#go get her cowboy

[whitesuited]

she can’t remember the last time she was so relieved to see the inside of a hotel room ------ her boots kicked off one by one near the door and quickly nudged aside to keep @ichormotel​ from tripping over the pair as he follows her inside. the next piece of her characterization to get abandoned now that they’re safely out of sight is the undoing of the knot on the top of her head and a decent shake out of her hair, the motion sending blonde waves in every direction possible as she makes her way further into the honeymoon suite and gives her aching scalp a good one over with the tips of her nails.

( an unexpected perk of showing up in vegas four days ago with their little newlywed cover story had been the sheer amount of upgrades the hotel had been more than happy to bestow upon the new mister and missus; the spaciousness of their new hotel room was at least double or even triple the size of the one they’d booked before they left montana, the string of complimentary drinks and desserts sent to the room had been accepted with a practiced and sincere smile each time one appeared from room service. and there was still the hope they’d have this case wrapped up in enough time for her to use the free full - body massage voucher for the in - house spa before they have to head back. )

it’s practically automatic that she reaches behind her back ( as best she can, at least ) for the tab of her zipper next, “babe?” pawing in vain at a little tab of metal she isn’t going to be able to reach on her own without resorting to some impressive acts of contortionism. “can you do me a huge favor?” forgetting for a moment that all of this is fictitious ( and while she and beau might be friendly with one another as can be, they’re still not on a level where she should be calling him pet names and getting undressed right in front of him ), she asks in the hope that he’ll come over and help her, already gathering up her hair to one side, giving him a better look at the back of the dress that’s been her cover for the night while they went from poker table to poker table looking for their guy. 

            “it doesn’t have to be all the way down, just until i can reach ---- ” the sudden effort to clarify means she’s gone and realized what she asked might come off as a little inappropriate, but she hasn’t let go of the blonde rope that now circles her hand either. she won’t look in his direction ------ her eyes stay fixed on the ceiling ------ listening for the sound of his boots coming closer until she feels the back of his fingers lightly brush against her skin before the familiar slow pull of metal teeth separating and the first deep lungful of air in hours.

and when she turns back around, he’s still there ---------- closer than she’d anticipated, and looking just as surprised by the fact that neither one of them has bothered to move now that her request’s been fulfilled as she is. “thanks,” it’s practically a whisper when she does manage to find the ability to express her gratitude; eyes quick to shift between the way he’s looking at her and his mouth ------------- the pull of the latter proving to be just a little too much as she pushes herself up on her tip - toes and kisses him; tentatively at first, but then a beat passes, then two; three ---- but three seems to be the limit as she realizes he’s pulling back and apologizing now, while she waits for her head to finish swimming. “beau — ” ( she can’t even blame it on the whisky she’d had downstairs; not that she would anyway. she’d barely had three sips of that drink before they’d come back up here … this was her acting on something she hadn’t even completely realized she wanted as much as she did had. but he’d pulled back and begun an apology, sharon quickly beginning to offer up one of her own while very much afraid she’s gone and completely wrecked both a professional and personal relationship in one quick brush of her lips. “no, no, it’s my fault, im —”

            “sorry, i shouldn’t have done that. .... definitely shouldn’t have done that,” she presses the pads of her fingertips to her temple while her other hand stays pressed flat against her back in an attempt to keep her dress in place as the reality of what she’s done sinks more and more in. “i should .… go shower, maybe.” she motions quickly to the bathroom; it’s not all that far away, but considering this might as well be a walk - of - shame for her, there’s no scenario where her aching feet will be able to carry her quick enough. all she can do is start stepping backwards, away from him and closer to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

once inside she closes the door quietly with a string of curse words, threatening to turn the white marble bathroom blue, a deep breath following as she once again runs her fingers and nails through her hair while she lets the last few minutes play over and over in her mind ( and lets her dress finally fall to the floor in a sad, sequined pile ). fuck, fuck, fuck. the only thing she can do now is prolong the time she spends in here ---------- how else is she supposed to make sure there’s space between the two of them while she essentially hides if not by taking as long and hot of a shower as her skin will allow?

as she opens the glass door to the stall and starts up the water, she’s counting on the volume of it will be at least enough to drown out the way she’s berating herself in her head ------- from asking for his help, to misreading the way his fingers lingered on her skin, to the kiss ..… if only shampoo washed away bad decisions too. she gives the water a minute or two to come to temperature before she climbs in and shuts the door behind her, content to simply stand there and let the hot water wash over her for now until she remembers how exactly to wash her hair.

she’s almost sure she hears the door open; realizing she hadn’t locked the door like she always does ( a force of habit from her youth; she even does it when she’s alone at her place ), but the sound is fleeting, and the water feels far too good beating down on the back of her neck for her to make the effort to turn around and look. it isn’t until she feels a sudden; brief chill ------------ the glass door to the shower stall opening and closing again, as she comes to find out when she does turn around this time; the curiosity on her face to see him standing in there with her obvious even through the steam that rises around them.

------------ “beau?”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Quest Continues...

(part 1- part 2)

[catfern]

she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor. 

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body. 

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable. 

 The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration. 

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance. 

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall. 

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating. 

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her. 

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun. 

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

[under-your-floorboards]

Will and Naomi Solace have this tradition; since they don’t see each other that often, Naomi likes to bring Will along to her concerts whenever she can, and now that he’s older and plays numerous instruments thanks to CHB and his siblings sharing their interests, he plays guitar for her on stage those nights and sometimes even does background vocals. She always introduces him and he’s more often than not wearing a cowboy hat while up there just to obstruct some of his face.

He started gaining media presence and attention from Naomi or country fans, and now Will Solace has fan pages on instagram and twitter stan girlies.

[heytheredeann]

Today on Very Serious Spy Scenarios, imagine Illya and Napoleon at the beginning of their partnership, with Napoleon happily pushing all of Illya's buttons every five seconds to try and see what will get him punched and what not. Illya is endlessly frustrated with him, especially because he CANNOT get a rise out of him, no matter how hard he tries.

And then one day, when they are arguing, again, Illya is getting desperate to Win This and so this conversation ensues:

Illya: "What's your problem, your parents never hugged you as a child?"

Napoleon, completely unfazed: "Actually no, my father barely spoke to me and my mother lowkey disliked me, so."

Illya:

Napoleon:

Illya:

Napoleon: "What?"

Illya: *getting teary-eyed*

Napoleon, now a little scared: "Peril?"

Illya: *bear hug attack*

[intergalactic-bean]

Season 3: Episode Ten (Mockery Manor)

audio drama by @longcatmedia

my stomach dropped when this happened :)

[hollowsart]

-cracks knuckles-

I don't have twitter and I've never drawn a Miku before in my life, but I adore that trend happening rn and wanna drop down my two cents, so let's go with the research to make a Hatsune Miku: but she is from my family (hard to explain, but it's absolutely Texan)

[askblueandviolet]

Is there anything you would like to highlight from your years searching for the key? Being a 'famous' cowboy must have been fun.

MASTER POST

Asks Start 💙

Previous 💙

Next 💙

[stripesysheaven]

going to throw up my cousin just texted me. we haven’t talked since i was like 8

[beauzos]

earlier i was like "i should look at cowboy plushes!" and that was a mistake. theyre all so cute.

[brownskinsugarplum76]

[fragmentedblade]

Boothill's presentation being entirely on the twitter post makes me think he will be irrelevant in the story in the long(ish) run, and that the game itself won't dwell on him almost at all

[redemn]

i am very tired today . this week is a bit hectic with a few work changes i'm not too keen on , and this after i found out the woman i credit as my whole reason for falling in love with writing and who made my high school years feel worth it passed away on saturday . i will be quietly on discord tonight playing my games as usual . if you'd like to plot things , i will be around @ wiedzmins .

[wiihtigo]

Would casey b a cowboy

YEA ^_^ I have a whole little role for her in a Justice riders au (plus nell of course) but I haven’t drawn much of any of it yet! This is basically as much as I’ve touched it with drawings

Putting her in the 1800s makes her a bit more pitiable because circumstances are less in her control. Ahh she can be a bit sympathetic just once I guess.

[brown-little-robin]

.

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Help your poll made me want to write Yeehaw Dad and tiny gunslinger Izuku. I cannot get the image of Izuku in a green cowboy hat out of my head.

Oh, so I shouldn’t say: think about Snipe finding young Izuku at age six/seven after a hero fight killed Inko? I shouldn’t say that Snipe looks at this kid and sees himself in the loneliness in the green eyes (Because honing was a Quirk hard to prove and many thought he lied about it, making it difficult).

I shouldn’t talk about Snipe taking him in after Hisashi washed his hands of his son? Snipe helping make a safe room for Izuku where the kid can be himself. Snipe learning of Izuku’s safe fabrics and foods to help his child. I shouldn’t talk about Snipe taking Izuku to a hero gala where Izuku meets Present Mic and has an epiphany that gender isn’t just biology?

I shouldn’t talk about Snipe encouraging his little child to learn about guns as partly a way of protection and partly because that fire in those eyes makes Snipe aware that he’s gonna have a hero or vigilante on his hands one day. I shouldn’t talk about Snipe, a himbo of a man who is very straight and cis, having no clue about gender or sexuality but basically begging Mic, Tiger and so many for help as Izuku experiments? I should talk about Snipe fist fighting assholes who say shit about his kid?

I shouldn’t talk about Izuku living at a gun range ih their off hours and Snipe taking his kid to UA when he lands a job. Nezu liking the little child and teaching all he knows. I shouldn’t talk about the play dates Snipe sets up with other legacy kids?

I shouldn’t talk about Izuku getting into UA through recommendations and being so proud to be there? I shouldn’t talk about them seeing their friends in class, walking past a boy they only has dim memories of, who reacts angrily. I shouldn’t talk about Snipe being very unhappy and pushing for a transfer of the angry child to replace him with another blond boy?

I mean, if you want help… I shouldn’t, right?