#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.

[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. 

[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.

likes are nice, but reblogs and comments are golden

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[bat-mom-writer]

Rage and Redemption: Part 8

Bruce Wayne X adoptive daughter(age 12)

Summary: It's your first day of boarding school

Rating: Curing, bullying, a bloody fight, Dick being a sweet brother

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

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Sometime after, you find yourself in front of your bedroom mirror, wearing the school uniform Bruce had got you—a crisp white blouse, a navy blue tie, and a plaid skirt. Your hair is pulled into a neat bun. You scowl at the unfamiliar reflection, tugging at the tie that feels like a noose around your neck. The idea of school makes you want to scream, but you know it's a battle you can't win.

"You're going to love it," Alfred says from the doorway. "You'll make friends, learn new things, and maybe even find a hobby. That hope won't involve breaking things."

You shoot him a glare. "I like breaking things," you mutter, though the edge of your anger is dulling.

Alfred's smile is warm, his eyes filled with something that looks suspiciously like affection. "And I like a clean foyer," he says, stepping into the room, "but sometimes life gives you lemons, as the saying goes."

You roll your eyes, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. You can't stay mad at Alfred, not when he's looking at you like that. "Fine," you huff, "but if I hate it, I'm coming home and burning this uniform."

Alfred chuckles, his eyes twinkling. "I'll save you a cup of tea," he promises, his voice gentle. "Now, come on, let's not keep Mr. Wayne waiting."

You follow Alfred down the grand staircase, the sound of your new school shoes echoing through the hallowed halls of the manor. Bruce is waiting by the front door, he's dressed in a tailored suit, looking every bit the billionaire he is. You feel like a fish out of water, your school clothes itchy and uncomfortable against your skin.

"Miss is dressed and ready for her first day at school," Alfred announces, his arms wide as if presenting you on a stage. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Bruce takes a knee, his eyes level with yours. He smooths out your uniform, his hands brushing over the crumpled fabric with surprising gentleness. His touch is firm but not unkind, his eyes searching yours. "How do you feel?" he asks, the question loaded with more weight than you're prepared to acknowledge.

"Ridiculous," you reply, the word tasting sour on your tongue. The uniform feels like a costume, a façade you're wearing to pretend you're someone you're not. "Already ready to go back to bed."

Bruce's eyes hold yours for a moment, seeming to see behind the bravado. "It's natural to be nervous," he says, his voice softer than you're used to hearing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "I'm not nervous, old man," you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. The lie feels thick and bitter on your tongue.

Bruce lets out a chuckle with a gentle smile, "Alright, tough guy," he says, standing up. "Let's get you to school."

You follow him out to the car, the sleek black vehicle waiting like a silent sentinel. You've seen Bruce leave in it a hundred times, but now the sight of it makes your stomach twist into knots. This isn't a trip to the city or a fancy dinner—this is the start of your new life, one you're not sure you're ready for.

The drive to school is a blur of unfamiliar buildings and bustling streets. You feel like you're in a cage, trapped in a world that's too clean, and too orderly compared to the chaos of the orphanage. When the car finally stops at the school, your heart races like a caged animal's.

Bruce comes around and opens your door, his gaze steady on yours. You can see the question in his eyes, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer. You climb out, the cool morning air slapping you in the face, a stark contrast to the warm cocoon of the car. The school looms before you, a monolith of education and structure, two things you've never been particularly fond of.

"Well," you say, your voice flat as you glance around the bustling drop-off area, "I'm here. At school." You pause, the words hanging in the air like a half-hearted declaration of defeat. "Alright, let's go back." You move to climb back into the car, the sanctuary of leather and luxury feeling suddenly irresistible.

But before you can retreat into the embrace of the vehicle, Bruce's firm hands are on your shoulders, turning you around to face the schoolyard.

"Not so fast," Bruce says, his grip firm but not painful. He gently pushes you towards the schoolyard, "You're already dressed and already here. Give it a chance."

You huff, your cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. You didn't want to admit it, but part of you was scared of what was waiting for you beyond the gates. The orphanage had been a harsh teacher, and you weren't sure you had the skills to navigate the social jungle of a school.

With a resigned sigh, you square your shoulders and march towards the schoolyard. The sounds of laughter and chatter fill the air as kids of all ages spill out of the school, forming groups and chasing each other around the greenery. You feel a pang of longing—those were the moments of camaraderie you never had.

Stopping at the gate, you look around at the buzzing students, and it's like a punch to the gut. Each one of them seems to have a place, a group, a purpose. You feel like the odd one out, the one who doesn't belong. You swallow hard, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. You turn around and there's Bruce, less than a yard away, his eyes full of an understanding you don't think you deserve.

"You can do this," he says, his voice low and steady.

You straighten your back, "Of course I can," you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel. "I was just making sure you were leaving," you add, a hint of challenge in your voice, "You're making me look bad."

Bruce's smile carries a sense of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the moment they just shared. He takes a deliberate step back, allowing the weight of the conversation to linger in the air between them, his hands falling casually to his sides. "I'll see you tonight," he says, his voice steady, as he strides around the car. With a smooth motion, he settles into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking slightly under his weight as he turns the ignition key, ready to drive into the evening ahead.

You don't miss the way his gaze lingers on you before he finally drives away, the tires leaving faint marks on the pavement as he goes.

You stand there for a moment, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. Then, with a deep breath, you square your own shoulders and march through the gates, your eyes scanning the crowd.

The first bell rings, a shrill sound that slices through the air, making the students scatter like a flock of startled birds. You grit your teeth, the sound a harsh reminder of the reality you've been thrust into.

You find yourself in a sea of unfamiliar faces, all of them seemingly at ease, all of them knowing exactly where they're going. You, on the other hand, are lost—both figuratively and literally. You pull and unfold the map with trembling hands, trying to make sense of the labyrinth of corridors and classrooms.

"Lost already?" a voice says, and you whip around to see a boy standing behind you, his arms crossed over his chest. Damian.

You narrow your eyes at Damian, his smug expression grating on your already frazzled nerves.

"I don't have time for you," you say, turning away from him to focus on the map.

"Father has urged me to be… inviting to you," Damian says, the word "inviting" sounding forced and unnatural. "But if you're going to act like a peasant, I'll leave you to it."

You don't bother to look up, but you can feel his gaze burning into your back. "Good," you murmur, focusing on finding your homeroom. "I wouldn't want to waste your royal time."

Damian sighs, the sound long-suffering, and takes a step closer. "Give it," he says, his hand outstretched.

You look up, your eyes narrowed. You don't want his help, but the way he's looking at you—like you're a puzzle he needs to solve—makes you want to scream. "I don't need your help," you say, your voice cold and even.

You ignore him, turning back to the map. The layout makes no sense, the letters and numbers swimming before your eyes.

“If you don’t let me help you,” Damian says, his voice firm and urgent, “Father will see me as a failure as a role model. If you’re late, he’ll believe it’s your choice. So hand over the paper now.”

You hesitate, then grudgingly hand over the map. Damian's eyes scan it quickly before pointing out your homeroom. "Room 214, up the stairs and to the right."

You snatch the map back, not bothering to thank him. "I've got it," you say, turning to leave.

"Don't get lost again," he calls after you, a hint of mockery in his tone.

You ignore him, pushing through the crowd of students who seem to part for him as he walks away. The halls are a blur of color and noise, and you feel like you're in over your head. But you're not going to let anyone see that, not even the annoying little know-it-all that is your new school's version of a knight in shining armor.

The school day began, and you struggled to keep up. The material felt foreign, even though some of it had been taught to you by the tutors Bruce provided. It was complex compared to the inconsistent education you had received before. You scribbled notes furiously, your hand aching from gripping the pencil too tightly. You weren't accustomed to sitting still for so long or listening without interrupting.

Time feels excruciatingly slow, with minutes stretching into hours. You find yourself out of place, struggling to adapt to the suffocating atmosphere. Surrounded by familiar faces, you sense a disconnect as they laugh and share secrets, leaving you feeling isolated and bewildered. It’s as if you’re an audience member in a play where everyone else knows their lines, while you’re left in the dark.

In the middle of a math class, while sitting in the back near the window, you glance up and spot someone outside—it's Dick! His head is lowered, but his eyes light up when they find yours. He gives you a cheerful wave and a grin that feels like an inside joke just between the two of you. You blink in surprise, feeling a warm flutter in your chest at his unexpected visit. It’s a delightful moment that brightens up an otherwise ordinary day.

You look around the classroom, wondering if anyone noticed the interaction. The kids are all heads-down, scribbling away at their papers, and the teacher's eyes are on the board, scribbling equations that might as well be hieroglyphs to you. You're the only one who seems to have seen him, and you're not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

Seeing Dick again feels like a lifeline thrown to someone who's been struggling. You hadn’t fully grasped how much you missed him until this moment, how his easygoing nature and the way he always treated you like a little sister had come to mean so much to you. As you muster a wave in return, you sense a small but comforting lift of the burden you’ve been carrying.

Dick lifts his finger gently, signaling for you to wait as he searches through his bag. You watch him from your window, a flicker of curiosity sparking in your chest. You can’t help but wonder what he might find to brighten your day, especially when things have felt so heavy lately. After a moment of searching, he finally pulls out a jar of pickles and holds it up with a smile. The triumph in his gesture touches you, and his wink carries a warmth that brings a little lightness to your heart. In that moment, you feel understood and cared for.

He scans the room, his gaze flickering between the teacher's back and the students hunched over their work. With a daring glint in his eye and a surge of adrenaline, he stealthily lifts the window, the hinges creaking like a secret being shared. A refreshing breeze rushes in, sending your textbook pages fluttering like butterflies taking flight. The teacher is completely oblivious, her chalk fiercely scratching against the board as she passionately unravels another algebra problem—one that feels more like an unsolvable mystery than a lesson.

Dick holds out the jar of pickles, the brine glistening in the sunlight. You take it with trembling hands, feeling like you've been handed a piece of home in the middle of a foreign land.

"Good luck," he mouths, his voice a silent whisper that only you can hear. The words hang in the air, a promise that even in this strange new world, you're not entirely alone. You nod, a genuine smile breaking through the scowl you've been wearing like a shield all day.

"Hey!" The teacher's voice echoes through the classroom, cutting through the quiet whispers and scratches of pencils on paper. Your heart jumps into your throat as you realize she's calling out to Dick, who's still half in the window, half out of it.

"What are you doing, young man?" she demands, making her way towards the window, her eyes narrowing.

"Oops," Dick says, a grin playing on his lips as he pulls himself out of the window with surprising agility. "See ya later, kid," he says to you with a wink before sprinting off. You watch him go, his form blurring as he disappears into the schoolyard.

The teacher, with a stern look on her face, calls after him. "Young man, get back here!" But he's already gone, leaving you to face her wrath alone. You shove the jar of pickles into your bag with the speed of a magician performing a sleight-of-hand trick.

"And who was that?" she asks, her tone sharp.

You look at her, the question echoing in your mind. "Who was that?" you repeat, playing dumb. The teacher's eyes bore into you, searching for any hint of a lie.

"Yes," she says, her voice tight, "Who was that boy at your window?"

"What?" You ask, your voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet. "A boy at my window?" You repeat, feigning confusion.

The teacher's eyes narrow, and you can see the wheels turning in her head. She's not buying it, and you know it. "Don't play dumb with me, girl," she says, her voice low and filled with a warning.

"Me? Playing dumb?" you repeat all innocence.

The teacher's expression doesn't waver. "The boy at your window," she says, her voice like steel. "Who was he?"

You look to the window, the empty space where Dick had just been. "I don't see any boy," you reply, your voice cool and even.

The teacher's glare intensifies, and you can feel the heat of it on your cheeks. But you hold firm, staring back at her with a challenge in your eyes. You've faced worse than a displeased teacher, after all.

"Miss," you say, your voice filled with feigned sweetness, "I'm not sure what you're talking about. Perhaps you need to get your eyes checked?"

The teacher's expression shifts from suspicion to annoyance. She takes a step closer to you, her heels clicking on the floor like a metronome of doom. "Do not test me," she warns. "I don't tolerate disruptions."

You bite the inside of your cheek, tasting copper. "But miss, I was just sitting here, listening to your very important lecture," you say sweetly, laying it on thick. You've had to sweet talk your way out of worse situations than this.

The teacher's eyes narrow, her arms crossing over her chest. "Fine," she says, her voice tight with frustration. "But if I catch you or any 'visitors' disrupting my class again, I will not be so lenient." She turns back to the board, her back to you. The class has gone silent, all eyes on you before returning to their work. You let out a slow, quiet breath, your heart racing.

As the day wears on, the curiosity from your classmates grows. You catch whispers about the girl who talks to a mysterious boy at the window. But no one approaches you, no one asks for your name or tries to befriend you. You're a puzzle they're all watching but no one wants to solve.

When the bell finally rings for lunch, you make your way to the boarding school cafeteria, the smell of food wafting through the corridors. Despite the grandeur of the Wayne Manor, the food here isn't half bad. It's not the greasy mess you had to endure at the orphanage, but it's not quite up to Alfred's standards either. You grab a tray and start to pile on food, the clatter of dishes and the murmur of conversations filling the air.

"Hey, new girl! Who was the boy at the window?" A group of girls, all dressed in the same uniform as you but with a sense of belonging that you lack, giggle as they walk by.

You grip your tray tighter, the plastic edges digging into your palms. The question feels like a trap, a way to drag you into their social web, so you keep your eyes focused on the food in front of you, pretending not to hear.

"New girl," the girl sings, louder this time, "are you playing hard to get or just hard of hearing?"

Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, and you feel your jaw clench. You know you should ignore her, but your temper flares. You turn to face her, and she's standing with her friends, all of them smiling in that fake, plastic way that you've learned to despise.

"Hey, there." the girl says, her smile widening, "Don't be shy. Why don't you tell us about your little boyfriend?"

"I don't have one," you reply flatly, hoping your lack of interest will make her drop the subject." I'm fuckin' 12 years old," you think to yourself, rolling your eyes internally, "Why the fuck would you be dating?" You've always found the concept of relationships at this age absurd, especially given your unique upbringing and the life you've led so far.

You start to walk away, and she sidesteps gracefully, blocking your path with the ease of a seasoned dance student. "If not a boyfriend, then who was it?" she asks, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. You can feel the challenge in her tone, the way she's baiting you.

"That was none of your business," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. You're aware that your response could lead to a confrontation, but you're not one to back down easily.

The girl's smirk turns into a full-blown smile as if she's enjoying your discomfort. "Oh, come on," she says, "Don't be so secretive. We're all friends here."

"I said, it's none of your business." You reply, taking a step forward.

But before you can move, a hand lands firmly on your shoulder. You tense up, expecting a gaggle of giggling girls to surround you, but instead, you feel a surprisingly strong grip and look up into Damian Wayne's unamused face.

"Leave her alone, Harper," he says, his voice as cold as the Gotham night.

The girl, Harper, looks surprised, glancing between you and Damian. Her friends exchange awkward looks, and the cafeteria seems to get a few degrees quieter. You shoot a quick look at Damian, who's staring her down with the intensity of a predator eyeing its prey. It's clear that he's not one to be messed with.

"Damian," she says, her voice now a purr, "this is a first, you standing up for the new kid." She looks you up and down, her smile twisted into something more malicious. "Wait, is this another one of Bruce Wayne's charity cases? This makes so much sense," she says, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens almost imperceptibly, and you feel a strange mix of gratitude and annoyance. You're not a charity case, and you don't need him to fight your battles.

"Oh my gosh, and that boy at the window was another stray he picked up from the streets?" Harper continues, her eyes sparkling with spite.

You feel your hand clench into a fist, ready to take a swing at her. But before you can act on your instinct, Damian's grip on your shoulder tightens and pulls you back firmly.

"It's not worth it," Damian whispers in your ear, his voice low enough that only you can hear. You grit your teeth, but you know he's right. You don't need to give her the satisfaction of seeing you lose control.

So, you start walking away, your tray of food trembling slightly in your hands. You're aware of Damian's footsteps behind you, steady and confident.

But Harper isn't done yet. Her laughter rings out behind you, echoing in the cavernous cafeteria.

"Look at her go, running to her street rat boyfriend," she calls out, her voice carrying.

You stop dead in your tracks, the laughter of her friends hitting you like a slap in the face. You've had enough. She could make fun of you all she wanted, but when she dragged Dick into it, it became personal.

You look to Damian, almost daring him to stop you. His eyes narrow, reading your intentions, but he pauses before stepping away.

You march back to Harper, who's still smirking, surrounded by her minions. "What did you just say about my brother?" You demand, your voice sharp.

Her smirk falters for a moment before she recovers, her eyes flashing with something that looks like amusement. "Your brother?" she repeats, her tone mocking. "Then what do you call your owner, Daddy?" she says, jabbing her finger in the air towards you. "Bruce Wayne is just playing house, isn't he? He ran out of ideas to use his money on so he brought you here to play dress-up."

The room goes quiet, the buzz of conversation dying down as the students turn to watch the unfolding drama. You feel your cheeks burn with anger, your knuckles turning white as you clench your fists.

"You don't know anything," you spit back, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

"Oh, please," Harper says, her smile wicked, "I know all about you. You're just Bruce's latest toy. He's probably already tired of you. That's why he brought you here to play pretend." she leans in close you, "You're nothing special. Not him," she points at Damian, "Not that orphan playboy, and most definitely not that useless piece filth you call brother."

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but it's not just the insult to Dick that breaks you. It's the way she says it like you're nothing but a charity case, a plaything for Bruce to amuse himself with. You can't hold it in anymore. You snap.

With a roar, you lunge at her, your fist connecting with her nose. The sound of the impact echoes through the cafeteria, silencing the room. Harper's head snaps back, and her hands fly to her face. Blood trickles through her fingers, and her eyes widen in shock. Her friends gasp, taking a step back.

Her nose is now a grotesque mess, and she's crying, her pretty face smeared with blood and tears. The cafeteria's once bustling atmosphere is now thick with tension, everyone watching you with a mix of shock and fear.

"Say it again!" You shout, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform, your grip tight, your voice shaking with anger. "Say my brother is useless filth again!"

But she's too shocked, too stunned, to respond. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for help, but all she finds are the wide-eyed stares of her classmates, frozen in their spots like statues. You can see the realization dawn on her face - she's gone too far.

With a snarl, you hoist her up and throw her to the ground, your fury now in full control. You rain down punches on her, each one fueled by the years of pain and rejection you've suffered. The sound of your knuckles connecting with her face and body fills the room, a rhythmic punctuation to your silent rage. You can feel the satisfaction in each blow, the power you've denied yourself for so long finally unleashed.

But before you can land another blow, a firm grip wraps around your waist and pulls you back. It's a teacher, her face a mask of disbelief and horror.

"What on Earth is happening here?" she shouts, her voice cutting through the stunned silence like a siren. You struggle against her hold, fueled by your rage, but she's surprisingly strong, and she doesn't let go.

You're dragged away from the Harper, her friends hovering around her, looking torn between shock and excitement. You can see the spread of your lunch, now a mess on the floor, and the bruised look on Harper's face. The blonde's smugness is gone, replaced with a pained snarl.

As the teacher holds you back, you catch a glimpse of Damian. His expression is a peculiar mix of satisfaction at Harper's state and respect for your unbridled defense. He nods, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in what might be the closest thing to a smile you've seen from him today. The smirk isn't one of joy, but rather an acknowledgment that you've proven yourself in a way he never expected.

Your lips almost curve upwards to return Damian's smirk, but the teacher's firm grip on your arm snaps you back to reality. She scolds you, her voice a mix of shock and reprimand, as she leads you through the stunned crowd of students, the whispers and gasps of your new classmates following like a chorus of accusations.

Part 9

[smusherina]

yard work - chapter 7 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warnings(s): i feel like the theme is pretty established by now, still homophobia. negative talk about weight. a brief segment about Mr George's A+ parenting. as in, he's bad at it.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 8

You accosted Cady Heron after Ms Norbury's calculus class. You took her by the purse strap and hauled her to the janitor's closet, ignoring all her indignant chirping.

You'd been stewing the whole class, glaring daggers at the back of her stupid orange hair.

"You've crossed a line." You said once the door shut behind you. She was cowering against the wall, looking like a cornered animal. "Those fucking Kälteen bars were too much."

"What? What're you talking about?" She tried to lie, to seem tough like the popular girl she was so desperately trying to be.

"I'm talking about the so-called weight loss bars you gave to Regina." You hissed, stepping closer so you loomed over her. You really wanted to get your point across. "It wasn't very hard to search up what they're really for. You don't mess with someone's body like that."

"She had it coming!" Cady finally relented, looking up at you defiantly. "She- she took Aaron from me and made out with him right in front of me all the time and then she just threw him away!" She yelled, hands clenched to fists and a red flush of rage blotching her freckled face. "All she does is spite me." She added with venom.

"Aaron isn't some trophy for either of you to own." You implored, trying to not react to her raised, aggressive tone. It would be mortifying to cry now. "I'm not saying she didn't do anything wrong, but Cady that's fucked up. You need to apologize."

"Why? Why in the world should I apologize to her? She hasn't apologized to anyone even though she's probably done something to everyone in this hellhole."

"Two wrongs don't make a right. I know that's cliche as hell, but what did you think you'd achieve?"

"We were trying to topple her. Make her lose her status. By making her gain weight, well, she'd get all ugly."

You shivered in repulsion. Regina had already sunken her claws deep into this girl.

"I... I honestly don't know what to say to you." Defeated, you said one last thing: "I'm out. I'm not taking part in your scheming anymore and I don't want to hear about it."

"It's not like you did anything!" Cady huffed.

"Exactly." You sighed. "I didn't do shit." She looked confused at that, but you didn't rightly care.

With that, you stepped out of the closet. This would probably be the only instance you'd step out of the closet, figuratively, in high school. A small victory, maybe.

"What were you doing in the janitor's closet?" You almost bumped into Regina.

Too stunned to hear her speak to you in public, you didn't get to answer before Cady stepped out as well. Her face was still flush and her clothes were a bit messy from you dragging her through the hall.

Regina's expression turned stormy. She seemed to coil back, tension rising in her body as she took stock of the state of you. You could do nothing but stare as she levelled Cady with a murderous look.

When she turned to you, you nearly flinched back. Not only was she angry, furious really, but you'd hurt her. It was clear in the way she was breathing hard and heavy, how she was shuddering the lightest bit, how her lips pinched together. When Regina was angry, only angry, she went cold. It wasn't like this. This was something worse.

"Reg," You tried to say something and went to touch her arm.

"Don't." Don't call me that. Don't touch me. She hissed, hurt turning to fear as she looked around you. People weren't staring, luckily you hadn't caused a scene, but there were always eyes on Regina.

You looked down at your shoes and, with great reluctance, walked away. It was considerably harder to keep from crying now.

Not feeling up to geography, you went to your usual spot. The number of cigarettes you smoked in a day was starting to get a little too much. You couldn't find it in yourself to care now.

Once you arrived behind the bleachers, you tossed your backpack onto the grass and sat on it. The ground was cold and getting colder by the day. Soon enough it'd snow.

What the fuck were you doing? You'd impulsively confronted Cady, angry for Regina's sake, but you hadn't been able to really say anything to her. You'd asked her what she was trying to achieve, and all the while you had no idea of what you wanted.

You wanted everything to be okay. That was vague. You wanted Regina to be not nice, but herself. She wasn't vindictive by nature. You wanted her to apologize, but couldn't open your fucking mouth and say that. You wanted Cady to stay the fuck away from her, same went for Janis and Damien.

You weren't so dumb as to expect you'd be able to convince anyone. You didn't have any weight in these people's lives. You barely existed. For Regina to change, something drastic needed to happen. Something like a fall from grace, you grudgingly admitted. It would change her, but it would also hurt her. You didn't want to do that. Maybe if her dad changed. Then again, even if he changed that wouldn't erase the past. Maybe Cady could move her somehow. Regina had taken her under her wing, after all, though for misguided reasons. Maybe there was something there.

(The pattern was hard to miss. Regina rounding up pretty girls around her. When you no longer measured up to her standards, she got Janis. Then she threw her away. Eventually, she found Karen and Gretchen. Now, Cady was next.)

You heard approaching footsteps and crossed your fingers, hoping it wasn't a teacher. Soon enough, Janis 'Imi'ike appeared before you in all her gothy glory.

"Gimme one." She demanded as she squatted down in front of you.

"That'll be fifty cents." You said back. There was only one person you'd share your pack with for free.

Janis tsked. "Fine." She reached into her pockets and after a bit of rifling handed you a coin. You pocketed it and offered the pack to her.

"Got a lighter?" She asked with the stick in her mouth. You tossed it to her. "Thanks."

You took the lighter back. She didn't say anything for a while. You could appreciate that, even if you didn't want to talk to her at all.

"So, you're out."

"Yup." You took a drag. "Espionage isn't for me."

"Even though you ruined all our plans?" You'd hoped they hadn't realized you were the mole, but you supposed that'd been naïve.

"Yeah. I'm not built for it." You looked at the slowly burning smoke between your fingers. "Y'know, you're not so different."

"What? Me and who?" She adjusted on her perch. The black eyeliner around her eyes made them look huge.

"Regina." She looked about ready to punch you. "What she did to you was evil, I know. It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?" She took an angry drag. It looked ridiculous. Sucking on the filter hard enough to scrunch her lips. You closed your eyes for a moment to not be so amused by it.

"You want revenge 'cause you were wronged. Regina, she..." You didn't want to sell her vulnerabilities to her mortal enemy, but you wanted to try and reach Janis. "She's been hurt too. It's not the same, exactly, but she's not doing this because she's rotten inside."

"You don't know shit," Janis snarled, cig nearly snapping in half in her tight grip. "You're just trying to sympathise-"

"Yes, I'm trying to sympathise with her, is that so wrong?" You interrupted her, frustrated she wasn't listening to you. Or maybe she was and just not liking what she heard. If that were the case, your words meant nothing and you were a fool for trying. Still, you kept going.

"This one time, Reg and I- I mean, Regina and I,-" You knew it was futile to hope Janis hadn't noticed your slip-up. "We were climbing the apple trees in their backyard. We had a great time, sitting up there and eating the small, sour apples, just being kids. When we got back, though, we ran into Mr George.

"Regina had on a white sundress. It was covered in grass stains and bits of tree bark. Mr George got so angry. He started yelling right in her ear, I don't even remember what he said. I was so afraid. Regina just stood there, staring at nothing. We were holding hands and she just went limp. It was as if she was used to it, like she knew exactly what to do.

"Then, he told her to get the dress to Mrs George immediately. And no dessert that day. As soon as we got away from him, I burst out crying. Poor Regina didn't know how to console me, so she just took me to her mom. She was sorting laundry in the mudroom, I think, and as soon as she saw us she just said: "Rick yelled?" Like it was so normal. Regina started crying then too."

You took a drag. "I can't stop you from seeking revenge. But I guess I'm asking you to. I'm asking the same of her. She doesn't need to take her revenge against the world, either."

Janis picked at her nailpolish. All black except for the ring finger, which was a shoddy rainbow. "If you think that sob story's gonna convince me, think again. So what, her dad yelled at her so it's okay for her to, hmm, let's go down the list, uhhh, belittle her supposed friends, degrade random passers-by, steal boyfriends like it's a hobby, breed eating disorders, and so on. Riddle me that."

"Where do you think Regina learned to treat others the way she does? Where did she learn that in order to be safe, she needed to be above everybody, that she needed to be in command at all times? Where did she learn that she needed to be mean to gain that authority? Not just mean, but vicious and cruel and fucking scathing." You raved, voice rising. "Riddle me that, Janis."

"Her daddy issues don't take away the choices she's made!"

"No, they don't, but they explain them. Doesn't intent make any difference to you?"

"You're seriously telling me she didn't intend to ruin my life when she told everybody in school that I was a lesbian?"

"I'm telling you she's a bad person, a flawed person, but redeemable. I'm not asking you to change your opinion, I'm asking you not to take this stupid revenge idea any further." You paused to take a breath. "Janis, I'm... I'm a lesbian too. She's not inherently bad."

"What?" Her voice was like a whisper.

"Yeah. I came out to her when we were, like, eleven." You'd known so early because you'd been crushing on your best friend. Wonder who that'd been. "Looking back on it now, I think she ditched me for you."

"And then she left me too, fucked me over, and moved on to her next victim." Janis looked shell-shocked. Did you really pass as straight so well? Or was her gaydar all wonky? "She- she didn't tell anybody?"

"No, I don't think so. I've never gotten any shit for it. Or, well, I have 'cuz I look pretty butch, but not like that."

Janis just looked at you, cigarette burning away. You took a pointed drag. She copied you.

"She's not homophobic. She just didn't like me." Janis said, mostly to herself it seemed. You couldn't tell what she was thinking or if this information had changed anything.

"Does that make it better or worse?"

"I don't know. It still hurts." You could understand that. "I need to talk to Damien about this."

"Don't spread any of this around." She looked at you sharply. "Obviously you're gonna tell him, I didn't mean that."

"Well. Good." She stood up and stretched her legs. "I'll think about your proposition." She said as she stumped the cig out with her boot.

You scoffed. "Bye." Proposition.

Her consideration would have to be enough for you. You stumped your own smoke as well. There was little time left to contemplate lighting a new one when yet another client came to your outdoor office. You could start charging visitors with the amount of people coming in and out of your alcove.

Regina stood above you, face still conveying not-good things, but the glassy surface of her eyes had disappeared.

"Move aside." She commanded. You shuffled off of your backpack obediently, planting your ass on the damp grass without complaint. Her pants were more expensive anyway.

"I was telling Cady she'd overstepped." You blurted before she could get a word out. "I'm sorry if it was, like, a bad move I just... I felt like I needed to say something."

"Yeah, well, that was stupid. You shouldn't have made it seem like you knew me." You winced sadly. "I don't need you to defend my honour. And you also totally ruined any leverage I had with that."

"I'm sorry." You kept your head down, looking intently at the grass.

"Hmm." She just hummed. You couldn't read her like you usually could, preoccupied with keeping yourself calm. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

Confused by the sudden topic change, you looked at her. She was leaning her elbow on her knee, her temple on her fist. She had on a little smile, like she hadn't just shamed you. You should've probably been relieved. She wasn't mad. But you were still in it.

"Uh, I'm..." You shrugged, trying to regulate. "Dad isn't coming home, if that's what you're asking."

"Okay, you're coming to mine for Thanksgiving." She said so easily. "Mom will be thrilled."

"What? Thanksgiving at the Georges?"

"That sounds like a shitty TV show. Like Seinfeld."

"I'm serious, Regina." You swallowed. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It'll be fine. If you act like you did the other night, everybody will be charmed." She grinned like that was an inside joke between you two. "Only my aunt and cousin, mom's side, are coming. I think you've met Riley. Aunt Josie is cool."

You were starting to feel sick. You knew her, at least thought you knew her, but her switching up how she treated you whenever she felt like it was getting tiring. What did she want from you? How were you supposed to act? Could you even ask without her getting mad or you embarrassing yourself?

You had conviction in that you liked her, wanted to protect her, and would be on her side, but was that enough? Did you have enough strength to sustain the rollercoaster that was Regina George? It felt as if there was no other option than to keep riding. You couldn't exactly jump off unless you were prepared for certain death.

"I've met Riley." Your tone must've been telling of how drained you were feeling. Regina tilted her head at you.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, just tired." You didn't want to be around people for the rest of the day. You wished you could just go home, nap, and have Regina there. Your Reggie, a little bitchy but funny, the side of her she only seemed to show when you were in private.

"You could go home." Her suggestion was tempting.

"No, dad's gonna yell at me again if I skip any more classes." He'd already called you earlier that month. It hadn't been pleasant, to put it nicely. Fifteen minutes of him berating you over the phone felt like a split second compared to the hour-long rants he'd go on when he was home. So, it could've been worse.

"I'll come over to yours later." She stated rather than asked. Obviously, you had to say yes, however reluctantly. "We could go shopping, too."

"You'd take me shopping?" Now that was new. You couldn't help but be a little pleased by that.

"Grocery shopping."

Oh.

"Mom says it's best to get some of the ingredients for Thanksgiving early." Regina recounted, crossing her arms and leaning against the metal backing. Your backpack had her elevated so she was a little above you. A change in pace.

Even her lower chin looked good. Damn.

"This early, though?"

"You know her. She's neurotic."

"Maybe a little bit."

"So, you'll come?" Resigned, you nodded. "I'll come to yours and we'll go."

"Why aren't we taking your car?"

"It's too recognisable. Duh." Yeah. Of course. How could you forget? "We're going pretty late, too. Less foot traffic."

You hummed. It wasn't as if you could change society. Even if things were different with Regina, you still couldn't be seen getting too cosy with her. You could like her from a distance and that was that. You could be a good friend and that should've been plenty. Really, above anything, you wanted her to be happy. With or without you.

That thought grated on you. You didn't want to lose her. You weren't sure if your choices made it so that you already had.

Why did everything have to be so hard?

Notes: This was originally supposed to be the climax chapter, but it seems we're still climbing. Next chapter then! Look forward to it :)

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism, @9unknown0, @sage-rose2000, @massive-honkas, @nattys-swiftie, @likefirenrain, @luz-enjoyer, @dandelions4us, @natashamaximoff-69, @alexkolax, @jareaul0ver, @here4theqts, @charleeeesworld, @natsbiggestfan1, @brocoliisscared, @yellowwallflowers, @scarlettbitchx

(if you want to be added to the taglist, comment that on this post :))

[circadi1an]

// inspired by mr queen, cybertronian gn reader (but mentioned to be attracted to both genders), megatron x reader

tw for suicide (but its mostly interefered so nothin bad)

— I see your isekai to another world fics, and raise you a reader, whose a former mechanic / petriologist, transported into the world of transformers as a decepticon lackey. The war had just recently destroyed cybertron's life force, leaving only a dead world to inhabit the corpses among the streets. The nemesis is currently still recovering from the lack of medics on board / searching for a new location supplying energon.

— your previous host turns out to be someone who filled out that quota, unfortunate for you. you would've thought you be reincarnated into a forgettable casualty in the war, but noo it seems that everyone recognizes you, vividly you may say.

— actually, you won't forget to mention the elephant in the room. how could you overlook the last person on the list when he always reminded you of his existence every cycle when he visits your lab. the first time it happened was probably the day you found out if cybertronians can get an equivalent of a heart attack (sadly no, the spark isn't strong enough to penetrate through hard metal).

— whoever your previous body used to be seems to have a relationship with every mech in the ship – the frequent greetings from the group of vehicons passing by the hallway, the consistent mocking, with a pinch of manipulation, from the conniving second-in-command, and a surprising rare nod of acknowledgement coming from the silent brood that is the chief of communications whenever you two happened to meet one another.

— overall, your life here as a decepticon is quite comfortable. you would even say you've won the lucky lottery of not reincarnating into a... low ranking vehicon for example. but the truth is, you could honestly care less about all this bullshit. You've had a pretty good life before, working in a high paying job, hanging around with other (wo)men, drinking all day, all the good stuff really.

— So in your desperate attempt to return to your old body, you tried every method to offline yourself. Attempting to cut off your limb? You realize cybertronians can still reattach parts like they were mere toys. Jumping off to space and suffocating from the lack of air? You don't even have a nose, how the hell do you live without olfactory senses. Stabbing yourself in the stomach? Good luck trying, you wouldn't even be able to complete the job without a random vehicon appearing from the walls and jumping you from behind.

—One day you overheard a vehicon, who had just recently interfered with another one of your attempts, murmuring his woes of receiving the lord's ire for not thwarting your plan of early death much earlier. You didn't think of yourself to be that important of a person for Megatron himself to be concern of your life. Sure you're the medic / energon specialist, but in a war where millions of lives were lost as fast as a raging tide over the sand, were you really worth that much to be kept alive?

— It isn't until you had a confrontation with starscream that he had mockingly teased you, you were still kept alive only because you used to have a history together back in your old miner life. You laugh, chuckle even, at his face. There's no way. megatron, the megatron the ruthless leader of the decepticons, who had caused a million lifeless sparks, has a soft spot for you? When you realize the silence around you, every vehicon worker had stopped what they're doing. (wait when did soundwave arrive in the room.) their unspoken words only confirming the seeker's folly, of you and the warlord's past relationship and the seeming favoritism he has over you.

(You'll never mention the regular visits Megatron likes to do in his freetime, coming over to your lab and discussing of your current progress in your recent project. You'll also never mention how this 35 ft behemoth of boss who, for some reason, doesn't know what personal space mean and loves going in close proximity with you. You couldve sworn he either does it for the thrill of one upping over others.... or he just likes playing these games with you, specfically.)

.... perhaps overdosing on medicated energon is worth the shot.

[sylusonychinus]

Drenched in Devotion

Pairing: Zayne x Reader Pride and Prejudice au

a/n: ZAYNE AS MR DARCY FOR @nezuswritingdesk

The rain came down in heavy sheets, soaking through the fabric of your dress, chilling you to the bone. But you barely noticed it—not when Zayne stood before you, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering glow of the streetlamp. His usual composed mask was gone, replaced by something raw, something desperate.

“You must allow me to tell you,” he began, his voice low, strained, as though the words physically pained him to say. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, as if forcing himself to stay still, to keep from reaching for you. His golden eyes burned with something unspoken, something he had held back for too long. “You have bewitched me, body and soul.”

Your breath caught. The world around you blurred—the rain, the cold, the cobblestone street beneath your feet. All you could focus on was him.

Zayne took a step forward, his expression fierce, resolute, as if he had fought every instinct, every shred of logic, only to arrive at this moment. “And I love—” He faltered for the briefest second, his jaw clenching as he forced the words out. “I love— I love you.”

The confession hung between you, heavy and fragile all at once.

A shiver ran down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of his gaze. This was the same Zayne who had once looked at you with nothing but cool detachment, the same man who had infuriated you with his sharp tongue and relentless pride. And yet now, here he was—standing in the rain, unguarded, vulnerable.

“I never wished to feel this way,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I fought against it. I told myself it was nothing, that I could push you away. But from the moment I met you, every thought, every breath… it has all led back to you.”

His hands twitched, as if resisting the urge to reach for you. “You must know—it is not simply admiration, nor mere desire. It is you. It has always been you.” His golden eyes darkened with emotion, his usual confidence tempered by something more fragile, something he had no control over. “Tell me I am a fool. Tell me I have no right. But do not tell me you feel nothing.”

The rain continued to fall, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging in your chest.

[tuliptheoshawott]