#Mr. X (Streets of Rage)

[soul-sparx]

the Y twins are so cool but their dad sucks so i gave him some Swag

[bison2winquote]

Mr. X, Streets of Rage 2 (SEGA)

[pocoslip]

Casey Jones VS X

[pitagain]

#365DaysOfVGM Day 202:

The Last Soul/S.O.R. Super Mix (Bare Knuckle/Streets of Rage & Bare Knuckle II/Streets of Rage 2 [1991/1992])

More Sega Mega Drive/Genesis highlights usually means an inevitably cool electronic Bass, and when Yuzo Koshiro’s involved, you know the genre variety will kick in and impress you at some point!

Which is to say, the slower pace of today’s pick combined with the instrumentation, helps “The Last Soul” stand out from all the competition. Because of this versatility, it also feels like a good sort of “hub world” track, funnily enough.

S.O.R Super Mix is the bigger highlight here though: With a mix of the predecessor’s “The Last Soul” and “You Became the Bad Guy!” themes as the basis for this remix, comes a worthy successor used for both the opening cutscene and final stage of this sequel. Again, the Bass is a common highlight in Sega Genesis soundtracks, with new sounds on top of it to provide an extra-detailed somber atmosphere, fit for the finale; you’re at the source of Mr. X’s cycle of miserable criminal activity, it’s up to you to put it all to an end!

(Length before loop [The Last Soul]: 1.5+ minutes, [S.O.R. Super Mix]: Nearly 3 minutes)

[tuliptheoshawott]

ANTAGONIST WHO WOULD WIN POLL #1

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Twelve: apple pie

tw: minor violence

You remember the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter well—very well.

Plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the nation, it’s hard to forget the event and the harrowing accounts of survivors and the family members that were left behind in the wake of the tragedy. Over thirty men were massacred that day. Nothing but lifeless torsos without hands to stop the bleeding, limbs too far out of reach to retrieve. Twelve more were injured. You remember the paper retelling a story of one of the workers, now rendered blind from the explosion that rocked The States, rippling through the population. 

Confusion kept everyone stupid for some time—it was widely accepted that this was an accident. Natural gases within the earth that ignited when explosives were detonated in order to carve deeper into the earth’s surface. When this take was first published and traveled down the wagon trail to Penmosa, you remember your father huffing at the words, fist clenched tight around the arm of his chair. 

“Serves them right. Desecrating God’s green earth like that. Bastards, every one of them. You hear me, girl? This is what human greed does. It makes you a corpse.” 

You suppose that, in the end, he was right. 

Weeks later it was confirmed that this was no accident, but rather intentional. Workers came forward with stories about strange men in masks wandering into the worksite towing obscene amounts of TNT. Many men fought back, only to be shot. Others couldn’t quite escape before the earth caved in on them, burying them beneath mounds of rubble. Even to this day, they still find pieces of them. Shattered bones and dusty work boots, never to be lacquered again. 

Last you knew, the criminals were still on the run. Some uncouth hit and run. Nothing but a slimy act of terror. The old company went out of business, unable to make up for the lost workers and the compensation that was owed, and a new one moved in, still putting the site to use. A memorial was erected in honor of the lives lost. The day has been lost to memory and grief. 

Now, you know otherwise. 

Dead or Alive: for the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter. 

Your stomach twists as you travel down the winding roads of Grand Hollow, but the nervosity chewing on your neurons makes it impossible to enjoy the otherworldly beauty presenting itself before you. When Mr. Beckett had warned you about John Price and his posse, you had never expected violence in a magnitude such as this. You’ve broken bread with these men. Fished in the same waters. Laid on the same dirt. 

Now you understand his secrecy. All John’s hidden motives and dodged questions, answers given with vicious snark and a half lidded glare. What terrors does he expect to rage now in Blackpeak? Was his slaughtering of those working men not enough? Must he now steal from their grieving families, too? 

Guilt spears through you like a freshly born knife still hot from the furnace. How dare you have the audacity for such emotions? Had you known John Price was this much of a monster, you would have let him spill your blood next to the campfire the night you fled from your father. 

“Pecora.” 

The driver’s rough voice pulls you from your nightmarish anamneses. You glance up from your worn, tattered nails and stare at the back of his head where his wiry, white hair greets you. He does not look at you, but you’re certain you were the one he spoke to. 

“Pardon?” you ask. 

He looks over his shoulder and stares at you blankly for a moment before pointing to something on the cart’s right. “Pecora,” he repeats. 

Following the crooked curve of wrinkled his finger, you spot an ewe and her lamb. They’re terribly out of place, fresh white wool contrasting against the darkened grey cobblestone of the streets, but the ewe does not fret. She trots through the foot traffic, splitting pedestrians who gawk at her and her child with coos, all while stopping to chew on the weeds that spring up between the bricks. 

Her lamb, however, stumbles behind her on jelly legs with wide eyes and a mouth that knows nothing other than to cry. Its voice is strident as it weaves through its mother’s legs, eyes anxiously gazing at the tall creatures that surround them. Utterly lost and out of place, you hum as you watch them find a patch of grass to lay and bask in. 

“Oh, sheep,” you realize. “How cute.” 

“Cute,” the driver repeats with a nod. 

Proud, baronial buildings slowly dwindle into something quieter the further you’re taken away from The Twin Rose. At first you passed them off to be more stores and places of interest for citizens and travelers alike to visit, but you come to the realization that these are houses when you catch a woman throwing bed linens out onto a clothesline. 

Wide lawns stretch out like royal carpets before two story houses with large windows and porches sporting long sunroofs. If your father witnessed the white paint that decorates the wood, you’re certain he would keel over in the dirt of the streets, scandalized that simple homes would bear the same pure milky sheen of his church. It’s quieter here without the hustle of the deep city. Fewer pedestrians, sparse horses, children laughing in a nearby field as they kick and throw various toy balls around to one another. 

The cart comes to a stop in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s different from all the others in the neighborhood, sporting a rosy pink rather than snowy white. Several flower bushes line the siding of the house, almost in full bloom, bitterly reminding you of your mother’s lily plants back in Penmosa. From somewhere inside of the house, music bleeds. It’s a quiet crackle with a canorous melody soaring over compressed violins, trumpets, and pianos. It sounds wrong. Nothing at all like the warm tones you’re familiar with from the church choir. 

Your driver hops out of his seat, worn boots scraping on the stone at his feet, and offers you a hand. “Here. Laswell home.” 

Placing your hand into his worn palm, he helps you out of the cart and gestures to the front door with a wrinkled, lopsided smile. You give him a quiet thanks as he loads back up, reins flicking and prompting the horses into action where he turns around and slowly trots back down the street. 

Each beat of your heart threatens to drown out the music as you trot up the steps to the porch. The sillage of rose and lavender bleeds from the flower bushes at the base of the stairs and mixes with the warmth bleeding through the open windows of the house. Swallowing, you approach the door and knock. 

There is no answer. 

Someone obviously is inside the house. You can hear chirpy humming and various utensils being knocked around, so you try again only to have the same luck. After a few minutes, you muster up the courage to open the door and peek your head inside. 

The foyer is small with shoes lined up against the floorboards and various coats and hats hanging on hooks drilled into the wall. Just past the entrance you can see a staircase that leads up to the second floor with a rich vermillion runner along dark stained wood, but there is no sign of the woman you were sent to help. 

“Lottie?” you call out as you close the door behind you with a shaky hand. 

Still receiving no response, you exit the foyer and begin to wander where the noise is loudest. You travel down wide hallways with open windows, sunlight bleeding through wispy drapes like mist on a cold autumn morning. Various paintings catch your attention as you walk, hung up high and proud, displaying scenes of nature and animals and captured with a keen eye. Other hallways split off like a burrow of tunnels, like a warren lurking in a field, but you keep your feet steady until you reach the kitchen. 

The woman you’re assuming is Lottie stands with her back faced toward you as she sways her hips in front of the stove. A phonograph plays on the counter, spinning a waxy cylinder and playing its music loud and proud. A rosy pink skirt twirls around her legs as she wipes her hands off on her apron, then toys with the frizzy curls of her bright blonde hair as they fall from her disheveled bun. She’s humming along to the music—some upbeat tune you don’t recognize—as she hops on her feet, hips twisting as she reaches for a large wooden spoon. 

“Miss Lottie?” you ask once more. 

The woman squeals like a bird caught in the maw of a barn cat as she spins around, spoon waving as if she wields a knife. She’s rather pretty, you think, even with this look of terror on her face. Pale brows rising as her teal eyes widen, free hand pressed against her collarbones as if to still her fluttering heart. She looks you up and down and then sighs before wiping her brow. 

“Oh, darlin’ don’t do that to me. Damn near scared me half to death!” Her voice is saccharine and slow, accent drawing long vowels and dropped consonants. Southern, you think—Georgia, if you had to guess. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” you apologize. You raise your hands as a sign of good faith before you glance at the items behind her on the counter. Fresh meat, a mason jar of white, bubbly liquid, a fresh block of cheese. “Laswell sent me here. I’m supposed to help with dinner?” 

“Did she now?” Lottie asks. Her face melts. All tension vanishes back into the depths of her skin as a smile pulls at her lips. “Reckon we have guests to cook for, then?” 

You nod. “Yes—erm—myself and a few others. Four men.” 

“Sounds like we have half a battalion to feed,” she muses. Tapping the spoon against the side of her hip, she seems swept away by the chorus of the song crackling from the phonograph, melody bleeding from the speaker like a warm campfire in the midst of the boonies. “Awfully kind of Katie to send me a little helper, then. Why don’t you grab one of those aprons darlin, we can’t have you mucking up that dress of yours!” 

She points over her shoulder to a small rack of off-white aprons long stained by home cooked meals. Each of them are embroidered with little flowers. Some sport roses, others daisies, and what you think is an attempt to do forget-me-knots. You snatch up the one with lilies before tying it around your waist and hopping in line next to Lottie, who isn’t afraid to throw work your way. Handing you a knife, she orders you to peel potatoes and cut them into cubes while she works on heating the stove up enough for the meat. 

When she asks you what your name is, you tell her the truth, though it’s overshadowed by the mention of your nickname. Lamb. It makes her giggle something sweet and bubbly like champagne. 

Lottie is a beautiful woman—it’s difficult not to find yourself starstruck by her. Rosy cheeks flush in the heat of the kitchen, illuminating the sweet and sparse freckles that spot her face. Her lips are painted a matte cherry red, though it slowly fades each time her teeth dig into the tender flesh as she mutters to herself about the next steps for her meal. Then, there’s her bosom. Your eyes burn when you notice the swell of her breasts and how her corset can hardly keep them from spilling over the blushing fabric of her dress. She’s any man’s dream. 

“So,” you speak up. Small talk is not a strong attribute of yours, and Lottie and her phonograph are doing plenty of conversing for the both of you. Still, you are a stranger in this home, and the acrimonious bile in your stomach urges you to make something of yourself. “You live here, then? With Laswell?” 

“Well, of course,” she Lottie giggles. She’s got flour smeared on her face, dusty eggshell staining a line across her forehead. “Certainly wouldn’t be doin’ all this good cookin’ for free.” 

“Are you and Laswell sisters, then?” you ask. 

Lottie’s in the middle of placing a thinly rolled piece of pastry dough on top of her sheet of pot pie when she freezes. Her gaze is quizzical as she turns her attention to you, eyes studying every line in your face. For a moment, there’s something malicious that lurks in her gaze. An incensed flicker that leaves your spine tingling. It quickly vanishes when her eyes drop to the necklace dangling around your neck. 

“Oh, bless your heart. Aren’t you just as sweet as a peach,” she says with a quiet smile before returning to her work. 

Unsure of what else to say, you continue to do as you’re told. Chopped potatoes. Rolling dough. Making bread—sourdough. Slicing apples. Warming sugar until golden brown. You’re grateful for the work. It’s been a long time since you’ve cooked a proper meal, and you’re hoping you’ll actually be able to get a taste of it this time around. 

Neither you nor Lottie take a break until her apple pie is cooking in the oven and her pot pie is staying warm atop the stove. She fetches you a cup of water from a valve in the kitchen, leaving you slack jawed, and corrals you out onto the porch where the two of you sit next to one another on a thatched bench.

As you drink, you can’t help but realize that even the water tastes different here. It’s strange. Tangy, like blood from a split lip. You hold the glass up to the setting sun where amber light refracts through it, illuminating the bubbles that swirl through the liquid. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

When you turn your attention back to Lottie, you realize she’s staring at you, bright eyes piercing through you like cold rays of sun. Pressing your lips together, you place your hands into your lap, fingers clenching around your glass. 

“No, I just got here today, actually,” you explain. 

She nods. “Where’re you from?” 

“Penmosa.” 

“I’m not familiar.” 

“It’s… well, it took us a fair bit of travel to get here.” 

“Us?” 

Blinking, you realize the slip of your words. John’s name rattles through your brain like dark ink on parchment—pinned to a board, face on display for all to see, a call for violence; for vengeance. 

“Yes. I’ve been traveling with… a man named John.” 

“John Price?” Lottie confirms. 

Solicitude seeps deep into every bone in your body at her recognition. “Yes. Him and the others will be here for dinner tonight. I… I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

“Oh, not at all!” she beams as the tips of her feet tap against the porch. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve last seen John and his boys. Didn’t think he’d be comin’ back to Grand Hollow so soon. Last I knew he was out wandering while tryin’ to wait for things in Blackpeak to cool down.” 

The more she speaks, the more your brows draw together. “You know him?” 

“Of course I do! Him and Kaite have been doin’ business for a little while now. He’s a fine man. A little strange, but I think all those English folk are, if you ask me.” 

A subtle discontent stirs at the base of your skull leaving your mind spinning. A dissonance screams. It burrows deep and roots. You’ve been warned that John Price is not a good man, and you’ve seen the very proof of it yourself. That man he shot and killed. The clothes he ripped off of your body. The wanted poster with his name and face plastered on it. 

Yet, he saved you from your father, and Lottie spews about him as if he were a disciple. You know it is ungodly to cast judgement on another person, but you can’t shake the discord of the situation. How thin is the line between salvation and betrayal? 

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Lottie murmurs. 

There, just down the road, trots a line of horses. Bear’s familiar head rears while his tail flicks, shooing off flies attempting to nurse on him all while Kyle pats the side of his head. John lazily looks around at the houses, shoulders squared as he seems to chat away with Laswell, who leads the pack on her own horse. 

Swallowing, you prepare for what you’re sure is about to be the most painful dinner you’ve participated in for quite some time. 

Laswell is the first to dismount, leg easily swinging over the side of her horse without a dress to get in the way. She trots up the porch and greets you with a polite nod before her hands reach for Lottie. The woman grins, bright, pearly teeth flashing between the blood red of her lips, before she allows Laswell to help her off of the bench. Then, their lips meet. Soft, chaste—enough to stain Laswell’s mouth with color. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare. Two women, embracing one another in such a way. Heat simmers from your core for only a short moment before it’s boiling, splashing bubbling water all up your insides until they’re searing and raw. You can hear John’s chuckle haunt you from somewhere along the staircase. 

“Come on, Lamb,” Lottie urges with a wave. “Let’s go set the table.” 

The distance you sow between you and John is appreciated and welcomed, but it only lasts for a few fleeting minutes before God has brought the two of you together again. Palms flat in your lap, eyes staring at the long table as you’re squished between Kyle and Riley, John’s eyes flickering like a lone candle flame across from you—the weight is nearly unbearable. Crushing. Bones fracturing. Splinters sticking in the raw, fleshy parts of you. 

Thick fingers curl around his fork, dark hair lining the space just below his knuckles. You watch as his tendons dance just below his skin as he cuts into his food before he shoves it into his open maw. As he eats, you wonder how many men he’s murdered with those very same hands. How much blood the earth has had to swallow because of him. How many children weep over rotting fathers because of what those hands have done. 

As he cracks his knuckles, you’re reminded of the first time he ever taught you how to shoot. Trigger finger trembling, he told you a gun is nothing more than a tool. Something to protect yourself with. It’s a similar mentality he barked at you when you dared to challenge him over his slaughtering of that farmer who threatened to soil you. Protection. Saving. Family. 

What honor was there in slaughtering those coal mine workers? 

“I can see why Laswell’s tied you down with a ring, Lottie,” John hums. His thumbs graze over one of your sourdough rolls, nails biting into the crisp crust as it caves in beneath his pressure. He places a fluffy piece against his tongue and offers a tight-lipped to the woman. “With cooking like this, I reckon you had her ensnared.” 

Lottie’s giggle falls like a sheer blanket over the table as she shoos John off with a wave. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit. Your little lamb was quite the helper. Pretty much did everythin’ for me! And, as far as I know, she ain’t taken quite yet.” 

John’s eyes settle on you, and though you know better, you can’t help but return his gaze. Sticky like tree sap on fresh logs, you can’t look away. You hold his gaze, jaw tense and aching, he hums. His lips quirk into a smile and for the first time in your life, you find yourself wanting to slap it from his face. 

“Maybe we ought to keep you around after all,” he muses. 

Scoffing, you glance back down at your plate. There’s hardly anything left for you to eat, yet you poke at it with your silverware anyway. “Awfully rich coming from the man who considers me a right nuisance. What did you call me again? Cargo?” 

Enmity soaks your tongue so much that it does not feel like your own anymore. This is your father’s tongue that rots your mouth—bitter and swollen from long standing annoyance, ever petulant. Even John seems to recognize this change within you. Eyebrows rising, he shakes his head and chuckles. 

“Right,” he agrees. “The most headache-inducing cargo I’ve ever laid hands on.” 

A hush halts the table’s conversation leaving you to face the white hot anger brewing in your chest all by yourself. You note the sideways glances. The way Kyle turns away from you. The way Soap’s lips press together. 

Look at you, once again, the prodigal daughter. 

“Well, how about some dessert to offset all this bitterness?” Lottie suggests, voice gentle like honey, blunt humor pulling at her words. 

Laswell pushes her plate away before looking up at her wife with a nod. “A perfect idea, love.” 

Apple and cinnamon dance in a waltz on your tongue but their feet are numbed as the rest of the feast is finished in choppy conversation punctuated with long bouts of silence. Fatigue pulls heavy at everyone’s eyes, but your anger keeps you wide awake. Fork clutched in hand. Metal scraping on porcelain. When everyone is finished, John attempts to have everyone stay behind to help clean up, but Laswell waves him off, saying that he ought to get everyone back to the hotel to rest. 

Before you leave, Lottie bids you farewell with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to Grand Hollow, darlin. I hope it’s everythin’ you need.” 

You ride on the back of John’s horse. You’re much too close for comfort to him, and your skin tingles as if there were a million small beetles dancing on your body. He at least offers you the courtesy of not talking to you, allowing you to stew in your thoughts as your eyes glaze over and focus on the dusty stones that crumble beneath the horse’s hooves. 

Still, you are incensed that you missed all the omens. Vague warnings from Mr. Beckett. The bursts of anger that seemed to seep from every pore in his body. The way he never flinched when enacting violence upon others. 

You spent so long attempting to find humanity in the eyes of the wolf that you failed to notice the fresh blood staining his teeth. 

“Ever been to a theatre before, Lamb?” 

It’s the first thing John’s said to you for the entire ride, and it’s enough to get your ears to quirk. Gaze shifting upwards, you notice an unfamiliar sight that you’ve only heard about from word of mouth. Fat bulbs light up the street as they line a marquee board listing off show names and times. Stories you don’t recognize, with actors and actresses from a whole other world. Behind a glass window sits a man selling tickets, who looks as if he’s about to fall asleep face first into the palm he rests his chin on. 

“Can’t say that I have,” you reply tartly. 

“They used to be shows of just actors. People dancing on stage, things of that sort,” John explains, head leaning back in active conversation. “Used to have women hiking their skirts up, too. Would probably send your daddy into a proper fit if he ever saw it. Now they’re showing moving pictures. Films, I think they call it.”

“Is that so?” Short. Dull. The theatre passes you by and you’re back to staring at the ground. 

John’s hips shift in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. “The boys and I were thinking about seeing one tomorrow.”

All you do is hum in reply. You watch as John’s shoulders tense and rise before falling with a huff. The horse begins to slow, its proper trot dwindling to a lazy meander. 

“You know Lamb, I can’t say I’m too overly fond of this new attitude of yours. Picking fights at dinner while we’re guests wasn’t too godly of you,” he bites. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting rid of me soon, isn’t it?” you retort. 

His body stills. Not even the swaying of his horse can move him. 

“You might be right about that, little lamb.” 

With Laswell tucked away at home, John is the only one left to show you to your room. He bids the boys a goodnight before leading you up to the second floor, key pinched between his fingers as he unlocks the door for you. You find your carpet bag waiting for you on the foot of the largest bed you’ve ever seen—big enough to house six swine comfortably, if you had to guess. Another vanity sits shoved against the far side of the wall, along with several complementary products of soap and oils, but the wonder is lost on you now. 

Sighing, you take the key from John’s hand and busy yourself with sorting through the items in your bag. John’s gaze sears your skin. Shoulder tucked into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, he stares at you. Through you. Piercing your body as if his eyes were knives. 

“You’re not still upset at me for earlier, are you?” he suddenly questions. 

“Earlier?” you repeat. You’re still turned away from him. Shoulders hunched, hands busy. You know it’s not smart to face away from wolves but you can’t bring yourself to be scared of his bite anymore. 

“When I interrupted your bath.” 

“Whyever would I be mad about that?” you reply bitterly. 

While John’s chuckles are usually warm, earthy things, the one he gives you now can only be described as sour milk. Thick and clumpy, noisome and in desperate need to be thrown out. “Full of fire today, aren’t you? Did you ever talk to your daddy like this?” 

Your fingers have just wrapped around your comb when he asks you this, and the unfamiliar choler it fills you with nearly suffocates you. Tossing the item onto the comforter, you whip around to face him, head tilted to the side and teeth grinding like eroding stones. 

“No, Daddy beat me whenever I opened my mouth out of turn,” you snap, stating the obvious with so much vitriol you nearly choke on it. Still, it propels you forward, feet sliding across the floor as you approach him. “Is that what you wanna do to me, John?” 

“You better slow down, sweetheart,” John warns. 

Ignoring him, you stalk closer on wobbly legs. Nothing but a freshly jellied lamb. 

“Gonna take off your belt and beat me the way your daddy did to you?” you challenge. You’re within biting distance now. John’s no longer leaning against the doorframe, but instead standing with his feet wide and firm as if ready for a blow. “Gonna make someone pay for your pain? That’s all you wan’t, isn’t it? Vengeance? You’re no better than the man behind the belt, John Price, you’re-” 

All it takes to shut you up is a hand on your jaw. 

Thumb and fingers curling into the fat of your cheeks, John Price is close enough to your face that you can feel his breath fan across your skin. His grip is firm enough to get your lips to part, but not enough to ache—not yet, anyway. Your pounding heart quivers against your sternum, making it impossible for you to swallow properly as you stare at him. 

Tobacco pairs nicely with the hue of his eyes—dark like a lake rippling during a storm. You want to be scared. Everything within you tells you to be scared. These are the hands that slaughtered innocent lives. Still, the way his thumb brushes across your bottom lip is the most gentle thing you’ve ever felt since your mother’s last parting kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but it feels worse than any slap you’ve ever received before. 

“Dunno what’s gotten into you sweetheart, but I’ll just assume you’re in desperate need of some good rest.” John huffs when he releases you, hands falling to his side before his fingers wrap around the doorknob. 

For a moment, he stands there like this. Gaze wandering up and down, his pupils soak up the narrowing of your eyes and the shaking of your knees before he swings the door shut. 

“Goodnight, Lamb.”

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[this-is-tiny-mia]

Window In Front (H.S One Shot +18)

General Masterlist

ceo!harry x fem!reader / assistant!reader

Summary: After discovering your husband’s affair, you take a job with his biggest rival to get even. What starts as revenge quickly becomes something far sweeter—and far more pleasing.

A/n: Hello, my loves! Here’s the smutty one-shot I promised. This story is inspired by a @finelinemia chatbot, so all credit for the trope goes to her. (Thank you for letting me write something based on it!)

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: SMUT, exhibitionism (for smaaallll moment) workplace dynamics, spitting, dirty talk, unprotected sex, inappropriate workplace relationship, creampie You didn’t cry—not when you found your husband in your bed with your best friend, not when you packed up your life, and not even when you signed the divorce papers. You were broken, sad, and a mess, but somehow, the tears never came. Your mother and sister insisted you go to therapy, and you did. Even your therapist seemed as concerned as everyone else about your lack of tears.

But you weren’t worried. You were consumed by rage, imagining countless ways to get revenge. Yet, no matter how creative or cruel your ideas became, they all felt insignificant compared to what they had done. So, you never dwelled on why you hadn’t cried.

That realization struck you late one night, lying on your sister’s couch at midnight, staring blankly at the ceiling.

How had you not thought of it sooner?

“Meet the Billionaire Next Door: Harry Styles, CEO of StylesCorp.” “Harry Styles, Visionary CEO, Announces Game-Changing Sustainability Initiative.” “StylesCorp Achieves Record Growth: Harry Styles Credits Bold Leadership and a Stellar Team.”

You scrolled through article after article. Harry Styles—your husband’s rival and the enigmatic CEO of the company in the building across the street. You knew about him from the countless nights your husband came home ranting. He accused Harry of sabotage, claimed he had spies within the company, and cursed his name with every failure.

You had barely paid attention back then, more focused on calming your husband and easing his stress. But now, you felt a new kind of clarity.

At first, it started innocently. All you wanted was to get under your husband’s skin. But soon, things began to spiral out of control.

🌷

“I have an interview with Mr. Styles,” you said, adjusting your skirt and ensuring every detail was perfect.

“Eleventh floor,” a woman replied, handing you a large badge marked VISITOR. “Wear this,” she added curtly, already shifting her attention to the next person.

You stepped into the elevator, gripping the visitor badge tightly in your hand. The air felt heavy, and you couldn’t tell if it was the weight of your nerves or the thrill of what you were about to do. Each floor the elevator ascended echoed like a reminder of your mission: revenge, power, control.

When the doors opened, you were greeted by an expansive office space with sleek, modern design—glass walls, minimalist furniture, and the faint hum of employees. People moved with purpose, and you couldn’t help but wonder if Harry Styles himself carried this same commanding energy.

A sharp-dressed assistant approached, her steps precise. “Ms. Y/L/N? This way, please. Mr. Styles is expecting you.”

The assistant opened the door, and you stepped inside, trying to steady your breathing. The office was as grand as you’d imagined. Harry Styles stood by the window—the very window with a direct view of your ex-husband’s office across the street. His hands were in his pockets, and the light cast a golden glow on his perfectly tailored suit. At the sound of your heels clicking on the floor, he turned, his expression shifting from neutral to something far more curious as his eyes met yours.

“I have to say, I’m surprised,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate. He gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Mrs. Ashford, isn’t it?”

You hesitated for only a second before walking forward, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just Y/L/N now,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

He chuckled softly, leaning back against the desk instead of sitting down. “Of course it is. But forgive me if I’m a bit... curious. It’s not every day that Thomas Ashford’s ex-wife walks into my office. Care to enlighten me as to why?”

Your heart raced, but you kept your composure, crossing your legs and sitting upright. “I’m here for an interview.”

“An interview,” he repeated, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, his tone tinged with amusement. “For a position at my company. Of all the places in the world, you chose here.”

You shrugged lightly, feigning indifference. “You’re the best in the business. Why wouldn’t I want to work here?”

He tilted his head, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Y/N.” Leaning forward, he rested his hands on the desk, his eyes narrowing playfully. “But let’s not pretend there isn’t more to this. I’m dying to know—what would your ex-husband say if he knew you were sitting in this chair?”

Your smile was tight as you glanced briefly at the window across the street, where Thomas’s office loomed. Your voice was steady. “I guess we’ll both have to wait and see.”

🌷

The days were long, filled with emails, meetings, and endless tasks. You moved through the office like a well-oiled machine—efficient, precise, and always a step ahead. It was the only way to keep the overwhelming thoughts at bay, the ones that revolved around your ex-husband, and the bitter reminder of his betrayal.

You entered his office before knocking twice. “Mr.Styles I’m working on the report but I have a few questions about…” Your gaze shifted to the window—just for a second. There, in the office across the street, was Thomas, leaning over his desk, engaged in a conversation with none other than your ex-best friend. Her laugh, that sickeningly familiar laugh. You clenched your jaw, gripping onto the papers in your hands

“What were your questions?” He said, following your gaze to the window. “Ah, I see. Again.”

You turned quickly, caught off guard. “What?”

“Still staring across the street?” Harry raised an eyebrow  “He’s not worth the attention. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes. “It’s hard not to, with him right there.” You didn’t realize how defensive you sounded until after the words left your mouth. “God, sorry” 

“Look, if you’re going to obsess over something, obsess over something a little more fun, like this,” Harry said, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. He pulled out a Rubik’s Cube from his desk drawer and tossed it toward you. “Try solving this. Keep your hands busy. It’s much more satisfying than watching your ex across the street.”

You raised an eyebrow but couldn’t help but smile. “You think this is going to distract me?”

He shrugged playfully, still watching you intently. “It’s better than staring at a guy who doesn't deserve your time. Trust me.”

🌷

Days passed, and the routine settled into a strange rhythm. You were hard at work—handling schedules, answering calls, organizing meetings—but there was always that window, that constant reminder of the past. You’d catch glimpses of your ex-husband across the street, talking to his team, laughing with your old best friend. It made your stomach twist each time.

It was late one evening, and the office was nearly empty. You’d stayed late, as usual, working through the last few tasks of the day. Harry had been gone for hours—until now.

You didn’t hear him enter, but you felt his presence the moment he stood beside you.

“Still working, huh?” He leaned over your shoulder, looking at the files you were reviewing. His scent was close—fresh and clean—and it was enough to distract you for a brief second.

“Trying to get ahead for tomorrow,” you replied, forcing yourself to focus on the words in front of you. But you could feel his eyes lingering.

He sighed, picking up a pen from your desk and spinning it between his fingers. “You know, it’s dangerous to overwork yourself. What are you really avoiding?”

You froze, your fingers pausing over the keyboard. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been avoiding, or how much you’d been keeping buried under all the busywork. “I’m not avoiding anything,” you said quickly, but Harry wasn’t fooled.

He leaned in, his voice lower now, serious in a way that made your heart skip. “It’s okay to admit that you’re still dealing with it. You don’t have to bury it at work. You can let it out. But not by staring at that window every day.”

For a moment, you just stared at him. He was right—though you hated to admit it, Harry Styles knew exactly how to see through the walls you’d built up.

“Let’s go grab a drink,” he suggested, standing up straight and flashing you a playful smile. “You can’t work all night, and I promise, it’ll get your mind off things. Trust me.”

And though you were reluctant, you found yourself following him, a little bit curious, a little bit grateful. Maybe a drink was exactly what you needed.

---

"Two Aperol Spritzes," Harry said smoothly, catching the bartender’s attention. You furrowed your brows at his choice, unable to hide your surprise.

“Aperol Spritz? Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, my favorite,” he replied with a casual shrug, his lips curling into a playful smile. “Why? Disappointed I’m not the classic whiskey-or-scotch CEO type?”

“Aperol Spritz is a cocktail…a brunch cocktail,” you teased

Harry’s grin widened, his confidence unshaken. “It’s probably 11 a.m. somewhere in the world.”

You couldn’t help but smile. Harry had a way of disarming you with his humor. He was funny, kind, and unexpectedly charming. The polished, sharp-edged CEO exterior often softened in the little moments—the way he’d check in to see if you were doing okay, offer advice without sounding condescending, or flash a grin that felt just for you. He wasn’t anything like the man your ex-husband had ranted about. In fact, he was the opposite—thoughtful, genuine, and surprisingly down-to-earth.

🌷

Your original mission of revenge had become a blurred memory. Working for Harry had turned out to be far better than you ever expected. The work was engaging, and Harry himself felt more like a friend than a boss. You’d catch him staring at you in meetings, his gaze lingering just a second too long. Sometimes, his hand would rest on your back a bit longer than necessary as he guided you toward an office. And you didn’t mind. In fact, you enjoyed it—the attention, the unspoken words exchanged in glances and subtle touches.

Things changed one late night when a casual beer in the office turned into something else.

“Do you miss him?” Harry asked, his voice soft as he leaned back in his chair, beer in hand.

“Not even a bit. I never cried—not once. It’s been nine months, and I feel… nothing,” you replied, staring out the window at the darkened building across the street. “I caught him the other day with her in his office, practically fucking, but they closed the blinds soon enough.”

Harry’s expression didn’t falter. “Proud of you, as I’ve told you before, he’s not worth a second of your time.” he said, his voice steady as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The brief touch of his fingers made your breath hitch, the air between you both growing heavier. “And have you dated anyone since?” he asked, finishing off his fourth beer with a casual ease that belied the tension building in the room.

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I don’t know why.”

“Scared?” he asked, tilting his head slightly

“Scared?” you scoffed, letting out a short laugh. “Of what? What are the odds I’d end up with another douchebag who cheats on me with my best friend?”

“Pretty low, I’d say. Maybe none, if you choose wisely,” he replied, his voice lower now, more serious. His hand moved, resting lightly on your thigh, and your breath hitched again.

Your eyes locked, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on. Harry’s gaze was smoldering, his eyes burning with unspoken desire as his hand rested lightly on your hip, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric of your skirt.

“Do you want to choose?” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a teasing challenge laced within the question. He leaned in closer, so near you could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips.

“Harry…” you whispered, your voice trembling as your eyes flickered to his mouth, anticipation building like a storm inside you.

“Answer me,” he urged, his hand trailing up, fingertips brushing the hem of your skirt. The deliberate slowness of his movements sent shivers down your spine.

“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed as you gave in, allowing yourself to drown in his touch.

“Yes what?” he asked, his voice darker now, the rasp of it caressing your neck as his lips hovered near your skin.

“I want to choose,” you replied, your breath hitching as his hand tightened against you.

“Who” he pressed, his tone thick with a mixture of longing and control. The word hung in the air, a challenge you couldn’t refuse.

“You,” you said, barely above a whisper, your voice breaking as you finally gave him the answer he wanted.

It was the last straw. Harry snapped, closing the space between you as his lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate. His kiss was hungry, claiming you completely as his hand slid down to the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him. His tongue parted your lips, exploring your mouth with a passion that made your knees weak. You clung to him, fingers threading through his hair as the world outside his office melted away. There was no rival, no ex-husband, no revenge—just the fire blazing between you and Harry, consuming you both entirely.

The next thing you knew, Harry had pulled back just enough to lift you effortlessly onto his desk. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips as his mouth found yours again, hot and insistent. The edge of your skirt slid up, exposing your thighs to the cool air, goosebumps prickling across your skin as the anticipation built to an unbearable peak.

He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down the curve of your neck while his hand slid between your thighs. You shivered, your breath hitching as his fingers brushed over the damp fabric of your panties.

“Harry…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need.

He grinned against your skin, a low, sinful chuckle that sent a rush of heat through you. His thumb pressed against the wet spot, circling it with maddening slowness. “Fucking perfect wet pussy f’me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as his fingers teased you through the fabric.

You rocked your hips against his hand, desperate for more contact, aching for him to give you what you craved. But Harry held back, his touch light and teasing, his lips leaving a trail of kisses along your neck that left you gasping.

“‘S that how you sound, kitten?” he asked, his voice thick with lust as his free arm wrapped around you, pulling you tighter against him. His hips ground against yours, the hardness of his cock pressing through the fabric of his pants, driving you wild with the friction.

Finally, his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers gliding through the slickness there. You gasped sharply at the overwhelming sensation. “Fucking drenched,” he muttered, his tone dripping with approval as his finger slid inside you, curling just right, making you arch into him.

Your fingers fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, the sensation of his touch making your clothes feel suffocating, like they were shrinking against your skin. As the fabric parted, you revealed a black lace bra—a detail you hadn’t planned for this moment but one you always wore because it made you feel powerful and sexy. Harry’s eyes darkened, his gaze devouring the sight of you.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. “You’re a fucking dream.”

Your clothes were quickly discarded in a scattered path across the room, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Your eyes traveled over him, taking in the sight of his thick, throbbing cock, the tip glistening and begging for attention. Without hesitation, you slipped off the desk, dropping to your knees before him. The hunger in his gaze was matched only by the pounding of your own heart as your hands wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, his hand finding its way into your hair, his fingers tightening as he guided you closer. “Spit on it”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against him before spitting and taking the leaking tip into your mouth. You started slowly, swirling your tongue around it in deliberate, teasing circles. His low groans filled the room, each one sending a rush of heat through you as you worked him with careful precision, savoring every reaction. As his moans grew louder, you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his big size. Your hands worked in tandem with your mouth, stroking and squeezing as your tongue danced along his length. Harry’s head tipped back, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips bucked slightly, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice strained, a mixture of pleasure and desperation. “You’re perfect, kitten. Just like that.”

The sounds of his pleasure were intoxicating, urging you to take him as deep as you could. Your lips slid down his shaft while your tongue pressed against the sensitive underside. You felt him pulse in your mouth, his body trembling under your touch as you worked him with deliberate intensity.

Suddenly, his grip in your hair tightened, and he pulled you away, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. Before you could process it, Harry lifted you effortlessly, placing you back on the desk. His kiss was fierce and consuming, a tangle of lips and teeth as his hands explored your body. His length brushed against your inner thigh, teasing as he aligned himself with you. You shivered, your body strung tight with anticipation.

“Birth control?” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear.

“The pill,” you managed to reply, your voice breathless.

With no further hesitation, he buried himself inside you in one swift, powerful motion. A groan tore from his throat, and your sharp gasp filled the air as the sensation overwhelmed you—the delicious stretch, the feeling of him filling you completely. He stilled for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours as both of you adjusted to the intensity of the moment.

“Fuck…” he whispered, his voice a raw growl against your lips. His hips pulled back before snapping forward, his thrusts deep and demanding. “Fucking tight cunt... You’re so fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t hold back the moans spilling from your lips, your hands gripping his shoulders as he drove into you with relentless precision. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut as you surrendered to the pleasure building inside you. Every movement of his hips sent shockwaves through your body, and you were powerless to do anything but lose yourself in him.

But as you opened your eyes for a moment, a flicker of movement caught your attention. Your gaze drifted to the window, and you gasped softly as you spotted a faint light in the office across the street. There, in the shadows, was your ex-husband, his figure unmistakable, frozen as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.

Your lips parted in a mix of shock and defiance as your eyes locked onto his. Harry, noticing the shift in your focus, followed your gaze. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as he realized the full extent of your audience.

“Oh, he’s watching, isn’t he?” Harry murmured, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction, his rhythm remained steady, deliberate, and maddeningly perfect. “Want me to close the blinds?”

“No... fuck me harder instead,” you breathed, your voice shaking with need. You didn’t care that Thomas was watching. In fact, you wanted him to watch—every second of it. The way Harry’s hips pressed against yours, the way he made you forget everything but him—this was the closure you craved. Not tears, not apologies—just this. Harry’s relentless, all-consuming treatment. “Knew this pussy was made for me, so many fucking days fucking my fist thinking of this” he admitted in the heat of the moment

His lips trailed down the curve of your neck, leaving a hot, wet path of kisses that sent sparks shooting through your body. He moved lower, his tongue circling one nipple before capturing it between his lips, his teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Say my name” he said looking directly into your eyes

“Harry…” you moaned over and over again “Harry…fffu” 

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper and more precise, the tip of his cock finding that perfect spot that made your vision blur with pleasure. A shudder tore through you, your body tensing as heat spread through every inch of you. Harry groaned against your skin, his voice husky and laced with desire. Every movement, every sound, every sensation—he was making you his, and you never wanted it to stop.

“Ffffuck Harry, i’m close” you moaned

And the pleasure finally burst, overwhelming you entirely. A wave of pure bliss crashed over you, and your body tensed, muscles contracting around him. You arched, clinging to him, your nails digging into his skin as the waves of your orgasm washed over you, drowning you in ecstasy. 

And he went right behind you, the sight of your orgasm was too much for him to process, and he quickly painted your insides with stripes of hot cum, filling you up completely. His lips found yours again, the kiss softer now, gentle and affectionate, a stark contrast from the raw hunger of earlier. He pulled out, and a mixture of cum and arousal dripped from your cunt and onto the floor.

Your gaze looked again for the sight of Thomas across the street, but he wasn’t there anymore, his office was again dark. “So sad he didn’t stay for that grand finale” Harry joked also looking at the window

“He watched enough,” you said, still a bit breathless. Harry leaned back, his hands gently trailing down your sides as he steadied your trembling body. “You okay?” he asked softly

You nodded, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “Yeah… just give me a second to remember how to breathe.”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he reached for a tissue from his desk, carefully wiping the remnants of your shared passion from your thighs. “Take all the time you need. I might have overdone it.”

“You think?” you teased

“And for the record, you deserve so much better than him. Always have.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you looked away, your lips twitching into a shy smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, Styles.”

He chuckled, pulling you into his lap as he leaned back against his desk. His arms wrapped around you, his warmth comforting and grounding. “Not bad? That’s all I get?” he teased, feigning offense.

You giggled, burying your face in his neck. “Fine. You’re a amazing. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the tension and chaos of the night fading into a warm, intimate silence. Harry’s fingers traced soothing patterns along your back, and you felt yourself relax fully in his embrace.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his lips brushing your hair. “My place. No windows, no exes, just us.”

You lifted your head to meet his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart skip a beat. “That sounds perfect.”

Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

[bbyblumarine]

My Saviour

Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

You’re Superman’s favourite person to save, and he can’t seem to understand why that pisses you off so much.

Word count: 1.4k

A/N: I’ve never worked in a jewellery store, so please suspend reality if you dare.

Thank you enormously for any likes, reblogs or follows! Your kindness continuously motivates me to carry on writing :)

You’d been stifling the same yawn for over an hour now; the ache in your jaw was persistent, begging you for permission to escape your mouth and accept defeat. You were a stubborn devil, you knew as soon as you freed the yawn from its shackles, your legs would cave in and you’d find yourself as a puddle of sleep deprived bones on the floor.

Today you were working through a long haul shift at your job at the jewellery store, covering for your colleague who had very conveniently come down with the flu (it was a Saturday morning, do the math).

You didn’t mind it so much— the reserved nature of the job granted you space to wander in your own thoughts, and involve yourself with short and direct conversations with the clientele. It was a surprisingly quiet day, nearing the evening time where everyone would rather be out on the booze than collecting expensive necklaces for their wives. No bother, you’d been abusing the clock with your eyes all day and for good reason, as there was only a mere 30 minutes left to your shift.

You began tidying up, running through closing jobs to save you more time for later, where you had devised a plan to run a relaxing bath, dip your toes in it, and inevitably neglect it by flopping on the sofa for a nap. Some peace and quiet would be charming: these past few weeks had been pure chaos, with the rate of crime ascending quite dramatically for no reason at all. Not to worry, the people of Metropolis would cry, their saviour Superman will be there to save them. You fight a stubborn eye roll everytime you hear his name in passing: oh Superman, he saved me from a burning building; why Superman, if it weren’t for him I’d be left with a penny to my name after the robbery; Superman, Superman, Superman. Like the cynical old hag you were, your opinion was that he was some egotistical fucker with a saviour complex, one that you unfortunately knew too well.

Somehow, as a result of your own terrible bad luck, you often seemed to find yourself caught in the crossfire between villain and hero no matter how hard you tried to evade it. Like a moth to a flame, what your family keeps telling you.

This meant that, almost weekly now, you’d come face to face with the infamous Mr Superman, the man adored by thousands. Your mother swooned when she saw one of your stories on the news, begging you to tell her every detail moment by moment. Bless her, she was crest fallen when all you had to come out your mouth was a series of vulgar expletives. No one understood why you resented this man so terribly, incomprehensible to speak ill of a hero so kind to save you not once, not twice, but enough times for him to now remember your name with ease. Man, screw that guy.

And so there you were, dusting down the shelves, when the bell chimed at the entrance. Curious, you whipped around; it was pretty unusual for customers to leave it so late, especially on a quiet day like today.

Your heart grew cold in an instant, when a gun was thrust towards your skull by a masked man in a balaclava. How cliché.

“You push that panic alarm, and you won’t have time to understand that your brain is gonna be on those walls,” he proclaimed calmly, nodding to the wall by your side. You had no reason to call his bluff, his hand was cocked on the gun unwavering in a way only a man skilled with the weapon could master. Despite this, your body started to burn with rage, incensed at a man gaining the upper hand on you like this - and only with half an hour to go!

You nodded your head meekly, pushing down your deep seated anger. There’s no way you were getting out of this. The streets were rife with people, with similar crimes like this robbery occuring all over the city. It couldn’t be possible for someone to save y—

“I suggest you put the weapon down, sir,” a deep and assertive voice chimed in, immediately dominating the tense atmosphere. The words were a command, but the tone, his register— it was advice.

Listen, you knew you should’ve been happy right now. This masked man would’ve stolen from here, and you’d risk getting fired, and then you’d have to move out because you couldn’t afford rent, et cetera. Your life was being saved right now.

But instead, you let out the most exasperated sigh, loud enough for the intruder to cock his head to the side in confusion. The poor sod probably didn’t know whether to be more unnerved by the caped hero behind him, or you.

The robber dropped his gun. Everyone in the city knew it was a losing battle as soon as they recognised the man behind the voice.

Moving to the side of the cowering man, Superman glanced at you quickly before returning to his observation of the man. To the human eye it would seem like a quick glimpse, but you’d spent enough dismal time around him to recognise that in that brief second, he’s likely checking your vitals, scanning your body for any signs of damage. The guy probably already knows before you do when your period is due. It’s insufferable.

A dizzy flash of red and blue bounced off the window, informing you of the quick arrival of police. It always did puzzle you how he’d manage to beckon the police so fast after the crime would occur. Clearly everyone was eager to please him once hooked on his words of persuasion.

Superman scruffed the intruder by his collar and dragged him to the door like he was a box of tissues, leaving you stood rooted to the ground. All you wanted to do was go home right now. You had already been physically worn out, now the mental stress of this encounter was melting your brain to mush. You might need to skip out on that bath later after all.

Walking back in, Superman afforded you the privilege of truly meeting your eyes with his own. Waiting, like a shark, or maybe like an eager to please puppy of sorts, though you were convinced on the former. The shouting of officers, the flashings of the lights, there was all so much happening at once. Superman was unperturbed, as always. He subtly shifted his body weight to the side, shielding you from the impeding glare of police lights blinding your eyes. It was stuff like that that would truly grind your gears, him somehow paying attention to the small tells of your body when you were feeling whatever emotion, and then jumping on any opportunity to protect you from it.

You opened your mouth, pausing, but knowing the words were begging to come out.

“I didn’t need you to come,” was all you had to say, chin high in the air, a heavy contradiction to your fast heartbeat.

His eyes flitted to the side briefly, before returning to yours like they never left.

“Actually, I’ve never once needed you here,” you blurted out triumphantly, a stream of your subconscious erupting out of nowhere. “I’ve never once needed you. Frankly, I’m sick of you turning up with this notion that I now owe you something each time. I don’t owe you jack! In fact, I think it’s pretty presumptuous for you to think that I can’t take care of myself in these situations. I’m self sufficient, I’m not some damsel. I don’t even know you! You don’t even know me…” you rattled on, losing any sense of cohesion as you rambled further and further.

The worst part is every time you’d throw your tantrum - which is every time - he would never once give in. He would stand still, face impassive, as if he was actually taking on all the petty things you throw at him. Why is it that it would infuriate you even more?

Silence eventually settled between the two of you, your breath ragged after your outburst.

Finally, his chin fell to the ground as he let go of a small sigh. Lifting his head once more, he allowed the small pull of the corners of his lips to form a shy smile.

“I’ll see you next time,” was all he said, before turning swiftly and disappearing before you had a chance to blink. You could almost taste his muted victory.

You fucking hate that you loved this man.

[theegyal]

Hush, [Annie x Smoke ]

Chapter 9 : Family Reunion

Silence felt in the room, hanging between them like a death threat. Their breath sliced through the sanitized air and the steady beep of the heart monitor. Olivia's perfectly curated composure cracked, the fine lines of it splintering across her face.

Elijah pushed himself up, the flimsy hospital gown scrapped against his skin and the dull throb in his skull was nothing compared to the storm brewing in his mind. He looked at the blonde woman standing by his bed, and saw a total stranger.

"Darling," Olivia began, her voice a strained. "You're confused. The seizure—"

"Tss girl I ain't confused," he cut her off. The voice that came out was not Smoke's lazy drawl. It was pure Delta mud, thick with the accent he hadn't used in years.

"I'm tired. Tired of this room. Tired of whoever you are."

Olivia visibly twitched. A flash of disgust crossed her features before she masked it with concern.

"Smoke, listen to your voice. You're not speaking clearly. We need to call the doctor, help you get oriented—"

"Ain't nothin' wrong with how I talk," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You don't even know me" He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor.

A bright memory hit him again: Annie, laughing in the kitchen, flour on her nose. The scent of collards and bacon. Her cry of joy when the pregnancy test came back positive.

He stabbed the call button beside the bed with his thumb, his gaze never leaving Olivia's. "I want you to git."

A nurse appeared at the door. "Is everything alright, Mr. Moore?"

"No," he said calmly, his southern accent ringing with authority in the sterile room. "I want this woman gone. She ain't my family. Don't know that girl, ma'am"

12:10 AM

Humiliation burned hotter than any scratch on Olivia's face. She stormed down the hallway, her heels clicking like gunshots against the tile.

She didn't slow until she was in the privacy of a hospital stairwell, the heavy fire door slamming shut behind her. Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out her phone and dialed, her fingers shaking with rage.

"Roberts," a nervous voice answered on the second ring.

"He's awake," she hissed, foregoing any greeting. "And he's a mess. He's talking like some backwoods farmer. He threw me out."

"Ms Manson, I—"

"I don't need your excuses," she snapped. "I need a solution. Whatever you gave him, it's wearing off. I need something stronger. Something to put him back under, to quiet all this... noise in his head. Do you understand me? "

"But his seizures—a higher dose could be dangerous—"

"I don't care about dangerous!" she shrieked into the phone. "I care about fixing what that ghetto woman broke. I want my husband back. Fix it, or I will tell my father your part in this has become a liability."

She ended the call without waiting for a reply, a venomous smile touching her bruised lips.

12:15 AM

Outside, the hospital doors had slid shut, leaving Annie and Stack in, the now raining street. Annie sank into the passenger seat of Stack's car, her body hollowed out, staring blankly as he buckled a fussing Lois into the back.

"They gon' come for us," she whispered, shaking. "After what I did...they'll take Lois."

"Let them try," Stack said. He slammed the driver's side door, the car rocking with the force. "Don't stress about it Annie."

He looked over at her, his usual smirk gone, replaced by a grim resolve. "I ain't lettin' 'em touch you or my niece. Not ever, I'm Stack don't for Goddamn sake ! Ain't Carol told ya what we used to do ?"

She laughed bittersweet at his joking tone.

He hadn't even turned the key in the ignition when a woman in scrubs approached the passenger side's window, tapping gently on the glass.

Annie flinched, expecting security. Stack tensed, ready to peel out.

She hesitantly rolled the window down. It was a doctor, her face tired but kind.

"Ma'am?" She said, looking directly at Annie. "Are you Annie Moore?"

Annie looked at stack before nodding hesitantly. Her heart knotted in her chest.

"Mr. Elijah Moore is awake," the doctor said. "And he's asking for you. Specifically. He won't speak to anyone else until he sees you and his daughter."

12:25 AM

Dr. Roberts hung up the phone, his hand trembling so badly he nearly dropped the receiver. The blood drained from his face. Liability. That was the word that snake used. He knew what that meant when it came from Colonel Manson's daughter.

He was disposable. Just like Clayman was.

He paced his office, sweat beading on his forehead. For months, he'd been caught between two fears: the powerful, political influence of the Colonel, and the immediate threat in Elias Moore's eyes.

I will peel your life apart piece by piece. Wife, kids, your whole damn gene pool.

Stack's threat was no idle boast. It was a deadly promise. Roberts looked at the framed photo on his desk : his smiling wife, his two young sons at a picnic.

His choice was made.

He snatched up the phone again, his fingers fumbling as he dialed the number Stack had burned into his memory.

Stack's phone buzzed just as Annie was getting out of the car. He glanced at the caller ID: UNKNOWN. He almost ignored it, but a gut feeling made him answer, hitting the speakerphone button.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Moore? Mr. Elias Moore?" The voice was panicked, breathless. "It's Dr. Roberts."

Stack smirked, drumming his fingers on the door handle. "Damn. My dear grown-ass best friend. You got some for me ?"

"She called me!" Roberts blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "Olivia Manson, the daughter of the colonel ! She wants him sedated! A stronger dose. She wants to—Look, she's on her way to my clinic to make sure I do it. I just want peace for my family—"

"Clayman also had one. Tch" Stack responded before hanging up.

12:30 AM

Annie took a deep breath, the cool, rain-washed air doing little to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She unbuckled Lois from the car seat. Her daughter, looked at her sucking her tiny thumb.

Holding her baby tight against her chest felt like holding onto an anchor in a raging storm.

"You sure 'bout this?" Stack asked, calming his nerves from the conversation with Roberts

"He asked for her," Annie answered "He asked for his daughter. I'm taking her to him."

She closed the back door and, with one last look at Stack, turned to follow the doctor back into the hospital, Lois's small head nestled in the crook of her neck.

Stack watched them go until the automatic doors slid shut, swallowing them whole. He was left alone in the car, the rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers counting off seconds like a metronome of dread. He scanned the hospital entrance, waiting, watching.

A bitter helplessness gnawed at him. He could hotwire a car in ninety seconds, but here, he was pinned. Trapped. Manson had him by the throat with a single word: deserter.

If he acted out, that bastard would burn them both. The official story would leak, and Elijah wouldn't just be a man with amnesia : he would be a traitor to his country. They'd be buried so deep in a federal prison, they'd never see the sun again.

Frustration boiled in his throat. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. He couldn't do this alone. He needed backup. He needed someone who wasn't afraid to get their hands dirty, someone who played by their own rules.

He needed Carol.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her number, he didn't save a name, never need it. A wave of shame washed over him. He had no right to call this number. No right to even breathe her name. The last time he'd asked her for help, she'd paid for it with four years of her life behind bars while he ran.

Fuck— He never once visited her.

Stack swallowed the acid taste in his throat and pressed dial.

The line clicked open on the third ring.

"Mmh... you sure got a whole lotta nerve," was all she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was filled with so much ice it burned.

"Carol," he started, his own voice sounding hollow.

"Nah. Don't," she cut him off. "Don't say my name like it still belong in yo mouth. I see this number, I know it's you. You got two seconds 'fore I block this number for the rest of my natural-born life. One... two—"

"It's about Annie,"he blurted out, the words rushing from him. "She's in trouble. Can lost Lois and all, if we ain't act quick"

There was a dead, loaded silence on the other end. He could hear her breathing, a slow, controlled inhale. He knew she was weighing her love for Annie against her hatred for him.

"The last time you told me to help you?" she said, her voice dangerously quiet, "I woke up in jail, pendejo. Tch... talk Elias. And you better pray to whatever sad-ass God still answer your calls that you ain't lyin'."

Stack explained everything, the words tumbling out of him : Manson, the amnesia, the fake life with Olivia, the drugs, the foreclosure. He told her everything, holding nothing back.

When he finished, he heard a sound, something crashing on floor. Yes, Carol Montenegro was pissed. Annie was her everything. Her sister, her best friend. However, something didn't sit right : Stack. That chico had a some balls to call her.

"So, the big daddy Elias Moore finally done got his dumb ass caught in a mud-shit he can't shoot his way out of," she mused, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "And now you come callin' on the dirty Ol' Delta whore you left to rot. That about right?"

"Carol, I—"

"Save it," she snapped. "I ain't doin' a damn thing for you. I wouldn't piss on you if you was on fire, Moore. You hear me? Not even a drop. But Annie..."

Her voice softened, just for a second, the loyalty and love for her friend cutting through everything else. "They not touchin' her baby. Not her man, neither."

"So you'll help?" he asked, barely daring to breathe.

"I'll help Nia," Carol corrected him fiercely. "This ain't for you. You and me ? We square chico, you hear me? We're nothin'. I'm getting back to Chicago tonight. You tell my girl I'm comin'. And this little snow bunny bitch? Don't you worry about her. I'll handle it. I learned a thing or two during these four years in prison."

Before he could respond, she hung up.

12:35 AM

Annie followed the doctor down the quiet hall, Lois's soft breaths warming her neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic mix of hope and fear.

When the doctor pushed open the door to Elijah's room and stepped aside, Annie paused on the threshold, her breath catching in her throat.

He was sitting up on the edge of the bed. His eyes, the warm, deep brown eyes she knew better than her own, were clear. And they were fixed on her.

He didn't speak. He couldn't. His gaze dropped from her face to the small child in her arms. Lois,m stared back at him, giggling, laughing.

Annie slowly walked into the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

"Elijah," she whispered. She was on the verge of crying, her voice breaking.

"Annie," he breathed her name as an apology, a prayer, a homecoming. He patted the empty space on the bed beside him.

She sat down, carefully shifting Lois onto her lap so she was facing her father.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, a broken family trying to find the shape of itself again.

Elijah lifted his hand, his movements hesitant. He gently caressed Lois's soft, curly hair. His thumb stroked her chubby cheek. "She... she got my mama's nose," he murmured, his voice infused with melancholy. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

Lois was bubbly. She didn't cry. She gurgled, a happy, inquisitive sound, and reached out with a tiny hand, her small fingers wrapping around his thumb. She held on tight.

Elijah let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half sob, half laugh. He looked from his daughter's perfect face to his wife's. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, his eyes pleading with hers. "I don't remember everything yet. It's... it's all foggy. But I remember you. I remember lovin' you so much it hurt."

Annie couldn't hold back her own tears any longer. She sobbed freely, she couldn't care less if her face was ugly.

"Mmh—aah" she wailed like an infant, catching Lois mischievous eyes.

All the silent tears of relief and grief and overwhelming love, damping her face, reddened her eyes.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Lois was a warm, living bridge between them.

"You're here," Annie exhaled painfully near his mouth . "You're just... you're here."

"I'm here," he promised, his other hand coming up to cup her face, his thumb wiping away her tears. "And I ain't goin' nowhere ever again."

"Welcome home, papa" She smiled, heart full of joy, butterflies flying in her stomach.

As if she could understand something, Lois gurgled, her thumb wet in her mouth :

"Baba ! Bwaba"

The three of them laughed. Allowing themselves to taste the happiness they had been deprived of, for ages.

Tag list :

@thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @rkiiives @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @chknnwffls @maddyf22

[platonicaxaxe]

Deathtrap & Bob ³

Bob Reynolds (sentry) x Ex Assassin Reader

Context: Bullied Boyfriend Bob?

The Bob(sentry) Masterlist here

(Can't find any cute Bob gifs🥺)

---

The streets of New York were alive with their usual chaos—honking cars, fast-talking pedestrians, and street performers blaring music on every corner. Bob and Y/N walked side by side, not quite hand-in-hand, but close enough that their shoulders brushed every few steps.

Bob nervously glanced around, occasionally stealing a glance at Y/N when she wasn’t looking. She looked effortlessly cool, even blending in like a regular citizen—nothing like the Red Room legend known as Deathtrap.

He was so distracted, he didn’t see the broad-shouldered, tattoo-covered man in front of him.

BUMP.

Bob staggered a step back. “O-oh—sorry! I didn’t—uh, I didn’t mean to—!”

The man gave a glare, towering over him, but before he could say a word, Y/N had already grabbed Bob’s arm and tugged him away, weaving through the foot traffic like a pro.

“Don’t make eye contact with walking temper tantrums,” she muttered.

“S-sorry,” Bob mumbled, still flustered as they ducked into a small, cozy café.

They took a moment to relax—Y/N sipping something warm while Bob distracted himself with a cookie he didn’t even order.

When they stepped back out, Y/N suddenly stopped in her tracks near an alleyway.

“Oh shoot—I forgot to get that cookie I was supposed to take home,” she said. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Bob nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Y-yeah, sure. I’ll just, uh… stand here. Not get into trouble.”

He smiled awkwardly.

Y/N jogged off.

Seconds later, trouble found him.

Two large men stepped out of the alleyway and blocked his path. One of them was the same tattooed guy from earlier.

“Well look who we got here,” the man sneered. “Little pretty boy.”

Bob stiffened. “I-I’m not lookin’ for trouble, guys—”

One of them shoved him lightly. “Look at this hair. You some kind of washed-up superhero?”

“W-what? No, I—well, I mean—kinda—” Bob stammered, backing up as the two closed in.

“Guy like you doesn’t belong around here. And that chick you were with? Bet she’s just babysitting.”

“Hey!” Bob’s expression changed. Something in him snapped. “Don’t talk about her like that—!”

He tried to swing, but the man caught his fist mid-air and sent him sprawling with one punch.

Bob groaned, trying to blink through the dizziness as his eyes started to glow gold. His pulse quickened. He could feel the Sentry clawing at the edge of his mind.

But then—

CRACK.

A boot to the face sent one of the men stumbling into trash cans.

Y/N had returned.

Silent fury burned in her eyes. She moved like lightning—dodging, striking, flipping one of them onto the pavement with brutal precision. The second guy barely had time to lift his fists before she took him down with a devastating roundhouse.

Bloodied and groaning, one of them hissed, “Who even is he to you?!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

“Boyfriend.”

Then she landed the final punch—swift, sharp, and unforgiving.

Bob blinked, wide-eyed and stunned, still sitting on the pavement.

“Y-you… y-you called me—boyfriend,” he stuttered, cheeks blooming red.

Y/N reached down to help him up. “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

Bob nodded way too fast. “Y-yeah! I mean—I’d like to be! I-I am. I… guess I am.”

She smirked, brushing a bit of dirt off his jacket. “Let’s get out of here, Mr. Sentry.”

He looked at her like she’d just saved the world. “T-thanks for not letting me go full nuclear rage mode back there.”

“You’re welcome,” she grinned. “But next time—aim for the kneecaps.”

Bob made a mental note. “R-right. Kneecaps.”

A few days after the alleyway incident, YN texted Bob with a simple message:

“Wanna go for a ride? I’ve got something to show you.”

Of course he said yes—he always did when it came to her.

The sun was beginning to dip into the horizon when they hit the road, the city gradually fading behind them. Trees soon replaced buildings, and the rush of traffic melted into the soothing hum of cicadas and the low growl of YN’s motorcycle. Bob held onto her gently, a soft smile on his face, wind ruffling his hair.

Eventually, they pulled into a gravel driveway, tucked behind a patch of dense woods.

A small cabin stood at the edge of a clearing—quiet, simple, with ivy crawling along the wooden walls and a narrow porch holding an old rocking chair.

Bob’s eyes widened.

“W-whoa… is this… where you live?” he asked, stepping off the bike.

YN nodded, pulling off her helmet. “This is my hideout. No phones. No cameras. No trackers. Just… peace.”

Bob took it all in with a soft breath. “It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t bring people here, Bob,” she said seriously. “You’re the first.”

He looked at her, heart skipping. “R-really?”

She just smiled and opened the door.

Inside, the cabin was small but warm—bookshelves packed with paperbacks, a tiny fireplace, a couch with hand-stitched blankets, and a makeshift kitchen that smelled faintly of herbs and tea.

They spent the evening on the porch, sharing takeout and stargazing, wrapped in a big, old comforter YN had pulled from the couch.

Bob couldn’t stop glancing at her.

“What?” she asked, nudging him playfully with her shoulder.

“I dunno,” he mumbled, cheeks tinted pink. “I just… I feel lucky. Like, crazy lucky.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You're not just lucky, Bob. You earned this. You listen. You care. And you never asked me to be anything other than what I am.”

Bob let out a breath, his hand gently brushing against hers before intertwining.

He looked up at the stars. “Can I… c-cuddle you? Or is that too weird to ask?”

YN chuckled and leaned fully into him, tugging the blanket tighter around them both.

“You already are, silly.”

He let out a tiny laugh and rested his head on hers, feeling more grounded than he had in years.

In the soft quiet of the night, with crickets singing and the stars blinking above, Bob whispered:

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

And YN, eyes fluttering closed, replied softly:

“Welcome home.”

Thunderbolts Headquarters – 9:37 AM

“Okay, don’t freak out…” Yelena said, walking into the room holding a cup of coffee.

“What?!” Ava said immediately, already half-freaking out.

“Bob didn’t check in last night,” Yelena admitted.

John Walker nearly dropped his protein shake. “He what?! You mean like—missing?”

Alexei gasped dramatically. “The boy has been taken! I knew this would happen. He is too soft. Like marshmallow!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s just on a walk. I told him to do that.”

“For twelve hours?” Ava quipped, pulling up Bob’s last pinged location on a map. “He vanished off the grid halfway through Brooklyn. That’s not a walk, Barnes. That’s a ‘he’s tied up in a basement somewhere’ walk.”

Alexei paced. “We need to assemble. Call in satellites. Call in drones. Call in—”

“He’s probably just with Y/N,” Yelena interrupted coolly, sipping her coffee.

The entire room went silent.

“With Deathtrap?!” John screeched. “You mean the lady who disappears like smoke, punches like a tank, and eats ghost protocols for breakfast?! That Deathtrap?!”

“Yes,” Yelena said, completely unbothered.

Bucky stood up. “Well, if he is with her… I mean, that’s good, right? She’s capable.”

“She also doesn’t do visitors,” Ava said. “If Bob’s with her, we’re not finding him. Even S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t track that woman.”

“Then what do we do?” John asked.

Alexei pointed to the ceiling. “We wait. And we pray to the gods of love and luck that he comes back… with all his limbs.”

—

Meanwhile… in a cozy cabin miles outside the city…

Bob sneezed.

“You okay?” Y/N asked, poking her head in from the kitchen.

“I-I think someone’s talking about me,” he chuckled.

Back at HQ, Yelena checked her phone. “I’m giving him until tonight. If he doesn’t come back, then we send in a search party.”

“Great. I’ll prep the ‘Missing Bob’ posters,” Ava said dryly.

“They should say ‘Reward: One Cookie and a Hug,’” Bucky added with a smirk.

John nodded. “And a warning label: ‘Do not approach if he's in Sentry Mode. Approach only with snacks.’”

Alexei dramatically put a hand on his heart. “If he returns to us… I shall give him my strongest bear hug. He has survived the deadliest assassin and love. The man is a hero.”

Outside Thunderbolts HQ – 10:46 AM

Alexei was fully geared up, wearing his Red Guardian suit with a fanny pack. He gripped the car keys like a man ready for war. “I will drive through every inch of New York. I will not rest until the boy is safe. If we need to kick down doors, we kick down doors.”

Just as he reached the car—

VROOOM.

A sleek motorcycle pulled up, kicking dust and gravel. Y/N hopped off effortlessly, helmet under one arm, cool as always. Bob clumsily climbed off behind her, legs wobbly from the ride, cheeks tomato red.

"You're good?" she asked him, brushing a hand down his arm.

“Y-yeah,” he nodded, totally dazed. “T-thank you… for everything. Especially… the cookie…”

She chuckled, then leaned in, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek—close enough to his lips that Bob nearly melted into a puddle.

Alexei froze mid-step.

PLOP. The car keys fell from his hand.

Without another word, Y/N revved her bike and zoomed off into the streets.

Bob stood there, blinking, goofy smile stretching across his face.

Alexei blinked, then grinned. “Well well well.” and Bob got startled.

Inside HQ – Moments Later

The HQ doors swung open with dramatic flair as Alexei strutted in like he just saved the world. Bob followed, awkwardly hunched, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie, eyes glued to the floor.

“Found him,” Alexei announced triumphantly.

Everyone in the room turned at once.

“Thank God!” Yelena gasped. “Where the hell were you, Bob?! We were about to storm a warehouse!”

John Walker leaned on a chair. “Was he in a safehouse? Dungeon? Dimensional rift?”

“Deathtrap dropped him off,” Alexei said with a smug smirk, “with a smooch, to be exact.”

Bob audibly choked on air.

Ava raised her brow. “A smooch, huh?”

Bucky leaned forward. “Bob, is that true?”

Bob flushed deep red and muttered, “I-I mean… it was just… like a ‘thank you’ thing… I-I didn’t know anyone saw…”

“She kissed him!” Alexei sang. “And he blushed like a schoolboy!”

“Oh my god,” Yelena laughed, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at Bob. “You’re so done.”

John cracked up. “And here I thought I had the worst public crush moment. You’ve topped it, buddy.”

Bob just shrank further into his hoodie. “I-it’s not a big deal…”

Bucky clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It is if she’s Deathtrap. You’re either in love… or in danger.”

Alexei beamed. “Or both! The best kind!”

As Bob covered his face in his hands, mumbling unintelligible excuses, the rest of the team burst into another round of chaotic laughter.

Thunderbolts HQ – Afternoon

The team had settled into a surprisingly peaceful moment after the morning's chaos. The place was buzzing with their usual dynamic—Ava messing with tech, Bucky cleaning his arm while muttering about “things he didn’t need,” John Walker pacing back and forth with a cup of coffee, and Alexei lounging casually on one of the chairs, looking way too comfortable.

Bob, still red-faced from his earlier embarrassment, was sitting at the table, fiddling with a coffee cup, desperately trying to act normal. Every time someone looked at him, he’d stiffen and look away. Great, he thought. The worst day of my life.

“So, Bob,” Yelena began, leaning casually against the wall, “have you finally figured out how to get her to join the team?”

Bob flinched. “I-I didn’t—! It’s not like that. I—She’s, uh... she’s just... different.” He looked down at his coffee cup. "She's not... like any of you."

Alexei snickered from across the room. “Not like us? Oh, I beg to differ.” He leaned in theatrically. “Remember that sweet kiss she gave you, Bobby?” He fluttered his eyes and dramatically leaned toward Bob, mimicking a kiss, “Mmm… thank you, Bob... for being such a good listener.”

Bob’s eyes widened, and his face turned a deeper shade of red than before. “N-no! Stop! It wasn’t like that! I was just... she—”

“Oh no, it was definitely like that,” Alexei interrupted, standing up, hands on his hips. “The sweet, innocent kiss... on the cheek... at the hilltop... mmm... so romantic, so tender,” he mimicked, leaning forward and puckering his lips at the air, “Sooooo, Bob, I really enjoyed our time together...” He exaggerated the movements, making kissy faces in the most obnoxious way possible.

The rest of the team, already trying to hold in their laughs, burst into giggles as they watched Bob squirm, his face practically glowing.

“Alexei!” Bob squeaked, mortified. “Please! I swear, it wasn’t like that! I-I didn’t even mean to—"

“Oh, you didn’t mean to?” Alexei raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to Bob and leaning down. “Then what was that thing you did when you held her waist like that? Were you preparing for some kind of fight, or were you really trying not to fall off the bike?” He smirked. “Don’t worry, Bobby. We saw you hugging her like it was the end of the world. She was all... cool and collected, and you... well, you were all... shaky, like a leaf in the wind.”

“Yeah,” John Walker added, grinning, “I saw that too. You looked like you were trying to survive the ride of your life.” He leaned in with mock seriousness. “But she didn’t let you fall. How... sweet.”

Bob threw his hands up in frustration. “Guys, I was just trying to balance! I’m not good with—people! Okay?! She’s just...” He paused, looking at the floor. “She’s different. And I didn’t think... I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at Bob’s discomfort. “Hey, don’t feel too bad. You’re not the first guy to get all flustered around her. I mean, come on. You’re in a team full of chaos. Of course we notice.”

Bob sighed, hiding his face behind his hands. “I didn’t... think this was gonna happen. This isn’t like—this isn’t how it was supposed to go, okay? I thought I’d be able to... I don’t know... keep my cool or something.”

“Keep your cool?” Alexei grinned, leaning in again, clearly enjoying every moment of Bob’s misery. “Bobby, it’s okay. We all know how this ends.”

“We do?” Bob said through his fingers, still mortified.

“Yeah,” Alexei said, his voice turning dramatically serious. “You’re gonna get a surprise visit one day. You’ll knock on her door all shy, you’ll stand there, heart pounding like a jackhammer. And then she’ll open the door, and what will you do?” He stepped closer to Bob, his arms outstretched like he was preparing for the worst love confession of all time. “You’ll stutter, just like you always do. And then you’ll say, ‘H-hi, Y/N... I—uh—I wanted to, you know... tell you... that I—I...’ And she’ll interrupt you with a perfect kiss and a perfect smile and all of a sudden, you’re her guy, Bobby.”

“Wait,” John said, tilting his head. “You’re not telling us Bob’s actually planning on telling her about this, are you?”

Bob shook his head quickly, panicking. “W-what? No! I wasn’t! I mean—maybe... but... no! I’m just trying to figure out how to talk to her, okay?”(he already confessed👀)

Alexei grinned. “That’s what I’m talking about! You’re already on the way, Bobby. You can’t avoid it now.”

“Maybe we should all just plan a nice dinner,” Bucky suggested, crossing his arms. “You know, set up a nice place. Play some music. Just to get things awkward enough for Bob to say something.”

“Not helping, Bucky,” Bob muttered under his breath.

“Come on, Bob. You’ve been acting like a schoolboy in love,” Yelena said, casually sipping her drink from the other side of the room. “You were shaking when she kissed you, remember?”

“Ugh! Stop!” Bob buried his face in his hands, completely overwhelmed by the teasing. “I swear, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen!”

Alexei slapped him on the back, making Bob lurch forward. “You’ll figure it out, my friend. Love’s like punching a wall—you just have to go for it.” He winked at Bob. “But be careful. Deathtrap’s kisses... they’re dangerous.”

Bob groaned, hiding his face in his arms. “This is a nightmare…”

It was early evening at the Thunderbolts HQ, and Bob was in his room, humming softly to himself as he folded the last item into his small blue backpack—his favorite fuzzy blankey. The soft fabric, dotted with faded stars and moons, looked comically juvenile against the sterile metal walls of the compound, but to Bob, it was a source of comfort… especially when he was going to Y/N’s.

He carefully zipped up the bag, triple-checking that he’d packed his toothbrush, a fresh shirt, and—most importantly—a box of instant cocoa packets, because Y/N’s cabin always had that magical quiet that made warm drinks taste better.

Just as he was about to sling the backpack over his shoulder, a loud knock on his door made him jump like he’d heard a gunshot.

“Woah, woah, loverboy,” Alexei's booming voice rang as the door creaked open. He stood there with his arms crossed, one brow cocked and an amused grin playing on his face. “Packing for a date night or your first school camping trip?”

Bob’s face flushed deep red as he fumbled to pull his backpack straps into place. “I-It’s just—uh—I’m just spending the night at Y/N’s,” he stammered, eyes darting anywhere but at Alexei. “I’ve been... having good sleeps there.”

Alexei gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his chest like Bob had just stabbed him through the heart. “You telling me,” he said with mock devastation, “that you’re not comfortable in the room I lovingly set up for you? With the memory foam mattress and the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars?”

“N-no! I-I mean—it’s not that—I am comfortable here! It’s just...” Bob trailed off, nervously wringing his hands.

Alexei’s face broke into a chuckle as he clapped a massive hand on Bob’s shoulder, nearly knocking the poor guy forward. “Relax, boy. I’m just messin’ with you. Go enjoy yourself.” His voice softened for just a beat. “If she makes you feel safe—makes you sleep better—then cherish her. And if you love her...” he paused, “don’t be stupid. Let her know.”

Bob blinked, looking up at him with those wide, unsure eyes. He gave a tiny nod.

Just then—PEEP!—a familiar sharp motorcycle horn echoed from outside the compound.

Alexei’s head jerked toward the window and grinned. “Your girlfriend’s here,” he said, smirking like a proud uncle sending his nephew to prom.

“Let’s goooooo,” came Yelena’s voice from the hallway.

As Bob shyly followed Alexei out of his room, his blue backpack bouncing lightly with every nervous step, he was greeted by the entire team gathered just outside the main entrance—like nosy parents watching their kid head off for their first sleepover.

There she was. Y/N, seated on her motorcycle like she owned the entire block, her helmet resting on her lap as she leaned back casually, waiting.

Bob swallowed hard.

“Protect our boy, Y/N!” Alexei called out dramatically, wiping invisible tears from his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “He’s sensitive. He folds his socks.”

Bob winced.

“Don’t worry, I got him,” Y/N called back with a slight smirk, revving the bike just enough to make Bob jump.

“Use protection!” John Walker shouted with a snort.

Yelena immediately smacked him in the arm. “Oh my god, Walker. He’s taking his blankey, not booking a honeymoon suite!”

Bob turned scarlet.

Y/N, clearly amused, patted the seat behind her. “C’mon, blue backpack. Let’s go before they start planning our wedding.”

Bob offered a stiff, flustered wave to the team, then carefully climbed onto the bike, hugging his bag against his chest for a second before strapping in.

As they pulled away, Alexei stood with a hand raised in mock farewell. “There he goes... our sweet awkward prince… off to cuddle town.”

[bobfloydsbabe]

dear reader | reporter!bob floyd x socialite!oc

SUMMARY: Robert Floyd's first assignment as a reporter is to cover high society gossip. Harriet Spencer is an almost engaged socialite who really isn't as vapid as she appears to be. They could not be more different, and yet there is a magnetic pull between them that soon becomes impossible to ignore...

WARNINGS: set in the mid 1930s, class difference, smoking, forced proximity, pining, angst, one vague masturbation reference. strictly 18+/minors dni

WORD COUNT: 1.2k (i think i blacked out)

A/N: Lew looked so good at the Thunderbolts* premiere tonight. Did y'all see his hair? His suit? That's the reason this exists. Thank you @attapullman for always raving about Lew with me. Enjoy!

“Those things will kill you, you know.”

He’d know that voice anywhere. In a crowded room where he can barely hear himself think. Whispered in the dark, with miles between them. A laugh across the street. Hushed breaths haunting his dreams. It’s a voice that draws you in much like the woman it belongs to.

He hums, blowing out smoke until a pale grey cloud rises to the sky, becoming one with the nighttime clouds.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker, Mr. Floyd.” She’s closer now, her voice a sweet melody in his ears. He wants to wrap it around him like a cloak and carry it home. At least then he’ll have some part of her to cling to.

He’ll still see her—an unfortunate circumstance of the job—but she will truly be out of reach. She was never his, but once that ring is on her finger, she’s lost to him, and seeing her being paraded around that stuffy ballroom made him crave something. Anything to settle the sinking feeling in his stomach. The aching sensation of a loss he has no business feeling.

She stops next to him, slight and elegant hands resting against the cold concrete railing. She’s stunning. The dress, a silvery waterfall of fabric and gemstones, fits her like the gloves she’s long since discarded. She hates the feeling of them on her skin. Her mother hates that she can’t keep them on for longer than an hour, but has long since given up trying to get her to keep them on.

“It’s a special occasion,” he says finally. His voice is even and eerily calm. He betrays none of the turmoil raging inside his head, the blood pulsing in his veins, or the cold sweat at the back of his neck.

She quirks her head to the side, a crinkle between her brows he longs to smooth out with his thumb.

“Oh, yeah?” He nods. “What is it?”

He shrugs. The sound from the party is as loud as ever. Even behind the mostly closed doors, he can hear glasses clinking and meaningless chatter. He can hear it, but the only thing that matters is the sound of her breathing. Right next to him. So close he can almost taste her.

She hums and he can practically hear the mischief woven into that single note. When he finally looks at her, she’s grinning at him and her eyes are gleaming with scheming. “Miss Spencer.” It’s a warning, but she ignores him. Of course she does.

“Let’s play a game,” she suggests and adjusts the pearls around her neck. “I’ll be the reporter and find out why you’re out here being grumpy while smoking.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not a reporter.”

“I am now,” she says, snatching his notepad and pen from his front breast pocket. “Now, tell me why you’re out here sulking.”

“Miss Spencer, give those back.” He stubs the cigarette, letting the bud sit on the railing to throw out after this supposed game is over.

She puts the end of the pen to her lips with a contemplative look on her face that he should not find as erotic as he does. Paying attention to her pretty pink mouth has only ever gotten him in trouble. Mostly that trouble has to do with his right hand and hard cock, but he’s really trying to not think about that right now.

Her hazel eyes focus on his face, and he can’t help but hold her gaze. A tug at the corner of his mouth has him schooling his features back to neutral. She steps closer. The heat of her overtakes him and his head starts spinning. She’s intoxicating.

“What is going on in the big bad reporter’s brain? Was your editor mean to you?” She pauses. Considers. “Did he scold you for being too honest? Told you not to write anything unfavorable in case it upsets the elite.” She looks at him, assessing. His editor had in fact said something similar, but he’s not about to tell Harriet Spencer that.

She hums again, more inquisitively this time. She steps closer and their shoes are now touching. He can feel her breath on his face. He licks his lips without meaning to. “No, that’s not it either,” she concludes.

“Please,” he says, like it’s painful. Because it is. “Give those back.”

She smirks, leaning forward. He doesn’t flinch.

“Tell me why you’re grumpy and I will.”

He can’t breathe. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Sure, you are. I’ve never seen you smoke. You actively avoid the people who do, which is everyone, I might add, and that can only mean you’re grumpy about something.” She smiles, clearly proud of her deduction. “I know you, Mr. Floyd. Like it or not.” I like it, he thinks. I like it more than I should.

He takes a long steadying breath, then meets her eyes. “There’s this woman,” he begins.

Her eyes light up before he can say anything else. “Mr. Floyd, you’ve been holding out on me,” she scolds him, but there’s no harshness in her tone. “I can’t believe you have a special lady out there and didn’t tell me.”

He doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t quite know how to convey everything going through this mind and body without sounding like a madman and scaring her off. “She’s special alright,” he tells. “But she’s not mine.”

Her face drops, a pout forming on those kissable lips.

“Why not?”

The sigh that escapes him is long and heavy, pained. “She’s about to be engaged to someone else.”

Her frown deepens. “How do you know?”

“Everyone knows.”

“Does she know how you feel?”

He shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “No.” He scrubs with chin, letting the feeling of his prickly stubble calm him a little. “No, but it doesn’t matter. We can never be together.”

“That’s absurd.” She seems truly horrified and completely oblivious. “If you love her, you should be together.” She’s so incredulous that he finds it hard not to smile. She’s the one who’s going to marry a man her parents picked for her, even though there isn’t an ounce of love between them.

“Yeah.” He forces himself not to lean his forehead against hers. “Yeah, we should.”

She’s quiet for so long, he almost cups her cheeks to check she’s still breathing, but then she holds the notepad and pen out to him. “I don’t think I want to play reporter anymore.” He takes them and places them back in his breast pocket. “This wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be.”

“You thought stealing my work tools would be fun?”

She grins then. “Yes,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But I’ve decided you’re allowed to be grumpy. It hurts when we can’t have the person we want the most.”

His heart stops. He might be dying.

She kisses his cheek, lips lingering closer to his mouth than what is appropriate by any standard. “I think you’re pretty special,” she whispers against his skin and pulls back, smoothing out the skirt of her dress. “Goodnight, Mr. Floyd.”

He’s not sure how long he stands there in the middle of the balcony grinning like a fool. Honestly, he doesn’t really care.

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[stargirlygirl]

no, you can't buy my ranch

rancher!sylus x spoiled!city girl!reader

⭑.ᐟ part six: betrayal and gambling

summary: sylus's lawyer shoes up at your property and informs you it's been seized under the common law.

contains: angst, swearing, mentions of gambling, you're a daddy's girl btw, blood/knife metaphor (in case you're a bit squeamish, it's not even graphic in my opinion but just in case), 3.7k words

BEFORE we officially begin, I forgot to attach these messages at the end of part five. SO pretend that you read them last chapter, okay?

It’s been about a month since you moved to this tiny town, and you have to admit, you’re starting to like it.

Yes, the town gossip is incessant, the supermarket is way too small and closes way too early, and you have only one friend (if you could call him that). But you’re beginning to enjoy waking up with green plains right out your window. The country air is fresh and invigorating, and the sun is bright. Well, the sun is bright everywhere. But here, its golden hues mould into the landscape.

You’ve come to revel in the early quiet of the morn. And working from home is so nice. You can pee whenever you want, wear whatever you want (the last time you put on a bra was when you went grocery shopping a few days ago), and you can be as loud as you want. There’s no way Mr Qin, who you’ve learnt owns the entire street next to your own empty one, could hear you scream across those acres.

Why would you be screaming, you might ask? Well, screaming is a wonderful form of emotional release. Any time you feel frustrated at your shit wifi, you can scream and shout at it and then carry on. Like road rage, you have the space to aurally express yourself before getting it together to solve the problem.

Another bonus of living in the countryside, alluded to previously, is your neighbour. You’ve been seeing each other once or twice a week and texting when something comes up. Heat flares in your cheeks whenever your phone dings, your stuttering heart hopeful it’s a message from him. When it is, you’re rejoicing and reading his message, giddy. When it isn’t, you berate yourself for becoming all excited.

You shouldn’t feel like this about the man who’s trying to purchase your father’s property. However, you can’t help but send him the flirtiest texts that make you throw your phone and squeal at your audacity. Better yet, Sylus always matches your texts with his signature condescension.

After all of this time, you realise how severely you’ve fallen victim to his haughty charm.

You’re currently taking a break from work. Your next Zoom meeting is at 2pm, so you’ve got about an hour to kill. You’ve set yourself up on the couch with a cup of tea and a good book. It’s one of the books Sylus bought for you; his recommendation, of course. You didn’t think the ranch overlord would have a taste for the classics. Oh, how wrong that assumption was.

Flicking the page of The Bacchae, a firm knock resounds at your front door. Huffing, you place your bookmark and leave the tragedy on the coffee table. While walking to the door, you allow your mind to wander. What if it’s Sylus? But wouldn’t Sy text you first? And that knock didn’t sound like his.

Your mood dampened, you unlock the door and pull it open with all of your strength. Resting against it, you gaze at the man in a suit before you with surprise.

“You… You’re that real estate agent,” you reminisce. The man shakes his head.

In monotone, he states, “I am Mr Qin’s lawyer, and I am here to inform you, Miss L/n, that your property has been seized under the common law.” You stare at him for a moment, processing his words. Sylus’s lawyer? Property seized?

“What? You-you said you were a real estate agent?” You ask confused.

Clearing his throat, the lawyer repeats, “A slip of the tongue, I can assure you. Moving on, your father no longer has legal ownership of this property, Miss L/n. As such, you are required to move out within 14 days of this notice.”

“You…” Can’t do that, is what you want to say. But there’s a lump in your throat, preventing any additional words from journeying out of your lips. Your eyes snap to the sudden sound coming down the driveway. Tires scattering the dirt and buzzing engine; a black pick-up truck comes into view.

“Sylus,” you whisper and pray that his lawyer—well, his self-proclaimed lawyer—didn’t hear you.

Stepping past the threshold, the heavy front door slams shut behind you. You step anxiously past the man in a suit, watching as Sylus carelessly pulls over. Shutting the engine off, he jogs up to your porch. His button-up has been traded for a black tank, and jeans for a pair of gym shorts. Sweat drips down his muscles, a sight that would make you feral when ovulating. He’s slightly out of breath as he conquers the few porch steps, like he’s just been boxing or something.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, sweetie,” Sylus murmurs, coming to stand in front of you.

Staring up at him, you sigh in relief, “Thank God you’re here, Sy. This man—” Twisting back, you gesture to the lawyer— “was saying that-that I have to move out.” The rancher shoots his lawyer a dangerous glare. He was supposed to arrive first and gently break the news to you. Not the other way around.

“Sy,” you start. Reaching out, you grab his clammy hand and pull it toward you.

“What’s going on?” You continue, anxiety lacing your voice. It’s not the gorgeous man in front of you, in his slutty shorts, that’s making your heart race. No, it’s that he hasn’t denied the other man’s claim.

“Is he your lawyer?” You press on. Sylus’s lips purse slightly, the vein in his jaw fluttering with the tension there.

He finally sighs— the sound devoid of his usual charisma, “Yes. Albert, here is my lawyer.” You shake your head in disbelief. Because if Albert is truly Sylus’s lawyer, then what of Albert’s other declarations?

The rancher mumbles remorsefully, “Wasn’t supposed to happen like this, kitten.”

“What? What wasn’t supposed to happen like this?” You spit out, your anger swelling and something else, too. A kind of sadness stinging at the edges. Sylus squeezes your hand before directing his attention to his lawyer.

“You were supposed to wait for my arrival,” he says sternly.

The lawyer counters, “You were taking your sweet time, Mr Qin. I figured you’d be here any minute, and look at that, you are.” You can almost hear Sylus’s teeth grinding with how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

He scoffs, “Right. And how much did you divulge in my absence?”

Albert shrugs, “The necessities.”

Before Sylus can bite his lawyer’s head off, you interrupt with, “He said that my dad no longer owns this property, and that I have to move out.” You tug on Sylus’s hand, drawing his narrowed eyes back to you.

Emotion thickens your voice as you guess, “I don’t understand. Did you buy my ranch without telling me?”

Albert answers before Sylus can, “By adverse possession, Mr Qin has been granted full legal ownership of your father’s property, Miss L/n.”

“Adverse possession?” You repeat, the phrase, foreign, on your tongue.

“Precisely. Mr Qin has been exclusively maintaining this property for the past ten years. Through filing a lawsuit under the state’s adverse possession law, Mr Qin has proved his continuous and notorious claim to the property, and as such, has been granted legal ownership,” the lawyer explains. Your heart drops to your stomach as you glance between the two men. You don’t know who to be more furious at. Actually, you do.

“What the fuck?!” You wiggle your hand out of Sylus’s tightening grip.

Glaring up at him, you say heatedly, “That’s not true! My father… There have been tenants living here within the past two years. You can’t claim exclusive ownership of my fucking ranch!”

“Actually, Miss L/n, this property has been unoccupied since its purchase twelve years ago,” Albert asserts.

“Bullshit,” you claim.

He goes on with, “Adverse possession is also referred to as Squatter’s rights, if that helps clear up your confusion.” Oh, that makes it so much worse.

“Squatter’s rights?! Squat—what squatter’s rights? This man is fucking loaded! You-you mean to tell me he’s been squatting in my property, you fucking crazy bast—”

“Sweetie,” Sylus cuts you off. The vibrancy in his eyes is gone, dulled by guilt.

Glancing at Albert, he orders dismissively, “We’ll speak about this later. You can leave now.” With a curt nod, the lawyer disappears down the steps and hops into a small white car you didn’t even notice was pulled over nearby. All is quiet between you and Sylus as the other man drives away. Only the chirping birds, oblivious to the daunting news you’ve just received, dare to barge in on your brooding.

You break the almost silence with, “I can’t believe this! You—”

“Kitten—”

“NO! Don’t-don’t ‘kitten’ me, Sylus! You fucked me over!” You shout, all of the desire and excitement you had been feeling for him, fleeting. All that’s left right now is bitterness gnawing at your insides, eating you up like you drank acid. You release this strangled sound, somewhere between a derisive chuckle and a sob. You feel the wetness rolling down your cheeks; tears.

The rancher who had been your sole friend (and love interest) gazes at you, pained.

He says abashedly, “You weren’t supposed to know.” You choke on your tears, your arms instinctively wrapping around yourself as you step back. Seeing your sudden distance drives a knife into Sylus’s chest. Blood spews from the wound as he reaches for you, but you shake your head and take another step back.

“No,” you mumble, your eyes downcast.

The rancher swallows his agony as he explains, “The court was supposed to make a decision next month. I was hoping in that time, we would have grown closer.”

“Closer?!” You snap furiously. “Closer,” you repeat, the word now subdued and overrun by barely contained pain. “And then what? You-you would j-just betray me. Like you-you’ve done n-now,” you sob. Betrayal. That’s what you’re feeling. A mere hour ago, you were a bundle of joy. Content, safe, and looking forward to the future. But now, all of that has been clawed out of your hands and burned to ashes. Crisp is the sorrow in your tummy. That sharpness of a concealed dagger plunged deep inside.

“It would have made the transition easier,” he mutters.

“For whom, Sylus?!” You cry out. You hate it when he sees you like this, all upset and crying. Why are you always crying when you’re with him? Is love like supposed to hurt this much?

He sighs, “For both of us…” Kitten. “You would be willing to sell. I’d ask you to move in with me.”

“You’re not my boyfriend!” You wail. Such a statement was meant to hurt him, but it only reinforces the reality you wish were a fantasy.

“I could be,” Sylus murmurs. Not the most appropriate time to shoot his shot, but the rancher fears he might not have another chance.

“I can protect you, darling. Give you everything you could ever want. You’d have a comfortable life. All you have to do is say yes.” You can’t believe what he’s saying right now. Asking you out on your front porch, after seizing ownership of your property. His words cause you to cry harder, your face scrunched up all ugly as you feel the pain cutting straight through your heart.

Sylus steps forward and reaches for you once more, almost pleading, “Let me take care of you.” His deep voice, typically cocky, is now overwhelmed by desperation. That yearning breathlessness. You would have folded right then and there for him in different circumstances. Right now, you can’t.

Shaking your head, you gaze up at him with blurry vision. Your sadness transforms the handsome rancher into a tall blob of colour. Oh, how you crave to be in his arms. To retreat into his comfort. Defined arms embracing you tightly, and his broad chest, providing the perfect pillow to rest your weary head on.

It’s thoughts like these that drive you to dart to your front door and scamper inside. It thuds shut, and you immediately secure the locks. You dash to your living room and collapse on the couch, the cushions becoming your teddy bear. But they aren’t as hot or soothing as the silver-haired man outside.

Sylus stands there, his hand still outstretched, looking at the place where you were a minute ago. It dawns upon him how royally he’s just fucked up. He’s been working for ten years to own this property. But in one month, all of those ambitions have been worn down to nothing.

You’re the reason he started reconsidering his lawsuit. Of course, he couldn’t just withdraw his case. But now that he’s won, Sylus isn’t sure if the cost was worth the reward.

In his arrogance, he thought he could have both you and your land. And in his spiralling mind, he still thinks he can.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

Time elapses as you cry on the sofa. It’s heart-wrenching and raw, with you mumbling to yourself every minute, trying to make sense of what just occurred. The sun is still high in the sky, harshly glaring down upon the shrubland, when you slither off the couch and head to the window. Pulling back the lacy curtains, you peek at your front porch. Empty, no Sylus in sight. Gazing at the dirt trail, you see no black pick-up truck resting on the side.

He’s gone.

You choke on your sobs while plopping back down on the couch. Snatching your phone, you take the only reasonable course of action and dial your father’s number. It rings once… twice.. a third—

“Hey, sweetheart. I’m driving at the moment. What is it?” His voice is like a popsicle on a hot summer’s day.

You sniffle, “Daddy.” The line is quiet for a moment as you pluck a couple of tissues and pat your eyes.

“What happened, sugar plum?” He asks, an urgency underscoring his tone.

Dropping your hand in your lap, you explain, “This-this man came t-to my house an-and he said t-that it did-didn’t belong t-to you anymore.”

“Oh, honey,” your father sighs. In the background, you can hear the indicator flicking.

“Dad, what-what’s gonna happen? Why-why did Sylus take y-your house?” Your small voice cracks on the silver-haired man’s name. He’s the last person you want to think about right now. But funnily enough, he’s the only one on your mind. You hear the chinking of keys as your father throws them on the dash. You assume he’s pulled over.

He exhales tiredly, “Look, love bug, let’s not do this over the phone, okay? I’m on the way to you right now. And when I get there, I’ll explain everything.” A loud cry rises in your throat and rips through; automatically, your hand flies to your mouth to cover it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise, pumpkin pie,” your father reassures you.

You speak through your fresh wave of tears, “His-his lawyer s-said the house was-was n-never occupied. S’that true?” You’re on the edge of the couch cushion, expecting an answer from your father.

But as the static-silence continues, you murmur, “So it’s true.”

“As I said, my sweetest dew drop, I’ll explain when I get there, alright? I should reach by nightfall,” your father finally responds. You want to tell him that he better explain, that he owes it to you, but all you manage is a measly “M’kay” before saying your ‘I love you’s and hanging up.

Checking the time, you predict you’ve got another two to three hours before your father arrives. In that time, you sob into your couch once more, like a distraught Disney princess who’s not allowed to see the prince ever again.

For a moment, you picture it. Prince Sylus kept away from you by some opposing force in your story. But the image makes you weep harder. Sylus is no prince in your books. If anything, he’d be the dragon guarding your tower.

Ruthless and selfish.

You question whether those moments you two spent together, the kiss you shared by the lake, were genuine. Or was he just trying to get close to you so he could soften the blow? On the contrary, getting close to you has made this sudden change all the more devastating.

You’re still curled up in a ball on your tear-stained sofa when the locks turn and the front door is pushed open. Moments later, your father strolls into the living room with an overnight bag in hand. Like he knew. Like he planned this visit.

Dropping it on a nearby armchair, your dad comes over to you with his arms spread wide.

“Oh, sweetie pie,” he says lovingly before embracing you in a warm hug. And just when you thought you were finished crying, more tears spill over your waterline.

He pats your back and coos softly, “It’s alright, darling. We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” You wail in his arms like a child who just dropped their favourite plushie in the toilet. Ugly and utterly distraught, your father holds you. He has to, because he’s the one responsible for your grief.

Sitting back, you choke out, “Daddy, what-what happened?” He averts his eyes for a moment, feigning interest in the book you were reading earlier as he gathers his thoughts.

At last, he admits, “It’s complicated, poo bear—”

“Please, just tell me!” You sob, smearing your snotty nose on your forearm for the nth time today.

His shoulders slump as he confesses, “I bought this house twelve years ago using my savings, yeah? And I intended to put it up for rent, but I got busy, you were having a hard time at school, and things, you know, were getting a bit rough between your mom and me—”

“Hurry up, Dad,” you interject while throwing your tissue down beside you.

He sighs, “I picked up an old habit, okay? And it was going really well for a while. But then things dropped off. The stock market was going down, too. I was losin’ a lot of money, so I pulled out. I was gonna put the house up for rent when I found out the man next door had been trespassing. And then he filed a lawsuit, and well, the rest is history.” You shake your head, still confused about one detail.

“What habit, Daddy?” You ask nervously. Again, he avoids your sharp gaze.

“What habit?!” You cry out. Slowly, your father looks at you, his eyes glassier than before.

“Gambling,” he mutters. You feel like a hole has been punched through your chest. Gambling. An addiction. One that ruins lives, like your father’s. But it doesn’t stop there. Like a monster, it thrashes when attempting to be tamed, lashing out at anyone, even those closest to the person most affected.

“Is that where you were every Friday night? At the Casino?” You choke out, your anger flaring for the second time today.

“Honey—”

“Is that where my college tuition came from? Your little ol’ habit?!” You don’t want to do this. You’ve pushed someone very important away from you today, and you don’t want to do the same to your father. You should be seeking solidarity right now, but you’re struggling to. You can’t suppress the indignation bubbling to the surface.

Your father murmurs, “Yes, okay? Yes, I was playing the pokies every Friday night. I was on a winning streak, baby. And for the first time, it lasted.”

“Until it didn’t?” You clarify, the words dripping with venom as you spit them out. He nods.

“Does Mom know?” He shakes his head, panic flickering across his lived-in features.

Your dad asks, “You’re not gonna tell her, are you?”

You scoff tearfully, “Why should I? S’not my burden to bear.” That seems to ease the mounting tension in his body, if only superficially.

“Are you still—”

“No. I had to stop, angel. I’ve been clean for the past year or so,” he insists. You nod, rubbing your red nose as more snot threatens to spill out.

Your father apologises, “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, peanut. I know I should have. N’ I should have told your mother, too, but… Look, it’s gonna be alright, okay? You can move back in with us until you get back on your feet, yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you agree, completely exhausted. The day’s emotional weight is catching up to you, and your body feels heavy. The pieces fall into line.

“S’that how you got here so fast? Knew I’d be kicked out,” you murmur. Your father sighs while nodding.

“B-but, then why’d you make me move in if the property was gonna-gonna go to…” You trail off, unable to say his name.

Your father rubs the back of his neck as he explains, “I thought it might deter him or affect the lawsuit, but it did neither.” So that’s it. You were a rat in an experiment. A test subject for a failed hypothesis.

“I’m sorry, my little bean,” your dad apologises once more. You hum in acknowledgement, too choked up to answer with words.

After a beat of silence, your father suggests, “Why don’t you go shower or take a nap? I’ll make us dinner.” Nodding, you trudge off to the bathroom.

After showering, you gaze at yourself in the mirror. Staring back at you is you, but five times puffier. You look like you’ve had an allergic reaction with how swollen your eyes and lips are.

When you’re finally ready— skin moisturised and new jammies on— you head downstairs. As soon as you enter the kitchen, the smell of your dad’s signature dish hits your nostrils.

You help him set the table, and for the first time in a long time, you two share a meal. It’s quiet between you, tonight’s admissions plunging the household into clinking plates and hushed manners.

And when you lie down in bed, all cosy with your actual teddy bear, your nose is still blocked up and your cheeks feel hot. You toss and turn, unable to will away those soul-stealing eyes. How sad and dim they looked.

He haunts you, like he did after you first met. Somewhere, between the gloomy stars and broken AC, you manage to drift off into a dreamless slumber.

story masterlist

full masterlist

star girl's final words: BIGGEST THANK YOU to @tragicvictoriantears for giving me the idea of adverse possession!!!!! this story wouldn't be what it is without you, nat! also... did we like? how're we feeling? i really liked this one ngl. my fav so far is part two, but i like the angst of this part.

APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE if part seven doesn't come out within the next week because i haven't started it yet and i have assignments due😃

taglist - @stxrrielle, @peachystea, @harbingers-lullaby, @grlyeetswrld, @multisstuff, @heartyluv, @cuntphoric-main, @sealoftime, @beesin03, @tragicvictoriantears, @bananasquash, @sylusgworl

[msriri030]

Mafia!Ren/ [Redacted] x Reader

TW: mention and brief scene Abuse, slight mention of murder.

Masterlist

The night air was cold and heavy, each step you took down the dimly lit street weighed down by the lingering dread of what awaited you at home. You kept your head down, hands buried in your pockets, hoping, praying that tonight might be different—that your dad would be passed out, or maybe out drinking somewhere, anything to keep him away from you for just a few hours. But deep down, you knew he was there. He was always there, waiting for the next excuse to unleash his anger, fueled by the alcohol that twisted his thoughts into rage.

He would shout, throwing out slurs and curses, blaming your mother for leaving him, accusing her of destroying the family. You understood why she left—he was a monster to her. But what you couldn’t understand, what tore at your heart every time you thought about it, was why she left you behind. Why had she left you to fend for yourself with him?

These questions haunted you, but tonight, you pushed them away. Survival was all that mattered. You just needed to keep going, one more shift, one more day, until you had enough money to get out. You were so close. Just a little longer.

You quickened your pace as you neared home, bracing yourself for whatever was behind that door. The sounds of traffic and the city faded into the background as you got lost in your thoughts, barely noticing that you were walking straight into oncoming traffic until strong hands grabbed your arm, pulling you back with surprising force.

"Watch out, miss," a deep voice said with a small smile. "I don’t like seeing a pretty angel walking into traffic."

You blinked, stunned, and glanced up to find a large man standing beside you, concern etched on his face. “Giant… I—I’m sorry, how rude of me. Thank you for saving me, Mr...?”

"Mr. Ren," he replied with a grin, his voice calm and assured. "Just Ren is fine. And you are?"

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to trust him, but there was something in his steady gaze that put you at ease. “(First name)… (Last name).”

Ren raised an eyebrow, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Wait, (Last name)? Is... is (your father’s name) your husband?"

Your face flushed with a mix of surprise and frustration. “NO! He’s my father.” You quickly added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.” You paused for a second before offering hesitantly, “Why don’t I treat you to something? As a thank you, you know, for saving me?”

He chuckled softly, nodding. "A coffee sounds perfect. Just to keep you safe a little longer."

You nodded, a small, grateful smile tugging at your lips. There was something in his presence—calming, strong—that made the coldness of the night feel less oppressive. Together, you walked to a nearby diner, its neon lights casting a soft, inviting glow in the darkness.

Once inside, you settled across from Ren. The warm atmosphere of the diner contrasted sharply with the cold night outside, and for the first time in a while, you felt like you could breathe. Ren ordered two coffees, and as the two of you sat there, you couldn’t help but take in more of his appearance: the black hair tipped with pink, the piercings that glinted under the soft light, the tattoos that peeked out from under his sleeves and shirt collar. But it was his hands that caught your attention—scarred and calloused, like someone who had fought their own battles. The kind of hands that felt familiar in a way you couldn’t quite place.

"Something on your mind, angel?" Ren’s voice broke the silence. His eyes were kind, but there was an edge to them, as if he knew there was something more behind your guarded expression. “What made you so lost in thought that you didn’t see the cars?”

You hesitated, tracing the rim of your coffee cup with your finger, unsure of how much to say. "Just… life, I guess," you replied softly. "It’s been a little heavy."

Ren nodded, his gaze softening, understanding without needing more words. "Life can be a lot sometimes," he said quietly. "But it doesn’t stay dark forever. Even the longest nights end."

Your heart tightened at his words, an unexpected wave of warmth washing over you. “Thank you,” you whispered, feeling a flicker of hope in your chest.

You spent the next hour in easy conversation, the kind that allowed you to forget about the weight of the world for a while. When you finally checked the time, you realized it was late, and the reality of your situation rushed back.

Ren seemed to notice the shift in your demeanor. “Do you need someone to walk you home?” he asked, his voice gentle but insistent.

You hesitated, looking down the street toward the house that still felt like a prison. The thought of facing your father alone, of being caught in that cycle again, made your stomach twist with dread. “If you don’t mind…”

He smiled and stood, offering his hand. “Not at all, angel.”

You blushed, taking his hand.

The walk to your house was quiet, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel suffocating. Ren’s presence beside you, strong and steady, made the night feel less dark, less frightening. When you reached the door, your heart sank as you heard your father’s drunken voice spilling out from inside. The slurred words, the anger, the madness—it was all too familiar.

You turned to Ren, forcing a weak smile onto your face. “Thank you, Ren. I—I hope—”

Before you could finish, the door slammed open with a violent crash. Your father stood in the doorway, his wild eyes landing on you before narrowing in fury. He shoved you hard, sending you falling backward. Your back hit the floor with a painful thud, the wind knocked out of you. 

“YOU USELESS BRAT!” he shouted, his voice full of venom and alcohol.

You gasped, struggling to breathe as his boot slammed down on your chest, pressing all the air out of your lungs. Desperately, You clawed at his leg. You tried to push his foot off, but his weight was crushing.

“You think you can just come and go as you please?” he sneered, each word a dagger. “You’re just like your mother—always running off. Always a disappointment!”

You bit back the tears threatening to spill, your hands trembling as you still were trying to pry his foot off. The words cut deeper than his blows ever could, but you refused to cry in front of him. You wouldn’t give this man that satisfaction of breaking you.

Then, like a storm crashing through the door, Ren’s voice rang out, cold and deadly. “(Last name). Get. OFF. Her.”

You barely had time to process the change in the air before Ren was there, his massive frame a shadow over your father. He stood like a wall, his presence intimidating, overwhelming, as if the very air around him shifted with authority.

Your father, drunk and staggering, turned to face Ren, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable. “Who the hell are you?” he slurred, his bravado fading quickly. “This isn’t your business…”

Ren didn’t let him finish. Without a word, he grabbed your father by the shirt and effortlessly lifted him off the ground, holding him with one hand. Your father’s eyes widened in terror, the drunken fog clearing just enough to see who was standing in front of him. “Mr. [Redacted]!” Your father whimpered, his voice shaking. “Please! I didn’t mean any disrespect! I’ll pay back the money, I swear!”

Ren tossed him aside like he was nothing more than a nuisance, his cold eyes never leaving your father. “You disrespected me when you laid a hand on my angel,” Ren hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “If I ever see you even breathing the same air as my angel, I am afraid you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

Your father crumbled, falling to the ground as Ren released him with a final shove. He fell back against the wall, eyes wide, too terrified to move.

Ren turned to you then, his expression softening as he crouched down to meet your gaze. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, your chest aching from both the pain and the overwhelming sense of relief. “I… I think so.”

He reached out, offering his hand to help you up. “You’re not staying here,” Ren said firmly, glancing back at your father, who was still crumpled in a heap against the wall. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, your heart racing as you grabbed your bag and followed Ren out the door. As you stepped into the cool night air with him by your side, you realized that for the first time in a long while, you weren’t just surviving. You were escaping. And maybe, just maybe, you were finally free….Or entering a new cage. 

[slvtrlv]

~ ULTRAVIOLENCE ~

part 1. Cruel world

Summary: "…I did what I had to do. I found another, anyhow..." Y/N leaves home behind with nothing but a suitcase and her mother's rosary. Birmingham is cruel, grey, and teeming with danger. But Tommy Shelby notices her. He always notices the broken things.

Relationship: Tommy Shelby x Female Reader.

Warning: diary style, smut, 18+, smoking, alcohol, slow-burn, drama, angst, fluff, age-gap, power dynamics, obsession, protection, forbidden love, feminine rage & surrender, based on album "ultraviolence" by lana del rey.

Words: 1264

A/N: comments and reblogs are appreciated

_ _ _

“…Share my body and my life with you. That's way over now. There's not anymore I can do…” — Y/N’s diary, 1923

The Garrison was half-asleep when I walked in, a lull between violence. The kind of silence that comes after blood has dried and before it spills again.

I stepped inside slowly, like I was slipping into something forbidden. My coat was too thin for the storm behind me, the hem soaked through, dragging the wet weight of the streets along the floor. Water dripped from my cuffs, trailing ghostly fingerprints on the wood. My hair clung to my face, damp and curling slightly at the ends like ivy reaching for warmth.

Then a voice cut through the dim. Low. Measured. Too clean for this place, too sharp to be drunk.

— You look like you’re running from something - it came from the shadows, smooth and sure. The kind of voice you don’t argue with because it already knows the end of the story.

I didn’t flinch.

I turned my head slowly toward the sound, lashes heavy with rain. My eyes were darker than they should’ve been, like something had been left behind in them. Something bruised. Something watching.

— Aren’t we all? - my voice was calm, disinterested, the kind of calm only someone very tired or very dangerous could fake.

The warmth of the room pressed against me like a body. Firelight crackled from behind the bar, catching the edge of every bottle like the glint of a blade. Men spoke in low tones, hands wrapped around half-full glasses and half-empty threats. But I didn’t see them.

I only see him. Thomas Shelby. Lit by a single amber lamp and the orange flicker of his cigarette. Smoke curled upward, soft and slow, like it had nowhere better to be.

— Not me - he said, exhaling smoke through his nose like a man who'd already made peace with the devil — I don’t run.

I stepped farther inside, the door clicking shut behind me. It felt like a lock. Like a choice. My boots left damp prints on the floorboards, small and shapeless like a girl trying to forget where she came from.

— Then what do you do, Mr. Not-Running? - I asked with a half-smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the all honey and knives eyes. A challenge in a teacup voice. He didn’t blink.

— I handle things - he replied, tapping ash into the tray with precision — Problems. People. Threats.

The words didn’t sound like a boast. They sounded like facts. Like bullets counted after a job. I tilted my head, letting the pause linger just a second longer than polite.

— Sounds exhausting.

He smiled, if you could call it that. Just a twitch of the mouth, not warmth. Recognition, maybe. Or restraint.

He’d been flirted with before. He’d been wanted. But this wasn’t that. This was something different. I wasn’t a girl in love with danger: I was danger, still raw, still bleeding at the edges.

— You’re not from here - he said then, voice quieter now, almost curious.

I looked around: the stained-glass windows dulled with smoke, the worn-down bar polished by generations of elbows, the rust-red wallpaper clinging to the walls like secrets.

— What gave me away?

— Your coat - he said simply — Stitched by hand. Not Birmingham work. Boots too fine for a factory girl. And you smell like lilies.

That last part made my chest tighten. Not because he noticed - but because he noticed everything.

— You make a habit of smelling girls who walk through your door? - he tapped the end of his cigarette, eyes steady.

— No. Just the dangerous ones - I narrowed my gaze, amused and wary all at once.

— I’m not dangerous - he looked at me for a long, measured moment.

— Not yet - he gestured toward the seat across from him. I sat without hesitation, without breaking eye contact. I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t need to.

Thomas Shelby. The name wrapped itself around Birmingham like a noose. Sweet. Lethal. Impossible to forget.

He poured a drink without asking.

— Whiskey?

— If I say no, will it matter?

— Not really - the glass was heavy, warm from his hand. The first sip hit my throat like a warning. I didn’t flinch. But he noticed anyway.

— You don’t drink much.

— I don’t do anything much - I replied, watching him over the rim of my glass — But that doesn’t mean I won’t start.

He studied me then, like a soldier studies a map. Like he was calculating how far I'd already come and how far I had left before I’d break.

— How old are you? - his tone had shifted, quieter, more dangerous for it. Like he was deciding how deep he’d let himself go.

— Twenty - I said it without blinking. I said it like someone who had been twenty for years.

He didn’t reply. Just inhaled, smoke curling like a question.

— That’s young.

— Maybe.

Another silence stretched, this one more intimate. The kind that breathes between two people who don’t know each other’s names, but know each other’s damage.

He didn’t ask why I was in Birmingham. And I didn’t offer it. But he could read it in my posture: the way I sat like I didn’t expect to be allowed to stay. In the bruise under my collarbone, blooming purple just above the edge of my dress. In the calluses on my hands, earned from more than just work.

— You shouldn’t be here - he said finally. Not as a threat. More like an apology he didn’t believe in.

— And yet I am - I replied, my eyes meeting his, really meeting them — Why does that bother you?

His mouth didn’t move, but something behind his eyes did.

— Because girls like you get eaten alive here - I tilted my chin slightly, like I was daring him to be right.

— Then maybe I’m hungry too - that stopped him. Not startled, he didn’t rattle. But something went still. Like a dog hearing the soft click of a rifle.

— I’m not going to save you - his voice was the barest breath of a threat. Or a promise. Or both.

— I didn’t ask you to - I smiled. This time sadder. This time real.

Then I stood. Just like that. One motion. The coat shifted around my shoulders, rain still clinging to the edges. I left without goodbye, without even touching the drink he poured me.

Outside, the air had turned sharp: all metal and wet stone. The rain had softened to a mist, gentle and cold against my cheeks. I didn’t look back. But I knew he was watching me until I disappeared.

Inside, Thomas Shelby reached for the glass I left behind. The lipstick stain still fresh. The heat from my body still ghosting the leather of the seat.

He ran a thumb across the rim of my glass.

And he already knew:
I was going to be a problem.
And he was already deciding if he cared.

DIARY, 1924 He saw me. Not with hunger, not with hands. With knowing. He looked at me like I was a question he’d already answered. Thomas Shelby. His name tastes like smoke and sin. A prayer and a punishment in the same breath. He told me he wouldn’t save me. I believe him. But he didn’t say don’t fall in love with me.
And maybe that’s the cruelest thing of all. — Y/N.

[tuliptheoshawott]