? Does that hurt?”

 Oh god. You can’t stand it; you want him so fucking bad that it hurts. You don't deserve this man, this moment, anything—But there’s something so delightfully wicked about everything that the two of you shouldn’t be doing, and you don't ever want it to stop. Emphatically, you shake your head, and your hand slides up his neck to grip roughly at his hair. The other hand cups his in-between your thighs, and you push his hand closer. “P-Please, don’t. I’m almost there, Yagi. I…” It seemed impossible for your cheeks to blush anymore than they currently were, but you felt them warm even deeper. “I want to cum for you.”

 Toshinori is at a complete loss for words. His body betrays him to show this fact very clearly as his jaw falls open, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth. It takes a moment for him to regain his composure, and he finally clears his throat before looking at the person in front him with such softness and high regard that you suddenly think about covering yourself up. You don't, because you want more than anything for this to continue, but you can’t help but feel vulnerable under his dark-eyed gaze. After what felt like a lifetime, he responded, “I would like that, more than anything. I want to make you happy—”

 And suddenly, you’re pulling his face towards yours and wrapping your mouth around his. Your heart aches, but your pussy aches even more to feel him again. You don't know if you’ll ever get this chance laid before you again, and you can’t stand living with your regrets any longer. You wanted him; you’d wanted him for years, since you’d been classmates in America. You should’ve been braver, shouldn’t have run away from him, should’ve made yourself confess to him and claim what had felt like yours forever. If you wouldn’t have that chance again, then you’d do absolutely everything in your power to make this memory last a lifetime.

 Your tongue slips into his mouth, and the feel of his own—shy at first, though still so, so curious—feels like heaven. Then there’s fire, burning, and metallic iron mixed with a hint of peppermint as Toshinori noticeably relaxes in your hands like clay and his own tongue slides against yours. Your breaths mingles together, and you aren’t sure if the moan you heard was just your own, or his, or the two of you together.

 Your hands are everywhere—in his hair, brushing against his shoulders, cupping his cheeks. You can’t get enough, it feels like you’ve been starving for this for your whole existence, and this is where you’re meant to be and—

 With a jerk, you awaken. Your skin is clammy, your hair is sticking to your head, and you feel an urgent need to get out of your pyjamas now.

 But you’re still not fully conscious, and the thought is quickly removed from your mind as your hand instinctively reaches out for the body beside you. His skin is cold, so lushly cold, and you magnetically shuffle closer to him, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

 You ignore the fact that the scent that washes over you isn’t the same as the one you’d relished in your dreams, instead cupping a hand against his stubbly cheek, disregarding that the one you truly wanted to touch was clean shaven, and pulling him in for a kiss. There is no inferno or iron, only the slight heaviness of sleep.

 “Sweetheart?” In a voice that doesn’t feel right, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that you can think about is that you need this, and you know you’re a horrible, disgusting person that doesn’t deserve any of it—

 But warm hands, cold at the fingertips, finally, finally reach for you and you can feel his hair brushing against your cheek. It’s similar in shape, and your fingers have expertly explored it over the years, and if you just close your eyes and dream, it’s blond and spiky, and perfect.

 Even if it doesn’t belong to the man you really want.

[shellxrls]

need to grab modern!coryo’s soft dick like and tap it like a mic going “is this thing on??” only from him to not get it and respond with “uh — babe you good down there?” ‘n prolly jostle my head down onto him a little so he can harden properly in my warm mouth.

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 10. TAKE OVER

❝To fuck around is human, to find out is divine.❞

Vespertilio M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

recap

Izuku tensed, Tsuyu's breath hitched, and Mineta whimpered—but all three held their ground, shielding Aizawa with trembling determination.

Just as the Nomu closed in—

"You...piece of TRASH!!" 

|

| A blur shot across the Plaza, colliding with the creature and sending it flying.

The impact was so powerful that it crashed into the rocky mountainside of the Landslide Zone. Debris crumbled around as the ground shook from the force.

The battlefield fell silent as all eyes snap towards you.

You ignore them, your blood-red gaze locked on the disoriented lab project as it staggered to its feet.

Confusion briefly contorted Shigaraki's face as he registered your new appearance before fury took over once again.

"Well what are you waiting for?!" he screamed at the Nomu, his voice shrill with anger. "KILL HER!"

The Nomu roared in response, gearing up to attack again. But before it could even make it halfway you met it head-on.

Your fist connected with a sickening crack, sending the creature reeling again. Strike after strike you tore into the Nomu. Every blow resonating with power.

The battlefield seemed to blur around you, the chaos dimming as you focused solely on the beast before you.

Even when its regenerative abilities struggled to keep up you refused to slow down. You didn't stop.

"DO NOT FEAR! FOR I AM..." By the time All Might arrived the Nomu was barely holding its ground.

The Number One Hero paused mid-step, his sharp gaze falling on your transformed figure. "...here?"

White hair whipped around your face and your crimson eyes burned with an intensity that made even him falter—it was a look he hadn't seen in years, one that sent a shiver down his spine.

But as he watched you deliver a crushing blow to the Nomu, that flicker of recognition turned into determination.

"YOUNG AKASHIYA!" his voice boomed with approval. "LET'S FINISH THIS TOGETHER!"

The two of you moved in tandem, you and All Might tag-teaming the Nomu, your combined strength overwhelming the creature.

Blow after blow you fought in perfect sync, wearing it down until it was little more than a stumbling husk.

With a final, devastating punch, you send the Nomu far away from the battlefield.

And as its monstrous form sailed through the air, your eyes lock onto Tomura Shigaraki's. Through the disembodied hands, red vermillion filled with unbridled fury is what you meet.

A cold thought crossed your mind. 'Hmm...I'll fix that for him.'

"YOU—" he began, his voice trembling with venomous rage.

He never finishes the sentence.

You materialize before him in a heartbeat, fingers bypassing the severed limbs to wrap around his neck in a vice-like grip.

There's no triumphant glee in your eyes—only one of bored arrogance.

Time stops.

Both heroes and villains alike freeze.

Their eyes widen at the sight of you—a mere student—holding the ringleader of the League of Villains by the throat.

Seething with humiliation, Shigaraki lungs for your wrist in attempt to regain control of the situation.

His brittle fingers close around your skin; eyes squinting with a eerily grin as he waits for that satisfying crumble, that disintegration, that ultimate proof of his power.

He freezes. 'No...no...nononononononono'

Your skin...

'My quirk is absolute...It destroys...So why...'

Shigaraki's pupils tremble the longer he stares at your rapidly healing skin. It breaks and flake—like ashes scattering to the wind.

And in their place, new skin forms, unmarred and whole as if nothing had happened.

'Why isn't it working?'

His thoughts whirl, a tornado of denial and disbelief, until the horrifying truth crashes into him: he is powerless against you.

"Not so fun when it's happening to you...is it?"

With a gnawing sense of dread, he shakily moves view from your wrist back to your eyes.

Instead of reflecting the light cheerful tone of your voice, they were livid. Bloodshot—filled with a rage and intensity he's never seen, never felt before.

With the hand around his neck, Shigaraki realizes—without a shadow of doubt—that you have the power to crush his windpipe and end him right then and there.

Terrified, he breaks from your gaze and frantically tries to release himself from your iron grip on his throat.

But it was too late.

You caught the glint in his eyes. The flicker of genuine, unfiltered fear within those once malicious filled eyes—fear of you.

And you oh so adore it.

Your grip tightens. Almost till the point of feeling the fragile bones of Shigaraki's neck creak under the pressure.

You can feel his frantic pulse beneath your palm quickening, he's struggling to breath—desperate for oxygen.

His eyes widen in disbelief and terror before frantically removing his hold on you in attempt to free yours on his throat.

Knees buckling from lack air, Shigaraki finally collapse with struggling gasps.

For a brief second you relish in the sight of his kneeling form as the sensation of his once speeding pulse weakens under your grip.

Panic erupts on both sides: the heroes fearing you'll cross a irredeemable line while the villains, confident that you will, begin to close in.

Shigaraki's eyes dart, catching sight of Kurogiri hovering ominously closer; perhaps thinking you're distracted.

But you're far from it.

The corners of your mouth twitch upward in a sadistic grin and you press your nails even deeper into Shigaraki's flesh.

Crescent-shaped indents now become craters; each filled with a small pool of his blood before trickling down.

In a panic Shigaraki's gaze snaps back to you only to see the deadly promise that flashes in your eyes: Any closer, he dies.

Barely able to muster a voice through his constricted airway, Shigaraki uses the last of his rapidly depleting strength and weakly lifts a trembling hand.

"St...stop" Whether it's aimed at you or his underlings is unclear, but it achieves its purpose. Everyone cease.

When he turns back he sees the faintest trace of a smirk on your lips.

A mocking little twist, as if you knew he'd break—that he had no choice but to yield to you. His mind spirals.

'What is this feeling? This...crippling fear? She's...' He locks eyes with you once more, meeting what can only be described as the gaze of a demon, and the thought crystallizes:

'She's a monster.'

As he's paralyzed in a state of fear you began to lean closer to him. Your face nears his, so close that he feels your breath against his skin.

For a fleeting moment it's almost intimate and it sends an uninvited shudder down his spine.

Your lips are millimeters away from his ear, close enough to touch yet staying away, as if even the proximity is a privilege he doesn't deserve.

"I don't care who the hell you are—be it the leader of villains or even the Symbol of Peace himself." you hissed, your voice dripping with venom and conviction." I will destroy 𝑎𝑛𝑦 who brings harm to what is mine."

You pull back, but not before giving him a final warning, your fangs gleaming in the dim light like sharpened knives.

Then, with a flick of your wrist, you release him.

Shigaraki crumbles to the ground with gasps for air, all remaining dignity stripped away.

He looks up at you with hatred burning in his eyes. But there was something else there...something he couldn't mask.

Fear.

He hated it—loathed it. But he couldn't deny it.

He couldn't touch you. His Quirk was powerless against you and he knew it.

Still gasping, his gaze slid over to All Might standing a few paces away.

The sight of the towering hero sent a jolt through him and he remembered the initial plan, the one that had been ruined so utterly by you.

Weakly, he raised a trembling hand and rasped, "Kurogiri!"

The dark mist wasted no time. It surged toward Shigaraki instantly, tendrils of shadowy fog beginning to envelop him.

You didn't care. You had already turned your back on him, your focus now on Izuku.

Making your way to the greenette you helped him to his feet and braced his weight against you.

"Stay still."

But Izuku's eyes were locked on Shigaraki and All Might. The mist had spread rapidly, inching closer and closer to the Symbol of Peace.

Realization hit Izuku like a bolt of lightning.

"All Might!" he shouted in panic as he moved with desperation.

"What are you doing?!" you snapped, holding him firmly in place.

Izuku's panic only grew as the portal opened wider in front of All Might. "H-he's going to—he's going to touch him! Let me go! I can stop him!"

Your grip on him remains firm. "No."

"Please!" his voice cracked as he begged. "I-I have to help him!"

But you remained unmoving as you watch the scene unfold. Your crimson eyes take in the view of Shigaraki's trembling hand as he reached for All Might through the misty portal.

Izuku struggled even harder, his fear for All Might overwhelming him.

"Moka! Please! Let me go!" he cried, tears forming in his eyes. "ALL MIGHT!!"

Shigaraki's hand, jagged nails and all, was nearly upon All Might when the crack of a gunshot split the air.

The villain's hand recoiled, blood spurting from a bullet wound causing him to release a howl of pain.

"They're here!!" Relief filled All Might's voice as he spoke, the blood dribbling out of his mouth the least of his worries.

Shigaraki's hands twitched as his eyes dart toward Kurogiri. "Ahhh...game over. Guess we gotta try again another time Kurogiri," he muttered bitterly.

As the mist continues to consume him, multiple gunshots rang out. Shigaraki yelped as another bullet struck his legs forcing him to stagger.

"Apologies...we're a little late," Nezu chirped.

The mutant principal sat atop Vlad King's shoulder as other Pro Heroes stepped forward, their presence radiating across the battlefield.

Your eyes flicked to the approaching reinforcements, but you didn't release Izuku just yet.

His struggles slowly ceased as the arrival of the heroes brought him some measure of reassurance.

"Iida you made it!" "Yeah go Prez Iida!!"

The sounds of your classmates cheerful shouts brought a smile upon the usual formal student. "PRESIDENT OF CLASS 1-A, TENYA IIDA!! REPORTING FOR DUTY!!"

Keeping his focus on Shigaraki, Snipe fires a few more shots. "Only ne'er-do-wells we got a shot at wranglin' from a distance are..."

It wasn't until he felt a pull in Kurogiri' mist did Shigaraki truly realize it was over.

He had failed. And he needed to retreat.

With a venomous glare decorating his face, the head of League of Villains looked to All Might.

"I may have failed here Symbol of Peace," he spat with sarcasm and rage, his voice trembling with hatred. "But the next time we meet...you're dead."

As he spoke his eyes slid toward you. His gaze lingered, locking with your crimson ones.

The sight of you standing tall, unwavering even after everything, sent a fresh wave of frustration and helpless rage coursing through him.

He looked back and forth between you and All Might, his thoughts spiraling into an internal tantrum. 'No, no, no, no! This wasn't how it was supposed to go!'

The mist swallowed him whole, his words hanging in the air as silence settled over the battlefield.

"Yo Batty bitch!"

Bakugo's sharp voice cut through the haze as he stormed toward you with blazing eyes. "What the hell was that? You've been hiding this strength the whole damn time?!"

You didn't even spare him a glance, brushing past with an air of dismissal.

Instead of answering, you bit into your wrist, the pain barely registering as blood began to spill at the wound.

You extend your wrist to Izuku. "Here. Drink. It'll speed up your healing."

Izuku's face turned an impossible shade of red, his eyes darting nervously between you and the growing audience of classmates watching the exchange.

He frantically waved his hands in front of him. "W-what?! N-no thanks! I'll be fine! Really!"

You raised a brow, unimpressed by his protest. "I can always bite you directly...or force some into your mouth through a kiss." you said, your tone apathetic, as though discussing the weather. "Your choice. I refuse to let my blood bag get broken."

Though he was used to ̶M̶̶o̶̶k̶̶a̶ your remarks, his face somehow burned an even deeper shade. "F-fine! I'll drink it! No need to say that!"

With the class gawking at him, he reluctantly took your wrist.

It was quick and he pulled back immediately, clearly flustered, though you paid his reaction no mind.

Your attention shifted as you sniffed the air.

In the blink of an eye, you appeared and climbed in to the ambulance where Aizawa was loaded on to.

The EMTs paused their movements, staring at you in disbelief as you observed the Pro Hero.

His severe injuries and bloodied form made you pause briefly before turning to one of the workers.

"You. Get me a syringe," your tone is sharp.

The medic blinked, startled by your demand. "Uh...what? Ma'am, I don't think—"

"I said get me a syringe." You repeated. The intensity of your narrowing gaze made him stammer before quickly rushing to retrieve one.

He returned moments later. Taking the syringe from his shaky hands you wasted no time.

You stab your thigh with enough force to puncture muscle without flinching, drawing your own blood with a fluid motion.

Ignoring the horrified gasps, you carefully inspected the syringe, ensuring there were no air bubbles.

Then, stepping toward Aizawa, you grab his limp arm and insert the needle into one of his veins with practiced ease.

"M-ma'am you can't do that!" the EMT protested, his voice rising. "That's highly unhygienic and—"

You cut him off with a fanged snarl.

"C-carry on!" the medic stuttered, stepping back as you pushed the blood into the unconscious man's arm.

Once the syringe was emptied, you stepped back, your expression unreadable.

The effect was gradual. His labored breathing began to even out, the bruises slowly fading as deep gashes became shallow.

The paramedics stared in stunned silence at the rapid improvement of his condition before their eyes.

"He still needs professional care." you said curtly, breaking them out of their trance. "My blood can only do so much."

"Y-yes, ma'am!" they stammered, quickly finishing their preparations on Aizawa for transport.

As you climbed out of the ambulance, you were met with Izuku waiting with a worried expression.

But before either of you could speak the multiple footsteps of your classmates arrived.

"____ is that you?! You look so different!" Uraraka was the first to say something, her face flushed. "N-not that I don't like your original self!"

"Yeah! Her boobs and butt are bigger too!!" Mineta chimed in as drool seeped out the corner of his mouth.

"And when you fought that monster! Did the loss of your Prunus persica play a part in it?" Yaoyorozu asked, her eyes glimmering in fascination.

"Enough," you silence them and any other comment that was about to be said. Instead your gaze shifts to Izuku, who was talking to the EMTs in charge of your teacher.

The moment he finishes with a bowed head of thanks, the greenette joins the group, sparkling eyes filled with admiration direct towards you.

"The medics told me what you did! That was so kind of you to help Aizawa-sensei like that!"

You gave him a dry look. "I only did it because he might be a future blood bag."

The sparkles in his eyes vanished instantly and his shoulders sagged in disappointment of you. "Oh..."

You tilted your head, raising a brow. "The rosary."

Izuku fumbled for a moment, patting himself down frantically. "Uh—I don't...I don't have it!" he began to stammer when Kirishima stepped forward sheepishly.

"Actually...I still have it," Kirishima admitted, pulling the rosary from out his pocket.

Izuku stiffly takes it, avoiding touching his hands with a near-blank smile. "Thanks." he said quietly, his voice strained.

"You're welcome!" Kirishima said brightly, oblivious to the tension radiating off the green-haired boy. "Us two got to stick together. With helping ____ and her blood stuff right?"

The red-head falters for a moment with a confused yet sheepish look. "Or is it Moka? I heard you call her that earlier..." He softly mutters to himself.

Izuku's face morphed into an ugly expression, a mix of irritation and something deeper. "Yay," he said faintly before quickly stepping away from Kirishima and moving toward you.

You raised a brow at the exchange, a mocking smile tugging at your lips. "My my my" you mused with a click of your tongue. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Izuku blinked, his scowl giving way to confusion. "What?"

"You've gotten so territorial," you teased, tilting your head with an amused expression. "Sweet little Izuku has become so jealous. What is it? Don't want to share little ole me?"

Izuku's face burned as he stammered incoherently, trying and failing to deflect. "Th-that's not—I mean—no! I just—"

You stepped closer, cutting him off as your teasing smile fell into something more serious.

Lightly patting his face, you leaned in slightly.

"You're going to have to fix that," you said coldly. "Blood bags are hard to come by. Just my luck so many have come within my vicinity. But don't worry though. You'll still be my favorite...my little Zuki."

Izuku shivered at the childhood nickname, the warmth it usually carried was replaced with a tone that was almost unsettling.

With that, you took the rosary from him, hooking it back to your choker. The moment it clicked into place, your transformation began to reverse.

Buds of peach blossoms appearing, your white hair began to bleed back into its usual [hair color] as your crimson eyes faded back to their original [eye color] shade.

The rosary hanged loosely from your neck as you swayed.

Izuku darted forward, catching you just as your knees gave out. "Got you!"

The smell of fresh peaches surrounds him as he hold you steady in his grasp. Your head lolled against his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper. "Is...is everyone safe? The villains..."

He gives you a soft smile of assurance as he searches for an open ambulance. "You did good ____. Everyone's safe and taken care of, now you need help."

Spotting one nearby, he adjust his grip, maneuvering you in a protective bridal carry and making his way over.

Relief washes over you. "Really? Well...that's good to hea—" Your words cut off, passing out from the exhaustion and falling limp in his arms.

Izuku couldn't help but huff a laugh through his nose.

As he placed you on an open stretcher, he turned to the EMTs. "She'll need some blood to drink when she wakes up." he told them firmly.

Despite exchanging uneasy glances at his request they nod.

Izuku stepped back as they start to work on you before the doors closed and the ambulance prepare to take off.

He watches the vehicle when it began to drive away, its sirens wailing in the distance.

A weary sigh leaves the freckled teen as a mix of relief and exhaustion washes over him. "At least it's all over now..." He mutters to himself.

"DEKU!"

The shout was like a thunderclap, causing Izuku to flinch as Bakugo stomped over, fury etched into every line of his face.

"MIND EXPLAINING TO ME WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED BACK THERE WITH BATTY BITCH?!"

Izuku deflated, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Or not..."

[dreamerinthemoonlight]

Honkai Star Rail Period HCs (Sampo, Dan Heng, Jing Yuan, Luka)

Original Ask: Could you do more period hcs? Dang Heng/Yinyue, Jing Yuan, Sampo, and Luka please.

Herr you go @yunthebishoujo

CW: blood, mentions of castration (Sampo), mentions of period sex

Sampo x afab! reader, Dan Heng x afab!reader, Jing Yuan x afab!reader, Luka x afab!reader

NOTE: Requests are now open

Sampo Koski

Tall, blue, and handsome? After dealing with you on your period or during PMS, he might be tall, blue, and singing soprano for the rest of his life

Good gods, Sampo would be insufferable. Not that he isn't anyway

It's not that I think he would be actively mean, but he's annoying and hormones make girls grouchy

That and I wouldn't put it past him to use your period as an excuse to run a scam

Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if he's used the female populace's monthly affliction as a scam premise prior to dating you

He's just really likely too be just too annoying and end up with no dick as a result

On the other hand, he's a kinky bastard. He'd be up for period sex

Dan Heng

Dan Heng is #1 most clueless guy when it comes to periods

He's not a bad guy, but really, chicks don't advertise the call of mother nature, so he hasn't really dealt with Himeko and March on an intimate level

I'm not sure that's something he came across in his research and the Vidyadhara can't reproduce, so there's every chance female Vidyadhara don't have periods, so he may not even know periods exist

Needless to say, his first experience with your period is a bit of a surprise.

I feel like it would probably be something like waking up with blood on your sheets or having super bad cramps, or blood on the pants, ya know, shit that happens when you bleed for a week out of every month (total BS if you ask me)

Any way you cut it, Dan Heng is seriously concerned. To the point of potentially losing a little bit of his composure. He wouldn't panic but you're bleeding. is something wrong? Do you need to go to the doctor? Why didn't you tell someone?

"Yo, Dan Heng, calm down. This is normal. I do this every month."

Cue Dan Heng.exe has stopped working

To his credit, he stops, listens, and calms down. He's still unnerved, but he helps try to make you comfortable

But afterwards he goes to ask Welt and Himeko about it

In the future, he's pretty good about being aware of it and trying to be as good as possible about it, but I don't think he truly gets used to that much blood every single month

Jing Yuan

You know what? Jing Yuan is not that bad.

He has the advantage of age and being part of a species that reproduces

I'm not sure he's super familiar with the whole period thing, but it's at least on his radar to some extent

But when he starts dating you, he's like the most gentle person. He's the sort who really likes to take care of you and make sure you have what you need

He won't mother hen, but expect pads/tampons, heating pads, whatever your craving is, and plenty of cuddles and you don't even really have to ask

I mean, this guy is known for his ability to be prepared. 100% applies that to you

And if he's at all weirded out by the whole bleeds for a week straight and is fine (which, i do understand, in any other situation someone would have bed out already), he's not overt about it and doesn't let it affect how he treats you

Luka

Luka, Luka, Luka

Of the four, he's probably the most likely to be a typical guy about it

You're bleeding? And still functional? You do this every month? What sorcery is this?

At the same time, he has mad respect for you because he knows he couldn't do it

He also gives appropriate sympathy for cramps

At the same time, 100% best boyfriend. Ask and you shall receive

Totally down for period cuddles, stomach rubs and just general comfort

10/10 Luka is great

[heartofwritiing]

Cowboy!lovejoy au where their band/gang name is called the Anvil Cats. They preform throughout different towns at night, rob banks durning the day. One day (hehe) they ride into your town, your father owns the local saloon they happen to be playing for that night. Sitting at the bar, Wilbur sees you cleaning tables and takes an immediate interest in you.

“Well hello there darling, aren’t you a sweet thing?”

A blush rises to your cheeks at the forwardness of this out of town stranger. Theres something about him that underlines the cocky behavior he carries, and you can’t help but be drawn to this mysterious cowboy.

[carefreecoffee]

Flufftober Day 9: Relaxing bath w/ Toshinori Yagi

Word count: 897, Gender-neutral reader

The steam filled the air in the bathroom as you ran the bath. You heard the front door open signaling that Toshinori was home or otherwise known as All Might.  

On days that he had come home in his true form were the days that you knew he needed to relax the most. "I'm home, little sunshine!" He calls out as he walks through the house, still in a pretty good mood considering how long of a day he had.

“I'm in here Toshi!” You exclaim from the large bathroom. He makes his way to the bathroom, opening the door and sticking his head inside to look at you "What's all this, my love?" You look up at him proudly, referencing the bath. “I wanted to run us a bath is all. I know you've been pretty worked up lately.” 

He smiles warmly as he takes in the sight of you, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease a bit "Aren't you such a sweetheart..." He walks over to you and puts his big hands on your hips, leaning down to your level. You smiled at him, pecking his lips. 

He sighs, closing his eyes as he lowers his head the rest of the way and kisses you deeply, his hands moving up to hold your face instead. He pulls away to look you in the eyes, his gaze is one of fondness and desire for more. "You spoil me too much, you know that?"

You chuckle and pull away to check the water, “I don't mind, love. You spoil me all the time so it's only fair.” He nods, taking the towels out of the closet and placing them on the edge of the sink. "Mmm, I guess you're right.." He follows your every move with his eyes, taking in your beautiful form. "Shall we hop in then, hm?"

You nod and begin getting undressed. You slowly sink into the warm bath, feeling the water envelop you into its embrace. He grins and joins you, his large form taking up most of the space as he sits behind you, and pulls you against his chest "Oh, that's the stuff... This really is wonderful, love. Thank you."

You lean my head back against him and sigh. “Of course Toshi. I think I needed this myself haha.” I grab the body wash off of the bathtub sill, lathering it on a dampened washcloth. He looks at the soaped cloth and takes it from you gently, "Let me pamper you as well. You're the one that prepared the bath for us, after all."

Without missing a beat you allow him to run his hands along your skin. Toshinori gently scrubs your back with the suds, his big hands gliding over every inch of your skin, making sure not to miss a single spot. He moves down to your arms, scrubbing them and massaging them at the same time, his long fingers kneading at your muscles, relieving the tension you never even knew you were holding on to. 

He pulls your body flush against his, wrapping his arms around you and planting kisses on the back of your neck, his chin resting on your shoulder. You hum at his affection, “All done love? Let me help clean you up now.” He smiles against your skin, enjoying the sound of your voice and the feeling of you in his arms. "Hmm.. I suppose it's only fair, my little sunshine.."

You allow him to turn around so his back is facing you. You begin scrubbing and massaging the sore muscles that littered his scarred back. It flexed slightly with every move of your touch, every push and pull. 

He lets out a groan as he lets himself relax in your touch, enjoying the feeling of your hands on his back, the water, the heat, and the steam all making him feel like putty. His eyelids become heavy, but he manages to keep his eyes open just enough to watch the water glisten off of your skin, tracing every curve with his eyes "That feels so good.."

You finish up, content with the work you had put into it as you wring the cloth and palace it back on the edge of the tub. His body is completely relaxed, and he pulls you around to sit in front of him so he can hold you against his chest again "Thank you, beautiful.. I feel so much better now." You lean into his touch and nod along with his statement, “Same here, I'm glad you enjoyed it as much as I did.” He wraps his arms around your torso and holds you tight. The warmth of the bath, the sound of the water gently moving around as you breathe, the feeling of your bodies pressed against each other, all of it was making him feel more at ease than he had in weeks. He buries his face into your neck and kisses your shoulder, his lips lingering on your skin. 

A bath was just what you both had yearned for after a long day whether you had known it or not. You two had stayed together in the –now lukewarm– water basking in the presence of one another with nothing but the soothing thoughts of always being there for one another no matter what. Through sore muscles and bad days, you’d always be there.

[nights-legacy]

Rachel

Nickname ( honey

Toshinori Yagi( my hero academia

She

My chacter is a pro hero her hero name is siren her quirks are she has the ability to control men women and creatures and make them do whatever she wants and she can control water she teaches at the ua and her and Toshinori Yagi like eacthother she younger then him she around Aizawa age she bff with him and mic anyway her and toshinori dance around eacthother alot and act like a married couple but they don't start dateimg till after the league of villans attack usj center and Toshinori finally confess to her and they start rk date he treats her like a queen when he retires she stays being a hero until after the war with the league of villians when Toshinori ask her to marry him and she says yes and she tells him she also pregnant *

Here you go! I hope you like it!! 😁

Masterlist ~ MHA Masterlist ~ #2

Give You So Much More - All Might/Toshinori Yagi x Fem! Reader

1923 words

Warnings: none except slight spoilers if you haven't seen MHA. (If there is any, please let me know so I can add.)

+Yagi and Siren have played the cat and mouse game ever since they met. Yagi never made a move because he thought he was too much her senior. They flirt on the constant nothing ever comes until after the USJ incident. The scare motivates him to confess.

"Who do you think for class roasters?" I asked effectively starting the meeting. Deliberations started up. We were in the days between the Entrance Exam and announcing to the students about admission.

"I want Bakugou and Iida in 1-A, no question." Aizawa said. No one argued with him. We all made notes.

"What about Monoma Neito and Midoriya Izuku?" I asked. I saw Yagi perk up and looked at him. He hadn't shown that much interest in the whole time we've been sorting. I lightly kicked him for his attention. He looked at me and I raised my eyebrow in question. He gave me a smile and waved me off.

"I'll take Monoma. He's got a great quirk but needs some humbling." Vlad said. "I think Midoriya should be in 1-A."

"No." Aizawa denied immediately. Everyone made a complaint. I saw Yagi deflate a little.

"Aizawa, he had the highest rescue score. In all my years working here and when I went here, I don't ever remember someone getting a perfect in rescue." I defended the young man. I shared a look with Yagi. "Sure he didn't do well in combat but that can be taught. That can be learned. His fervor to rescue can't be. He has amazing potential."

"Siren..."

"No Aizawa. You need to give that kid a chance. He's got something special." I gave him a firm look. He sighed heavily.

"Fine. Midoriya is in class 1-A."

"Yes!" Mic cheered. There were others who gave sounds of excitement. I looked at Yagi and he looked relieved.

"Okay. Let's take a break." Nezu said. After a few minutes, I found Yagi outside. I walked up to him.

"Now tell me why I vouched for Midoriya so hard." I bumped my hip against his. He chuckled and looked at me.

"What do you mean?" He asked coyly.

"I mean, when he was mentioned you perked up and when Airawa said no, you deflated." I said. I poked his chest. He just smiled but he didn't answer. "Come on. Don't make me sing to make you tell me."

"Fine, fine." He glared playfully. "I just see something in young Midoriya. It kind of reminds me of a younger me."

"Uh huh..." I narrowed my eyes on him. He wasn't telling me everything. "Fine, don't tell me everything but I didn't lie when I vouched for him. I believe in him."

"Thank you." I nodded and turned to go back inside.

"You can thank me by buying me lunch."

"You got it!" He called after me.

*Time Skip*

After a long first day, I was alone in the teachers lounge. I was lazily stirring my tea free handed with my quirk. I was writing notes on the students' beginning progress. It wasn't the best for any of them but what do expect for a Criminal tactics and psychology class. I looked over my shoulder when the door opened.

"Hey there handsome." I said when I saw All Might. He smiled at me before in a poof, he was just Yagi again. "How was your first day?"

"It was decent." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Want some tea?" I ask. He nods. I got up and walked over to the cabinet to grab his favorite tea. "I can make it. You don't have to."

"It's fine." I said waving my hand at him. I waved my hand and water came from the facet into the kettle. I turned on the heat to start it. I went back to the table and grabbed my cup.

"How was your first day? How did they do in class?" He asked, stepping up closer as I leant against the side of the table. I took a drink of my tea.

"Only a handful of all of them had any idea of what my class was about." We chucked.

"Who were those few?"

"Todoroki, Iida. No surprise there." I laughed. "Monoma, Kuroiro... Oh, and surprisingly Kaminari." I said, glancing at my notes.

"Well at least you're not starting from scratch with everyone."

"You said it." I said. The kettle started to whistle. I set my cup down and walked over. I turned off the heat before realizing I didn't get a cup out. I sigh and open the cabinet. All the rest of the cups were on higher shelves. I stood on my tip toes to try and reach one. Before I could resort to climbing on the counter, a hand reached past mine and grabbed a cup.

"I got it." Yagi said softly behind me. I looked at him over my shoulder where he stood right behind me.

"Okay." I reached for his tea and handed it to him. He put it in the cup and I poured some hot water in his cup.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." We stared at each other for a moment. I bit my lip as my heart started to beat faster.

"You know, Rachel. I..."

"Siren!" Mic's voice echoed into the room and I sighed. Yagi coughed a little and stepped back. Mic and Aizawa walked into the teachers lounge. "Oh, hey All Might."

"Hi Mic." Yagi greeted before turning to fix up his tea. "Thanks for the Tea Rachel."

"No problem." I nodded and walked back over to the table. Yagi bid all of us goodbye before leaving the room. It was silent for a Minute.

"Sooo..."

"Don't even." I interrupted Mic. Aizawa laughed as Mic complained.

*Day of USJ incident*

The rest of the staff and I rushed towards the USJ. Upon hearing the story from Iida, we all jumped into action. After arriving, the main villains unfortunately got away. I had sung the remaining villains into custody and the police vans. I glanced over at the ambulance where All Might and Midoriya were at. I wanted to go check on him so bad but had a job to do.

"Go on." I turned to see Mic. "Go on and check on him. I know you need to."

"Fine. But only if you go with Aizawa." I say. He hesitated.

"Go you two. We got this." Midnight pushed us both in our respective direction. We didn't argue and ran off. Both Yagi and Midoriya were half conscious when I joined them in the ambulance. I accompanied them back to UA and I waited in the corner of the room until they were deemed stable and okay.

"You both are insane." I sat on a chair between them and propped my feet on the edge of Yagi's bed. "Being reckless with your quirk is almost identical in both of you."

"I, I, I. Um..." Midoriya started to stutter.

"Relax, Midoriya. I know about the quirk transfer."

"You do?!' Yagi asked surprised.

"Yes."

"How?!" Midoriya squeaked.

"I figured it out." I said. "I did a little research after the selection meeting. I wanted to know what was so special about you. To my surprise, you were quirkless until right after the Entrance exam. Then I studied your quirk from the footage and since then and noticed the similarities to a certain someone. Not to mention Aizawa being suspicious about you two and coming to me for my opinion."

"Oh..." I looked at Yagi.

"Also, All might here wasn't very sly about his concern and interest for you." I smirked at Yagi. He chuckled and nodded. "Don't worry your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you." They both said.

After a while, Midoriya was allowed to go home and it was just me and Yagi. It was silent as I made a phone call to check on Aizawa. I looked at Yagi to see him sipping of the tea I made him as I talked to Mic

"He's stable and resting." I said after hanging up the phone.

"Good." Yagi nodded. He looked off into space. I went and knelt next to him.

"What's on your mind?" I asked gently.

"That's the closest I have been to death since the accident." He said while placing a hand on his scar. "And all I could think about was making sure those kids were safe and how I never..." He trailed off.

"Never what?" I set my hand on his. He turned and looked me in the eye.

"Never told you how I truly felt about you." He admitted. I looked at him in anticipation, willing him to continue. "I have had feelings for you for a while. I was content with the flirting and dancing we have been doing. I never acted on my feelings because of our age difference and..." I cut him off by leaning up and kissing him. I felt him freeze for a second before returning the kiss.

"About time you said something. I was beginning to think it was just me." I admitted. He chuckles.

"Definitely not." He leant forward and kissed me sweetly. "Now how about after I heal up and rest, I take you on a proper date."

"Sounds amazing."

“I plan to give you so much, Honey.”

*Fast Forward*

I return home only to smell the familiar cologne in the foyer. I glance down to see Toshinori's shoes. I smiled and quickly kicked off my shoes to go find him. I found him on the balcony. He was just standing there with his eyes closed. I lean against the doorway.

"Darling?" I call out to him softly. He looks over at me and smiles.

"You're alright."

"Of course." I walked over and wrapped my arms around him. He pulls me into his side. "Everyone is. Maybe a little bruised and some with broken bones but we're all alive."

"Thank god." He buries his face in my hair. He sighed heavily. "It's over."

"Yes. At least for now."

"Yes." He nodded pulling back. "But I know the future is in good hands. Young Midoriya, Young Bakugou, and the rest will keep the world safe."

"I'm confident in them as well." I agreed. "Confident enough that I am thinking of retiring or reducing my time as a hero."

"Really?" He looked at me surprised.

"Yes. I've done my time. I'll continue to teach of course but I want to start a normal life." We stood there in silence before he pulled my chin up to kiss me.

"Honey?"

"Yes?"

"I have a question for you."

"Okay."

"Marry me?" He said simply. I was stunned for a second before smiling. I kissed him softly. I didn't care that it was a simple proposal. I didn't need an extravagant proposal from the man I love. I just need the man.

"I would love to. Yes." He smiled wide and hugged me tight. I chuckled and hugged him back.

"You've made me the happiest man alive, Honey." I nuzzled his neck.

"Toshinori."

"Yes?"

"There is another reason I'm cutting back on hero work."

"What is it?" He asked, giving me a questioning look. I could see the worry growing in his eyes and on his face. I chuckled.

"Well." I took his hand and placed it on my stomach. He looks between his hand and my eyes.

"Are you ..."

"Pregnant." I nodded. "I found out just before everything. I didn't have time to tell you."

"Oh my..." I saw tears fill his eyes and he set his forehead on my shoulder. He laughed. "I never thought I would have any of this."

"Now you do. And I plan to give you much more." He lifted his head and looked into my eyes.

"I love you Rachel."

"And I love you."

Tag List: @iris-shihabi @cl0verbby @lilparcheesie @keigos-baby-bird @evilunicorns4minions

[kakusu-shipping]

Just dropped my ask box from 59 to 36 unanswered asks because I can't. I can't keep sitting on asks like this. (Is still very much sitting on asks)

[thatwasntverycashmoneyofme]

{ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 — 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝗈𝖻𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌!𝖺𝗎 𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖼𝗎𝗓 𝖻𝗈𝖻 𝗂𝗆𝗈 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗌𝖻𝖺𝗇𝖽, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗈, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾. }

“hello my youngest what can I do for you this pleasant morning?” you kept your eyes on your phone knowing the footsteps of your three children by heart, your husband grumbles turning over pulling the sheet up over his head.

the slapping of your six year old’s feet against the tile floor as she ran to jump into your lap, being the only thing you hear before it happens. you laugh with your daughter as your phone falls on the bed.

“haytari! you see your daddy tryna sleep.” she laughs teasingly. “i think he should wake up, no amount of sleep would fix that mug.” you burst out laughter as your husband shoots up. “i only look like this caus’a you brats.”

your middle child, eight year old mylo announces his presence, walking into your now wide open bedroom sitting at the edge of your huge bed. “if that’s what you need to tell yourself dad i support you!” kyotani growls out a “lo…” as his son pokes at his feet under the covers.

your eldest, ten year old kyara walks in skittishly, sitting at your feet. “what are we talking about in here guys?” your youngest speaks up. “dad’s ugly face.” you exclaim a ‘heihei!’ stifling your giggles as you husbands eyebrows twitch, a chastising “brat…” leaving his lips.

“it’s okay dad i still think you’re pretty.” kentaro sighs, fingers massaging his forehead, already tired from the day as he responds to kyara. “thanks key.” she smiles as if she’d accomplished something. “you’re welcome dad.” you laugh at the whole interaction, fixing hei’s bonnet.

“alright kids stop messing with your father, now what do y’all want?” hei wraps her arms around your neck, kissing your cheek as she creepily strokes your bonnet. “nothing but your love mother.” you hum unconvinced as you looked into her gleaming eyes then behind her to your other children, finding them staring back.

“yea right! what really you little gremlins?” mylo shouts no longer able to hide his excitement. “when’s our uncle coming mom!?” kentaro scoffs as you answer looking at your phone. “y’all are lucky I was just on the phone with him. he’ll be here in four hours— five if he doesn’t like his outfit probably, just enough time for y’all to get ready. I gotta do y’all hair, so go shower and brush your teeth; you all have dragon breath.”

they all jump out of your bed, rushing to their rooms. “finally damn disrespectful brats.” your husband says leaning over to kiss you. you stop him with a finger to his lips, his eyebrows furrowing as he ‘hmmps’ questioningly. “that goes for you too ken. you can kiss me all you want after.” he nods pulling away from your finger, jumping out the bed to the bathroom.

your family is sat in the living room after eating a full breakfast, watching a movie as you sit on the couch to do the kids hair, setting a pillow down on the floor, starting with mylo who’s the most willing because he likes getting his hair played with by you.

“why don’t one of you girls go to daddy to get this done quicker?” you ask parting your sons hair. your oldest fidgets, keeping her eyes on the movie. “umm no thanks mom.” you were about ask why before your youngest spoke up, her little figure lying on the couch in a relaxed manner.

“no offense mom but dad doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s had ten years to practice. remember when he tried to do kyara’s hair last week? she looked like no one loved her, no offense kiki.” kyara glanced at her little sister before looking back at the large tv, replying. “oh um none taken i guess.”

your jaw dropped as mylo raised his hand. “i want a no offense too!” your little one complies. “no offense lo.” “none taken!” he grins making you smile at the little interaction before looking at your husband with a teasing look. he shook his head at whatever idea was going through yours, a stressed look on his face.

“heihei, why didn’t you say no offense to your dad?” the brown haired girl declares with assertion, looking to you then her father. “because i wanted him to be offended mommy.” you cackle, slapping your hand against your knee, panting to catch your breath as your husband slinks into the couch, throwing his head back. “i am sick of all of you. none of you are good people.”

after finishing their hair in different styles of braids, the doorbell rings and your husband goes to answer it. he snarls when toru pushes past him to the living room, closing the door and standing by it as he watches you all run up to toru, hugging him screaming his name.

“y/n!! my pups!!” he screams back, your husband scoffs and you roll your eyes, knowing he was going to try to bully the lanky, well dressed male. “when are you getting your own family? an’ where you taking my kids?” toru does the gesture of waving him off, a dashing smile on his face.

“why have a family when i can rent one? it’s more fun being the rich uncle anyways; i’m taking the pups shopping then to the amusement park, they should be good and tired when I bring ‘em back.” you smile thanking toru for the next few hours of quiet that he’s bringing you, he says no problem kissing your cheek as he rushes the kids out of your house, dodging the powerful smack kentaro was finna land on him.

you’re now in your bed lounging with your husband who tsks. “still don’t like that oikawa is their uncle.” you giggle raking your hand up and down his chest. “well maybe you shouldn’t have fallen for and gotten married to his best friend.“ he grumbles as you kiss at his jaw to distract him adding “at least iwa is their uncle too.”

he ‘hmmps’ leaning into your affection “that’s the only upside.” it makes you giggle, your upper half laying on his. “now tell me why you wanted those brats again?” you laugh, hitting him on the chest. “i’m not the one with the breeding kink ken~ or did you forget?” he smirks, flipping you over so he’s on top. “you’re right i did, why don’t you help me remember.” you squeal laughing as he covers you both with the blanket.

𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝖮𝖭𝖳 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. ©𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅

[cottoncandy-cult]

Dreams

Young! Toshinori Yagi x reader

(Y/N) had worked alongside Toshinori for many years, she had graduated right as he was becoming more well known. Right now, she was on her way to a restaurant, nothing fancy it was just her and some of the other pro-heroes getting lunch to discuss a surge in small time villains suddenly growing more violent. Sometimes they'd share information, especially if the dangerous villain was running amuck all over. All might was supposed to be joining them, to her surprise as she approached the restaurant, she could see Toshinori approaching. They met at the doors, and he gave her a smirk. "You look good (Y/n), take it you've had a smooth day?" She blushed softly, smiling as she gave a nod.

"My agency just had some pretty simple jobs lined up, I'm free for the day unless there is some kind of emergency." He simply nodded, opening the door for her before following her in. "Seems we're early, let's get a booth and get something to drink while we wait." He led her to a large circular booth, both scooting in as they sat in the middle so they wouldn't have to get up to let the others in. "Have you ever eaten here before?" She looked up at him as she questioned him, normally they all went to a cafe, but they decided to change it up. "Once or twice, I just pick up the food and took it home though." He chuckled, looking down at her since she was shorter than him.

After a few minutes the waitress had come and gone with their drink orders, the two had spent the time getting to know each other outside the basic information gathered over time while sharing a friend group. "So, what made you want to become a hero (Y/n)?" She had paused a moment, looking down as she sighed. "When I was a child, my parents were killed in a villain attack, the heroes that showed up were only interested in the camera. The one who saved me never once even asked if I was ok, so I decided that I'd change that. I decided that the only way to bring about a new generation where heroes care about the innocent and not the attention was to become a hero, to be that one that takes that step. The one who inspires the children to be the best them, and not just the best lie for society to buy."

She let out a breath, having given that lecture all in one go. He went quiet for a minute, even after the waitress brought them their drinks. When he did speak up, he was surprisingly serious, but his words melted her heart. "I would like to follow your lead and take that first step alongside you; I want to be your first comrade on this mission." She was stunned into silence a moment, but she couldn't fight the wide smile that spread across her face. "I would like that; I can't possibly think of anyone better to join me on this journey. From now on we're partners, we will be the generation to fix what's wrong with this world." She took a sip of her drink to sooth the dryness left over from her speech, before they could continue the sound of the other heroes coming in interrupted them. She looked up and smiled, waving to Edge Shot and Best Jeanist as they were at the front of the small group. "Hey guys, I'm glad you finally made it." She had missed the content gaze Toshinori had locked on her, the truest of smiles on his face. With her in the lead, they might just succeed.

[nonbinary-thot]

WE'RE SO CLOSE TO 150 FOLLOWERS !??

This is so cool 😭🙏 I'll be writing probably one of the longest fics I've ever done for a 150 follower special 💕💕 thank you all who follow me 🥹

I would like some suggestions, because as of right now I have no idea what I'll be writing, but I'll try to make it a 12k fic or more! So this will definitely be the longest fic I've ever written.