#i hate fucking up like this i hate being broken

[cherryblossom-heart]

I hate you (9.5/?)

modern!Sukuna x Reader

Things get clearer for Sukuna

Content Warning: Fluff, Enemies to lovers, Sukuna being nice? (if you can call it that) Sukuna is his own warning, mention of sexual content, slut shaming (both sides). Sukuna battling his feelings. This is a +18 series so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If I catch any minor or ageless blog interacting with this series I will block you.

W.C. 2.6.K

A/N: Hi besties! I am so sorry for the delay on this chapter, memi messed up my convos for other series and this one too so I was just busy re doing everything again. Hope you guys like it! Oh btw I listened Mitskis' My Love Mine All Mine on repeat while writing this in case you want to give it a try haha

<Previous Chapter. Next Chapter>

7:17 P.M.

“Finally.” Sukuna rolled his eyes as you walked to him. “Taking forever, for what?”

“Oh, shut up. Like you don’t like what you see.” You winked at him.

A faint wave of heat rushed to his face and he wanted to ride away. Even if he had gotten used to this unexpected reaction, they didn’t make them any less annoying. He wasn’t about to admit he knew that even if you were wearing a garbage bag as a dress, his heart would still race any time you came through that door.

He remembered his cousin laughing once he told him he would take you to that stupid bands concert and asked him if he would cover your shift.

“So you’re telling me you’re taking her to a concert, of a band you don’t even like, just because?” Choso’s words were strained as he fought to get air back to his lungs.

Sukunas patience was running thin, not that it was hard to get it to that level to begin with, but the more Choso’s words bounced around his head, the more he questioned what the point of this was.

Why was he even taking you? He couldn’t even stand their music.

“You’re covering her shift or not?” Sukuna barked, which typically was enough to make people around him quiet. Unluckily for him, Choso didn’t hold the same fear for him as others, it didn’t help him, and Sukuna knew each other since they were in diapers.

“Oh, I’ll definitely take it. But you just have to answer one question.” His voice was full of amusement as he hung an arm around Sukuna. “How long has she had you this whipped?”

“Fuck you.” He shook off his arm of his shoulders.

Whatever, taking you wasn’t worth this hassle.

Or any hassle at all.

Maybe he could talk to Toji. Cash in a favor.

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. If anyone was going to be able to tame you, it definitely would be her.” Choso laughed.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’ve seen her right? Girls got a little crazy in her. Remember that time she beat up that Yorozu chick for saying all that fucked up shit about Uraume?”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow “What?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you were too busy to go to school. I’m surprised you even graduated.” Choso rolled his eyes, pulling out a cigarette from the carton he kept in his pocket, a habit he displayed whenever he talked for too long with his cousin. “After their mom died, Yorozu began the rumor Uraume fucked people to get money to pay the rent, that’s why they were never in school.”

That cunt.

Sukunas memories traveled back to his teenage years, he remembered a day where he had found you in the living room, your messy hair and a busted lip catching his attention. He had made the mistake of leaving you alone, thinking he didn’t care enough to ask.

And you didn’t like him enough to answer.

“Then one day your girl comes in, walks to Yorozu and sucker punches her right in the jaw. No warning, nothing. By the time the teachers were able to pull her off Yorozu, she already had a broken nose and her whole face was turning purple. I’ve never seen anything like that, I really thought she was going to kill her.” Choso shook his head. “Maybe you finally found your match”

His cousins’ words tormented his thoughts ever since.

God, he was right, wasn’t he? He was completely and utterly whipped. He didn’t remember the last time he had fucked someone else without you popping in his head every five seconds. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last day he had gone through without thinking of you at least once.

“What’s that?” You asked as you reached him, looking back to the hand he has behind his back.

Fuck.

“Here.” Sukuna pulled out a bouquet of deep red roses, almost slamming them against you. “Jin said I should bring this.” He scoffed, as if he wasn’t the one that decided to buy them.

“Aww.” You coo at them as you smell them. Sukuna’s eyes diverted from you, not wanting that brewing warm sensation you brought him to pop up, this was already hard enough as it was. “I love them. Maybe I should’ve gone out with Jin instead.” You teased him with that cocky little smirk that made his blood boil.

“I’m taking you out on a stupid date and you can’t stop being a slut for five minutes?” Sukuna rolled his eyes.

He expected to get a snarky remark, perhaps a slap in the arm or head but you had the annoying tendency to surprise him. You leaned over to him, placing a tender kiss on his cheek before walking backwards to your house.

His heart began racing. The drumming of his pulse echoed on his ears so loudly he thought you might’ve heard it.

“Don’t be an ass, you know I have more fun with you.” You winked at him before turning around.

“Where you going?” Were the only words he managed to say.

“To put them in a vase. Don’t want them dying on me, this might be the only proof of you ever being nice.”

Darkened eyes followed your every step, each one giving Sukuna a clear answer.

He was losing his mind, and it was all your fault.

8:21 P.M.

“Are you going to kill me?” You asked as you hopped of his bike, pulling down on the now inconvenient black skirt you had decided to wear.

“Piss me off enough and I might.”

��Whatever.” You glared at him, kicking a rock in the ground. “If you’re not going to kill me then what are we doing in the middle of the woods?”

“What? You scared, brat?”

You laughed. “As if. I’m more scared of an animal eating us. If a bear attacks us, I’m leaving your ass.”

Sukuna made his way through the path he had grown accustomed to, the sound of your heels scraping against the unstable ground the woods offered following close behind. He could hear you cursing under your breath, your annoyance growing the more you kept tripping.

“You could’ve told me we were going to the fucking woods.”

“Not my fault you dress like a cheap prostitute whenever you’re going out.”

“First of all, fuck you.” You caught up to him, slapping him in the back of the head. “Second, if I was a prostitute, you could never afford me.”

Sukuna held you by the arm, spinning you in front of him. His chest pressed against your back; his grip tight on your hips. He leaned over you, lips almost brushing against your ear.

“Why would I pay you when I already have you for free.”

“For now.” You turned around. “Piss me off enough and I might just change boytoys.”

You placed a kiss on his cheek before moving along and Sukuna never wished more to fuck you and strangle you at the same time.

8:29 P.M.

“Over here.”

“I swear if you brought me all the way over here for nothing I will cut your balls– “

“Hey.”

Jin’s voice cut through the emptiness of the forest making you jump. You turned to the direction of his voice, racing to Sukunas twin brother. It never ceased to amaze you how similar they were physically, but as soon as your eyes connected with Jin’s the softness in them almost made you chuckle.

“Jin!” You raced to him, engulfing him in a suffocating hug. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been busy with Yuji.”

Jin’s eyes met his brothers as he debated where to settle his hands. Sukunas burning gaze gave him the answer he needed.

“What are you doing here? Please tell me you’re my date instead of your idiot of a brother.” You teased him, causing a slight blush on his face. “You’re already much better than him. The flowers were a nice touch.”

“Flowers? I didn’t… oh. Oh! Yeah, no problem.”

Sukuna was about to turn Yuji into an orphan.

“I was just helping him set this up.” Jin pointed behind himself,

Your eyes grew wide as you took in what your date would be. In the middle of the field laid a lightweight red blanket, a couple of lanterns on each side made it visible. Laid out in the middle there were a few containers with what you assumed were food, steam covering the inside.

You smiled at Sukuna, and he could’ve sworn his world stopped for a second.

“It was his idea.” He grunted, hoping his brother would take the hint.

“Yeah, I thought you would like it.”

You stared back at Sukuna for a second longer, a playful glint on your eyes, before you turned around and hugged Jin again.

“You’re so sweet, thank you.” You placed a small kiss on his cheek, your lipstick tainting his skin. “Maybe you should stay, and we’ll ditch your brother.”

“I– “

“He’s leaving. Now.”

“Bye, Jin!”

Sukuna dragged his brother, pulling him to the main road that led back to the parking lot. He took out his keys, throwing them to Jin before snatching away his brother’s car keys.

“If there’s a scratch on her I’ll fucking kill you, you understand?” Sukuna warned his brother.

“Yeah.” His brother cleared his throat, making sure they were at a safe distance from you. “You know, it’s not the worst thing in the world if you do like her. She’s always been nice.”

Nice wouldn’t be the word that Sukuna would use to describe you.

“Whatever, just don’t crash my fucking bike.”

“I won’t.” Before turning away Jin called for your attention, his arm waving in the air. “You’re coming to Yuji’s birthday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

After one last menacing look from his older brother, Jin finally left. Sukuna had made a mental note of reminding Jin who the older brother was, even if it was just for a few minutes of difference.

“So, a picnic huh?” You teased and Sukuna wanted the earth to collapse right there and then.

“Jin’s idea.” He shrugged, grabbing a can of beer from the ground.

You sat down, crossing your legs in front of you as you settled down. “Oh yeah, it was his idea? Just like the flowers you got me?”

“Shut up.”

Why did he agree to this in the first place?

9:23 P.M

“... then all of the sudden Uraume bolts in the room and grabs me from the back of the neck, tossing me to the floor and I’m thinking ‘this is it, my life is about to end at thirteen all because I wanted to use a stupid pair of boots that stink and aren’t even that great’. Before they could even put a hand on me, I hooked my feet in the back of their leg and Uraume just straight up just collapses.”

“No fucking way you got them like that.” Sukuna half scoffed, half laughed, shaking his head at the thought of you overpowering Uraume.

As if.

You shoved him playfully. “I swear on my life, I don’t know why but that’s their Achilles point. Well, more like knee but you know what I mean.”

“So, you’re telling me you did the same thing to get them to back off my dick?”

“Pretty much.” You shrug. “I got on top of them, coughed up some phlegm and threatened them to get it on their face if they didn’t stop.”

“You’re fucking disgusting.” Sukuna laughed, his stomach hurting from the laughter the mental image of Uraume being defenseless brought to him. “No wonder they didn’t fucking told me what you did.”

“Let’s keep it a secret between us, pretty boy.”

“Fuck off, I told you not to call me that.”

You turned to him, eyelids half open as the alcohol relaxed your body. “But you are my pretty boy.”

That damn smirk made him want to choke you.

And kiss you.

“Tell me something.” You took another sip of your beer, a small drop falling from the corner of your lips. “Why are you doing all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

The question of the year. Why do all this? Why put any effort behind this? Why did the thought of another man touching brought an anger in him he couldn’t explain? Why did he care about you? Why did the thought of spending time with you made his heart race? Why did your touch bring a tenderness in him he wasn’t aware of its existence before?

He had no idea, yet he craved you with everything in him.

“I don’t know. Just trying to see what happens.” He grunted, his nonchalance being his refuge when he couldn’t even explain it to himself.

“Uh huh.” Unconvinced by his words, you moved closer to him, your arm almost touching his. “Wanna know what I think.”

“Not really.”

“I think you like me. A lot.”

Sukuna scoffed

“You wish.”

“And I think you want to date me.”

“Shut the fuck off.”

“And you want to know the worst part about it?”

You laid down on the floor, your eyes focused on the starts above you.

“What?”

You sighed. “I think I might want to date you too.”

Sukunas head snapped to you.

“I know, crazy.” You let out a small laugh, as if you were just now coming to that realization. “You’re violent, obnoxious, immature, selfish, a sociopath at times, a bigger slut than I am, you have a terrible way of dealing with things, at times I really wish I could strangle you so I would never have to see you again. And yet… I still like you. Enough to try at least.”

I still like you.

The words bounced around his brain as he tried to make sense of them. He knew what he was supposed to do, he should push back. Deny every crazy allegation, go deeper into the reasons why he would never like you, tell you about every logical point on why he could never date you. Your fear of relationship, your extensive list of sexual partners, the fact that you drove him insane and the fact that only you could enact so much rage off him with just a couple of looks.

He hated you.

He hated the way you made him feel.

He hated the space you had taken over in his thoughts.

He hated the space you had carved in his heart.

He hated everything about you but lately he couldn’t remember why he had started to hate you in the first place.

“God, I fucking hate you.” He said as he laid down with you, the toughness of the ground aligning his back.

You chuckled. “Ditto.”

Your hand found his, fingers entwining with his.

Sukunas eyes stayed on you, watching you admire the night sky. He could see every movement you made, the way your eyes focused on following the chain of stars, trying to find sense in the constellations up in the sky.

And right there and then, with the moonlight hitting your skin, Sukuna thought he never saw anything more beautiful.

His hands moved faster than he could control them, pulling your face to look at him. Your eyes widened in surprise, and he wondered if you could feel the same warmth he felt whenever he touched you. Judging the way your eyes softened, he thought you did.

His hand traveled to your neck, his fingertips barely connecting with your skin. Your eyes darkened, traveling back and forth from his lips back to his irises and Sukuna knew he was screwed.

He truly did like you.

Fuck, he might even…

No, he could only deal with one catastrophic realization a day. That could wait.

At least until tomorrow, when his mind and soul were stronger to fight of the truth.

<Previous Chapter. Next Chapter>

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[luvfae]

DOC

summary: you’re a med student in the games and thanos has a serious case of blue balls.

parings: thanos/choi su-bong x f!reader

warnings: swearing, smut, semi-public sex, masturbation, oral (thanos receiving), mention of death.

The fluorescent lights in the facility buzzed faintly above you as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway. The air was thick with sweat, desperation, and the metallic scent of blood—remnants of the last brutal game.

You were exhausted. Being a med student in this hellhole meant you were everyone’s nurse, whether you liked it or not.

The moment word got out that you had medical training, you became the unofficial caretaker of the surviving players. You regretted ever letting it slip to the few people you dared to befriend.

Now, every time someone got a scratch, a bruise, or even a headache, they came running to you like you had a fully stocked hospital at your disposal. As if you weren’t just another desperate contestant, fighting to stay alive. Attempting to patch up the ones lucky enough to survive, all while knowing that your own life was just as disposable.

One night, after yet another O vote sealed your fate, you dragged yourself to the bathroom. Your body felt like dead weight, exhaustion sinking into your bones, the fight in you fading with every step.

As you passed the men’s restroom, a low groan caught your attention. Being a nurse in training meant you were wired to care for people, whether you liked it or not. So no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, you couldn’t just leave whoever was in pain behind that door alone.

You pushed open the door, stepping inside.

What you found made your breath hitch.

Player 230. Thanos.

Leaning against the sink, head down, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock.

Oh fuck, that wasn’t a groan of pain.

Your lips parted in shock, but before you could back away, his eyes snapped open, locking onto yours.

Instead of embarrassment, he smirked, completely unfazed. “Oh? Thought I was dying, huh, Doc?”

Doc. That damn nickname he had given you after he convinced himself he’d snapped his ankle, pestering you until you checked him out. It wasn’t broken—he was just being dramatic.

You swallowed hard, heat crawling up your neck. “I—uh, I heard a noise—”

“Yeah, you did,” he chuckled, lazily pumping himself, as if you weren’t standing right there, eyes glued to the scene before you. “Couldn’t help myself. Adrenaline’s got me all worked up. Can’t exactly rub one out in the dorms, can I?”

Your breath was shallow. You should leave. You should turn around and pretend you never saw this.

“Sorry, I’ll just go—”

“You don’t have to,” he replied smoothly. “You could help me out.”

You froze, a pit forming in your stomach. “Pardon?”

“Please, Doc,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’m in so much pain. I’ve got a serious case of blue balls. Can you help me drain them?”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. His puppy-dog eyes met yours, and you groaned, already regretting the entire situation.

You turned to leave, but before you could reach the door, he lunged at you. His pants slipped down as he tripped, crashing to the floor in a mess of limbs.

You spun around, kneeling next to him. “Are you okay? You fucking idiot. If you crack your skull, no one’s coming to save you.”

He lay there, looking up at you with a mix of desperation and a smirk. “I’m desperate, baby,” he purred. “You know you’re the only one who could help me.”

Something in your chest tightened, but you couldn’t place it. You hated this. He was an asshole, yet… yet there was something in the way he looked at you that made you hesitate.

His smirk widened, as if he could see the war waging in your head. “C’mon, señorita. You could die tomorrow,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t you wanna suck dick one last time? I’ll make it worth your while, promise.”

Your jaw clenched. "That's your argument? That I should suck your dick because I might die?"

He smirked. "Did it work?"

Your eyes flickered down-just for a second— and he fucking caught it. His smirk widened, full of arrogance and something darker, more dangerous.

Your stomach clenched. Your brain screamed at you to walk away, but the way his dark, hungry eyes raked over you had you frozen in place.

He rose to his feet, his arousal mere inches from your face.

“Come on,” he murmured, his tone low, coaxing. “Be a good girl and help me out.”

“What if someone walks in?” You whispered.

And he smirked because he knew he had you. He was about to get his dick sucked in a godforsaken hellhole like this. Now that was fucking rizz.

“Who gives a shit?” Thanos drawled, eyes hooded, lips curling at the corners.

“I do!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “Just because I might die tomorrow doesn’t mean I’m throwing all my self-respect out the window.”

Thanos snorted, seizing your wrists and yanking you to your feet. His pants hit the floor in the middle of the grimy bathroom, forgotten, before he dragged you into a stall and slammed the lock into place.

“Better?” he asked, voice dripping with amusement.

You huffed, arms crossed, refusing to acknowledge the heat curling in your stomach.

He grinned. “Get on your knees. Kneel for your king, Thanos.”

“Call yourself ‘King Thanos’ again and I’ll fucking break your dick,” you shot back.

His smirk deepened, eyes gleaming. “Kinky,” he murmured. “I like it, señorita.”

You rolled your eyes—but the sound that left your lips when he pushed you down was anything but annoyed. A sharp inhale, a gasp, thighs clenching as you landed on your knees before him.

You shouldn't be doing this. You weren't the kind of girl who got on her knees for men like him—cocky, reckless, insufferable. But here you were, on the ground, staring at the problem he so desperately wanted you to fix.

"Atta girl," Thanos murmured, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "Knew you'd make the right choice."

You glared up at him. "I didn't say I was gonna do anything."

His smirk didn't waver. "No?" He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "Then why are you still here, Doc?"

Fuck. You had no answer for that.

His free hand trailed down his stomach, lazily pumping himself as he watched you. "C'mon, baby," he coaxed. "Open that pretty mouth. I bet you'll look real good with my cock in it."

A low heat curled in your stomach, shameful but undeniable. You should slap him. Call him a pig. Storm out.

Instead, you exhaled shakily, glaring up at him even as your fingers reached for the base of his cock.

His breath hitched at the first touch.

"Good girl," he murmured, watching you through heavy lids. "Now suck."

You parted your lips, let your tongue flick over the tip, teasing. His groan echoed in the empty bathroom.

And then you took him into your mouth.

His head fell back against the stall door with a dull thud, a low groan slipping from his lips as your mouth closed around him. His fingers tangled in your hair, not pushing, not forcing—just holding, like he couldn’t believe you were actually doing this.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick with pleasure. “Knew you had it in you, Doc.”

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, and he hissed, his grip tightening just slightly. His thighs tensed beneath your hands, the muscles flexing as he fought to keep still. You could feel his restraint, the way he wanted to fuck into your mouth but was holding back.

“You’re good at this,” he rasped, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Too good. You been practicing, baby?”

You glared up at him, but the effect was lost when he groaned again, rolling his hips just enough for the tip of his cock to hit the back of your throat. Your eyes watered slightly, but you took it, nails digging into his thighs as you relaxed your jaw, letting him have it.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough, breathless. “Taking me so fucking good. Knew that mouth wasn’t just for talking back.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach at his words, at the way his voice had taken on a desperate edge, strained and wrecked. You felt powerful like this, with him falling apart because of you.

His breathing turned ragged, his thighs trembling. “I’m close,” he warned, his voice hoarse. “Gonna come down that pretty throat.”

You moaned around him, giving him permission. That was all it took.

With a strangled groan, he spilled into your mouth, his entire body shuddering as he came. You swallowed every drop, sucking him through it, milking him until he was cursing under his breath, his body twitching from overstimulation.

When you finally pulled away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, he looked down at you with lidded eyes, his chest still rising and falling heavily.

“Fuck,” he breathed, smirking. “Guess you’re not as much of a good girl as I thought.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself to your feet. “Don’t get used to it.”

He caught your wrist before you could step away, pulling you close, his lips ghosting over your ear.

“Oh, I will,” he murmured. “You’re mine now, Doc.”

[esotericbluntbaby]

compensation

hamzahthefantastic x reader

description: going against your wishes, your boyfriend decides to fight another match after spraining his wrist the last time he boxed. injured, he returns home to his girlfriend, who can't help but feel more than just "angry."

mentions: boxer!hamzah, bf!hamzah, angsttt, female reader, sub! hamzah, blood, bruises, nsfw!

GUYS IM SORRY I FORGOT TO POST THIS PLS DONT KILL ME

--

this was the first time that hamzah kept you in the dark, betraying your trust in him.

he was always a strong-willed, passionate boy; in fact, it was one of the things you found attractive in him. he kickstarted his youtube with his resilience and determination. giving up was simply not an option for him; one way or another, plan after plan, he'd get his goal even if it meant he had to cut off his limbs and sell them. if hamzah wanted something, he would get it, similar to a horse kicking whenever it's being restrained. though, normally, he knew when to stop pushing, especially when the cost was more than the benefit.

the last time hamzah boxed, his wrist fractured like a 6 year old cracks a wishbone. you, obviously, knew that getting hurt was apart of his hobby; you didn't like it, but you accepted that it was inevitable for some part of him to be banged up and broken. he allowed you to stay in the hospital with him during the time he was getting monitored, meaning that you were allowed to hear the doctor tell him that he had to wait 6 weeks to box again.

during the hospital visit, hamzah realized he had a match in exactly 5 weeks. you argued with him, telling him that there would be no way in hell that he'd be able to box until his wrist is fixed. of course, being as stubborn as a mule, hamzah argued back that he had to fight if his life depended on it. eventually, the night settled in as you laid in bed together that night, cuddling; he told you that you were right. reassuring you that he wouldn't be fighting, he kissed you goodnight. you thought you wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

that was, until tonight, an hour after the match: when hamzah walked in the front door, bloody and bruised.

his eye began to swell, darkening around the indents of his skull. the black eye that adorned his face was accompanied by a deep gash that exposed the layer beneath his skin. he looked at you with guilt plastered in his banged up face, furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips being muted by the extent of his injuries. you didn't have to guess where he was: you felt betrayed by the fact that you knew exactly what he went out to do. alongside his injuries and deception, came a girlfriend who wasn't going to speak to him.

--

not a single word was said when you grabbed his other wrist and walked to the bathroom with him; the room was filled with silence and guilt radiating off of him. he was currently sitting on the toilet seat as you rummaged around the medicine cabinet for materials that would help you fix his wounds. though you were upset, you weren't going to leave him to tend to his own injuries; you were still his girlfriend, after all. sitting on the floor, you grabbed his wrist to check how worsened it became.

"baby-"

"no, hamzah."

from your previous arguments, you knew that hamzah has a habit of overloading you with pet names. he knew he fucked up; you know he fucked up. him starting his sentence with "baby" helped you realize that he knew he's in the doghouse.

taking the textured, cotton gauze, you began to wrap his wrist with a softness that foiled your emotions towards him. you felt his eyes trained on you like the aimbot of a video game; his gazed fixated on every single movement you made. he noticed the way that you still looked so pretty even when you were mad at him. the way your face looked, tensed and full of agitation, created a pool of guilt that he swam in. he hated making you upset, but he simply needed to box. it was passion. it was commitment. he had to do it; at least, that's what he was telling himself. however, no matter how much he told himself that he had to fight, he knew it was wrong of him to go against your wishes and back. he knew you wanted the best for him and his physical being.

"i'm sorry. i shouldn't have gone tonight. i was being stupid and i shouldn't have went behind your back like that."

you listened to him apologize, yet, didn't respond. in fact, you didn't even look at him. there was no acknowledgement of his apology; it was almost like it never even happened in the first place. he needed to know how truly upset you were. instead, you focused on wrapping his wrist with a second layer of gauze, to keep everything in place.

"baby, please. just talk to me- i don't care if you cuss me out or give me hell for betraying you like that, just- please talk to me," his mannerisms were tense and rushed, "how do i fix this? how do i get you to speak to me? i'll do anything- i swear- you want me to quit boxing completely? i will. you want me to do all the housework in this house? i will- i'll do every single chore. shit, if even just sitting in a corner for days with no food or water would get you to speak to me, i'd do that. please, baby- please."

you finished wrapping the gauze by the time he finished his speech about what he'd do to get you to speak to him. you began to touch his face, examining the bruise on his eye and cheekbone like a scientist looking through a microscope. suddenly, he grabbed you by the cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

"i'm sorry. please, just speak to me. i'll do anything. talk to me. i just wanna hear your voice."

listening to him yearn for your voice made you feel a certain type of way. yes, you were mad. however, in a way, this whole situation was turning you on. you hated to admit it, but your boyfriend looked attractive with a black eye and bruised cheekbone. the fact that he was begging for you to speak to him made the sexual tension you were feeling within you even worse. his submissive side was creating a potion of ecstasy in your stomach; you wanted to see how far he'd go.

you sighed, "i don't know anymore, hamzah. you told me you wouldn't. i trust you less."

"i know, pretty, i'm sorry. i'll earn it back, i promise. i shouldn't have gone tonight. i was being an idiot."

standing up as his face followed where your eyes were, you rubbed it against his open wound, earning a wince from him as he gripped onto your waist. butterflies emerged in your stomach, causing you to feel similar to how light a fairy is.

"thanks for the warning," he said with sarcasm and irritation laced in his voice, opening his eyes from the hard shut he indulged in

"you don't deserve one."

he pulled you onto his lap, causing you to straddle him on the toilet seat. taking your cheeks, he cupped your face in his hands and sighed. he looked at you with a level of submissiveness you haven't seen in him. normally, hamzah was the dominant one; yet, you didn't mind that the roles switched.

"what can i do to get you to not be mad at me?"

"i dunno. you're a smart boy," you grabbed his cheek and stroked it with your thumb, "figure it out, baby."

you saw a lightbulb flicker on in his eyes. he sensed the tension in the room wasn't only angry, but there was also sexual tension in its silver lining.

"you want me to make it up to you?"

you leaned towards his ear, now whispering, "how are you gonna do that, hamzah?"

you felt something poke at your ass from beneath you, a slight twitch emerging from it too. your words made him as hard as a rock.

that's so fucking hot.

"baby, i thought you were mad at me."

"oh, i am. trust me, i'm fucking pissed."

he kissed you on the cheek, "i'm sorry."

he kissed you on the jawline, "i'm sorry."

he kissed you on the lips, "i'm sorry."

moving down to your neck, he kissed it longer than the pecks he gave you previously. you felt a sucking motion, as well as his tongue swirling on your sweet spot, shortly after. your breath got heavier, almost as if your lungs were being weighed down by hot air. your lips parted as he sucked a dark spot onto your neck.

"i'm sorry, pretty girl. forgive me?"

"not yet."

his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "why not?"

"i need more than that."

"tell me what you need, pretty. i'll do it."

you leaned closer to his ear, kissing his neck and the area between, "you know what i want from you."

standing up from the toilet seat, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to your bedroom. your lips began to intertwine with his as he walked through the hallway, your tongues melting together like two lollipops on a hot day. he laid you down on the bed, still kissing you with everything he had; he needs you to forgive him.

letting go of your lips, he moved closer to the edge of the bed, taking off your shorts and leaving you in your underwear. feeling exposed in front of hamzah was always nerveracking in your own way; however, this time it was different. you knew hamzah had to please you, leaving you with a newfound confidence.

"are you okay with this?" he asked, exhibiting a level of care that you were all too familiar with.

"do whatever you want to me, hamzah."

taking your underwear off, you were left laying on top of your sheets in a tank top. his arms wrapped around your legs like a snake to its prey, prying your legs apart with a sense of desperation.

"you're so pretty like this baby," he kissed the inner part of your thigh, "you're so fucking pretty."

he spit on the area between your legs, earning a subtle gasp from you. his tongue began to lap on you, dropping saliva on the area of you that was already wet. between your legs, you felt the roughness and neediness of his tongue. his hands squeezed your inner thighs as pleasure began to unravel the metaphoric yarn located in your stomach. hamzah was eating the fuck out of you, leading to your moans getting louder and louder with each and every movement his tongue created against you.

his tongue produced a dance that only the both of you would know. some parts were as fast as light, while other ones were full of yearning and slowness; he knew exactly how to balance it for you to feel the best that you could feel.

your hands made its way to his hair, "you're so pretty like this, hamzah. my boy- my pretty boy."

his movements got faster as his grip against your thighs tightened even more, as if you were going to fly away if he let go. similar to his hands, you squeezed his hair as his movements quickened in pace; you could feel the yarn unraveling like a rubber band about to snap.

"f-fuck- hamzah, i'm close-"

he kissed your core, before his tongue sped to a pace you haven't felt before. you watched him eat you out like there was no tomorrow, leaving loud moans echoing the room, before he felt you release into his mouth. kissing it once again, he looked up at you as his hands massaged the pillows that he was in between. you looked at each other with love while he watched your heavy breathing and fucked-out expression.

"forgive me?"

"i forgive you. please go box someone else, baby."

confusion was apparent in his face, "what?"

"you're so fucking hot when you're bruised and yearning."

--

author's note!

this is so short omfg i hate using anatomical words for smut LOL more coming soon!

[rafeysdeer]

boyfriend (aka insecure reader x bsf jason)

civil!reader x jason todd

prompt: where the reader has a terrible boyfriend and always ends up crying about him to her best friend, jason todd, or, where jason finally gets tired of seeing his girl being mistreated and does something about it.

a/n: i know i kinda say pretty much the same thing here, but these two are really cute, okay? i was like giggling and kicking while writing it, hope you guys love it. english is not my first language, also, feel free to send requests!

At 8pm, on your birthday, the day that was supposed to be about you, for you, where you were supposed to be going out and partying, you were curled up on the couch, wearing a sweatshirt three sizes too big for you, after the worst fight you've ever had with your boyfriend.

Your hand wrapped around your phone as you dialed the number of the only person who would understand you, who always did, your best friend, Jason. Your voice sounded tearful on the phone as you almost begged him to come to your apartment, you didn't have to say much, or wait long, before he shows up at your frontdoor.

As you wiped the tears away from your face and dragged yourself to open the door, trying to force a smile on your face, as he pulled you into his arms, before you could even say anything. "You need to break up with that asshole, you know that, right?"

Your voice sounds like a whisper against his chest as he softly guides you into the apartment, with you still clinging to him. "He already did it, he broke up with me, because he's seeing someone else" Your voice barely comes out, the tears running down your pretty face again, and Jason feels his blood boil, as if that asshole wasn't enough of a jerk to you.

With a quick look around the apartment he was able to catch the signs from the fight, the shards of glass on the floor, the broken flower vase, besides the complete mess that the apartment was in, your boyfriend was never exactly a controlled person.

"He doesn't deserve you, he never did," he whispers against her hair as he sits the two of you on the couch, which by some miracle, was in perfect condition, and he hears her whimper against him. "What if the problem is me? What if I wasn't interesting enough, or pretty enough-" His eyebrows furrowed together in the purest expression of disbelief before he shuts you up. "Honey, I'm sorry, but shut up, are you even listening to yourself? You're doubting of the best person I know for some asshole who didn't know how to value the fucking treasure he had."

Your eyes, shining with tears, stare into his, without any words to express how you felt. Jason hated your boyfriend, he always did, and with a good reason, he always treated you as if you were less than him, and you accepted it, because he made you believe that you were less.

Your eyebrows furrowed in doubt slightly, your body moving away from his a little so you could finally look properly at him.

"I would never leave you crying alone on your own birthday for the God's sake, or leave you alond at a party at two am for someone else to take you home." He grabs your hands, an almost pleading look in his eyes, and there it was, you finally understand, all the hate directed at your boyfriend, is because he knew exactly how you should be treated, he knew exactly how to treat you.

Your eyes were shining with something different than tears this time, affection, as your head slowly tilted to the side, absorbing the information. "I could be a better boyfriend than him, come on, I doubt that idiot knows that you only drink tea with cream and a ton of sugar? That you bake cookies to the children at the shelter, so they can feel loved?" He shook his head, he wouldn't let the guy who left you crying on your own birthday after telling you he cheated on you go unpunished, but that was a story for later, for when you understand that everything you ever needed was right there.

"Shut up, I love you," she says with the most genuine, silly smile she had in weeks, maybe months, before wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a heated, well-deserved kiss.

"I've loved you since the day I saw you eating snow when you were six, Jay, I guess I just never thought it was mutual." He smirked, rolling his eyes, his arms keeping her wrapped around him. "I saw you having a crush on Edward Cullen when you were thirteen, do you really think I would still be here if I didn't love you?" You laughed, slapping his arm playfully.

"Shut up and kiss me."

[dolcekissy]

Why is the song one more night by maroon 5 so rafe coded. Like reader and rafe can NEVER make it out of the situationship stage no matter how hard they try. Especially with the lyric

“ Try to tell you, "No" But my body keeps on telling you, "Yes" , when rafe comes over late one night and they have the nastiest, sex where he has you folded in half. Spitting in your mouth. Hand around your neck. Just to show you who you really belonged too one last time.

Anyways!!

oh my goshhh yes. i fucking love your mind!!! i decided to make them extremely toxic lmfao. i feel like i got carried away with this idk if i like it 🥲 ugh, i hope you enjoy this lmk if you hate it lol

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes unprotected sex, p in v, spitting, toxic!rafe & toxic!reader, a bit of blood, and physical alterations.

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for the past 2 years, you've been infatuated with rafe. every part of your being subconsciously attaching to him, begging to be closer, his presence crawling in your skin no matter how far he is ─ brain tingling when he's around, heart heavy when he's away.

the love rafe has for you is sickening, a problem almost. he shows his love through gifts, compliments, sex ─ when you aren't arguing. he'd kill for you, you wouldn't put it past him if he already had ─ always in protective mode, ready to go to bat for you. but no matter how hard you try, you can never make it past the stage of being labeled as anything other than, "the girl i've been seeing for a while." to the public.

it's a mind fuck, really. one day he's spoiling you, calling you his girlfriend and the next he's screaming at you, veins popping out of his neck, your finger jabbing at his chest as you scream back just as loud ─ threatening to hit him after you caught him with his tongue down some blonde chicks throat, apologizing by "making love to you," ─ moaning an "i love you." in your ear, begging you to never leave him as he came inside of you.

shoupe knows your full names by heart, addresses engraved into his brain, the inside of your places carved into his mind from each encounter he's experienced with the two of you. calls being made every other week, screaming and glass breaking, doors slamming and loud crying, car doors slamming and tires screeching ─ loud moans and beds creaking.

"when it's good, it's good but when it's bad, it's bad." you huff out each time sarah confronts the relationship you have with her brother, her eyes roaming over the hand print on your neck, not sure if it's from him choking you out of anger or pleasure ─ honestly you're not too sure either. you're telling her he did it during sex, no clue if that's even the truth.

you should hate him, he should hate you. the black eyes you've given him, the marks he's left on your wrists and neck ─ his actions harsh enough to make you cry, your words harsh enough you've made him cry. you're promises of never speaking to him again never falling through, always giving into each other ─ into the cycle. always forgiving him once his cock sinks into you and he's whispering apologies, whispering broken promises of the future he'll give you.

todays the same as usual ─ promising he would never hear from you again after another heated argument on the phone, angry tears streaming down your cheeks, face pale and eyes bloodshot from exhaustion ─ voice hoarse and your chest bubbling in hurt until his lips are the only thing soothing the burn in your throat. sinking his cock into your tight hole, thrusting slowly as his tongue licks away the tears slipping down your cheeks as your eyes squeeze shut, whispering, "let this be the last time, rafe." ─ something in him snapping at the seriousness in your tone.

your feet are pressed against his chest, wide and teary eyes gazing into his, soft lips parted as you pant, hands gripping onto his forearm as his hand travels up your sternum ─ hand wrapping around your neck tightly, blunt fingernails digging into the side of your neck. his tongue runs down your cheek again, down to your parted lips, forcing his tongue into your mouth, exploring your gums and teeth angrily.

his hips ram into yours, cock hitting all the right places, balls slapping against the fat of your ass, his pelvis pounding against your swollen clit as he forces your thrashing head to face him ─ fingers digging into your cheeks as he spits in your mouth, eyes never leaving yours as he taps your cheek harshly, signaling for you to swallow.

your nails are scratching at his forearm, breaking the skin, little droplets of blood forming as his grip tightens ─ vision slowly turning black as you cry out in pleasure, your whole body on fire as his hand reaches down, slapping and pinching your clit. his head tilting to the side, watching as your eyes roll back ─ hand traveling back up to slap your cheek so your eyes focus back on him, his lips curling into a snarl as he speaks,

"want this to be the last time? fine, your wish is my fuckin' command then. but don't you ever─ever fuckin' forget who you belong to." he spits, hand pushing on your neck with each word, your head forcefully bopping up and down against the sheets.

"don't you ever forget who you'll be running back to every fucking time. i fucking own you."

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[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...

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Home (you) | Gi-hun x Wife!Reader |

Summary: He finally returns to you.

Warnings: Post S1 - Non canon events - Non canon background for Gi-hun - Sad!Gi-hun - Paranoid!Gi-hun - Trauma - Soft!Moments  - NON CANON EVENTS FROM S2  - ANGST -

When Gi-hun was left with nothing but his underwear and a credit card full of zeros his mind did nothing but drift off.

He could not forget them. The others, the ones who died in order for him to be here today. Alive, looking at the account, sounds and smells from the city, ignorance from what had happen to him and others.

Gi-hun knew you were there, at the small aparment you two shared. The small yet filled with love place. It was his safe heaven, the home he loved. Where you waited for him, never once judged him and rather tried to help.

You have been nothing but the best wife, woman and friend. More than what he could ask for and more of what he deserves.

In his mind you should have left him, for someone better. But he could be selfish and when it came to you he was.

But now after everything that had happen..did he deserve to go back to you ? To his life ? When he had promise that he would not dissapear again? But he still did ? Knowing he may not be back ?

His mind driffted back and he found himself walking without a destination, not caring for the cold or nasty looks along the way.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

Another morning came, the bed felt cold but you have to get used to it. Thats whar you keep telling yourself. However when you see the ring on your finger you cant help but let out some tears before getting up and prepare for the day.

It has been at least three months now since Gi-hun dissapear without a way to find him.

You tought the loan sharks would look for you but that never happened. Part of you did wonder if they had killed him but when being confronted by you they just said a quick excuse and went off.

You hated your life without him. Besides the pity looks you got at your work or the few words of compassion, you missed him. A lot. You were used to his laught, to his touch, the silly jokes he would make...but that was in the past now.

With a bottle of shake you went to your home. Another day, another week, you should think on moving maybe that way it would hurt less. But the memories with him were deep in your mind and you could not shake them off.

You were going to Open the old door when you took notice that it was slighty Open.

A robbery ? The loan sharks decided to come ?

You moved the door slowly, the old thing making a sound that felt louder than it actually was. The aparment was dark, no light or sight of life. It was just and the forniture.

Or at least thats what you thoguth when suddendly you hear a muffled "fuck" and "I never cleaned that"

Even if it was small you knew in an instant from who it was. You went there, not caring if maybe your mind was playing you a cruel trick. You needed to know.

Once outside the bedroom you turned on the lights seeing his form trying (and failing) to repair some broken base he had most likely knock off.

You also took notice on the big spoot on the wall, yeah it was caused by him once and he never took care of it, but it added personality to the room.

He looked at you. Eyes big like a fish, he was a mess. Hair larger and dirty.

"Gi-hun?" You called taking a step towards him while he took one back. He did not want you to see him like this. He came on impulse, a rational part of him said to not come, but his feelings....he missed you. Wanted you again by his side.

"Please tell me this is real" You tried again voice now breaking as you stopped one hand reaching for him.

Gi-hun felt his heart break, he moved slowly taking your hand in his, the same hand that he had used to fight off Sang-woo was now holding yours.

He almost fell as you pulled him into a big hug, crying on his chest, you had to take a moment to listen to his heart beat. You eyes going over his face.

"Oh Gi-hun...what happened to you?" You asked pulling him for a hug again his own hands returning it with more force. He never wanted to let go of you again.

"(Y/N)...Please" His voice broke at the end "Hold me, I will tell you everytning but please"

He fell on his knees you followed still hugging him, his cries were muffled by your shirt as she held you like you were the only thing that could keep him sane.

"Shh I got you Gi-hun, let it out"

He cried for a bit more only moving when he felt you move from discomfort because of how you two were.

"Gi-hun...you should take a bath" You said to him very careful "I can prepare it for you.."

"Will you stay?" He asked his eyes letting out the raw vulnerability he was feeling

"Of course I will, I will stay with you"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

Gi-hun havent feel this...relaxed in such a long time. You carefully washed his hair, and relaxed his tensed back. There was nothing sexual out of it. Just you taking care of him.

And it felt like heaven.

"Im going to brush your hair a bit is that alright with you?" You asked from behind him inside the bathtub  worried that it might trigger something from him.

But Gi-hun just nodded letting out a content sound when the brush made contact with his hair. You were very patient with him, slowly untangling his now long hair. He knew he needed to get it cut off. But he had let himself be lost and...and he could not bring to take care of himself.

"We should also cut your beard too..if you want" You softly asked after you ended with his hair doing a small bow that made him look quiet cute.

He touched his beard without realizing how long it had got. But finally gave a nod to you. He saw you move towards the cabin getting the tools and now taking a seat in front of him.

"Im going to do this slow, ok? You tell me if I need to stop" You tone let him knew that he was the one in charge of the situation. You did not know what had happen to him but it must be more than the old threats the loan sharks would use against him.

No, this was something worse. And you wanted him to feel safe with you.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

After it you offered him a fresh change of clothes. He asked you to stay with him and you nodded. He was slimmer than the last time you have seen him. And there were some bruises too. You wanted to ask him, to know what did happen. But you also knew he would come around, that you needed to be patient with him.

After he changed he muttered that he was tired and you were ready to guide him back towards the bedroom you two shared.

To him the bed sheets felt softer than he did remember. Even if the mattress was old it was better than the beds from the games. A shiver ran down his spine and he had to hold his head to prevent memories from coming back.

"Gi-hun..."

"Can you get me some water...? Please" Gi-hun asked his voice almost breaking. He did not want you to see him like this. So broken so....

He had no words to describe the pain he was feeling.

He felt when you left, and he decided to take some deep breaths, letting the familiar smell of the room fill his sense. He was back, he was at home.

"Gi-hun? I got your water?" You said from besides him giving him the glass as he gulped it down.

And you were with him.

He finally looked at you. Seeing how tired you were. It must have been difficult for you. To be alone and worried over him. He wanted to blame himself even more for leaving you like that. He did not deserve you and part of him wanted you to hate him for leaving and then be back without a explaination.

But as he looked all over you his eyes ended in your hand, most precise on the ring. You were still using it, a solid proof you never gave up on him.

"(Y/N).." Gi-hun said your name with so much care as he took your hands on his bring them up to kiss them. "Im sorry, im sorry that I left you. Im sorry for not coming back sooner" He said between broken sobs. "I know I must have caused you so much pain, and im so sorry for it"

"Gi-hun please stop, you know I would have waited for you a lifetime" You responded gently caressing his face "I dont know what happened to you, and you dont have to tell me. I will wait till you are ready. Just know, I love you. And that wont ever change, just...dont leave me again"

"Never, I wont ever leave you again (Y/N)...you are all I have and all I will ever have. You are the most important thing to me, and from now on I will do my best to show you how grateful im for you being by my side. For putting up with me"

You smiled at him giving him a soft kiss then pushing him down so he could get comfortable.

"And you are the best thing that ever happened to me Gi-hun. You dont have to prove me anything" You laid besides him both facing each other. He pulled you against his chest his face on your hair.

"Promise you wont ever let me go? Not tonight or ever ? Even if...things change" Gi-hun knew he was a different Man now, he could not just ignore his trauma. He was positive nightmares would still come to haunt him and that at some point he would tell you the truth.

But not tonight. Tonight all he wanted was for you to hold him and promise him that everything would be fine.

"I wont ever let you go Gi-hun, not tonight or ever. You are with me till death do us apart, remember ? Now get some sleep I will be here once you wake up"

And that was all he needed to hear. For the first time since he won these games...he got a nice sleep. Besides you anything seemed to be possible. Even finding his way back to life.

[shewrites02]

Deserve | Toji Fushiguro x Reader |

A/N: My first JJK Work on my page. It just a drabble, but if you follow me for a while this is how all my hype fixations start lol

Request : Open

Word Count : 500

Leave a comment if you enjoy ! :)

Toji knows he doesn’t deserve you. Is reminded with every sweet touch your delicate fingers place on his face. You are everything he is not. Soft. Fragile. Good. Everything the sorcerer hunter is too broken to be. Still, it never made a difference to Toji what he felt he deserved.

He made peace with the type of man he is a long time ago. The type to take with no regard for feelings or apologies. The type to leave a wake of devastation if it meant getting what he wanted.

Toji Fushiguro was not the type of man to let you go just because he knew you deserved better.

“Fuck you Toji- Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. .”

You hope to spit the words venomously, but they come off your tongue in a broken whisper. Dragging the back of your hand across your cheek to clear your tears, you take a sharp breath. An attempt to gather yourself, regain your composure. This bastard does not deserve the tears you shed on him.

“ ‘Superhuman' but can't even look me in the eyes as you reject me.”

“C’mon doll, don’t be like that. I told you I didn’t want anything serious from the beginning.”

Toji’s voice does not quiver or quake in the way yours does. Does not hold any hesitations, or uncertainties. His words are sure, certain.

Something in the conviction of his tone short circuits your brain, has you reacting before you can think. Cocking your shoulder back, you swiftly bring your palm to the sorcerer's cheek, smacking him as hard as you could.

And he lets you.

Toji has faced far tougher opponents than you, and walked away with far less wounds. It wouldn’t have taken him any effort to foil your attack. Instead his head snaps to the side, and that blank look on his face is replaced with a pained smirk. Then his eyes meet yours.

“But you acted like you did ! Begged me to open up to you- !” All composure you might have had is lost as anger and hurt bubbles over in your chest. “ Don’t act like this is my fault.”

It's difficult to breathe. Suddenly all the air so readily available is being sucked away by the presence of Toji Fushiguro. You need to get away from here. Away from him. You need air.

You turn on your heels to head in the opposite direction. Shove through the crowded racing track in search of an exit. You can’t remember where you parked, but that is okay. At this point you would walk home if it means getting away from here.

“Y/n!”

Toji’s voice echoes behind you.There’s a part of you that has to fight the instinct to stop, hearing him out, search for comfort in his words. There another part of you, a larger part that can’t be bothered to listen to any more lies from the lips of fushiguro. That part keeps your head forward, feet plowing into the pavement.

There’s a clasp on your wrist, drawing you back before you can fully cross the exit’s threshold. The grip is unyielding against your persistent attempts to escape. Fear would engulf your body if you weren’t so sure of the culprit, so knowing of the feeling of those fingers against your skin.

“Let me g-”

“It’s my fault-” He proclaims, interrupting any further protesting you had. “ Just mine.”

You hate listening to the words as you speak them. They taste bitter on your tongue. Though that doesn’t outweigh your heart’s need to know.

“Why are you doing this to me Toji- why am I not good enough?”

The soccer hunter’s eyes soften at your words. He even shrinks in on himself, as though trying to shrill up into something smaller. Something more kin to what he’s feeling inside.

“I can’t love you- not like you deserve.”

“No Toji. You just don’t love me enough to try to be what I deserve.”

If you enjoy my content or if you have $5 to spare , please consider donating it to Besan . she is a mother trying so desperately to get her family out of Gaza. She is still so far away from her go fund me goal!

Operation Olive Branch Spreadsheet

I know everyone may not have the means to donate, but if by some chance you have an extra $5 to spare please consider donating it to the families trying to rebuild their lives in the Gaza strip.

[qiu-yan]

#fuck that’s sexy#I’ve seen the ‘wen ning’s resentment of JC is really WWX’s resentment of JC filtered through him’ take before#and I don’t hate it but I also don’t love it bc it denies WN the agency of disliking this guy for perfectly valid personal reasons#but I’m meh on ChengNing in general and bonkers about ChengXian#so this is like. surgically tailored to appeal to me#ningcheng#ningchengxian#chengxian#the untamed#now the question is what would Wen Ning DO with this information once he realized#does he want WWX to get the thing he secretly wants#and try to engineer something between them? (or talk to WWX directly hahaha that would not work and we all know it)#(WWX’s denial game is powerful and he also doesn’t actually listen to WN)#does he expressly NOT want chengxian to hook up bc seriously fuck Jiang Wanyin#does he do nothing but quietly agonize over the situation until something happens to escalate it#I think probably the most interesting and fucked up option#would be to pursue something with a very confused Jiang Cheng#who I headcanon as being fairly weak towards someone apparently actually *wanting* him in any capacity#who might go along with it for that reason#and then once JC was emotionally hooked by the relationship#pull a ‘haha I never actually want you this was just a zombie thing’#reveal on him#and he’s able to say it with enough of a ring of truth for it to be devastating#coin flip on whether he confesses it’s WWX’s sublimated desires or not#if he does I think it gets framed as ‘he so despised this desire for you and wanted so little of it#he shunts it all on me so I can deal with you and he doesn’t have to’#that would do numbers on Jiang Cheng’s psyche#god I almost want to write this#I’m just so fascinated by Wen Ning’s willingness to be cruel to Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng only#truly ChengNing is most appealing to me when it’s something incredibly broken for them both tags via @cerusee

Post-canon Ningcheng where WN doesn't know exactly why he keeps hooking up with JC

Then there's a night hunt with JC and WWX and LWJ and now that they're all in the same place, WN finally gets hit in the face with the realization it's WWX's attraction, expressing itself through WN because WWX is in denial about it (like WWX is in denial about resenting JC, and!projecting that on JC; like WWX once hated JZX so much that--) and WN is WWX's creature

[bennysmiller]

Treat You Better - Part One (Triple Frontier x You)

A new series in which the Triple Frontier boys help you through a breakup, and it changes everything.

The iced latte that sits in front of you doesn’t hit like it usually does and now you’re sure that the worst part about having a broken heart is that it ruins everything for you. You can’t even feed your caffeine addiction without thinking of him.

“So,” Benny starts, hoping to finally get your attention. “You’re looking well.”

You look up at the four men around your table, all of whom seem awkward at the lack of conversation.

“I’m looking well?” You repeat, with a mix of disgust and confusion in your voice, while tugging at your somewhat messy hair and cringing at the bags that sit so proudly under your eyes.

“I mean, considering, you know…everything.” Replied Benny, trying his absolute best to not offend you.

He’s referencing the breakup. Evidently, there is no “post-breakup glow”, your friends had lied to you. You’re a mess. A mess that even coffee couldn’t fix.

“Well, thank you Ben. How charming.”

Frankie clears his throat at this and turns to you.

“What he means, is that you’re handling it a lot better than your last breakup.”

That did not make it any better. You glare at Frankie in response, and this time, Will sits forward, his arms crossed on the table. If looks could kill, Benny and Frankie would be well and truly dead, and Will would be the one holding the gun. That’s shut everyone up, you think to yourself.

“I’ve had enough of this silence. What are we all feeling like doing tonight? Movie night? Something stronger than coffee? Running out into the traffic?” You say, trying to break the tension. After all, you caused it. You invited everyone to the coffee shop just to attend the funeral of your relationship.

No one says anything. Instead, the guys all exchange looks with each other, like they know something you don’t. Like they already have plans they don’t want to tell you about. To your right, Frankie starts playing with his baseball cap and runs a hand through those curls of his. Will is looking at his lap. Benny has a slight smirk on his face, one you know all too well.

The atmosphere between all of you has shifted now. As you go around the table, you discover that Santi is looking at you with a very specific look in those eyes of his. But he looks elsewhere when you meet his gaze, and you know something is up.

“What is wrong with all of you? Has this emotional mess I have become put you off as well?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at them.

“It’s the opposite,” says Frankie, a slight nervousness in his voice. “Benny?”

Now you’re confused. You look at Benny, waiting for him to explain.

He still has that smirk on his face and it’s starting to piss you off. Just a little. It melts you, the way he looks so cocky and handsome and perfect. But he’s being a dick by not answering you, so you shrug at him to further demand a response.

“You think you could ever put us off? You couldn’t be more wrong. We have an idea. A game. We love you, but you have terrible taste in men, sweetheart. We hate seeing you so heartbroken. We think we could change that.”

There is something much different in the air now. It isn’t an uncomfortable tension of awkward silence over bad coffee. It’s an excitement you want to know more about. So for the first time since the breakup, of course it is Benny fucking Miller who has managed to bring the butterflies within you back to life. All you needed was for him to light the spark the last man put out, and now you’re overwhelmed with confidence.

“Go on, Miller. Don’t leave me hanging.”

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Little girl gone

got a gun from a gangster

run little girl

run little girl

bang ha

The cold bit into your bones, a permanent resident in the sterile dark rooms of Sylus's base. Kidnapped, stripped of everything familiar, you felt like a lab rat caught in a gilded cage. Sylus, your captor, was the architect of this nightmare. With his remorseless crimson eyes and the power that crackled around him like static, he was a force of nature, one you couldn't hope to match.

But that doesn't mean you can't bite back.

The initial days were a blur of pain and terror. He wanted you to resonate with him. Demanded it, even as his attempts sent white-hot agony through you veins. Three days. Three days of forced contact, of you screaming refusals echoing unanswered in the cold, echoing halls. These three days were filled with either pain or numbness as his two henchmen carried your exhausted body back to your room. He treated you like a broken machine, blaming you for the failure. He called it "training," but to you, it was torture.

One particularly brutal session ended with you collapsing, muscles twitching and lungs gasping for air. He sat few feet away from you, impassive, as if you were a malfunctioning device. Something snapped.

"You... son of a BITCH!!!" you choked out, the word laced with venom. "You think you can just *cough* …use me? You're nothing but a glorified bully with fancy powers!"

The silence that followed was heavier than the iron taste in your mouth. Sylus's expression didn't change, but you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or even…discomfort?

The familiar dread crept into your stomach as you felt being lifted with his powers and dragged towards him. You wanted to resist, but your body barely listened to you at this point. That was the worst part, not the physical pain but this... helplessness. You hated feeling weak. That's why you spent your entire adult life training and fighting, to push back these feelings that remained after Chronorift catastrophy. Sylus managed to bring all these feelings of self-loathing, desparation and anxiety back to the surface with nothing but flick of his wrist and few dismissing words.

"Why... why are you doing this...?" you didn't even recognize your voice without its usual bluster, the weakness of it disgusting even you.

"You went through all that trouble to enter the N109 Zone. I must fulfill my duty as your host."

The rich timbre of his voice grated at your ears. Every part of you screaming in defiyance as he place you on his lap. Like a rag doll, he positioned you to his liking and then... ugh... then he did it again.

Slowly, he dragged the back of his fingers up your arm, making your stomach lurch. Then he forcibly opened your hand clenched in fist and iterlocked your hands. He did this multiple times since he took you. It was just holding hands, but you felt violated all the same.

Your bile dangerously rose. You haven't eaten much of anything these past few days, but with your body spasming like that, it's only a matter of time before you couldn't hold it in any longer.

Thanfully, he quickly let go of your hand and your stomach settled for now.

"You're lucky I don't like picking on the weak, kitten."

"Shut the fuck up." You growled, hating both the reminder of your helplessness and that stupid nickname.

If he wanted to torture you, that's fine and dandy, but why does he have to be such creep about it?

The air around him thickened with supressed energy. You braced herself for another onslaught, but instead, he picked up a gun and placed it in your hand. You stared at it in shock.

"Don't you want to take my life?" Sylus studied you like an insect under microscope.

Your fingers wrapped around the grip and you pressed the barrel to his forehead.

"You think I wouldn't do it?!!" You hated how both your voice and hand trembled.

"Yes, that's better," Sylus wrapped his fingers around your wrist and pressed the gun to his chest, "want some help?" he sneered at you.

You barely registered his mockery over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You watched as his finger slid to the trigger. No...no..no! You killed Wanderers all the time, but this is no wanderer. You wanted to pull away put Sylus held you firmly in place. You felt his finger pressing down on yours and you just couldn't take it anymore.

Sylus stared in shock at the acidic stain on his silken shirt. You tumbled down from his lap, lurching.

He finally stood up, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "You are... uncooperative," he said, almost to himself.

That night, you knew she couldn’t rely on Sylus's mercy. You have to find her own way out. You started small, observing Luke and Kieran, noting the routines, the blind spots. She pilfered a discarded knife from his collection, hiding it under her mattress – a pathetic weapon, but better than nothing.

On the fifth night, you finally escaped. You had to thank the crow for his unwilling help. A bit of tinkering with his navigation chip and Sylus was following false lead. You know you can't escape from him forever, but it could give you enough time to get some intel on the Aether core. With few pilfered gems form Sylus's collection, you managed to get your hands on beat up motorcycle and pair of Super 38.

You knew ten year olds don't make great intels, but you had to start somewhere and to your suprise, your search bore some fruit. It was rather cheap and you got a glass of something that could knock down a horse which suited your perfectly.

"So you say that the protocore I'm looking for could be in that auction?" you swirled the liquid in your glass as you leaned forward, head hunched.

The bartender stopped cleaning the bar and leaned closer to you, "I'm not saying it will be there 100%, but if you want protocores of the highest quality, you go there." She spoke to you in hushed whispers.

The building belonged to Sylus, of course, but you knew you'd stumble into him eventually. This time though, you're much better prepared.

You discreetly dropped a chunky ruby into the glass and slid it towards her.

"Thanks for the drink."

Her face lit up as she looked down.

The bartender opened her mouth to thank you, but in that moment, a group of men armed to the teeth barged in. Faster than lighting, you slid behind the bar and discreetly leaned toward her once more.

"You think I can get out there from the back?"

As you sped through the highway on your borrowed bike, you saw in the rearview mirror few cars following you.

Some more minutes of wild chase through the streets of N109 zone, another follower joined the chase, but this one rode a motorcycle just like the one you had. They helped you shake them off, and when you sped through the car wreckage together, you had a chance to get a good look at them. The guy was weirdly familiar...

He gestured to the sidestreet you were approaching and you nodded in agreement. You parked your bike just a few feet away from him. After the man took off his helmet, your suspicions were confirmed.

"I should've known I smelled a pig around here." You spat at him.

Sylus, seemingly unaffected by your jab, set his helmet on the seat of his bike and turned towards you.

"I must admit, I'm impressed. No one managed to evade me for this long. I underestimated you."

"Either tell me what you want now or I'm leaving." Your voice was colder than ice. Every muscle in your body tensing, hands over your holsters, ready to feed him iron at any moment.

Sylus shrugged, eyes kept on you intently, unblinking. It was almost unnerving. "Haven't you came here for the Aether core?"

You winced. How does he...

Sylus continued, "only I can give you what you want."

That is true. Sylus can just get you the Aether core if he so wished, but you knew that would come with few strings attached, and you haven't gone quite so desperate as to make deals with the devil.

"You think I'm that naive? What proof do I have that you're not bluffing. You need to show me something to back it up."

His brow quirked in amusement, "You want proof? Then come with me." He mounted his bike and revved the engine. He haven't looked back once, because he'll already knew you'd follow him.

You arrived at some old observatory at the edge of the city. Sylus stopped shortly before reinforced metal gate before turning to you.

"Before we head inside."

"Don't order me around." You snapped back and headedinside before he could say anything else.

The dimly lit room was filled with various unmarked containers and research tech. Above your head hung an old constellation model. The only source of light came from a small lamp at edge of the table. There, an elderly man sat hunched over what you assumed were one of his newest projects.

Without lifting his head, he adressed you "If you want to order something, bring your own Protocore."

Sylus strode up from behind you, slinging a chair to the nearest table and sat down on it.

The moment the man at the table realized who else came into the room his whole demeanor changed. He rose up from his wroking spot and rushed to Sylus, nervously patting down his apron.

"I got you a new quinea pig." Sylus, uninterested in his stammer, twirled a knife in his deft hand as he spoke. "It's time for your Evol Linkage Alteration project to have a living test subject.

You stopped in your tracks, your blood running cold.

"What?!" was the only thing you could say as the door slammed behind you. Your heart started hammering in your chest. You felt like you walked right into a trap.

"You BASTARD!!! That's what you can a DEAL?!!?" You aimed both of his guns at him, but before you could react, his powers picked you up and threw you into the Altercation machine.

You screamed and threw every curse you could think of, but that didn't deter him nor the mechanic, who only patted down on the screen nervously. You haven't stopped trashing in your bindings. The mechanic watched you with concern as he spoke to Sylus. He told him what you both already knew. Your Evol is completely fine, only the strenght is supressed.

Sylus stood up and stalked towards you, the glare fiercer than before.

You matched his enger with your own. "What the hell did you expect?! Maybe I'm not the problem, maybe it's you!" You spat those words like venom. Sylus narrowed his eyes at you.

Without taking his eyes off of you, he spoke to the mechanic again.

"That thing I asked you to alter..."

"FUCK... YOUUUU!!!!" You roared through the pain. You wanted him dead, DeAd, DEAD. A strange power thrummed through you, it wasn't like when you used your evol, no this was something different. It was the Aether core in your hear. You couldn't clearly register what was happening around you, all you knew was the deep searing rage and desire to repay Sylus the pain he gave you tenfold.

Suddenly, the machine collapsed and you stumbled away from it.

When you looked around you the places was a mess

Speaking of Sylus. The man sat several feet away, pressed against the wall and the was an indent in the wall you're sure wasn't there before.

He spat out a mouthful of blood and for the first time since you came here, you felt something resembling satisfaction.

"I think that's enough of experiments of today," he gasped.

You walked towards him, deceptively calm.

"Enough? Sylus kitten, we're only starting."

You didn't care how long will it take for you to get past his Evol, or how many pain you'll have to endure, you will beat this bastard to death.

If he wanted to stop you with his powers, he wasn't fast enough before the reinforced heel of your army boot connected with his jaw.

Sylus quickly recovered from his initial shock, and parried a flurry of fists aimed at his face.

He's a good fighter. You realized as he managed to land a few succesful hits of his own. You licked the blood off of your split lip. Good. You want this to last.

You pretended to aim at his face so he shields the wrong part of him then twisted your body and send your elbow as strong as you could to his stomach. He lurched forward grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against your lifted knee.

Sylus stumbled back, one eye swollen the other giving you death glare.

"You..."

"That's fucking right!! ME!!" You grabbed one of the iron poles laying on the ground.

"Remember this face, remember this breathing sensation, cause YOU'RE going DOWN!!!!!" You sent the bar across his knee.

He dodged, "Feeling vindicated?!" He spat, his arrogant facade barely in place.

"Oh, you think this makes up for everything you've done to me?!!"

You roared at him, swinging at his head. He was taunting you to make you lose focus, but you didn't care.

"For all the pain?!??!! All the humiliation?!???"

You punctuated every word with a swing of the iron bar.

"Every single... disgusting... creepy... SLEAZY TOUCHES!!!!!!!!!!"

The sharp point grazed his neck, staining his leather jacket with more blood.

Not enough, more blood... more...

You left yourself open, giving Sylus the oportunity to grab the hand holding the bar he twisted your arm behind you painfully and kicked the back of your knee. You fall on your knees, gasping in pain.

"Is that all?! Have you finally had enough?!?" Sylus snarled above you, and twisted your arm some more, "Remember one thing, kitten, if you want to threaten someone, you need to have strenght to back it up."

He was bigger than you, stronger, even without his Evol. Just and just like any oponent of yours that thought you'd be an easy target made fatal mistake...

"And you better remember one thing," you hissed as you twisted your right arm some more. Searing pain shot through your arm but you barely felt it at this point. You used that moment to sweep your leg under him and slammed into him with the other half of your body. The bigger they are the harder they fall.

"Call me kitten again and you'll have your whole face rearranged." That was the last thing you said to him before you sent a flurry of well aimed hits in his face. The pain from your right shoulder was killing you but that didn't stop your relentless attack.

The thing that did stop you was mechanic knocking you out with his wrench.

When you next woke up, you wondered if you'll ever have non-fatal induced sleep.

You winced at the pain shooting from your right shoulder. To your suprise, your shoulder was back in its place and you had neat bandage all over your upper arm and torso. You padded your hand over your face. Several small patches littered your face. Seems like someone took a great care of putting you back together.

You assessed your surroundings and with profound dissapointment realized you're back at Sylus's place. Said man sat at the table across from you to your even greater dissapointment he didn't look half as bad as you expected.

"How come you're jumped back from all that ass-kicking this fast?"

Sylus snapped his head towards you. His mechanical crow in hand.

"Don't sound so dissapointed," he snarked. Then with much softer tone, he asks you "How's your shoulder?"

You honestly didn't know how to respond to that. There he was being concerned for you after everything he put you through. But you kept silent, you already told him that clear enough back at the warehouse.

"The auction is tomorrow in the Solon Hotel. I have to get ready if I'm to get the Aether core." You groaned as you got up from the coutch. "Don't try to stop me or it's gonna hurt."

The crow cawed at you indignantly, probably for messing with his location chip.

"Yeah, fuck you too." You mumbled half-heartedly his way as you shuffled slowly towards the door.

"You really think you they just let you in?"

"I'll find a way."

Even with your back turned to him, you could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose

"Do you have money? Protocores aren't exactly cheap."

You sighed, the exhaustion creeping back in. You turned towards him and eyed him up and down.

His Evol has apparently healing properties, because except the mostly healed black eye, he looked fine. This whole ordeal made you realize that there is some limit to his powers, which was strangely comforting.

When Sylus approached you, his demeanor was different, and not just because of the limp he tries to subtly hide. He maintained a distance, his touch less insistent, his gaze less predatory. He even…apologized. A curt, almost clinical apology, but an apology nonetheless. He explained, in clipped tones, the details of the auction and showed you the list of atendees, complete with your fake identity on it.

He also explained to you that these men who chased you before were some former Onychinus member gone rogue. They were after Aether cores, including one in your body.

"So that's why you kidnapped me. You wanted to lure them in."

Sylus gave you a look.

You raised eyebrow at him, "Oh I'm sorry, what else would you call taking a person against their will and not letting them leave?"

His expression softened, just a fraction. "I…regret the circumstances of your arrival," he admitted, the words sounding forced and unfamiliar on his tongue. "But I believe you can play a vital role."

You saw a flicker of genuine remorse in his eyes, the first crack in his carefully constructed facade. It wasn't enough to forgive him, but it was enough to give him a chance.

Besides, you really can't do shit around N109 and you both know it. As much as it infuriates you.

He also admitted to have Aether core inside him just like you do, or so you think. The man never gave you straight answer for anything. Probably a stupid attempt to appear mysterious and have always upper hand.

"You help me get the Aether core and safely escort me out of the N109 Zone and I act as your bait and help you clean up the rats from your ranks. Sounds good?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "You sound like you're doing me a huge favor."

"Well I'm not the one desperately trying to resonate with you. Which is not happening anytime soon if you keep acting like the biggest dickhead. So unless you want to play human tennis with me again, I'd recommend trying to be a less of asshole, think you can manage that?"

Sylus was speechless for a moment, and then he barked out a laugh. It startled both you and the crow. You hated to admit it, but he had really nice laugh. Rich and deep like thrum on a bass. When he calmed down he gave you a sardonic smile.

"Think you can manage not to fall unconscious every five minutes?"

You smiled at him through gritted teeth, "I'll try my best."

Sylus nodded, an echo of genuine respect in his eyes, "then I will also try to make my presence tolerable."

You nodded, not knowing what else to say to that.

"You fight good, by the way." You rubbed the back of your head with the wrong arm, wincing immediately at the pain flaring up from your shoulder.

"Saying that must've hurt."

You sigh in feigned annoyance "You have no idea."

"You too."

"Hm?"

It was his turn to sigh.

"You're also skilled fighter."

You shrugged, "I have to be."

Something akin to a comfortable silence settled between the two of you.

You didn't trust him. Not yet. But the fact that he'd actually apologized, that he'd acknowledged his behavior, was a small victory. This is a war, and you intend to win it.

There's nothing that felt less natural to you than wearing a dress. Your combat boots were replaced with heels, khakis and compressor shirt replaced by dress that revealed to much of your scars, with a strategically placed strap to cover the bruise on your shoulder. Sylus's pick, and since he helps you get the Aether core, you have no place to object.

Despite that Sylus truly made an effort towards you. He shared yesterdays meal with you, discussing the details of the auction and their respective parts. He was starting to treat you more like a colleague than a prisoner. He tried to call you "kitten" once, but you’d glare at him until a flicker of embarrassment would flash through his eyes.

You were currently fiddling with the protocores you purchased with Sylus's credit card, lost at what to do. The Aether core was nowhere in sight and you were starting to get impatient. You passed some party guests staring at you, their looks made your skin prickle. You knew that getting attention was the point of this whole charade, but it didn't make you any less uncomfotable.

"Excuse me ma'am, that's a beutiful brooch you have there. May I buy it from you?"

You turned to the man who approached you in suprise, hand instictively reaching up to the brooch Sylus gave you just few hours ago. He said it was to complete a look and create a statement, you felt like he was marking his territory. Regardless, it was a gift, and to this moment you couldn't forget the strange, reverent look in Sylus's eyes when he gave it to you.

"Sorry, erm, but this brooch isn't for sale."

"How does ten hightower sound?" The man was relentless, like he didn't even heard you. You started to feel more and more uncomfortable.

Thankfully, Sylus came to your rescue. You never thought that you'd be grateful to see him. Playing the part of an escort didn't came easily to you, but Sylus was natural. He wrapped and arm around you for a good measure and for the first time, you weren't repulsed by his touch.

Sylus noticed that too, if the self-satisfied smile was any giveaway. He leaned closer to you and whispered.

"The Aether core is here."

It was like you were brought back to life. "Where? How much do they want for it? Is it in this floor?"

Sylus chuckled, "Patience. You'll know everything after this dance."

You stared at his extended hand in confusion. You were supposed to lure out his opponents by playing a sitting duck but...

"I don't know this dance." You fiddled with your gloves awkwardly.

Sylus kept his hand and smile in place, "I'll lead you through this dance."

You placed your hand carefully in his, "I'm not used to letting other people lead."

His hand wrapped around your waist, and the lack of repulsion was slowly turning into a funny tingles right under your skin.

"You have to have someone in your life you can depend on." the low timbre of his voice almost lulled you to sleep. You looked up into his eyes, drowning in the crimson depths. Sylus was truly a dangerous man, but not for the things you initially thought.

He twirled you on the dancefloor with ease without once breaking eye contact. You were starting to feel dizzy. This is a man who caused you a lot of pain at the beginning.

But he treated your wounds afterwards.

He treatened to drag you by the collar to get what he wants.

But swept you of your feet instead.

Conflicting thoughts swirled in your head one after another, at one point it almost became too much to bear.

"Sylus I..."

Whatever you had on your tongue died in an explosion. The plan worked maybe a bit too well. Sylus pulled you closer to protect you from falling debris, and you'd almost call the gesture chivalrous if you haven't known better.

He led you to the top of the building and warned you of the dangers the removal of the Aether core could pose. You took it anyway, because what's the worst thing that could happen?

A huge ass class S wanderer that fuckin what.

The air crackled with ozone as the Thunderbird descended. Rain lashed down on you and Sylus, making the terrain even more difficult. You crouched low, twin pistols spitting rounds of reinforced bullets at the beast’s shimmering feathers, each shot a futile attempt to pierce its impenetrable hide. Beside her, Sylus charged, energy crackling around his fists as he launched himself towards the creature, a flurry of furious blows aimed at its massive wings. The Thunderbird retaliated with a deafening screech, unleashing a bolt of lightning that singed the air.

The chain of lighting was aimed straight at you. You could only hopelessly watch as the huge wave of crackling energy surged towards you in rapid speed. You breaced for the impact but it never came.

"Sylus."

The smell of burnt flesh made you sick. You hopelessly looked at his his charred body as thunder roared around you. Sylus threw himself in front of you, absorbing the brunt of the blast.

"You fucking idiot! What have you done?" Your words were lacking their usual bite as you k

Even at a moment like this, a chuckle wheezed past his lips.

"Don't tell me you're worried about me."

He collapsed, his face pale, his breathing shalow.

"No, no... you can't die! That's not part of the deal!!"

He reached for your hand bringing you closer to him.

"You have to... press on..." Sylus rasped and coughed blood.

For the first time, you saw him not as a captor, but as a man, flawed and complicated, but capable of sacrifice. A flood of images slammed into your mind: memories, fragmented and confusing, flew through your head all at once. Press on... Press on... Must press on... Suddenly, something shifted. The energy arcing between you and him wasn't torture, but raw, untamed power. You resonated with him, finally.

Empowered by his Evol, you moved with a speed you didn't know you possessed. You emptied your clips, the silver bullets finding purchase in the gaps between the Thunderbird's armor-like feathers, each hit weakening the giant beast.

When its shield was broken, you attached it with Sylus's powers backing it up into an old transmitting antenna. You attacked relentlessly until finally the metal rod pierced its heart. The electricity flew all around as you ran towards Sylus crumpled behind a fallen debris.

Covering his body with his, you closed your eyes and prayed to whatever deity out there for this nightmare to be over. The Thunderbird shrieked one last time before tumbling from the Solus Tower for good.

Sylus, weakened by the Thunderbird’s attack, lost consciousness, and leaving you standing alone on a top of a decimated building. The rain soaking your dress completely as you breathed out the last remnants of adrenaline.

When Sylus awoke in his base, bandaged and weak, he found the brooch on the table beside him. He picked it up, turning the cold metal in his fingers. He knew you left for good and didn't even say goodbye. It was probably better this way. As he turned the brooch in his hands he remembered the events of these past few days. He saw himself through your eyes: a kidnapper, a manipulator, an abuser. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He had pushed you away, fueling the very rejection he so desperately feared.

The story wasn't over. It was just beginning. But now, for the first time, Sylus understood. He had a long road ahead of him, a road paved with atonement and regret. He had to earn your trust, your respect, and maybe, just maybe, your love. He would start by giving you the space you needed, by proving that he could be worthy of you.

He just hoped it wasn't too late. He knew that the next time he saw you, he would be more forward and honest with his desires. He'd show her the Sylus that he was, all the vulnerable, scared, and angry parts of him that he didn't allow anyone else to see.

[squiddyfics]

fluorescent adolescent

thanos x f!reader

♡ you used to get it in your fishnets, now you only get it in your nightdress... ♡

description: you and thanos dated as teenagers. you're older now, and you should be wiser, but seeing him during a night out might just bring back your wild side.

18+ minors dni

warnings: nsfw, alcohol, sex, cheating, mentions of a controlling relationship (not with thanos dw yall)

a/n: this is one of my fav arctic monkeys songs and i tried to do the vibes justice so i hope you enjoy

bold+italicized signifies past tense

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You quietly sip a cup of tea, the reprieve of a quiet morning broken as you scroll through Tiktok. Your thumb hovers above the screen, and you can't quite bring yourself to pass by the video of a young woman joyfully dancing, her outfit reminiscent of ones you used to wear. After lingering for a moment, you move on.

It's your nineteenth birthday, and your friends have taken you out to celebrate. Your tennis skirt hugs your waist as you move through the crowded club, holding your friend's hand so as not to get separated from the group.

"Good morning," your boyfriend says as he walks into the kitchen, sitting down across from you at the small breakfast table. "What are you watching?"

A few drinks in your system now, you dance loosely, freely. You feel on top of the world in your platform boots, and you hardly notice the sweat adhering your baby hairs to the nape of your neck.

"Nothing, really," you say absentmindedly, taking another sip from your mug. "I'm just bored."

You stumble out the back door of the club, seeking fresh air. Instead, you find yourself in the smoking pit. A few people are scattered about, cigarettes hanging from their lips.

"You're always bored." Your partner's words are lighthearted, but they sink like a weight in your chest. It's true.

"Hey, angel." Your gaze is drawn to the man who spoke up from beside you, and you see him there, leaning against the wall. He takes a drag from his cigarette. Backlit by hazy outdoor lighting, he looks like something of an angel himself. "Want a smoke?"

Without so much as another glance in your direction, your boyfriend gets up, scarfing down a quick breakfast before leaving to get ready for work. There are no lingering looks, no sweet words exchanged between the two of you.

You shake your head, though you take a step closer to him. "I'm not out here to smoke; it's just way too hot in there."

Your boyfriend is several years older than you, and his wild days, if he ever had any, are far behind him. He'd much rather recline in his armchair at the end of the night, watching the evening news.

The tall man smirks down at you. "It just got a lot hotter out here, too."

The front door shuts as your boyfriend leaves for work.

"So you don't smoke, hm?" he asks. You shrug and delicately pluck the cigarette from his fingers, taking your first ever puff. His eyes widen at the cloud of smoke you blow in his direction.

Your commute to work doesn't take as long, so you have a bit more time at the house. You don't use that extra time to do much; you simply relish being on your own.

"You don't know how fucking sexy that was." Then his hand is on your waist, his lips are on your lips, his tongue is in your mouth.

On the train, your mind returns to the Tiktok you saw, how it reminded you of your own youth. Reminded you of him. You grimace with the effort of shoving those thoughts out of your mind. You laboriously replace them with thoughts of your partner.

Soon, you're in his apartment with your hands in his hair and your legs wrapped around him. Your fishnets rip when he throws you on his bed.

You sit in your cubicle, typing approximately one word a minute. Thoughts of your old flame always do this to you, and you hate yourself for it. Your life is comfortable now, stable. So why can't you stop reminiscing?

The man fiddles hurriedly with your clothes, attempting to rid you of them. He stops momentarily when he gets to your fishnets. "They're already ruined," you say. "Just rip them."

It's not like your old life was better than the one you have now. This is what you tell yourself. More interesting doesn't mean better.

He groans lowly as he rips a hole in the center of your fishnets and shoves your panties to the side. He enters you roughly, then kisses you, catching your moan in his lips.

"Hey." You jump slightly as your gaze shoots to your coworker; you didn't notice her approach your desk. "Namra and I are going out for drinks after work. Do you want to come?"

It doesn't take long for him to make you cum. The man knows what he's doing, there's no doubt about it. "That's it, angel. You look so pretty when you cum."

You drum your fingers on your desk, mulling it over. "That sounds fun, but I'll have to ask my boyfriend first. I'm not sure if he wants me to stay in with him tonight."

You writhe underneath him as he drives you beyond your high, the overstimulation causing your back to arch. You grasp wildly at his hair, earning a deep moan from him.

You don't want to ask; you know what the answer will be. Your partner considers himself above anything like that, and he expects the same from you. You know it's not right, you know you shouldn't have to ask a man for permission. Maybe you won't this time.

"You like that?" you ask through heavy breaths, tugging on the hair at the back of his head. The sound that escapes him this time is more desperate; a whimper. "Is that gonna make you cum? I want it. I want it all over my tits."

By the time your lunch break rolls around, you find the two coworkers who've invited you out. They smile as you join them, and their smiles widen when you tell them you've decided to come tonight.

When he pulls out and finishes on your chest, you gaze up at him, worried you may have just fallen in love.

A pang of guilt creeps up on you. You didn't ask your boyfriend like you said you would. What will he think when you come home late? How small will he make you feel?

The two of you are panting, laughing, sweating, falling back on the bed. He cleans you up with tissues before nestling you under his arm. "I never got your name, by the way, angel."

Perhaps you should shoot him a text to let him know. Perhaps you owe him that courtesy.

He grins when you tell him your name. "A pretty name for a pretty girl."

Your boyfriend may not be perfect, and he may not be the most exciting man around, but at least he's not Subong.

"I'm Subong."

However, you make no move to grab your phone and send a text. You deserve this. You deserve a night of fun to break up the monotony of your mundane life.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

This is not what you had in mind when you imagined after-work drinks. This isn't a casual bar; it's a full-on club. You already feel a headache coming on at the obnoxious techno music vibrating the floor.

"Let's go get shots!" Namra says excitedly, dragging you to the bar.

You're well aware that your coworkers are a couple years younger than you, but you didn't realize the utter difference in your lifestyles until now. As grateful as you are for the night out, you're equally grateful that this isn't a typical scene for you anymore.

After all, you're no longer nineteen, no longer able to subject yourself to ear-splitting music nightly while throwing back overpriced drinks. You're no longer willing to put up with a childish partner like Subong, a wannabe rapper whose insatiable need for attention drove him to fish for compliments from other women if you looked away from him for even a minute.

And the fights, god, the screaming matches you'd get into with him. You were both stubborn, an unstoppable force versus an immovable object. You try not to remember the post-fight sex, though, as it might just trick you into missing him.

The three of you clink your shot glasses together. The other women gag and shake their heads as they down theirs, and their eyes widen upon seeing you take yours with ease. You just laugh.

"You have no idea the kind of girl I used to be."

A couple drinks later, you're leaning against the bar as you watch your coworkers dance, not quite drunk enough to join them like you once would've. Still, you're shocked at how much the alcohol is hitting you; your tolerance isn't what it used to be.

It's hard to focus on anything in the sea of clubgoers, but like a moth to a flame, your gaze is captured by a flash of purple in the corner of your eye. You turn, and your heart sinks into your stomach at the sight of a once-familiar smirk.

Subong.

He's on the dance floor, friends at his side as he chats up a group of women. Typical. You hope this is enough of a distraction for him, that he won't see you. You've never been more thankful for your drab office attire.

You spin around, gluing your eyes to the wooden bar top. You just have to wait for him to move out of sight. Then you'll tell your coworkers you have to go, and slip out before he notices you.

"Hey, angel."

You thought your hands couldn't get any shakier, but you were wrong. Slowly, dreadfully slowly, you look up, locking eyes with Subong, who's now leaning over you.

"Wow," he says, taking a step back. "You look so... dull."

You scoff. "Thanks. You're as sweet as ever."

You're not surprised at his blunt words; he's always lacked a filter. It only stings because you know it's true.

"Sorry," he says with a laugh. "But come on, you know what I mean. You're still gorgeous, but... where did you go? The real you; where is she?"

"Go back to your friends, Subong," you spit. "You don't get to come up to me and start telling me who the 'real me' is. Maybe this is the most authentic I've ever been."

He shakes his head, still smiling, unfazed by your harsh tone. "Nah. This isn't you. I know you."

"You know a version of me who thought you were boyfriend material. That girl was clearly an idiot."

On your other side, you feel a dainty hand wrap around your forearm. Looking over, you see Namra standing there. She leans in and whispers in your ear, "Is this guy bothering you?"

"It's fine," you tell her. "He's my ex."

She turns to get a better look at him, and her jaw drops. "Wait... Thanos?"

"The legend himself," Subong says, flashing his colorful nails.

Namra stares at you in disbelief. "You dated Thanos?"

You cringe. You know how much Subong loves a good stroke to the ego, and you hate that he's getting that satisfaction. That's why you'd never tell him that you already know about how his career has blown up. You'd never tell him that even though you have him blocked on everything, you still see posts from people who are obsessed with him.

"I guess you were right; we really don't know who you used to be." She still looks starstruck. "I'm going to head back to the dance floor now that I know you're in good hands."

"I'm really not," you say, but she's already leaving. You catch her discreetly taking a photo of Subong as she walks away.

"It's always nice to meet a fan," he says, and you grimace at his cocky expression.

"She never said she was a fan," you say. "Just because she knows your rapper name doesn't mean she likes your music."

Suddenly he's smirking down at you, looking very pleased with himself. "You know my rap name? So you've been keeping up with me?"

"No," you lie, but you feel your face heat up. "I just assumed, since that's what she was calling you."

"Sure, angel." He chuckles. "So, now you know what I've been up to. What about you? Any projects in the works?"

He always used to compliment you on how creative you were. Despite his many, many flaws, he was your biggest supporter, believing you could make a name for yourself.

You shake your head. "I'm in the corporate world now."

"Ah, you joined the rat race."

"I wanted to make money."

"And I wanted to make art."

"I'd hardly call your music art," you say, and you know it's mean, but you can't bring yourself to regret it. You want to hurt him. You want him to feel an ounce of what you felt when he called off your relationship so suddenly all those years ago.

His mind seems to gloss right over the intended insult, though. "You listen to my music?"

"Fuck off." You know your face is beet red now, and you can't think of a better retort.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says with another laugh. "Seriously, though, tell me what you've been up to."

You shrug. "Working, mostly. You know, I don't really want to be having this conversation."

"You must not be in a relationship," he says. "You're never this uptight after a good fuck."

Your eyes widen at his audacity, and you do your best to ignore the fluttering feeling his words stir in you. "For your information, I am in a relationship. Not that it's any of your business."

"Well, he's obviously not treating you right."

"Leave," you urge him; it's all you can manage to say.

"Or what?"

You hate how close his face is getting to yours, and more than that, you hate that you're not moving away. Even after all this time, his presence is entrancing.

He's so close that you can feel his breath, and you hope he can't hear how shaky your own breaths are as you mutter, "Why don't you go find those girls you were hitting on?"

You want to slap the stupid smirk off his face. "Aw, are you jealous?"

"You wish."

"Yeah, baby, I do."

You ball your hands into fists, trying to distract yourself from the wave of lust coursing through your body. He shouldn't be allowed to have this effect on you. It's ridiculous.

Your brain is in a haze as he leans in farther, nearly closing the gap between your faces. His lips brush against yours, and your stomach does fucking cartwheels.

Then he's crashing his mouth against yours, and you kiss him back without thinking. It's muscle memory; your lips move in sync like they were never apart.

It takes a moment for you to come back to reality, but when you do, you push him away. "What's wrong with you? I have a boyfriend."

"You weren't kissing me like someone who has a boyfriend."

You turn and point at your two coworkers, who thankfully aren't looking in your direction. "Listen, see those two girls over there? I work with them, and they know I'm in a relationship. I can't be doing this shit in front of them."

He places a hand on your waist. "Let's go somewhere more private, then."

"You can't be serious." You take a step back from him. "I'm not doing this."

He steps forward, again shrinking the distance between you to where you can feel the magnetic pull between your bodies. He leans down, his lips ghosting over your ear as he whispers, "It doesn't have to be a big deal. I just want to make you cum, angel. You deserve it."

You despise this man. You despise the way your knees nearly buckle at his words. You despise whatever spell he's put you under to have you nodding weakly and allowing him to lead you to the back of the club.

He grips your hip firmly as he guides you into the bathroom. He's already kissing you again before you even get into a stall, but once you're inside, he locks the door and presses you against it.

His sloppy kisses trail down to your neck as his hands desperately roam your body, squeezing your tits, grabbing your ass, feeling every part of you he's been without for so long.

Subong's touch brings you back to life, and you swear you feel nineteen again. You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he kisses back up your neck and jaw.

"Don't hold back, pretty girl," he mumbles against your skin. "Let them hear you. Let everyone in this club know who makes you feel this good."

Your head tips back when he grinds into you, and you grab his shoulders for support. What has he done to you?

"Let's... let's just get this over with," you say, a poor attempt at disinterest. You know he can see right through you, see how much you want this.

You gasp as Subong lifts your skirt and slips his hand inside your underwear. He raises his eyebrows. "Holy shit, baby, you're soaked. You really needed this, hm? When's the last time you came?"

"Shut up."

"A long time then, huh?"

This time you can't hold back the moan that escapes your lips when his fingers find your clit. He rubs in slow circles, a taunting look in his eyes.

"Faster," you say, grabbing his jaw to pull him in close to you. "If you're going to do this, do it right."

"Damn, you don't know how to have fun anymore."

Despite how annoying he is, you kiss him. You run your fingers through his hair as you trail kisses along his jaw. When your lips find his neck, he's moaning too.

You reach down to grab his bulge, and laugh softly at the way he bucks into your hand. It never did take much for you to get him going.

"Fuck," he mumbles into your hair.

He's still working his fingers on your clit, and it's beginning to drive you insane. You unzip his jeans, pulling out his cock and stroking him.

"Please fuck me," you whine, unable to handle the teasing any longer. "Please."

"God, I love hearing you beg for it," he says. "Do you get this worked up for that boyfriend of yours? Do you beg for his cock the way you beg for mine?"

Subong lifts you with your back against the door, pulling your gray pencil skirt up over your hips. You wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his shoulders, desperately bringing him as close to you as possible.

He pulls your underwear to the side and rubs his tip against your entrance. Impatient, you rock your hips forward in an attempt to bridge the gap between your bodies.

"You look so pretty when you're needy," he says, his eyes flicking back and forth between yours.

His lips meet yours right as he pushes himself inside you. You moan in sync with him, and you can tell by the way his grip on your thighs tightens that it feels just as blissful for him as it does for you.

You hate to admit it to yourself, but you missed this. You really missed it. None of the partners you've had since Subong have had made you feel quite like he does. It's different with him.

He breaks your kiss and leans back to watch himself pound into you.

"Look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it. Does your boyfriend fit this perfectly inside you? Does he make you feel this good?"

You simply moan in response. He grabs your chin and leans in again, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"Tell me, baby. Who makes you feel this fucking good?"

"You, Subong. Only you."

When he kisses you again, his lips are softer, gentler. There's a tenderness in the action that reminds you of why you once loved him. He drops his head on your shoulder as he continues thrusting into you, and you claw at his back through his shirt.

His steady pace continues, and like waves crashing against a rocky shore, you can feel him wearing down your resolve. A warm feeling begins to bubble up inside of you, and you know it won't be long before he brings you to your climax.

"Keep going," you breathe. "Just like that."

Even the kisses he leaves on your neck are sweeter now. "You feel too fucking good. I'm not gonna last long."

"Neither am I," you manage to gasp out between moans.

Subong lifts his head again and presses his forehead against yours, gazing into your eyes as he fucks you.

"You're perfect," he whispers. "So goddamn perfect."

His words send you over the edge, and you become a whimpering, writhing mess as shocks of pleasure wrack your body. Your legs wrap even tighter around him, forcing his entire length inside you.

Subong's face flushes, and he groans loudly. "Oh my god. I—fuck."

His hips still as he cums inside you. He keeps you in that position, hoisted against the stall door with his cock inside of you, as you both recover, breathing heavily.

When he finally pulls out of you and puts you down, you miss the feeling already. You look down to adjust your clothes as he does the same, and while you do, the reality of the situation begins to set in.

What have you done?

"Hey." Subong places a hand on your jaw and tilts your head up to look at him. "What are you frowning for? I thought I fucked that out of you already."

You roll your eyes. "Yeah, your magic dick can cure anything."

"I know, that's what I'm saying." He laughs at his own words before pulling himself together. "Okay, no, seriously. What's bothering you?"

"What do you think?" you ask. "I just cheated. I can't believe myself."

He shrugs. "He doesn't deserve you anyway."

"How do you know? You have no idea who he is."

"No one deserves you," he says. "I sure as hell didn't, but at least I could actually make you cum."

Before you can think of an argument against him, he leans down, planting one last kiss on your lips. Then he moves aside, unlocking the door.

He steps out, but turns around to look at you. "If you ever want to do this again, I'm just an unblock-button away."

With that, he walks off, leaving you with your chest heaving and your mind reeling. It takes you a good few minutes to collect yourself as you lean against the stall wall. When you do finally stand upright again, your legs feel like rubber.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you leave the bathroom. Your makeup is smudged, and your hair looks insane. You do your best to smooth out your skirt while you walk, but it’s difficult to do anything when your legs are shaking so much.

Your appearance has clearly changed since you entered the club tonight, but something inside you feels different too. You feel lighter.

You feel free.

[mymoshangthoughts]

aight so

moshang modern reincarnation au

so in their og life, things didnt go that different from pidw. obvs airplane's behavior was a lot different from og!qinghua, but he straight up just didnt know the key to survive as mobei jun's minion. basically, og!qinghua woulda prolly died even if he WAS a super great and loyal servant due to the circumstances. and airplane wasnt even a super great and loyal servant. without the foreknowledge that crossing mobei jun would be an absolutely fatal affair, he just did whatever he thought maximized his chances for survival. he had no reason to think that mobei jun would be a more dependable ally than an entire fucking sect, absolutely no reason to like mobei jun despite the frequent beatings, no reason to have a nuanced understanding or sympathy for demons, and no foreknowledge that there would be an upcoming war. he did sorta try to play both sides, kinda looking for who had the best thighs to cling to. he DID have a 'onesided' affection for mobei jun, but he also understood that his feelings were irrational, the violent demon clearly hated his guts, and even if he did have a chance there was no future for demon/human relationships. so he was too hyper logical to surrender himself to those feelings and never admitted to them

meanwhile mobei jun also did develop feelings for airplane, but he never found a way to express those feelings that airplane understood. to top it off, airplane being generally disloyal and duplicitous was a srs trigger for all his uncle issues (someone else who he'd loved so dearly and who had betrayed him at every turn)

so eventually it comes to mobei jun killing shang qinghua. they're both really fucking upset about it. airplane bc he'd like not to die, thank you, but also bc having the guy you like murder your ass is a special breed of heartbreak. mobei jun feels he has no choice, but after the deed is done, he's completely broken over it and is felled in battle not long after. it's debatable whether he was distracted by heartbreak or just no longer cared to protect his own life

SO reincarnation

modern times, the convenience of the internet, and demons are now a thing of myth. airplane doesnt have any memories of his past life persay, but he does have dreams and kinda faint memories, that he chalks up to his own overactive imagination. it seems like it'd make for a great story, so he starts jotting down stuff he remembers to use in a novel. the novel isnt really accurate to his memories, but a lot of the core events remain the same

mobei jun remembers but doesnt really believe it. his memories are a lot clearer than airplane's, but it still feels like remembering a dream. he's not even in denial, he's honestly never even considered the possibility that the incongruent memories are of a past life. it's too fantastical for starters, with demons and cultivators and all sorts of crazy nonsense, so even tho he can fairly clearly remember an entire other lifetime, he kinda just dismisses it and ignores it

especially because he hates remembering the end bits. the sharp pain of murdering a person he loved really fucks with him. but also he doesnt even really relate to the feelings of his past-life self. to him, a human who grew up with human rules and human logic, he has a "ofc the dude would hate you and backstab you, you're literally a domestic abuser???" type of reaction to a lot of the nonsensical demonic culture nonsense. due to the emotional disconnect of being unable to relate to his demonic past life, it's even harder for him to consider that person as himself. if he were really pressed to explain the events he remembered, he'd prolly assume "some dumb cartoon i watched as a kid maybe". the emotions are still sharp and painful, but he's filled with ridicule for his own past actions. also just generally "ya know, if you loved him, WHY MURDER HIM IDIOT??" bc mobei jun has no appreciation for tragic irony

anyway, one day mobei jun starts hearing about a new popular webnovel and he's not that much of a reader of this specific genre, but he starts hearing lil snippets that sound like his own memories and he's like "oh maybe this is the novel that im remembering" except when he looks it up, it's way too new for it to be that. so now mobei jun is thinking plagiarism and he's kinda hellbent to figure out which work this "airplane" asshole was plagiarizing but now he really can't find anything anywhere.

which doesnt make sense. he remembers a lot of the events within this novel SO CLEARLY and has for the majority of his life, but no matter how hard he searches, this novel seems to be the only source of those familiar plot lines

so he's gotta read the whole thing, right? figure out some clues? maybe send some comments calling the author out on his plagiarism to see if he cracks?

and look, it's really not THAT important, but somehow mobei jun just can't let this go. especially when the novel starts distorting events. IMPORTANT events. like shang qinghua in the novel is just way more of a scummy villain aND IT WASNT LIKE THAT AT ALL

mobei jun has gone his whole fucking life thinking of shang qinghua as some sort of tragic character who suffered until he broke, someone who was beaten by the man who loved him before being murdered by that same man, and now THIS ASSHOLE is painting shang qinghua as this two-dimensional canon fodder villain. and mobei jun's character has also gotten a serious glam up??? LIKE THE NOVEL IS ACTUALLY FRAMING THE MURDER AS A GOOD AND RIGHTEOUS THING THAT MOBEI JUN DID???? mobei jun is a beloved sidekick of the main character and basically gets presented as constantly cool and cold and smart and THAT'S ALL WRONG, THIS STUPID AUTHOR CLEARLY DIDNT UNDERSTAND MOBEI JUN'S CHARACTER AT ALL!!! mobei jun was stupid and scared and traumatized and lashed out in dumb ways and lost to his own pride all the damn time and never bothered to understand human courting rituals or grasp they might be different than demon courting rituals and died pathetically becuase he never bothered to understand himself properly AND BASICALLY KILLED HIMSELF BC HE COULDNT HANDLE LIFE W/O SHANG QINGHUA, WHY THE FUCK WAS THIS FUCKER HAVING MOBEI JUN SHRUG OFF THAT PIVOTAL MOMENT LIKE IT MEANT NOTHING TO HIM?!?! DIDNT HE UNDERSTAND HOW AGONIZINGLY PAINFUL IT HAD BEEN?! WHAT KIND OF GARBAGE FANFICTION IS THIS?! THIS FUCKING HACK OF AN AUTHOR!!

so maybe, just maybe, mobei jun has started to get into fights with the author. arguing about interpretations of his characters and stupid decisions and basically known in the forum as "that one really weird shang qinghua stannie who srsly woobified that canon fodder villain". other people fight him too, but mobei jun is primarly focused on This Fucking Author

airplane, meanwhile, is FURIOUS over this mobei jun hater that keeps cropping up in his comments. look. he's not about to ban the guy. he drums up good drama with his STUPID comments and also hater money is as good as anyone elses, but airplane isnt used to having a person try to bash his fav. mobei jun is... special. and he's not gonna have this twobit virgin of a creepy shang qinghua fan DARE to besmirch mobei jun's name and he will make as many alts as he needs to win this argument! but also he's willing to get the word of god involved! fuck it! he'll revive shang qinghua for a chapter just to have mobei jun kill the weasel again!

and look, neither of them are being sane about this, but they just feel Really Impassioned about their opinions oki

so next hmmm

A) meet at a con (either a signing or w/o knowing who the other is)

B) meet in real life, maybe at work or something (def w/o knowing who the other is, mobei jun is his boss? lol) and start developing feelings for each other irl while maintaining a strong hateship online

C) meet in dreams bc their souls are too interconnected, but only in their past life forms so they still can't recognize each other irl. but now theyre playing out fantasies together in the dream world

im indecisive LOL

[canisbrutus]

PLEAAAAASEEEE DUMP ABOUT OLSENWIIIICCKKKKK🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

your wish is my command i adore these stupid faggots

Kirby & Trent 🍰🎬

inhalesssssss

these two are incredibly bonded despite everything.

but they damn sure didnt get off on a good start.

following my personal timeline trent had just broken things off with cornelius. and neither of them were particularly closeted or reserved about their faggotry.

so for a good minute kirby didnt even want to be seen talking to his gay ass at all in case it gave him a Reputation.

by some miracle they started talking, or rather, hurling insults at eachother thanks to trent spilling punch on kirby at the jock's halloween party.

the jocks love hosting shitass parties for a number of stupid reasons, you see. and trent likes getting wasted.

after a rough encounter at the punch bowl the two continued taunting eachother every time they made eye contact.

for entirety of one whole week, at least. then trent decided 'hey he's kinda cute when he's angry'

and so began the incredibly arduous task of: flirting with kirby until he stops yelling slurs (and throwing hands).

thankfully this Also took about a week and they moved onto just mumbling slurs inbetween smooches because of how insanely, well, sexually frustrated they were.

these teens are fucking insane but thats just how bullworth is.

trent then worked up the nerve to ask him on an actual date, kirby begrudgingly agreed, jimmy busted them while getting on pinky's good side, aaand trent got his ear chewed off for it.

they fought about kirby's whole internalized homophobia at this time cause he damn sure wasnt the only faggot in school.

(and it was really getting under trent's skin because he was practically hatecrimed out of his last relationship)

they weren't technically boyfriends at that point due to kirby's insistence. but it felt like a breakup all the same.

they got back together at the jock's christmas party though. something something 7 minutes in heaven i dont know and i dont want to particularly put much thought into that.

point being shit was messy for a hot minute but trent showed kirby things about himself he could Not ignore.

so he wanted to try again with him. and this time he chilled out on practically Hating the guy he was macking on.

trent also cooled it with how, well, Bold he could be. actually made an effort to not embarrass kirby in public and whatnot.

things had to be lowkey in order to not be harassed of course.

but trent's mere presence was enough to turn kirby's ears pink sometimes.

in the bleachers, across the cafeteria, walking down the street, etc.

and god help him when they're paired up in class.

kirby loved the rush all the same though. and trent just found him fuckin incredible if i'm frank.

trent spoke highly of him to his friends, and sometimes just outright dragged them to see kirby on the field or in the arcade absolutely killing it on DDR.

they were much more forward in private of course, even if kirby was incredibly slow to open up about most of his interests and genuine self.

trent helped with that from the start; showing him how to be authentic and happy with himself.

same as all actors allow others to Reflect on their performances.

and over time kirby started to see through trent's own act.

grounded him, tried keeping him sober, etc.

if he had to keep it real and face his own reality, well, so did trent.

and honestly kirby wasnt a fan of the concept of getting shitfaced in general. didnt smoke, seldom drank, didnt huff anything.

that being said trent and him Did bake some edibles once or twice.

split one, went to the movies again, trent got shushed by old people several times because he wouldnt stop rambling.

now That was a fun time.

experimenting with formatting, hope this isnt Awful to read thru lol. also fun fact i hate spotify but i hate youtube links more.

[hc masterpost]

[bl-inded]

Faifa, bestie? Do you have to break my heart every week like this??? DO YOU??

I feel low-key crazy obsessing over every little thing that happens with Fai. But was it just me or did anyone else feel as hurt about their mom admitting she would have been happier taking Yotha than Faifa?? I know those weren't the intention of her words, and I certainly don't know how much was lost in translation. But to feel like you were always the second choice, and then to have it confirmed is fucking heartbreaking!

Before I get onto that bit of the rant though! I love how expertly Fai avoids talking about his own feelings.

It's a footnote to everyone else's feelings and trying to understand the situation. Which is mature and grown-up, but not at the cost of your own anger. And then he goes on to start defending his mom.

She heard Fai say this! She heard him say that her loving Faifa more was "definitely not the reason". Her justification was that she knew Faifa was the one who'd be most affected by being separated from his family?? Are you for real rn ma'am??

(I also hate the assumption that Yotha would not have missed his family? Like what??)

I know Fai is not the one in focus in this frame, but he looks sooo broken. Then he finds out she was planning to move without telling the kids-

And when she's doing her lil goodbye speech to each of them he refuses to even look her in the eye!!!

(I wish I could gif to show how much Junior manages to convey with his body language in this scene!! Dude was flexing his acting skills istg)

I've mentioned it before. But I think Faifa, despite being the youngest of the siblings, definitely has the energy of the oldest. And he's doing it again here. Unlike Yotha, I feel like he hasn't resolved anything with his mom. He's still a people pleaser so he'll make sure she is happy.

BUT WHAT ABOUT HIMMMMM??!!

I cannot wait for Faifa's story to start!! I have been ready for it for weeks, and I'm sooooo glad we're finally getting it. I think more than anything I want to see someone take care of Fai for a change. Someone actually see him be vulnerable and agree to share the pain. I want Wine to realize as Faifa is helping him through his heartbreak that there is so much hurt her carries behind the happy facade.

I want Faifa to let Wine see him!

[uniquecellest]

Charles *hands behind his back being held by Erik*: Erik, what the actual fuck are you doing here? Let go of me

Erik: No! I'm taking you back to the mansion

Charles *struggles*: Get off!

Erik *releases Charles*: That fucker put something in your drink

Charles: You don't think I can't tell when someone spikes my fucking drink? I do this all the time!

Erik *baffled*: You just let people drug you all the time?!

Charles: You think I ask for it? I don't ask for any of this shit! I didn't ask to be this way! I didn't ask for Moira to save me. I didn't ask for you to save me. I can handle myself.

Erik: Really? Because I just saw someone self-destructing.

Erik *realizing something*: I don't know, you might need a mutant to talk to

Charles *laughs*: OH. So now you're gonna act like you give a shit about me. You think after how you treated me, I'm going to open up to you? Please. *starts to leave*

Erik: Maybe I'd treat you better if you were real and not some bullshit version of yourself always pushing my boundaries!

Erik: Let me tell you: no one in that mansion cares who you are! How famous, how hot. So you might as well just cut the act.

Charles *fraustrated*: It's not an act! It's who I need to be; and this? This is my escape where I can forget about it all, eh-h-how much I hate. . . everything. A place where I can get high and not think about how much it hurts!

Charles: And maybe if I can ruin myself enough in the process, if I end up broken. . . I won't be his favorite toy anymore. And maybe he'll let me go.