#its called the lions den

[mr-orion]

sometimes you gotta hype yourself up and color your sketches... anyway, Ray's about to ask you something very on the nose and it's gonna hurt. You should watch out.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

More thoughts about Lion!Mydei: He takes reader home and provides her with food, love, a safe place and protects her from the others predator. Then when the night comes, he will keep breeding and breeding her all over again until she’s nothing but a dumb cockdrunk little rabbit ><

✧ tws : nsfw/smut, breeding kink, size kink/difference, multiple of rounds, c*ckdrunk reader, overstimulation, mating/possessive behaviour, marking (biting & claiming), claws & fangs, c*mflation, mild dumbification and degradation ( mydei calls you dumb).

The first time Mydei found you, you were trembling, small and fragile, a soft little bunny lost in a world far too dangerous for you. He had been watching, waiting, his golden eyes locked onto you as you struggled to find shelter. A weak, defenseless thing like you wouldn’t last long—not with predators lurking in the shadows, waiting to sink their teeth into your delicate flesh.

But Mydei got to you first.

He took you home, carried you in his strong arms, his powerful frame making you feel even smaller. His den was warm, hidden deep within the cliffs where no one could reach you. The moment he placed you inside, you knew you weren’t leaving. You belonged to him now.

And he took care of you.

Every day, he brought you food—the sweetest fruits, the softest greens, everything you needed to stay healthy and satisfied. He kept you wrapped in his warmth, his massive body curled around you, shielding you from the outside world. No harm would ever come to you, not while he was here. No one would ever touch you—not when you were his.

But when the sun dipped below the horizon, when night fell and the world grew quiet, Mydei’s patience snapped.

You barely had time to react before you were on your back, your mate looming over you, his sharp claws gripping your hips as he spread you open beneath him. His golden eyes burned with hunger, his strong body pressing you down, trapping you under his sheer size.

“So soft,” he murmured, dragging his sharp teeth along your neck, marking you with gentle bites. “So weak. My little bunny… what would you do without me?”

You gasped, your body trembling as he pushed inside—stretching you, filling you too deep, making you feel so small, so helpless beneath him. He didn’t wait, didn’t give you a chance to adjust. He never did.

Mydei was starved for you.

His cock bullied its way into your tight, wet heat, forcing you to take every inch, to mold around his size as he fucked you into the nest of soft leaves and furs he had prepared just for you. His growls rumbled deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin as he pounded into you, forcing your body to accept all of him.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his claws dragging down your waist, gripping you like he would never let you go. “So small, so weak—yet you take my cock so perfectly. My perfect little mate.”

“Nn—hnn, lion, ‘m feelin’ funny.”

Your thoughts were slipping, your body melting under the relentless pleasure. Mydei had already filled you up so many times tonight, his hot seed dripping from your swollen cunt, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Not until you were bred.

Not until your belly was swollen with his cubs, proof that you belonged to him in every way. Your tongue lolled out, you big fluffy ears twitching, as your brain became even more mush.

Your moans were nothing but broken little noises, your legs trembling as he fucked you into dumb, mindless bliss. Your body was his to ruin, his to fill, and he wouldn’t stop—not until you were nothing but a cockdrunk little bunny, too full of his cum to think, too weak to move.

“D-Don’—ohhhh, lio-lionyyy, s’ too much—!”

“Shh, my little bunny,” he purred, his voice dripping with possessive hunger. “Just let me breed you. That’s all you need to do.”

And with another deep thrust, he did.

Your body ached.

Your legs trembled, spread wide as Mydei’s thick cock stretched your pussy all over again, filling you too deep, hitting a spot that made your mind melt into nothing but hot, needy pleasure. His claws pressed into your hips, holding you still as he rutted into you, forcing your tight little hole to take everything he gave.

“Such a good little bunny,” he groaned, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. “You were made for this—made to take my cock, made to be bred.”

Your head lolled to the side, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your eyes rolled back. You couldn’t think anymore, not with how good he felt, how full you were. His cock stretched you to the limit, stuffing you over and over, making sure you felt nothing but him. Your dumb little brain melted into nothing but pleasure.

His pace was brutal, his heavy balls slapping against your sticky, messy pussy, already so swollen from how many times he had filled you tonight. You had lost count of how many times he had bred you, how many times he had pushed his thick cum inside, but Mydei didn’t care.

It wasn’t enough

It would never be enough.

One of his big hands slid down your belly, pressing down just as he thrust deep, making you cry out at how full you were. His cock twitched inside you, buried so far that you could feel the bulge in your stomach.

“Feel that?” he purred, his sharp teeth dragging over your shoulder before he bit down, claiming you all over again. “That’s me. That’s my cock inside your pretty little pussy, making sure you’re stuffed full of my seed.”

You let out a broken whimper, your body twitching as pleasure surged through you, as your clit throbbed from the overwhelming sensation. Mydei loved it—loved how dumb you got when he fucked you like this, loved the way your pussy clenched around him, trying to milk him for more.

“My dumb little bunny,” he chuckled, his voice full of pride as he dragged a rough finger down to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles. “All cockdrunk and needy, aren’t you? You don’t even care anymore—just want my cum, want me to breed you until you’re too full to move.”

You screamed when he rubbed your clit harder, sending you into another orgasm, your pussy tightening around him as you came. But Mydei didn’t stop—he never stopped.

His cock throbbed, his thrusts turning messy as he growled against your skin, his grip tightening as he bred you all over again.

“Take it,” he groaned, his pace turning desperate as his cock pulsed inside you. “Take all of it, little bunny—take my seed like the perfect mate you are.”

And when he spilled inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum flooding your pussy, filling you so deep—he didn’t pull out. He just held you close, rolling his hips slowly, making sure every drop stayed inside.

You were too weak to move, too cockdrunk to do anything but let him keep you there, plugged full of his cum, his cock still hard inside you.

And Mydei? He smirked, pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead.

“You’re not done yet, little bunny,” he murmured, rolling his hips just enough to make you whimper. “We’re going all night.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Shaken and Stirred.

I was really inspired by this fan art and was plagued by thoughts of a pathetic whiny lil meow meow 🥺 I don't drink myself, but I love the mature aesthetic of it and wanted to... write a drunken confession... to close off 2024...

… DON���T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT OTL wait no please J WORD I CAN EXPLAIN

***Content warning: Alcohol consumption, though Leona is the only one drinking. (The legal age is 20 in Japan; I’m going to assume this for Twisted Wonderland.) Everyone else is having sparkling juice :v***

Imagine this…

"Feel like joining us for dinner? For old time's sake.”

The invitation had come so casually, the same way a housecat might drop a mangled rat or bird at your feet. To them, an easy, everyday act. To you, a surprise you weren’t quite certain how to feel about.

You didn't have plans for the evening, nor a reason to refuse, and while you were busy weighing the pros and cons, you found yourself strung along in their outing. Muscular arms wrangling you into the herd, boisterous yells welcoming you back. An honorary member, the Savanaclaw students had branded you, recognized by their king.

Now you sit in a barstool, fingers on the rim of a cup clouded with condensation, absentmindedly swirling its contents. Juice, its sweetness stifled by melted ice.

Some would call you a lamb willingly waltzing into a lion's den. They're wrong. You are no beast, but a curious observer of them. This is a prime opportunity for that.

It’s dim, the glowing jellyfish set low, faint lights swimming overhead. The music is loud, a departure from the Mostro Lounge’s usual soft jazz. The bass is even louder, rattling your bones like a set of steel drums. Rowdy patrons clink cups, chant at their friends to chug, belt out laughter straight from the bellies. You can barely hear your own heartbeat. The sounds of nightlife drown it out.

Jack lurks in a quiet, shadowed corner, his back against the wall. Muscled arms folded, he has assumed a stern stance but wears a small, fond smile in spite of himself. Ruggie has climbed onto a table, raising a jet-black card to the waiting mob. It’s their golden meal ticket.

“All-you-can-eat food and drinks on Leona-san! Long live the king!!” he roars, and the others echo his excitement.

“LONG LIVE THE KING!!”

You chuckle to yourself. First he rents out the entire lounge, then he decides to feed everyone for the day? How generous of him. Guess the big guy’s going all out.

You scan the restaurant in search of him, seeking out his familiar visage. Long, wild tresses. Sharp eyes, emerald flecked with golden flakes, like the sunlight shining through verdant leaves. The scar that speared his left side. A noble aura, his lazy feline grace.

Leona Kingscholar always sticks out in a crowd, commands too much attention with his mere existence. “That man is only good for his face,” Vil would bitterly hawk, “his only redeeming feature.” And he was right, to some extent. Tall, dark, and handsome are all apt descriptors for Savanaclaw’s dorm leader. Leona is all that and more.

Your pulse quickens.

His shape—you can’t discern it from the myriad of bodies collected in the lounge. A puzzle piece missing from the box of your most treasured memories.

“Looking for someone?”

The question is low and nonchalant, almost musical in its own right, yet you can so clearly hear it rising above the bumping bass. Your blood hums in anticipation, already knowing who the voice belongs to.

Leona has slipped into the open seat beside you, nursing an Old-Fashioned filled halfway with a strongly scented amber liquid. An orb of ice chills it, so clear cut you can see through to the other side. He sits with an effortless confidence upon his throne, as though he—not Azul—owns the damn place. You'd believe it too, from how the patrons are shouting his name like a mantra.

There’s no greetings to exchange. No need to.

"I think I've found what I was looking for," you tell him teasingly. “Nice of you to throw this little get-together. What’s the occasion? Don’t think I remember when you were in this good of a mood.”

“Who said I was in a good mood?” he grumbles, leaning onto the counter. “Didn't feel like being left alone with my thoughts tonight is all.”

“You, brooding? Never."

He makes a sound as if repressing a dry laugh. “You think yourself clever for an herbivore, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Not as clever as you, though.”

“Hmph. You really know how to stroke a guy’s ego."

It’s comfortable, this trading of quips. Safe. The conversation flowing so easily, like wine poured. It is the only true way you can stand on the same level as him.

Leona lifts the glass and downs the rest of his drink. From the way he winces, it must burn on the way down. You wrinkle your nose at the sharp smell that meets it. Earth spiced with hypnotic smoke and the acrid pang of sorrow.

“They serve alcohol here? I thought those jars on the shelves were full of tea blends.”

Leona scoffs. “If you know the right people and the right strings to pull. The cephalopunk said his establishment was more than happy to provide for me as long as I shelled out and signed some liability waiver.”

“… Does the headmaster know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know.” Leona smirks, placing his newly drained drink down. Immediately, a staff member appears and replaces it with a fresh glass. “What’s he gonna do, anyway? Sue me? I’m of legal drinking age, and ‘s not like I’m passing out alcohol to minors”

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re so bad.”

“The worst,” he agrees sarcastically. “And you choose to keep me as company.”

“I’m but your humble accomplice, sir.” You jokingly salute to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret. Rough day?”

He sighs in a way that gives the impression of saying, Like you wouldn't believe. But that tail of his swings back and forth like a patient pendulum, refusing to reveal his secrets. “This isn’t about me.”

“It literally is.” You pass a not-so-subtle glance at his second helping of whisky.

"I'm the host. It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with my feelings, now would it?"

You don't miss how he proceeds to take a swig right after his claim, how readily he consumes poison, even when it hurts him. Alcohol, insults. Pain, self-inflicted.

He has an arsenal of tricks and techniques to deflect—partaking in vices, one of them. Leona's magic rendered fortresses to sand, but he is an expert at building his own structures just the same. Studier, even. Imperious.

Attempting to scale the walls directly, you know, won't get you very far. Not when he has gone to such great lengths to guard his heart. There's a moat with leering crocodiles, barbed wire decorating the gates, a drawbridge firmly closed.

You attempt to breach the subject, toeing the line between testing his patience and challenging it. “What is it that you want then, Leona?”

He falls quiet, staring at the remains of his beverage. It’s like the sphere of ice the whisky swims with is a crystal ball, and he’s peering into it, seeking answers. His verdant eyes shift a shade deeper, darker.

When he’s solemnly silent like this, he’s contemplating. His next move in a game of chess, his next words in a debate. Plotting, scheming.

"A distraction," he declares at last, in that resolute tone he uses when he’s set on capturing a prize.

"A... distraction."

He nods, angling his head toward the noisy lounge. Ruggie is rallying some of the guys for a round of root beer pong. Jack’s trapped in a headlock, the hyena urging him to join in. They’re rowdy and ruddy from the exhilaration that comes with competition.

“Get my mind off of things. Take me away from all of this for a spell."

“How, exactly…?”

Leona drains his second glass. The server slides him a third. "Let's start with your day. From there, ramble about whatever.”

Amuse me, he seems to say, even if his mouth doesn’t. The twinkle has returned to his eyes, brightening them like the stars do the milky way.

You gulp, feeling compelled to obey.

Gathering your thoughts and wetting your lips, you begin. "This morning..."

The story opens like a newborn finding its footing for the first time: clumsily. Granted the space to expand, you do. Slowly, the conventions come to you. Balance, coordination. Each sentence is like a step, taken one at a time.

You run through your daily schedule and, reciting it out loud, you realize how terribly mundane it is. Classes, chores, chums. The usual. Worry flickers through you—Will he be satisfied with this?—but he only gestures for you to continue.

“Ah, so I picked up this new hobby recently…”

Leona props his face up on one hand, curled fingers resting against a cheek. He watches you with a look that isn’t quite predator on prey but isn’t quite human to human either. It’s intimate in a way that makes you feel exposed even when you avert your gaze, calculating enough to make you feel like a complex equation he has yet to solve.

“When something’s hard to get, it makes you want it all the more,” he had once told you. The memory surfaces like bubbles in a flute of champagne. Then it pops, fizzling away in a fine mist, and it is gone.

Moments like this are magic, you think.

You slip into a cadence, a rhythm. You lose count of how many stories you tell, how many whiskies Leona slams down in the span of them.

And still, the glowing green of his irises never seems to stray far from you. Vibrant and pulsating, like plants with heartbeats of their own, swaying in time with a stray breeze. Seeking something.

You don’t know if that concerns or thrills you.

"Ahahah…” You allow yourself a chuckle as you stretch in your seat. “This is so strange, isn’t it? I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with a prince this time last year.”

Leona responds with a noncommittal “Mmmmm.”

He lowers his gaze to his drink number who knows?, his honey-colored reflection gazing back. When he blinks, his lashes seem to fall and flutter in slow motion.

You wonder what he's thinking, why he's thinking.

You reach for him. Carefully, gently, as if approaching a wounded animal. He is wounded--in that frightening way that leaves no visible marks, no scars.

"Leona..."

You hear your name being called before you can tap his shoulder. You look--there's Jack, waving at you. Ruggie has his hands cupped over his mouth.

"Wanna participate in an arm-wrestling contest? Jack's the reigning champ!"

"Oh, um--" you try to respond, to explain that you're preoccupied. The blaring music washes you out.

Ruggie makes a face of confusion and shouts again: "What?!"

You start to rise from your stool and turn to him, raising your volume. "I said..."

You stop. Your wrist is ensnared in Leona's grasp, cuffing you to the spot.

“… Don’t go." His command cuts through the noise, startling you with its softness, its contrasting clarity.

"It'll only be a second. It's too hard to talk over the--"

"You must've not heard me the firs'time," he interrupts, his words slightly slurring together, one melting into the next. Leona pouts like a child. "I’m orderin' you to stay. Stay here, with me."

"You've been awfully bossy today."

"Cuz you keep bein' a pain in my tail. How'm I supposed to..." The more the man babbles, the more confidence drains from his voice. His proud lion's roar shrinking and shrinking to a kitten's mewl. Tiny, vulnerable. "Don't go. Don't... leave. Everyone else has. They always do."

Non-sarcastic pleading? From Leona?

You eye him in concern. "Being serious for a sec, are you okay?"

He winces, like speaking or touching you is a considerable effort. You're set free, his body slumping as he lays down at the bar. His mane spreads out around him like a pool of chocolate. Leona cradles himself against the cushion of an arm, groaning into it.

Definitely not okay.

You pass Ruggie a firm shake of the head--a no to his offer--then settle back into your seat, returning to Leona.

"I'm here," you reassure him with a soft push against the middle of his chest. "See? I'm not going anywhere." Then you poke him on his forehead. "What's up? You're thinking of something."

He peers at you from behind an arm and snorts. "Thinkin' about how you run your mouth a lot."

"You told me to. I'm just following orders--don't you like that? You're so hard to please."

"I have high standards," he says simply.

"Well..." You lift a brow expectantly. "Am I meeting them?"

This manages to draw out a bark of laughter from him, however strained it sounds. He fixates on you, the start of a scowl upon his searching expression.

Assessing you.

“… Why?” Leona asks suddenly. No proper answer. Instead, an inquiry thrown back in retaliation.

“Why what?”

“Why d’you bother stickin’ around? Why d’you…” A pause, as if the verb that comes next is capable of killing if not handled correctly. “Why do you care so much?”

You shrug. “You don’t really need a reason to care about someone. Anyone with a heart would, right? You’d do the same for me or any of your dorm members.”

“And what do you know about heart?” He fumbles for his drink, but you slyly slide it out of reach. A growl of frustration. “All I got’s a big black hole where my heart should be.”

“That’s not true,” you protest stubbornly. “Your students say so many good things about their dorm leader. They all really look up to you.”

“Hah, as if.” He lifts his head and slams it on the table. “I failed’m. What good’s a king if he can’t produce results? What good’s tryin’ if all there is at the end of the tunnel’s darkness? Can’t even dispatch the damn lizard or beat ‘m at his own game…

You frown. “Hey. hey! Don’t talk about yourself like that… and stop doing that, you’re going to injure yourself.”

Leona doesn’t seem to register anything you say. He continues deliriously mumbling to himself, the alcohol having wiped away his inhibitions and all the cards he so often kept close to his chest.

“I never get what I want,” he complains, dragging himself up—but he sways and is forced to hunch forward on his chair, elbows on the counter for support. “Never, ever. No matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I work… It all comes crumbling down eventually.”

His hair covers his face the same way the strands of a weeping willow do. You can’t see what kind of an expression is making. Do you want to see it?

He’s sinking, you realize. The same claws that struggle for a firm grip on the rocky ledge he dangles from, the same claws that render enemies to ashes—they don’t help him against crashing waves, the swamp that drags him down, down, down, into its murky depths. No sunlight, no air.

“The crown… the interdorm tournament... love, respect, admiration... Everything slips through m’fingers like sand. It’s some cruel, sick joke. Must be m’fate as the prince with naught.”

“Leona..."

Is this what haunts you every time you're alone in your room? The thoughts that you're scared of visiting you every night... What you needed a distraction from?

“Get my mind off of things," he had said. "Take me away from all of this for a spell."

There's an ache in your chest. The dull, throbbing pain that comes at the end of reading a sad story. His story.

But it's not the end of it, right? It can't be.

Your fingers tangle in his tresses and brush them aside. From behind the curtain, he peers at you like some stray cat having retreated into its cardboard box. And you meet him without hesitation.

"... Hey," you manage. "I think you've had enough. You're starting to say all this... unkind stuff about yourself, and you're not having fun anymore. Can you walk? Let's get you back to Savanaclaw and have you lie down."

Leona sways slightly. Even drunk, his tone is haughty and shreds into you like claws. "You can't tell me what t'do."

"You're the host," you insist with a smile. The words are his, borrowed, sharpened, and repurposed in your possession. "It wouldn't do to bring down the festive atmosphere of this celebration with your feelings, now would it?"

He stares at you, eyes blown wide. Then his lids lower, lashes shading his view of you.

"Why... Why d'you hafta be like thish? This would be sho much easier if y'didn’t look at me like that."

"L-Like what?"

Leona inches closer. He usually smells of sun and soil, but all of that has been smothered by the reek of booze. Heat radiates from his face, flushed from liquid courage, and hits yours.

"Like there's still a chance for me." He speaks clearly and concisely, each syllable a brick laid out and sandwiched with mortar to the next. Pouring all his energy into them. "Like you still believe in me."

"Because I do. Is that so wrong?" You're unsure of the answer--a part of you, dreading it.

Leona counters with another question. It is tinged with anger, irritation. "Why can’t you be like the others and just give up already? It'd save you a lot of trouble."

"I can't bring myself to leave you hanging on the edge of a cliff. We all want a hand sometimes to lift us up when we're down, so... I want to be that for you. And it seems like you could use that hand to get you out of your troubles right about now."

His lip trembles. Leona's voice comes out huskily. "I hate that dumb, wide-eyed look of yours. So full of hope. When you look at me like that… it makes me think I might still be able to have you.”

“You already have me, dummy. I’m right here, remember?”

“No.” His gaze is intense, almost pulsating. He has a way of scrutinizing that lays you bare before him, pinning you in place and making you inadvertently squirm. “Not in the way I want you t'be.”

Your heart stops, as if he has seized it in his grasp. One squeeze, and he can crush it. It's a mercy he doesn't, even as you erupt into a flurry of confusion, an inferno engulfing you.

"What?" you whisper, scarcely believing your ears. "Wh-What do you mean by that...?"

THUNK!

His balance caves. Leona keels over, the weight of his large body toppling onto yours like a domino crashing into the next one in a sequence.

His head lands on your shoulder, neatly nestling into the junction of your collarbone and neck. Arms loosely snake around your hips, hugging them, his tail wrapping around a leg like a ribbon decorating a pillar. A throaty groan escapes him.

Panic bolts through your muscle and bone.

Your immediate instinct is to shove him off—but he’s heavy and inebriated, and it’s hard for you to fend off the warmth pressed against you. He’s not playing fair. Is he doing this on purpose? You shouldn’t be surprised; he never does.

His low purr tickles you, his breath feathering across your bare skin. He sounds half asleep, caught in that magical twilight realm between the waking world and dreams. “Is it okay… for someone like me to fall in love with someone like you?”

Love?

Four letters, one simple word.

Your surroundings dullen, the chatter and the laughter and the music floating far away. You become acutely aware of all of the places where he touches you, of every spot where you connect. There are so many people gathered in the lounge, but all you can perceive is him: Leona, Leona Kingscholar.

Your mind races, set to a frantic pace like wildebeests rampaging.

Love, the thing with wings that soars high above the clouds. Love, the golden light that brings life to the lands. Love, the wellspring so many drink from.

He feels all of that for you?

It feels like I'm dreaming. Am I dreaming?

"D-Do you really mean that, Leona?" You need to know. You must confirm it. "That you... love me?"

Silence.

“L-Leona…?” you stutter, lightly tapping his back. It rises and falls, rises and falls, like the tides lapping the seashore. Soft, at ease.

But not a response.

One, two, three.

Three seconds. Three seconds is all it takes for Leona Kingscholar to knock out--and he is out like a light.

The party and its twisted beat carry on, the bass blasting in your bloodstream, uncaring. And you remain, cradling a snoozing cat in your arms.

... Ah, seriously. How did it turn out like this?

Upset, annoyance--you think that these are, perhaps, what you're meant to be feeling in the moment. They are missing, not so much as a phantom present. Instead, there's an excitable fluttering that doesn't have a name to it yet.

You swallow, still slightly shaken. The confession, raw and revealing, stirring emotions you didn't think possible before. Emotions that burned red hot, with serrated teeth and talons.

A hand goes to the back of his head, stroking his mane and smoothing it out. It's comforting to him, you imagine, but it's comforting to you as well. Grounding.

You're here. He's here. The both of you are here, together.

There is it again, that unnamed, excitable fluttering kicking up back up. It fans out from your core, from your head to the tips of your toes. You feel like you're lighter than air, flying to the moon and playing among the stars.

He loves you.

Leona Kingscholar loves you.

The fingers trapped in his hair stiffen.

You draw out a sigh. It mingles with the music and stretches thin, a string of fabric pulled from a spool.

Until the clock strikes midnight… Let’s just stay like this for a little longer. That much would be okay, wouldn’t it? We can figure out the rest of the story once the sleepy prince wakes from his slumber.

[julia4today]

Fiending for part 2 of shunned 😔

sorry this took so long !!!

shunned (tf141 x fem!reader)

part two | prev part

cw: incorrect military procedure, not proofread

your thick, government-issued, thermals do nothing to protect from the biting cold that seeps through the cracks of the window your shoulder rests against. you're sitting in a kitchen chair. everybody else, asleep. it is your turn to keep watch. the cabin wasn't particularly insulated. years of mold and mildew seeping through the porous floor board can do that.

you can hear the shifting of the men in their sleeping bags. sleepily, moving and chattering to conserve warmth. you had put the fire out before you went to sleep, price had been worried that the smoke would alert people as to your location, but considering how fruitless your watch has been, you highly doubt anybody is looking for you.

your eyes threaten to close, succumbing to the unimaginable exhaustion that plagues you. but- no. you cannot do that because that would mean the team is right. that you, that women, are incapable. you will not be the reason that stereotype is perpetuated so you keep your eyes open. open and alert. scanning for movement. the pillowy white snow upon the ground glimmers in the moonlight. snow that just a couple hours ago was pounding you in the face, causing great pain. it now seems quite harmless. funny how things may change.

the trees are large and imposing, perfect for hiding our "mountain hut" as price aptly named it. you look to the treetops, the sun just barely peeking over the tops. ordinarily, you would all be up, preparing, but today you aren't leaving until you get clearance from base, and you all know how long that takes. the occasional bird sings, coming home to its kin. feeding them chewn and regurgitated worm. gross.

sitting watching a window was not exactly the badass ‘fighter jet top gun’ vision you had of joining the military. but maybe you need to save your home country single-handedly before you are ever taken seriously. how to do that exactly?

it’s nearing six am by this time. the boys are packed up and waiting for the go ahead from base. the green light to move further into the lions den.

this mission was not your first. far from it. whether you were trekking through a jungle or trudging up a mountain, the routine was the same. get the mission, brief it, get deployed, go through hell physically and mentally, come home. repeat.

this time it's recon. reconnaissance. by this time, the country had been strife with war for years. it's a back and forth. they capture hostages, you illegally enter their country and return the hostages to their families. then you capture the hostages. it's exhausting.

"remind me why we don't just call for a ceasefire?" you postulate out loud. no longer turned towards the window, although you may as well be for how often you have to insert yourself into their conversation. never invited on your own.

"too pussy for a little strafing aye?" ghost replied lowly. his voice a deep hum against your ears. he takes a sip from his thermos, presumably filled with tea. you can tell he's got a smug smirk on beneath his signature mask.

"no." you grumble, wishing you hadn't turned away from that window. as much as you would like to claim their comments don't get to you, everybody knows they do. maybe that's why they continue to throw them at you. continue to claw at your brain. attack every insecurity you've had. pretend they don't mean it, butter you up with sexist comments that make your skin crawl.

"ah ken he's messin' wi' ye slug." johnny chimes in as he simultaneously slinks nearer to you. putting his large arm around you and pulling you uncomfortably close to his chest. "'sides. simon leks tae 'ave ye here. we all dey."

“thanks joh-"

"ye a bonnie sight. 'elps me get through ay rough night if ye ken," of course. his obnoxious laugh booms through the cabin. gross.

"men. word from laswell came in. we're being sent back to base." a collective groan escapes the three men that sat at the table. annoyed, although slightly relieved that they finally knew what was going on. all day, with no movement gets a soldier antsy.

"we just spent all of yesterday climbing up that mountain and we're being sent back? why?" kyle finally speaks up. typically quiet. that's something you've observed. well not quiet, just, he doesn't really talk to you. not like he talks to price or simon, even johnny. though you can't help but be slightly grateful. atleast he's not undressing you with his eyes or implying you don't have what it takes.

"our help is no longer required. the hostages were willfully let go. they're going home to their families." and with that price returns to his call.

the men look at eachother, once more leaving you out. this news from price, while seemingly good, it is not. it begs the question, why? unless they're planning something. johnny and gaz break off into their own conversation. and suprisingly, simon turns to you.

" 'appy, slug?" simon spits.

"what? what did i do?"

"i'm sure you're glad. laswell knows well that you weren't ready for a mission like this. this is for real soldiers. not delicate women."

"what the fuck are you even talking about?" what does he mean? is he implying you're at fault for the mission being cancelled.

"price just said the mission was cancelled because they let the hostages go." you add. for some reason you feel the need to justify yourself. you did nothing wrong though. still, you feel attacked. he knows this too. he gets up, doesn't pass you another glance.

this isn't good. just one more night in this cabin hellhole and you can once more request to switch teams.

—-

i think there’s a literal curse around writing fanfiction that causes my body to want to start attacking itself.

it’s finally out, and it’s absolutely terrible. enjoy!! :P

[saturneras]

Private Eyes I

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Fresh out of law school and spending the summer with your parents in your hometown, you’re looking to gain some new work experience without having to slave your life away in a big law firm. As a favor to your brother, his buddy Tommy gets you a last minute spot to work at the local police department. The chief of police however is none other than the unnervingly grumpy and mean Joel Miller aka Tommy‘s older brother and member of your brother‘s weekly poker round. The moment you meet him you know he doesn’t want you there and he is not afraid to make it known. And you sure do like to make a man lose his composure. He‘s not the first one to challenge you, but will he be the last?

Note: This is my first post, so please be gentle. This story does not aspire to be realistic or accurate representation of law enforcement etc. and is purely for your enjoyment. English is not my first language, but I’ll try my best. Hope you love to read it as much as I do writing it.

„So you really think this is all going to work out?“

Your brother Casey groans and changes lanes to take the exit. „I told you before and I will tell you again: Tommy said that he’s totally cool with it.“

„I don’t trust it. From what you’ve told me I don’t picture him as a guy who says he’s cool with it“, you reply and look at the trees passing my. Summer is here in its entirety and apart from the gentle cooling breeze rushing in through the cracked passenger seat window, the lingering heat hasn’t lifted for days. You watch your brother shake his head as he slows down at a red light and glances your way. That is what you get for staying in your hometown for the summer in a city without any public transport - relying on your older brother for a ride to work.

„Once you get to know him he’s actually pretty laid back“, he says.

„You literally told me a few weeks ago that you haven’t met anyone who is more of a control freak“, you say.

„I did not call him a control freak, I just said that he likes to be in control and does not take kindly to people distrusting that. He just likes things to be a certain way. Can’t blame him when he’s got all the responsibility." Casey shrugs, changing the radio station to country music.

„He’s a police officer”, you say. “Not the president.”

“He’s the chief of police”, your brother corrects and pulls up in front of a cream coloured building. A huge stone sign graces its front facing wall. Police Department. “Maybe you should dial down the judgy tone.”

You scoff. “I wasn’t being judgmental. I’m just trying to figure out in what kind of lions den you’re sending me.”

He grins. “Just remember that you were the one who wanted to “gain experience in the real world.” He emphasizes his quotation with his fingers. “I told you to spend the summer lying by the pool and reading your fantasy novels or whatever weird shit you’re currently obsessing over.”

You can't help but roll your eyes and unbuckle your seatbelt. "I'll try to keep the attitude to a minimum."

"Just give him a bit of time to warm up to you."

You let out a theatrical gaps. "Am I not a delight to meet brother dearest?"

Now it is Casey's turn to role his eyes. "Just don't embarrass me. The older Miller is already creepily good at mind games while playing poker and I don't need him to gain more leverage on me."

After stepping out of the car, you turn around and Casey rolls the window down further. "Thanks for the ride. Feels just like high school."

"Don't get used to it. I'll be on the site with Tommy until about five and then head over to Mickey's for a drink if you want a ride back."

"Sure", you nod. "I'll text you when I'm out."

Casey pulls out of the parking lot and you give a little wave as he turns the corner and drives out of sight. You exhale a deep breath you didn't know you were holding and turn around, facing the entrance. From what you have heard about the oldest Miller brother, you are not entirely convinced that this will be a smooth ride. Grumpy, demanding, ruthless, closed-off and moody are only a couple of words Casey used to describe Joel Miller. And even though you've known Tommy since he and your brother opened their contractor business, you have never laid eyes on his big brother before. The front entrance door swings open and rips you out of your thoughts. A woman, probably in her mid 50s, steps out of the building, looking at you and then around the almost empty parking lot. She frowns for a moment and then her eyes dart back to you.

"Are you okay there, honey?" Her voice is soft and low, sounding familiar even though you've never seen her before.

You nod eagerly. "Yes, sorry, I was just about to go in."

"Do you need another minute or are you ready?"

Taking the last couple of steps toward the entrance you grab the door she is holding open with her extended arm. "Ready."

"Is this your first time?" She asks me.

"Yes, actually", you reply.

"How are you feeling on a scale of one to 10, one being the worst?"

Well, that is unusual.

"I guess.. a good 8?"

"Great", she smiles and turns around, walking toward a desk in the entrance of the police station. "Here are the forms, if you need anything just let me know, I will be right over there and especially if you need any medical attention. Do you need medical attention?"

You shake your head quickly. "No..no, of course not. Why would I need medical attention?"

She hands me a clipboard with forms attached to it and a gel pen. "It is just protocol to ask, you know. But I am glad you're feeling well."

You sit down and glance at the files. This looks like a lot of personal questions for a summer job. Scanning the forms a couple of times, you get up towards the desk, just as the entrance door opens behind you.

"I'm sorry to bother you again, but I am not quite sure why exactly I need to fill this out? I thought I had already sent my CV over a week ago."

"Your CV? Why would we need your CV?"

"Everything good, Lori?" A voice from behind you resounds and you turn around. A guy in dark blue police uniform and a blonde buzzcut stands a couple of steps behind you and smiles.

Lori reciprocates the smile and rises from her seat. "Oh yes, Daniel. This woman is just filling out the assault report."

Your eyes widen in surprise. "A what? No, I am not filling that out."

She winks at you. "Sure, you are not."

"I think there's been a mistake. I am here for the summer job. Tommy Miller sent me."

Lori frowns and thankfully Daniel steps forward and offers you his hand. "You're Casey's sister, right?"

You exhale gratefully and take his hand. "Yes, I am."

"I'm Daniel Riley", he says and you introduce yourself.

Daniel shakes your hand, while looking over at Lori. "This is who the chief was talking about the other day."

Lori's face tenses. "Oh I am so sorry, dear. I thought you were here for our weekly office hours for women in need."

You give her a smile and wave it off. "No worries."

"Do you want me to call the chief?" She asks Daniel.

He shakes his head. "No need, I'll just give her the tour."

Lori nods and looks to you. "Well, if you need anything, I am right here up front."

"Thanks", you say and follow Daniel through the hallway leading further into the station.

He introduces you to the two officers in the kitchen having coffee and leads you through the whole floor, explaining how everything works. "You know we all thought you were Tommy's girlfriend, you know?"

"Why? Because he put in a good word?"

"More so because the chief acted like he was agreeing to taking a bullet to the chest for letting you work here for the summer", Daniel replies and chuckles.

"That sounds reassuring", you huff.

"So not Tommy's girlfriend?"

You shake your head. "No, just the sister of a very convincing brother."

"Good to know." Daniel grins. "Have you talked to the chief about your tasks yet?"

"Not yet, no", you say, walking beside him toward the back of the station.

"Well, maybe he is out or something. But he usually will show himself at the staff meeting at around 11. Until then, maybe you can help me out a bit?" His green eyes shimmer faintly in the fluorescent office light.

"Sure, what do you need?"

He opens the door to a dark room and turns on the light. Rows of shelves filled with boxes fill up the room and the room is so badly lit and stuffy that you have to squint your eyes to make out the size of it.

"This is the archive", Daniel explains rather redundantly. "I need a couple of files for a case I am working on. Do you mind getting them out and over to my desk?"

"I can do that."

"Great", he says. "I need every robbery case from 1979 to 1981 that you can find okay?"

"I'll have them right over," you say and step into the room, leaving Daniel behind you.

The room's smell reminds you of your school's old gym basement, where they used to store all the old equipment. You walk further among the shelves and try to make out the labels. Thank god, they are labeled by years, so you quickly can find 1980 and 1981. But even after having checked every shelf, you cannot find 1979. Just when you're about to asks for help, you find yourself in front of a filing cabinet towering over you and on top the missing box. Perfect. You rise on your tiptoes and stretch your arms as high as possible, only reaching the bottom of the box. Slowly, you try to move it toward you without catching dust and dirt in your eyes. The box is heavier than the other ones and it takes a while for you to move it almost over the edge. When it's just about to tip over, the door behind you slams shut.

"Hey Daniel, can you give me a hand with this one?" You asks him and the footsteps are closing in on you. You try to turn your head to take a glance at what's behind you, but the box of files tips toward you. You manage to whisper a breathy oh no, when not only the box, but the whole locker tilts and falls toward you. You flinch and try to step out of danger zone, when suddenly you are slammed against the file cabinet by something hard. Your body is locked in between whatever pushed you against the locker and the door itself, still leaning dangerously close to you, but not falling. Whatever is pressed against your back is effectively caging you in. It feels heavy and ..warm.

"Can I help you?" You asks tentatively.

"That's what I am trying to do here." The voice is low and not much more than a growl as it sounds right next to your ear. Definitely not Daniel. The man's breath trailing down the side of your throat, warming the spot between neck and your shoulder. You suppress a shiver that's just waiting to pass over your back.

"If you could just move, I can get out", you suggest and the man huffs.

"If I move, this cabinet will fall and take you down with it, Darlin'."

You move your head as much as you can and look up above you just to realise that the cabinet and with it the box of files is only being held up by two thick arms in a white dress shirt. "Oh."

"I need you to get on your knees", he says and your body tenses. What?

"Excuse me?"

He groans. "Just get on your knees and crawl, damn it."

"I don't know what your deal is, but if you keep this up you will get to know mine", you reply and your threat earns nothing but a low chuckle that dies as quick as it started.

"If you don't get out from underneath, I can't let that damned thing go. So just get on your goddamn knees and move. I can't hold it much longer."

"Famous last words", you say and try to lower yourself to your knees. The locker is so close that you cannot exactly move away from the guy behind you, so you need to slide down while pressed against him.

You bend your knees and slide your back down his front, slowly toward the floor, trying not to lose your balance. His whole body goes rigid and you are sure you imagine the quick release of a held breath once your knees make contact with the floor. You turn around and crawl out from underneath the locker, past the man's shoes. Just as you rise to your feet, a loud crash announces the final fall of the cabinet. The man's broad back is still turned to you, when the door opens and Daniel steps in.

"What on earth is going on here?" He calls.

The man turns around, illuminated by the streams of light coming in from the open door and finally you can take a good look at him. He is wearing a loosened grey tie over his white shirt and beige slacks. Except for a rogue one dangling on his forehead, his dark brown curls are neatly slicked back. The urge to run your hands through them arises, making you wonder. Maybe it's just the dimly lit room but he's got the darkest eyes you've ever seen. And these eyes are staring right at you, fixating on your face with an impression that you can't quite place. He doesn't even waste a glance at Daniel.

"Leave us", he says slowly.

A frown appears on Daniel's forehead. "Can I do anything?"

"Just shut the goddamn door, Riley," he says without any room for discussion. And when Daniel takes a step further inside he continues: "Behind you."

Daniel just huffs out a breath and closes the door behind him. The silence following his retreat is deafening. No one says anything for a whole minute, just the sound of his and my breathing filling the air.

"You're late", he finally says.

"I got held up filling out the assault forms", you reply.

The ever-present frown on his face deepens. "Why were you filling out the assault forms?"

"They thought I was looking for help", you say. "But I'm here now."

"You don't think you need to be on time?" He replies.

"I got here at 9," you say.

"Shift starts at 7:30", he states.

"Well, no one told me that."

"Did you ask?"

What is this guys deal? The outside apparently does not match the inside.

"No, I did not", you say, crossing your arms. "I assumed the department would inform me."

"Do you always assume that things are just being handed to you?" His eyes narrow slightly.

"Are you implying that I don't work for what I've earned?"

"I'm saying that you came here unprepared", he says.

"I'm not sure how well I should have prepared to be able to look through boxed files, but you're right, maybe I should have practiced dates a little before coming here or brought my stepping stool for reaching higher places so I don't get killed by a freaking cabinet on the first day."

"Are you mocking important data work?"

"No, I'm just mocking you", you say and lift your chin a little to glare right back at him.

"Rich coming from someone whose life I just saved", he says.

"If you hadn't pushed me, I could have just stepped out of the way."

"Just say thank you, it isn't that hard", he drawls.

"Do you need me to get on my knees for that too?" You snap and your eyes flicker to the muscle in his jaw twitching.

His eyes go impossibly dark and without breaking your glance, he closes the distance between you two, forcing you to lift your head to look up at him. This close you can make out the tiny golden spots that surround his irises and the soft grey streaks that run through his longer than a 5 o'clock shadow on his chin. His eyes graze quickly over your face, stopping ever so slightly on your parted lips. You can't help but wanting them to linger there.

"Careful now, Darlin'", he whispers. "Let's mind our manners."

His chest now faintly grazes your crossed arms and you can make out a hint of his smell, reminding you of a sunset on the porch after a lake day, tranquil, woodsy and so familiar it hurts.

"You're right, I'm sorry - do you need me to get on my knees for that too, sir?"

His jaw tenses and you can almost see the anger building up in his eyes. But you can't help it, you're enjoying pushing him just to see his control falter the slightest bit. He's might be an asshole, but he still makes you want to see what his face looks like on top of yo-

"I advise you to watch that mouth of yours or the only thing you'll be seeing in the future is the outside of this building, do you understand?" He says, not as calmly as before.

"We'll see what the chief has to say about that", you say and hope to whichever god might listen that the eldest Miller brother is even the tiniest bit as receptive to your charm as Tommy is.

The man in front of you lifts his eyebrows as if he has just now finally understood something. "Sure, let's see what he says."

You lean forward a tiny bit and press your arms against his broad chest. Just to annoy him and introduce yourself. "I'm Casey's sister by the way. Tommy's friend?"

The man smiles unnervingly sinister. "Oh, I know exactly who you are."

Another forceful knock on the door makes you leap a step back from him. "Sir?"

He rolls his eyes and calls back. "Yes?"

"We just got a call from the Sheriff's office, they need you on line 4", one of the officers says.

"I'll be right out", he says.

"Thank you, chief", she says and you hear her step away from the door.

Lord almighty, it can't be. No, no, hell no.

The realisation must be written all over your face because his mouth forms into the smallest grin.

"You are-

"Joel Miller, Chief of Police", he introduces himself.

You shake your head in disbelief. This can't be.

"And while you're .. adjusting, why don't you make yourself useful and tidy this up?" He points behind himself at the cabinet and the spilled files on the floor. "From what I've gathered you're probably used to cleaning up your messes."

With that he turns and brushes past me as if he had just stepped in to say 'hello', making his way to the door. Fucking sadist.

You can't even bring yourself to turn your head. Anger and embarrassment crawls all over your skin, rising up to your head. No one has made you feel this way in a long time. You run a hand through your hair and turn towards the files and documents covering the floor. He is even worse than what you've imagined. A shitty boss with an attitude? You've handled that before. But a boss with an attitude, a sharp mouth and a demand for power? That's new. The issue being that not only do you want him to suffer now, but you want to find out what exactly makes this man of stone lose his grip on the control that he so preciously protects.

Come what may, this is going to be a hell of a summer.

[foldingfittedsheets]

We had lunch with a friend who was relating a story to us about a friend of hers who lives in a rural area populated by a very large number of mountain lions.

She and her husband were at home when they watched a mountain lion jump their back fence, dead deer in tow, dragging its prey to their back shed. They watched with horrified fascination as this apex predator started absolutely going to town on this deer carcass. Honestly, same. I’d have watched too, I love a free nature documentary.

But after several hours as the cougar continued to lounge they started to be concerned. This was not a neighbor they wanted. They didn’t want to call animal control so they did what any rural American would do and grabbed their guns.

Their first several warning shots were met with unimpressed ambivalence, the cougar regarding them with the smugness of a fat and happy cat who’s heard a gun before.

Frustrated, they went back to the drawing board. Then they decided to stand on the back step with two different speakers at max volume blasting the cougar with sound waves. While also firing their guns in the air. This finally achieved the desired result, the cougar hightailed it away at top speed.

What were they blaring, you ask? What scared the lion from its den?

NPR.

Our friend was laughing as she said, “It didn’t mind the guns but it hated NPR, it was one conservative cougar!”

[liyliths]

.˚𓅆࿐ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 an aot au / inspired by the hunger games

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

series summary: survive. that's all you've known you're entire life - to survive. survive district 12, survive the reaping, and survive the capitol. but when you're reaped for the 98th annual hunger games alongside levi ackerman, will you seize the opportunity of rebellion when it arises? the mockingjay is singing, dear reader, please choose wisely.

“Oh, yeah?” Levi scoffs, crossing his arms against his chest. “Then what the hell do you call running straight into the bloodbath for a damn bow?" Yeah, as if you didn’t know that. You feel your jaw clench. “I made it, didn’t I?” Levi shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose before turning away, readjusting his backpack. He must’ve grabbed it back at the Cornucopia.  "Whatever,” he takes a few steps forward into the darkness of the tunnel before glancing back at you, barely containing the dirty look on his face. "Well? You coming?"

pairings: levi ackerman x reader

contains: fem!reader, strangers to lovers, slow burn, hurt and comfort, semi canon compliant, character death, descriptions of blood, phycological trauma, rebellion, this is gonna hurt but be so rewarding, and any other warnings that come with aot characters/the hunger games universe

word count: 6.2k

playlist

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Sixty seconds.

Your head darts in every possible direction, desperate to take in everything you can see. The Cornucopia stood at the heart of a dam, a metallic structure rising from the cracked and flooded ground, with you and all the other twenty-three tributes circling the structure and goods inside it. If you were to fall off the base of the Cornucopia, you’d dive right into a mouth of water with no way to climb out. The walls of the dam loomed impossibly high in every direction, with the faint sound of rushing water loud in your ears.

Beyond the dam, glimpses of the outside practically taunted you with the sight of forests and rivers, as well as mountains on the horizon. Freedom was just beyond the curdling walls, but the only exit you spotted that you could escape the dam from was through these dark, flooded spillway tunnels. 

Thirty seconds.

You take in the contents of supplies in the Cornucopia, and there it is, your bow paired with a quiver filled to the brim with arrows. Your name is practically written on it with the way it’s sitting in your path, right in the heart of the Cornucopia with all of the other rare weapons at its side. By human nature, temptation is a challenge to go against, and it just might lure you straight into the lion’s den. 

Though, what would you do without your bow? You are not particularly skilled with any other weapon, having used long distance your entire life to hunt your prey. Short-ranged weapons are not your strong suit, either. You could try to get your hands on some throwing knives, but you’re not nearly as skilled as Levi.

Levi. Where is he?

Twenty seconds.

Your eyes frantically dart around the tributes circling the Cornucopia, searching for any sign of the raven-haired boy. You spot a familiar head of blonde hair, Armin, about four platforms to your right. When you glance to your left, chills run down your spine as your eyes land on none other than the District 4 tribute, Mikasa, just two platforms to your left. There’s no time to worry about her.

Then you spot him, just to the left of 4. You expect him to be focused on either grabbing some supplies or making a run for it, but his eyes are locked straight onto you. He seems to have noticed you’re looking at him as you watch his hand rise, his finger pointing to something on his jacket. You try to squint through the sunlight to see what it is.

Ten seconds.

A distraction, is what it is. You couldn’t see whatever he was trying to point out. You look back to the Cornucopia, your eyes landing on your bow and arrows. You could run, you should run, but you can’t just leave it behind. Your eyes find Levi again, and he must’ve seen you eyeing the bow, shaking his head no in disapproval.

Five seconds.

Why does he care? Is he just going to run off without grabbing anything for his survival? You’d rather take the risk. You clench your clammy hands in fists at your side, planting your feet in preparation for a sprint, only focused on one goal… getting your bow and getting the hell out of there.

Three.

Two.

One.

The gong sounds. In the blink of an eye, you feel your feet before you have time to think. You don’t think you’ve ever run faster in your entire life. You nearly trip over yourself as your legs move faster than you can keep up with, but you manage to steady yourself. You’re just about a few yards from your bow, it’s right there!

You check your surroundings as you near your weapon, spotting a girl with brunette hair held in a high pony heading directly toward your bow. No! Even if you stop in your tracks here, you’ll have no choice but to defend yourself with nothing, as all of the other tributes are seconds away from being at the Cornucopia at once. 

It’s a gamble. A gamble of who can run faster for their survival. 

Somehow, you run even faster than before. It’s right in front of you, your bow and quiver full of arrows leaned against a crate of supplies. You reach for it, positioning your feet to run in the opposite direction toward one of the spillways, ready to make an escape. Just as your hand wraps around the metal material of the bow, a body collides into you, sending your body flying backward.

You are quick to scramble to your feet, looking up to see the brunette girl in the exact same position as you, recovering from the clash just feet away. Then, you recognize her face. It’s the girl from 10, Sasha. She must be a hunter too, coming from the livestock district. 

For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. Like two predators, backed and cornered, one ready to pounce. You won’t be the one who falls. Quickly, you lunge for the bow, managing to snatch it and sling the quiver over your back just before the girl can. You equip an arrow faster than lightning. She is now the one who is cornered. 

You’re no murderer, though. With no words spoken, you leave the girl and hurry into the opposite direction toward a spillway nearest to you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the horrors of the bloodbath unfolding in the Cornucopia.

A girl was shoved off of the edge into the body of water below the Cornucopia by one of the Careers. It takes a few agonizingly long seconds for the sound of splashing to echo from below, but when you hear it, you feel bile rise up in your throat. You’re practically frozen in place, as good as a deer in headlights, only able to watch the brutal acts before you just meters away.

There’s a young blonde boy running beside a brunette girl his age. They got weapons and supplies, and they’re sprinting for the spillways to get out of the Cornucopia. Just when relief seems to cross them, thinking they’re moments to safety, you can only watch as another tribute catches up to them, knocks the boy to the ground, and axes him. 

It’s terrible. The girl’s scream is blood curdling, and she raises a machete straight to the chest of her ally’s assailant. Someone this young shouldn’t be forced to do something like that. You feel nauseous, your head spinning in circles as you try to push forward.

No. Now is not the time to be weak. You have to leave. It’s either kill or be killed, and you don’t want to be forced to do either. You don’t allow yourself to look behind your shoulder. You can’t help any of them.

Just as you think you've put enough distance between yourself and the other tributes, something slams into you from behind with brute force. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, sending you crashing onto your back, the weight of another body pressing down, pinning you in place. Before you can react, cold steel presses against your throat.

"If it isn’t the girl on fire," a voice growls.

Fuck, you can’t breathe, nor can you choke any words out in your defense. You blink up at him. The boy pinning you down has sharp ginger hair and a wicked grin, his brown eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. He presses the knife harder against your skin, and your breath shudders in your chest.

Damn it. Where the hell did he come from?

With what little air you have left in your lungs, you attempt the disarming technique you practiced back in training. Your fingers find his wrist, twisting sharply, and for a second, you think you have the upper hand, but he’s stronger than you expected. He overpowers you with ease, slamming your wrists above your head with one hand. You grit your teeth, thrashing beneath him, but it's no use. His weight keeps you caged.

“I was hoping I’d have the honors—”

A warm spray coats the side of your face. The boy’s words die in his throat as his grip slackens, a sharp, gurgling sound escaping his lips. His expression contorts with confusion, pain, and then… nothing. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t move. Then, he collapses. Right on top of you.

Blood fills his mouth as his body jerks one last time, and you watch, paralyzed, as life drains from his eyes. You shove him off with trembling hands, rolling to your side as air finally graces your lungs, your chest heaving as you gasp for oxygen. 

Is he… dead?

You need to go. Just as you’re about to push yourself off the ground, you see it. A pair of boots just feet away from you. Dread grips you like a vice.

Is this it? Are you really going to die here? Not even a full day into the Games, and you’ve already failed. You promised Petra you’d try. You swore. And yet, you can already picture your name flashing in the sky tonight. How pathetic.

Mustering up the courage, you lift your head to look your assailant in the eyes. Short structure, a deathly glare, and… an all too familiar head of black hair.

Levi?

Your stomach twists. So this is how it happens. You knew it. You knew better than to trust him. The boy who spared you bread. The boy who taught you how to properly wield throwing knives. The boy who spent that night with you on the rooftop. The boy who watched you sneak past the fence and into the woods.

Now, here he is, standing over you, ready to finish the job. The proof of your mistake of even trying to trust another stares you right in the face.

"Did you hear me? We need to go!" A demanding voice cuts through the haze.

You blink, stunned. It’s Levi, who isn’t reaching for a weapon. He isn’t lunging for you. Instead, he’s holding out a hand to help you to your feet, impatience evident in the scowl twisting his features.

"If you stay here, you’ll be killed!" he snaps.

His words barely register. "You… you’re not going to kill me?" you rasp.

His response is immediate. He shoves his hand closer, fingers twitching in a demand. "Trust me, remember?"

You do remember. That night at the City Circle. The opening ceremony on the chariot. The moment he took your hand, raised your intertwined fingers to the sky, unifying yourselves. You remember when he told you to trust him, and you did. 

So, against every voice in your head screaming at you to run the other way, to do anything but trust him, you reach up and take his hand.

Levi hauls you to your feet without hesitation. The moment you regain your footing, you reach back instinctively, and surely, your quiver is missing. Must’ve fallen off, shit. Frantically, you search for it on the ground, but before you take a step, Levi has already beat you to it.

He plucks your quiver from the dirt, quickly gathering a handful of arrows that must have scattered in the struggle. Then, your eyes flicker to the boy before your feet. Dead. He’s… dead. There’s a knife embedded into the side of the boy’s throat, angled back far enough that you hadn’t even noticed before.

Levi didn’t kill you, no. He saved you, even when he had every reason not to.

"Let’s go," Levi orders, shoving the quiver into your chest before moving past you. You follow, throwing the quiver on your shoulder as the two of you break into a sprint for the spillway just a couple yards before you.

Thankfully, you were at a spot just far enough from the bloodbath in the middle of the Cornucopia. If you were any closer, there was no doubt the Careers would’ve taken it upon themselves to finish you off. Even now, with distance between yourself and the other tributes, your hammering heart refuses to calm. 

The spillway is just ahead, a gaping entrance into what you guess to be the dam’s network of tunnels. You don’t have a plan yet. You don’t know what’s waiting inside. But right now, it’s your only chance. When you reach the opening, you realize the ladder is broken. Too high to reach.

Levi barely hesitates before kneeling, lacing his fingers together. "Climb."

You don’t argue. Placing your boot into his hands, you push up as he lifts you. You grip the edge of the opening, scrambling to pull yourself in. The damp metal beneath your palms makes it harder, but with enough effort, you manage. Once inside, you turn, reaching down.

Levi wastes no time grabbing your arm. You brace yourself, using every ounce of strength left in you to haul him up. He climbs up beside you with a grunt, brushing the dirt from his hands.

“I knew you were an impulsive freak, but I didn’t take you for a suicidal one,” Levi remarked, making one last wipe of his hands.

“I wasn’t trying to get myself killed!” you hiss at him, tightening your grip on the bow in your hand.

“Oh, yeah?” Levi scoffs, crossing his arms against his chest. “Then what the hell do you call running straight into the bloodbath for a damn bow?"

Yeah, as if you didn’t know that. You feel your jaw clench. “I made it, didn’t I?”

Levi shakes his head, exhaling sharply through his nose before turning away, readjusting his backpack. He must’ve grabbed it back at the Cornucopia. 

"Whatever,” he takes a few steps forward into the darkness of the tunnel before glancing back at you, barely containing the dirty look on his face. "Well? You coming?"

You hesitate. From what you observed, the only way out of this hellish dam was through these dark spillways, and you have no idea what could be inside them, or what could be on the other end. You take a breath, steadying yourself.

“I guess I have no other choice,” you mutter, stepping forward.

-

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five canons echo throughout the confinements of the dark spillway. Five tributes have died, leaving nineteen standing. You won’t know who is gone until they show the tributes on the projection tonight. Honestly, it’s surprising more didn’t go. Usually half the tributes get wiped out at the Cornucopia, and that’s why the very start of the Games are called a bloodbath.

You have no idea where the other tributes could have gone. You just pray that none of them have followed you into this spillway, either knowingly or unknowingly. The Careers might stay back at the Cornucopia to hog the supplies, so you assume everyone else will pack out in the spillways, too.

It’s been at least a half an hour of walking through pitch darkness. At a certain point, the water level rose to your shins, making it ten times more difficult to cover more ground. You and Levi didn’t talk much. He’s been walking in front of you for the most of it, and you’re surprised he’s let himself turn his back on you. It would be easy to shoot him if you wanted or needed to, but you don’t. 

You can’t bring yourself to trust him quite yet, though.

Sure, he’s had plenty of opportunities to kill you. You have, too. But neither of you did it. You know what an alliance means, that is if you end up being allies. One of you will have to betray the other, and only one of you will be making it out of this. You’ve decided you need to leave him when you get the chance so that doesn’t happen.

“These spillways are filthy and dangerous,” Levi notes, still continuing his tread forward through the water. Every step sends ripples across the surface, echoing off the damp concrete walls.

“I agree. We can’t see shit,” you mutter, your boots dragging slightly against the slick ground as you trudge behind him. The air down here is thick with the scent of mildew and stagnant water, making every breath feel heavy. “Plus, if these tunnels flood, we’re screwed. Probably best not to hang around.”

Honestly, the both of you are ready to get out of this tunnel. This place is giving you the creeps.

“No shit,” Levi scoffs. He grips on one of his throwing knives in his hand as his eyes scan the darkness ahead. “We need to find an exit before that happens.”

“Yeah, hopefully, we can get out of this damn maze soon.”

You hear Levi huff softly. “It’s not really a maze if the path’s gone straight this entire time.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, well, if the straight path leads to a dead end, it might as well be a maze.”

“Then we’ll turn around.”

“Yeah, and run right back toward the people trying to kill us? Great plan.”

Levi glances back at you briefly, his hair falling in front of his face beneath the dim light. “Better than drowning.”

Yeah, you’d rather not try either of those scenarios. Your eyes trail down to the bag on Levi’s back, and you wish you would’ve grabbed one when you were at the Cornucopia. There were tons of backpacks scattered around, but you were too focused on getting your bow and staying alive.

“What’d you get in your backpack?” you ask. 

While Levi walks, he shrugs the bag off of his shoulders and tosses it at you. “Take a look.”

You catch the bag, briskly unzipping it. You couldn’t see much through the dark, so you started pulling things out to get a closer look. The first thing you grabbed was a flashlight, and you flicked it on, the beam of light shining through the seemingly never ending tunnel.

“You had a flashlight this entire time?” you question, now using it to look at everything else in the bag. Levi turns to look at you and you accidentally flash the beam into his eyes, slightly blinding him.

“Watch the light, idiot.” Levi scolds you, squinting his eyes through the light. “I didn’t have time to see what was in there, so I shoved the knives I grabbed inside and ran.” 

You hum in response, moving the beam to the bag, continuing your rummage through the supplies, careful with your hands to not hurt yourself with the knives scattered. “Water bottle with no water, a rope, your knives, and…” you pause, eyeing down foreign material. “Oh, and a sleeping bag. That’s it.” 

Levi opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get the words out, a sudden splash echoes through the tunnel. Both of you freeze. The sound didn’t come from either of you. Levi stiffens immediately, stepping toward you with one hand shooting out in front of you, pushing you back slightly.

“Did you hear that?” you whisper, already reaching for an arrow over your shoulder.

The raven-haired boy doesn’t answer. Instead, his head tilts slightly, straining to listen for any other noises. Then, another splash, closer this time. Neither of you dare to move. The first thing your mind goes to is the possibility that it might be another person. But wouldn’t you have heard them through the water by now?

The air grows thick with silence, save for the slow drip of water from the tunnel ceiling. You strain your ears, trying to pinpoint where the sound came from. Then, another splash but this time, but it’s right behind you. Your fingers squeeze the arrow between your fingers, equipped on the string of your bow and ready to aim.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You take a cautious step forward. Just as you plant your feet down, you feel something wrap around your ankle with a deathly grip, yanking you forward and knocking you completely off your feet. You yelp as your back meets the shallow water on the ground, your bow slipping from your grip. You desperately try to free yourself, but you’re being pulled forward so violently, you don’t have enough momentum to reach your ankle. 

“Hold on!” Levi calls out.

You hear the whir of a knife fly past you, feeling the grip on your ankle falter. Whatever was dragging you stopped, and you took the opportunity to reach to your foot and free yourself. Your hands wrapped around what felt to be something slimy, but it was no use. You noticed the knife Levi had thrown at it stuck into its skin. Quickly, you reach for it and dig it even deeper into the creature’s skin, watching it violently thrash in the water.

Finally, it’s grip on you released as you dug the knife deeper, and you hopped to your feet. You run to Levi who already picked up your bow for you, tossing it. You catch it and reach over your shoulder to equip an arrow on the string of your bow. Whatever the fuck just grabbed you was definitely not a human being.

As you and Levi raced in the opposite direction of whatever that thing was, not wanting to wait until it recovered, more splashing erupted from in front of you a distance away. You screeched to a stop, suddenly feeling cornered. Now, you couldn’t believe your eyes. A faint blue glow shone underneath the water before you, forming the shape of some kind of creature.

Your eyes widened when you realized. “Mutts!” 

Levi throws a knife at the creature just in front of you, landing in the middle of its long body, almost reminding you of a snake. “Run!” 

You don’t think twice. You struggle to keep a fast pace through the water, fighting to trudge through it at the high part of your shins. You feel as if you’ve heard of these creatures you’re seeing, they are obviously some kind of water predator, but you’re from the forest. You have no idea what they could be. All you know is that you need to get the hell away from them, you refuse to go down by Capitol mutts.

You run past the one Levi staggered with his knife, following closely behind him. Another glow emerges from in front of you two, blocking your path, but this time you don’t hesitate. You pull back the string of your bow, letting your arrow fly straight into the head of the vile creature. 

Just as you’re starting to think these spillways are truly endless, a beam of light shines from the end of the tunnel — an opening! A way out, you’re almost there! You glance behind you, seeing dozens of flickers of glowing light catching up to you. These creatures can easily outrun you in this water, this is what they’re made for. To catch their prey. 

Despite that, you keep going. Your legs are growing restless, struggling to fight through the water, but you have no choice but to keep pushing forward. The light at the end of the tunnel is getting closer and closer, you are so close to your escape! Levi begins to stagger behind a bit, barely tripping over himself before he regains his footing in the water. 

You two are reaching your limits. You can’t do anything but pray to whatever god that might be out there that these mutts don’t follow you out of the spillways.

The water surges violently around you as you and Levi race through the spillway, your breath ragged, muscles screaming with exhaustion. The tunnel slopes downward, forcing you to wade through the water faster, and you’re careful to not slip. The dim glow from the mutts flickers violently beside you, their bodies slithering through the water, closing in.

You glance behind you once more, watching as the glow intensifies. You hear the hum before you feel it, a deep, unnatural vibration that pulses through the tunnel. The hairs on your arms stand on end, and a sickening realization hits just as Levi grabs your wrist.

"Get out of the water!" he snaps, trying to drag you to the side of the tunnel where the water is more shallow.

But you’re too late. A sudden surge of electricity rips through the tunnel.

Pain explodes through your body. Every nerve ignites, locking your muscles in place. Your lungs seize, your chest tightening as your vision bursts white. You try to scream, but nothing comes out, your jaw is clenched too tight, your body frozen as if something invisible has snapped every single muscle inside of you.

You don’t even realize you’re falling until your face hits the water. A second later, hands grab you, yanking you upward. The shock still lingers in your limbs, pulsing in waves, making your fingers twitch uncontrollably. Your body doesn’t listen when you try to move, despite hearing frightening ripples of water closing in on you.

"Come on, breathe," Levi growls, his voice strained. His grip tightens as he reaches under your arms, dragging you forward. "You’re fine. Just move."

You aren’t sure you can. You try to move, but all your body does in response is twitch. Your lungs feel like they’ve been crushed, your heart hammering erratically in your chest. A raw, stuttering gasp finally escapes your lips, sending a violent tremor through your body.

Levi exhales sharply. "Keep breathing, you’re okay." The glow from behind brightens again, the hum of another charge building. Levi swears under his breath.  "I’m getting you out of here."

The tunnel narrows ahead, leading into an open spillway with a steep path leading downward into who knows what. The slope is slick, the water rushing down faster now, and your body still refuses to cooperate. Levi barely hesitates before shoving you forward, forcing your hands to grip onto the edge before you start sliding forward.

Your fingers fumble against the wet surface, unable to grip onto anything as you slide faster and faster down the end of the tunnel. Another pulse of electricity crackles behind you. Your body is too weak to fight back. You scramble, your legs barely responding, but Levi is right there beside you, clutching onto your wrist as the two of you slide. The slope gives way to open space, the water dropping off just ahead.

Too late, you realize where it leads. The spillway ends, and beyond it, nothing but open air. The slope disappears beneath your feet, and suddenly, you’re falling. Your scream is lost in the rush of wind as you plummet downward, your body twisting uncontrollably before you slam into something cold and unyielding.

The lake swallows you whole.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, stealing any remaining air you had left. Darkness engulfs you, the weight of your soaked clothes dragging you under. You kick wildly, but your body feels sluggish, the electric shock still numbing your limbs. Panic surges in your chest as the surface slips further away.

Then, a hand.

A rough grip closes around your arm, pulling you upward. Your head breaks through the surface, and you cough violently, choking on lake water as you gasp for air. Levi is beside you, breathing heavily, his grip still firm around your arm as he treads water. 

"You alive?" His voice is hoarse.

You cough again, struggling to get air back into your lungs. "Maybe."

The two of you float for a moment, letting the water carry you toward the shore. The tunnel looms above, distant and dark. The mutts don’t follow. Maybe they can’t. You sure as hell hope so.

By the time you drag yourself onto the muddy bank, your body feels like dead weight, limbs shaking violently from the lingering effects of the shock. You collapse onto your back, breathing hard. Levi flops down beside you, equally spent. For several moments, neither of you speak. The only sound is the distant rush of water and your ragged breathing. 

You two were lucky enough to hold onto your supplies. Levi still had his backpack and goods, and you’d managed to hold onto your bow and quiver through it all. 

You’re the first to break the silence. “What the fuck were those things?”

“I don’t know. I think they were some kind of mutation of electric eels.” Levi presumes.

“We are never going into those tunnels again.”

“Deal.”

-

After catching your breath on the shore for a while, you and Levi cleaned yourselves up. You scrubbed all the dirt and blood off, and the two of you agreed on moving forward to find a safe place to camp out for the night. You settled on a spot in the forest surrounded by tons of brush, out of sight from prowling eyes. When the sun set, the cool night air began to take over, leaving you clutching onto your jacket for warmth. Even now, your clothes aren’t completely dried off, but you know it would be a death wish to light a fire.  

One thing that is pissing you off more than you’d like to admit, is him. Your eyes flick to his figure propped against a tree, his dark hair falling in front of his face as he carves out a spear with his knives and a piece of wood he found in the dark of the night, the moonlight being the only source of lighting provided.

First,he did you huge favors before the Games by helping you gain the public’s approval. Second, he saved your ass back at the Cornucopia, when all he had to do was let that boy kill you. He had no reason to save you. And back in those terrifying spillways? Yeah, he saved your ass again, when he could’ve left you to die countless times before. 

You’re his competition. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let you die so you don’t have to betray each other in the end?

What really pisses you off now is the fact you don’t think you could bring yourself to let him die, either. If you were in a situation where you had to save his ass, you don’t have a single bone in your body that could possibly leave him. No way. You don’t want an alliance, but you don’t want to be enemies with him, either.

You know what, whatever. Maybe the sooner you can leave him on his own, the better for the both of you. It can save the burden of everything that comes with an alliance. You’re better off on your own, anyways. Levi might be, too. He’s capable enough. You don’t think you’ll ever understand why he does the things he does, and unpredictability is dangerous. 

Alliances are dangerous, too. You need to leave when the time is right.

“You look like your head is about to explode with all that thinking you’re doing.”

You glance at Levi, who’s already finished carving out his spear. “Sure feels like it,” you say, bringing a hand to your head.

“What’s on your mind?”

You sigh. Should you thank him? Express your undying gratitude for saving your life? You think you’d rather throw up than make yourself feel like you owe him something. But you guess you do, a simple thank you, at the least.

“You didn’t have to save me,” you start, wondering if you should stop yourself now. Too late. “Thank you.”

“It’s what allies do, right? Back when we were on the platforms,” Levi says, recalling the moment. “When I was pointing at something, it was this.” 

Oh, no. The last thing you want this boy to do is have him think that you’re allies when you’re planning on abandoning him!

His hand points to the same spot he was pointing at earlier, and you swear you feel your heart stop. It’s an exact replica of the gold mockingjay pin you got from Petra, embedded onto his jacket. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” you ask, glancing down at your pin to make sure it was still there. 

Levi gives a light shrug. “Where do you think?”

Your mind goes to Hange, first. Only because what are the odds that there are multiple replicas of a pin this unique from your district? It belonged to Petra, the mayor’s daughter, who is rich, at least from where you’re from. Their money would amount to nothing compared to the people in the Capitol.

Hange saved your pin when she took your reaping clothes, so maybe somehow, she made a copy of the pin for Levi? But why would that be necessary? It was your token to take into the arena, surely Levi had his own. Did Hange give it to him so when you saw it, you knew he wouldn’t harm you? You figure that’s the best answer, considering how he pointed to it before the Games even began.

“Oh,” you say, thinking out loud. “A genius, as always.”

Hange, that is. You figure it’s best to not mention her name out loud, just in case there might be any consequences for making another token to bring into the arena. 

A jarring sound flinches you from out of your thoughts. You scan your surroundings for any threats, only to realize it was the anthem for the fallen tributes. You look up through the trees to the stars, seeing the fallen tributes being projected into the sky. It was the Capitol’s way of ‘honoring’ them, apparently. 

Yeah, right. Innocent lives taken away in the sake of a war that occurred almost one hundred years ago. How far must the Capitol go? If you think about it, that has to be over thousands of children’s lives lost over the course of 98 Hunger Games. That is more than enough punishment for the districts, but apparently, nothing is enough for them — the Capitol, its citizens, and even their presidents. 

Nothing will ever satisfy their thirst for entertainment and most of all, power and control.

The first to appear in the sky is the girl from 3, which means all of the Careers have made it through the first day. Next was the boy from 6. Their district was wiped out entirely on the first day. Your heart aches at the innocent portrait of one of the youngest tributes in here, the boy from 8. Next was the boy from 8, his name being Floch, who tried to kill you. Last was the boy from 11.

That means Armin is still alive, good. If he goes, you hope it’s quick. That girl from 10, Sasha, who tried to take the bow made it, too. You can’t help but wonder how she made it out of the Cornucopia.

“Nineteen left.” announces Levi. 

“Nineteen left.” you echo. 

That means eighteen more people have to die before one person can be crowned victor of the 98th annual Hunger Games. Eighteen people that don’t deserve a brutal death, televised live for the entire nation to witness for entertainment. It’s cruel, even evil, and you know it. You’ve known it since you were a child.

Levi’s voice is quiet when he speaks, snapping you away from your thoughts. “I saw the boy from Six and the boy from Eleven die.” 

You feel yourself stiffen, fingers tightening around your bow.

“I was grabbing my knives in the Cornucopia when I saw it happen.” He says, his fingers feeling the tip of his spear, testing the sharpness. “The kid from Six was trying to protect the girl from his district. One of the Careers got him.”

Your stomach twists, but Levi doesn’t stop.

“The boy from Eleven ran inside the Cornucopia,” he continues, glancing at you briefly before looking at his spear again. “I didn’t need to kill him. I had to get out before the Careers boxed me in, so I ran.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “But that kid... he was foolish. He stayed behind. He was too scared to move.” Levi’s jaw tightens. “The Careers got there before he could pull himself together.”

You don’t know what to say. You saw the others that were killed today, too, but you figure it’s not worth mentioning. Not when he needs to have his moment of mourning. You can do yours in your own time.

Levi doesn’t wait for you to respond. “They didn’t deserve to die. None of them.”

“I know,” you say. That’s all you can say, though you truly understand what he is speaking about. You wonder if the Capitol is streaming your conversation for the entirety of Panem to see.

No matter how much someone might want to, no one can do anything to prevent it. To stop any of it. What the Capitol does, the Games, the trauma, and all of the deaths that come with it. But you figure, maybe, just maybe, for your family, your sister, for Petra… you can make the Gamemaker's lives hell by going out trying to. 

───────────────────────────────────────────

next chapter (4/6/25) story navigation playlist

a/n: bit behind schedule with this update, i actually had this chapter done a week ago but totally put off editing. a tuesday afternoon sure is an odd time to post, lol! apologies for poor quality of writing or any mistakes you might find, i honestly just skimmed through it once and i'm posting it so i can get it out! i will be rewriting (editing, better foreshadowing and details, etc.) the entire series once it is done so i can upload the finished product to ao3! i hope you enjoyed the first chapter for the games, and like i've said, i can't wait to introduce more dynamics and get to know other characters besides levi! thank you for reading!

taglist: @fleshandbonez @reivelmin @estella-novella @zoozvie @snoopyluver20 @honeybunbunn @jjune-07 @lovetwiyor @levisbrat25 comment and ask to be added!

likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! thank you for reading <3

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐖𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓 .

# with donquixote doflamingo.

the king of dressrosa had what he wanted — when he wanted. you included.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day twenty-three. smut (mdni!). shibari. power imbalance. usage of devil-fruit. toxic!relationship. obsessed!doflamingo. mentions of blood. kidnapping. sadistic!doflamingo. honestly, doflamingo. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 1.8k.

marines were oftentimes disappointing — powerless marines, however, with a hero’s ego and character, were a disease. the truth of dressrosa’s reign nature was his perfected little secret, yet it was not uncommon for certain doubts to reach the surface, those who, however, were swiftly eliminated by vergo. doflamingo’s domain had emerged through a foolproof plan, therefore its aftermath was of insufferable boredom. aware of such, the man who previously occupied the heart seat of the donquixote allowed an arrogant, avaricious rear-admiral to reach the kingdom’s barriers — a bit of fun offered to its king.

the man, for sure, had a considerable fleet. yet, upon approaching the palace under the pretense of a marine-ordered reunion, the rear-admiral had but a mere subordinate accompanying him into the lion’s den: you. and not a minute thereafter, doflamingo understood why — you were the prettiest individual he had ever seen; a distraction. an attentive glint; an intelligence your commander did not give you the proper credit for. a fancy dinner whose food you had not touched, whereas the rear-admiral drank and feasted while voicing out demands that doflamingo had no intentions to follow whatsoever.

at last, when his patience wore itself thin, he snapped a finger to call for diamante, a brief order spoken: “get rid of the trash.”

the rear-admiral had been dragged out of the dining room, shouting in desperation as doflamingo accessed your figure — terrified. his tongue darted out of his mouth, appreciating the prey that had been bestowed upon him. doflamingo grinned, his fingertip teasing the edge of his wine cup.

“eat,” he demanded, shoving his fork into the meat.

your hands were trembling as you guided the food into your mouth, avoiding his pointed glance. doflamingo was delighted. vergo had gifted him the rear-admiral as a source of brief entertainment, unaware of the long-term feast that accompanied that pitiful excuse of a man. you were meek in comparison to him — and aware of it, too. that made you obedient; conformed. a small feline trapped amidst the jaws of a predator. you were all but awaiting your death, aware that the thread of your life relied on his patience. doflamingo was used to the fearsome position he occupied — thrived on it, even — but never once had he terrified such a gorgeous one, and that alone was enough to make his cock twitch.

you were given quarters adjacent to his own, free access to the palace — unaware that pica was an ever-present figure, watching amidst the rocks. daylight was yours to claim, yet at the first sight of moonshine, doflamingo could be found sitting on a couch in your bedroom, legs spread wide and a devious smirk etched on his face. he never dared move; never dared command. instead, he lived for the teasing, for the terrified expression you wore, fearing his next step; of his thoughts. you sat on the corner, hugging your knees, wary, squinting eyes failing to catch a glimpse of him. you were cornered and vulnerable and oh, so appetizing.

doflamingo fell for that hunting game, deciding to surprise you in broad daylight, too — accompanying you in silence; hovering over your hunched figure in the library. his desire was palpable, as well as his possessiveness. not a single member of the donquixote family, save for his elite soldiers, was allowed to reach you — viola, especially, for he had no doubt the woman, who loathed him so, would meddle in his game; attempt to free you. doflamingo could not have that. all things considered, he was a patient man — dressrosa hadn’t become his after a reckless strategy, after all. it had been a well-crafted stratagem that he was proud of, and you were deserving of similar care.

doflamingo led you to the edge of restlessness, wishing not to force you to submission through brute force, but rather having you succumb to it — mentally and physically — after prolonged emotional torture. and when, at last, you caved, months wasted on a failed escape plan, he was right there to wrap his little strings around his prey.

you were suspended in the air, stripped naked in the middle of his room. your wrists were tied behind your back, and his strings covered every inch of your figure — tightly — the flesh of your thighs and breasts spilling out, sensitive and aching. he licked his lips at the sight, circling you as though you were a maimed, tired target.

your calves and legs were trembling, giving in under the pressure. he moved his middle finger, tugging the string around your neck. your head was thrown backwards; back arching painfully. your toes curled, feet unable to touch the ground underneath. he had you propelled far higher than intended, but that was no problem whatsoever, for doflamingo himself was a man of considerable height, and his twitching cock would find no issue sliding inside your cunt, when the time came.

“where were you planning on going, hm?” he roughly inquired, nose buried on your neck. doflamingo started to suck harshly on the exposed skin, and you shuddered, failing to move, for his strings held you in place as though a marionette.

“nowhere,” you whispered, ever-so-softly, following his movements with blown pupils.

the string at your throat tightened, a singular streak of blood emerging under the pressure. he licked it, grunting when the string sliced his tongue and mingled his blood with your own. he observed you through his sunglasses, a smirk that showcased his canines apparent in his face.

“yet, you were found in the docks,” doflamingo mocked, purposefully cutting his fingers on the strings as his hand roamed through your body. “do you think there is a corner in this world you could run off to where i wouldn’t find you?”

he forced his index and middle inside your parted lips, smearing them crimson; forcing you to taste him. your pupils dilated, fear mingled with an undertouch of lust that had his tip leaking. when he retreated his fingers — coated in your saliva — doflamingo shoved it inside his own mouth, taunting laughter coming out muffled.

“what was the plan?” doflamingo continued, increasing the tightness of his strings. he trailed his index down your stomach, gradually reaching your clit. “enter a commoners’ ship? dock into an unknown island, enjoy a few hours of freedom until i dragged you back?”

you gasped, out of breath as the string constricted the passage of air through your neck. he laughed — lowly; mockingly — drawing pleasure from your struggle. his finger hovered over your clit, applying a certain pressure that had you squirming.

“i gave you a home, food, clothes,” he listed, drunk on the scent of the cologne he chose for you — and that you were all but coerced to wear. “yet, you tried to flee. how greedy, what else could you want?”

a single tear rolled down your cheek. freedom, perhaps, would be your wish. regardless, your eyes rolled, desperate sounds falling from your lips as you gasped for air. he grunted, enjoying the spectacle. two long fingers teased your folds, teasing your entrance — wet, surprisingly enough. you were getting off on that treatment. what an amusing lamb. he circled your clit, chuckling at the immediate reaction.

“need to breathe, don’t you?” doflamingo taunted, releasing the pressure with a smirk as you gasped, filling your neglected lungs with air. “can’t even do that without my permission, yet you dare try running away?”

“i’m sorry,” you sobbed, squirming. “will never do that again, young master, i promise.”

the title rolling out of your tongue had him containing a shudder of delight, refusing to offer you a glimpse of the power your voice held over him.

“you’ll call me doffy from now on,” he demanded, strings dropping you roughly on the floor. you whimpered at the sudden contact of your knees against the ground, not daring to complain regardless.

“yes, doffy,” you crumbled, forced to give in to his commands.

doflamingo’s strings toyed with you midair as though you were a lifeless doll, throwing your figure on the edge of his large bed, knees sunk into the mattress. his palm bent your front forward, face bruied on a pillow. strings wrapped around your arms and wrists, obligating you to keep them raised into the air. your chest was pressed against your thighs — strings constricting the blood flow; flesh pouring from the edges. doflamingo gifted himself with a clear sight of your pert ass, using his free hand to part your folds, licking his lips. he landed a harsh, heavy slap on it before getting rid of the layers of clothing that separated him from your leaking hole.

his tip teased your entrance — cunt already clenching around nothing. doflamingo did not mind enough to fish for a condom; perhaps if he impregnated you, you’d stop musing an escape. he moved the fingers that controlled the strings, strength enough to leave superficial cuts on your flesh. your blood dripped on his sheets and you sucked on a harsh breath, sobbing as a singular string threatened to maim your nipples. the pain had been enough before, but when he slid inside, large and long girth shoved straight into your cervix, you all but shouted — the sound sent to the pillow‘s fabric.

doflamingo didn’t give you the time to get used to his length, moving with a ruthless pace. his free hand gripped your ass, feet dug into the ground as he hammered inside. the bedroom was filled with your muffled moans; balls slapping against your ass at every roll of his hips. the warmth of your cunt enveloped his girth, deep still yet not quite as enough, for his base remained unsheathed. he clicked his tongue in annoyance, retreating altogether, leaking tip barely inside before doflamingo shoved himself completely, uncaring for the state of you.

the sheets were a combined chaos of blood and the pair of your essences. doflamingo felt himself stretching your walls to the point of discomfort, yet you all but mewled louder, fingers maimed by the strings as you held onto them.

“still want to leave?” he grunted, sweat dripping down his bronzed skin as he hammered his tip into your cervix.

“no, doffy,” you stuttered, gasping once he, at last, found your g-spot. he grinned, sunglasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he increased the aggressiveness of his pace.

another thrust teasing your gummy spots; saliva dripping down on your back from the tip of his darting tongue. he leaned his chest forward, angling himself in a manner that had his girth swallowed entirely by your greedy walls — clenching; challenging; threatening to milk him dry.

“will cum,” he stated, intonation not open to complaints. “and you will take it all.”

the string at your neck had your head thrown back, mouth parted from the pillow. “yes, doffy.”

“good bunny,” doflamingo complimented, clicking his tongue as your walls tightened due to the approach of your orgasm.

a single, devastating thrust — combined with the pressure of his strings around your entire figure — had you sent to the edge. cum showered his girth and he shot his own load inside, the sight of blood exciting him far more than it should. doflamingo kept the pace regardless of the shared orgasm, fighting against his own overstimulation as he ravaged your insides, ignoring your desperate pleadings for an instance of reprieve. you dared to run away — and he’d make sure to smear your walls until the punishment was etched into your mind.

— 🐈‍⬛ : i could NOT fix him but i could make him moan like a girl.

[yeorisanaxox]

. ₊˚ෆ xoxo, sincerely yours ♡₊˚ \\ Jung Wooyoung : Valentine's Special SMAU

10.0 Valentine’s day

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️

MENTIONS OF A PANIC ATTACK BELOW IN ITALICS WRITING

One block after another, you found yourself getting back into the rhythm of building your creation. The clicks from your keyboard tickling your ears strangely pleasant but still wasn’t enough to distract your mind from the world you had seen on twitter.

Surely the pictures weren't doing it actual justice and probably looked a lot grander in person as you knew the boys always went above and beyond whenever it came to their events. Even if they were just a moment in time.

The girls looked absolutely stunning tonight too despite the obvious frowns they wore, knowing you weren’t joining them.

Thinking back on it for a small second, the momentum in your fingers faltered as one by one, the thoughts you had worked to push in a small compartment in the back of your brain, came flooding back like clockwork.

You told yourself you weren’t going to regret any of this. That staying home and not dragging yourself to that party was for the best and was going to save you the heartache in the long run because you knew that he was there… and with her.

Ever since learning giselle had a crush on wooyoung too, it felt like some giant gray cloud came and loomed over you. Never yielding a drop of rain nor showed any signs of the sun existing beyond its thickness. Just utter gloom that you couldn’t shake.

What was making it harder to process is that it was her.

The same girl who everyday back then made you have to walk with your head down anytime you showed up to school because of all the threatening looks you would get from all the girls while keeping a tight hold on their boyfriend’s hands and the guys calling you everything but your name, which spurred more rumors about you being some kind slut. 

You remember like it was yesterday…

Walking into school that day felt like you had stepped into a den of lions. All heads turning towards you like the meal of the day just showed up and they were ready to feast.

Something was wrong. Sensing it through the tension in the air.

For as long as you could remember, you always strived to be the student that stayed close only with your friends and kept out of trouble’s way to avoid being the talk of the school as kids your age tended to be quite brutal with their judgements and swift to jump on any bandwagon, and drag it on longer than what it had to. 

But now it seemed like your worst nightmare was coming true. Feeling all eyes on you, they followed you with every step you took with utter disgust. 

If she even thinks that my boyfriend is next on her list, she's got another thing coming, 

Some nerve of that hoe to show up today,

If that were my boyfriend, she wouldn't be walking right now,

It’s always the quiet ones that will fool you.

And so many more that you were able to make out amongst the whispering.

'What were they talking about?' Your hands tightening around the straps of your backpack as you could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears erratically, close to feeling like it was going to beat right out of your chest.

But nothing could prepare you for what was next. When you finally got to your locker, where you always met up with belle and nvee, to see if they could help make sense of why you were chosen as today’s spectacle. Only to see them with wet rags, trying to scrub off that which was written in bold red ink, plastered all over your locker.

Homewrecker.   

You and along with others, stood at the scene of the crime but only you were mortified to what you were seeing. The girls scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed but it was no use.

Whatever it was written with wouldn’t budge, causing them to toss their rags furiously before noticing you standing behind them. Belle being the first to run up to you, covering your eyes with her hand and panic all in her voice. 

“Don’t look mami.” She trembled as she hugged you tightly, your body shaking with hers. 

“So which one of you bitches did this huh?” Hearing nvee roar at the onlooking crowd but no one stepped forward to confess. Only saying 'oh so that’s her locker.' 

It happened so fast- belle was literally ripped away from off you and you were then suddenly surrounded by a mass majority of girls who were seething threats at you and pointing fingers in your face. 

So you like wrecking homes huh, 

Wreck my home bitch! I dare you! 

Some even begin to pull your hair and grabbing you by your clothes, jostling you around. You couldn't see them but heard belle and nvee screaming from somewhere in the mix, to let you go while trying to break through the crowd but couldn’t make entry.

‘It’s not true!’ You wanted to scream back at them, but the words were stuck in your throat. And you were too afraid what more they might do if you spoke. You could only stand there paralyzed as the whole thing happened. 

Eyes flickering over the crowd, unable to keep up with anything that was being said anymore. They had you cornered. Back against the wall as they exaggerated their movements.

Smacking the wall behind your head, causing you to flinch and body shake more than it already was. Your breath started to labor as a feeling of panic took over, coursing through your insides and spreading like wildfire.

Hyperventilating, your vision becomes blurry as well as clouded with tears that were rapidly spilling down your face. You let out an ugly sob as your hands shot up to your ears, covering them to drown out the noise but that barely to any avail.

You could still hear them and all their threats of beating you up.

“Get your hands off her!” A voice roared from afar, sounding more masculine than the rest and seeming to stop the commotion around you too. 

You still crying, try and blink away your tears to make out the blurry figure that was coming at you at lightning speed. Their presence taking over you like a tidal wave, they scooped you up bridal style in their arms, hurried off with you in another direction. 

That smell.

One you knew all too well. A mixture between musk and a strong scent of buttermint candy as one would when their tendency was popping three in their mouth at once. You didn’t even have to look up to know it was wooyoung carrying you.

His breathing unsteady, you feeling him spin you in one swift motion while raring his back into something. Sounding like a door as loud screeching sound followed. 

“Everyone get out now!” His voice boomed against the walls, rattling your bones and sending chills down your spine from his indignant tone. 

You then feel yourself being set down on something and him allotting himself between your legs to properly hold you. His arms held your trembling body against his tightly as his face nuzzled against your cheek, creating warmth. 

“I know, babygirl. That was very traumatic for you and you’re feeling beyond scared right now. And that’s okay. But I really need you to try and calm down for me. You’re hyperventilating like crazy.” 

Maneuvering his hand around to find yours, he brings it underneath his shirt and places it over his chest, right where his heart. Thumping steadily underneath your fingertips. He presses your body further into his so that you could feel him as his chest expanded and contracted against you. 

The movement almost reminds you of how you went to his house before the beginning of the semester, and you played in his pool that whole afternoon until evening. After having a splash war for what seemed like ages, it came to an end and you decided to float on your back because you loved how the sensation of the water swaying made you feel like you were at the beach, drifting with the tides to the middle of the sea.

Wooyoung was always right there to hold you above the water so that you never went under. In small steps, he spun you around until your fingers got pruney and tummies rumbled for food. 

Lost in that memory, you didn’t even realize how your breathing was starting to match his. And the tightness you felt in your chest was slowly loosening at the comfort of his hand on your side, tracing circles there.

“There you go mamas. Just like that.” He praised you and peppered your cheek with light kisses, seemingly unbothered by tasting your tears. Your stomach bloomed with butterflies and feeling a blush creep up the back of your neck. Thank God he couldn’t see you right now. 

Staying like that for a few more minutes, to ensure that you had fully calmed down and breathing was back to normal before he pulled away. The first time he was able to get a good look at you and it’s not your usual happy go-lucky expression that he had gotten so accustomed to seeing. 

This version of you that was sitting before him was heartbreaking to witness as the eyes he loved so much were glazed over with sadness and the lips that always wore his favorite smile, trembled like any second they would release those same noises that he heard from earlier, that he now marked top of his list of most hated sounds.

Taking your face in the palms of his hands, his heart shatters into pieces at the fresh set of tears trickling down your face. Ushering them away with his thumbs, he leans in and plants a long and tender kiss against your forehead before resting his there and praying to God that he never had to see you like this ever again. 

“Let’s go home.” He says in the silences of what turned out to be the boy's bathroom. Withdrawing himself from you, his hands laying claim at your hips and pulls you off the counter. 

“What about school?” Your voice sounded rough in which you coughed in attempts to soothe your throat. 

“You seriously think I’m gonna let you go back out there and watch you force yourself to make it through the rest of the day?” He tilts his head whilst looking at you as if you had lost your mind. 

“I don’t know what I would do if I saw another person put their hands on you again.”

Having to go through all of that and experience your first panic attack at just fifteen years old. Not only that but also having someone who you thought was your friend, turn on you without a second thought and for five years you never knew why until now.  

Reminiscing on it, a newfound feeling of anger boiled in the pits of your stomach as you sat up infuriated. Another reason why you told yourself you wouldn’t show up to that party was, so you didn't participate in giselle’s stupid little game.

Because you were above treating wooyoung like he was some prize to win unlike her. And despite what she’s done, as crazy as it sounds, also out of respect for whatever feelings she truly had for him.

But fuck that because now you were solely thinking about the person she was and the person she still is til this day. Whether you ever got the chance to confess to wooyoung or not, you’d be damned if you sat back and watched your best friend be with someone of the likeness of her. 

Shooting up from your bed and nearly toppling down on your face because you forgot that you still tangled up in your blankets, but you steady yourself and made your way over to your closet.

Party clothes, party clothes, party clothes chanting to yourself as you shuffled through your option, trying to find something decent enough to wear and somewhat go with the theme of the night.

But nothing. Absolutely nothing. Cursing yourself for not going to the mall with belle when she offered. But then again, you didn’t think you would be going to the party. 

Thinking for a short moment, you remembered that belle had a bunch of extravagant dresses across the hall that you could wear for the night. You would just shoot her a text and let her know that you were borrowing one. 

Dashing through the hall, making a straight way for her room, only to be stopped dead in your tracks by three knocks knocking at your door. You stare at it confused when knowing the majority of the campus right now was at the party probably already wasted and dancing to some trendy pop song that was currently charting. 

So, who could it possibly be?

The knocks became more persistent, and you realize that you were still standing there like some deer caught in headlights. Letting out a huff, you pivot over towards the door and throw it open.

There stands san with his adoring smile and glasses perched high on his nose as he invites himself in. 

“What are you doing here?” Closing the door behind you, san looks around the place as if he’s never been here before, before turning his attention back on you with his hands behind his back. He was dressed rather handsomely, black slacks and a black long-sleeved top with a cutout of a heart in the center of his chest, showing off bits of his pecs.  

“To see you obviously.” He answers like it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world. “Didn’t see you with your girls tonight so I figured you’d be here.” 

If he noticed, you wondered if wooyoung did too?

Giselle was probably over the moon right now by your absence and to that you to roll your eyes internally. 

“I was actually on my way out.” Shuffling your weight between both feet awkwardly under his intense stare. 

“Oh? And to where if I may ask?” His cocks to the side with a certain tease laced in his tone, giving you the sneaky suspicion that he already knew and seeing if you would come out and say it. 

To his surprise, you did since there was no point in hiding it. There was nowhere else to go as nothing was open at this hour beside the late-night pizza joint that was a little way out from campus. Plus, they only delivered. 

“Don’t tell me that’s how you’re going?” He waves a finger at your current state. You were dressed in a pair of pink hello kitty shorts that couldn’t even be classified as that as they were fitting you more like boy short underwear, and the matching pink crop top. A blush fanned over the back of your neck as you suddenly felt inappropriate but to be fair, how were you supposed to know that he was coming over?

“I was just in the middle of trying to get dressed before you showed up.” You murmured while hanging your head to hide your embarrassment, but san didn't seem bothered at all. He just laughs and grabs you by the shoulders, pushing you in the direction of your bedroom. 

“Well, it’s a wonder that I showed up just in time. Let’s go get you ready to look drop dead gorgeous."

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

San was actually a lot of help, more than what you wanted to admit. While you scrambled about through your makeup to come up with the simplest look, san hummed quietly to himself whilst curling your hair. Shockingly doing a better job than you ever did. You make a mental note to ask him about it later but for right now you were more focused on finishing and getting out the door. 

“So,” he starts, catching your eye in your vanity mirror and letting go of a freshly curled strand before picking another section up and starting again. 

“What made you change your mind?” 

You thought it over, debating if you should tell him. He already knew about your crush on wooyoung and everything that happened back in high school so why the heck not.

“Just thought about some stuff from back then. More specifically about that day when all this mess started and how some friend I would be if I let someone as terrible as giselle be with someone as wonderful as my best friend.” “Your best friend whom you also love?” He sneaks another peek up at you in which you swatted his thigh, causing him to laugh out loudly. 

“Focus on what you were doing before you burn my hair off!” You can’t help but laugh with him as you both were finishing up on the final touches. You used setting spray to lock in your makeup and he runs his fingers through your hair to loosen the curls just how you liked. 

However, there was still the question that was gnawing in the back of your head if what you were doing was wrong and could be considered to be selfish? You know you said to bump her feelings, but you can’t help but wonder if that makes you no better than her by disregarding hers? 

“What are you thinking about now?” San’s voice brings you back to reality that you hadn’t even realized you had escaped. The setting spray still being held in midair is probably when he noticed. 

“San,” chewing your lip before meeting his eyes in the mirror like he did with you. He hums and rests his chin on top of your head, nodding to go on. 

“You don’t think I’m being selfish do you? I mean yes what she did to me wasn’t right but she still has feelings for him too.” 

“I don’t think you’re being selfish. Knowing what kind of person giselle is, the way I see it, you’re just looking out wooyoung. And if it were me who was in this position, I would want a friend like you to do the same thing for me.” 

He gives you a reassuring smile then stands to his full height, maneuvering around you so that you could be face to face. He lets out a chuckle and shakes his head before saying, “You know, he was quite upset when you wouldn’t answer back to his messages this week. I haven’t seen him like that since that day.”

If you didn’t already feel bad for leaving him unread, knowing that he was upset about it just made you feel ten times worse. You didn't do it because you were upset with him but because you needed time to think.

Seems like that’s the only thing you found yourself doing since yuqi came by that day, and yet you still couldn’t wrap your head around any of this.

Realizing that you had spaced out again and well passed being dressed. You stood up and gave one finally look at your appearance in your full-length mirror. That reminds you too– you had to let belle know you were borrowing her dress. 

“You look beautiful.” You hear san from beside you after hitting send. He’s smiling at you softly and takes your hand to spin you around.

“C’mon now. Let’s go show your lover boy.”

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

Just like you thought. The pictures on twitter didn’t do any justice to what you were witnessing before your eyes.

The entryway was decorated in a variety of pink and red heart shaped balloons, all the way til you reached the main area. The room was much bigger than you imagined. It was lit in a dark hue of red lighting and specks of white lights dancing around like disco effects. Probably from the spotlight machine that you were waiting to pick up with wooyoung the other day. 

From the high ceilings, there hung a total of three chandeliers with beautiful light fixtures and strung with heart shaped garland connecting one to the other. There being a second floor too that was packed with people who, from what you were able to tell, were nursing solo cups while engaging in conversation. 

The bottom floor where you and san stood, across the way was a stage. Assuming that’s where the tunes were coming from being that you could see speakers, and this floor being just as packed as the top except these where dancing. 

“How did we do this year?” San juts his chin out while wearing a proud smile. Knowing he was referring to the setup. 

“Outstanding as always! Gotta give it to you fraternity boys, y'all sure know how to throw a party. I wasn’t expecting this place to be this big on the inside either. What was it before?” 

“It was an youreold study hall. The administration office was gonna have it torn down and paved for more parking space so more students could park on campus and not have to use the parking garage as much.

But we made the pitch to them if we could use it for tonight before they did and the money we make, split half to give back to the community and the other to help pave it.”

And being that you both were standing right here right now, you could only assume that the administration office agreed with them.

The idea actually wasn’t bad. Thinking about how so many students with cars would appreciate that and would be able keep a couple bucks in their pockets.

You're sure the next batch of students who would be coming after you graduate would too.

Your eyes wandered around the room for a second time, wanting to see if you could spot the girls so you didn’t burden san with the responsibility of babysitting you the whole night.

It was partially his party after all. With all the planning that went into, he should be able to enjoy it. 

Standing on your toes to see better into the crowd– and that’s when you saw them.  

Tucked away in a far corner, on a lounge sofa. You watched her as she leaned into him to whisper something in his ear, in which he responds with his infamous witch laugh that you swear you could almost hear though the music was blasting. 

You knew that they were going to be here together and even mentally prepared yourself on the drive here that you weren’t going to be bothered by it. But standing here and seeing them like this versus visualizing it in your head, your heart sunk to the depths of your stomach like someone had hung a millstone around it. 

“Hey.” San calls out from beside you, gently placing his hands on your shoulders and turning your focus away from them to look at him. 

Leaning you in towards him, “I know what it may seem like but I think it’s worth telling you that the only reason he’s here with her tonight is because he wasn’t able to get a hold of you and ask you to be his date.” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the music but still only where you could hear.

As a result, your eyes tripled in size, staring back at him and waiting for him to say sike. But it never came. His eyes held a sternness with the same set line between his brows, causing your heart to feel like it was crawling back into its place. Only except it wasn’t and trying to burst through your chest instead. 

And for a second, it gave you a burst of hope that maybe, just maybe, things possibly falling in place for you. But when you look back across the way and see how cozy they looked, that all went away in an instant.

He saw it too, that twinkle dwindling like a shooting star. He can only squeeze your arms in comfort. 

“How about I go and get us some drinks. Wanna come with?”

He tries to lighten the mood but you shook your head,

‘I’ll stay here until you come back.” Wrapping your arms around yourself, seeing that the punch bowl was kinda near where they were sitting. You weren’t ready for him to see you yet. Not until you fully thought about what you were going to say to him. 

San nods, giving you a reassuring smile before disappearing into the crowd. 

Now standing there alone, you felt out of place while watching everyone carry on around you like they were having the time of their lives. Parties were never your scene as you always found yourself whenever wooyoung or the girls dragged you to one, you spent majority of the time being like a fly on the wall as everything unfolded in front of you. 

Being bumped into from behind, you nearly tripped over your feet. Catching yourself, you got ready to turn around and apologize to whomever for the accident though it wasn't your fault.

You come face to face with someone who you haven’t seen in a long time.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

There stood manon, sipping on her beverage while keeping eye contact with you.

Your blood ran cold as alarms began to go off in your head. You then felt another bump into your back, looking on both sides of you and seeing rose and some other girl who you recognized but never learned her name back in high school. They all wore smirks as they surrounded you, making you feel small. 

“What are you doing here anyways? It’s typically considered pathetic to show up to these kinds of things alone.” She tilts her head, almost like she’s demanding an answer from you. And you timidly gave her one stupidly, like you had lost all your backbone. 

“I-I came with san.” You stuttered like some fool, mentally kicking yourself. 

She nods in response and takes another sip of her drink. “Well that was rather nice of him. Taking pity on you and all.”

Her saying that flipped something off in you for a small second. Wanting to slap that drink right out her hand and show her not to talk to you that way. Your hands curling into fists at your side and shaking as you restrained yourself, remembering that it was only one of you and three of them. That switch immediately turned back off.

“Be so fucking for real now. You and I both know that you’re not really here for san. You’re just using him to get what you want. But let me make something very clear.” She passes her drink to rose before stepping dangerously closer to you. Your noses almost touching as your breath quickens in the back of your throat.

You dared to not move an inch to prove that you weren’t afraid of her though on the inside you were feeling the exact opposite. 

Scared shitless as your brain began to pull back the scene from high school when you were cornered in the hallway. 

“Stop daydreaming while you’re ahead because it’s never going to happen.” Her voice was low and threatening, and that amused glint that once was in her eyes, long gone. She then takes her hand and grabs you by under your chin, acrylic nails digging into your cheeks.

You winced and head followed in the direction that she turned it. Back on wooyoung and giselle who were still in the same spot. 

“You see that? Look at them. Look at her.” She forces you to watch them get closer than they were before, causing your eyes to sting with tears but you held them at bay. Not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing you cry. “My best friend is finally happy and getting the attention she deserves from him. 

For so long she lived in your damn shadow and couldn’t even get him to look twice in her direction because you were in the way. And if you think I’m gonna let you waltz up in here and take this moment away from her, you got me dead wrong.” She finishes and shoves you away from her with force, causing you to stumble back and fall on the floor.

Clutching your hip in pain, you bit your lip to silence your cry. You held your head down and your hair framing around your face, shielding you from their faces as you let the tears fall freely, unable to hold them back. 

“I know the fuck you did not just put your hands on my best friend!” You heard a voice shriek from across the way, heels clanking aggressively against the tile as they got closer. Peaking through your hair, you see that it was belle, nvee and chaeryoung hot on her heels.

You watched as belle and nvee lunged at manon, starting a big fight before you and the party soon realizing what was happening as the girls were now on the floor. People pulled out their phones and began to chant ‘fight.’

Chaeryoung helps you stand on your feet, fixing your dress that had ridden up. 

“Baby stop!” You hear another voice coming from behind you, panickedly. Yunho being the first to appear and san coming second, breaking through the crowd to break the girls up.

It was a clear hassle for the two men as the five girls were reluctant to let go of each other. Spitting curses at one another. The boys were finally able to break them up, all of them huffing and puffing with their hair and dresses all out of whack. Yunho even in the intense moment, fixed belle up and san doing the same to nvee. 

You were still holding your jaw and chaeryoung by your side, shielding you protectively in case of another outbreak. 

“What the hell is going on over–”

Seeing wooyoung then rushing to the scene and of course giselle was right behind him. But your eyes only lock with him as this was the first time you were seeing him in three days. You swallowed nervously as you noticed a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he stepped closer to you.

His jaw tightening and nostrils flared, seeing how you were cradling your face like you were in pain. 

“Did you get hurt?” He asked though he could clearly see that you did. 

You were too afraid to answer him because you recognized the look he was giving you. The same one he had long ago when something similar to this happened. 

“Let’s go.” He reaches forwards and pulls you with him. Only to be stopped by a hand. That which belonging to giselle. 

“No wooyoung! Don’t go with her!” She burst out at him, surprising her own self by how loudly she just yelled at him. Wooyoung only turns his head in her direction with the coldest of cold looks.

“Get you and your friend things and go home.” 

Was all he said and turned on his heels with you behind him, following him out of the party and into the night.

masterlist || <previous - next>

pairing jung wooyoung x fem reader Genre smau! f2lvrs w crack, drama, slow burning??? mid cursing

Synopsis "Finally confessing your feeling to the guy you've had a crush on since middle school. Only one problem... your ex best friend has a crush on him too. In the end, who get the guy??"

all dates/ timestamps in pics are irrelevant to the story

taglist 🏷️

@istansquirrels @miniature-tragedy @domfikeluva @marvolos @santineez @ateezswonderland @bellybellasblog @zzenkha

written by yeorisanaxox. No reposting or translations/ Leave a like and reblog w [feedback is much appreciated]✨

[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...

[discothemechanic]

New feelings (Guest 1337 x 007n7)

This is sort of related to my parody @the-lost-guest and Star's parody @technological-patriarch.

When you think about it, 1337 gets hurt a lot. Not that he can really help himself. The Specter left him with nothing but his fists, his strength, and a grudge that would be his constant companion. The Specter hated the guest’s guts, and made sure to make that disgust and disdain as obvious as possible. It wasn't like anyone knew exactly why the Specter hated him, but then again, it didn’t really matter. It just did. Maybe it was what he stood for, maybe it was something more personal. But it was there, heavy, suffocating, like a constant shadow.

Despite it all, 1337 never let up. He kept that stupid motto, the one that he’d forced himself to believe in through all the pain: “Be strong. Always be strong.” It had been his shield, his armor against the world. But even the strongest shields have their cracks. He had his moments. Moments of doubt, where the weight of it all nearly crushed him. The torturous god—the one that left its mark all over his life—broke him more ways than none.

He didn’t like to talk about the nights. The nightmares. The endless dark that chased him, clawing at his mind. Night terrors, they called them. And they haunted him like a vengeful ghost. He never got any rest. Not really. His eyes were always heavy, always tired, from the exhaustion that no amount of sleep could cure. His dreams weren’t normal. No, they were worse. Deaths so brutal, so grotesque that they defied even the limits of PG-13. He watched the people he loved—his friends—fall. And each time it hurt just as badly. Each time it felt just as real.

And the dreams got worse. They always did. As time went on, they chipped away at him, piece by piece. He barely slept anymore, which made everything harder. His mind couldn’t keep up. His reactions were slower. His focus is duller. The world felt like it was closing in on him, a suffocating weight of blood and terror. But the worst part? The worst part was knowing that it wasn’t just the nightmares that made him feel that way.

There were the killers, too. The ones that stalked him, the ones who knew he was an obstacle. The ones who wanted him gone.

He didn’t know it yet, but this round, he was the main target. John Doe—the legend himself—had it out for him. It wasn’t enough for John to simply deal with Builderman; 1337 kept getting in the way. And for some reason, that was unforgivable. John’s obsession with wiping out Builderman was matched only by his need to destroy anyone who dared oppose him.

1337 had the gear, sure. He was armed, equipped. But against giant claws that could slice through steel, what was armor worth? The first strike hit his back—sharp, fast, and unforgiving. It wasn’t a clean cut. His muscles screamed in protest, his skin shredded, but he didn’t scream. He had learned to wear pain like a second skin. Every inch of it. His body was a patchwork of scars, a testament to everything he had endured, and to every enemy that had ever tried to break him.

He ran. He dodged. His mind was racing, calculating his next move, but nothing he did seemed to slow John down. Every punch, every kick—nothing. John didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem stunned. In fact, he only got faster, more relentless. 1337 needed to get close, but that was like walking into a lion’s den. His usual tactics didn’t work here.

And then, when it seemed like there was no escape, when it seemed like the King of Corruption himself had him cornered, fate took an unexpected turn. A loud crack—then, out of nowhere, a sword. Shedletsky. The chicken man himself. Charging in like a whirlwind, slamming his blade into John Doe with the force of a freight train.

1337 didn’t have time to process it. He didn’t have time to ask why or how. All he knew was that for the first time in what felt like forever, he had an opening. A chance to run.

His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins as he bolted away, faster than he ever thought possible. He rounded a corner, panting, his breath ragged and shallow. His legs burned, his chest ached, and his body screamed for rest. But there was no time for that. Not yet.

The ballpit. He made it that far—barely. His knees gave way and he collapsed, falling to the cold, hard floor. He didn’t even have the strength to pull himself up the stairs. His vision blurred as exhaustion overtook him, and all he could do was lie there, gasping for air.

The sounds of battle still echoed in the distance, but they felt so far away. For a moment, it was just him and the silence. His heavy breathing the only thing filling the air.

Then, the unmistakable sound of a medkit opening. 007n7. He was there.

The hacker didn’t waste time. He was efficient, already kneeling beside 1337, digging through the kit with practiced hands. Without a word, he gently rolled 1337 onto his stomach, carefully removing the guest’s army vest. The wounds were bad—deep, jagged cuts. His back was a mess. 7n7 winced at the sight of it, though he didn't let it show. The hacker was calm, methodical, despite the severity of the injuries.

“Sorry if this hurts,” 7n7 said softly, his voice surprisingly steady.

It was almost absurd, how much pain 1337 had endured, how much he had taken for others. And yet, now, when it was his turn to be the one needing help, he couldn’t help but feel… helpless. The protector. The tank. The one who took all the hits. Now he was the one lying there, vulnerable. Weak.

Of course they needed him. They always did. But for once, he wasn’t the one holding everything together. He was the one falling apart.

He forced himself to stay conscious, despite the pain. Despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull him under. He couldn’t let himself give up. Not now. Not when they needed him more than ever.

He clenched his fists, willing himself to stay awake as 7n7 worked, his fingers moving with the precision of someone who had seen this kind of injury before.

It felt nice having someone touch him so gently and with such care again. For a fleeting moment, it was like he was back home. Back where things made sense. Back with his wife, Daisy, and his daughter, Charlotte. The warmth of their embrace, the soft way Daisy would hold him after a long day, the laughter that filled the house when Charlotte ran around, full of energy and joy. Those memories were distant now, almost out of reach. But this—this small act of kindness—brought him closer to that feeling.

He hadn't realized how much he had missed being cared for, being looked after. The world had stripped that away from him piece by piece, until he became nothing but a soldier, always fighting, always protecting. It wasn’t just the physical pain that weighed him down—it was the emotional toll of having to be strong, of always being the one people leaned on, never the other way around.

And then there was 7n7. The hacker, quiet and distant, almost always lost in thought. He didn’t seem to have much joy in him—no smiles, no easy laughs. He carried an invisible weight, an air of sadness that clung to him. But 1337 had seen something different in his actions. In the way he talked about his son, the way his voice softened and his eyes lit up when he mentioned him. It wasn’t something that slipped past 1337. The way 7n7 spoke about his son with such raw love and adoration… It was a stark contrast to the cold, calculating person he usually was.

And the small things. Like when they found something—anything—that wasn’t pizza in this hellish world. The way 7n7’s face would light up at the smallest pleasures. It reminded him of those simple moments with Daisy. Of sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a meal, laughing about something silly, and feeling like everything was okay.

It made him feel… something. Something that he couldn’t quite put into words, but it was there. The warmth in his chest, the soft ache in his heart. It reminded him of his wife, Daisy. Of the love they shared, the life they had before everything turned upside down.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Not now.

He had felt that before, but now, it felt stronger. The way his heart beat a little faster whenever 7n7 was near. The way his thoughts kept drifting back to him, even as his body was weak and battered. It was the same feeling he had once felt around Daisy—the feeling that he was falling, but this time, it wasn’t her that was filling his thoughts. No. This can’t be right.

It didn’t make sense. They were in a world full of chaos, full of blood and violence. There were bigger things to worry about. But even so, his mind couldn’t help but return to it. He was in love again and it confused him, unsettled him. How could he feel this way, when all he wanted was to get back to the life he’d lost?

His thoughts were interrupted as a sharp twinge of pain shot through his torso. He hissed, flinching instinctively as the hacker pulled the bandages tight. The motion was quick, and it pulled at the raw wounds, making him grunt in discomfort. His vision blurred for a second, and he bit down on his lip, trying to stay still.

"S-Sorry! I-I will be more careful!" 7n7's voice cracked with panic. His hands froze, still hovering over the bandages as if he were afraid to move too much.

The apology felt genuine, and 1337 could hear the worry in his voice. It was strange, seeing someone like 7n7, who seemed so detached and distant, so concerned about him. He could feel the hacker’s hesitation, the uncertainty in every motion. It was strange to see someone care about him like this. He had grown so used to being the one others depended on, the one who always took the hits, always pushed through the pain. But now, here was someone trying to help him, trying to ease his suffering. And despite the pain, despite the emotional whirlwind inside him, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice raspy. He wasn’t sure if he was comforting 7n7 or himself. “Just… take it slow.” He tried to focus on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his own breathing, grounding himself against the pain.

7n7 nodded quietly, moving more cautiously this time, and as he worked, 1337 couldn’t help but notice how carefully the hacker touched him. Every motion was gentle, deliberate. It wasn’t like the rough, hurried care of someone trying to fix a problem quickly—it was something else entirely. It was the care of someone who was trying to make sure the other person didn’t suffer more than they had to. And it was that that made 1337’s chest tighten.

As 7n7 continued to patch him up, the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… peaceful. Strange, considering the situation. But there was something about the quiet, the shared understanding between them. In that moment, it felt like there was no world beyond the two of them, no killers, no threats—just the two of them, existing in this small bubble of care.

And as 7n7 finished, smoothing the bandages down with a final, careful motion, 1337 realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit.

He wasn’t just grateful. He was starting to need this. Starting to need him.

But this couldn’t happen. Not here. Not now. He had to focus. There was so much at stake.

Yet as 7n7 finally pulled away, standing up and brushing his hands off, 1337 found himself wishing—just for a moment—that they could be somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere where the world wasn’t falling apart. Somewhere where they could just… be.

He didn’t know what he was going to do with all these feelings. But for now, he kept them buried. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not yet.

"Thank you"

[macsimagines]

Yandere!Mikey w/ a S/O that had his child

ASKBOX IS OPEN

(So for this set of headcanons its for a Mikey thats been consumed by his dark impulses and has probably lost everyone... ALSO PLEASE tell me what you think? I work better when I'm given notes so any complaints or compliments ill take!)

(D/N) - Daughters Name (Y/N) - Your Name

You were supposed to be a one night stand. He wasn't even going to give you the time of day. You were some secretary or pencil pusher and he was making deals (harassing) your boss.

But you catch his eye, and your boss has you entertain him to make things go smoother.

Thankfully, you two hit it off. Mikey can be charming despite his horrible reputation and you've got such beautiful kind eyes...

One thing leads to another and one unforgettable night you two have sex.

Mikey doesn't call you or contact you after that, and you can take the hint that it didn't mean anything more than just a way to relieve stress.

That would be all fine and dandy if it weren't for the fact that you were puking your guts out and happened to be pregnant.

You can't depend on Mikey, you don't think he'll accept your child and you really don't want them involved in the underworld that Mikey controls.

So you move out of Tokyo to distant family in a different town. You get a job, have your wonderful child and live peacefully in a small town.

Four years down the road, you end up back in Tokyo with your daughter. You owed a friend a favor and you're not too worried.

Your Daughter might be Mikey's clone but Tokyo is a big city and he's a busy man. He must have had countless women before he's not going to recognize your face out of a million others. Plus its been years. You should be safe right?

Wrong. You wake up one morning and (D/N) is gone. You're frantic searching for her, so confused where she could have gone from your friends apartment when it hits you: The Park!

Sprinting over there you're met with a sight you never thought you'd see. Mikey holding your fidgeting daughter in his arms.

If not for the terrifying look in his eyes the scene is almost comical.

The two of them together look like a before and after picture because of how similar they are.

"Y/N, you wanna explain this?" he asks you, and you're more shocked he remembered your name than anything else.

You try to pull it together, you don't want to cause a scene in front of your daughter.

"Th-that's my daughter. She ran off this morning and I've been looking for her."

He tilts his head to the side while he looks you up and down, placing your little girl on his hip.

"Don't you mean our daughter?" there's something dark in his voice and down right malevolent in his eyes.

Panic rises in your chest and you look down at the ground. "I just...I wanted her to be safe. I-I didn't think you'd care."

Your sweet Daughter whimpers for you, not understanding who this strange man is or why he's making her mommy so upset.

"You thought I wouldn't acknowledge my own child? Am I that kind of man to you?"

Silence stretches between you before you finally get the courage to say; "How did you even find us?"

Mikey just stares and holds your girl close before answering; "I heard you were in town. I came looking for you, and found her. Guess this is fate."

What you didn't know was that Mikey did want you, he wanted you so bad it almost drove him crazy. He tried to keep his distance and ignore you, and just when he can't take it anymore he finds out you moved away?

That's fine. It wasn't meant to be. But he had eyes and ears out for you if you ever came back to him. If you willingly walked back into the lions den that must mean you want him to have you.

He hears your back, with a daughter, and that's not a problem. If you have a husband he'll make sure you don't anymore and he doesn't mind a brat, you'll give him some of his own and that will make up for it.

So he goes looking for you, and he's almost to the apartments he knows you're staying at when a little girl catches his eyes. For a second he thought he hallucinated a mirror, but no staring up at him is his own face.

In his heart he knows who this girl is. And he's mystified when she starts talking to him.

"How come the sun's so bright?" she asks him for whatever insane reason.

And the empty abyss in his chest is suddenly full of love and affection. She's perfect. He had a perfect daughter now. Mikey embraces and tells her as much. That she's wonderful and beautiful and so loved.

Then you come sprinting towards them and Mikey suddenly remembers you kept her from him.

Back to the present, he thinks if this had been anyone else he would have killed them. But its you. And thankfully you raised the perfect child and gave him a healthy daughter, so he can't be too mad. He'll take it out on some underlings that left out very important details...

"I'll take responsibility," he tell you grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you so you're face to face, "And you will too, Y/N. We're gonna raise a very happy family. And you're going to give me a very big one. Lots of kids." one for every person he's ever lost.

[beenbaanbuun]

Hai there! :3

Hope youre having a lovely day/night! I wanted to say I love your works!

I’ve been following your opposites attract universe and I have to say I love it so so sooooo much!! Its just so sweet and beautifully written! Addams! matz is now my roman empire.

I have a question though after reading the fight and the apology parts of the story, since hongjoong basically NEVER yells but did in fact yell at darling, do you think darling for a good period of time would be a bit distant from joong? Like she’s knows she’s forgiven but would she be too scared to make a similar mistake? Cause if it were me where I was able to make someone who never gets mad, mad. I would know I FUCKED up big time and I’d be so nervous to be around them 😭

If Darling does somewhat become a bit distant how would Hongjoong react to that too? Like would guilt practically eat him alive? 😭

Thats all! Thank you again for your works I love reading them!! 💕

i was going to reply to this like it was just a simple question but i must write………..

not proofread yet

as you stand outside hongjoong’s office, you can’t help but feel your heart beating a mile a minute. it’s silly, you know that, and yet you can’t help but hesitate. he’s on the other side of that door, after all, and try as you might, you simply cannot let things go back to normal. it’s only been a few days, yet you haven’t crossed the threshold into that room even once. you’ve barely even spoken to hongjoong, in fact. apart from mealtimes and night when he cannot go without you in his arms, you opt to stay far out of his way. it’s not that you want to, but instead you feel like you have to.

it’s for your own peace of mind.

except this time you can’t. this time, you’re under strict instructions from seonghwa to fetch hongjoong for dinner. he knows what he’s doing, the corners of his mouth tilting up in an annoying smile after you tried to come up with some excuse as to why you had to avoid hongjoong. clearly none of them worked since here you are.

you knock, three light taps against his door so as not to irritate him too much. he’s working, after all, and you know better than to get in his way while he’s working. “come in, dove,” he calls, surprising you as he refers to you by name; how could he tell from a knock alone?

the brass doorknob is cold as you push the door open tentatively, your feet remaining firmly at the threshold. it’s a surprise to see him turned away from the desk, eyes already upon you before you even fully reveal yourself. there’s a smile on his face, soft and delicate as though he’s gazing upon something beautiful. he’s gazing upon you, but standing before him with your bottom lip tucked neatly between your lips and your thumbs picking at one another, it’s hard to feel like you’re anything but worrisome.

a hand rests upon his lap, fingers drumming lightly upon the thick black fabric of his slacks. the seat he flaunts looks oh-so-tempting, but you refrain from taking it. from closing the gap and shoving your face in his neck like you’ve been craving to these past few days. he always smells so nice; warm spices and home.

“how could you tell it was me?” you ask as you shuffle from foot to foot in his doorway. his smile grows wide as he studies you.

“seonghwa enters immediately after knocking, yeosang wouldn’t be visiting me, and you,” he pats his lap twice, your favourite seat becoming just that more tempting. still, you somehow manage to hold yourself back, “well, you never knock but since you’ve been avoiding me—”

“i have not!” you squark, eyes going wide and feet finally carrying you forward into the lions den. your hand slips from the door it had been holding open, and the slam of it shutting lets you know that you are in fact trapped. there’s no escape from hongjoong now without it being plainly obvious that you are in fact avoiding him, although that seems to be a fact he’s already grown wise to.

hongjoong seems to be aware of that fact too, as the moment the door encloses the both of you in the confines of his office, he taps his lap yet again. this time, you almost break.

“you see, if you weren’t avoiding me, you’d already be in my lap,” he tuts at you, relaxing himself in his chair and letting his legs spread. as sweet as the spot on his lap looks, you must admit that the one between his thighs is equally as enticing. you could sit there for hours just staring up at him in wonder.

you take yet another step into the room, more than happy to deny yourself the pleasure of his lap, less happy to remain so far away from him. you might be avoiding him, but you can’t deny yourself the simple pleasure of seeing his pretty face up close. the sly smile he wears when he teases you is admittedly beautiful, even if it does annoy you to no end.

“maybe i just don’t want to sit in your lap right now,” you argue, to which he responds with a scoff. rightfully so; if you’re going to lie you should at least try and make it believable. “or maybe i just don’t want to get in trouble with seonghwa by making us late for dinner.”

another chuckle, although you suppose this one is even more deserved than the first. you’ve never had a problem flaunting seonghwa’s orders and rules before, so why start now? defeated, you give him a deep sigh.

“come here, dove,” he says through his amusement, adoration laced through every word he speaks. you take another few steps closer, although not as close as it seems he desires you to be.

hands wrap themselves around your hips, tugging lightly at your body until your stumbling forwards into hongjoong’s grasp. they move around your body quicker than you can squirm free of them, pulling and pushing at your limbs until you’re arranged exactly how he wants you, straddling his lap with your hands resting tentatively upon his shoulders. it takes just a few seconds for his arms to snake themselves around your waist, locking you in place.

his head is tilted in such a way that he can appreciate the sheepish look you wear. the way your eyes look anywhere but his own, and the way your jaw ticks in something akin to agitation, although hongjoong knows you far too well to assume that that really is the case. if you were agitated, your pretty lips wouldn’t be pressed into a pout, they’d be forming cute little insults that hongjoong would have to try his hardest not to find sweet. if you really were agitated, hongjoong would know better than to tighten his grip until you have no choice but to lay with your torso flat against his.

you don’t even resist when he traces a finger up your spine to the nape of your neck. it tangles itself with the strands of hair that twist around another, soothingly tugging on them. it doesn’t take much more than that for you to finally relax against his frame, sinking into the warmth his body offers you.

“i wasn’t avoiding you,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

“liar,” he murmurs back.

“i wasn’t!” you insist, “i just… i didn’t know what to do around you. you never yell but—”

“i did.”

you hum in agreement, “you did.”

hongjoong’s arms get tighter around you as though he’s afraid you might slip away unless he holds on tight. you don’t mind; the pressure is honestly quite nice. it helps melt your inhibitions, your fear of telling hongjoong exactly how you feel. you shouldn’t be scared when it’s quite obvious how much the man adores you.

“it felt like something changed between us,” it doesn’t feel so hard to admit that when you’re in his arms, “i didn’t want to do anything that might change it even more.”

you’re met with a few seconds of silence; it’s hard to discern whether it’s comforting or anxiety inducing, yet you’re more than happy to sit in it. if hongjoong needs to take a breather before responding then you’re happy for him to do that. you’d much rather sit uncomfortably for a few seconds than have him raise his voice at you again.

although something inside of you tells you that it’s unlikely for that to happen again.

“you’re silly, dove,” he finally responds, forever taking place in just those few seconds. “the only thing that changes between us is how much i adore you, and that continues to grow and grow each time i see your face.”

“it can’t have grown much these last few days then,” you comment, “you’ve barely seen me…”

“oh, but i have,” he says it as if it’s obvious, “i see you every time i close my eyes. whenever i blink, you’re there, saying something cheeky to seonghwa that you know will get you into just the right amount of trouble to get you what you want,” he brings you closer still, his grip so tight that you’re certain your ribs might crack under the pressure, “so yes, darling, my love for you has grown exponentially these past few days.”

you can’t help but let yourself smile, tucking yourself into that sweet spot between his chin and his shoulder to hide it. he smells so good, just like he always he does, and you pull a deep breath in through your nose. cinnamon and home fills your senses and you realise that no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from hongjoong for long.

he’s just as much your home as seonghwa is.

[hadesoftheladies]

‘Sex strikes’ aren’t the feminist win they appear to be. Here’s how to get really radical | Finn Mackay | The Guardian

So just read this entire article, and while there's worthwhile information on the history of separatism, 4B and political lesbianism, there's several statements Finn Mackay makes that grind my gears.

The main problem with the idea of a women’s sex strike is that rape exists. Much of the commentary in response to women’s videos and content openly makes this point, as young men reply that women don’t always have a choice. The slogan “your body, my choice”, which has circulated online since Trump’s victory, bleakly summarises this stance.

Rape is, obviously, never done with a woman's consent. But one must really ask, why are so many young women seeing celibacy as a legitimate solution? I recall a scene in Bottoms (2023) when the highschool girls gathered in a cirlce in the gym and the protagonist asked them how many of them had been raped. None of them raised their hands. When the protagonist asked, "Okay, what if we allow for grey areas?" all the girls raised their hands.

Rape is largely seen as something that is done to women walking home alone at night, outside on the street. It must be overt, obvious and completely unavoidable for it to be legit to the public mind. But many teenage girls and women experience rape in romantic relationships with men. SO MANY experience sexual abuse in initially consensual relationships. A LOT OF RAPE occurs during an initially consensual sex act and in initially consensual marriages. We've heard the stories of girls being choked in the middle of making out (without consenting), or being brutalized and disregarded when asking their romantic partner to stop. The normalization of rape in marriage is also proof of its prevalence.

THAT is why so many girls and women are willing to do away with it altogether. Even if it is not likely to change the hearts of men (and here I agree with Mackay), it is WISDOM and COMMON SENSE to close the bedroom door on a man or boy hyped up on violent pornography and indoctrinated by male supremacist notions.

Celibacy is not going to keep out every rapist, but it will reduce the odds of rape endemic to the culture of heterosexual dating/marriage. And even if it wasn't very effective in doing so, the solution certainly wouldn't be, "Hey, I know 60-80% of boys and men are literally primed to sexually brutalize you, but just follow your heart and take a chance anyways and maybe you'll find a good one despite your dogshit odds." Why are we sending girls to the lions' den because the lions will prowl anyway??? Hello?

It is also debatable whether the idea of a sex strike is inherently a feminist act. A problem with seeing a sex ban alone as somehow revolutionary is that it plays into the very problems that arguably created the need for activism in the first place. In this framing, sex is labour – work that women do for men, and can then limit, manipulate or withhold alongside demands for improved conditions. That is not radical. Sex has long been defined under patriarchy as something men want and women should do. Such understandings of sex are why it took so long for rape in marriage to be recognised as a crime, for example – because how could a husband take from his wife what was rightfully his by the law of marriage? Framing sex as women’s labour for men results in sex being commodified and objectified, and the problem is that what can be bartered, exchanged or sold can also be taken. This is not an empowering position from which to call for revolution between the sexes.

Except on a SOCIOECONOMIC SCALE, sex for women is very much already commodified, already labour and already exploited. Prostitution, surrogacy, etc are thriving industries at the moment, so sex (in addition to marriage and motherhood) can very much be defined as a kind of labour in modern society. Even if calling sex labour is also patriarchal rhetoric, it is also an economic fact. Marriages and reproductive labour are invaluable to a patriarchal economy.

SECONDLY, 4B rightfully recognizes sex as the domain men use to exercise their power over women. Patriarchy is fundamentally sexual and deeply intertwined with the heterosexual dynamic. In fact, for the most part, however unfortunate, it defines it. The question isn't whether sex is labour we can use to get men to give us our rights, but whether it is a reclaiming of power and the female identity by refusing men access, by refusing to acquiesce to the fundamental domain of patriarchal power.

The sexual exploitation of women is the gist of patriarchy. That's like it's main thing. By opting out whenever and wherever possible, the woman redefines herself in patriarchal society as explicitly the opposite of what Mackay and many Western liberals suggest she is doing by "sex striking." She is defining herself outside the heteropatriarchal framework and declaring herself an individual independent of the patriarchal state. Men would not be so enraged by this loss of sexual access if this meant nothing to patriarchal power.

It is a little funny to me that Mackay insists that 4B women are agreeing to patriarchal rhetoric by literally refusing to give men what they want and expect of women. These women know sex is expected of them, which is why they're saying no. But Mackay sees it as them adopting the patriarchal narrative themselves. Just . . . fascinating.

Additionally, sexual relationships with men, with or without abuse, are often the gateway to domestic and maternal exploitation. Part of 4B is refusing to marry men and mother children from or with them, both legitimate modes of socioeconomic patriarchal power. Women get pregnant and married purely in relation to sex with men. So sex with men is either the gateway to such exploitation or the justification for it.

The mainstream take on 4B frames it as a sex strike by young, marketable, heterosexual women. An alternative would be to reject such sexist constructs of sex and sexuality, and to imagine, and work towards, an egalitarian future where men and women are not divided up into predator and prey. Rather than a sex strike, there is another tried and tested form of activism, utilised by women and men the world over: a workers strike, the withdrawal of our wage labour that fuels the systems of capital that dare to govern us. Ban patriarchy, not sex.

This is one of her more mistifying statements. I agree with the first sentence entirely. But it goes downhill quickly from there. Imagining a world where men and women are equal does not erase the fact that for a huge chunk of history to the present, women are prey and men predators. That's just the reality. Imagining will not make it go away, and it isn't wrong for women to use language that highlights this reality, no matter how crude.

The second half is even more vague. To me, it's the equivalent of a shoulder shrug. Mackay has spent so much of the article discussing the pitfalls of 4B and separatist thought, and when pressed for an alternative, she just says "capitalism bad."

This is what I mean when I say the zeitgeist is severely divorced from women's experiences. Of course, class struggle is important, but women and men do not experience class struggle the same. We have had all sorts of revolutions over the course of history and a diversity of governmental structures to bat. Yet, communism, monarchy, capitalism and socialism have all failed to eradicate patriarchy. The nuclear family, the home, remains a stronghold in post-revolution societies. So the home, this cell of society, must be the primary battlefield on which human progress--women's liberation--is fought and won.

Like, this article is so shallow in its conclusions its tasteless. How will women "ban" patriarchy exactly? How will they do it on a governmental level if they can't even do it in their homes? How will they find the time and energy to fight for their own rights if they first have to fight for every other cause and then use the rest of that energy on their boyfriends/husbands/children?

The biggest flaw in anti separatist/celibacy/4B posts is that they all consisntently ignore the primary modes of women's socieconomic exploitation at the hands of men: sex, marriage and reproductive labor. AND LET'S BE CLEAR: all these aspects of women's sexuality and sex have been commodified LONG BEFORE our modern age. Girls and women were bought and sold into marriage in order to bear children for men's estate. Critics also frequently ignore the fact that female-only spaces consistently bolster feminist thought and activism. Female solidarity is a huge threat to patriarchy.

So if we as women aren't striking against the very spheres that men use to dominate us, then how on earth can we claim to be advocating for our own cause? How can we combat patriarchy and ignore it's primary functions? If we aren't getting rid of patriarchal institutions and reclaiming power from domains male supremacists have invaded (e.g. our sex lives) then how on earth could we possibly measure the progress of our own liberation?

We cannot keep "let them eat cake"-ing our way to women's liberation. Radical feminists more than ever need to embrace being anti gender, anti marriage, anti religion, anti cosmetics, etc. Or we're fighting for everyone and everything but ourselves.

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Chapter 3: The Unwelcome and the Unseen

The great hall was not as she left it.

It was louder, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and spilled wine, the voices of men who did not belong filling the space like an overgrown weed choking a garden.

(Y/N) sat at the long table, her fingers curled around a goblet of honeyed wine, letting the conversation flow around her as she studied the men who now claimed her father’s hall. Suitors, they called themselves. Guests. But she had spent enough time among merchants and sailors to know the look of men who had settled into something they had no intention of leaving.

She had known of them before she returned and had heard the stories even across the sea. But hearing of them and seeing them like this—drunk, glutted on her family’s stores—was different.

“They watch you,” Telemachus muttered under his breath, his gaze flickering toward the palace steps, where two suitors stood speaking in hushed tones.

She did not turn to look. “They are vultures.”

“They are men,” Penelope corrected, her tone unreadable. “Men who believe themselves owed something.”

And they feasted as such. Wolves at a kill. Crows picking at the remains of a kingdom they did not build.

A shadow moved in the threshold. One of them—tall, smirking, his tunic hanging just loose enough to feign carelessness.

Eurymachus. She had learned their names quickly, and he was among the worst of them.

“Laertes’s granddaughter,” he mused, tilting his head. “The one who sails.”

She met his gaze, unmoved. “You seem surprised I returned.”

He laughed. “Not at all. Only curious what a woman could want on the open sea.” He stepped closer, and though his tone was easy, there was an edge beneath it. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

She did not answer, and he did not seem to expect her to.

Eurymachus only smiled. A jackal waiting to see if its prey would run.

“Eurymachus,” Telemachus cut in, his voice carefully neutral. “My sister is tired from her journey.”

Eurymachus held his gaze for a moment longer before exhaling through his nose. “Of course.” He glanced back at her, that same knowing smirk playing at his lips. “But we’ll talk soon, won’t we?”

He turned and disappeared back into the fray, where the rest of them lurked—hyenas circling a fading lion’s den.

The honeyed wine in her cup was thick on her tongue, cloying. She set it down, pushing back from the table as the weight of the hall pressed in.

Outside, the morning air was sharp with the scent of the sea. She needed air.

The morning light stretched long shadows across the courtyard as they walked.

Penelope moved with quiet grace, her hands clasped before her, her gaze fixed on the path ahead. Telemachus walked beside their mother, his fingers occasionally twitching at his sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for his sword even here.

(Y/N) trailed slightly behind, letting her fingers brush against the stone walls as they passed, tracing the cracks that had grown deeper in her absence.

“I remember when we used to race through these halls,” Telemachus mused, glancing at her. “You always won.”

She huffed a small breath of amusement. “You were younger then.”

He gave her a flat look. "By four and a half years."

"A crucial four and a half years."

A flicker of something lighter passed between them, but it did not linger. It could not. Not when they walked through a palace that felt like a tomb with its doors thrown open, letting scavengers feast on what remained.

Penelope slowed as they neared the great archway leading to the training grounds. “I often think of your father here.”

It was an old truth, but one rarely spoken aloud.

She did not have to say more. They could all picture it: Odysseus standing in the yard, his stance easy but sharp, calling out corrections as his daughter stumbled through her lessons. The way he had always known when to push, when to let her fall, when to laugh.

The wind stirred, carrying the faint echo of shouts from within the hall—the suitors, indulging in their morning feast.

Telemachus clenched his jaw. “They grow bolder.”

“They grow comfortable,” Penelope corrected softly.

(Y/N) glanced toward the sea beyond the cliffs. “Not for much longer.”

Her mother turned to her then, searching her face. For what, she wasn’t sure.

But she held Penelope’s gaze, letting the weight of her unspoken promise settle between them.

The tide was coming in.

The night air was a relief, clean and quiet. She moved through the courtyard, past the columns where ivy had begun to creep higher, toward the olive trees that had stood long before her birth.

“You look restless.”

She turned.

A man leaned against the low wall, idly spinning a silver coin between his fingers. His cloak was travel-worn, his sandals dusty, as if he had only just stepped off a long road.

Something about him tugged at the edges of memory.

She crossed her arms. “Do I know you?”

He smiled, not quite answering. “I saw your ship come in. Quite the sight.” The coin flicked between his knuckles, catching the light. “Not many could have steered through that last stretch so cleanly. Almost unnatural, the way you cut through the tide.”

She studied him, wary. Flattery was rarely without purpose in Ithaca.

“And you would know?”

“Oh, I know a great many things.” His grin was quick, fleeting. “For instance—I know you don’t belong there.” He nodded toward the hall behind her.

She exhaled sharply through her nose. “And where do I belong?”

His gaze flickered, as if amused by something she could not see. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The wind stirred, rustling the leaves above them. For the briefest moment, the scent of salt and cypress lingered in the air—gone as quickly as it came.

When she looked again, he was gone.

A shadow between the columns. A breath of laughter lost to the dark.

She stared for a long moment, then shook her head. She had met a man like that before, once, in Pylos.

And she still wasn’t sure if he had been a man at all.

Far from Ithaca, beneath a sky painted in dusk’s gold, Apollo stood at the edge of his temple, watching the sea.

She was back.

He had known it before the first word was spoken, had felt the shift in the air, the pull of fate tightening like a bowstring.

She had walked through his halls once, her fingers brushing against the etched prophecies that lined the walls, her brow furrowed in thought. She had not prayed to him, nor had she asked for guidance. But she had looked, as if searching for something among the endless verses of destiny.

Even now, as she stood beneath the olive trees, the moonlight painting her in silver, she was searching.

He could not yet say what for.

But he would watch.

And when the time came, perhaps she would find herself looking his way.

A breeze stirred the torches in their sconces. A presence moved behind him.

“You’re staring,” a voice mused.

Apollo did not turn. “And you are interrupting.”

The other figure stepped forward, easy and unhurried, as if he had always been there.

“She stands at the edge of her fate,” Apollo murmured.

The newcomer hummed in agreement. A silver coin flickered between his fingers.

“You know,” he mused, “you could have spoken to her in Delphi.”

Apollo exhaled through his nose. “And you could have left her be.”

The coin spun, vanishing between nimble fingers. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Apollo finally turned his gaze toward Hermes, impassive. “She does not need Olympus.”

A smirk. “No. But we are not Olympus.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Apollo looked back toward Ithaca, toward the waiting dark.

“She does not know it yet,” he murmured. “But the gods are not done with her.”

Far below, in a home that did not feel like home, (Y/N) poured another cup of wine, drowning the weight of her own name.

AN: hi- my finals are done so, here's an update at last. if i get some stuff wrong, i will edit it later. i have been up until 1 am for about 2 weeks now, so forgive me if it isn't the best. my memory isn't the best right now, but i wanted to update this. anyways, i will be catching up on sleep now

[junichan]

Recently I've been seeing a lot of Sun Wukong and reader / OC with baby monkeys stuff, and I am just living for it. ( @journey-to-the-au's #Fruit Troup and @semisolidmind's #Royal Children especially) Something about baby monkeys rattled around in my little brain long enough that I had to bang out this drabble. Its my first ever x reader story, and its just slightly nsfw so beware!

Cuddle Break

Synopsis: Your reaction to snuggling a baby monkey has quite an effect on Sun Wukong

Warning / Triggers: Slight NSFW - mention of an erection and implied adult situations

For several days now the group had been traveling through a dense jungle. You had stopped for a break on the side of the road to eat some lunch and rest your weary feet. Although it was a little humid, it felt pleasantly cool beneath the shade of the jungle canopy. You would have liked to take a quick nap, but Tang was anxious as ever to get moving again.

“YN, would you mind finding Wukong?” the monk asked. He smiled apologetically, as if he knew he was sending you into the lion’s den.

Almost since the day you’d joined the group, the demon monkey had begun teasing and flirting with you. You did your best to laugh off his advances, thinking he was probably just messing with you, but lately Wukong was getting so provocative that Tang was forced to use the headache spell a few times just to get him to give you some space. You were starting to consider that maybe Wukong really was into you, which wouldn’t have been a problem if you didn’t find him so damn attractive too!

As usual Wukong had gone off on his own to scout out the surroundings as soon as the group had settled down. Normally Pigsy would have been asked to go find the monkey, but he had eaten so much lunch that he’d zonked out hard enough that even Sandy was struggling to wake him up. There was nothing to be done about it, so you set off in the direction you had seen Wukong go earlier, hoping he hadn’t gone too far.

It wasn’t much trouble to find a little footpath that meandered through the jungle underbrush. You tracked it for a while, occasionally calling out the demon monkey’s name. Eventually you came to a wide, slow running creek, and trusting the intuition that had served you so well on the journey so far decided to follow it upstream. It wasn’t too long before you caught a familiar chirping, chattering sound. You had heard Wukong occasionally making those noises, but this time they sounded surprisingly soft.

“Wukong!” you called as you got closer, “Tang wants to get going…!”

It wasn’t long before you spotted him and understood why the noises were so unusually gentle.

Sun Wukong was perched on a thick branch hanging low over the creek, surrounded by a troop of infant monkeys. It was the little ones that were chirping and giggling as they climbed on him like a living jungle gym. He seemed to be enjoying it, indulging the little ones with the softest smile you had ever seen on his face. And the babies were so cute! Little fluffy beans with their little tails and itty-bitty noses!

“❤️Oooh my gooooosh!!❤️❤️” You gushed before you could stop yourself.

The Monkey King and his tiny subjects looked at you in surprise, only just noticing your presence. The babies looked a little nervous, but Wukong’s grin only got bigger as you approached. You were glad to see that the little ones trusted Wukong enough that they didn’t run away, even when you pulled yourself up on the branch to sit beside him.

“They’re so adorable, Wukong! Do… Do you think I could hold one?”  

Wukong had never seen you so enamored before, it was adorable! “Sure,” he chuckled, “Just be careful. They got a strong grip.” He lifted one of the little ones off his knee, making reassuring noises as he handed him over to your waiting arms.

The baby was clearly a bit frightened of you, staring at your face with wide, darting eyes. “It’s okay sweetie,” you cooed to reassure him, stroking his head and back. “Don’t be scared.” To your delight the infant started to purr, and snuggled against you as you cradled him against your chest. You were so besotted with affection for the little guy that you didn’t even notice the intense way Wukong was staring at you.

It wasn’t until he’d handed the child over that Wukong realized the little one had fur that was remarkably like the color of your hair. Watching you snuggle and coo at the infant made him think of you doing the same with his offspring. Just imagining you getting you pregnant with his heirs drove him wild. If it weren’t for the children still clinging to him, he would have pounced on you right there.

What was worse, he was a little jealous of the little one! What he wouldn’t give to have you hold him and stroke his fur like that! That look of sweet and tender adoration in your eyes should have been for him!

Oblivious to the immortal demon’s internal struggle (and the bulge in his pants) you continued to soothe the baby monkey in your arms. The little guy was practically melting as you pet his soft fur. Then two more of the little ones abandoned Wukong to crawl into your lap, eager for their turn at cuddles. You scooped them up happily, pressing kisses to their foreheads. “Aww! Mama’s sweet babies! ❤️”

Wukong grit his teeth to stifle a groan. The jolt of arousal that went through him was so violent his hand shot up and snapped the branch above him like a twig. The baby monkeys that were still sitting on him were startled enough to scatter further up the tree.

You gave him a puzzled look, holding the little ones in your lap a bit protectively. “Something wrong, Wukong?”

“I’m fine,” he answered, jumping down from the branch. He sounded a bit more terse than usual. Obviously he wasn’t fine, but he wasn’t going to tell you about it. “You said Master wanted to get going. We should head back now.”

You sighed, glancing down at the baby monkeys curled in your lap. They had been startled by Wukong crushing the branch but had hunkered down rather than run away. “Aw, can’t we stay just a little longer?”

"C'mon, YN, let's go." Wukong shook his head, shooing the little ones with a few soft hoots. They reluctantly crawled out of your lap, and you pouted as you let them go. Then he reached up, grabbing your waist to lift you down off the branch. You accepted the surprisingly chivalrous gesture, even putting your hands on his strong shoulders to steady yourself. But once your feet were on the ground, he didn’t let go.

You felt your face heat up with a blush as Wukong stepped into your space, his grip on your waist keeping you from escaping when his chest pressed flush against yours. You could feel his warm breath on your ear as he leaned in and growled suggestively, “You know, I could give you a few of your own if you wanted…”

“Wukong!!” The insufferable demon laughed as you pounded your fist on his chest in protest. But at least he let you step back, and you took a deep breath to try calming your racing heart. And racing hormones!

Against your better judgement, you let him carry you back to the others on his cloud. You tried to ignore his tail curled around your middle, somehow convincing yourself that it was only to keep you steady.

Wukong could tell under all that flustered embarrassment you were turned on. He could smell it on you, and it made him grin victoriously. It wouldn’t be long now before he’d finally have you. He might have even been able to convince you to let him have his way right there in the jungle, but he knew there wasn’t enough time to really enjoy himself. If the monk had sent you to look for him, it wouldn’t be long before he sent Pigsy or Sandy to look for you. He could wait a little longer. You were worth it flexing a little patience, and no matter what, in the end you’d be his.

And in the meantime, seeing you snuggle the baby monkeys gave him a sneaky idea for how to get some of that attention for himself…