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artficlly · 3 months

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smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

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You did not remember leaving your door unlocked.

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents.

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets.

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense.

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight.

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications.

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would.

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen.

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you.

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice.

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog.

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat.

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal.

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal.

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness.

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash.

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.”

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves.

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink.

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found.

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his.

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots.

“Sit.” He commands.

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you.

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth.

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone.

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery.

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men.

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes.

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers.

Rot.

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity.

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace.

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it.

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine.

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words.

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more.

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them.

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood.

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time.

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle.

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences.

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax.

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper.

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots.

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down.

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table.

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling.

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest.

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.”

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed.

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more.

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger.

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks.

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile.

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin.

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off.

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips.

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck.

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him.

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place.

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding.

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock.

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet.

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb.

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve.

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns.

“Chaos magic?” He questions.

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin.

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain.

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon.

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort.

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes.

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct.

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent.

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly.

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy.

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs.

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things.

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him.

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look.

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders.

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive.

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull.

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon.

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol.

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull.

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours.

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest.

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap.

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh.

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants.

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds.

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm.

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit.

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt.

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him.

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady.

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles.

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted.

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk.

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips.

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully.

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock.

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you.

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers.

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation.

“Please—” you gasp out.

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place.

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit.

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin.

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath.

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy.

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased.

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual.

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp.

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt.

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain.

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

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vndplasticopumps · 1 year

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vndpumps · 2 years

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severedfromthesource · 18 days

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Heart of the Forge

Part 1| Part 2| Part 3

With Adam in cardiac arrest, Tav scrambles to revive him before the Pennydurren loses power. And before the choice is taken out of his hands.

Original concept by @emptycalories-splitlip . Features M resus, M rescuer, CPR, mouth to mouth, intubation, open heart massage.

In the other cars, the lights had been going haywire. Brightening to terribly hot globes on the walls and ceiling, flickering, going dark and then reigniting with the Forge’s heart struggling to maintain him. The entire Pennydurren knew something was wrong. No one knew more acutely than the seamstress in the upper cars garment manufacturing. There was a great shudder running through the train and the sewing machines went silent for the first time that day.

She stared at the needle buried in cloth and folded her hands over her mouth. She knew better than anyone what that meant. “No,” she whispered, tears springing up before she could even register she was crying. “No, my baby…” The backup generators kicked in and once more the machines came to life and the lights popped back on, but it brought her no relief.

Adam’s heart had stopped. Her son was dying.

—

There was a moment, holding up Adam’s limp head with his shoulder, that Tav couldn’t comprehend what had happened. His brain short circuited. He held him there for- too long. Entirely too long. He couldn’t take a breath. What air remained in his lungs left his mouth in short huffs, his eyes wide and fixed on some inconsequential spot on the floor. He couldn’t look at his charge. He couldn’t begin to understand, or maybe accept the truth, that his Forge’s heart had just stopped.

He was dead weight in his arms. The seizure had faced, replaced with an earth shattering stillness. His hands shook where they had been braced against the larger man’s back. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, Marsh’s deep timbre was shouting. He realized, feeling something warm slip from his eyelash, that the ringing was the EKG. He’d flatlined. And Marsh was grabbing his shoulder hard enough to hurt.

“Gustav!” He bellowed. “Sit him back!” Why? He wondered at those words, He’s dead. I can at least hold him like this, I can feel his warmth until it’s not there anymore. I- Marsh slapped him hard across the face. Now his ear really was ringing, but only on the left side, a high pitched whine where he’d been struck. His cheek stung, reddened and almost immediately beginning to swell with an angry, hand shaped welt. Any harder and he might have knocked him unconscious. It was enough.

Tav was shoved back into his body and he moved, laying Adam back against the metal throne. Immediately the engineer tipped Adam’s head back into one of his large hands, supporting his neck as he forced air into his body. Adam was big, but Marsh had been working his whole life with machinery weighing twice as much as himself, and he looked like it. Even just pinching his nose for artificial respirations, he covered half of the Forge’s face so his slack mouth was the only thing really visible.

Tav scooted back as far as he dared on his charge’s lap, stacking his hands in the middle of his slick chest. He felt the air welling in his lungs once more, then he started compressing his chest. “One and two and three and four, five, six-“

The light was dimming in Adam’s chest. He tried not to turn back into a stunned bystander, forcing himself to focus instead on the rhythm of CPR and the depth. But even that was hard. Focus was impossible. Not when his fingers bent over Adam’s ribs as he pumped his heart manually. Not when his Forge’s arms swung limply off the arm rests of the chair.

He heard the hollow whoosh when he reached thirty and Marsh filled Adam’s lungs. Tav glanced over at the monitor, seeing the flatline making a comet trail over the display. He once more beat his hands against his sternum and the straight line was broken up by sharp, irregular peaks. It was comforting, as much as anything was comforting right now, to watch the line on the monitor. It was picture proof that he was doing something good. He was actually making his heart beat, and not just fracturing his bones needlessly.

A voice crackled over his comm watch, “Gustav? Gustav, what’s going on?” Father Shep. He ran the entire operation, the Pennydurren’s conductor and king and named protector. The one who had tethered Adam to the engine with ropes and cables. Tav swallowed and managed to huff, “Adam is in cardiac arrest. I’m trying to resuscitate him as we speak.”

“Damn it all.” There was movement on the other end before he continued, “We caught your little viper. He confessed to everything. They used some kind of poisonous mushroom powder from the back cars, distilled a cardiotoxin.” Tav nearly collapsed. He reached a count of thirty again and rested his hand over Adam’s heart as Marsh filled his lungs.

“I’m still waiting on the medic,” he ground out as he took up his task again, forcing his sternum inward.

“I had him diverted,” said Shep.

Tav’s stomach bottomed out. “You… what? Why? I need help here, I’m not a-“ “He’s preparing the next Forge candidate for surgery. The auxiliary power will just barely last two hours, the surgery and instillation of a Forge take a little longer. We’ve never had such short notice of replacement.”

Replacement. The strength nearly went out of Tav’s arms. They were going to let him die. Worse, they were asking his Keeper to let him die. “Sir, I can… I can bring him back, he’s only been in arrest a few minutes-“ “This isn’t a stroke or heart attack, or something we can treat. Even if he recovers, his heart will be considerably weakened. He’s of no use.” Tav felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.

Marsh stared down at him, holding Adam’s head up. Both had paused their efforts to revive him. Something clicked nearby and a panel slid open on the wall. An emergency measure he had only been briefed on his first day. Scalpels, bone saws, and other surgical equipment gleamed behind the glass case, upon which read IN CASE OF EMERGENCY in red block letters. “Go ahead and call him, Gustav,” said Father Shep. “Then retrieve his spark so it can be implanted in the replacement Forge. If we do this right, we should have just enough time before the backup generators go out.”

Tav was shaking. His hands trembled on Adam’s pectoral, his skin cooling under his palm. They weren’t just asking him to let him die. They were asking him to cut him open and peel away the thing that made him special. The device affixed to his left ventricle and glowing dimly now behind his sternum, the thing that had made him a Forge in the first place, and made Tav his Keeper. Marsh had stopped giving him breaths and looked on with an expression of pity.

“I can bring him back,” he rasped lamely, “I can save him. Just let me save him…” “You have your orders. It’s already underway, if you hesitate then you are risking the lives of everyone else on this train. We’re already losing power to the diving bells outside. Do as I’ve asked you, Gustav.”

He looked to the silver instruments, pristine in their glass case, and his own heart hammered painfully in his chest. Butchery. They wanted him to cut open the only person who had ever given a damn about him, who smiled when he smiled and laughed at his stupid jokes. He looked up at the engineer, pleading with his eyes without knowing it. Marsh shook his head, gingerly adjusting Adam’s head so it rested against the back of the chair. His throat made a limp arch and his eyes were closed. He looked small and ordinary.

Tav made a decision. “Get him to the floor,” he muttered, as much on his back as you can manage.” “Should we disconnect him?” “Not yet. Just lay him down.” It took them both to lay him in a heap on the floor. He was partially angled as the cables lifted one of his shoulders a bit off the floor, so he couldn’t lay flat. Tav settled back onto his knees beside him. He interlocked his fingers and began forcefully pounding on his chest again.

Marsh looked at him with wide eyes. “Lad? What’re you doing?” But it was obvious. Tav wasn’t giving up. “I can save him,” he said, his eyes never straying from Adam’s face. “Keep breathing for him.” “Lad,” Marsh said low and sympathetically, like he was trying to explain death to a small child, “We have to get the engine running again. We can’t waste time.”

“He is not some piece of machinery you can just replace when it malfunctions,” Tav snapped, “He’s not useless. Or a waste of time. Fucks sake, he’s a human being!” He threw his weight behind each thrust, forcing Adam’s chest to cave and rocking his body. His impassioned plea made it obvious that Adam was more than a human being to him. He had been his one constant since they were children. He’d protected the Pennydurren since he was a teenager, and Tav had protected him. “I’m not just gonna let him go,” he whispered in hoarse, aching defiance.

Marsh watched him for at least two cycles of CPR. Tav rocked against his chest, Adam’s shoulders shrugging inward with each compression. He pulled open his jaw, making a seal against his pale lips, and blew down his throat. The Keeper had started hyperventilating from adrenaline and exertion by the second round of breaths, and spit bubbled up at the corner of his mouth as he blew. Shiny strings of saliva connected their lips as he drew away to plunge once more against his unmoving heart.

The engineer moved to the other side and gingerly shouldered him out of the way. “Focus on giving him air,” he said in a gruff murmur, locking his hands between the Forge’s nipples. He had a lot more muscle to throw behind each pummeling thrust, and Adam’s entire body shook with them. His head danced back against the floor, his hand, angled against the cables, thumped quietly at his side. Tav did as he asked and focusing on giving him air. “…Twenty-eight- twenty-nine, thirty, breathe.” He breathed for him. The cycle began again, “One, two, three, four…”

In between rescue breaths, he sat on his knees, bent over his charge. He kept a hand on his cheek, panting, his forehead pressed against the other man’s. “Come on,” he whispered to him, “Come on, kid… Take a breath, just breathe… Breathe-“

It had been ten minutes since his heart seized and went still. The light between his ribs was nothing but a faint ember now, and his deep skin was waxy and colorless. Tav kissed his temple, clutched his face. “Anything,” he whispered, “Anything, Adam… just give me something. Tell me you’re not gone…” They beat his chest. They shocked him, the current making him jolt like a puppet shaken by its strings. His heart wouldn’t move. It didn’t budge under the efforts of both men to get him back.

“I have a courier headed your way now,” Father Shep suddenly announced over the comm watch, making them both jump. Tav, for one, had forgotten utterly that he was waiting for them to deliver Adam’s life on a platter. “I trust you’ve got it in hand?”

He didn’t say anything. He looked over at the surgical tools on the far wall, his thumb stroking Adam’s cheek. “Gustav? Do you copy? Have you got-“ He clicked it off. Maybe they’d throw him off the nearest platform for this, but none of that mattered half so much as getting the Forge back.

He went and retrieved the surgical equipment. Gloves, laryngoscopes, intubation tubes, rib spreaders, saws. He laid a few implements he might need on the tray and ferried them over. Adam had been without a pulse for nearly twenty minutes. He’d been without artificial pulse for a little over one. Tav knelt beside him. “Hold compressions.” Marsh warily eyed the surgical tools but obliged and leaned back in his heels.

“You know how to intubate someone?” “My brother’s one of the medics, I seen him do it a few times.” “Good,” said Tav, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He set the ventilation device between them. “Intubate him.”

Marsh huffed, but grabbed the silver laryngoscope blade and slid it over Adam’s tongue. He fed the intubation tube down his throat and kept it in place with a endotracheal tube holder looped around his cheeks and the back of his head. Then he switched on the little portable ventilator Tav had brought over and it hummed as it worked, the accordion like squeezer in the glass tube rising and falling with a seesaw rhythm to his chest now. When it expanded, his chest fell, and when it squeezed down towards the bottom, his chest rose.

Tav liberally slathered iodine over the curve of Adam’s ribs, where they were slightly elevated against the wiring. It dripped in lazy amber rivulets, staining his skin as it went. Then he snatched up a scalpel and slid it over the hollow between two ribs. He kept the incision open with the spreader clamp, wide enough that meat and muscle were visible through the wound.

More importantly, wide enough to slide a gloved hand into Adam’s chest cavity.

His fingers probed blindly through the walls of his organs and ribs until he touched something hard and metal. The spark. Its light was mostly dead by now, but with the open wound, some of its soft orange glow spilled out in weak beams of light. Tav peeked at the outside of his sternum. He could see the shadow of his hand as it closed around the organ in the center of his chest. He felt the rubbery texture of compact muscle even through the gloves he wore, and the disconcerting sensation of his lungs expanding and shuddering with the ventilator, like jellyfish brushing up against his fingers.

He cradled Adam’s heart in his hand. It was bigger than he anticipated, athletic from the years training the cardiac muscle to their peak. Tav swallowed back a sob and a laugh at the same time. He really did have the biggest heart of anyone he knew. He would make it beat again, no matter what it took. He should have felt some kind of nausea or panic at performing a surgery he had little knowledge of, but a cold calm had settled instead.

He worked his thumb in against a ventricle. His fingers made a soft cradle around the organ and he slowly began to massage it, unsure, somewhat timid strokes at first, until finally he worked himself into a steady rhythm. His other hand he braced against Adam’s sternum, watching the shadow play reflected there. He could see the contour of his hand coaxing the silent organ, pumping and squeezing life back into it. And life was going back into it.

The light was beginning to grow hotter, the shapes more distinct in his chest as Tav worked his fingers around the dense muscle. “Come on,” he urged again, “Beat… beat already…” As if hearing his command, there was a brief quiver. The light grew hot for a moment and then dimmed into the dim half light again. Tav resituated himself up on his knees and pat Adam’s chest with his free hand. “I felt that, there we go! Cmon, Adam, gimme another.”

He did. The chambers swelled into his palm and a ripple of movement ran up into his fingertips. The monitor showed a blip, then another, then went still again. He massaged his thumb against it, squeezing it into the space between his thumb and palm. It ballooned and swelled up against him and he loosened his hold, allowing it to fill and empty a few times as he held it. It stuttered and he gingerly soothed it. It beat erratically and he held it still. He could have wept if he had any energy to give to anything but this moment. Adam was trying so hard, even lying there, motionless, looking dead.

Marsh’s attention darted between the grief stricken young man and the moving shadows under Adam’s skin. Tav lowered himself over the unconscious man, wrapping his free arm around his shoulder and half embracing him. He couldn’t hug him fully, but he wanted to so badly. “Come back,” he whispered, lips grazing his arm as he folded himself over the Forge. “Please…”

His heart thumped hard against Tav’s palm. His fingers stilled as he cupped the center of his entire being. It took a moment but it beat again, flexing between his fingers. The ventilator hissing was the only sound in the room, and he felt it expand inside him, again brushing the tips of his fingers. And again his heart moved against him, the chambers sluggishly moving as if remembering how. He brushed his thumb one last time over the left ventricle, as if trying to offer it comfort. You can do it, he told it with touch alone, You can beat again. Then it did.

Tav sat, staring at the strong light cast from the spark in Adam’s sternum. He could see more clearly now the silhouette of his hand, the light shining between his fingers as, for a few moments, he could only marvel at the feeling of his heart coming back to life. Once he was sure it was well and truly beating on its own, he slid his hand from the incision and for a brief second could only sit, stunned, blood up to his forearm. He’d never imagined a world where he failed, yet by the same token he never imagined a world where he’d succeeded either. Torn between a million different reactions, he leaned his forehead down against Adam’s shoulder and wept.

—

The engine room was filled with the quiet hum of machinery when Adam finally started to stir. He suck in a deep breath and his eyes fluttered open. He was in his cot. His limbs felt heavy, they barely obeyed his command as he stretched out his arms and legs, then winced as the motion pulled at something in his ribs. He reached up and pressed blindly at the bandages looped around his chest.

He had no idea how close he’d come to dying, though he had the sense something serious had happened. He remembered air being short in his lungs. The uneven thrum of his heart as it struggled to beat, the air forced in his lungs and the defibrillator on his chest. Then it was all black. In my vague shapes and feelings. He dreamed, and wasn’t entirely sure it was a dream, that Tav had held him and kissed him over and over again. Something had punched him in the chest, then as if in apology, had stroked him there instead. He dreamed of a snake going head first down his throat and constricting his heart.

He became aware in the dark of a warm shape at his side. He looked over and made out a familiar silhouette. His inner spark was the only nightlight he really had, and its light bounced off Tav’s face. He looked exhausted. The cot was barely big enough for Adam’s large frame, and somehow the Keeper had managed to squeeze himself into the space between the Forge and the wall, sleeping there deeply. Deep enough he didn’t stir as Adam touched his cheek.

He would never know the terror he felt. He was unconscious when Father Shep arrived himself and looked for any excuse to declare Adam a lost cause, even when they’d turned the engine back on and his heart had been as strong as ever. Tav would never tell him the full story of those long minutes of death.

But nuzzled against him now, Adam didn’t think of any of that. He slid his arms around the smaller man, ignoring the twinges of pain here and there, and drew him in close. All he knew was that somehow, his Keeper had saved him. Tav hummed in his sleep and nuzzled up against the wall of warm muscle he was dimly aware of. His ear pressed to his Forge’s heart and he sighed, content.

The terror had passed.

#I may do an epilogue but consider is finished for now #resus community #resus #chest compressions #cpr #male resus #whump #open heart massage #heart squeeze #dark cardiophilia #scifi cardiophilia #cardiophilia #resus writing

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still-not-over-transformers · 1 year

Text

“Strictly Professional”

(Knockout x Reader-insert)

Takes place after the events of Season 1 Episode 11: Speed Metal. An event that left Knockout without his driver-side door.

“Do you know how difficult that is to replace!?”

(Y/N) were bored. Painfully bored. Looking outside a mahogany-lined window pane, you had a stunning unobscured view of the sunset. The rolling hills were a lush green, and the sunset painted the sky gradient hues of gold, crimson, and lavender bordered by a tree-line comprised of spruce, pine, and cedar. It was a gorgeous view you had seen again, and again, and…. Again. (Y/N) sighed. Growing up in a stunning villa in upper New York state had its perks, but despite being able to do whatever you wanted you never seemed entertained. You see, money can buy a lot of things: houses, luxury cars, private jets, trips around the world, etc. But it could never seem to stop the ever-constant boredom you often experienced as nothing was ever unexpected. As if something else was missing.

*BUZZ*

You looked at your phone to see a reminder you had set for the Exotic Car Show you were attending that evening. You were mostly ready as it was, just touching up your makeup a bit. Then you grabbed your phone and clutch purse before making your way down the spiral staircase to the front doors. You had chosen to dawn an elegant but edgy silver dress with an asymmetrical hem and a single sleeve on the right arm. Your footwear of choice were classic black heels, but with a reasonable pump-height so you didn’t break your ankles. The doors were held open by your family butlers, as you made your way to the curb of the driveway at the front of your family villa.

Your family’s wealth came from a combination of significant shares in various luxury-brand car manufacturers; your father being on the board of directors for Mercedes, and your mother the Logistics Manager also for Mercedes. Obviously the same workplace is how your parents met. Throughout your life, your parents had given you the world, albeit requiring you to maintain a job. So you work alongside your mother as her assistant. For the past month, your mother had been off who knows where in Europe on a business retreat. While you had been invited, you knew it would be nothing but hanging around other snooty rich business-types whom were always dull company. Also, why were rich guys always old and/or ugly?

Your chauffeur was waiting with the car door open. You entered the vehicle and soon you were off to the car expo. On the drive, you had been reading up on the potential reveals and demos that might be at the event. You were primarily excited about the exotic vehicle demos, as you had an appreciation of exotic cars. The horsepower, design, curvatures of the body frame, were nothing short of thrilling.

As your ride pulled up to the event, you exited the vehicle as your chauffeur assisted you. You acknowledged the chauffeur curtly, before entering the event space. There were a few minor celebrities taking photo ops; some wannabe playboys posing near their cars with groupies and models; and then the actual cars themselves scattered about a massive lot. Each vehicle had an attendant to provide information as well as prevent unwanted touching of the cars. You passed a silver Bugatti Chiron, a brand new Corvette Stingray, luxury Jaguar and Cadillac models… But something else caught your eye. A glint of red made you turn and approach a vehicle off to the side.

As you got closer you saw a stunning bright scarlet Aston Martin One-77 with white highlights. You couldn’t deny that this was a sexy-ass car. “Damn…” (Y/N) muttered. You approached the luxury vehicle and drank in its sleek form, the curvature of the design, the stunning richness of the paint job. As you walked around the car, you were jarred at the realization that the driver-side door was completely gone. “What the fuck happened to you?” (Y/N) exclaimed, “Who in their right mind wouldn’t have replaced that by now?” Come to think of it, it was odd that this one car in-particular lacked an attendant which all other cars had present.

With the missing door, the temptation to climb inside was intense. The one thing her family wasn’t big on spending money on were cars. Your parents thought that spending money on lavish vehicles was an unnecessary expense. Fucking ironic. Even if you couldn’t have it, you were going to briefly experience the thrill of having such a stunning vehicle. You climbed into the driver’s seat and drank in the elaborate console, the impeccably clean interior, it even smelled brand new. You gently ran your hands over the steering wheel, imagining what it would feel like to drive it. As you indulged yourself for a moment longer, suddenly you found that the seatbelt was latched around you. “What the fuck? …When did i…?” (Y/N) said in confusion.

Before you knew it, the car shifted into gear and peeled out from its spot. Multiple attendees of the event panicked and flung themselves out of the way. (Y/N) shrieked once before desperately pumping the brakes, but to no avail. When you tried to move the gear shift into neutral, you found that it didn’t budge at all. After a few minutes of sheer terror and panic, you were no longer at the exotic vehicle venue, but instead on the outskirts of the city in a maze of alleyways. As the vehicle finally came to a stop, you heard strange sounds akin to shifting parts and an electronic sound. Before you knew it you were aloft in the air. In the hand of a giant robot who was giving you a highly-offended glare. You were frozen. You struggled to comprehend the situation, wondering if you might have lost your mind.

“Humans have no sense of respect! It’s bad enough that I’m missing a part, but now you decide it’s a bright idea to climb into a vehicle you don’t know” the Decepticon exclaimed. It talked (Y/N) thought. Knockout looked down at the tiny human in his grasp, “I hope you enjoyed the brief joy ride, but I think now I’ll punish you for daring to touch me.” With his free servo, Knockout’s servo transforms into a buzzsaw. You begin to panic, squirming briefly in the grip of the large metal hand around your waist before pausing. “WAIT! WAIT A SECOND AND I CAN HELP YOU!” (Y/N) shouted. The Decepticon raised an optic ridge and paused, “Oh? And how could an insignificant human as yourself possibly help me?” You took a deep breath to compose yourself, clearing your throat before speaking further. “I can replace your missing door. I have resources.”

Knockout was clearly interested in where this was going, as he had been having a nightmare trying to replace that door. “Go on…” You continued, “My job is literally ordering supplies and parts for luxury and exotic cars, I’m pretty sure I can order a replacement for you. Aston Martin One-77 right?” Knockout thought to himself for a moment, wondering when he would have such an opportunity to make himself whole again. The Decepticon turned his helm back towards the helpless human within his grip, “Correct. I see you do know your vehicles, human. If you can indeed supply me with the replacement part I require, I will hold off on exterminating you.”

(Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief, “I can make the call right away, if I would be allowed to reach my phone? And t-trust me, I’m not stupid enough to try to run in these heels.” “So now you make wise decisions. Very well.” Knockout chided before slowly lowering (Y/N) to the ground and releasing you. You briefly adjusted your dress and hair before opening your phone and making a call. You didn’t attempt any funny business, and reached out to one of your business contacts at Aston Martin Works. After a brief amount of small talk, you ordered the part and arranged its delivery. As you ended the phone call, you returned your gaze to the massive robot before you. “Alright I had the part ordered for you. And With express shipping.”

Knockout looked down at you, surprised you hadn’t soiled yourself as most humans would have by now. “And how am I supposed to receive this part? For all I know, if I let you out of my sight you’ll disappear and I’ll be left high and dry” he mused. Finding your confidence you replied to him calmly, “The part will be shipped to my home address at 11am sharp tomorrow. To prove I’m good for it, you can drive me home so you’ll know where to knock if I’m lying.” The Decepticon scientist was taken aback by this human. Giving up her home address so willingly confounded him. Knockout could easily decimate her and her entire home, yet this human was so willing to cooperate despite her best interest. “…You are a very strange human. You do understand I will squash you if you’re lying?” He placed a servo on his hip sassily. You watched his mannerisms and couldn’t help but grin slightly, he was so sassy.

“You are a giant transforming robot with a buzzsaw hand, and I’m not an idiot. I’ll keep my word. Besides, you’ll know exactly where I am since you’ll be taking me home. And stop calling me ‘human’ my name is (Y/N)” you smirked. Knockout raised an optic ridge, albeit impressed with this strange human. “Very well… but touch anything and I will crush you” he said before transforming back into vehicle-form. You took a pause before climbing into the driver’s seat, being careful not to touch anything. As the engine starts, you had expected the same aggressive driving as your previous abduction. To your surprise, the drive was fast but smooth. You tried to avoid speaking as much as possible, not wanting to push your luck, so instead you thought. You thought about the events prior to your encounter and pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming. It could’ve been worse to be honest. You could’ve been kidnapped by an ugly white pedophile van. At least you were taken by a sexy Aston Martin.

After what felt like brief moments, your captor arrived at the gates of your family estate. You punched in the security code in the keypad and the gates opened. Knockout pulled up to the front doors and parked. As you tried to exit the vehicle, the seatbelt wouldn’t unlatch and you looked back. “Remember, I’ll be close-by until our deal is seen through” Knockout hummed. You paused, “You sure are untrusting for a robot. I don’t have a car of my own so no worries on me going anywhere.” With that, the seatbelt released and you were able to make it inside of your home. As you climbed the staircase towards your room, you couldn’t help but clutch her chest. You felt a surge of adrenaline and you knew it wasn’t fear. No, this felt more like butterflies… You went into your room and immediately climbed into your bed. As your eyelids felt heavy, your only thoughts were of the intoxicating voice replaying in your mind. Until you fell asleep….

You felt slightly groggy as you awoke the next morning. Slowly as you climbed out of bed you remembered the last night’s events. Just to be sure you hadn’t dreamt it, you rushed to your window to look at the driveway. Sure enough, you saw the red and white Aston Martin parked there. A brief double-honk was audible, and you realized the robot could see you from the window. Your phone buzzed and as you opened it, you saw a security notification from the gates. You approved access and a delivery vehicle made its way up the driveway and delivered the part you had ordered. You made your way outside and signed for the delivery and the delivery employees carefully loaded the part into the Knockout’s trunk. As soon as the delivery men had departed from the property, you approached the driver’s side door and leaned forwards, “Looks like I came through on my promise. Think that makes us square?”

Knockout hesitated briefly before replying, “We shall see. After all you are technically a loose end, knowing of my existence and all. We will see if you’re worth more alive than dead.” As you lingered a moment longer, you couldn’t help but ask a question that had been burning within, “Just in case you do decide to continue doing business with me, may I at least know your name?” Dead silence was the initial response and it lingered in the air for what felt like an eternity. “You may address me as Knockout.” With that, Knockout revved his engine and quickly drove down the driveway and onto the main road. As he gained more distance between himself and the villa, Knockout questioned what he was to do about this human. He could’ve just killed her and be done with it, after all he did have the part he had needed. But a part of him didn’t want to end this odd human. He brushed it off as a start to a strictly professional relationship, and a potential supplier if he needed any more replacement parts in the future.

A couple months later….

After your first encounter with Knockout, you felt reinvigorated. That fateful encounter provided you with more excitement and adrenaline than you had ever experienced. After you had provided Knockout with the spare part, you were certain you would never lay eyes upon that robot again. To your surprise, you would have many more encounters with him. Apparently there were other giant robots whom Knockout would get into battles with, and would result in him needing replacement parts. With each encounter, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more. Finding both yourself and him to be fellow automobile enthusiasts. Your conversations even included some witty banter and jokes here and there. More than anything else, you found that your heart fluttered every time you laid eyes on him. You weren’t quite sure why, but nonetheless you enjoyed being around Knockout.

It was a Thursday afternoon and you had met with Knockout at your villa to provide another spare part, as Knockout had lost a side-view mirror in a scuffle with what you knew as “Autobots.” You had wanted to attempt a more friendly relationship with Knockout, but never wanted to risk it. Today was the day you decided to be bold. After all, you had sent the staff home early. You approached Knockout at the curb of your driveway, “You know, there is an International Auto Show being held in New York tomorrow night that will consist of the most expensive and luxurious vehicles from across the planet. I’ve got a ticket, but I’m afraid I’m short on a stunning ride to show up with.”

Knockout transformed from his vehicle mode and towered over you. He raised his optic ridge, wondering what on earth she was getting at, “You do understand I’m a highly advanced cybernetic being, not a taxi service? Besides, our relationship is strictly… professional and exists because I’ve chosen not to squash you. Yet.” You nod your head as you watch his body language. “Mhm. Mhm. All true, except for the fact I don’t think you’d want to squash me. I think you’ve gotten fond of our “professional” relationship,” she uses air quotes and smirks. “That and I don’t think a vehicle enthusiast such as yourself would want to miss out on an exclusive reveal of new models before the rest of the planet. A shame you’ll squash me and never experience it,” she says with an open smirk.

Knockout turns towards (Y/N) and gives her a look, a servo on his hip in his sassy mannerism, “Now now, I didn’t say no. Honestly it would be embarrassing if you showed up in anything less stylish than yours truly.” You could feel your heart skip a beat as you tried to reply in a nonchalant manner, “So you’re saying yes? I guess it’s a date then. The event starts at 7, so we should get an early start since it’s an hour drive.”

Knockout chuckles briefly before replying, “I’ll be here at 7. Always best to be fashionably late.” He smirks before transforming, the shine from his polished chassis gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He dramatically peels out of the expansive and large driveway before leaving the property. As the Decepticon’s frame disappeared from view, (Y/N) sighed softly to herself, “Always so dramatic…”

As Knockout began his drive back to the pickup coordinated for the Nemesis, he couldn’t help but have his gaze linger at the quickly disappearing villa in his rear view mirror. Perhaps the relationship between him and this human was a bit more than… strictly professional.

⭐️

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#transformersprime #transformers one shots #transformers #transformers prime #TFP #tfp knockout #knockout #transformers oneshot #transformers fanfiction #x reader #reader insert #transformersreaderinsert #transformers knockout #oneshot #knockout x reader

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