#gangsters in love ash

[starzymoon]

Lovestruck Week

Day: 9

First route/LI

I’m VERY late to this :(

But it’s better late than never

My first route was Ash Winters and Sweetheart MC :D

I remember my first time downloading Lovestruck and falling in love with Ash. He still has a special place in my heart.

I did this little doodle in class so I apologize for the smudges

@lovestruck-week

[totallovestrucksimp]

Happy (Late) Birthday, Ash Winters!

[incorrectlovestruck]

Mateo, texting: Hey Mateo: Hey Ash Mateo: Ash Mateo: Why aren’t you answering my texts I can see you reading them Ash: I don’t have a phone

[the-daily-male]

Today's daily male is Ash Winters from Gangsters in Love!

for @dangerousfellowsstuff

[incorrectwastelandgospelquotes]

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s 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 he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation. 

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers. 

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable. 

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?” 

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched. 

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy. 

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line. 

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.” 

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction. 

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him. 

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace. 

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut. 

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh. 

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

[ssweetleaf]

dark blue.

tommy shelby x fem!reader

summary: you're finn's girlfriend- and you've always received the same question, what's a good girl like you doing with a boy like him? funnily enough, his older brother thomas wonders the same thing.

includes: SMUT 18+, dom/sub dynamics, age-gap (tommy is in his early 40s, reader early 20s, though it isn't specified), innocence kink/corruption kink, cheating, daddy kink, oral (male rec), throat fucking, cum-eating, based on this ask here

a/n: feedback is always very much appreciated!! <3

⋆✰

“What’s a good girl like you doin’ with a boy like Finn, eh?”

It was a common saying you'd get from various people over the few months that you'd been seeing a certain Finn Shelby-- you were used to it, the constant stares of disbelief that someone like you, someone so sweet, with pretty dresses and full of radiance would want anything to do with an up-and-coming gangster.

It was love, at least that's what you told yourself.

So after hearing that certain question so many times without batting an eyelid, why did it sound so different when it came from him?

Thomas Shelby. Your boyfriend's older brother. All stoic and dressed to impress and intimidate, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like always, smoking on it without a care in the world whether he was allowed to in a house like yours or not.

He had surprised you, scared the wits out of you-- you were alone in the comfort of your bedroom, sitting at your vanity doing your nightly routine before he had shown up. You hadn't a clue how he'd gotten in, and he was smug about it, the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a big indicator.

You stood up, smoothing down your nightgown when it clung to the thickness of your thighs and attempted to make eye contact and stutter out a few words.

"M-Mr Shelby," you breathed, fiddling with your hands when you clasped them in front of you. "What're you doing here?"

Tommy's eyes flicked around your room, taking note of your white walls and plush, pink duvet-- the trinkets scattered along your room all cutesy and girly. Just like you and your stupid nightgown, he thought.

"Came here to properly introduce myself," he spoke, inhaling another drag and exhaling the harsh smoke in your direction.

"But we've already met," your brows furrowed, cocking your head to the side impishly and unsure. "It was the other day, don't you remember?"

"I do," he flicked his tongue over his lips to moisten them, eyes still fixated on you. "but that was far too formal, don't you think, sweetheart?"

An unusual shiver ran along your spine-- sweetheart, you liked the way it sounded, the way he said it. Finn never called you sweetheart.

You nodded, in a foggy daze, staring at him with a somewhat dumb expression on your face.

Tommy cleared his throat and you quickly shook yourself out of your strange stupor.

"Aren't y'gonna invite me to sit?" he asked, eyebrows raised, waiting. "that's what polite girls do, isn't it?"

You were quick to nod your head, pulling out your vanity chair and inviting him to sit, just like he had asked. He sat down, the contrast of his dark exterior with your pretty pink belongings had butterflies fluttering in the pit of your stomach-- a sense that he didn't belong there, but the thrumming between your thighs was obvious that you liked him being there, amongst you, amongst your things.

He stubbed his cigarette out in a little jewellery dish that sat upon your vanity, heart-shaped and porcelain, now covered in grey, smoking ash. You knew better than to chastise him for it.

"You didn't answer my question," he muttered, clasping his hands in front of him, though differently to you, it was in confidence, to intimidate.

You thought about it. Why were you with Finn?

"W-We're in love, sir," you stuttered, not meeting his gaze, your cheeks were on fire.

"You don't look too sure about that, sweetheart," there it was again, that name, a single term going straight to your core, a surge of wetness saturating the cotton of your underwear. "Has he fucked you yet?"

You coughed on your own spit, eyes bulging out of their sockets at his crude question.

"Pardon?" you breathed, exasperated.

His reply was simple.

"You heard me."

"I don't believe that's any of your concern-" he was quick to interject, eyes swarming and dark, consuming you, leaving you to hang your head and cower.

"Finn's my brother," he spoke, "I have the right to know what he gets up to, and I don't want him corrupting a good girl like you just because he thinks he's in love."

You flushed at his words and you decided to answer his previous question, no matter how inappropriate.

"We haven't," your words were soft, quiet, he almost had trouble hearing you.

"Haven't what?" he hid his smirk, he already had you wrapped around his little finger, it was too easy.

"Had sex," you muttered, cheeks searing at your confession.

“Do you want to?” He asked, you stiffened, lashes fluttering and lips opening and closing like a poor fish out of water.

“M-maybe…”

“Come here,” Tommy patted his thigh, signalling you to come closer, to stand between his spread legs and have him look at you much closer. You did as he asked, you were a good girl after all.

“Do you want me to show you what it’s like?” He cooed all condescending and mocking, “Do you want me to show you what big, bad men do to little girls like you?”

“Mr Shelby, what about Finn?” His eyes darkened at the mere mention of his youngest brother.

“Fuck Finn,” he spoke slowly, “you forget about him when I’m talking to you, you understand me?”

You nodded, resting your hands against his shoulders to steady you when he tugged you closer by the frills of your nightgown.

“Yes, Mr Shelby,”

“No, no, none of that,” he shook his head, hands on your hips, thumbs rubbing against your soft, covered skin. “You address me properly.”

You searched your mind for the right term, brows furrowing and lips pouting, trying to think what on earth he wanted you to address him by.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he chuckled, bringing his thumb and forefinger to grip your chin, tugging it from side to side. “I’m your daddy now, isn’t that right?”

You whined, unable to control it, rubbing your thighs together, your walls collapsing and letting your submissive nature come to the forefront.

Thomas Shelby was the devil himself, you were sure— and he was your daddy. Finn had disappeared from your mind completely.

“Yes,” you sighed, all dreamily and cute, leaning into his touch, “yes, daddy.”

His plump lips curved up into a smirk, palm patting at your cheek as if you were a dog, eager for praise-- and you realised that wasn't too far from the truth; just a bitch in heat, eager and ready for her first breeding.

You stared at him, dumbified from those cornflower irises of his, almost hypnotizing, and you were sure you'd comply with anything he'd ask of you.

"What is it, sweetheart?" Tommy could practically see the gears shifting beneath your skull and he raised his brows when you stuttered, a silent 'I'm waiting' when you took far too long to answer him.

"C-Can I have a kiss?" you spoke shyly, thumbing the expensive cotton of his crisp shirt, growing impossibly warmer and not just because of the close proximity. "please?"

You made sure to add your plea, keeping your manners intact, giving him something to be proud of you for.

So innocent, he thought, you really were such a good girl-- something he thought was all just an act to get what you wanted, however with the way you stumbled over your words and fluttered your lashes, more eager for a kiss than anything else- anything more.

Yeah, that was no act.

Tommy fought the smile that ticked at his lips, using his fingers to tip your chin, tugging you closer, closer, closer, until you were a hair's width away. You could feel his lips brush against the skin of your cheek, gently, so uncharacteristic, you didn't think that a man of his status and power could be so sweet on someone.

Though, of course, that's what Tommy Shelby wanted you to think, he wanted you to succumb to the desires that he caused, take you and defile you and leave you wanting no man other than himself. He craved the power imbalance, the sick need to corrupt young, naive little girls like yourself.

Tommy Shelby was not sweet. He was worlds apart from that.

The soft feeling of his lips grew nearer, to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, before pecking your lips-- a small spongy kiss, capable of urging a little whine to escape your throat.

He kissed you again, slotting your mouths together, locking your lips one over the other, deepening the kiss and it quickly became heated. Swiping his tongue along your bottom lip, he didn't have the patience to wait for you to open up, instead forcing his prodding tongue inside your mouth, crudely swiping it against yours, sucking it between his lips before running it along the ridges of your teeth.

You didn't think kissing could feel so dirty, so unhinged, but you were rather ashamed to say you liked it. The way his callused hands trailed from your hips to your neck, all the way back down just to take a handful of your behind, squeezing the doughy globes roughly and playing with them as if you were a mere toy.

Tommy pulled away, a long, silver line of spit keeping your lips connected, only breaking apart when he began to speak, pushing at your shoulders and urging you to the carpet.

"On your knees," his voice was raspy, and he cleared his throat, clearly affected by you, by your innocence more like. "gonna teach you how to keep men like me happy."

You instantly obeyed, dropping to your knees and sitting on your haunches, practically purring when he cupped and stroked your cheek.

He eyed you from below him, perched in the space between his knees and he spread them further to let you shuffle closer, your hands on his thighs.

"You're a good little pet, aren't you?" he cooed, swiping his thumb along your chin, "such a good listener, eh?"

You beamed up at him, leaning into his touch and nodding enthusiastically.

"Yes, Daddy," a little giggle pushed past your lips, "for you."

"That's right," he hummed, "just f'me."

You had an idea of what he wanted you to do and you fiddled with his belt in anticipation for his next command.

"You're gonna learn how to properly suck cock," he spoke, "and y'gonna do a fucking good job of it."

Your mouth watered at the prospect of having his cock on your tongue. You sighed dreamily.

"And once I've taught ya, that's gonna be your job from now on-- gonna ease daddy's stress whenever he needs you to."

You nodded, cheeks searing.

"Yes, sir- I'll do anything f'you."

He had you where he wanted you, compliant and ready to yield at his every command. It was too fucking easy, he almost wanted to laugh at your naivety, how unaffected you were by the idea of having another man's cock down your throat, your own boyfriend's brother in fact and Finn hadn't even crossed your mind. Poor, poor Finn, always second best when it came to being compared to Tommy.

You may have been a good girl and did as the older man said, but you were still a whore at heart. His little harlot.

"Come on then, sweetheart, I haven't got all day," he chastised, cocking his head down to his belt that you hadn't unbuckled yet. You had so much left to learn.

You fumbled with the leather that encircled his waist, pulling it through the silver buckle and from the loops before unzipping his fly and pulling his tailored trousers down as far as you could to his thighs.

The bulge in his briefs was prominent and your mouth salivated at the sight, your natural reaction to a sight so delectable, your first cock to suck and it was so big too, you wondered how you'd be able to take him without choking on him. But where was the fun if you weren't?

Your instincts told you to reach out and grab it, so you did just that, palming him through his underwear and feeling the warmth of his shaft jolt and throb against your grip, already hard and you swore you noticed a little wet spot saturating the fabric-- a trick of the light, you thought.

Tommy sucked in a sharp breath, giving you a pointed look, eyebrow raised.

"I'm not 'ere to get teased," he huffed, as if his cock wasn't jumping at the touch of your hand. He took a handful of your hair, tugging it and making your scalp burn. "come on, take it out and get to work."

Your fingers curled under the elastic of his briefs, pulling the fabric down to rest where his trousers were, and the sight had you gawking, eyes as wide as saucers as you took in his pretty appendage.

So thick, littered with blue veins, the colour much akin to the blue of his eyes and you swallowed down all the saliva that pooled under your tongue. His tip was a pretty shade of tan, glistening with beads of pre-cum, slapping against his stomach every time he throbbed.

"I didn't know they could be this pretty," you marvelled, taking hold of it and delicately running your fingers up each prominent vein. Tommy cleared his throat at your unexpected praise, the grip on your hair a lot softer than before, instead of tugging on it, he petted it down softly, watching you watch him.

"Put me in your mouth, darling," you smiled up at him teasingly pouting up at him.

"So impatient," you teased, your confidence rising, before you tightened your grip, puckering your lips around his tip, sucking it as if he were one of your favourite lollipops.

You took him out of your mouth with a soft pop, just to reattach yourself to him, lathering your tongue over his sensitive head, the somewhat salty taste igniting your tastebuds and you hummed around him.

"There y'go, you can take more than that," you hollowed your cheeks at his words, going lower, taking him deeper and slowly you started to bob your head up and down, moaning at his taste and thickness on your tongue.

With a particularly harsh downward thrust of your head, he reached the back of your throat, instantly causing you to gag and you pulled off him, whining and sniffling with tears ebbing over your waterline.

"Good girl," he cooed breathlessly, chest heaving and palms cradling your face, hushing and settling you when you continued to whine out. "Doin' so well, got me a little whore in the making, hm?"

He pushed you back onto his cock, guiding you down, down, down until you were gagging once again, though this time you didn't pull off of him, you couldn't, not with the strength he was using to hold and keep your head down. Your nose brushed against the course thatch of hair that littered his pelvis and you tried to resist gagging at the stupidly large intrusion by breathing steadily through your nose.

You wanted so badly to rise for air, to ease the soreness that started to buzz in your throat, but although this was your first time, a true beginner, he still treated you like one of his most proficient whores. Coughing and spluttering, drool started to slip from your mouth and down your chin, so messy and slick, dripping down the length of your neck, saturating your pink nightgown and settling in the space between your tits.

"Fuck," he groaned, "gonna fuck this little virgin throat, gonna make you choke- doesn't that sound good, sweet girl?"

With the way you sobbed and moaned around him, he took it as a yes, keeping a good, firm grip upon your tresses to bob you up and down as he pleased, thrusting his hips upwards and meeting your mouth in the middle.

You grew light-headed, crude, sloppy sounds filling the air along with your constant gags and you quickly slapped at his thigh, urging him to let you up, to go easy on you and let you catch your breath. He didn't stop, however, didn't even slow down, purposeful in messing with you and teaching you that he was in charge-- he would decide whether you needed to breathe or not.

He chuckled at your vulnerability, stopping his thrusts to to sheath himself deep down your throat and keep you still, just the feeling of you gagging around his shaft was enough to stimulate him.

Eventually, he let you up for breath, marvelling at how you coughed and struggled to catch your breath, your throat feeling entirely abused and sore each time you swallowed. His pretty cock jolted at the sight of you, so messy and whoreish, hair tangled and spit dribbling down your chin.

"Breathe, darling," he cooed, cupping your tear-stained cheeks between his rough palms and pouting at you mockingly, pressing a rather condescending peck to your forehead. "Bein' so good-- almost done, sweetheart, just gotta make daddy cum and then you can rest that lovely throat of yours."

You breathed shakily, settling down on your haunches again and grabbing his slick cock in your grasp.

"Okay, Daddy," you sniffled, such a sweet girl, even with a cock in your hand.

Tommy guided you down, conducting your movements with a thrust and push to your head, keeping you pliant and submerging himself within you, and if your throat felt this good his head reeled at the thought of your pussy-- so tight and virginal, untouched, not even by your curious little fingers.

He'd have all of you soon enough.

You could see his stomach muscles clenching, thighs flexing from under your palms and you hummed around him when you noticed his thrusts growing sloppier.

"Fuck," Tommy groaned, breaths haphazard and shaky, "you ready, sweet girl? You ready to taste Daddy's cum? Y'gonna swallow it all, aren't you, otherwise m'gonna have to force feed it down that pretty throat."

You stared up at him as best as you could, fluttering your lashes, tears spilling and clouding your vision, though you blinked them away, eager to see him, to see the way his face would contort, how beautiful he'd look whilst shooting cum inside your mouth.

One, two, three more thrusts were all it took for him to start convulsing, cock jolting on your tongue and spilling his seed, coating the walls of your constricting throat. He was groaning, moaning out loud, sounds so pretty you had to keep your thighs clenched tight.

"Shit- good girl, such a good little whore, you are."

He continued to ride his orgasm out, until he grew far too over-sensitive, pulling himself out of your mouth and lifting your head up, spent and eyes hooded watching you swallow his seed and hum at the newfound taste-- something you already found yourself becoming addicted to.

"Look," you beamed, still teary-eyed and shaky on your knees, you opened your mouth wide, sticking out your tongue for him to marvel at, completely clean of all traces of his cum, now deep in your belly. "swallowed it all, daddy- just like you said."

Tommy's head started to spin, praising you at how good you had been though he felt strange, heart thumping in his chest at the mere sight of you, he felt soft, a small smile on his face without realising.

He thought you were wrapped tightly around his finger, however he had begun to realise in such a short time it was the complete opposite way around.

[futureplayboibunnie]

lil Mafia Boss! Miguel O’Hara x fem! reader drabble

Warnings: NSFW, depics of violence, blood, some steamy stuff but not too much, sooo much dirtytalk.

You were many things. But you weren't naive.

That wouldn't be an issue if Miguel couldn't talk his way out of hell and right into those pearly gates. His manipulation and sweet talking were just another thing that made you hate him and attracted to him amongst many other things

He was an asshole. He was a powerful Mob Boss. He was your husband and your arch-nemesis. You both loved playing these little games that would send the other down a spiral of paranoia and obsession- it lit a fire under both of your asses. It made you meaner, sharper, stronger

Miguel told his men to take shots at you, haphazardly, making sure they all missed for the sole purpose of scaring you to make you behave and see how valuable his protection was . You weren’t scared, you were pissed and filled with rage. You blew up one of his lackey’s cars, he watched it burn in front of him, if he had gotten into the wrong black beauty of a Lamborghini, he’d be a pile of ashes.

You both poked and prodded, messed and obsessed with every step you made. It was like a Greek tragedy. You outsmarted him some days. He outsmarted you some days.

But after all of it, you were still married, still husband and wife. When he fell for you, he fell hard. You were the daughter of of one of the most renowned gangster in the country, Miguel had to pay his dues to earn his respect- and in the end it payed off. Your father blessed your marriage and that night was a dream above all dreams. The honeymoon was beautiful too, every night was filled with passionate and messy sex and every day he spent with you he fell more and more in love.

But Lord did you test his patience, it was something that you were born to do. He was angry and channelled his rage through many illegal mediums.

Yet you always let him back in.

-

You’ve been doing what you’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

Waiting up for Miguel.

Waiting for him to come home.

He said he had something to take care of and hasn’t shown his face since. And here you were, waiting for him like a Park Avenue trophy wife. Your wine was making you more anxious than tipsy as you glared at the clock, the fireplace in front of you not warming your body from this strange fear of a man you hate and love. It was nearing 1am.

Then you heard it, the door opening and closing and the rustling of expensive shoes hitting the marble of the foyer, then a jarring clank of keys hitting the holder.

Your breath got lost in your throat, eyes widening when you saw Miguel’s figure. His white shirt was bloodied and his fists were bruised and raw. It’s not his blood, but he did have a cut on his eyebrow. You scoffed as you stood up from your seat.

But that didn’t stop you from both charging at each other, wanting to see each other up close.

“I hate you.” You said with a scowl but what was it all for when you both embraced each other seconds after.

“I believe you.” He said coldly but he knew you meant it. Your head rested on his shoulder and he could smell the shampoo you used earlier tonight. A sweet orchard, green apple. Yet your sweet scent didn’t transfer to yout personality. You didn’t like to sit still and play house.

You were an antagonizing bitch.

He was a heartless bastard.

Yet here you were.

Hating each other, yet seeking each other’s company.

“I hate you.” You repeated much firmly this time and Miguel gripped onto your cheeks and pulled your face up so he could glare at you.

“I said I believe you…I haven’t believed anyone in a long time.” He muttered, but his tone was harsh. Unamused eyes searched yours for an answer but instead he found contempt and sadness.

“You left for weeks….I hated you every second of it.” You spat out but your words couldn’t be brutal when you were this sad.

Miguel’s grip on your face softened, the pads of his fingertips tracing on the outline of your chin. “Now that I’m back…do you still hate me?” He was asking with genuine concern for some reason.

“Yes.” You whispered but your legs started to tremble as the word rolled off of your tongue. Miguel frowned indignantly and huffed out, taking his turn to pivot the conversation to him just ordering you around again.

“I don’t want you leaving the penthouse. I don’t want you outside while I deal with these bastards-“

Your choked breath cut him off. “Is that all you’re thinking about right now? I can’t fucking believe you.” You scoffed, his gall was truly outstanding, of course he had to do this right now. You weren’t purposefully trying to fan the flames to Miguel’s anger but he wanted to treat it like you were, he was already annoyed for ruining one of his best shirts with the blood of subspecies and now he has to deal with you bitching and moaning…and not in the way he liked. “You know what Miguel-“ He directly stopped your words by gripping onto your waist and neck and sitting you on the dining table. You struggled against his hold but it all proved to be fruitless.

“You’re gawking at me like an idiot right now.” You insulted but he was way too far gone now, the crimson of his eyes migrated to a deep ring of burgundy- he was already pissed and you just had to play with him the wrong way.

“You’re beautiful that’s why.” He said endearingly, like he was cooing at you but his serious expression really contrasted that.

“You’re flattering me because you wanna fuck?”

“You asked me if you staying here is all I’m thinking about right now and in fact, it’s not.” Miguel placed a palm on your chest and pushed you flat onto the table, hard. Your eyes were half lidded weapons, scrutinising his every move- and dare he think, he loves it, because he always proves you wrong.

You were his wife, his bitch, his cumdump. You both may hate each other but you always needed each other in this way.

No one else could make you cum otherwise, no one else memorised your body like he did. How couldn’t he? He loved you…once.

You like to think these outbursts are impactful and grand displays of independence but no, you’re Miguel’s lover and you’re gonna act like it.

Hmm. You always looked so pretty in this silk robe, but the fact that your nipples were peaking already under the thin fabric told him all he needed to know.

“I was thinking of you today when I was killing my competition’s men, while I got blood on my hands.” Miguel’s calloused palms splayed onto your smooth legs, feeling up and down teasingly, riding up your robe. You arched against the table already.

Shit, you didn’t mean to.

“The others said that my mind was wandering. I could see their mouths open and close but I couldn’t hear a single word come out..” He said huskily, you gasped when he ripped open your robe, revealing your naked and beautiful figure under him. The only thing that could ever get him off. He dipped his head between your legs to were your thin barely there panties were, he ran his nose over the fabric and inhaled softly. “I could smell you.”

You blinked up at him in confusion, you didn’t know what to feel. You were mad but so aroused…and in the weeks he’s been gone you hadn’t been able to pleasure yourself at all. He looked vicious and mean, your husband was ruthless and sometimes….sometimes it was so fucking arousing, you couldn’t help but squirm and struggle underneath him.

“You wanna know what I did? You wanna know who the man you married is really like when he’s not at home?” His head raised up to your ear to mumble hotly, you jolted and struggled when his hand suddenly went to your already sticky folds.

You weren’t sure if you even had a choice, so you stayed silent, your expression akin to that of vacant displeasure….but oh, were you lying. Your face was about to break.

“I shot them in the kneecaps and beat them until they were barely breathing, but would you believe the way they died was by suffocation?” He chuckled lowly, his fingers teasing your already sloppy entrance.

“F-fuck…are you talking about?” You tried to fight back the moans collecting in the back of your throat but you couldn’t help it.

“They drowned in a puddle of their own blood and I put them there.” Miguel rasped firmly in your ear, his tone and body language becoming very intimidating and…scary. “The bastard’s blood got on my fucking shoes.”

Your husband only wanted to protect what was his. His fingers plunged inside of you, feeling up and down, circling around. You whined out.

“One of them I knew, he went to my fucking highschool hermosa. I called him my friend. But the worst thing occured to me, I imagined him on top of you, my wife, the woman that loathes me so. I saw him tasting you in my head and that’s what made me kill him. You. Just because you sit up here in this untouchable palace doesn’t mesn you’re any cleaner than I am. You’re just as depraved as I am.”

His eyes were beating with a scorching red, his lips were curled into a visicious snarl and at this moment, you knew he was right and that made you want him that much more.

You were his lover.

He wanted you to act like it.

Even if that meant being exactly like he was.

Heartless.

-

(I deleted my other mafia Miguel fic because I wasn’t sure if i was gonna make it a bigger fic or not and I felt like if i kept it up it would’ve been confusing or something? I’m playing on the same ideas in this fic dw)

[carnalcrows]

YANDERE GANGSTER

☆ name: Felix Marino (Феликс Марино | Félix Marino) → "Fortunate and Of the Sea"

☆ ethnicity : Italian-American

☆ age : 34

☆ gender : Male

☆ mbti : INTJ

☆ his story : [click to proceed]

Once just a regular blue-collar worker with a simple dream—build a good life for his wife and their unborn daughter. But fate had other plans. A tragic misunderstanding led to his wife's brutal murder at the hands of a gang seeking revenge for a crime he never committed. Grief turned into vengeance, and vengeance turned into power. One by one, he eliminated those responsible, leaving no stone unturned, no soul spared. But revenge wasn’t enough—it never is. By the time the dust settled, he had built an empire from the ashes of his pain. Now, he rules one of the most feared mafia syndicates in the world, his name whispered in both reverence and terror.

He’s a ghost of the man he used to be, his heart long buried with his wife. He tells himself love is no longer for him—his wife would have hated the monster he’s become. But in a world of blood and betrayal, the past has a way of creeping back in when least expected.

☆ appearance:

Dark brown hair, always neatly styled but never too perfect—like he doesn’t care, but somehow, it still looks effortless.

Dark green eyes with brown flecks, almost black in the shadows, but strikingly green in the sunlight—if he ever lets himself stand in it.

6'2" with a lean but powerful build—every move he makes is calculated, every step, deliberate.

A face that looks carved from stone—strong jawline, sharp cheekbones, an expression that rarely changes.

Wears expensive but understated suits, always in dark colors—nothing flashy, just powerful.

Tattoos: His wife's name on one wrist, their unborn daughter’s name on the other, the only softness left in him. He has various other tattoos of flowers and snakes running down his arms and his back.

☆ personality:

Cold, calculating, and terrifyingly efficient—he doesn’t waste words or emotions.

A master of control—of himself, of his enemies, of the entire underworld.

Speaks in a quiet, measured tone, but when he gives an order, it’s absolute.

Loyalty is sacred to him—betrayal is met with ruthless consequences.

His patience is legendary, but once it runs out, there’s no going back.

Haunted by his past but refuses to show it—his grief is a private wound, one that never truly heals.

Believes emotions are a liability, yet can't fully extinguish the ghost of the man he used to be.

☆ with a lover:

He doesn’t do casual—if he lets someone in, it’s serious, but that’s a rare occurrence.

Overprotective to a dangerous degree—if you’re his, no one touches you. Period.

Doesn’t believe he’s capable of love anymore, but if it happens, it’ll be deep, intense, and consuming.

Shows love in subtle ways—protecting, providing, making sure you’re safe before you even realize you’re in danger.

Will never say "I love you" easily, but his actions will speak louder than any words ever could.

Doesn't do jealousy—he does ownership. If you're his, he makes sure you know it.

☆ strengths:

Unmatched strategic mind—he sees five moves ahead at all times.

Ice-cold under pressure—he never panics, never loses control.

Deadly with both words and weapons—he can end someone with either.

Inspires fear and loyalty in equal measure—his presence alone is enough to command a room.

Never forgets a debt—whether he owes one or is collecting one.

☆ weaknesses:

His past—no matter how much he buries it, it never truly stays dead.

Love—he tells himself he’s incapable, but if he ever lets someone in, they’d become his greatest weakness.

His wife's memory—she is both his strength and his curse, the one thing that can still make him hesitate.

He doesn't know when to stop—revenge, power, control—he always wants more.

Has built his empire alone and trusts almost no one—loneliness is his own prison.

☆ relationships:

Wife (deceased): The only woman he ever loved, the only person who ever made him truly happy. Her memory haunts him, and he wonders if she’d still recognize him now.

Unborn Daughter (deceased): A life that never got to begin, but one he still mourns every single day.

Right-Hand Man: The only person he trusts, the only one who dares to speak freely in his presence.

Enemies: Too many to count, but they all share the same fear—crossing him means death.

Potential Love Interest: If someone ever manages to break through his walls, they’ll find a man who is both terrifying and deeply, painfully human.

☆ extra:

Speaks fluent Italian, English, Russian and a handful of other languages (for business reasons).

Has a soft spot for old jazz and classical music—not that anyone would dare comment on it.

Never lets anyone see his wrists uncovered—those tattoos are the only vulnerability he has left.

Keeps a single photograph of his wife tucked inside his wallet. No one has ever seen him look at it.

[cillianssweet]

"you want him but you just can't win"

Thomas Shelby x Reader

A's note: hiiiya, this will probably be my first dig at writing, if you find sections that need improvements, please do not hesitate to comment! Enjoy ☆

Thomas Shelby x Reader.

Tags: arranged marriage, cheating trope, angst.

The orange hues of early sunlight creep through the cracks of my window. The rustling and bustling of early morning streets of Birmingham, faintly fill my ears.

I get out of the bed clad in a vintage night gown, pull over a cardigan and make my way downstairs to the house, the shelby manor.

I'm married to a Shelby, and as trivial as it gets I'm married to Thomas Shelby. The cold, ruthless and brooding gangster of ol' Birmingham. Our marriage was just out of obligation, duty, responsibility. There wasn't love, compassion or longing.

After he came back from the war, due to his state, Polly forced him to look for a suitor, to look for love. But Thomas only wanted to fill a void in his life. He made a bartar with my father, he gives Thomas his eldest daughter and gets money, value and respect.

Unbestknown to me, I was unaware of their deal until the night of my marriage.

"Dont expect me to love ye'. I'm not a man that can be understood by someone as soft as you. As my wife your duty lies to cater to my needs, make appearance with me." He had said, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"I have another woman" He said, his gaze fixated on a point on the wall of his study. There was something about his expression... there was something almost.. soft. It was the first hint of expression I had seen on his face since hours ago when I first met him.

"Grace. Grace is her name" He says exhaling pristine smoke that swirls around his features like water around a siren, pulling me in. "She's been 'ere before you."

It broke me.

Days turned into weeks and he brought her home. Into our home. Into my marital bed.

She was tall, slender, blonde hair and oh was she pretty. She was beautiful.

It still dug at my heart to see him smiling with her, laughing, her being the sole recipient of his affection.

A year passes by slowly chipping away the life I had. I'm just a shell of the woman I used to be. Like a garden full of bushes and colors and diversity turning into ash after the house was abandoned.

Despite Thomas' love of Grace, I have my suspicions about her. She's kind to me, in front of Thomas, but almost changes when he's not around as if she's digging at me that she's the one that has his attention. She rubs salts on my wounds and I've found her doings to be rather.... driven by motive.

------------------------------------------------------

7 PM, Night of the new years gala.

I was dressed in an emerald green silk gown, the amethyst necklace, a sole family heirloom, Polly gave to me, clasped around my neck.

I was over the moon to go out with Thomas after being neglected for a long while. It wasn't that he didn't take me out. It was solely the reason why he married me. To make an appearance.

He walks into the room, dressed to the nines in a handsome suit.

"you look.." His eyes wander over my figure, taking in the way the dress is modest, but enticing in its own way.

"decent" He says, his voice gruff.

"Thankyou, Thomas" Vividly, a blush creeps up on my cheeks, even if it's just a simple 'decent', it's a lot coming from him.

"I take it yer' ready for the ball" He asks gesturing with his hands that's holding a half dragged cigar. I nod vigorously, smiling as I do so.

To my surprise, Grace descends the stairs in an expensive dress. The sapphire necklace Thomas got her sitting pretty on her neck. Her blonde hair styled in perfect curls.

"tommy?" Her voice echoed in the manor, like a sweet siren song, luring you in.

"love?" He called back. The word was a stab at my heart. She comes to where we stood. Thomas' eyes registered her in. There was a flicker of something I never quite saw in his eyes when he looked at me. Love, passion.

"Are we going to the ball Honey? The car is waiting outside" She smiles lacing her delicate hand with his arm.

The ball? Isn't he taking... Me?

"You know we can't make an appearance Grace eh? " His voice laced with a tinge of irritation.

Grace looks up at him with her mesmerizing orbs, "Tommy, the entire town knows who you love anyway" She chuckles, the sound almost cruel. "Besides, you need someone pretty to leave an impression don't you?" Her fingers toy with the buttons of his pristine white dress shirt. "I'm sure your little wife won't mind. Would you? " She looks at me with a too sweet to be true gaze.

Despite the anger and resentment I felt for her inside, for trying to steal away the only interaction I would have with him for after a while, I shook my head putting up a stoic facade. "I-it wouldn't I s-suppose"

Thomas looks at me with an unwavering gaze as if he's gauging out what I truly feel. After a few seconds that felt like internity, he turns back to her, a hint of a smile on his face.

"alright let's go" He murmurs.

As the car pulls off, I'm left standing in the doorway of my room, dressed for a ball. That night, I had stayed up when they came back. Almost after midnight, Grace comes out for God knows what reason, spotting me in a quiet corner, simply reading.

She's wearing the shirt Thomas wore today, it barely reaching her thighs. Hanging loose over ber shoulders, purple marks all over her body. A sign of claim.

"ah! The wife" She makes her way to the living room, and sinks in the armchair across me, her legs hanging from the armrest.

"you always have your nose up a book. No wonder why Thomas comes to me" She snorts. "Sometimes I feel pity for you. So do many I guess. Your just a Placeholder, just a replacement to fill the void of who he really loves" Her voice dripped with venom and a tinge of faux pity. She walked to where I was sitting. Standing right in front of me.

She guides her finger across my supple cheek, tilting up my chin to forcibly look at her.

"You know, you could never satisfy him like I do. A soft, timid girl like you, wouldn't stand a chance in the life he leads. No wonder your so... Forgettable."

"T-thats not true, he-he cares about m-me" I manage to stutter out to which she laughs, the sound vicious. As if it's the dumbest thing someone has ever said.

"oh poor girl! He tells me all about how he's fed up of how your constantly begging for his time, his attention. He said if he had a chance, he'd marry me instead of you" Her voice dripped to a whisper as her fingers trace down my neck to my chest.

Tears build up in my eyes as she seems to revel in the pain she's causing me. Her faux smile turns to a smirk as she leans in, her lips next to my ears

"You cant give him what he needs. You can't give him me." A pause as she tilts her head to look at my face from the side. "He wanted to break the news at the next family meeting, but you've left me no choice but to say it. We're getting married."

In that moment, it was like my world had been crumbled. Like my beating heart had been ripped apart from my body.

"No... No that can't be true" The words choke in my throat.

"Oh but it is dear. Your efforts, all what you tried to plead him into trying. Never worked because I'm the one he loves. You can't compete with me. You want him, but you just can't win"

A's note: hiiya, I hope you liked it. To be honest, this idea was just a really raw sketch in my head that I've been wanting to somehow put out. The plot is a bit not so well written but do lmk what could be improved. Also I wrote this while listening to lana lol

Have a good day/night ★

[saintmuses]

❝𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡𝙨, 𝙝𝙖𝙙 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚𝙣❞

Pairing:

Thomas Shelby x Michael’s Wife!Reader

Summary:

Y/N couldn’t stand Thomas Shelby, she could see him for what he was. A devil in disguise despite her heart went pitter patter with lust rushing in her veins whenever she saw him.

Warning(s): SMUT. Mentions of religion. Infidelity. P in V. Deaths. Slight possessive!Thomas. Minors, dni! Note: Y/N’s maiden name was Buchanan.

Word Count: 2k

Summer, 1930

She wanted to press the nuzzle of the hand rifle gun to his smooth forehead hidden by his peaky cap. She wanted to pressurize the cool metal to its skin until it caved to mold around the circular imprint. 

She wanted to pull her index finger backwards until there was an echoing sound of the bullet going straight through his brain. She would've loved to see the blood splatter all over his three pieces suit and a white collared buttoned shirt as he fell backwards until he was no more.

Thomas Shelby.

A businessman who was a member of parliament with decorated military history from the Great War, and her family-in-law who was and always had been a gangster dabbling in illegal trades.

Her red painted lips curled back in disgust, before the edge of the cigarette laid between, and she closed her lips around it to inhale the tobacco.

Something was not right with him. Even if he was the best businessman, the leader of Peaky Blinders in Birmingham where they live, even if he was attractive. 

Something was odd about him.

She noticed his eyes flickered to her as he stood by a couple coming into their seventies, conversing with them.

Her heart thrummed loudly when his gaze trailed down to her lips that held the cigarette.

Her lips curled into a form of a smirk when his pupils dilated enough to take over his blue irises.

She'd never admit to anyone but herself that she loved his icy eyes.

Her fingers pulled the thin rolled tobacco filled paper away from her mouth as she inhaled enough to fill her lungs before pushing the excess out into thick humidity air while she stared at him in return.

"Honey," a voice clear its throat behind her. She could see Thomas’ eyes narrowing at the presence behind her, and she nearly chuckled at the sight of his jaw clenching enough to see tendons straining against his skin of his neck.

What a lovely sight. She thought haughtily before turning her head to see her husband, Michael standing near her, hands in his pockets.

"Yes, dear?" She knew Thomas had issues with his cousin ever since he came back across the pond with her in tow.

His dark eyes flickered to her before jerking his head towards the door of the car a good amount of distance, "it's time to go."

"I will get in the car after I talk to Thomas," she turned her gaze to the driver's seat with a pointed look. Her husband's face flushed with acknowledgment before he nodded stiffly, then walked away.

Outside, he held all the power to their dynamic, but behind the closed doors, she had all the power in her hands, and her husband could have all the whores and snow he wanted as long as he was respectful towards her in their marriage.

Quite frankly, she did not give a damn.

She waited until the sounds of her husband's footsteps shuffling against the tall spineless grasses faded, then she turned around just in time to see Thomas sauntering over to her.

"It is a good afternoon, is it not?" He looked down at her with a smirk gracing upon his face. His voice was sinful, with a hint of accent as it rolled over certain letters.

The top row of teeth scraped the bottom lip of hers, enough to ignite a sting of pain in the flesh. Irritated, "yes. I enjoyed the...lecture you gave about how we need to be discreet. After all, you are a mastermind of deluding people into thinking you are just a politician." She all but snarled at him, flicking an unfinished cigarette in the grass, ashes still burning.

His tongue slipped out, lightly wetting the bottom lip of his. "Miss Buchanan," his voice purred softly at her maiden name, "I am not a mastermind." His eyes held amusement as he spoke a false truth they both know it was a lie.

"Mrs. Gray." She corrected him flatly. She didn't even want to know how he found her maiden name when she and her husband moved to England from the Empire state of New York a year ago. She was still irritated as she withdrew a fresh stick of tobacco from her purse, holding the filter to her lips as she lit the end with her metal pocket lighter.

He waved it off, snatching the burning cigarette from her fingers with his leather gloved fingers before she could inhale the cigarette, "it’s the all the same to me." 

She was pissed at his lack of etiquettes. 

Once a thief boy, always will be a thief man. She thought to herself.

"I will be watching you," her upper lip curled, revealing the threat as she stared up at him coldly. "You better not do anything...out of the line."

She found out she was the only one who could talk to him like that and got away with it as well.

His eyes flashed in return, not with anger but with pure unadulterated lust. Dear God, something unraveled in her stomach at the sight of the animalistic feral look in his gaze, just like the first time she saw him a year ago, and he was already watching her.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said lowly, his voice rasped after he exhaled the smoke from the cigarette before she glared at him and turned her body to walk away.

"'Y/N-"

"If you're going to fuck a whore, then go ahead." She sighed as if she was tired. Sitting at the kitchen table, looking at her husband with a small smile. "You do not need to hide your infidelities from me." She said shrugging with indifference, observing the way he stared at her, unblinkingly before he reached for the door handle, nodding slightly before stepping out of their place.

She never loved Michael. Well, not in that way, but they only married to hide his shenanigans in the states especially when he held onto the stocks when the economy collapsed, and quite frankly, she wanted to leave that godforsaken city in America. Away from her father who loved her but was smothering her, and away from her mother who was unfaithful towards her father by messing around with men whose pockets were filled with banknotes.

She blinked when she heard the door shut.

I wouldn't dream of it.

I wouldn't dream of it.

It’s the all the same to me.

Maybe she'd fuck him out of her system then she would be able to see him clearer rather than an attractive man with an aura of danger surrounding him.

They were all going to hell, every single one of them. She just didn't care for the technicalities.

She moved her husband's heavy coat out of the way, only to flinch when there was a loud clang of metal hitting the wooden floor.

She glanced down to see a small hand rifle, and her heart stuttered at the sight of it lying there so innocently before bending down to reach for it.

She stared down at the small metal weapon in her pale palm as she stood back up, her fingers gripping the wood as if her life depended on it. In a way it was, but only for the others.

She inhaled before opening the front door, grabbing her purse along the way, stepping out in the light drizzle as the sky started to roll in heavy blue.

The sound of the door slamming behind her brought the sound of the echo of the bullet she would aim.

The Cross that was hanging on the wall, shook violently against the plaster as she threw her head back in the darkened room. 

"You're going to Hell." She gasped the words out of her mouth.

Her hips were tightly holding onto the body of Thomas who had his fingers digging into the walls. He was physically stronger than her by anatomy differences, but she was relatively small.

"And I will be dragging you down with me," he groaned breathlessly into her ear as his hips swiveled into her. Giving her a knowing look, and her blood froze. She sincerely hoped he did not know what she was planning to do.

"Oh God." She gasped into the air as the blood rushed through in her veins when he gave her a bruising thrust.

"You said my name wrong, sweetheart."  He rumbled before pulling her away from the wall with his hands wrapped around the curve of her legs to keep her against him.

He walked backwards until the back of his knees hit the wooden bench and stumbled onto it. Y/N already curled her fingers into his hair, pulling as she pushed her hips in a downward movement onto his cock.

"Just like that," he grunted, gripping her hips and she could feel how tight his fingers were pressing against her skin.

She gasped, throwing her head back as his lips latched onto her throat.

"Mine," he rumbled into the curve of her neck.

She nodded empathetically, "yours." She agreed. In twenty-seven years of her life, she wandered through life like a ghost. As if she wasn't there. Thomas was the only one who made her feel something.

It was also filled with regret that she had every intention to kill him. Like him, she did a little digging of his past, and found a lot of atrocities she could not let it pass or forgive.

"I wanted you ever since you showed up with Michael introducing you as his wife, and when you looked at me for the first time...I knew you saw something," he groaned, looking at her as his hips pushed upwards into her, "saw right through me as if I was an open book for you to see the sins I've committed. That's when I knew I had to have you." He gripped the grooves of her back through her shirt. "Unlike the others who were charmed by my façade, you just knew before I was introduced to you." He rumbled before withdrawing away from her neck.

She swallowed inaudibly, inhaling the heady but addicting scent of his as her eyes rolled back into her head when he'd hit a certain spot in her.

It wasn't love. It was lust filled with affection for him. The monster hiding in a sheep's clothing.

It wasn't pretty.

Her eyes then flickered to her fallen purse, with the moonlight casting through the arched windows, the metal glinted under the bright light.

Her walls clenched in response, and she noticed his thrusting patterns became irregular. She then reached over to her purse without distracting him, and quietly drew the gun out of the crack of her purse.

Before he could turn his head, she pressed her lips to his. His fingers tightened even more in response as his lips caved and melded with hers in a passionate frenzy.

"In another life, if we'd met under different circumstances, I would've loved you." She whispered into his mouth, and she heard him exhale onto her lips. "We would've been each other's."

Before he could thrust into her for the final time, she sneaked the gun between them, and when he got to the ending with a guttural groan, she pulled the trigger as she barely laid the nuzzle in front of his heart. 

Flinching when there was a bang echoed in the empty space of the church.

She then gasped in pain, pulling back from his face to look down to see a lone knife laying in his hand, with red liquid seeping onto his hands and trousers, but she knew what he did. She could see it in her sight, blood pooling around the clean but ripped hole of her dress shirt where her heart was at. 

She was in shock, turning her gaze back to his eyes. A mischievous but all-knowing look glinted in his icy depths. Her hand shook as she dropped the weapon. It clattered on the wooden pew next to them.

"Oh, I knew all about your plan to kill me. I could see it in your eyes." He smirked, his voice strained, and his blood staining the spaces in his teeth as the red liquid gurgled in his lungs. "I was going to let you, but I was not going to go down without takin’ you with me."

It wasn't love. It was lust, and it wasn't pretty.

[incorrectlovestruck]

Chance: How did none of you hear what I just said? Ash: I've been zoned out for the last two and a half hours. Yoshimitsu: I got distracted. Aurora: Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

[burningembers91]

The Path to Redemption - Hwang Yang-Jung x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Haunted by the choices he made in life, Hwang Yang-Jung lives a quiet life devoted to helping at risk youth. When he meets you, the beautiful youth worker, he tries to stay away. But he doesn't realise that you're anything but innocent, and that your life had been just as dangerous as his.

Hwang Yang-Jung had lived many lives. He’d been a marine, a gangster, a loan shark, and most recently a sushi chef. In his 50 years on this earth he’d been a dozen different people, had been places and seen things most people could only dream of. On the outside, he had the perfect life filled with travel and adventure, but on the inside, he was tormented by the demons of his past.

He’d wanted to be an honest man; had wanted to live a good life, and he’d managed to do that until he left the marines. After Yang-Jung was discharged he struggled to find steady work and racked up an eye-watering amount of debt. He took any and every job he could find, from washing cars to mowing people’s lawns. But it wasn’t enough, and he soon found himself out on the street, living in his car. His car was repossessed soon after, and Yang-Jung had nowhere else to go. He fell in with a bad crowd, using his skills as a marine to do the dirty work for numerous gangsters in the seedy underbelly of Seoul. He was a good fighter and a skilled marksman, and he managed to crawl out from his pit of despair and rise again from the ashes.

But he was a changed man; the things he’d done to make money so despicable he still struggled to sleep at night. If it hadn’t been for Mr Choi taking pity on him, Yang-Jung wasn’t sure he’d still be here. Working as a loan shark wasn’t much better than working as a gangster’s attack dog, but Mr Choi was an honest man and a good boss, and he treated the people he loaned money to with respect. There were still times that Yang-Jung was forced to use violence, but those times were justified; he no longer beat people purely for the amusement of someone else.

After Mr Choi shut down his business, Yang-Jung had acquired a nice little nest egg, something to keep him more than comfortable for the rest of his life. He bought an apartment by the river and opened his restaurant, finally living the quiet life he’d always desired. But the quiet life came with the crushing realisation that he was desperately lonely. A life spent battling just to stay alive had left no time to meet someone, no chance to create the family he’d always wanted. Yang-Jung tried to tell himself he was happy as he was, but with each passing day it got harder to fool himself. He hated lying awake in bed with no one to hold him, hated watching everyone else fall in love while he remained alone. He was only too aware that he was no longer a spring chicken, well past his best in terms of marrying and having a family. Women didn’t want someone like him, and even if they did, he’d done so many awful things in his life that he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved happiness.

So, Yang-Jung threw himself into his work. When he heard Mr Choi had opened an orphanage, he jumped at the chance to offer the children some life skills, opening his restaurant and teaching the kids how to cook simple, healthy meals. Twice a month he ran cooking classes, teaching a group of 20 teenagers how to cook everything from kimchi stew, to bulgogi, to creating the finest sashimi platter. You were the youth worker in charge of arranging the trips, and from the moment you stepped through the door, Yang-Jung was under your spell. You had such a way with the kids, showing them the love and care many of them had never known. You were beautiful, smart and so compassionate and Yang-Jung spent countless nights imagining life with you. He dreamt of cooking for you, dreamt of lazy Sunday mornings in bed wrapped up between his sheets. He dreamt of marrying you, of having a son and a daughter that you could raise together. You were perfect in every way, but you’d never want someone like him. An old, ex-gangster with a shady past and a guilty conscience wasn’t the right person for you. You needed someone with a soul as light as yours, someone who didn’t lie awake at night haunted by the faces of the men he’d killed.

But you weren’t as innocent as you appeared, your life marred by the choices you’d been forced to make in order to stay alive. This job was your salvation, a chance at the redemption you so badly needed. You saw a kindred spirit in the sushi chef, saw the pain in his eyes that came from a lifetime of fighting to make it to the end of the day. You wanted to approach him, to let him know that he wasn’t alone. But you knew all too well how hard it was to take that first step, to break free from the cycle of self-hatred and despair. Your time at his restaurant was never long enough, and the children were always your main priority. You never had the chance to speak to Yang-Jung, to get past the polite greetings you offered each other each session.

You both longed to have a proper conversation, somewhere quiet, just the two of you. Yang-Jung wanted nothing more than to get lost in your eyes, to surrender himself to you. You wanted to take away his pain, to show him that it was possible to forgive yourself, no matter what you’d done in the past. Your stolen glances across the restaurant when the other wasn’t looking was as far as you ever seemed to get, but you both so badly wanted it to be more.

If only you could find some time for yourselves, maybe you’d realise you were meant to be. You were two damaged souls, but together you just might be able to heal.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

MASTER LIST

1. AVENGERS: THE CREATOR

Summery: What if there was a seventh avenger? It’s no ordinary person but the creator of the infinity stones. Y/n is the universes most powerful being who created those stones to protect the universe and the multiverse. She is then recruited to join the Avengers initiative. Does she accept or reject the offer? What happens when her past enemy appears and destroy what she has created?

Characters: Avengers x f! Reader

Chapter 1: The Loki problem

Chapter 2: The woman behind the stones

Chapter 3: Unveiling the past

Chapter 4: The weight of the tesseract

Chapter 5: Into the heart of SHIELD

Chapter 6: Curiosity

Chapter 7: Unraveling the past

Chapter 8: The Battle of New York

Chapter 9: The road not taken

Chapter 10: The path chosen

Chapter 11: The past unfolded

Chapter 12: The price of power

Chapter 13: Welcome to Wakanda

Chapter 14: A war that never ended

Chapter 15: A birthday interrupted

Chapter 16: Bloodline’s last keeper

Chapter 17: The lost chamber

Chapter 18: The truth beneath the ruins

Chapter 19:The crimson sky

Chapter 20: The truth in ashes

Chapter 21: A fractured bond

Chapter 22: A house without a home

Chapter 23: Why come for me?

Status: Completed

2. Promises we didn’t expect

Summery: Y/n is the head of surgery and Sebastian is the chairman of the hospital. Y/n is in desperate need of money to repay the dept her parents had taken from gangsters before they had died. On the other hand Sebastian is being forced to get married to Katherine Light who is a very successful business woman. To avoid it, he is in need to find a fake wife. What happens when Y/n and Sebastian get into a marriage of convenience? Will this fake relationship ignite to a real one?

Characters: Chairman!Sebastian Stan x f!Surgeon! Reader

Chapter 1: Y/n L/n

Chapter 2: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 3: Y/n L/n

Chapter 4: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 5: Y/n L/n

Chapter 6: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 7: Y/n L/n

Chapter 8: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 9: Y/n L/n

Chapter 10: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 11: Y/n L/n

Chapter 12: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 13: Y/n L/n

Chapter 14: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 15: Y/n L/n

Chapter 16: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 17: Y/n L/n

Chapter 18: Sebastian Stan

Chapter 19: Y/n L/n

Epilogue

Status: Completed

3. The forever you forgot

Summery: A six year old girl named Nadia Barnes born with a condition called 65 roses uncovers the story on how her dad-Bucky Barnes met her missing mother by narrating her the story and nothing remains the same after Nadia finds out the truth about her mother.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Note:This story is based on the movie ‘Hi papa’. This story is like what if Bucky Barnes was in this situation that the male and female lead faced in the movie ‘Hi papa’. To be honest I am absolutely obsessed with this movie and I could help but write a Bucky Barnes version of it. I would totally recommend everyone to watch this movie and get some tissues with you before you start watching.

Chapter 1: Late Nights and Fairy tales

Chapter 2: You Promised Me

Chapter 3: We Met again

Chapter 4: Love, Lies and Truth

Chapter 5: Trust me, love

Chapter 6: A Daughter Born, A Dream Broken

Chapter 7: Unspoken Grief

Chapter 8: A Familiar Knock

Chapter 9: The Waves Of Life

Chapter 10: Drunken Confessions

Status:Ongoing! New chapter releases every alternate day (or if I have time I will try post every day)

3. Oneshots

▫️Beneath His Smile

Summery: Y/n Rogers a detective in the NYPD and also the wife of one and only Steve Rogers investigates the brutal murder of her ex and colleague, her world begins to unravel as she investigates alongside her partner Vincent Calloway. She stumbles upon chilling evidence that points to an unthinkable suspect-her own husband.

Characters: Yandere! Steve Rogers x Detective!female reader

Note: All the characters except Steve Rogers are mine.

[call-sign-shark]

Hi Shark 💓 I saw your post with the three word sentences and I'd like to request 6. "Be gentle, please." with Tommy. If you're more comfortable with writing for a different character then you're obviously free to do so! 🥰

Hi Daisy! Here we go dear 🥰 Finger crossed, I hope you'll enjoy that Tommy x Reader blurb! Honestly, I really enjoyed writing it.

Words: 993

TW: Smut content but no actual pornographic descriptions, mentions of murder, ambiguous ending (the ending is up to you), reader is nicknamed Hera.

Fire spread under your skin as his strong and calloused hands ran down your naked back to grab your hips in a bruising grip. How did you end up here, laying on the giant fur carpet in front of a fire place with Birmingham’s most infamous gangster touching you? The question had been playing on repeat in your buzzing skull the moment he had laid his fingers on you. A feverish sigh escaped from your quivering lips when Tommy’s hips crashed against yours. The wet caress of his tongue left goosebumps in its trail each time you would feel it on the sensitive flesh of your bosom. It was like the dancing flames of the fireplace, whose hungry tongues of blaze licked the logs that were feeding them until all remained was ashes. You clenched your fist in his dark hair, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back at ocean of pleasure that was drowning you each time his hips moved. As you made love in his living room, the melody of your sighs and flesh snapping filling the room and swirling up to the ceiling, you still tried to gather all your remaining strength to hang on the reason behind your meeting.

“Hera…” He moaned against your breasts, the vibrations of his hoarse voice echoing in your whole ribcage and shattering your bones in a sensual earthquake. Your toes curled as his pace, slow and gentle at first, quickened. Lost in a maze of feelings and lust, your hand left his hair and joined the other one on his broad and muscular back.

“Deeper.” You hissed through your teeth as your nails dug in his skin and pierced his flesh. Your voice, eternally collected, was now shaken by a light tremor you hated to hear. You sounded begging. You sounded desperate. You sounded weak. And only God knew how you despised weakness. Well, not only God but also Luca Changretta, to be true. When the godfather of the American branch of the Sicilian mafia took you under his protective wing, he called you Hera — queen of gods, and furious dishonored wife of a monster. Besides him and a few capo, no one knew where you came from and why Changretta had a soft spot for you. Yet, the story behind your relationship was tragic.

He saw you one dreary summer night, crying outside of the church in your magnificent white dress stained with little crimson droplets. From what he had understand, you had caught your future husband cheating the day of your wedding and he was so enraged you found out about his secret affairs that he had beaten you until your legs collapsed and until your body was black and blue. When Luca Changretta cupped your face and laid a protective kiss on your forehead, he made you a promise: no other men would hurt you again, for he would make the most terrifying and beautiful monster out of you. Luca dived in your eyes and smiled, and as he did Y/N vanished in the aid of this new fierce entity that was now inhabiting you.They said Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and how right they were.

“Fuck —“ Tommy swore, at the edge of climax. All of his muscles tensed under the coiling and maddening pleasure that was consuming him — but Thomas Shelby was as stubborn as you were, and he hated to show any sign of weakness even more than you. That was why he choked his moans against your mouth and let his tongue force its way between your juicy lips. You scratched his back in response, small beads of blood darkening your nails. His pace was now frantic and brutal, turning your love making into more a battle than anything else. Sex was a fight you were both fiercely decided to win. But if Tommy had the rage of winning, you had the disgust of losing.

“Let it go, little boy…” You whispered against his mouth, waving your hips like a dancing succubus willing to milk him from his life. Your victory became evident as you felt Tommy’s legs shaking. He sunk his teeth in your lower lip and growled like an animal as he gave in — blown away by the fiery blaze of his little death, the gangster felt tears dawning at the corner of his turquoise eyes when he came. The burning sensation was so unbearable at some point he thought he was in hell. But was it really hell if he liked the way it burned?

You smirked, enjoying the end of the war you’ve just won.

Tommy and you were now sharing a cigarette, both naked and sitting on the comfortable rug while watching the dying flames that were flickering in the hearth. But despite the doubt that had started to plague your cold mind, you mentally repeated the mantra you lived by for years: You have to rise above the squabbling and chaos, and keep believing. You have to always keep your goals in mind… And your goal was to murder Tommy Shelby.

Why?

Because you were the most terrifying and skilled hitman of America, and someone had paid you to kill him.

And you were heartless.

You had not always been like this though… But the young eighteen years old crying princessa Changretta had almost raised had met the same demise as her savior: she was no longer alive. All remained was the still smoking ashes of a maimed heart and an empty body only animated by pure anger.

Tommy had barely stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray nearby when you pressed the cold blade of your knife against the fragile flesh of his throat. Yet, he did not seem surprised. Nor afraid. Quite the contrary, Thomas Shelby was tired. Just… Tired. He looked at you, his sky blue eyes staring into the void that constituted yours, and parted his lips to speak.

“Be gentle, please.”

That was all he said.

Somehow, he did not mind to die if the last embrace given to him was soft — even if it came from Death herself. You could kill him, it did not matter anymore, as long as you were as no one else since Grace had been with him: gentle.

You pulled him in your arms, hugging his exhausted frame in a final clasp, and tightened your grip around the knife.

Fine, you thought, I’ll be gentle then.

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: a drink with deceit (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s 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 he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, heavy angst, wound description, threats, catcalling, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hello guess who is back!! this is very angsty, promise there will be more bucky in the next chapter just gotta set up the drama! much love <33 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Three days after Becca Barnes's visit, the bodies of thirty-six Penance Boys were found in the streets. 

You hadn’t seen the bodies yourself, but the whispers that slithered through The Warrens painted a picture too horrific to ignore. The rumours spoke of a scene ripped straight from a penny dreadful. Maybe even worse than the stories that circulated, but in your heart, you knew the violence to be true. The bodies, each one marred by countless lashes, were barely recognisable. Their flesh was shredded, every inch of skin scarred beyond recognition. They were scattered across the Warrens like grotesque trophies. Some were dumped in the filthy, stagnant waters of the port, their bodies bloated and twisted. Others swung lifelessly from lamp-posts in the streets, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Several were displayed in the Smokestack District, mangled offerings laid out before the factories, and then there were the bodies hidden in the winding alleys, tucked into the shadows like forgotten, discarded trash, left to rot under the ever-thickening smog. It was all rather theatrical, a meticulously planned out act. One of the bodies, clutched tightly in a bloodstained fist, held a crumpled note. Smeared with copper, the words read: "Do you confess?"

You couldn’t help but remember Bucky’s words from that dreaded night.

Massacre.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had stitched up thirty-six lashes, even though the flesh had been so ravaged, the wounds mashed together until they bled into one, an indistinguishable mess. The thought lingered in your mind, haunting you no matter how much you tried to push it away. Each memory of those nights felt like a needle driven deeper, not just into his skin but into yours as well. You had done what you thought was best, what you had to do to survive, but the consequences and marks were there for both of you to wear.

The letter you found on your doorstep that same day was no surprise. Becca’s warning had loomed over you, leaving little room for doubt. You hadn’t even bothered to open the envelope; instead, you had tossed it into the fireplace without a second thought, the flames licking at the paper until it was reduced to ash. It seemed Becca was fierce when protecting her brother, and you didn’t intend to test that determination. She had been clear—stay away from him, leave him alone. She had outright said it; the bitterness in her voice made the message unmistakable: I know a threat when I see one.

You spent the next three days simmering on her words, turning them over in your mind, weighing them against the memory of your hands working on Bucky’s back. Healing him—an act you never should’ve performed. Magic meant for destruction wasn’t meant to mend wounds, and you had known that. But you had done it anyway, given into his demands. He couldn’t have been entirely in his right mind… not with the wounds, the loss of blood. Is that why he had left? Did clarity finally strike him as he lay beside you in your rickety bed? Your magic wasn’t meant for healing. Those scars would remind him of what you had done, of what you were. It had been a mistake, yet it had also been a choice.

You were bitter in a sick and twisted way. You were furious. Part of you wanted to hold him accountable for his absence—no thank you, no goodbye, just an empty space where his presence had been. You had spent the better part of a week tending to him, feeling something unspoken between the two of you, a quiet understanding that hinted at more. But once the job was done, once he had healed, it was as if he had disappeared into the shadows of the Warrens, leaving you to deal with the mess of your emotions.

Maybe it had just left you to confront your own loneliness. 

In those long, quiet moments in your home, you wondered if that was what he did best—leave. He had walked away without a word, without even a flicker of care. What about Bucky Barnes made you long for something you couldn’t quite name? Something that had you clinging to the fragments of him despite the warning signs you knew to be true?

You were fed up with yourself, with his pull on you, even after all that had happened. You were unsure if it was your heart or your cunt that was the culprit, but either way, your head knew one or both were the traitors keeping you eating from of his hand like the good little witch he had primed you to be. You had let him hurt you, and yet, part of you wanted to run toward him again, to go against Becca’s threats. The way he had looked at you and leaned into your touch—there was something there. Something more than just business. You could feel it. But the other part of you? The brighter part—the one that had always kept you alive in a city like Blackstone—wanted to just wash your hands of it all, to disappear.

And maybe that was the answer: You could leave.

The countryside called to you, with its quiet spaces and the promise of a life that didn’t involve constant vigilance and constant fear. Witches were always in high demand in such isolated places. You could have been a travelling act, banishing curses and hauntings, keeping your head down and movements quick. The law wouldn’t bother someone who was as transient as the wind. The Smog Boys wouldn’t have had the time or resources to track you. You could disappear. It was possible.

But it wasn’t just about Bucky. It was about your mother. Michael. The countless, nameless others. You had stayed because you had a game of your own to play, a plan for revenge that had been set in motion long before the Smog Boys ever darkened your doorstep. If anything, they had complicated the situation. That display in the Pony Club… that raw power within you…you were sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

—

Just beyond the Smokestack District, across the filthy, winding expanse of the Sootline River, lay the Grimrow District. Its streets resembled the Warrens: cramped rows of lower-class housing, grimy industrial factories, decrepit shops, and weathered churches that seemed to sag under the weight of sin and soot. Yet, for all their similarities, the two districts held a defining difference. While the Warrens belonged to the Smog Boys, Grimrow was claimed by the Iron Rats.

Like most rival factions in Blackstone, the Iron Rats and the Smog Boys maintained an uneasy truce—a brittle thread of peace stretched taut between their territories. The fragile truce held as long as each stayed within their respective borders. But to call it harmony would be a misstep. It was more of a begrudging tolerance, simmering hostility kept in check by necessity, not respect.

You would never typically risk crossing the Sootline. But tonight, your frustration had driven you to the brink of recklessness. The boundary, marked by the Sootline River’s churning filth and the crumbling bridge spanning its breadth, seemed less a warning and more an invitation to tempt fate. Maybe it was exhaustion from yourself, the relentless weight of the Warrens, and the invisible chains tethering you to its grime-soaked alleys.

You needed a drink. One poured by someone else’s hand in a place that didn’t reek of your desperation and solitude. The sight of your miserable flat had become unbearable, its four walls closing in tighter with each passing hour. And then there were the Smog Boys, whose ever-watchful eyes you had grown weary of evading. Maybe slipping away into Iron Rats territory would give you some reprieve. Maybe they’d let their guard down if they thought you had vanished entirely—an act of rebellion against the summons you had so pointedly ignored.

But the summons wasn’t something you could forget. Bucky’s call to a family meeting had been the last thing you’d expected, even if Becca had warned you in the days prior. It gnawed at you, questioning why he suddenly considered you significant enough to include. Family. What a strange, hollow word coming from him.

You didn’t trust it. The invitation felt like bait in a carefully laid trap. Why invite you into the fold now, after leaving without a word of thanks or farewell? Why disappear, only to pull you closer the very next day? It reeked of manipulation, and you couldn’t help but think it was somehow connected to the Penance Boys and the gruesome spectacle their deaths had created. The pit in your stomach told you it wasn’t a coincidence. You couldn’t deny your own hand in the sequence of events, no matter how indirect. If you hadn’t healed him, hadn’t used your forbidden magic to save him, would he have bled out on the floor of your home? Would his story have ended there, spilling his blood into the cracks of your rotting floorboards? And, in some twisted, alternate reality, would you now be living in a Bucky Barnes-free world?

The thought clawed at you, leaving a strange ache in its wake. As much as you despised the tangled mess of emotions that tethered you to him, the idea of his absence hollowed something out of you. That pit of dread opened wide, devouring any attempt to convince yourself that you’d be better off without him.

Bucky was a wound you couldn’t help but pick at—a scar you couldn’t stop tracing with trembling fingers.

The air of Grimrow reeked of industry—smoke, oil, and sweat mingling into a nauseating miasma. You passed groups of factory workers slumped on steps, nursing bottles of something too potent to be legal, and street vendors hawking stale bread or pilfered wares.

A bar came into view just as you sensed them: footsteps too close and laughter too loud, their presence evident in the silence they carried with them through the narrow streets. Three men trailed behind you, their voices brash and oily as they jeered.

“Oi, sweetheart! Where’ya off to in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, don’t be shy. Give us a smile, eh?”

You kept walking, your stride steady, your face unreadable. Reacting would only embolden them.

“She’s got an attitude, that one,” another mocked. “Maybe we should teach ‘er some manners.”

You turned a corner, hoping they’d lose interest, but their footsteps quickened. One of them closed the distance, and you felt his fingers graze your sleeve.

“You’ve got a death wish, ‘aven’t ya?” a new voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

The three men halted as a woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and composed, her auburn hair curling at her shoulders, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, each word like a warning.

The man closest to you sneered. “What’s it to you, love?”

“You’re botherin’ my friend.” she said, stepping forward.

Her words made you pause, but you didn’t correct her.

“You’ve got no business ‘ere,” the man growled, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him. 

“And you do?,” she replied coolly. “Say, do’ya ‘ave friends in high places? ‘Cause I do. One word from me, and they’ll hunt you down. They ain’t the type you go lookin’ to make enemies with, that’s for sure, love.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, probably the same question you had on your mind. Who were these friends in high places? Certainly wasn’t the Smog Boys. You had never heard or seen such a woman slinking around. She had a fierceness to rival Natasha, a sharp-tongue like Becca. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then slunk away with grumbled curses, their bravado evaporating like steam.

She was with the Iron Rats, perhaps. 

Or something worse.

The woman turned to you, the sharpness in her expression softening into something sly and amused. “You’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

A tense pause washed over the two of you, the auburn assessing you with one swoop of her sharp eyes. You wondered if she was searching for a concealed weapon, assessing if you had the strength to take down a grown man with your hands alone. It was a fruitless pursuit, as the chaos inside of you was invisible. 

But you had a sneaking suspicion the woman before you were also more than she let on, maybe something more like yourself, hiding in plain sight.

“You’re far from home.” She commented. There was a drawl to her words, a subtle accent foreign to Sootstone and Grimrow—one higher class, or perhaps from beyond the city walls in the countryside. “Dangerous for a woman of the Smog to be over the river.”

“And how would you know where I keep my home?” You test.

“You reek of it. The Warrens.” Her lips pulled into a honed smile. “I don’t blame ya, lookin’ for a change of scenery.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Let me buy you a drink.” You offer.

The woman grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

The bar was exactly as you’d expected—a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with warped wooden tables, a cracked mirror behind the bar, and the faint smell of spilt beer and sweat clinging to the air. It was neither welcoming nor hostile, merely indifferent to the chaos of the outside world. You stepped inside, the noise of murmured conversations and clinking glasses briefly pausing as heads turned to size you up. They saw the woman with you, her confident stride and sharp gaze, and immediately lost interest.

The two of you weaved between tables, stepping over uneven floorboards and discarded peanuts. Wanda—as the auburn-haired woman had introduced herself—walked as though she belonged there, her boots clicking against the wood in a steady rhythm. You tried to match her nonchalance but felt out of place, the weight of the room’s gaze lingering even after it had turned away.

You slid into a corner table, its surface scarred with knife marks and initials dug deep into the wood. Wanda eased into the chair opposite you, draping one arm over the backrest and stretching her legs out beneath the table, completely at ease. She watched the room with a faint, amused smile, as though everything she saw confirmed something she already knew.

The bartender approached, a burly man with greying stubble and a perpetual scowl. Without asking, he set down two glasses of amber liquid and muttered something about payment later. You nodded, and he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

You eyed the drink warily before lifting it, catching a faint whiff of cheap whiskey. Wanda, meanwhile, raised hers without hesitation, swirling the liquid in her glass with an air of appreciation. “Grimrow’s charm ‘asn’t changed much,” she remarked, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked, leaning back against your chair.

“Once or twice,” she admitted, taking a slow sip. “Though it was a little... less grim the last time.” She chuckled, her eyes flicking back to yours. “Still, it has its appeal. Don’t ya think?”

“Depends on what you call appealin’,” you said, glancing around at the dimly lit room. “I guess it’s got character if nothin’ else.”

“Character,” she echoed, raising her glass as though in a toast. “A generous way to put it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, though your guard stayed firmly in place. Wanda’s ease felt calculated, her words chosen with care. 

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied you. “Do ya always bring strangers to such charmin’ establishments, or am I special?”

“Strangers?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like much of a stranger, not with the way you act like you own the place.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that drew a few fleeting glances from nearby tables. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “What’s worse than that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Wanda said, her smile playful. “But enough about me. You’re the real mystery here. Someone like you, runnin’ around Grimrow? You’ve got to ‘ave a story.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, unsure if the comment was meant as a compliment or a probe. You got the sense the woman was lying, or atleast hiding something. “Maybe I’m just passin’ through,” you said evenly.

“Maybe,” she allowed, though the look in her eyes suggested she didn’t believe you. “Or maybe there’s more to it.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. “What about you, though?” you asked, deflecting. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in Grimrow?”

The question landed with a faint ripple of tension, but Wanda didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she reclined back into her seat, looking at you as though she’d been waiting for you to ask. “A woman like me? Now, what does that mean?”

“You don’t exactly blend in,” you replied, motioning to the sharp lines of her coat, the expensive leather of her boots. “You’re not Iron Rat, and you’re definitely not factory folk. So, what are you?”

Wanda smirked, swirling her drink. “Observant, aren’t ya? Let’s just say I don’t stay in one place too long. Too many people eager to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

“People like me?” you challenged, leaning forward slightly.

“Maybe,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “Though you’re not like the others I’ve met. Most witches these days—” She caught herself.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. “Most witches? That’s a strange thing to say.” You continued, feigning nonchalance. “And what about you? You don’t seem entirely ordinary yourself.”

Wanda chuckled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You could say I have a... talent for recognisin’ my own kind.”

Your suspicion hardened into certainty, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie. But something about her tone, her carefully chosen words, kept you wary.

“Let’s just say I’ve been around,” Wanda said, her voice smooth. “Blackstone is full of people. Some are content to lay low, keep their heads down. Others... well, others are harder to ignore.”

You narrowed your eyes at her words, your grip tightening around your glass. “And which category do I fall into, exactly?”

Wanda tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Oh, definitely the latter. You’re not exactly the lay-low type, are you? Not with the kind of power you carry.”

The statement caught you off guard, though you did your best not to show it. Power. She said it like it was obvious, like she could see it written across your skin. You leaned back slightly, studying her. “Is that your skill? Recognisin’ power in others?”

“Somewhat,” Wanda replied, her tone light as if this were a game. She swirled her glass idly, her eyes flicking to yours with a spark of something unreadable. “It’s all about readin’ the chaos, innit? The aura of a person, an object. Every thread leads back to somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “So you see power in the chaos? You read it like... energy?”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “I imagine it’s much like spottin’ a spirit tethered to an anchor—recognisin’ the energy surroundin’ it.”

There it was—a slip. A thread tugged loose. Your breath caught for a split second, your instincts sharpening like a blade. “I never said I was a spirit-raiser,” you pointed out, your voice colder now, every word deliberate.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what you already suspected. “I believe ya did,” she countered lightly, though there was a tightness in her tone, a tension she couldn’t quite hide. Her fingers tightened around her glass, the faintest tremor betraying her rising panic.

“No,” you said, leaning forward now, your gaze boring into hers. “I didn’t.”

Her laughter was forced, brittle. “It must’ve been ‘n assumption—”

“Who’re you?” you cut her off, your voice sharp and unyielding, like a blade striking metal. Already, you were shifting back in your seat, the air between you charged with suspicion.

Wanda sighed sharply through her nose, placing her glass on the table more forcefully than necessary. “I’ve already told you,” she said, her voice cool but her expression uneasy. “My name’s Wanda. I read auras. That’s all.”

“This meetin’, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Your words came quickly, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How long ‘ave you been followin’ me?”

The question hit like a hammer, and for the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass, the faint clink of ice filling the silence. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I know more than ya think,” she admitted, swirling her drink in a futile attempt at distraction. “I know you’re... different. Special.”

The room seemed to narrow around you, her words settling over your chest like a weight. Your heart was pounding, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or fear. “Special,” you repeated flatly, your voice thick with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on her glass. When she finally looked up, there was something raw in her gaze, something that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong. It isn’t just a coincidence that we ‘ave crossed paths,” she said, her tone almost gentle. 

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, but Wanda reached out, her hand wrapping around your wrist. “Wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?” you snapped, yanking your arm free. 

“The Church of Light is your home.”

The name struck you like a thunderclap, the world tilting briefly, nauseatingly. You stared at her, uncomprehending, the name echoing in your mind. “The Church,” you said, your voice hollow. “You’re with them.”

“Father Leofric—he sees your potential. He won’t harm you. He wants to guide you.” Wanda urged, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Guide me,” you repeated, your voice cutting through the haze of the bar like a blade. Disbelief curled each syllable into a sneer. “Like they guided my mother? Like they tried to use her?”

Wanda’s face tightened, her carefully composed mask slipping. Rage flickered behind her eyes, barely restrained. “Your mother, the traitor. Are ya gonna follow in her footsteps? Run from ya destiny, Light-bringer?”

The name hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath faltered, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the table's edge for balance. The entity's voice in the Pony Club whispered fresh in your memory, unshakable.

I know what you are.

Spirit-raiser… diviner… light-bringer.

It had felt abstract then, something distant and strange. But now, spoken aloud by Wanda in this grimy bar, it solidified into a terrifying reality.

“Don’t call me that,” you managed to hiss, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Wanda stood now, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her composure cracked, and her anger bubbled over like a storm breaking. 

“You don’t understand what you’re carryin’,” she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. “You don’t know how to control or use it! Do you know how ungrateful you are? Holdin’ onto such power? It’s wasted potential, wasted on you. Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

The mention of Bucky’s name stung, the scorn in Wanda’s voice twisting the knife already lodged in your gut. It wasn’t just how she said it, dripping with mockery—it was the storm it unleashed within you. Bucky Barnes was a thorn lodged deep in your side, one you couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how hard you tried. You opened your mouth to snap back, but a sudden hush stopped you short.

The bar had gone eerily silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was on you, the tension thick as smoke. Even the bartender had paused mid-motion, his expression slack-jawed. Wanda’s words hung heavy in the air, especially one name: Smog Boys.

Your heart dropped. Of course, this was Iron Rat territory. Of course, the wrong ears would be listening.

Fear clawed at your chest, and you didn’t wait for them to act. You shoved past Wanda, her protests drowned out by your pulse pounding and stormed out into the smog-filled streets. 

Your thoughts spiralled as you made your way down the winding streets. This night was a mistake. This entire saga was a mistake.

You should have disappeared into the countryside when you had the chance. But you had stayed. And why? Because of Bucky Barnes? Because you had let yourself believe, for one stupid, vulnerable moment, that the man behind the brutality might see you as something more than a pawn?

Wanda’s mocking voice echoed in your ears. “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for clinging to the small moments of connection you thought you had shared with him. That flicker of warmth you thought you saw in his eyes? It had been a lie, or worse, a cruel trick to keep you in line.

Your thoughts raced, fear and anger warring within you. The Church of Light, your mother, the Smog Boys—your mother's burdens follow you more closely than you first realised. You were tired of running and being a pawn in everyone else’s game. It was a noose tightening around your neck. All this time, you’d thought you were free of it, that her choices wouldn’t define you. But now, it was clear.

They already had.

—

From the moment you’d left the bar, you knew they were following you. You felt it in the weight of their stares, in the scuff of boots behind you, in the way the streets seemed to close in tighter.

The Iron Rats weren’t subtle. They wanted you to know they were there.

You quickened your pace, ducking into side streets and weaving through narrow alleys, but the sound of their pursuit only grew louder. Panic clawed at your throat as you turned corner after corner, the labyrinth of Grimrow offering no sanctuary.

Ahead, the bridge over the Sootline loomed, its iron framework a skeletal silhouette against the hazy glow of gas lamps. Crossing it would bring you into Smog Boys territory, and though the idea of safety under Bucky’s rule left a bitter taste in your mouth, it was better than what awaited you here.

As you bolted across, the bridge groaned under your weight, its boards slick with soot and damp. The stench of the river below was overwhelming, a mix of rotting debris and chemicals that clung to the air. But you didn’t stop. When you reached the other side, you noticed the boundary. It wasn't marked by signs but by a change in the atmosphere—an unspoken rule. Here, the Iron Rats shouldn’t follow. Here, you were supposed to be safe.

But tonight, the rules didn’t seem to matter.

A shout rang out behind you, followed by the thunder of boots on the bridge. They were coming.

You didn’t have time to think, only to run, your breath ragged and your chest aching. The smog was thicker here, wrapping around you like a suffocatingly familiar embrace, but you pushed through, darting into an alley.

You didn’t see the fist until it collided with your jaw.

The impact sent you sprawling, your back slamming into the filthy cobblestones. Stars danced in your vision; before you could recover, they were on you.

Rough hands yanked you upright, shoving you against the alley wall. The cold stone bit into your back, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear twisting in your gut.

“What’d we‘ave ‘ere?” One of them sneered, “Little Smog Whore, all alone.”

“Thought crossin’ the bridge would save’ya?” another mocked, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Not tonight.”

The first punch landed in your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs into a choking gasp. You doubled over, but they didn’t give you a chance to recover. Another blow, this time to your ribs, sent you crumpled to the ground.

The cobblestones were cold and slick beneath you as you curled in on yourself, arms instinctively wrapping around your head. It didn’t matter. They kicked and stomped, their boots a relentless assault. Pain exploded in your side as something cracked—your ribs, maybe more.

You tried to scream, but the sound caught in your throat lost in the chaos of their laughter. One jeered, his voice distant and distorted, like you were underwater. You pressed your face to the filthy ground, the grit cutting into your skin as you tried to will yourself away from this moment. But the pain kept you rooted.

And through it all, your thoughts betrayed you.

Bucky Barnes. The Church of Light. Your mother.

Wanda’s words rang in your ears repeatedly: “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for staying, believing you could survive here, and thinking someone like Bucky might care. You should have fled the moment your mother passed. Staying in The Warrens had pushed fate to its limits and now you were suffering the consequences. 

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of shouting—new voices, deep and commanding.

“Fuckin’ Smog Boys,” one of the Iron Rats hissed.

Boots scrambled on cobblestones as your attackers scattered, the echoes of their retreating footsteps fading into the smog. You didn’t move. Not when the Smog Boys’ shadows passed over you, chasing the clatter of shoes further down the alley, the Iron Rats racing at break-neck speeds back to the Sootline.

You forced yourself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You dragged yourself upright with much effort, leaning heavily against the wall for support. The smog swallowed you as you stumbled away.

By the time you reached your home, the world was spinning, a disorienting blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step was a struggle, every breath shallow and sharp. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the fractured bones grinding against each other, each step sending a jagged edge of agony slicing through your chest. The dull throb in your face from the Iron Rat’s punch had blossomed into a searing ache, and the taste of blood lingered on your tongue. 

Your trembling hands fumbled with the door latch, and for a moment, you thought you wouldn’t even manage that. When the door finally creaked open, you didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of the smog following you in, curling around your battered body like an unwanted embrace.

The room was dark and cold, the air thick with the musty scent of soot and old wood. You didn’t bother lighting a lamp. Your knees buckled before you made it to the bed. Instead, you collapsed onto the floor in front of the fireplace, your body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. The sharp jolt of the impact stole what little breath you had left, and you stayed there, gasping, too weak to even cry.

A thin blanket was within arm’s reach, and you dragged it over yourself, your fingers clumsy and stiff. It wasn’t warm—barely large enough to cover you—but it was enough to cocoon yourself in, enough to pretend for a fleeting moment that you were safe. The fireplace was nothing but a blackened shell, its faint embers flickering. You stared at them anyway, your vision blurred.

The smog clung to your clothes and skin, thick and choking, settling in your lungs with every laboured breath. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. There was something strangely comforting in its suffocating presence as if it was all left of you now—a swirling, toxic reminder that you belonged to this broken city, and it to you.

Pain radiated through your body in waves. You were too broken to think about the wounds that needed tending, too shattered to consider the risk of infection or what damage had been done to your ribs. 

What a fool you’d been.

The tears finally came then, hot and bitter, spilling silently down your cheeks. You buried your face in the blanket, biting down on the fabric to stifle the sobs that threatened to shake your fragile body apart.

You wanted to move, feed the fire, and bring warmth and light back into the room. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you curled tighter into yourself, surrendering to the darkness. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend the smog wasn’t filling your lungs, almost pretend the world hadn’t left you broken and bleeding on the floor.

But no amount of pretending could quiet the truth. You were alone, and the city had won.

—

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, faint and cold. The air still smelled of smoke and smog, clinging to every surface of your home. You hadn't moved from your spot by the dying fire. Your body felt foreign—too heavy, too broken. The ache in your ribs was constant. You hadn't had the strength to tend to yourself, let alone address the mess of bruises and blood that painted your skin.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and then the door to your tiny flat was pushed open with a sharp squeal. It didn’t take long for the familiar sound of shoes against the creaky set of stairs to echo up the hall.

“Spirit-raiser.” A voice sliced through the stillness, a low growl of irritation. Natasha. “You missed your summons; Barnes has got me playin’ messenger again. Better be a good reason.”

You remained silent, unable to summon the energy to respond. Of course, Bucky would send Natasha to do his dirty work, too proud to face you himself. The blanket was wrapped around you tightly, your face hidden from her view. You could feel her eyes on you, the judgment heavy in the air. Her boots scraped against the floor as she moved further into the room.

“Spirit-raiser.” Natasha's call was sharp, accusatory, “Your wards were down; what were you expectin’? Barnes to turn up and just forgive you for missin’ the meetin’?”

She gave a scornful snort. “That’s not how any of this works, I thought you’d know that by now, witch.”

The silence stretched long, the weight of her disdain unbearable. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you slowly turned your head. Just enough for her to see the state you were in—your bruised face and the bloodied split in your swollen bottom lip.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over your form, and the contempt was gone for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. Her jaw tightened as she took in the sight. She didn’t rush to help you, but you could tell by how her eyebrow twitched that she was taken aback.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice flat but cold.

You looked away, avoiding her gaze. "Why would you care?"

Her lips twisted into a thin line. She took a step closer, her posture rigid. "You know why."

The world felt heavy around you, each breath a struggle. You didn't want to acknowledge that she only cared because of who you were to Bucky, not due to any worry for your well-being. Bucky’s pet fucking witch, injured. How would they banish the skeletons from their closet without their witch, chains, leash and all?

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, a forced shrug, which was then followed by a wince. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left to cling to.

"Of course, it matters," Natasha pressed, her voice growing sharper. "Who did it? Who the fuck did this to you? If it’s those Penance Boys again I swear to the gods—"

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t stand the thought of going back, of being dragged back into the suffocating web of the Smog Boys.

"I don't want anything to do with that family," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. You clutched the blanket tighter as if that would shield you from her questions, from everything else.

Natasha's lips curled in a sneer, a harsh laugh escaping her throat. She knew exactly what family you were referring to—the Barnes. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were cold, assessing. “You think you can just walk away from this?”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you thought they could. 

"You know I didn’t have a choice." Your voice cracked, and you barely recognised it as your own.

Natasha’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing her face before it hardened again. “I know,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing as she studied you.

You wanted to scream. In a vulnerable, fucked up way, you wanted to tell her everything—the truth, the pain, the defeat, about Wanda and the Church, about your confliction and entanglement with the Barnes siblings—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

She stood over you for a moment longer. Then, without another word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She didn’t offer help, didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t need to. 

She had said all that she wanted to say.

PART SIX