#traitor!reader

it never ends, does it?

apologies. worry. sympathy. pity.

it was in each of their eyes— the one-four-one. each of them trying to mask their pity for you behind sickening sympathy. you were exhausted of that look— not just from them, but from everyone you had walked past or looked at since everything had happened.

you open your eyes, scanning the room. what once had been a haven had become a hell. shattered glass sprinkled the floor near the mirror. clothes were still strewn about. you hadn’t bothered picking up what had been disturbed.

you’d be gone too soon for it to matter.

your phone rings then, the screen lighting up in the dimly lit room. you let the ring tone play for a second longer before you’re moving, reaching for the device on your nightstand.

it’s kate, and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“hello?” you say as you answer the call.

“it’s kate,” comes the woman’s familiar voice through the speaker. “im on my way to base. should be there by tomorrow.”

you startle, eyebrows raising in confusion. “you’re coming here? why?”

you hear her sigh. “we can talk about it tomorrow. I need to meet with john, anyways. two birds, one stone and all that.” she tells you.

“can you at least tell me if the paper work is all set for my transfer?” you ask.

she doesn’t answer for a moment, and then:

“we’ll talk about it tomorrow, sergeant. get some rest. you sound like you need it.”

you hear a click, and then the line goes dead. you furrow your brows as you look down at the phone in your hand.

why on earth would she come all the way here just to talk?

your mind is moving a mile a minute, and suddenly, it clicks.

laswell is coming here to do damage control.

you huff a mirthless laugh, dropping your phone as your hands come up to run through your hair.

you weren’t being reassigned. you were being discharged.

but was it at her insistence, or someone else’s?

you whip around, wrenching open the door and storming down the hall to price’s office. those you pass in the hallway give you bewildered stares, and suddenly you’re aware that you’re still in that damned robe, but you’re on a mission.

and when you start something, you see it through.

you don’t bother knocking as you reach price’s door. instead, you barge into the office, effectively interrupting an argument between price and simon. their voices die off, heads turning to appraise who had barged in.

price’s eyes widen at the sight of you, but simon’s face is as unreadable as always. the door clicks shut behind you, and you stalk towards the two men, your fists clenched as you seethe.

“you motherfuckers,” you hurl the words at them, “you fucking knew. you knew.”

“love, what are you talkin’ about?” price questions, his brows furrowed as he turns to you.

“laswell,” you say, and price’s eyes widen. he knows. and now he knows you know.

“whatever she told you—”

“she didn’t tell me shit,” you huff. “I figured it out. why the fuck else would she come here just to talk? she’s playing fucking babysitter, isn’t she?”

price doesn’t speak. your gaze flits to simon’s.

“I’m sure you were rooting for this outcome, weren’t you? couldn’t finish me off in that fucking room, but hey, this is just as good, isn’t it? sending me back to fucking nothing.”

“this job is my life,” you turn your attention back to the captain. “and you fuckers just can’t stop ruining it, can you?” your voice is raising, and tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’re becoming hysteric.

“all because of a fucking lie!” you’re yelling now, jabbing a finger into the chest of your former captain.

“calm down,” the sound of simon’s rough baritone leads your head to snap toward him. your eyes are wide, fury and terror blazing in them.

and he expects you to let loose. scream and hit and scream some more. but you don’t.

you stand there and you stare at him with those wide eyes. the rest of the room— hell, the world falls away— and it’s just him and you.

like it was on patrol during countless nights, your bare fingers dancing over his gloved hands as you prattled on about a show you liked.

on countless nights curled up in his bed, your back to him, pressed so close he could feel the beat of your heart in his own chest. his arms wrapped around you, one of your fingers lazily tracing the ink on his forearm. no words spoken, yet so much said.

in the field, when you and johnny bicker over comms and he takes your side. when you take a bullet to the shoulder and he holds pressure on it until evac arrives.

when he makes eye contact with you as you pin kyle to the training mat, finally able to overcome his strength. when price tells him you’re the rat and he doesn’t want to believe it.

it’s just him and you. a lieutenant and his sergeant. but it’s more than that.

it’s a deep understanding of this job being your life. of losing everything and everyone you hold dear. of finding family again in this team, and doing whatever it takes to keep that family safe.

and he fully realizes, then, what you have been condemned to.

what they condemned you to.

what he condemned you to.

he breaks from his thoughts as you slam your fist into his jaw.

price’s eyes widen, his feet carrying him forward to intervene, but simon waves him off as he cradles a hand to his jaw.

“let ‘em,” he grunts out, and price looks bewildered, but he nods. he takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides, and he lets you strike again.

“fuck you,” you seethe, and despite your best efforts, your voice cracks. emotion seeps in, and your eyes are wet as you swipe a leg out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

he falls with no grace, knees hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. you’d cringe if this were any other circumstance.

instead, you deliver another blow, cracking his nose with the force of it. blood sprays out and wets your robe.

“ghost—” price begins from somewhere off to the side, but simon just shakes his head.

“fuck you, simon! fuck you!” you scream at him, and your fists are flying blindly as tears cloud your eyes.

and he just takes the hits. you subconsciously register the sound of the office door squeaking as it opens and quickly closes. price didn’t want to be a bystander any longer, it seems.

but he still didn’t jump in. was it because of ghost’s insistence? or because your captain didn’t want to watch one of his soldiers finally snap?

you finally stop yourself when blood drips from your knuckles. unsurprisingly, they’ve split again. there’s no doubt in your mind that there will be little scars between each of them once they’ve healed.

more to add to the reminder of everything. god, at this point you knew you’d never forget it even if you wanted to. even if you tried to. even if you did for a brief moment, those little white lines— discolored and jagged skin in the place of what should be smooth and unmarred, would be your reminder.

blood pools on the floor, a mix of yours and simon’s. you pay it no mind as you wipe the backs of your hands on your completely ruined robe. good— now you had a great excuse to throw the damned thing away.

you would’ve thrown it away anyways.

you bring your hands to your eyes, wiping away tears that had freed themselves their cage. you see simon clearly then, his face bloodied and yet still beautiful in that way of his. his nose is obviously broken. lacerations above his eye and on his cheekbones.

his eyes are staring back you, the icy blue of them never more intense than now.

you heave in your breaths as you look at him. his split lip cracks further as he opens his mouth.

“done?”

and you don’t have anything left to give, so you nod. then you slump to your knees, down onto his level, and you don’t look away from what you’ve done.

it’s no different than what you did to the doctor, or to countless enemies in the field. but, at the same time, it is different.

because it’s him, and he let you do this. he could have easily stopped you. he’d shown his strength against you numerous times on the sparring mat, picking you up and tossing you around with ease.

and yet he didn’t stop you.

“why?” you ask him, and it’s a loaded question. your voice is a watery tremble, and the word comes out as a whisper, but he doesn’t shy away.

he shrugs. “you needed it.”

he’s focusing on one aspect of the question— on why he let you hit him. you open your mouth to respond, but he surprises you by speaking again.

“least I could do,” he says.

you close your mouth, your chapped lips pressed into a thin line. why is he doing this now? saying this now? what changed?

“is it your fault, then? that I’m being discharged?” you find yourself asking, and you’re not sure if you want to know the answer.

maybe you just want a reason to hate him more.

“no,” he says, and you know he means it.

he never lied to you, regardless of any pain it may have saved. it was one of the things you had loved about him.

he sighs. “I didn’t want you to go.”

that surprises you. simon was never one to freely speak on his feelings. he had opened up to you during your relationship, but it was as if there was always an invisible line he could never cross. never did he utter the complete truth to his thoughts or feelings. and you had accepted that— because that is who he was.

and you would take him with all his walls if it just meant that you could have him.

“I don’t want you to.” he corrects himself.

the room falls silent around you. the part of you that still holds love for him yearns for his embrace at this moment. but you push that side of you down. you will not go crawling back, not after what happened.

“you’ve been an asshole,” you say, and he gives a curt nod.

“probably.” he concedes. “but I wouldn’ take anythin’ back. I told you, I meant what I said.”

“is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask. god, he has a horrible way with words.

“no,” he tells you. “nothin’ I can say can do that.”

you snort. you fall back on you haunches, your hands in your lap as you look at him.

“I am never going to forgive you,” you tell him, words full of so much hurt.

he nods again. “I know. I don’ blame you. don’ expect you to, neither.”

“but I’m…” he starts, and his lips crease in a frown. “im sorry.”

you just look at him. perhaps you had wanted an apology at one moment in time, but now? now none of it mattered.

“I hope so,” you tell him. you move to stand, and he remains still. he hasn’t moved an inch since you’d finished your assault.

“I hope you feel this way for the rest of your lonely life. I hope that you never forget what you did to me, and I hope that it keeps you up at night. because I can tell you with certainty that I will never forget. and I hope the others remember, too. I hope it tears you all apart from the inside. that it follows you around for the rest of your career.”

you breathe in, then out. “and I hope no one ever gives you the chances I did,” your voice is soft. “because I would never wish what you did to me on the next person you think you love.”

his face conveys no emotion other than the small frown still on his lips. his eyes, so cold, have softened the tiniest bit. you used to love when you could bring out that softness inside of him. when it was just the two of you, your hand in his, his eyes on you.

those memories would suffocate you if you let them. what could’ve been will suffocate you. you refuse to let it.

you turn and stalk towards the door, not bothering to spare him another glance. you open it, stepping out into the hallway, coming face-to-face with the rest of the one-four-one.

their eyes are all wide as they take you in. your bloodied hands and robe. the dried tear streaks on your cheeks. you pull the door shut behind you before you speak.

“i don’t care to speak to kate,” you say to price, your eyes meeting his. “fuck her for not giving me a chance. and fuck you for laying down like a damn dog and not fighting for your fucking team.”

you turn to johnny next. “you shove your sorries up your ass, mactavish. I don’t want your sympathy, and I don’t want your pity. I hope your regret eats you alive.”

finally, kyle. “and you,” you glare at him. “if anyone other than simon should’ve defended me, it should’ve been you. I met you first, kyle. you were my closest friend, my brother. and you turned out to be just another fucking lap dog.”

you shake your head, blinking away hot tears. “I want you to get me temporary housing and a car because that’s the least you owe me, after ruining my life. and I don’t want to hear from any of you ever again. if I do, I guarantee you I will not show you the mercy you think you showed me when you had me tied up in that chair.”

none of them spoke, and you didn’t give them a chance to as you pushed past them, heading back toward your room to change.

a yellow cab retrieves you from base the next morning before kate arrives. it’s still dark outside when you leave the shelter that had once been home. rain pours down around you, a raging storm hanging overhead as it had all night prior. perhaps it was a reflection of your mood. you liked to think that it was.

you toss your duffle bag into the trunk, shutting it before climbing into the back seat. you hadn’t bothered to pack anything other than a few pairs of clothes you’d recovered from the floor of your room. everything else could be trashed, especially anything the boys had given you.

the driver doesn’t speak— price had given him all the information he needed— and paid him— before he’d fetched you. it seems your final outburst— and beating simon to a pulp— had finally put some urgency in his movements.

none of them had seen you off, per your request. you thought it was the least they could do for you after continuously disrespecting your boundaries.

(unbeknownst to you, simon had watched you leave through a window.)

the driver turned up the music— some pop song you didn’t know the name of— and you slumped in your seat, your head turned toward the window as you watched the rain race down it.

you found yourself drifting off quickly, and you didn’t try to fight it. you’re finally free of that place and the men you thought were your family. free of the anxiety of seeing them around every corner. free of the hate that sparked in your heart every time you heard their voices.

you sleep, and for the first time since before everything, it’s peaceful.

you wake to the taxi driver talking to you.

“we’re here,” he says, knocking on the glass separating the front and back seats. “can you get out now? I gotta get home. it’s my wife’s birthday.”

you blink the sleep from your eyes, nodding before you even register what he’s saying. “sorry,” you mumble as you fumble with the seat belt.

you slip from the car, your boots splashing in a muddy puddle. you grimace as the murky water seeps in, wetting your socks.

you trudge around to the back of the car, opening the trunk and retrieving your bag. you’ve just shut the trunk and stepped back when the car is driving off, kicking up mud that further dirties your boots and jeans.

you pay it little mind as you look at the small cottage before you.

nestled between some trees, it’s beautiful. a shingled roof. light blue paneled siding. a small front porch with a rocking chair and a bench swing. a beautiful dark blue door.

your favorite flowers live in the flower beds surrounding what you can see of the house. it makes you wonder if its a simple coincidence or if simon or price planned it.

how long have they known that you would have to come here? that you would have no where else to go except for where they put you?

you vowed that this house would just be temporary. you would get away from it as soon as possible, putting the rest of the one-four-one behind you. you didn’t want any of them knowing where to find you.

the rain slows to a sad drizzle. drops prick your skin as you make no effort to avoid puddles, splashing carelessly to the front door. you can hear birds beginning to chirp, slipping out of their hiding places as the sun’s rays begin to illuminate the earth once more.

a new beginning, you think.

you reach a hand toward the door knob, twisting it open and pushing inside. it’s a cozy little place with wood floors and a brick fireplace. it’s furnished, but there’s no personality to it. it clearly hasn’t been somebody’s home.

the door clicks shut behind you as you toe off your boots and drop your duffle by the door. as you nudge your boots out of the way with a foot, you notice an envelope on the floor.

eyebrows scrunched in confusion, you lean down and scoop it up. your name is written on the front in a scrawl you don’t recognize.

who else knows you’re here?

perhaps you’ll need to leave sooner than you thought.

you push your thumb under the seam, ripping it open with little finesse. inside is a typed letter. it’s an offer, you realize. a job offer.

its got an american stamp on it, and its signed by a phillip graves.

As is, here is what I have got planned:

Continuing series:

The Space B/W Us (Roy)

Little Miss Gotham (Wayne!Reader)

When Life Gives You Tangerines (Bart)

Help Wanted (SDV!Farmer Reader x Jason)

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New series I am starting (because self-control is not my strong suit and cuz Mark looks TOO fine in the new Invincible new season!!):

Where The Light Used To Be * (I have tweaked a few things from the original prequel post, I want iit to follow the original plot of Invincible (with some tweaks ofc) to start off Mark does not have his powers at the start

---

Traitor!Reader x Tim Drake

Inspired heavily by the Invincible plotline:

Reader is essentially in the “Mark” role, except she thinks she knows the truth from the beginning.

Her mother is a "hero," I think I want it to be angelic powers-based to really draw in the trust of the world.

Your job is simple. Join the team (Young Justice). Earn their trust. Learn their routines, their weaknesses, their dynamics. Be someone they would never question. And most importantly get your mother the locations and details of metas that no one would notice if they went missing

And you do it perfectly!... Until Tim Drake.

---

Hero/Civilian x Player!Reader: (This one is kind of random but I need to get it out of my head)

Player!Reader who is unknowingly pulling both the civilian identity and the hero identity of the same man.

Like… she thinks she is juggling two completely different people. Civilian, he is charming, a little messy, maybe a bit of a flirt. Hero him is intense, mysterious, shows up and disappears, tension through the roof. (Both are great in bed tho :P)

Meanwhile, it is literally the same man realizing he is getting played for once.

Like at first, he thinks he is the one running game, all cocky thinking he's pulling the same hot girl both in and out of the mask until he realizes:

She never overlaps plans

She somehow matches his energy in both identities perfectly (switches up with each one so he doesn't know which version is really her. he gets lowkey obsessed with trying to figure it out)

She is saying the SAME things to both versions of him

Bonus points:

He tries to “outdo” himself in each identity

Starts getting jealous of… himself

Accidentally reuses the same line twice, and she starts getting sus

I do not know who I am writing this for yet. Roy? Dick? Someone else? (Send me ideas! Feedback! Anything!) But whoever it is, he is NOT having a good time but keeps crawling back anyway :P

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Requests:

Various Bart one-shots (I WILL get them out, I am so sorry for disappearing after hyping them up my our boy like that)

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One-shots:

Roy x Reader “Texts with Roy.”

Based on actual texts I have sent and received with my friends, which means this will either be really funny or slightly concerning.

I might turn this into a little thread or even include other characters too, but for now, it is just him and my babygirl Lian (mom!Reader, my beloved)

---

Bruce Wayne x Wife!Reader + Batfam “Cryptic Pregnancy”

You are just a little tired. A little off. Maybe eating weird things, but whatever. Life goes on.

Meanwhile you are living with the world’s greatest detectives and somehow not a single one of them figures it out.

Then one day you just… go into labour.

Baby shows up, and everyone is standing there like “wtf???”

---

Some more of Constantine!Reader x Robin!Jason

I miss them, mostly fluff tho if I can decide on a proper plot, I wanna make it into a series :)

If you have requests for them... PLEASE send them in, I wanna writeeeeee

The warehouse was a smoking ruin, fire crews still battling the embers. The op should’ve been surgical—quiet takedown, clean arrests. 

Instead, it had been an ambush.

Dick pulled off his mask, jaw tight, hair damp with sweat and soot. 

He paced in the shadows, trying to breathe past the storm in his chest. 

The whole time, he knew. 

He’d known something was wrong for weeks, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it.

And then he saw you.

“Funny,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “Every time we get close, they’re waiting for us. Like clockwork.” He took a slow step toward you, his eyes narrowing. “You want to tell me why your clearance code shows up in their system logs?”

Your breath caught. “Dick—”

“Don’t.” His voice lashed out, sharper than a blade. “Don’t lie. Not again.”

You lifted your hands, a half-plea. “I never lied about us.”

“That’s supposed to make this better?” He barked a bitter laugh, running a hand down his face before looking at you again. His eyes—those bright, impossible eyes—were shattered. “Tell me how I’m supposed to separate the person I…” His throat closed around the word. “…the person I trusted from the mole who’s been bleeding me dry.”

You flinched. “I thought I was doing the right thing. At the start, I believed in it. The people I worked for—they said you couldn’t be trusted, that you were hiding things. That you were dangerous.”

“And you believed them.” The words were flat, but the pain in them was unmistakable.

“I believed them until you,” you said, desperate now, stepping closer. “Until I knew you. Every second I spent with you, every time you let me in—it tore me apart. Because I couldn’t stop falling for you. And I thought—I thought maybe I could have both. Do my job. Keep you safe.”

“Safe?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How many people could’ve died tonight because they knew we were coming?”

“I didn’t know they’d—”

“You didn’t care.” His voice broke on the word, and the silence after it cut deeper than any shout.

Your eyes burned. “I cared about you. That was never a lie. Everything I felt—every word, every touch—it was real. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Intentions don’t change the fact that you did.” His expression hardened, a mask slipping into place, but you could see the rawness underneath. “You didn’t just betray me. You betrayed us. You betrayed what we had before it even had a chance to be real.”

Your chest ached, a sob caught behind your ribs. “I didn’t know how to stop. I wanted to tell you, but—”

“But you didn’t.” He cut you off, voice low, final. “You chose them. You chose a mission over me. Over this.”

The silence was unbearable, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire. 

You wanted to close the distance, to grab his hand, to prove somehow that what you had wasn’t just ashes. 

But his eyes told you the truth: if you touched him now, he’d break.

So you stood there, trembling, while he turned away.

“Whatever this was—it’s done.” His words were quiet, heavy as stone.

And when he walked into the smoke, leaving you behind, you finally understood: the fastest fall always comes with the hardest landing.

You stood in the smoke long after he was gone. 

The world seemed muffled—sirens, shouting, the hiss of the firehose all dulled, like you were hearing them from underwater.

You pressed a shaking hand to your mouth, but it did nothing to stop the sob clawing up your throat.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

At the beginning, it had felt simple. 

Clear lines, clear orders. 

The mission mattered, justice mattered, and you told yourself Dick Grayson—Nightwing—was too dangerous to be left unchecked. 

That was what they’d told you, and you’d believed it. 

You wanted to believe it.

Until you met him.

Until the smile that reached his eyes undid you, until the warmth in his laugh made you ache, until the nights tangled in his sheets made you feel like—for the first time—you were more than a weapon in someone else’s war.

You’d fallen so fast, too fast, like diving headlong into fire.

And now you were burning.

Your stomach turned as you replayed his words. 

You didn’t just betray me. You betrayed us. 

He was right. 

You’d told yourself you could balance both sides, serve your mission and still keep him untouched. 

You’d lied to yourself long before you’d lied to him.

And now all you had left was the wreckage.

You slid down the cold brick of the alley wall, burying your face in your hands. 

For the first time, you questioned everything—your orders, your cause, yourself. 

Were you ever on the right side? 

Or had you been blinded by loyalty to the wrong people, the wrong ideals?

Or worse—had you been blinded by him?

Because even now, your chest still ached for him. 

Even now, your body still longed for his touch, your soul still leaned toward his like a flower bending toward the sun. 

Love hadn’t disappeared with his anger. 

It lingered, heavy and desperate, and that made it so much worse.

You had never lied about that.

But maybe love wasn’t enough.

Love had never made you gentle. 

It had made you reckless. 

Now it made you dangerous.

You waited until the safehouse was empty — until the early-morning quiet when the handlers thought you were asleep, when the city softened and every footfall felt distant. 

You moved like a shadow through the low light, boots silent on cracked linoleum, heart hammered loud enough to be a metronome for the rage inside you. 

You had not come to beg. 

Begging had been exhausted the moment Dick turned away. 

Begging didn’t fix a thousand small betrayals stacked into one catastrophic night.

They’d used you. 

That fact had a weight and a shape. 

It could be folded into a plan.

The kitchen smelled like burnt coffee and bleach. On the counter, a tablet glowed with the morning reports — innocuous lines of text that looked sterile until you remembered the bodies, the ambush, the faces Dick had made when he said, You chose them. 

You pulled up the contact list and scrolled until you found the name you wanted: Marlowe.

Marlowe’s voice on the line was calm, practiced. “Report,” he said.

You let the calm hang between you, keeping it clinical. “The op tonight was compromised. Why was my clearance flagged in the logs?”

A pause. 

Then, smooth: “Log entries can be forged. There are explanations.”

“Explanations don’t come with sirens and hollow eyes, Marlowe.” Your voice was steady. You were searching for a breach in his composure and finding none. He’d trained them well.

“You’re emotional,” he said. “Step back. We’ll debrief when it’s safe.”

You closed your eyes. 

You could have gone soft — pleaded for leniency, for context. 

Instead, you reminded yourself of the way Dick had looked at you: the grief, the finality. 

That expression was a map to everything you wanted to undo.

You leaned closer to the phone, letting the words you’d swallowed for months pour out like a blade. “You told me Nightwing was a threat,” you said. “You told me he was compromised. You told me to get close, report patterns, make him… manageable.”

There was a flicker in his voice now, a crack you hadn’t expected to find. “We told you he was a threat because he was getting ideas. Because he wasn’t playing by the rules.”

“He was doing the right thing.” The words came out rough. “He was trying to protect people. You fed me lies and called them justice. You fed me lines about ‘greater good’ until I repeated them like prayer. And while I believed you, I loved him.”

Silence, and then, dangerously soft: “Sentiment complicates things. You know the protocols.”

“I know enough.” You let the admission sit like a promise. “I know how your money moves. I know who signs off on what. I know how you scrub operatives when they get messy.” Your thumb skated over the tablet, bringing up a list of transfers, shell accounts, a chain of innocuous names that made your stomach turn. You hadn’t just been a mole; you’d been watching and learning in plain sight.

Marlowe’s reply was clipped. “You cross that line and you know what happens.”

“You taught me the line,” you said. “And you taught me where you hide the bodies if someone steps out of line.” You didn’t intend to say the last part until it left your mouth, but it landed like an icicle. You heard the intake of breath on the other end. You’d hit him where you knew it would hurt.

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

You smiled, not unkindly. “Regret is a poor currency. I’m trading in currency you understand.” You’d memorized their threats, their safe words, the locations in the city mapped to their dead drops. You’d been cataloguing dirt for months, convincing yourself it was a professional necessity. Now it was leverage.

“Do you want them exposed?” you asked. “Because I can show people what you call collateral. I can show financial records, safehouses, call logs. I can show them the men in suits you wash clean in the daylight and the mouths you shut at night.” Your pulse thudded in your throat. Saying the things made them real; making them real made you less helpless.

“Listen to me,” Marlowe snapped. “You make a move and things escalate. People could die. Including him.”

Including him. 

The phrase landed like a fist. It was a threat wrapped in a warning. 

You imagined Dick — his jaw, the way his hands curled when he was trying to stay calm. 

If they wanted to hurt him, they would. 

That was the calculation you’d accepted when you first took the assignment. 

But acceptance and submission were different animals.

“You’ve already done that,” you said quietly. “You used him.” Then louder: “You used me.” The last syllables were accusation and release.

There was a rustle on the other end, a breathing that had lost its polish. 

You felt a feral, thin satisfaction; you had punctured the armor. 

Maybe you had only scared him. 

Maybe you had made an enemy of everyone who’d once been your lifeline. 

That was acceptable collateral.

“Stop,” Marlowe said at last. “Bring yourself in. We’ll debrief. We’ll—”

“No.” You stood, moving to the sink and splashing cold water on your face until the dizziness passed. You let the drop of water linger at your mouth like a vow. “I don’t think you deserve the courtesy of a debrief.”

A long silence. 

Then, slowly, the line went dead. 

The click echoed through the tiny kitchen like a verdict.

You hung up and opened the tablet to a new note. 

No contact list. 

No polite inventory. 

You typed names — small, bite-sized accusations — and attached the files you’d been saving: an offshore transaction, a surveillance log that contradicted a public statement, a recording of a phone call you’d made months ago when they’d given you the order to get close. 

Each file was a grain of sand in a machine that had run too long without friction.

You hit send.

The emails pinged out to journalists you’d cultivated under the pretense of feeding them small crumbs: a disgruntled informant, a leaker with inside access. 

You had been careful not to burn your sources; you’d kept them loyal with just enough truth to taste. 

Now those crumbs would become a trail.

A chair scraped. 

You spun, instinct popping your shoulders into defensive stance. 

Marlowe stood in the doorway, flanked by two others, faces hard as granite. 

You had thought you were quiet enough to move unseen. 

You had miscalculated. 

Or — and here was a new, colder possibility — you had let them find you so they’d underestimate what you’d do next.

“You call that a move?” Marlowe’s mouth tilted. “Sending files to reporters is theater. It will make noise. Noise is manageable. We deal in permanence.”

“You always think you control the narrative,” you said. “You always think you can bury what doesn’t suit you.”

He stepped closer, and your body remembered every lesson they’d taught you about handling a threat: eye contact, breathing, how to make a threat seem less like whining and more like inevitability. 

You were not the same person who had taken orders with a nod. 

You had been remade by love and by loss.

“You’ll come with us,” Marlowe said.

You laughed, the sound raw. “Or what? You’ll detain me? Kill me?”

“Both,” he said, unflinching.

“Then do it,” you said. “But if you so much as touch him, I will make sure the first headline his name ever gets isn’t about masks and heroics. I’ll make it about you. About every scrap you’ve hidden.” You could feel your pulse in your throat, but your voice didn’t waver. “And I’ll make sure the people I trusted in the press — the ones who owe me favors — will not stop until every piece of your empire is exposed.”

Marlowe’s jaw worked. 

For a wild second you thought he might come forward and take you up on the threat. 

Instead, he turned his head and barked an order. 

The two men who’d been with him moved in.

You moved first.

You’d been taught nonlethal takedowns that were efficient and quick; you used them with a surgeon’s precision, sliding behind one, catching his wrist, twisting until he was on the floor with a breath knocked out of him. The other lunged; you sidestepped, your palm finding the place behind his ear you’d been shown in training. He crumpled.

Marlowe’s hand came for a sidearm. You didn’t wait for the muzzle flash. You grabbed the table, launched it between you, sending pens and a coffee mug skittering across the floor. The noise bought you a sliver of chaos; you used it to slip past him, out the back door, into the alley where the city watched with indifferent light.

You ran with the taste of metal and ash in your mouth. 

You didn’t run to hide. 

You ran to someone who would make your next move easier to keep: a contact in the docks with a boat, a man who had a blind spot for people with too much smoke in their eyes. 

You had money stashed in shell accounts you no longer honored. 

You had friends you’d called favors from when you needed something ugly done. 

Now those favors were IOUs you were cashing in on the only currency that mattered: leverage.

By dawn the files were live on at least three reputable news sites. 

Journalists called. 

Marlowe called. 

Your phone buzzed with threats and pleas and the names of men who suddenly realized their comfortable world had termites gnawing at the beams. 

You answered none of them. 

You sat in a cramped room above a harbor with the city tilting slowly awake and thought of Dick.

You didn’t know if he’d ever look at you the way he had before. 

You didn’t know if he’d come after you to kill or to beg. 

You only knew you couldn’t go back to the person who had taken orders and swallowed the consequence. 

You’d traded one kind of duty for another: protect the man who had unintentionally made you more human, even if it meant burning the rest of the world to ash.

Outside, a headline blinked on a laptop screen: Shadow Network Exposed — High-Ranking Operatives Named. The photograph that accompanied it was a grainy still of a suited man stepping into a car; you recognized his bracelet. You recognized the pattern because you had seen it on the wrist of the man who’d given you orders.

You sat very still. 

Dangerous was not a costume you put on for effect. 

It was an attitude now, a line drawn in the night. 

And for the first time since Dick had turned away, you felt something like clarity.

If you had to choose between letting them bury the truth and standing in the open with your hands scorched, you’d choose the burn. 

You would make them pay for the way they had used you. 

You would make them see what it meant to ruin the person you loved.

Whether that would be enough to earn his forgiveness — or condemn you further — was a moral question you did not want to answer tonight. 

Tonight there were threats to transcribe, leads to leak, and a city to shift underfoot.

You picked up your phone and typed one last message, fingers shaking only slightly.

To: Unknown number.

Message: I didn’t mean to hurt him. But I will not let you touch him. Not anymore.

You hit send, and watched the tiny bubble with the three dots. 

Then you turned off the light and began to plan the next move.

Night became a currency you spent without counting. 

You learned to live in the hours other people called “late,” to measure days by the way streetlights bruised the pavement, by the cadence of voicemail threats and the hush of newsrooms when egos were fed a fresh scandal. 

Sleep came in steals: two hours on a borrowed couch, a nap in the back of a van with your jacket wrapped over your face. 

Time condensed until there was only purpose and the long, echoing absence that purpose was supposed to fill.

You stopped asking how you felt and started asking what would make them tremble. 

It was the only accurate metric left. 

A transfer route pinched? Expose it. 

A front company laundering money for a senator? Publish the ledgers. 

A safehouse behind a florist’s shop? Burn it and leave the flowers. 

Each strike left a clean, almost surgical satisfaction — brief, sharp — and the ache that followed was always shoved somewhere else, like a loose tooth you simply stop thinking about.

You had scavenged names and receipts like someone collecting tinder. 

Operatives, lawyers, accountants — you turned each one into a thread and tugged. 

You didn’t just leak files; you engineered patterns that forced enemies into moves you could predict. 

A raid would follow a published list; an arrest would trigger a cascade of testimony; a frightened man would try to sell what he knew, and in that desperation, you found leverage. 

The more you burned, the more fuel you found.

At first, it was efficient and elegant. 

You wore the plan like armor: a network of contacts across three cities, shell companies you’d seeded with micro-transactions to hide your tracks, a journalist who took your tips and asked no uncomfortable questions. 

You had become a mapmaker of ruin, and the map spread across your screens in cold, logical colors.

But maps are made of choices. 

So were you.

You began to feel changes at the edges. 

There were small things — you paused too long on photographs of him in your phone, thumb rubbing the corner of an image until the pixels blurred; you found yourself rehearsing excuses if someone asked you where you’d been the night of the docks. 

You flinched at sirens in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with memory.  

Nightmares slid between your consciousness like hungry animals: Dick’s face, not angry now but hollow, the blue of his eyes dimmer, grief rewriting his jaw.

You never let those dreams last. 

You learned a different discipline: anesthetize, then act. 

Regret was a luxury. 

You’d promised yourself one thing — not to let them touch him — and you kept that promise by turning your life into a blade aimed at their throats. 

If that meant you tasted ash every morning, so be it. 

If that meant you traded conversations with people for silence and plans, you did it without flinching.

People died anyway. 

That was the cruel reality you tried to outrun. 

A courier linked to a fundraising gala vanished after one of your leaks. 

You didn’t order it, you hadn’t meant for that to happen, but his sister’s number burned into your memory like an accusation. 

You tried to rationalize it: collateral, an unfortunate consequence of a necessary war. 

The rationalization frayed quickly in private. 

You’d sit in the dark and let the guilt roar through your chest until it slowed to a rhythm you could bear.

Your language hardened. 

Where you used to think in nuance, you started thinking in verbs: dismantle, expose, bankrupt, scapegoat. 

Where you had once weighed conscience, you weighed effectiveness. 

The starker the choice, the more your body found a perverse pleasure in choosing it. 

It was clearer, at least: every exposed ledger reduced the enemy’s ability to retaliate. 

Every public naming forced men who hid under power into daylight. 

You thought in headlines and outcomes, a surgeon determined to excise a tumor even if the blood didn’t stop.

You also grew more careful. 

Paranoia sharpened into craft. 

Your drop points moved nightly. 

Your burner phones were always one step behind your pursuers. 

You learned to make patterns that looked like mistakes and mistakes that looked like strategy. 

The city itself began to feel like a chessboard and you, more terrifyingly, the only player who remembered all the moves in advance.

And yet—between operations—you found yourself making small, impossible compromises. 

You composed messages you would never send. 

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. If I could undo it I would. 

These drafts lived in your outbox like ghosts: unsent apologies that you read until your eyes ached and then deleted. 

Loving him had once been the soft thing you kept for yourself; it had become the raw metric by which you punished yourself.

One night, after a successful leak had toppled a mid-level fixer and triggered another layer of investigation, you sat on a rooftop and watched the city lights like dying stars. 

Your hands trembled, not from the cold, but from adrenaline and hunger and an exhaustion that felt spiritual. 

You let your forehead rest against the rough concrete and felt, for the first time in weeks, something like the shape of the person you had been.

Dick’s voice came to you uninvited — not in memory but in rumor: he was asking questions about the leaks, too. Names he said would be safe if the truth came out; nights he’d gone walking to think; a detective’s stubbornness that didn’t give itself the luxury of letting a wound fester. 

The idea that he might be closing the circle sent a thrill through you that was almost masochistic. 

You wanted him close so you could protect him. 

You wanted him far because you couldn’t bear his pity. 

You wanted both and punished yourself for wanting either.

You had to make a choice: slow the burns and try to piece a life back together, confess and hope for mercy, or keep fueling the inferno until the organization was ash and no one could claim they hadn’t been burned by their own fire. 

The answer echoed through you with the same steady, terrible confidence that had driven you from the start. 

Burn it down. 

All of it.

You rose, because the night had no patience for indecision, and went back to work. 

There was a server farm two boroughs over with weak physical security and a vault of safe deposit boxes you’d marked for exposure.  

You smiled then — a small, sharp thing — and thought of the headlines that would come when the papers printed ledger after ledger, name after name. 

You thought of the look on Marlowe’s face when he realized the scaffolding of his life was termites; thought of the tremor that would run through the men who thought themselves untouchable.

If you were blind to your own ache, it was because you had trained your eyes to find the flint. 

If you were dangerous, it was because danger had become home. 

And if destroying them didn’t fix the sound of his boots walking away, you would at least make sure no one else could walk away unscathed.

Tonight you would not sleep. 

Tonight you would make them burn.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

He finds you in a room that smells like burned coffee and iron — a gutted campaign office lit by a dozen monitors, your face a ghostly constellation. 

Papers are stacked in neat, cruel piles: ledgers, lists, receipts, printed emails with names circled in red. 

Somewhere outside, a news van blares the same headline on loop. 

Inside, the light is wrong and everything looks like a crime scene.

You are at the center of it, small and terrible in the chaos. 

You’re a silhouette hunched over a laptop, fingers moving too fast, eyes rimmed with a raw, animal glare. 

Your hair is loose, sticking to your temple with sweat; your knuckles are grey with ash. 

There’s a cut across one eyebrow you don’t remember getting. 

You look like someone who’s been up for days and decided sleep was a weakness.

He should have felt rage first. 

He should have come in shouting, cuffing you, reading you your rights like an affidavit. 

He should have—something legal, something simple. 

Instead the first thing he feels is a physical, dumb ache, like the sudden awareness of how much trouble you’ve put yourself in. 

Then the rest slides in: the betrayal, the lies, the nights you spent together that now read like evidence.

“Hey.” His voice is softer than he planned. It doesn’t carry the authority he’s worn for years; it carries worry. 

You don’t look up. 

Your shoulders move in a small, exhausted laugh.

“You should leave.” The words are flat, an order dressed as a warning. 

Your fingers don’t stop. 

You pull another file, cross-reference something, tap a sequence into the laptop. 

The glow reflects in your pupils and for a second he sees how hollow you are — the way your face eats light now, the way you’re all edges.

“What you’re doing—” He moves closer, the boards of the floor creaking under him. “You’re making this worse.”

You snort. “Worse for whom?” you say, without looking at him. “For them? Or for you?”

“Stop playing games.” He’s trying for anger now and snatches at it, but it comes out thin. 

He remembers the moment in the warehouse, the way you’d said you’d thought you were doing the right thing, remembers being gutted and walking away. 

He should be colder. 

He isn’t.

You finally look at him. 

It’s like being struck by a wind that smells faintly of smoke and something rotten — guilt, perhaps, or the sharp tang of someone who refuses to let themselves feel. 

Your eyes find his and there’s a flash of something like recognition, then something worse: calculation. 

You are a soldier in a crusade you never step back from.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find you?” he asks. He’s not sure if he’s accusing you or himself. “You left a trail.”

“You expected anything else from me?” You laugh, and the laugh is ragged, too loud in the small room. “You expected me to be neat about this? To poison it with apologies and neat endings?” You slide a thumb over a name, the movement intimate and methodical. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done isn’t destroying every person who ever helped them.” His hand lifts, hesitates. “You’re burning whole people down. You’re watching them fall like blocks and you don’t care what hits the floor.”

For a moment — a sliver of a ridiculous, honest moment — you smile. “They deserved to fall,” you say simply. “They made the rules in a room that looked like a church, Dick. Someone had to knock it down.”

He recognizes the rhetoric. 

He also recognizes the way you say it — not like a person who is efficient, but like someone who’s addicted to the collapse. 

You’re exhilarated by the damage. 

There’s a childlike satisfaction in the way your fingers rub ash from a page, in the quickness of your movements, the near-smile when a name is crossed out. 

You are playing Jenga with lives and pretending gravity is justice.

He takes another step. “This was never justice. This is punishment. You’re punishing everyone because you can’t live with what you did.”

His words are a blade; you flinch but you don’t stop. 

For the first time since the warehouse, something cracks in you: a hitch in your breath, a stray complaint at the back of your throat. 

The movements slow; the fingers that have been dancing across the laptop fall still for a beat too long.

“You don’t get to play martyr,” he says, softer now. “You don’t get to dress this up as righteousness and expect it not to hurt people you wouldn’t even name.”

You stare at him like he’s a stranger. “I don’t want to hurt him,” you whisper. The admission is so small he almost misses it. “I don’t want to hurt anyone that I can help not be hurt.”

Dick’s chest tightens. 

He hears the quiet admission like a thing dropped down the stairs — the sound ricocheting, impossible to ignore. 

He should press the advantage, should demand confessions, explanations, handcuffs. 

He should do his job. 

He starts to reach for his phone, for a recorder, for the protocols he knows like the lines on his palm.

Instead his hands drop to his sides. 

He crosses the room with long, silent steps until he’s close enough to see the scabbed cut at your eyebrow, the way your lower lip trembles. 

Up close, you smell of smoke and something else — coffee long gone cold, the faint metallic tang of adrenaline. 

There is exhaustion in you that feels like a ragged wound.

“Look at me,” he says. 

Not an order. 

A plea.

You comply slowly. 

Maybe you want the witness.

Maybe you want someone to see the person you are now, the person you’re terrified you’ve become. 

Your eyes flick over his face, tracking, judging, then find the softness at the edges, the fatigue behind his teeth. 

There’s a look there he recognizes as pity and he hates himself for it.

“Do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?” he asks, voice a hairline. 

The question is ridiculous, and tender. 

It is a thing you both know and the room holds it like a secret.

There’s a beat where your expression folds, like a map creasing. 

Something gullible and fragile emerges; your fingers uncurl as if you might reach for him, but instead you close your hand into a fist and bury it in your hair.

“I remember,” you breathe. “I mean, stars, I remember. I remember thinking I could do both. I remember thinking I could be the thing that made the scales balance.”

“And now?” he asks. 

He’s close enough to see the way you flinch at the memory of his voice, like an old tremor. 

He has to force past the fury that has lived in him since the reveal, force it into a narrow channel so something else can through: concern, grief, a ridiculous stubborn love that never went away.

“Now I don’t know who I am if I can’t hurt them,” you say. 

It’s not a boast. 

It’s not pride. 

It’s confession. 

“They taught me to hold my hands steady while I hurt people for the greater good. Then they gave me someone to love, and I split myself into both and expected it to hold.”

The edges of his vision go soft. 

He thinks of all the small mercies he’d hoped would anchor you—laughing at something stupid in the middle of a raid, the soft invitation of a midnight hand. 

He thinks of how easily those mercies were used as camouflage. 

He thinks of the way you used love like a weapon and then let it become your weakness.

“You’re not this,” he says. The statement is almost a prayer. “You are not just wreckage.”

You laugh, and it’s a breaking sound. “Says the man who feels wrecked,” you snap, but there’s no heat behind it. “You left me.”

“I left because I could not stomach the lie in front of me,” he says. “I left because I couldn’t breathe with it. I left because I thought walking away would be cleaner than letting you keep walking the line.”

“And now you want to patch me up,” you say, bitter amusement curling your lips. “Now you want to be the hero who rescues me from the monster I made.”

He doesn’t move to object. 

Instead he does something small and dangerous: he reaches out and touches your cheek. 

The skin is hot, gritty with ash. 

You don’t pull away at once. 

You let your face lean into his hand for the space of a breath, then harden.

“You don’t get to be the only one who gets to walk away,” he says quietly. “This—this crusade—does not have to be the only thing you are.”

You gape at him like the word ‘crusade’ doesn’t belong in your mouth, like he’s speaking a foreign language. 

Then, suddenly, you deflate, as if someone has burst a bubble that’s been keeping you aloft. 

Your shoulders slump and the air leaves you with a noise like a used match being struck.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you confess, raw. “I can’t. I don’t have the mechanics anymore. I’m so deep I can’t see the surface.”

Dick studies you: the frayed patience, the reckless focus, the hollow where remorse should be. 

He knows you are dangerous—he always knew that—but in this moment, seeing you unmade, he recognizes something else: how tired you are of the violence you were trained for, and how much of you has been erased by it.

He could call reinforcements. 

He could put cuffs on your wrists and drag you into the light and into prosecution. 

He could recite every reason why that would be right. 

His training lines up like dominoes and waits for him to push.

Instead he folds, carefully, like he’s trying not to break glass. 

He steps closer and wraps his arms around you, tentative at first, then with the quiet force of someone who has been left too many times and refuses to leave this one. 

You go rigid at the contact, a wild animal surprised by a hand, but then something fractures in you — not the hardened, ambitious part that wants them to burn, but the small private self who still remembers midnight laughter and easy kisses. 

Tears come then, hot and awful and useless, and you let them fall.

“You don’t get to fix me with pity,” you say into his shoulder, voice muffled.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says. “I’m trying to be here. That’s all I can do right now.”

You cling to him like wrongness feels like a last lifeline. 

The monitors continue their pale watch, the papers still smear like fresh evidence. 

Outside, the city simmers with reaction and consequence. 

In this tiny, ruined room, you are both very close and farther than you have ever been.

He holds you without making promises he can’t keep. 

You press your hands flat against his chest and feel his heartbeat — steady, stubborn, human. 

For the first time in a long time, the frenzy inside you slows, if only by degrees.

You are still dangerous. 

You will be for a long time. 

You are still capable of burning everything down. 

But in the press of his hands, you taste something else: the possibility of different work, of different sins to atone for, or at least a new kind of reckoning. 

Whether you’ll take it is another thing entirely.

For now, the small truce is enough. 

He does not forgive you; he doesn’t have to. 

He only holds you while you break, and that, you think with a panicked, grateful flutter, might be the scariest, most necessary thing you’ve done in months.

Regardless, you wore a skirt the next day. Going against the man child was a stupid idea anyway.

You never saw it coming and one day he had cornered you in his office, you had thought he was going to throw his perverted advances at you. You mentally braced yourself for the humiliation you would have to go through for the sake of the Hero Commision. But, no amount of mental strength could have prepared you for what was going to happen.

"What do you think about the Hero Eraserhead?" He said in a mocking voice.

He knew.

Yet, you still pulled your act up

"He's a Hero with an annoying quirk," You responsed sure of your answer. "You're right," Tomura grabbed your arm all with four fingers, his thumb inching closer to your clothed arm. You knew where he was going with this, while your brother, Aizawa Shouto, had the ability to erase quirks. You weren't affected by them. Tomura couldn't kill you just by grabbing your hand but he kept his thumb suspended so he doesn't disintegrate your clothes.

"So, you wouldn't mind if I gauged his eyes out and made him into a nomu?"

Tomura knew what he was doing but you were persistent, you were not going to let your cover fall.

"No, I don't care. Why are you asking me this, Sir?"

"Why?" He looked into your eyes, even though his face was covered by father you could still catch his merciless gaze crimson red eyes burning into your soul. His hand moves to around your neck his pinky still hovering over your neck probably out of habit.

"Sir, I don't understand." You ask and Tomura hums, even while working next to him this was the first time he was ever this close to you. Even while Father was covering majority of his face you still see the wrinkles around his eyes through the gaps.

He calls you out by your pseudonym, the fake name you had used to get around the villains. He says in a voice daring you to answer to that name.

Tomura already knew, he knew you were an Aizawa. He knew you were here from the Hero Commision, probably didn't know the reason why you were here and maybe that's why he kept you around. Coming clean right know would have saved you a lot of pain but you chose to answer to him.

"Yes?"

A piercing pain shot through your right thigh your whole started feel heavy.

"You're a very dumb bitch."

You hear Tomura growl before your mind blacked out.

You wake up feeling fuzzy, you cannot remember what happened or why you were in this dark room with only a light bulb hanging above you. You tried to bring your hands to your face to rub your eyes but you couldn't move them. They were tightly binded together behind the chair. You tried kicking but no avail they were also tied to the legs of the chair.

You looked around the room, the room was dark and you couldn't see anything in the abyss. Only the little circle where the light shone was illuminated, You gulped, what had you got yourself into?

You squirmed around in your chair trying to break free of the bounds but that was impossible, footsteps resonated in the room and you gasped. A familiar tall figure came into the light, his hair shining under the white light and a deceased hand covering his face hiding a wicked grin.

"Why am I here?" You ask even though you knew the answer, you should just admit it. All this would get by easier.

"You're here because you're a dumb bitch who doesn't know when to stop lying!" Tomura taunts his voice shrilly. He walks towards the table picking up the pocket knife and walks towards you. Dread fills you up as your breath hitches, he stops at front of you placing the knife on your right cheek while his free hand goes to close around your neck.

His eyes narrow at you and can't help but let out a whimper. If he already knew why was he doing this to you? He could have just killed you when he found out.

"You know.." You whisper weakly, he grins madly behind the hand on his face.

"Yes I know, Dabi told me everything." He answers

"Then w–why are yo– what is all this?"

You're met with silence, the hand which grasped your neck leaves it as Tomura removes Father from his face and places it back on the table. He comes back to you this time pressing the knife at front of your throat.

"I absolutely hate people who take advantage of other's feelings. You came in here to collect evidence to put a charge of murder on Hawks? I don't trust you. Never did. This is going to be a lesson for you. For all of you." He says as his red eyes bore into your sorry soul.

The knife which was pressing against your neck had cut into your skin and drew out some blood, he relaxed the knife and pulled out a black smartphone.

"Are you going to kill me?" You meekly ask.

"Oh, you wish I kill you. I will do something worse," You tense up as he holds the smartphone's camera to your face. "Let's make you famous, like your brother!" He smiles his lips cracking which leaves shivers down your spine.

"Now," He says as he grips your jaw with his free hand bringing the phone to your face, "I will ask some questions and you have to answer them? People are watching okay? This is an interview!" Your blood runs cold. What does he mean people are watching? Is he live streaming this?

"What do you mean?" You ask in a low voice which barely passed as a whisper, "Come on, don't tell me you don't know what is going to happen now. This is an interview with Eraserhead's little sister! You are going to tell us about yourself right?"

"Tomura please, no. Anything but this, anything." You plead hoping he would give mercy to you, save you from the embarrassment and possibly the end of your career and life.

"Anything? This is what I want. Now, three..two..one!" He moves back as the camera captures all of you, tied helpless in a chair.

"Hello my dear viewers! Today we're going to be doing a little interview with you will never guess who!" He dramatically calls out, you lower head your hair falls on your face covering it.

"Eraserhead's little sister! I bet you're surprised as well, not a lot of people know she exists! Now!"

Tomura grabs your hair and pulls it roughly directing your face to the camera, "Why don't you tell us your name?" he taunts you, his face is covered by the phone but his eyes peeked from behind it. His hands moves from your hair to your jaw, his thumb pressing on your lips.

You say your pseudonym and as your lips seperate Tomura dips his thumb inside your mouth holding your tongue tightly against floor of your mouth cutting you off. Your first instinct is to bite his thumb but you choose not when he says, "Tell me your name or I'll cut this cute little tongue and leave you here." Your hot breath fans his thumb. "Now I'll let you go, tell us your name."

Biting back tears you let out a tiny whisper.

"Aizawa Y/N" Your voice cracks and you mutter out a sorry directed to everyone watching.

"What did you say? I didn't hear you now. Louder." Tomura growls as tears slip down your cheek, his grip still tight on your and camera looking at your face.

"Aizawa Y/N." You voice is shrilly, trying to contol your tears and to make yourself look stronger.

"Ah! There it is! Everyone, Aizawa Shouta's younger sister Aizawa Y/N!" He calls out with a chuckle. He leaves your face and you lower it again, you cannot look up. The shame, the guilt and fear was eating at you. His hand comes down on your head again but instead of roughly pulling you up by your hair he pats it down.

"Good, now as a reward." His hand comes down to your jaw again this time his pointer and middle finger pressing against your lips, "Open your mouth." he orders and you oblige. His slender and cold fingers enter your mouth, resting on top of your tongue again. Your instincts tell you to bite him but you knew better.

"Suck." He commands. You close your lips around his fingers and do as you're told, he lets out a wicked laugh and brings the phone to your mouth camera capturing your cheeks hollowing against him.

He scrolls through the comments, millions watching the comments were lewd considering he was streaming on an erotic website people just thought this was some fucked up role play.

"This is the hottest slut i've ever seen on this website" Tomura read out the comment, tears flow down from cheek as he turns the phone's screen to you. He was actually streaming this.

The 'live' symbol was at the right most corner of the screen the comments which were degrading you.

('can u fuck her already?i'm getting impatient here bro')

('look at the way this whore dresses,shes basically asking for it')

('dude whos filming this is such a lucky bastard')

('she probably likes all the attention like a naughty little whore')

You saw Tomura's face from the screen his crazed smile looking at and soon the lewd comments changed to concerned ones.

(wtf)

('omg isnt that the league's tomura' )

('wtf this is so fucked up')

('yall report this shit this is literally so fucked up')

He turned the phone around again and pulled out his fingers from your mouth wiping your saliva off on your cheek. Four fingers excluding his pinkie played with the collar of your shirt.

"Y/N, tell me, what are you doing in a place like this? I bet the viewers are wondering what the younger sister of a Pro Hero does as a living?"

The millions of strangers watching this sat in fear, a few bastards aroused by this horrific situation. Who knew that the leader of the villain league was this merciless? Heroes and Government officials watched the stream, pitying you as their tech support tried to pin point the location of the phone but all to vain.

You didn't want to even think about what your family and brother were thinking. This probably wasn't as humiliating to you as it was for your brother. He would have face the public the next day, releasing a false statement that everything was OK and it was under control. You couldn't start to imagine the number of people you were disappointing every second you sat strapped to this chair.

"Who do you work for?" Tomura asked again growling as his eyebrows furrowed.

"The Hero C–Commission," Sobs left your lips as he continued to look down at you like you were a piece of meat cooked and ready to be eaten. "t–the Hero Commision?" He said in a voice pretending to be hurt, "I thought you were working for us! I thought you were working for me! What were those three months about? You sat by my side helping me with my ups and downs. What do you mean the Hero Commision " He angrily growled the last part. You tried to hang your head low but Tomura pulled you by your hair once again making you look directly at the camera.

"Tell them why you're here! They want to know!" The upbeat cheer never leaves his voice. It was as if he was asking you how many pets you had or what was your favorite color.

"I'm here undercover," He lets go of your hair and you head hangs down tears falling on your thighs as you bite your trembling lips to not let out any sounds. Tomura lets out a satisfied hum his fingers reach for your collar once again and he catches it with five fingers and it turns to dust.

"You were sweating. To be honest I don't think its hot in here but guess I did you a favor, hmm?"

He plays with strap of your bra, he leans closer to your face as the camera captures your covered chest. "Won't you thank me?" He whispers into your ear as his free hand moves around your chest groping it and pinching your nipples through your bra until they harden.

"Thank you." You feel his hand move down and on your tight skirt as he disintegrates the material,leaving you bare in your underwear. He moves back with the camera showcasing you in your bra and panties. "Y/N told me she was feeling a little hot so I helped her, don't you think I'm a good person? I'm just like those heroes in a way," He chuckles your head still hangs low he walks up to and pulls your hair forcing you to look at him, "I'm still mad, why are you here undercover? and maybe stop looking at the floor all the time, unless you want me to chop your head off." He lets go of your hair and you continue looking up. "I went undercover to investigate. I went uncover to investigate weather Hawks killed Best Jeanist." Tomura lets of an exaggerated gasp.

"W–What did y–you say? Hawks killed Best Jeanist?"

You couldn't answer anymore. You were weeping, the gravity of the situation set in you couldn't think straight anymore all you wanted was to get out of this mess. Your moans of despair resonated in the room, Tomura looked down at you he was annoyed. He let out a low groan as he scowled down at you, he flicked your forehead, "Stop crying, answer the damn question." he ordered voice dipped in venom.

"Tomura, please let me go.. please stop this." You begged and he scoffed, "Who are you calling 'Tomura'? I'm your boss aren't I?" he pulled you by your hair moving your head back and forth. "Tomura, please no." You pleaded again but no avail he didn't show any mercy.

"You pesky heroes think you can send anyone in here and get away with it? And guess what your precious hero Hawks did kill Best Jeanist. He also killed my ally Twice but I guess you all insects will forgive that. But I am not going to forgive you! Here's a lesson you all will remember."

Tomura brought all of his five fingers on the chair you were sitting on and everything in contact with it turned to dust. You fell on the floor on your back your arms and legs free from the ropes as you laid completely bare on the floor your most intimate parts on full display for Tomura and everyone watching the stream.

You tried to crawl back to escape him but his shoe met your stomach pressing on it making whine in pain, "Are you going to kill me...?" you asked choking on sobs.

He tsked, "No, I will not kill you I already said so didn't I? Now we are not done. Before you decided to come here like a dumb bitch you are, what did you do?" You sense the unfiltered rage in his voice the shoe on your stomach pressed harder. "I worked at the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department." You answered, "Why were you fired?" He knew everything didn't he. He was going to make you regret existing.

"Tomura..." You whined and he tsked, "Please, kill me." Tomura scoffed, he was going to force himself on you while talk about every little bad choices that you had made in life you were done for. If he let you out in the world after this you wouldn't be able to face anyone anymore.

His shoe pressed even harder into your stomach, he bent down pinching your hardening nipple and brought the phone to your face. "You're asking me to show you mercy? Too bad Y/N, I'm not a hero. You don't get to die!" He started laughing as your face turned to a terrified one. "Now, tell me, why were you fired?" His hands moved around your body but the camera stayed at your face. You broke down as you explained your affair which had with your lieutenant, when you stopped Tomura gave a wicked laugh he looked down at you with disgust and lust in his eyes."Ereaserhead's little sister is a whore." Tomura grabbed you by your neck and brought you to your knees, you looked up at him only to the camera positioned at front of your face. "Do what whores do the best." The bulge in his pants was hard to ignore you could feel your heartbeat picking up as you  hear his belt jingle off while unbuckling his belt the camera recording every move and millions of people eagerly watching.

Soon his pants were discarded and your mouth was around his girth

Your tongue sticks out to lick his length from bottom to top, lubing it up so it would be easier to take it all into your mouth. He let out another loud pant as you licked him from top to bottom.

"Filthy," he spat, his words thick with lust and dominance. "Absolutely filthy," He reemphasized,

Tomura impatiently nudges your lips with the head of his cock, His precum already decorates your lips and chin, and you glance up at him,

Tomura and the viewers are truly mesmerized by the way you swallow his cock as he allows himself to bottom out every time, savouring the feeling of your warm and tight depths around him.

You swallowed around him, trying to ignore the burning sensation in your lungs .You couldn't breathe because of how he blocked your airway, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to breakdown. You swallowed around him again, another low groan meeting your ears.

his cock hitting the back of your throat. Your eyes watering further as you got used to the feeling. and trying not to gag you lifted your head back and began the motion stimulating his cock. He let out a real audible moan now, his hands gripping your hair as you went up and down. A mixture of tears and drool was dripping down your chin, pooling down the floor as you tried to let him take all of himself in your mouth.

You kept the blowjob up until you heard his breath get harder and more erratic with each hit with the back of your throat. He gripped your head and began thrusting hard into your mouth, hissed moans and sounds of pleasure escaped his clenched teeth as he reached his climax fucking your face.

You felt the hot seed burst out in your throat, the warm and bitter liquid sliding down. Tomura's pants were heavy as he slowly pumped into your mouth, the liquid filling your throat as you swallowed it all down.

You popped off of him,your vision blurring with tears,your cheeks damp inhaling more greedy amounts of air. He wiped the drool off of your chin,forcing you on your feet as you struggled to maintained your balance. You noticed the dull ache of your knees, which had been pressed to the floor the entire time.

He brushed a hand through your hair, crouching matching your height. "Do you like being a whore? "

He gripped your thigh and his fingers crawled upwards, "Instead of working hard like everyone in the society did u like getting on your knees and sucking off your boss? ''

His hands squeezed your ass up, as the smartphone was pointed to your face

You hiccuped nodding slowly

"A filthy slut like you always needs a dick or two in your mouth. Am I correct?" He asks, knowing exactly what his words are doing to you. You whine a little louder wishing for this all to be over, and when you don't answer he grabs your hips with his rough hands,Your legs splay out in front the camera, standing between them and smirking down at you.

"Bend over. give us a little show." You bend over the table  as he guides you, leaning into the hard cold wood under you. You feel his knee between your legs, nudging them open for his inspection,You knew what was coming his fingers rubbed your slit and camera positioned directly above it. You feel the brush of his warm breath over your exposed pussy, wet and aching.

You felt him position himself at your entrance. You couldn’t think straight now,You could feel heat begin to pool at his words and you blushed. What was wrong with you?

He pushed your legs apart and admired you, all exposed for him. He licked his lips. "look at you,your'e dripping." " I bet you love it. What a dirty fucking slut you are, getting turned on by people watching this slutty little pussy get fucked,"

"Am I correct?" he says more sternly, a glimmer of excitement in his warning gaze.

"Yes, sir," you answer.

''I- I cant''

“You can and you will,” he says dismissively, his hand already wrapping itself into your hair. “Now take my cock like the whore you are.”

You arch your back, spreading your legs further to take Tomura's pounding.

Tomura moaned above you as he kept thrusting faster and harder. He lowered his head sucking and biting on your neck.He groaned thrusting into you from behind giving your ass a hard slap. You moaned biting your bottom lip. He kept pounding your pussy grabbing your hair in his other fist. The footage on the camera became shakey and blurry.

Sliding his hands over your thighs, he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, and a silent moan erupts from you. This angle allows his cock to reach even deeper, and your cries turn to deep moans as Tomura hits hard and deep with every single thrust,feeling the eyes of the viewers on him

He let out a soft growl in your ear before thrusting faster. "''You're such a good little slut , taking whatever my cock gives you''"

He almost doesn't want to cum, but then he imagines what your pussy would look like all filled with cum, his cum, and the thought alone urges him to slam into you harder.

"God, fuck, I'm cumming, take it, take it all you cocksleeve."

''T- Tomura'' you gasped

You felt sick, as if you were going to pass out.

this livestream has ended

You laid lifeless on the table as you felt his cum dripping our of your abused hole. Your eyes narrowed and you felt something wet prod your lips. You tried to move your head back but his hand pushed you into a deeper kiss.

The last thing you could remember was him kissing you.

<Feedbacks are really appreciated >

artwork isn’t mine **

“Good job.” Dabi said. His voice was uncharacteristically soft. “We’re done here.”

You took one last long look at the UA’s training grounds. This was the last time you’d be able to come here.  You turned to follow. 

“That’s it huh?” Kirishima’s voice rang out from over a yard away.  “This entire time you’ve been with the League of Villains…?!”

“You really are stupid aren’t you?” Dabi let out a sinister laugh, “The only reason they ever came here was to sell your secrets.”

“You were... lying to us? This whole time?” You resisted the urge to turn around. You didn’t want to see the look of betrayal on his face. 

Seeing his look of utter betrayal wouldn’t be enough for you to change your mind, but it would hurt. It would hurt too much. 

“No. It couldn’t have been a lie! The experiences we’ve had together, the friendships you made! That wasn’t a lie!”

It hadn’t.

It really hadn’t.

When you first came to 1-A, you told yourself that this was a mission. That these teenagers were sheep to the system. Fated to become a part of the tortuous cycle. 

But things changed too quickly. You were loyal to the Liberation Front, that would never change. But you were tempted to call these people true heroes; their intentions were pure, and they had never acted corrupt in any way. 

‘Yet’ you had to correct yourself, ‘They weren’t corrupt yet.’ 

But it was only a matter of time before they began to change too. Not everyone could be like All Might. 

It’s only a matter of time.

That was your mantra for three years.

You clung to it desperately when Yaomomo offered to tutor everyone. When Aoyama talked on end about bedazzling his room. When Todoroki took metaphors too literally and made Aizawa sigh in exasperation. When Kirishima…

In your time at the UA, he’d never once doubted you. Always there. Always encouraging.

“Human sunshine.” Mina had said, “Him and Midoriya are too bright.”

At last you slowly turned to face him. And it was just as bad as you feared. He wasn’t crying. Not yet. But he was close. His face was pure agony as Dabi placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Let’s go.” 

“No! Wait!” Kirishima couldn’t come closer. Not without backup. But the rest of 1-A was too incapacitated to muster up the will to fight. But Kirishima had a fire in his eyes, like he could sway you with just his words. “You were my friend. You still are! You can still turn back! I promise- I promise this won’t change anything!”

“It will.” You say, mostly to yourself. A dark swirling portal materializes behind you and Dabi calls your name. Kirishima does too.

“I still believe in you!” He cries out, over the groans of pain from your classmates. “That doesn’t change! That won’t ever change!”

You’re sorry. But only for hurting him.