#mob boss fanfic

[mad-maximoff]

The Cast of QoW

(This casting is for my Wattpad novel Queenpin of Wales. Same username as it is here❤️)

Catherine Zeta-Jones as herself (obvi)

My OC Myla Blue Fehr

Bowen O’Brien is played by McConor McGregor

Kathy Fehr is played by Sarah Paulson

Brian Fehr is played by Brendan Fraser

Flynn Jones is played by Jaeden Martell

Pedro Pascal plays himself

Cate Blanchett plays herself

Svetlana Warshac played by Lana Del Rey

Elliot Fletcher plays himself

[eviesaurusrex]

ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴡɪꜱᴇʟʏ | ʙ. ʙᴀʀɴᴇꜱ

Mobster!Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: 5 incidents in which Bucky gets proven how lucky he is to have found you.

word count: 6.7k

warnings: MDNI, fluff, mobster typical themes, illusions to violence, more fluff, cursing, talks of marriage, starting a family etc., pregnancy, phantom pain, allusions to smutty time, slight dirty talk, my Google Translator skills for all things Russian, children, not perfetly proof-read

author’s note: Am I in my mobster era now? (Please don't try to strangle me when I butchered the Russian parts. I had only Google Translator as my trusty helper ;_; Dividers are made by @enchanthings-a and @strangergraphics!

Russian translations:

малышка (malyshka)—baby

милая (milaya)—darling

“Every day I wake up next to you, I pray to the gods and thank them for the love you give me. Every day I spend with you is more than I deserve. Every day I call myself lucky that you love me back, my dear. I love you more than anything in the world, more than the world, more than life itself. You are my everything. Thank you for making me the happiest man on this planet.”

“Should I stop telling you how good you feel around me? How good you take me? How perfect you look, all filled up with my cock and already pregnant with my baby?”

Привет, папочка (Privet, papochka)—Hello daddy

Привет, солнышко (Privet, solnyshko)—Hello sunshine

The first incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes—fearsome crime lord, bratva leader, king of New York City’s underworld—found himself in the aftermath of a crossfire after a deal gone south. His doctor had just arrived to check out the gunshot wounds littering his arm and shoulder, and in his opinion, everyone made too much of a fuss about it.

He was fine. He made it out with barely any scratches.

“Nine gunshots, only one bullet I have to remove. This is a new record, Mr. Barnes.”

… a few scratches; he had to give him that.

On the other hand, his entire left arm had been reduced to nothing but a pile of scrap metal, so perhaps Bucky had been hit rather badly if he took that into account. He wouldn’t because he had to be okay, invincible even. The world he was born into was a cruel one that reprimanded one’s weakness with downfall and despair, and he had to uphold the legacy that had been bestowed upon him the moment his father took his last dying breath in the same car crash that had taken his arm. He had people to protect—his associates, partners, workers, everyone that he considered friends or even family.

Topped by only one person, one woman, who sat above them all on a throne he had created for her right next to his. Not beneath him, not a step below—right fucking next to him.

Speaking of which… The commotion outside their bedroom sounded a lot like the whirlwind he deemed to be the love of his existence, and cursing above his breath, his eyes moved a second from the slightly opened door toward the doctor holding the single bullet between a pair of forceps.

“Don’t you dare step in my way.”

Her voice rushed like opium through his veins, making the mobster forget about the burning pain of holes inside his body.

“I can’t let you in there. Not now. The doctor is with him, you don’t want to see that,” Steve’s voice echoed through the hallway, probably stacked with high-towering security men. Just as high-towering as the blond was, and still, his girl did not show fear. No, not her. Never her.

A scoff was heard, and the physician beside him chuckled under his breath as he started to clean the wounds meticulously. Even Bucky showed a rare hint of emotion around other people than her when a grin parted his lips for a moment. “You’re his second. He is his doctor. I am his girlfriend. Think again if you want to continue standing in my way, Steve. I’m not above using brute force to get to him.”

Hearing that from a woman stopping not even close to all their eye levels would be laughable with any other person, but her? Everyone knew she would move heaven and hell in order to get wherever he was. He had learned this the hard way and would never dare leave her behind again, not when she demanded to tag along.

She really is a wonder.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he had spoken those words out loud, his mind starting to struggle with the blood loss and pain seeping deeper than necessary into him.

Shuffling before the door made the brunet open his eyes again. “Fucking hell, woman…” The hardwood door opened, and he could see the woman ruling his world without even starting to grasp the extent of her power over him, turning toward his second in command. “I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, Rogers,” she spoke sweetly before she finally turned, her eyes immediately finding him on their shared bed.

Worry creased her forehead, brows deeply furrowed, eyes jumping from his shoulder to his injured arm, then right to the one missing. Without another heartbeat, she rushed through the grand but still cozy room, showcasing her taste because Bucky had let her redecorate this entire fucking house as soon as she had agreed to move in with him—after much persuasion on his part. He wouldn’t have given a fuck if she would’ve decided to paint every single wall a screaming yellow if it would’ve made her happy.

“Hey, милая.” His raspy voice from all the shouting broke a bit at the signature endearment for her, and he wished to reach a hand out to her, but the lack of his arm was jarringly apparent. So all he could do was watch her carefully settling down onto her side of the bed, scooting over the mattress, a warm, soft hand cupping his cheek while the pad of her thumb started to caress his cheekbone. “Hey, love,” she returned the greeting with a smile, worried gaze flicking to Dr. Strange. “How bad is it? And don’t you dare try to sugarcoat me like Sam bloody tried on our way here. I do possess eyes, you see that, right?”

Dr. Strange nodded while preparing the stitching material. “I have removed one bullet from his shoulder. Nine shots in total. I’ve cleaned them and will stitch them as soon as the anesthetic takes effect.” Bucky could see her nodding at the doctor’s explanation and tried to nuzzle closer into the palm of her hand. “Milaya?” She finally looked down on him. “I’m okay, ‘promise. They busted m’arm, though.”

His words turned slurred, slowly but steadily, and he focused on her soft smile that was always entirely reserved for him and baby kittens. He could live with that sort of competition.

“We will talk later, but I promise I’ll take a look at your arm, and in case there isn’t anything left to save, I’ll make you a new one, James.” She pressed a gentle, loving kiss to his sweat-covered forehead. “Now relax, my love. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Her voice echoed in his ears when the drugs finally kicked in, clinging to the sound of her.

Yes, he had been smart enough to ignore his stupid rule of not letting anyone get closer than necessary. She proved him right every damn time.

The second incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was on a regular day in December. Snow fell softly outside the grand brownstone they had chosen to spend the holidays at rather than the house outside the city. His girl had wanted to finally spend Christmas in the buzzing city again, and he had ordered their things packed and moved within a blink of an eye.

Now, everyone enjoyed their little piece of heaven surrounded by their families. Yelena and Natasha had returned to Russia for the holidays, Steve spent time with his own wife, while Sam had decided to go south to see his parents and check in with a few associates while he was already there.

Meanwhile, the feared bratva mobster, leader of the darkest pits of New York’s underworld, watched his girlfriend-soon-to-be-fiancée add a few more pieces they had picked up at Tiffany’s today to their Christmas tree, humming to the soft tunes of an old record wafting through the living room. His blue eyes, usually so menacing and threatening, rested with a loving expression on the woman he had sworn to protect with his life, one arm thrown over the back of the comfy couch he had spent a fortune on—but his queen fell in love with it at first sight and couldn’t find anything better suiting. Not that she had to. The shining black Centurion Card had been pulled out of the inside pocket of his black suit jacket the second Bucky had seen that look on her face.

He would buy her anything in this world, spoiling her rotten until she’d drown in pretty things.

“I think we need more lights,” she stated in a mumble, almost to herself, before turning toward him. “Don’t we? We need more lights, yes.” And so it was decided, and he smiled at her turning back when she started to roam through the red holiday box to find the last remaining string of colorful fairy lights. “No, wait.” Lifting a dark brow, the man watched her reach for the small package he had eyed since they’ve returned instead, all wrapped prettily and neatly.

Scooting across the soft carpet toward where he sat, his girl smiled up at him, holding the small present out to him before folding her hands over his muscular thigh, waiting patiently. “It’s not your Christmas present, but I saw it and… and I needed to do this. To have something for our tree.”

Their first real tree as a couple. The past three years, they had been too busy during the holiday season, barely being at home, not to mention the little time they would’ve had to go out, find a tree, and decorate it, so it would be appreciated as it deserved. This year, however, Bucky craved the comforts of their home, and he wanted to start collecting memories like this.

He bent over to her, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, hand cupping her cheek tenderly, the little gift almost vanishing in the vastness of his hands. “Thank you, моя милая.” How in all the hells had he become so lucky in finding this woman who now grinned up at him with unabashed happiness? “Open it! Open it already!” And he obliged, feeling giddy himself as she almost bounced on her knees, unwrapping the small box and opening the lid to reveal a perfectly crafted snowflake ornament, a picture of them together in Central Park during the worst snowstorm the city had witnessed in over a decade placed inside the clear crystal. Their smiling faces, almost hidden behind scarves and beanies, angled to one another, her lips pressing a snow-filled kiss to the corner of his smiling lips.

It was perfect.

She was perfect.

Gods be damned, but in that moment, when his eyes found hers again, he felt the overwhelming urge to drop down on his knees and ask for a lifetime together. But he wouldn’t. He had it all planned out, and he used to stick to his plans. He was patient beyond compare, but not when it involved this woman before him. So instead of caving to this sensation, Bucky carefully placed the crystal snowflake onto the coffee table in front of him and pulled his girl up into his lap in one smooth motion, wrapping her in his strong arms, fingers—both flesh and metal—tangling in soft strands of hair or gripping the soft black fabric of the hoodie she wore which once belonged to him.

“Каждый день я просыпаюсь рядом с тобой, молюсь богам и благодарю их за любовь, которую ты мне даришь. Каждый день, который я про��ожу с тобой, больше, чем я заслуживаю. Каждый день я называю себя счастливчиком, что ты любишь меня в ответ, моя дорогая. Я люблю тебя больше всего на свете, больше мира, больше самой жизни. Ты — мое все. Спасибо, что сделал меня самым счастливым человеком на этой планете, малышка,” Bucky rasped in Russian with his forehead pressed to hers and eyes intimately locked, watching the shy smile he loved so dearly spreading on her lips and making her eyes twinkle.

“I don’t know if you have insulted me just now, proclaimed your undying love for humble me, or started the dirty talk earlier than usual, but either way, I don’t mind.” Her fingers wrapped around his chin to pull his face closer to hers, lips touching when she added in a breathless whisper, “It sounded hot, so keep talking dirty to me, love.”

Giggling, his girl accepted the tender kisses of chapped lips to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her lips. He felt the uncomfortable pull on his skin again when Bucky smiled at her, his split lip still not entirely healed after a punch he couldn’t dodge in time. Under her care, it will have vanished until next week when the photographer planned to take a few pictures for their first Christmas postcards.

Bucky still struggled to grasp how his life had turned in that particular manner. He never thought he’d be one for domesticity and familiar bliss, but with her?

He was all in.

The third incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was when James Buchanan Barnes, invincible mob boss, returned home in the dead of night in a frantic temper, his entourage strolling behind him, accepting his orders with grave faces and solemn nods.

“Don’t let him out of your fucking sight. Track him as soon as he leaves his godforsaken home, track him inside his own walls, hell, track when he takes a piss. I don’t fucking care!” His booming voice echoed through the foyer, and with another deep growl, he handed his weapons to Sam; two remained in the holster, hugging his broad shoulders. He wouldn’t take them off, not until the threat was decimated under his foot. “We’ll do a 24/7 surveillance on him, boss. He won’t come near her,” Steve promised, knowing damn well what would happen to all of their heads if they couldn’t protect her.

Bucky bared his teeth in disgust. “You better not fuck this up, Steve.” This would be his first and only warning, and the blond knew that, so he nodded and retreated into his office, knowing damn well that sleep would be nothing but a pleasant memory for a while—he wouldn’t be alone, though. Everyone knew how their boss got when his queen was threatened by others. Those threats had already started to grow in numbers as soon as the underworld learned of their engagement, and outsiders trying everything to get in and on good graces with certain families smelled a quick victory.

How wrong they were in those foolish assumptions.

Sam watched his boss almost anxiously while he desperately tried to cool off, fists pressed against the pretty surface of a pretty sideboard she had most definitely chosen.

“I will kill him. I’ll kill them all if I have to.”

At Bucky’s deep rumble, Sam could only hum in agreement. He would be right at his back, killing all who wanted to harm anyone he cared for, especially those inside this building.

“I could reach out to our associates in Louisiana, get some more backup and gunpower. There’s this kid who’s a marvel with tech. Maybe he can come up with a discreet solution for the in-house surveillance,” Sam suggested, knowing damn well how excited Parker would be when he finally allowed him to tag along, currently bored out of his brilliant mind at college. Bucky looked up and over his shoulder, icy blue eyes resting on one of his best men—and friend. But the creaking above their heads let him pause in his answer, and both men stared up the stairs, knowing who eavesdropped at the railing.

Bucky sighed deeply. “We need to work on your stealth skills, малышка,” he spoke up and waited for her steps to pick up and for her to shuffle down the stairs. She did in a pair of cozy yoga pants, a large hoodie hanging on her form—the one he had worn before changing into his suit this morning—and fluffy socks with reindeer and candy canes printed all over them, her hair wrapped in a messy bun on the top of her head, strands framing her face. In her arms throned a king amongst pets, and white fur littered the soft fabric of his hoodie where she held Alpine close to her chest.

His heart ached at the sight of her in the best possible way.

Her eyes wide with worry—not for herself, but for him and all his men—jumped between Sam and himself as she reached the second to last step and waited there.

“I didn’t mean to, but… I heard voices and thought you’d come home, but then I heard everyone talking and it was kind of too late to go back to bed anyway, so I figured I could… learn a bit.” Bucky started softly shaking his head, his outgrowing hair tickling his cheeks. “You meant eavesdropping, малышка. That’s the word you’re looking for here,” he deadpanned, and one corner of his mouth slightly lifted at the sound of her quiet laugh, her fingers comfortingly petting the white fluff ball currently purring at the attention and headbutting her hand for more.

With another sigh, he stepped up to the stairs, raising his gaze to his all-ruling queen, and he felt the tension in his shoulders slightly disappear when her hand came up to his neck and rested there comfortingly, fingers playing with the soft strands of his dark hair. “I’ll be alright, James,” she whispered, and he wasn’t sure how she could say that with such certainty when not even he felt so sure. “We’ll be alright, I just know it. Nothing and no one will keep me from you, from becoming your wife and living a very happy life with the man I love more than anything in this world, giving him the cutest fur babies and children the world has ever seen.” Bucky sucked in a breath, and after gently putting down Alpine, he pulled his soon-to-be wife in a bone-crushing hug, wrapping her legs around his hips with ease. “We will live until we turn old and grey and can look back at all the memories we made along the way, annoying our children and grandkids with endless, embarrassing stories,” she continued to whisper against the soft, tattooed skin of his neck and yes, he could see all that and more, too.

It was easy with her to picture this picture-perfect life—and he would do anything to make it a reality. He wouldn’t stop at murder and anarchy, not when it came to her.

So when he slightly turned to Sam with his woman in his arms, ready to put her back to bed, he only needed to mouth the words, and it was done.

Do it.

The fourth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was during one of those forsaken nights.

He woke with a startle and a groan escaping him involuntarily, the dark bedroom embracing him, a soft, warm body tucked into the expanse of his back, slow breathing fanning across his heated skin. His hand shot up with another groan leaving him, cupping the stump where once had been an arm, feeling the same agonizing pain he had felt in that car all those years ago, almost bleeding to death after a rivaling family had tried to kill them all off.

Unfortunately, he had survived—and the revenge had been brutal the moment he had recovered enough to go on a killing spree.

Trying to breathe through the crashing sensations, Bucky tried to move as quietly and carefully as possible, not wanting to wake the woman sleeping peacefully beside him because she needed all the rest she could humanely get. But the pain was blinding, the feeling of warm blood flowing down his skin so real, he could’ve sworn there was still an arm to lose, and his fucking legs were still tangled in the damn blanket!

With a frustrated huff, the mobster tried to just roll out of bed in a desperate attempt, not minding falling face-first to the floor, but the blanket didn’t budge, and suddenly, an arm snaked across his waist, and a warm hand rested on his muscular abdomen.

“D’not go…”

The sleepy mumble pierced through the agony, and usually, Bucky always obliged to his wife’s every demand, but not now. Not this time. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t crumble in front of her. She needed him to be strong and capable. He had to protect her and the little plum. He couldn’t show weakness, not even in the comforts of their own home. Word would get out, the pit of New York City would smell blood, they would come and kill her in front of his very eyes, make him watch when the life would vanish from her breathtaking eyes, taunting him, before they would end his life as well, releasing him into the bliss of afterlife where he would search for her, and—….

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”

Her voice, now sounding more awake and aware, startled and pulled him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he could feel the mattress dip and move when she sat up and scooted closer to him. “Hey…” A soothing hand started to rub over his back. “Talk to me, love. C’mon, handsome, I can only help when I know what’s bothering you to such an unholy hour.” Her teasing made him almost smile—almost. But the pain returned in full force, and his hand gripped his shoulder even tighter.

“Phantom pain. It’s nothing I can’t handle, malyshka. Go back to sleep, you need it,” he rumbled quietly, his legs finally escaping the trap that was their blanket, and the man sat up, feet hitting the floor. He attempted to get up in order to leave her to the quietness of their room, but his wife had nothing the like on her mind. She held him back and scooted off the bed. “Stay. I’ll be right back.” Blinking into the dim light of her bedside table, he reached for her and tried to get up. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Go back to—”

She shushed him gently and pressed a finger to his lips. “I said Stay. I mean it.” With that, his woman granted him a serious glance before she patted into the adjacent bathroom, one hand cradling her already quite prominent bump, and all Bucky could hear was rummaging sounds in their cabinets and a quiet mumbling.

“Your papa is a handful sometimes, little one. Prepare yourself because I need you in my corner, okay? Okay.”

Smiling through the irritating pain, the mobster waited for her to return and watched her closely when she finally left the bathroom and patted back to their bed, a bottle of lotion in her hand. “You think you need the mirror, love?” Bucky glanced at the full-length mirror in their walk-in closet shrouded in darkness and decided with a soft shake of his head. “Maybe later if it’s not getting any better,” he mumbled in defeat, accepting the loving kisses pressed to his right temple and lips. “Just let me know, yeah?” He nodded at her request, and blue eyes watched her like a hawk when she settled right next to him, on the side of his missing arm, a squirt of lotion already between her soft hands warming it up.

“I told you to wake me up if it’s happening again,” his wife scolded him quietly, her incredible hands massaging the hurting stump of his shoulder. At first, it hurt like hell, but the more she kneaded and caressed, the more bearable it got. “You need your rest, milaya,” he returned with a lingering glance down her form, eyes equally heavy with worry and love when they settled on the little bump he had grown to love so dearly, it almost hurt.

Bucky felt her eyes on him in return and opened his arm when she stopped what she was doing to climb into his inviting lap, straddling him comfortably. Taking his hand into hers, she pushed the warm skin of her husband under his shirt she wore to sleep and placed his palm right on top of the soft curve before continuing.

“Not more than you need it, too. You’re running the mob empire, not me.” Her voice reminded him softly, and he let his forehead fall onto her shoulder, eyes closed, thumb caressing the warm skin of her bump, hoping, praying, he would feel something, anything. But according to all the books he had read so far, it would take a few more weeks until he could feel the slight movements their child did inside his wife. “And you’re growing a whole fucking human,” Bucky returned and got shushed again. “Watch your language, Barnes. I don’t want their first word to be anything obscene.”

But she couldn’t fool him. He heard her smile in the scolding.

A comfortable silence settled between them, then, reminding Bucky yet again why he had felt so good around her the second she had walked into that room in the hospital, only raising a brow at the sight of six buffed men clad in black suits, armed with more guns than one human could possibly need, and him sitting in the middle of it all—disheveled, still hurting, ice cold. She had smiled, wearing those ridiculous blue scrubs, and he had spotted a splash of blood on her light grey sneakers when she had come closer, pointing it out in almost something resembling disgust. Still, she only had rolled her pretty eyes at the pitiful attempt of an insult.

She hadn’t given a single fuck about those intimidating men—including him—all towering multiple heads above her, tattooed, guns always visible, the rough Russian language floating through the room occasionally. And he had respected her for that, even though he didn’t bother to be nice at first. In hindsight, Bucky would’ve earned a beating from his mother if she had been still alive. She had raised him better than treating a beautiful, kind, intelligent, and compassionate woman like he had initially treated her. But after a while, Bucky had felt how she had snaked her way into his thoughts, catching himself repeatedly thinking about her over the course of his day, starting to anticipate the next appointment to get his prosthetic measured, built, and adjusted, always looking forward to seeing her face.

She hadn’t given a flying fuck either when he finally revealed who he was and what he did, only cocking her head to the side in question and asking him, “Will you or one of your guys kill me after our time is over?” And when he had shook his head, denying those thoughts, she had smiled brightly, before turning back to the prosthetic arm she had crafted for him. “Then we don’t have a problem. Everyone has to earn their money somehow, James.” That was also the first time anyone had called him by that name since his parents had died, and he had fallen for her right then and there, ready to kneel at her feet and surer as hell that he would make her his queen.

“Don’t count on that, malyshka. Everyone around here is using filthy language, and do I need to remind you of certain… situations where the little plum currently has to listen in? Or do you want me to stop? Мне перестать говорить тебе, как хорошо ты себя чувствуешь рядом со мной? Как хорошо ты меня принимаешь? Как идеально ты выглядишь, вся заполненная моим членом и уже беременная моим ребенком?” He felt the pain slowly but steadily subside under her knowing and well-versed hands, feeling them stop in their magic as the huskily whispered Russian words flowed effortlessly over his lips, feeling her squirm in his lap.

Leaning slightly back in order to have a better look at his face, his wife bit her lower lip, making now the feared bratva leader squirm underneath her, his hand protectively pressed into her lower back, not daring to let her fall off of him. “You are a very evil man, James Barnes,” she hummed with almost a purring edge to her voice, making him grin as cocky as possible. “You married the worst of the bunch, malyshka—and you like it. You can’t hide it, not from me, never from me. Not when I’m balls-deep it that deliciously tight…—” Her lips pressing against his made him moan deep in his throat and stop taking altogether. Forgotten was the pain of the past. It still bothered him, somewhere in the back of his mind, but her scent, her taste, the feeling of his wife against him made him forget about it.

The past was the past, and now, only the present and the future held importance to him.

Lifting her with one arm with ease, the mobster carefully moved her to the middle of their bed, hovering above her and watching her pretty face with a loving gaze. “You’re my everything,” he dared to whisper. “You both are.” He felt her hands cupping his face tenderly as if he wasn’t the killer everyone feared across the East Coast as if he was something precious even though he was broken beyond repair. “And you are ours, Bucky.” She kissed his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his lips, and his left shoulder without disgust, without apprehension, but with deeply felt love.

As if he was perfect the way he was.

The fifth incident that proved him to have chosen wisely when following his heart for the first time in his life was after a business trip to Sicily that had taken too long for his liking, even though the business was good and the newly knitted connections invaluable. But it had made him leave his family for far too long than humanly tolerable, not even the many FaceTime calls had eased the sting in his heart.

“Make sure Enzo receives the gift for his wife and put a little something for him inside as well. Perhaps the Yamazaki Single Malt?” The 55-year-old whisky sure would make a fine gift for the young leader of the Sicilian Mafia, remembering an evening here and there when both men had shared a glass of scotch.

Steve walked beside him as they left the car and made their way over the sidewalk and behind the gate of the old brownstone in the best area in New York City. The cherry trees along the road were in full bloom, and the spring breeze was pleasant enough that the Barnes considered taking them all out for a day in Central Park. Work could wait after two weeks away from them. “Sure thing, Buck. I’ll call Stark to get a bottle,” the blond nodded and opened the door for his boss after walking up the stairs before entering the family home as well, happy sounds wafting through the air already.

Bucky visibly relaxed when he heard his family without a phone between them and handed Steve the concealed guns. They had made a rule for the house, and everyone obliged happily because everyone had been wrapped around their little fingers since the day they were born.

And no one would dare to go against Mrs. Barnes.

“I don’t want to be disturbed for the next couple of weeks, so handle everything and only bother me with situations that need my explicit attention,” was the last order the mobster could get out before the sound of small feet erupted from the living room and barreling toward the foyer.

“Papa!”

“Dada! No, waits for meeee! Annie, pwease! Mommyyyy!”

Bucky laughed as his eldest rounded the corner in full sprint, her little legs carrying her as fast they could, and the tall brunet crouched down to catch her little body. The little girl, resembling so much his wife, looked at his face with bright eyes, hands pressing against his cheeks and squishing them with an adorable chuckle.

“Привет, папочка,” she greeted him shyly, stumbling over her sounds and pronunciations, but Bucky kissed her little cheeks with such enthusiasm that her insecurities vanished in an instant. “Привет, солнышко,” the father returned with a kiss to her forehead and watched the questioning expression morphing onto his daughter’s face. Her tongue poked out between her lips, eyes wandering to the ceiling, brows drawn together in concentration—just like his wife. But then, she looked at him again, leaning closer as if she wanted to conspire with him. “What does that mean, papa? Yelena didn’t teach me that word yet,” she whispered, and Bucky laughed again, feeling almost crushed by the happiness he felt at that moment. “It means sunshine, my sunshine.” It made her smile as brightly as the sun outside the windows before she waved at Steve. “Hi, Uncle Stevie. You can go now. Papa is mine; you can have him back in… a long time.”

Nodding to underline her case, the almost six-year-old looked expectantly at his second in command, and Bucky turned with her still in his arms, looking just as expectantly as her. “You heard the little lady, Steve. Off you go,” he teased, and the blond shook his head with a smile, bowing before them. “As you wish, Princess Anastasia.” The girl huffed and showed the blond giant her tongue. “It’s Anya, Uncle Stevie! You always forget!” Chuckling, Steve took her hand and shook it apologetically. “You are right; my apologies, princess. Enjoy your time with your father.”

And with that, he left for his office, leaving the two in the foyer when they heard another set of steps.

“Anya, next time, wait for your brother, please,” Mrs. Barnes scolded the little girl gently, a smile on her lips and the little boy on her arm. His son nodded, holding his stuffed bunny at its long ears. “Yesh, waits for me, Annie! Dada!” More excitement echoed through the home as the small boy started to wiggle in her arms, and Bucky rushed over to her, catching Elijah before he could plop out of her embrace. “Careful, little troublemaker,” he laughed and held him with his other arm, hearing Anya scoff quietly. He threw his wife a questioning look, and in return, she only rolled her eyes at their children, softly shaking her head and taking Anya to her.

“They had a… falling out earlier.” Anya scoffed again as if her mother understated the entire ordeal, wanting to be put back on her feet, and hugged her mother’s hips closely. Elijah leaned his head against Bucky’s shoulder, bunny pressed tightly into his chest, watching his sister. “He ruined my homework! Miss Pepper said she’s suuuuuper excited for my solar system model, and then, papa, Eli just banged his stupid bunny on it!” Angry tears gathered in her eyes, almost rolling down her pretty face. His youngest looked positively undisturbed as he watched his sister unraveling over her homework, and Bucky sighed.

“Bunny s’not shtupid. Annie’s plant-… plants-… planets! Annie’s planets looks ugly, dada. Not pretty like mommy,” Elijah stated with confidence, making the tears finally spill over Anya’s cheeks. “I hate you! You’re not my little brother anymore!” And with that, the little girl pulled away from the soothing hands of her mother, almost tumbling over the stairs as she ran upstairs, a loud bang echoing through the house when she closed her door with force.

Another sigh escaped Bucky and his wife alike, both parents looking down at their little boy who started to chew on his bunny’s ear. “Honey, that wasn’t very nice to say,” she reprimanded her son and took him from Bucky when he stretched his little chubby arms toward his mother, keeping a hand on his little back. “Annie is sads?” She nodded and kissed the dark mob of hair her son had inherited from his father, just like the blue of his eyes. “She’s upset, baby, yes. We will give her a moment to calm down before we’re going upstairs to apologize, yes?”

Elijah nodded with tears in his eyes, and the father couldn’t hold back, so he gently cupped his youngest head and pressed a lingering kiss onto the wild dark curls. “Can me and bunny asks Miss Melina fors cookies?” Smiling, she pressed a kiss to his cheek before putting him onto his small feet. “But only one, baby!” He was already on his way, chanting for cookies.

In an instant, Bucky pulled his wife into his arms, capturing her lips with his, a rumbling moan escaping him at the taste and feel of her. “Two fucking weeks are too long, malyshka,” he stated with another lingering kiss, fingers tangled in her hair. “Tell me about it. Try to manage two kids who switch between being the bestes of friends and each other’s enemy number one multiple times a day.” Taking her in more closely, Bucky could see the dark circles under her eyes and the tight muscles around her lips. His thumb swept across the dark circles, and his lips followed to kiss them better. “I’m so sorry, milaya,” he murmured with another kiss to her forehead and felt her hand hitting him against the back of his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You had to be there, and we had to stay here with school for Anya and Eli’s first day at kindergarten. We managed. I wouldn’t mind if you take over bedtime duty for a while, though.”

Bucky grinned happily at the prospect of spending time with his kids, feeling the love only a father could feel coursing through his body. “Of course, love. We’ll get you something nice on our stroll over Fifth and let the kids play in Central Park while you enjoy a book, alright? I’ll pick up a few new bedtime stories as well, so you will not even be remotely needed and can enjoy bath after bath. Would that make my wife happy?” Sighing, she leaned heavily against him, gathering strength through his strong body supporting the weight resting on her shoulders during the worst and most exhausting days—which they have had many in the past two weeks. “Sounds lovely. But don’t you dare spend a fortune on me again!” Her warning was unnecessary because Bucky would spend a fortune on his wonderful wife, and she knew that as well. “Please,” he chuckled and pressed another heated kiss to her lips, his fingers cupping her chin tenderly. “I’ll buy whatever you want, milaya. Perhaps we could even get something for us.”

He loved his wife in pretty clothes, but he loved her especially dearly in pretty lingerie he had no qualm of ripping off her gorgeous body the second she’d appear before him, reducing the masterfully crafted pieces to lacy shreds on their bedroom floor. The first time he did that, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to pull her to bed, receiving a scolding he had gotten the last time, probably as a boy. She had been royally pissed at his antics, mourning the pretty set she had bought for their first night together. The next day, she received a delivery of all the pieces she had eyed at the shops and saved online, making her closet filled with more lingerie than a regular woman would need in her entire life.

Only that she wasn’t a regular woman with a regular man. He could buy her anything and in any quantity possible, so he wasn’t one to hold back when the urge to see this goddess of a woman naked made him growl and impatient—and even a tad jealous of the fabric touching her skin instead of his hands and lips.

“You are the worst of the bunch, Barnes. Seriously.” Exasperated, she looked up at him, her cheeks warming under his touch, and Bucky nodded with a serious expression. “I am insatiable when it comes to you, malyshka. And you thrive on the power you have over me.” Eye-rolling, she shook her head again, winding out of his arms and smacking his ass with a teasing smile. “Stop being a seventeen year old horndog and move your sexy backside up to your daughter. She’ll listen to you more than me after two weeks filled with my constant presence. I’ll see what I can save from her project, and stopping Elijah from munching on too many cookies…”

The last part was barely a mumble, already distracted by whatever thought wandered through her beautiful mind, and Bucky watched her retreating back with a smile before shrugging out of his suit jacket. Throwing it over the stair railing, he made his way to his eldest’s room, softly knocking at the door littered with pictures and posters of her favorite animals and characters—he could even see the remnants of a glitter pen—and knew how lucky he could count himself when he was allowed to enter his sunshine’s room.

He had the perfect wife, two healthy, wonderful children, and had found happiness despite the way his life had taken.

He had indeed chosen wisely.

author's note: Tysm for reading my silly little writing. As usual: likes, reblogs, and comments are so much appreciated! I love to read your thoughts <3

[morcez]

You should probably be ashamed of your current situation but here you are, sitting on your boss's lap on his desk chair, making out like you two are the last people on earth. One hand rests on the small of your back while his other huge hand is cupping your cheek. His huge office is empty with the only sound being faint echos of your lips smacking and shuffling of bodies. His kisses were slow and passionate, it felt like you were on a romantic honeymoon kissing your true love and not a whore secretary making out with her hot boss. Amid your euphoria, he pulls back in a hurry.

“Shit.” He says “My meeting.”

You look at him with wide eyes. You forgot the reason you were in his office was to remind him that he has a meeting with new employers. You laugh at his appearance. your lipstick smeared all over his lips, hair ruffled, tie loose, collar on his shirt lifted up and his glasses crooked on his face.

“What’s so funny?” he asks raising a skeptical brow. “You don’t look so great either.” smirk written on his face.

He was right. You hair was messed up, your clothes were wrinkled and there was a big purple mark that he had left on your neck. You grab a tissue off his desk and start to wipe the lipstick from his face.

“I guess we’re even then.” you say

“whatever you say baby.” 

You grab his jaw, turning it ever which way in order to scrub the lipstick off his face. His beautiful eyes lock with yours, making you lose any self control you had left. You give him peck on the lips out of admiration.

“You know what princess?” He ask

“Hm?” You hum in response 

“fuck that meeting.”

Characters: Arataka Reingen, Kento Nanami, Hiromi Higuruma, Erwin Smith, Sir Nigheye, Loid Forger ( all i can think of for rn)

[vanteguccir]

── ୨୧ !　HER WEAKNESS

matt sturniolo x mafia!reader

SUMMARY: Where Matt's secret relationship with Y/N, the boss of LA's most feared mafia, is revealed to the media in seconds. Now, Matt is in danger, and Y/N isn't afraid of burning the world down to protect him.

WARNING: Use of guns, car racing, blood, injuries, mean!reader ('hate the world but love him' trope), mentions of death, dark romance.

REQUESTED?: No.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is MY idea and work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"! | English isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I'm super into this trope of famous!matt x mafia!reader, and I want to write more for it, so feel free to send requests for scenarios inside this universe <3

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

Looking back, it was hard for Matt to remember a time when his life wasn’t full with the kind of fear that made him look over his shoulder every five minutes.

It wasn’t the kind of fear born out of paranoia, no, Matt wasn’t paranoid. He was just aware. Aware that being the boyfriend of Y/N Y/L/N, the most notorious name in Los Angeles, came with its own set of risks. Risks that loomed like shadows, thick and suffocating, creeping into every corner of his existence.

Becoming her boyfriend had been as exhilarating as it was terrifying. Y/N wasn’t just anyone. She was the Y/N Y/L/N, the Queen of Los Angeles, a woman whose name was whispered in hushed tones, whose reputation alone was enough to make the strongest men cry. She wasn’t just the boss of a mafia; she was the boss. Every move she made sent quakes through her world, her presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure.

To the rest of the world, she was the devil. But to him? She was something else entirely.

Matt often found himself thinking about the contradictions of their relationship. There was no point in explaining the downsides of being with someone like her; even with the constant threat of danger, the late nights spent waiting for her to come back to him, the uneasy knowledge that she ruled a world where mercy was a foreign concept, all of it came with the territory. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Because Y/N, for all her sharp edges and lethal reputation, treated him as if he was the one ruling. She hated the world, but she loved him. And not just him, his brothers, too. By extension, Chris and Nick had become part of her orbit, and she cared for them in a way that left Matt awestruck.

She always put him first, ensuring that he never wanted for anything, that he was shielded from the worst of her world even as he stood at its edge.

Her kindness to him came in forms, both small and extravagant. Expensive gifts appeared without occasion - jewelry that gleamed under the light, tailored suits he’d never wear unless dragged to one of her events, a vintage drum he’d only dreamed of owning. Once, she’d surprised him with a trip to Paris, casually booking an entire penthouse suite as though it were nothing. It baffled him sometimes, the lengths she went to just to see him happy.

She treated him like he was the most important person in her world, and maybe he was. He felt it in the way she looked at him, her eyes softening in a way they never did for anyone else. He felt it in the way her hand would linger on his arm, in the whispered words she saved just for him. With her, he wasn’t the Matt Sturniolo, one of the triplets that made worldwide success. He was hers.

Still, there were moments when the weight of her world pressed down on him, moments when the reality of who she was and what she did became impossible to ignore. Her enemies weren’t nameless shadows; they were people with resources and vendettas, people who wouldn’t hesitate to affect her, no matter how.

It was late at night, and Chris was sprawled on the couch, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest, the other propped against the coffee table. The glow of his phone illuminated his face, basking in the steady stream of comments that flooded his Instagram live.

"Yo, what’s up, everybody?" He drawled, the words slithering out while a grin painted his face. "Where’s Matt and Nick?"

He paused, scratching his stubbled jaw.

"Nick’s upstairs, probably editing our next video. And Matt? He’s over there being my personal maid."

The front camera changed its focus abruptly, revealing the kitchen in all its warm, domestic glow. Behind the table, Matt stood hunched over a cutting board, his movements clumsy as he sliced through a pile of vegetables, ready to make simple sandwiches for them.

Without missing a beat, Matt flipped him off, his voice a low, exasperated rumble.

"Chris, shut up."

The live chat erupted with reactions and comments. What Chris didn’t notice - but the viewers certainly did - was the figure walking from Matt's bedroom toward the kitchen - or, more specifically, toward the middle triplet.

Y/N moved silently, her steps deliberate, her presence commanding despite the casual simplicity of her appearance. Black sweatpants clung to her legs, and an oversized shirt - Matt's shirt - draped her frame, covering the gun holster that held her black Glock; an intentional option of indifference, one that she only used when she was at his house. But her eyes betrayed her.

They were sharp, focused entirely on Matt as if he were the center of her universe - only traveling briefly to Ricardo and Lucas, her bodyguards who stood like brick walls at the top of the stairs that lead to the main entrance, watching over them like hawks.

They were always the ones who Y/N chose to follow her when she went to the triplets house, since both of them were the best at treating the brothers as 'normal' as possible, and not like people who were under extreme protection 24/7.

Just as Chris turned the camera back to himself, Y/N reached Matt, her arms encircling his waist in a gesture that spoke volumes. Matt didn’t flinch - he never did when it came to her - but his body softened, the rigid lines of his shoulders easing as a faint smile ghosted across his lips.

It was nice to have her close.

"Hey." He murmured, his voice a private sanctuary meant only for her.

"Hi." She replied, her tone quiet but rich with adoration. Her guard lowered just enough for a hint of vulnerability to escape.

"You okay?" Matt asked, tilting his head slightly, his knife pausing its steady rhythm against the cutting board.

"Always." She answers, ignoring the way her voice showed the weight of a day that had pushed her to her limits. "Missed' you today. So fucking much." She moved her body slightly, searching for more skin to skin contact - no matter their clothes, ignoring the way Matt shivered when her covered gun pressed against his lower back.

"... going to feed me good, obviously." Chris joked from behind them, oblivious to the intimacy unfolding mere feet away.

Matt tuned him out, his focus narrowing to the woman resting against him. Her forehead pressed into his shoulder, and her breathing slowed, each exhale a quiet surrender. In his arms, she allowed herself to just exist, an escape from the chaos of her world.

The fragile peace shattered as a ringtone erupted from the hallway, its shrill insistence cutting through the air like a blade.

Her body tensed immediately, her muscles locking as if bracing for an unseen attack.

"Your phone." Matt whispered, his tone calm but underlined with an edge of concern.

"I don’t want to get it." She muttered, her reluctance heavy.

"It might be important." He pressed gently, his words carrying a logic she couldn’t ignore.

She sighed, frustration and resignation mingling as she withdrew from his warmth. She had already spent the whole day dealing with imbeciles who thought that owing her was a good idea. Her mind was in no right place to deal with more problems.

The absence of his touch felt immediate, a cold void where safety had been moments before. Her fingers brushed lightly against his back as she stepped away, a silent promise that she’d return.

Matt caught her gaze as she moved toward the bedroom, his eyes steady and reassuring, a quiet affirmation that he’d be waiting, always.

The sound of the ringtone grew louder as she neared the door.

The muffled sound of Chris's voice was grounding, but it suddenly turned distant, irrelevant, as her gaze locked onto the glowing device vibrating against Matt’s nightstand.

Raphael.

Her blood chilled at the sight of the name of her right-hand, her fingers flexing instinctively at her sides. Raphael never called unless it was urgent - unlike the idiots who bothered her minute by minute to ask mediocre questions and made her want to pull out her gun and see blood, and in her world, urgent rarely meant anything short of catastrophic.

The moment her fingers wrapped around the phone, she pressed it to her ear, the cool surface grounding her.

"Raphael." She said, her voice clipped and razor-sharp, an edge of control that allowed no room for weakness.

"Y/N." He began, calling her name in the way only he could, his tone level but brimming with tension. "We have a situation."

The words hit her like a punch to the chest, though her expression didn’t waver. Externally, she was unflinching. Internally, a darker part of her coiled, poised to strike. She had navigated countless crises since she was seventeen, each one making her tougher. But no amount of training or experience prepared her for the particular dread that crawled beneath her skin at the word situation.

"What kind of situation?" She demanded, already bracing for impact, her voice an anchor of authority. She hated when they told the bad news but didn't explain it.

Raphael exhaled sharply, closing his eyes tightly behind the call.

"Our tech team flagged something around the internet. There’s a picture of you circulating online. It’s starting to spread."

Her grip on the phone tightened, her knuckles blanching as she steadied her breath.

"Explain." She commanded, though her pulse betrayed her, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.

"It seems to be from Christopher Sturniolo's live thing. It's barely a second of footage." Raphael explained, his voice tight with urgency. "But it’s enough. Fans are analyzing it, trying to figure out who you are. Threads are blowing up. And..." He hesitated, his pause causing Y/N's eyebrows to furrow. "They’re connecting it to Matt."

A visceral reaction clawed its way to the surface, her breath catching in her throat.

Matt.

His name wasn’t just a word; it was a weapon, one capable of splitting her in two. The image of him - standing in the kitchen, his shoulders relaxed, his focus far removed from the chaos - flashed in her mind. He was a constant in her life, someone who turned her softer, someone she couldn’t afford to lose. The thought of him being dragged for life into her world - her dangerous, unforgiving world - sent a sharp pang of desperation through her entire being.

"Y/N?" Raphael's voice pulled her back, a glimpse of worry shining between his words.

"How far has it spread?" She asked, her tone glacial now.

"Far enough." He replied grimly. "If we don’t act now, it’s only a matter of time before someone makes the connection."

Her mind was a battlefield, each thought a calculated move in a war she refused to lose.

"I want it gone." She said, each word deliberate, unyielding. "Every post, every thread, every trace. Use whatever means necessary, bribery, threats, force. I don’t care how you do it. Just erase it."

"You got it, Boss." He didn’t hesitate, changing his demeanor abruptly, the sound of keystrokes filling the silence on his end.

"And Raphael." She added, her tone softening. "Leave nothing behind."

"It’ll be done." He affirmed, his voice steady. "Anything else?"

Her throat tightened, her guard faltering for just a heartbeat. She leaned against the edge of the bed, gripping the phone like a lifeline. She would have to tell Matt eventually, but not now. Not when her own composure was hanging by a thread.

"No." She said quietly, her voice betraying none of the chaos beneath. "I’ll handle the rest."

"Understood." The line clicked dead, leaving her alone with the silence.

Y/N lowered the phone, her hand trembling slightly as she set it down. She had always known this day might come, always known that her careful steps could fail, leaving Matt exposed to her world - or her to his. But knowing didn’t make the sting any less painful.

Her gaze drifted to the doorway, her thoughts spiraling to him. She despised herself in that moment; for the danger her presence brought to his life, for the quiet desperation she felt whenever she thought of losing him.

But she couldn’t lose him.

Straightening her spine, she forced the vulnerability back, locking it behind the iron walls she took years to build. She was a leader, a protector, a force to be secured with. And no one - not her enemies, not the nameless, faceless masses online - would take what was hers.

The air in the house had shifted, thickening with an invisible tension that Y/N could feel in her bones the moment she stepped out of Matt’s room.

Her sharp gaze swept across the living room first. Chris was slumped on the couch, looking almost guilty. His phone lay discarded beside him, screen dark, as though it had betrayed him. His face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line, and he stared at the floor with the kind of intensity that suggested he wished it would open up and swallow him whole.

Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen, her stomach knotting at the sight of Matt. He leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed defensively over his broad chest, head bowed slightly. His brows were furrowed, his jaw clenched, and his warmth from minutes ago was replaced by a cold anger that radiated from him in waves.

"What happened?" She asked, her voice slicing through the oppressive quiet. There was no softness in her tone, only a commanding edge that left no room for staling.

Chris flinched at her words, his head snapping up to meet her gaze. His blue eyes darted toward Matt, searching for guidance, for an excuse, anything that might soften the blow. But Matt didn’t move. He remained locked in place, his intense focus on the floor as though the answer to their problems might be just there.

"Chris." Y/N prompted, her voice lower this time, but no less cutting as she stepped further into the room.

Chris exhaled shakily, rubbing the back of his neck as though the action might somehow delay the inevitable.

"Uh... people saw you?" He finally said, the words spilling out in a rush.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" She asked, her tone firm.

Chris hesitated, glancing helplessly at Matt again. When no help came, he pressed on, his words tumbling over each other.

"During the live stream, you showed up at the camera. It’s everywhere now. They’re asking who you are, Y/N. It’s blowing up..." His panicked voice seemed to start flying up. "I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t even notice-"

"Enough." She interrupted, her tone quiet but laced with an authority that made Chris snap his mouth shut. "I know." She said simply. "It’s already being handled."

Chris blinked, confusion flickering across his face.

"Wait, you already know?"

"Yes." She replied, her gaze shifting briefly to Matt. "And it’s already being handled." She repeated.

Matt straightened at that, his concern breaking through the desperation that had kept him rigid. This was one of the moments when the weight of her world pressed down on him, and he felt scared. For him, for his brothers... for her. He knew that if her picture at his house fell into her enemies' hands, it was the end of peace for them.

"What does that mean, Y/N?" He asked, his voice low and tense.

"It means." She said evenly. "That my people is taking care of it, and soon enough, it'll be as if nothing had ever happened."

Matt’s brow furrowed further, and he took a step toward her, the movement slow but certain.

"And how exactly are they doing that?" He asked. "You're being careful, right?"

Her heart twisted at the concern in his voice, feeling like she could laugh, because Matt was the one who opened the front door for a bloody version of herself earlier, and he was the one who took care of her wounds - the ones that didn't even made her flinch.

"Silly boy." She started, her tone softening just enough to reassure him. "Y'know that I'm always careful."

Matt’s jaw clenched, his frustration evident.

"I don't like that." He said quietly, the weight of his words settling heavily between them.

Her posture wavered for the briefest of moments, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

"What I need from you two and Nick." She said, addressing both him and Chris while keeping eye contact with Matt, completely ignoring his comment. "Is for you to be vigilant. For the next few days, you need to watch everything, what you post, where you go, who you talk to. Understood?"

Chris nodded quickly - even if she wasn’t looking at him, his expression contrite.

"Yeah. Of course. I’ll be careful."

Matt didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his intense gaze bored into hers, searching for cracks in her armor. Finally, he nodded, though the tension in his shoulders remained.

"Fine." He said, his voice quieter now. "But you’ll tell me if anything happens."

She hesitated, the truth forming on her tongue before she swallowed it down.

"I will." She lied instead. She wouldn't be crazy to involve him in any of this more than he already is.

His features softened slightly, but his worry lingered, etched into every line of his face.

"Good." He said. "Because I’m not letting anything happen to you."

She was the one who wasn't letting anything happen to him.

"I know."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The triplets were now on an empty parking lot, surrounded by the kind of darkness that usually set the stage for their filming sessions. The camera perched on the dashboard blinked red, capturing every move of them.

Matt sat in the driver’s seat, his hands tapping the bottom of the wheel as Chris gestured wildly from the passenger side. His animated voice carried through the car, weaving a story with Nick chiming in from the back seat.

But Matt wasn’t fully there.

His brothers could turn the most mundane story into book-like ones, and while he’d normally give his opinion on each one of them - when they let him, today his mind felt unusually restless. He couldn’t shake the brutal unease that had settled in his chest ever since Y/N’s warning the day before. Her words played over and over in his head: Watch your surroundings. Be careful.

Still, he had tried to shake it off. She worried about him; he got that. But the longer the evening dragged on, the heavier that knot in his chest grew. His brothers’ laughter ricocheted around the car, but the sound barely registered.

"... if we take a right, then a left, and there's a guy down there walking his dog, I'm gonna freak out." Chris was saying, his voice rising dramatically.

"And then we did it, and the guy was walking his dog." Nick completed, widening his eyes to the camera to emphasize it all.

Their voices faded into background noise as Matt’s gaze traveled to a shadowed corner of the lot. He couldn’t shake the prickling sensation that something - or someone - was watching them. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his mind replayed Y/N’s warning for the thousandth time.

You’re being paranoid, he told himself. It’s just a parking lot.

But paranoia had its place in Y/N’s world.

It was Nick who broke the illusion of calm.

"Hey." He said sharply, his voice cutting through the laughter. His posture changed in an instant, stiffening as his eyes fixed on something outside their car.

"What?" Chris asked, his smile faltering as he followed Nick’s gaze.

"Don’t make it obvious." Nick hissed, leaning slightly forward. "But look. SUV, two o’clock. Isn't it parked way too close for how empty this lot is?"

Matt’s pulse quickened. His eyes darted to the rearview mirror, and there it was, a sleek, black vehicle angled toward them. Its windows were so dark they might as well have been painted. Everything about it felt wrong.

Chris turned in his seat, ignoring Nick’s plea for subtlety.

"Weird." He muttered. "Why park there when the whole lot’s empty?"

"That's what I'm saying." Nick said, his voice lower.

Matt’s jaw tightened, his earlier unease turning into cold certainty.

"Do you think it’s a fan?" Chris asked, his voice tinged with forced optimism.

Matt shook his head, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Doesn’t feel like a fan."

The SUV sat unmoving, its presence heavy and oppressive. Matt’s thoughts spun as he tried to make sense of it. Y/N had warned him about things that could happen since day one, but she hadn’t given details. She rarely did. Keeping him in the dark was her way of protecting him, but right now, he wished he knew more.

"We should leave." Nick said urgently after some minutes of silence.

Chris frowned.

"Leave? We’re in the middle of filming-"

"Forget the video." Matt snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. "Something’s off."

The tension in the car thickened. Nick leaned forward again, his breath brushing the back of Matt’s neck as he watched the SUV through the rear window.

Then, as if sensing that it was seen, the door of the black vehicle opened.

"Guys." Nick warned sharply, his voice tight with alarm.

Matt’s heart slammed against his ribs as a man stepped out. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit that screamed professional. His face was obscured by dark sunglasses, even in the dim light. Everything about him was strange, the way he moved, slow and purposeful, like he had all the time in the world.

The man stood by the SUV for a moment, then began walking toward their car.

"Go, Matt." Chris urged, his voice strained.

Matt didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers fumbled with the ignition, the engine roaring to life.

"What’s he doing?" Chris asked, staring at the approaching man.

"Doesn’t matter." Matt ground out. "We’re not sticking around to find out."

He threw the car into reverse, his movements swift but controlled. The tires screeched as he backed out of the parking spot, his eyes flicking between the mirrors and the shadowy figure stopping behind them.

"Is he following us?" Nick asked, his voice tight with panic.

Matt didn’t answer immediately, focusing on navigating the lot. But as he turned onto the main road, he caught a glimpse of the SUV’s headlights flaring to life in the rearview mirror.

"Yes." He said grimly, accelerating into the main road without looking to his side, forcing himself to ignore the loud and random honk that followed his action.

Nick swore under his breath, his hands gripping the edge of Chris's back seat, grimacing.

Matt’s mind raced, calculating their options. He didn’t know who was in that car, but he had a sinking feeling that Y/N did. Whatever this was, it wasn’t random.

And as the SUV closed the distance between them, Matt realized that the shadows he’d been looking over his shoulder for weren’t just paranoia.

They were real. And they were coming for him.

Chris twisted in his seat, his gaze fixed on the ominous car trailing them. His voice cracked with a mixture of frustration and alarm.

"Okay, now that’s not just weird. That’s bad."

"No shit." Matt muttered, keeping his tense posture. "Buckle up." He growled, his tone leaving no room for argument, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like a drug. Before his brothers could react, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator, their KIA lunging forward with a roar.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chris shouted, his hands darting to the door handle as he braced himself against the sudden burst of speed.

"Losing them." Matt ground out through clenched teeth, his voice laced with grim determination. The engine roared, the car slicing through the sparse traffic.

The SUV responded immediately, surging forward with precision, its movements aggressive and calculated. It wasn’t just following them. It was hunting them, and it wasn’t hiding it anymore.

"This isn’t a movie, Matt!" Nick yelled from the backseat, his voice tinged with panic as the car swerved dangerously close to a parked sedan.

"Feels like one." Chris muttered under his breath, though his usual joking tone was replaced with raw tension. His fingers dug into the fabric of his seat, knuckles bone white.

Matt’s focus was razor-sharp, his mind calculating every turn, every gap, every possible escape route. The city blurred around them, streetlights streaking past like shooting stars.

He maneuvered with a precision that bordered on reckless, the heavy van sliding between vehicles with inches to spare. Years of navigating chaotic LA streets had sharpened his instincts like a knife’s edge, but even he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up.

"They’re not giving up." Nick said, his voice a strained whisper.

Then, out of nowhere, a flash of silver caught Matt’s peripheral vision.

"Matt! Fuck- watch out!" Chris screamed, his voice cracking as a Audi RS7 tore into the intersection from their right to their left, leaving a perfect trail of white smoke behind, its polished body gleaming under the fluorescent haze of the streetlights.

Time seemed to slow. Matt’s heart slammed against his ribcage as he yanked the steering wheel, the van skidding violently to the side, definitely scraping a car or two. Their camera fell from its place with a force that told them itself that it broke. Tires screeched, the acrid smell of burnt rubber filling the air as the RS7 narrowly missed their front bumper by mere inches.

For a small moment, Matt thought they were done for. They would die in the hands of unknown, sick people. But the Audi didn’t slow. Its driver - whoever they were - handled the car with perfect precision, swerving past them.

"What the hell was that?" Nick gasped, his voice trembling as he craned his neck to look back.

"I don’t know." Matt muttered, his chest heaving as he tried to process what had just happened. His foot hovered over the brake, instinct warring with the need to keep moving.

The RS7 didn’t stop. Instead, it sped straight for the SUV, its engine roaring like a beast. It cut off the larger vehicle with a series of calculated moves, herding it like a sheepdog corralling a wayward flock.

Chris leaned between the front seats, looking back, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"It’s... helping us." He paused, his mind racing. "Do you think it’s one of Y/N’s people?"

Nick didn’t take his eyes off the unfolding spectacle.

"Who the hell drives like that?"

Matt didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His thoughts were a chaotic storm, torn between taking advantage of the distraction and trying to piece together what was happening.

The SUV, once so powerful, was now on the defensive, the Audi forcing the larger vehicle toward the shoulder of the road.

"They’ve got this." Matt said, his voice tight as he pressed down on the gas pedal. The van surged forward, putting as much distance as possible between them and the chaos in the rearview mirror.

Chris turned back to face him, his expression a mix of awe and unease.

"You think this is over?"

But that hope lasted only for a minute as the night exploded with sound. The first gunshot rang out like a thunderclap, ringing in the enclosed space of the car, followed by honks and screams. Chris ducked instinctively, his hands flying to cover his ears as a yell escaped his throat.

Nick swore loudly, his voice almost drowned out by the second shot that followed in quick succession. Matt barely registered the sound of it before the driver-side window exploded beside him.

The world stopped.

Glass shards sprayed into the car like a violent glitter storm. Matt flinched instinctively, his head turning away as the jagged pieces tore through the air. His hoodie absorbed most of the impact, but a sharp sting grazed his cheek. Warmth spread across his skin, and the metallic scent made him realize that it was blood.

"Shit!" Matt yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to regain control of the car. His hands were trembling so hard it felt like they would break.

Chris screamed, ducking lower in his seat.

"What the fuck?!" His hands flew to his head, shielding himself.

Nick, in the backseat, was wide-eyed and pale, his voice cracking as he shouted.

"Are they shooting at us?! Why are they shooting at us?!"

Before anyone could fully process the first attack, a third shot rang out. This time, the bullet struck the back of the van with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through the vehicle. The car jerked slightly from the force, and Nick let out a strangled yelp, gripping the back of Chris’s seat as if it might protect him.

Matt's widened eyes found the rearview; catching just in time the Audi reacting to the shooting and executing a perfect spin, its tires screeching as it turned in a tight circle. The maneuver was so seamless that it felt like a dance. As the car straightened out, it began driving in reverse, keeping pace with the SUV.

From the driver’s side of the Audi, a hand emerged, gripping a handgun with deadly precision. The barrel gleamed under the pale moonlight for only a moment before the first shot was fired.

BANG.

The bullet hit the SUV’s hood, sending sparks flying into the night.

"We're going to die." Chris choked out, his voice raw with panic. "Matt, what do we do?"

"I don’t know!" Matt snapped, his voice sharp as his focus stayed on the road. "I’m just trying to keep us alive!"

BANG.

The second shot took out one of the SUV’s headlights, shrouding it in uneven shadows.

"Is this about yesterday?" Chris asked, looking over his shoulder at the fireworks created by golden bullets.

"What about yesterday?" Nick asked, his voice being cut by other loud sound.

Matt didn’t answer, but the hardened look in his eyes said it all, his eyes running around the street full of scared people and desperate cars.

The Audi’s driver didn’t stop behind them, firing round after round with precision, shielding their van. Each shot forced the SUV to swerve and falter, its pursuit growing more desperate by the second.

Suddenly, a new set of headlights appeared in the rearview mirror, drawing closer at an alarming speed, maneuvering between random cars. Matt’s stomach sank as the black Nissan GT-R quickly closed the gap between them.

"Great, another one." Nick muttered, leaning forward to get a better look.

"Wait." Matt said, narrowing his eyes as the GT-R came closer. It wasn’t chasing them. It was moving with purpose, calculated, and controlled. And then, from the side street, another car emerged.

The third one sped toward them, a Dodge Charger, unmistakable and a far cry from subtle. It closed the gap with ease, pulling alongside Matt’s car.

Chris frowned.

"Matt, who the hell-"

The black window of the Charger lowered, revealing Walsh, one of Y/N's trusted bodyguards who he always saw close by, his expression as stoic and sharp as ever. He glanced at Matt briefly with a knowing gaze before lifting his hand, making a quick, sharp motion - a signal.

"I guess we are following you, then." Matt muttered, his voice resolute as he adjusted his grip on the wheel.

"What?" Nick asked, his tone a mix of confusion and disbelief. "Follow him? How do we know-"

"It’s Walsh." Matt interrupted, already easing off the accelerator slightly. "He’s one of Y/N’s people. He’s here to help."

Walsh accelerated, cutting smoothly in front of Matt’s car and taking the lead. Without hesitation, Matt followed, mimicking his movements as Walsh led them onto a side street, away from the main roads.

From behind, the black GT-R repositioned itself, falling into place directly behind the triplets’ car. It felt like they were being shepherded, boxed in with purpose.

Chris glanced nervously at the vehicles surrounding them.

"This feels like a crazy dream."

"Well, it’s very real to me." Matt muttered, his eyes darting between Walsh’s Charger and the mirrors to keep track of the GT-R.

The streets grew quieter as Walsh led them further from the city center, the cold air of the night invading the insides of the van through the broken window. The Charger weaved through back roads and alleys with practiced ease, its taillights a beacon for Matt to follow.

"Where is he taking us?" Nick asked, his voice breaking the tense silence.

"Not home." Chris replied. "That’s for sure."

They drove for another ten minutes before the Charger finally slowed as they approached a gated property on the outskirts of the city. Walsh leaned out of the window, flashing a badge at the intercom. The gates creaked open, and the small convoy filed through, disappearing into the privacy of the estate.

The driveway was lined with towering trees, their shadows dancing across the cars as they came to a stop. Matt parked behind Walsh’s Charger, the Nissan pulling in behind him to complete the formation.

The silence in the car was deafening as they sat there, processing what had just happened while the group of man dressed in all black suits backed out of both cars, moving around their KIA.

"What now?" Chris finally asked, breaking the quiet.

Matt exhaled, his hands still gripping the wheel tightly as he turned to look at his brothers, his skin itching with the dried blood.

"I don't know."

Then, cutting through the oppressive quiet, the distant roar of an engine reached their ears, growing louder by the second. Matt’s head whipped toward the gates just as the same Audi from earlier burst through.

The car moved with predatory intent, speeding down the driveway toward them. The headlights blazed like twin daggers, slicing through the darkness, and as it neared, it showed no signs of slowing.

The sleek vehicle skidded to a halt mere feet from where Walsh’s Charger was parked, its tires kicking up gravel in a chaotic spray. The door of the RS7 flung open with no ceremony, and at the second that Y/N stepped out, Matt was opening his own car door.

Of course, she was the first to find him. How could she not be? The GPS she’d insisted on slipping into his horse necklace after the last close call wasn’t just a precaution, it was a leash, one she pulled the second something went wrong.

He hadn’t even argued when she’d done it. He’d learned by now that Y/N always had a way of knowing where he was, no matter how far or how fast he tried to outrun trouble.

Her heels clicked sharply against the gravel as she strode toward Walsh, her every movement a calculated strike.

Matt watched her from his standing place, his body still trembling from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. His legs felt weak, the rush of survival not yet dissipating, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

She was magnetic, terrifying, and commanding all at once. His fingers twitched at his sides, unsure if he should stop her, but something inside him begged to watch the whole scene unfold.

Y/N’s expression was a storm, her lips curled into a snarl as she closed the distance between herself and Walsh, who was standing near the driver of the Charger. The man had just been speaking, his voice low and controlled, but the second he saw her approaching, he fell silent, his posture stiffening. He wasn’t a coward - years by her side had hardened him - but even he couldn’t deny the raw, violent fury in her eyes.

"Walsh!" Her voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the air.

The men around her stiffened but kept their gazes forward, trained on the horizon. They knew better than to interfere and knew the rules that governed her world.

Y/N didn’t repeat herself. She didn’t grant second chances.

Walsh turned, his face already pale, though he tried to maintain his composure.

"Boss, I can expl-"

She didn’t let him finish. In a blur of motion, she reached for her knife, the familiar silver weight of it reassuring in her palm, small droplets of blood stained its holder, being there for a long time now. Before Walsh could react, she had him pinned against the side of the car, her arm pressed against his chest with force, knocking his breath away. The knife’s blade kissed his throat, the edge cutting just enough to draw a thin line of blood that trickled down his skin.

"You dare speak?" She hissed, her voice low and venomous. "You fucking dare?"

"Boss, I-"

"Shut your fucking mouth." Her voice was a growl, more animal than human, the kind of sound that made grown men cower. "You had one job. One fucking job! Protect them. Keep them alive. And you-" She pushed the blade harder against his neck, the blood now dripping faster, staining the pristine collar of his shirt. "Fucking failed.”

Matt’s stomach churned as he watched, his chest tightening with every word. Her rage was consuming, and while he’d seen her like this many times before, it always felt like the first time.

Nick had turned away, his face pale. He hated blood and hated violence, and now, he stared at the trees as if they might somehow shield him from the scene unfolding before him. Chris, on the other hand, kept his eyes glued to the ground, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He still carried fear for her when she acted like that, so he didn’t dare look up.

But Y/N wasn’t done. Her grip on Walsh’s collar tightened, and she yanked him forward, slamming him back against the car. The sound reverberated, as if she wanted the car's bodywork to deform under the weight of his body. And if it did, she would make him fix it with his bare hands.

"Where the fuck were my men?" She demanded, her voice rising now, echoing against the estate’s high walls. "I left five of my best men guarding them. Where the fuck were they, Walsh?"

Walsh’s lips trembled, his composure faltering for the first time.

"They’re dead." He admitted, his voice hoarse.

Y/N’s eyes darkened, the fire in her gaze burning hotter.

"What?"

"They killed them." Walsh continued, his voice steadying as he spoke. "All five of them. The second the brothers left the house, they were dead. By the time I got the call, it was already over."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, but Y/N didn’t flinch.

"I didn't thou-"

"Shut up!" She muttered, her free hand slamming against the car beside his head, her knuckles grazing the metal. "Shut the fuck up! Where the fuck were you? You’re supposed to anticipate this kind of shit. To have eyes everywhere. And instead, what do I get? Five man dead and a fucking alarm telling me they’re being hunted!"

Walsh kept silent. His hands stayed at his sides, fists clenched, but he didn’t dare move.

"You think I keep you around to stand there looking pretty, huh? You think I pay you to sit on your ass while my people are being slaughtered?"

"No- ma'am-"

"You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here." Her tone dropped into a deadly whisper, more chilling than her shouts. "You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat and leave your corpse here for the crows."

Matt’s breath hitched at her words, his chest tightening as he watched her, feeling a strange mix of fear and something deeper - something that made his pulse quicken.

"You’re worthless." She hissed. "A fucking liability. And if I ever-" She fist his hair, slamming the back of his head against the car for emphasis, almost begging for a concussion. "Ever see you fuck up like this again, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." Walsh croaked, his voice barely audible because he does understand it. Because he knows that she could kill him in seconds with her bare hands if she wanted to. Putting the triplets brothers in danger could drive her to burn the whole world down.

"I said, do you fucking understand me?" She shouted, her voice echoing across the estate.

"Yes!" Walsh gasped, his face ashen.

Satisfied - for now - Y/N finally stepped back, her hand still gripping the knife tightly. Blood coated the blade, glinting in the faint light. She wiped it on Walsh’s shirt, the act casual and dismissive, before putting it back at her hip.

He should be grateful that he still had his head glued to his body and that she didn't treat him like one of her enemies. Because if she had, his organs would probably be scattered across the front yard.

Y/N adjusted her blazer, her movements sharp, and turned on her heel. Her security detail remained impassive, and their faces were unreadable as they stood at attention. They knew better than to question her.

"I want to know who's the son of a bitch who dared to go after what's mine. I don’t care how many men we have to send. You find him. And I want him, and anyone else involved in this shit, dead. You hear me? Dead. No fucking exceptions." Y/N's tone was ice, colder than the Siberian winters, and it sent a chill through the men standing nearby. "Now, get the fuck out of my sight."

The bodyguards didn’t hesitate, retreating without a word, their heads low. Even Walsh - still pressing a hand to the bleeding cut on his neck - scrambled back, keeping his distance.

Y/N didn’t so much as glance at them. They were beneath her attention now. Her focus was singular, her sharp eyes scanning the scene before her as she stalked toward the three brothers.

Nick and Chris stood stiffly by the car, their postures tense, the weight of the night etched into their faces.

Y/N stopped in front of them, and for a moment, she said nothing, her icy gaze raking over their bodies like a surgeon searching for injuries.

"Nick." She called sharply, a softness hidden behind her tone.

Nick looked up at her, his hands playing with the bottom of his sweater. Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him.

"You’re not injured?"

"No." He muttered, shaking his head. "I’m fine."

She turned her attention to Chris, her cold stare unwavering.

"Chris?"

Chris hesitated, swallowing hard before answering.

"I’m fine too."

Y/N’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she nodded curtly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Inside." She ordered. "Grace's here, find her. She’ll take care of you."

Nick and Chris exchanged a brief glance, neither daring to argue. They gave her a quick nod before turning and walking toward the mansion to look for Y/N's maid, the one who treated them like a loving mother. Y/N’s eyes followed them until they disappeared through the front doors, their figures swallowed by the shadows of the estate.

Only then did she turn her attention to Matt.

He was standing a few feet away, his arms hanging limply at his sides, looking like a wall in front of his side of the car, his face pale but his eyes wide with worry. His breath hitched as she approached, her movements deliberate, predatory.

"Y/N-"

"Quiet." She snapped, cutting him off as she reached for his face. Her hands, rough and calloused, cupped his cheeks, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her touch was firm, almost harsh, as she tilted his head this way and that, her eyes narrowing as she examined him closely.

Matt stood frozen under her scrutiny, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt small under her intense gaze, like a child caught misbehaving.

"I’m fine." He tried to say, his voice barely above a whisper. "Really, I-"

"Shut up." Her tone was sharp. Her thumb brushed over the dried blood that covered the small cut on his upper cheek, and her lips curled into a sneer. "Fine? You’re fine, you little shit? You think I should believe this?"

Matt swallowed hard, his throat dry. He wanted to protest, to reassure her, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

"You’re a fucking idiot." She spat, her voice low and venomous. "A fucking brat. You knew something was wrong, and you didn’t call me. You didn’t fucking call me." Her grip on his face tightened, just enough to make his breath hitch.

"I thought I could handle it." He muttered, his voice breaking. "I didn’t want to bother you."

Y/N’s laugh was sharp, bitter.

"Handle it?" She repeated, her accent wrapping around the words like a blade. "You thought you could handle it? You? Alone? Against men with guns?"

Matt looked down, unable to meet her gaze.

"I-"

"Do you know what I should do to you?" She hissed, her voice dropping lower. "I should kill you for this. For almost fucking dying on me. For being so goddamn reckless." Her fingers brushed against the necklace around his neck.

Matt’s lips twitched into a small, nervous smile.

"Thank god you put this thing on me then, huh?"

Y/N’s eyes darkened, her lips curling into a snarl.

"You think this is funny? You think I do this because I enjoy babysitting you?" She shoved him back slightly, her hands still gripping his face. "If it weren’t for this-" She tapped the tracker, her voice rising. "I wouldn’t have known. I wouldn’t have found you."

"I know." He whispered, his voice trembling.

"You’re fucking stupid." She muttered, her tone quieter but no less sharp. "You’ll be the death of me, you know that?"

Matt nodded, his cheeks flushing under her intense gaze because he knew. He knew that he was her weakest stop, the one who could make her lose her mind without consequences.

"I’m sorry." He said softly.

Y/N sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly as her hand softened its grip on his face.

She let her gaze actually register his state, noticing his still trembling hands gripping the bottom of her jacket, and her jaw tightened. For all her strength and control, seeing him shaken dug into her chest like a dull blade.

"You really should’ve called me." She repeated, her tone no longer scolding but laced with a quiet plea this time. Her fingers moved from his jaw to his hair, threading through the strands in a gesture that was both tender and grounding. "Do you hear me?"

Matt smiled slightly, trying to ease her - and his - tension.

"I’m okay, dove." He murmured, risking using her favorite pet name, his voice low and calm, though it wavered slightly. "Just a little shaken up. A cut or two from the broken window. But... you saved me. Like you always do."

Her hand faltered for a moment in his hair as his words settled over her, turning her head slightly, breaking their gaze as if the vulnerability in his voice had pierced through her armor.

But Matt wasn’t about to let her retreat. His hand came up, his fingers gentle as they took her chin, forcing her to look at him again.

"I’m fine, Y/N." He said firmly, his voice carrying a quiet conviction that made her chest tighten. "Really. You don’t have to keep punishing me or you for this."

Her lips parted, a protest hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let her speak. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, wrapping her in a hug that was warm, strong, and grounding. Y/N stiffened for a moment before melting against him - in the way that she only let herself do in his arms, her hands clutching at his back as if he might disappear if she let go.

"I don’t want to see you in the line of fire because of me ever again. Do you understand me?" Her voice was a whisper against his chest, rough and laden with emotion.

Matt’s hands moved soothingly from her hips to her waist and her back, his touch steady.

"Y/N." He began, his voice gentle but insistent. "You need to stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault. It’s just how things are. I get that. I chose to stay by your side, knowing exactly what it meant."

She shook her head against him, her arms tightening around his waist.

"You don't understand, I could’ve lost you tonight." She said, her voice breaking in a way that she despised. "I can’t-"

"You didn’t." He interrupted, leaning down to rest his chin on top of her head. "You didn’t lose me. You won’t lose me. Not tonight. Not ever."

The sincerity in his tone made her chest ache, and she closed her eyes, letting herself press closer. She nosed along his jaw, breathing him in, her mind desperate for a piece of peace amidst the chaos. His scent - clean and familiar - grounded her in a way nothing else could.

"You know." She murmured after a moment, her voice quieter now, almost teasing. "It’s your fault. You got me hooked from day one, making me worry too much."

Matt let out a low, warm laugh, his breath tickling the top of her head.

"Lies." He said softly, his tone playful but affectionate. "You wanted to kill me for the first few months we knew each other."

Y/N let out a quiet scoff, a small smirk tugging at her lips despite herself.

"It doesn’t mean I didn't want to have you to me." She admitted, though the sharpness in her voice was covered with affection. "You were insufferable, you know? Still are."

He leaned down further, brushing his nose against hers.

"Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have it any other way." He murmured.

She didn’t respond, but the faint, almost imperceptible curve of her lips was answer enough. Her fingers wrapped around his hoodie strings, bringing him closer until their lips touched, the force of her kiss taking him off guard.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss meant to soothe or console. It was possessive, claiming him in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just hers by circumstance. He was hers by choice.

Her hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers back to threading through his hair as she deepened the kiss, desperate to taste all of him as a way of reassurance, and Matt melted into her without hesitation.

When she finally pulled away, her lips still slightly parted, Matt stared at her, his expression a mix of surprise and arousal. She smirked faintly, wiping her thumb across the corner of his mouth before leaning back, leaving him dazed.

"Uh..." He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself, though his heart was racing faster than he cared to admit. "I think I need you to get my window fixed." He gestured toward the gaping hole where his window used to be, right behind his back, shards of glass still clinging stubbornly to the edges.

The response came so casually that it almost didn’t register at first.

"No." Y/N said dismissively. "I’ll just buy you another car."

Matt blinked, his jaw dropping as he turned to face her.

"You’ll what?"

[scarlethexelove]

You're Mine

ℙ𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: 𝕄𝕠𝕓𝔹𝕠𝕤𝕤!𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕄𝕒𝕩𝕚𝕞𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕩 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕣

𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 𝟙𝟞𝟘𝟘

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ℙ𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒, 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕒 𝕡𝕖𝕟𝕚𝕤, ℙ 𝕚𝕟 𝕍, 𝔼𝕩𝕙𝕚𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕂𝕟𝕚𝕗𝕖 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜, 𝔹𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕕 (𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖), 𝕃𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕝𝕠𝕠𝕕, 𝔹𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝔻𝕒𝕕𝕕𝕪 𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕜, ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕪 ℕ𝕒𝕥, 𝔽𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕠𝕨, 𝕄𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕚𝕥.

𝔸/𝕟: 𝕀 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕗𝕦𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕠𝕟𝕖. 𝕀 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕒 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕒 𝕓𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕚𝕥 𝕨𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕖𝕔𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣. 𝕀 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 ��𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕎𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒. 𝕀 𝕙𝕠𝕡𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕒𝕤 𝕞𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕒𝕤 𝕀 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕥.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

“Hey Natty have you seen Wanda?” You yell in the loud club. Your girlfriend Wanda runs the most feared mob in all of New York City. Natasha being her right hand woman, helping to keep everyone in line. The club, a base of operation for the organization. 

Nat’s dark green eyes meet yours as a smirk plays on her lips. “Sorry milyy, I haven’t seen her in a few hours.” She grabs your wrist and pulls you into her lap. “But I know how to get her attention.” She whispers in your ear and holds onto your hips. 

“Na-Nat we shouldn’t. You’ll get me in trouble.” You stammer. You try to wiggle from her hold but she is stronger than you keeping you in her lap. 

“Oh Y/n I know you love it when Wanda is rough with you. Just let me help you.” You can’t help but shudder as her hot breath fans across your ear. You know Nat isn’t wrong but you still want to fight against her. 

Wanda’s eyes land on you from across the club. Anger bubbles within her as she stalks towards you. As she comes closer she can see how you struggle against Nat but her grip on you keeps you in place. Some of her anger melts away but she can use this to her advantage. Giving her the perfect opportunity to fully claim you. 

“What the hell is this?” Wanda’s voice cuts through the loud music playing startling you. Nat’s grip loosening on you just enough that you can slip from her hold, jumping up and facing your obviously angered girlfriend. 

Panic overtakes you as you rush out your words. “Wa-Wanda it-it’s not what it looks like. I-I was just looking for you.” Your head snaps back to the redhead whose arms lay across the back of the couch with a devilish smirk.  

Wanda can see exactly what Nat was doing. How your pleading eyes look at her for forgiveness, desperate for her to know you weren’t lying. She knows you aren’t but she badly wants to use you. She grabs your arm tightly. “You’re mine.” She growls. Her gaze moves to Nat who continues to smirk at her. “I’ll deal with you later.” Her voice is low and dangerous, but it doesn’t faze Nat one bit. 

Wanda starts pulling you through the crowd. You trip a few times but Wanda makes sure that you don’t fall. She pulls you up the stairs to her office. It perfectly overlooks the club with a large window that allows her to keep an eye on everything. When the door shuts behind you she pushes you up against the closed door. Her hands on either side of your head and pressing her body against yours. “Detka I’m going to show you exactly who you belong to. You want to whore yourself out but you’re mine.” Her voice is low, sending a spark of pleasure through you. 

“Wands, it wasn't what it looked like. Please.” You plead with your girlfriend. 

“I don’t care what it looked like milashka, I’m going to make sure that everyone knows who you belong to. Do you understand?” You nod. Wanda’s possessive nature has your pussy throbbing with need, your panties already soaked. You have always loved how possessive she can be, glad to be just hers. 

Wanda pulls away leaving you against the door, a whimper escaping your lips at the loss of contact. Wanda clicks her tongue. “I don’t want to hear it.” She goes over to the big window that’s currently covered but opens the curtains looking down over all the people. “Come.” She commands and you scramble over to her standing with your hands folded in front of you just how she likes it. 

She pulls out her favorite knife from her pocket. Wanda taps it against the collar of your shirt before she takes it, cutting down the front of your shirt. You whine at the action. “Shhh.” Wanda hisses. She then moves cutting the straps of your bra and then in the middle pushing the fabric off of you leaving your chest exposed to her. She turns your body pressing you against the cold window. 

“Wa-Wands wh-what if they see.” You whimper. 

“Let them see how much of a whore you are for me. See who exactly you belong to.” Wanda leans over and growls into your ear. She stands back up taking her knife to your pants and slicing them off your body, followed by your panties. Leaving you completely exposed against the window. 

What you don’t expect is the gush of wetness that happens when you look over out knowing how anyone could see you. Wanda groans when she sees how your arousal is smeared all over your thighs. 

You feel as the cold metal of the knife presses against the soft skin of your neck making you gasp. Wanda pushes her pants and boxers down to her thighs letting her hard cock spring free. You can feel as it slaps against your ass and you push back into her. “Daddy please. Please, I need you.” 

Wanda smiles and she presses the knife more into your skin, an angry red line appearing under the blade. “Fuck I love when you beg for my cock.” She lines herself up with your dripping entrance and thrust herself fully into you. You cry out at the sudden stretch of your walls. Wanda doesn’t give you time to adjust as she starts to pound herself into you. You brace yourself against the window as your breasts press against it. 

Wanda is relentless with her thrust as she uses your hole for her pleasure. Your moans bouncing off the wall as your forehead presses against the glass. “Mmm f-fuck Daddy. So-So good.” Her grunts blend in with your moans. The cold blade of her knife never leaves your neck. 

“Who do you belong to?” Wanda growls as she presses her front against your back. 

“Yo-You Daddy. Only you-yours.” You whimper as she speeds up her thrust. Wanda kisses your shoulder. As she looks out at the club over your shoulder, you can feel her smirk against your skin. She presses the knife harder against you, the skin splitting around the sharp blade. Blood bubbles to the surface and you can’t help the loud moan that claws its way out of your throat. The stinging burn turns you on more. Your walls clamp down on her length eliciting a moan from Wanda. 

The blade is pressed more into your neck forcing you to raise your head. “Look at that.” Wanda forces your gaze back to the dark corner that Nat is still sitting in. Her eyes are locked onto you as Wanda pounds into you. Nat’s hand down her pants as she jerks herself at the sight. “Fucking Pathetic.” Wanda hisses. Her lips meet your neck below the blade licking at the blood that runs down before sucking a dark reddish purple mark on your skin. 

Wanda drops the blade as moving her hands up to your breast cupping them in her hands. You don’t know how her thrust could become faster but they do. “You’re fucking mine Y/n. Do you hear me whore?” Wanda punctuates each word with a hard thrust of her hips. 

“Ye-Yes Daddy. Yours, only you-yours.” You whine as she angles her hips perfectly to hit that perfect spot deep inside of you. The knot in your stomach is close to snapping. 

“I’m going to breed this slutty little pussy. Fill you until you're pregnant with my babies. No one will touch you then.” You nod desperate to be filled to be fully Wanda’s. Wanda’s thrust is becoming more erratic as she draws closer to her release. 

Wanda bites down on your neck hard, her cock twitching as her hips stutter. Her orgasm washes over her, white hot spurts of cum coating your walls. “Mine, mine, mine.” She mumbles against your skin. 

The feeling of being filled sends you over the edge. As you cum your eyes meet Nat’s once again. Even from here you can tell that she is cumming at the same time as you. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head as a loud moan falls from your lips. The fact Nat watched you getting fucked and cums at the same time has a powerful orgasm shooting through you. Your walls are milking Wanda for all she has. 

Wanda’s arms wrap around you pulling you against her chest as she ruts her hips into yours. “Fu-fuck daddy.” You pant as you ride out your high. Your body slumping back into her as she slows her thrust to a stop. 

You feel Wanda’s soft lips against the skin of your shoulder. “Such a good girl for me.” She murmurs against your skin. One of her hands moving down and pressing against your lower stomach which causes a moan to claw its way from your throat. “I really hope you get pregnant detka.” 

“Me too.” Your chest is still slightly heaving. The once primal atmosphere melting away as you both bask in the blissful aftermath of your orgasms. Her cock still buried deep inside of you. 

“Don’t worry moya lyubov’ I’ll make sure you're pregnant.” Wanda’s words have you groaning and grinding against her. She smirks behind you. “Already ready for round two. You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with this pretty pussy. You’ll surely be pregnant by the end of the night.” Wanda starts thrusting again and you know you're definitely in for a long night.

[buckets-and-trees]

Devour: HEAT (4/4)

Collection: DEVOUR Characters/Pairings: Mob Boss!James Buchanan Barnes x Chef Female!Reader Word Count: 7k Summary: James returns from business in another city with the intention of spending the morning with you, more than a few surprises up his sleeve, whether you're ready for them or not.

Content & Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT - somnophilia, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, vibrating dildo, anal plug, brief masturbation, unprotected vaginal intercourse, double penetration, creampie. Feelings, so many feelings.

Logistical Notes: Salt, fat, acid, and now heat - this is the long-awaited final chapter of their series. Happy Mob Boss Monday!

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You were vaguely aware of feeling much cooler than you should as you registered your hip being nudged so you were lying flat against the mattress. You were still clinging to slumber, not fully roused to the world of the waking, so you didn’t move when you felt the flat edge of a knife slipped between your skin and the silk of your panties, and you didn’t react to the snick of the clean cut of fabric over your right hip and then the left. You weren’t interested as someone peeled away the exquisite and expensive piece of underwear.

Though your legs were slightly open after being shifted from your side to your back, there was another gentle push against your leg to open your thighs a little more. Distantly something stirred in you as fingers gently caressed up your thigh and to your pussy laid bare to the morning sun. Those fingers began to gently play with your folds, eliciting wetness at your entrance. One finger gave a whisper of a press into your vaginal opening a few times, drawing a soft, short, breathy moan from you, and you subconsciously parted your legs further.

For all of that you were drowsy and docile.

The warm fingers left you for a moment, and then there was a cool pressure against your cunt, the sudden temperature change prompting a small sleepy, “Oh,” from you. More of the cool, firm pressure was applied, and then the sudden vibration of the cool object against your clit jolted you awake, eyes flying open and torso contracting suddenly upwards from the bed.

That dark, deep chuckle that always flooded you with heat poured into your ears, and a strong, now-familiar, calloused hand smoothed over your stomach and forced you gently but firmly back onto the mattress.

“James,” you keened.

“I’m disappointed,” he tutted, then pressed a kiss just above your knee.

“What?”

You racked your brain – not an easy feat when you were only just coming into consciousness for the day and being accosted with teasing pleasure at your core – but you couldn’t think of anything he could be disappointed in. Not with that tone, not with you, but he seemed genuinely disappointed. You detected even a tenor of anger in his tone.

“You’ve left some of my gifts entirely untouched,” he explained, pressing the vibrator insistently against your clit.

You groaned, and the heat of embarrassment surged rampantly through your body along with the pleasure. Your hands flew to your face, and you tried to close your legs, but he held them firmly open to his ministrations.

You knew immediately what he was talking about and what exactly was between your legs.

A sleek, black dildo that you’d only looked at for a few seconds before slamming the box shut again – long enough to register that it was a size you’d bet dimes to dollars was close in size to the cock of the man who sent it to you. Were you having copious amount of sex with notorious mob boss James Buchanan Barnes? Yes. Were you wearing the high-end bras and underwear he spoiled you with, a constant reminder of the intimate place he was establishing in your life? Yes. But using the sex toys he had selected and sent to you was the line you’d drawn at too intimate.

And now instead of using it solo, the man had the audacity to torture you with it himself.

And the torture was exquisite.

Six weeks of this man, and your body knew when to yield and drip for him. He had prepared your pussy, coaxed enough wetness, to take the dildo with ease even through the intrusion of its size, lacing the discomfort with pleasure. You moaned as he finished driving it in to the hilt. He played with the angle, pushing it up and back, teasing you with different points of pressure that made you pant and cant your hips.

“Feel good?” He asked in a smug tone.

“Yes,” you huffed, knowing he knew how you felt and only wanted you to admit it out loud for his own satisfaction. But if you didn’t, he’d delay your satisfaction, and audacious bastard though he might be, you craved him now, and delighted in the indulgence of him. “More, James, more.”

“I’ll give you whatever you want, Chef.”

And he did. Immediately.

He twisted the dildo, then pulled it halfway out before pushing it back into your slick channel. You closed your eyes, but you knew he watched your face closely for what made you feel good, adjusting his pace until your breath hitched and you clutched the sheets. Then he kept that pace and only applied a bit of additional force in the thrusts.

He drove you on and on until he finally pushed you over the edge, and you gave a sharp cry of ecstasy.

He worked the toy in your cunt just a bit more, making you twitch in response, and then he crawled up your body and you pulled him in for a few heated kisses.

“What are you doing here, James Buchanan Barnes?”

Though you had spent increasingly more time with him, this was the first time he’d been to your apartment. It was small and modest, and you were in no way ashamed (since he had also started to regularly send either a housekeeper or cleaning staff of some kind to take care of you place, you also weren’t worried about any mess), but you were surprised.

“I know it’s your day off.”

You chewed lightly on your bottom lip.

“And I know that look,” he continued with a smirk. “You’re not quite happy with me. I’ve shown up unannounced when I know you have plans and certainly have intentions for your unplanned time, but I wanted to see you this morning. Give me breakfast and then I promise to let you send me away as soon as you want.”

He kissed you again.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips.

“Mmm, missed you, too.” You wrapped your arms around him, pleased that he’d stripped down to his boxer briefs before joining you in your bed. “Breakfast would be nice.”

He grinned and then continued the kiss. You encouraged him, eagerly wrapping your arms around his neck and chest. You hitched a leg up around his hip, and then groaned when he pressed his bulge into your core as it pushed against the dildo still lodged inside of you.

He chuckled again, then reached down and drew out the black silicone in one slow pull. There was no ignoring the sound it made, the shlick as it came out of your messy cunt.

Then he drew it up to your mouth.

“Lick it,” he said.

Eyes locked with his, you stuck out your tongue and he slid it slowly over it. Then he set it aside and resumed kissing you, purposely circling his tongue around yours, sharing the taste of your arousal in your mouth. He groaned his approval and plundered your mouth for long enough that both of your chests were heaving against each other when he pulled away. James slowly pressed hot kisses over your face – softly on each of your closed eyes, your cheeks, your nose, you chin, your forehead, then back down to your lips. You pressed your forehead to his and sighed in sleepy contentment. You twined your fingers with his at your hip. He rutted his hard cock insistently against your core, watching your face. And he kept at it until you were all but begging for him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“Good, I’m ready to fill you up.”

But you whimpered as his actions immediately indicated the opposite as he abruptly rolled off you and slid out of bed.

“What? What are you-“

“Breakfast.” He smirked down at you, already pulling on a pair of lounge pants. “Going to fill you up with breakfast. What did you think I meant?”

You groaned at the blatant mischief in his eyes and hurled a pillow at him. He caught it with ease, laughed, and tossed it back to your bed as he left your bedroom. “See you in the kitchen,” he called back.

“Handsome bastard,” you grumbled as you rolled out of bed and padded along after him. You grabbed the silk robe hanging off the back of your door on your way, knotting and trying it off around your waist.

The incredible smell of some kind of warm bread hit you as you stepped out of your room. You inhaled deeply and moved more quickly, drawn by the heavenly scent, but you paused on seeing him in the kitchen. You had expected to see him at most plating up something that he’d brought or had delivered.

That was not the case.

Instead, he stood behind the counter next to your stove, handling ingredients that had come from a small crate like he was on a Food Network show.

He glanced up. “Yes, I’m cooking for you. Sit and relax,” he said, gesturing at the stool on the other side of the counter.

“James Buchanan Barnes, did you actually bake something?”

You tried to sidle into the actual kitchen, but he quickly blocked you off with his broad body.

“I. Am. Cooking. For. You.” He paused between each word, his tone serious.

“Are you really barring me from my own kitchen?”

You tilted your head up and fixed him with a look half amusement, half incredulity.

He leaned in, cupped your face in both of his hands, and kissed you soundly until you melted against his chest. When he pulled back, your lips chased his.

“Let me take care of you,” his words were gentle but firm, spoken tenderly against your lips.

One last indulgent kiss, and then he turned you around by your shoulders, and you finally did as you were told and took the seat across the counter from him.

James reached for an English muffin out of a small basket on the counter, split it open easily with a knife, and then buttered it. The butter melted immediately, and you grinned.

“You made English muffins from scratch?”

“You never dreamed I could cook on top of everything else – too good to be true?” He winked and you rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Try it,” he said and slid you a small plate with half the muffin on it, taking a bite out of the half he kept back.

You lifted the bread to your lips and gingerly took a bite. It was soft, warm, and beyond the smooth tang of the melted butter that bled through the crumb, the taste far surpassed any English muffin that you could buy at the store. You let out a content hum, and your shoulders relaxed, the delight from the simplicity of the rich flavors in your mouth flooding your body with serotonin.

James smiled, just a hint of his cocky confidence lacing it, and then he got to work, filling a saucepan with water and setting it on the stove to bring it up to a simmer. He pulled more supplies from his box as you watched. Butter, lemon, eggs.

Given that your life was devoted to food and cooking, this was a bold gesture - and one no one you had ever been involved with had attempted. They were either too lazy or too intimidated or too dim to realize that even though you could cook, someone taking care of you in this way was a beautiful and indulgent gift.

“When did you get back?” you asked. He’d been gone for three days, but you hadn’t expected him back in the city until tomorrow.

He looked over at the clock on the wall. “Two hours ago.”

You blinked.

“You come straight here?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed in the affirmative without looking up from the frying pan as he slapped a healthy amount of butter onto its surface and set that on the stove as well.

Your heart soared, beating happily, and you folded your arms and rested them on the counter, leaning forward on your stool. The corners of your mouth unable to do anything but smile. You saw his mouth had relaxed into a soft smile as well.

While the butter melted, he separated yolks from egg whites, and beat them together in a glass bowl. When the pot of water was steaming, he took the glass bowl with the egg yolks and set it over top of the saucepan and continued to whisk them.

Now you knew what he was making.

“Eggs Benedict?” you asked.

“It’s one of your favorites.”

“How did you know?”

“I know more about you than you give me credit for.”

You didn’t want to touch that yet, but perhaps later, you thought.

“You’ve ordered it a few times when we’ve been out for brunch. It’s also one of my specialties.”

“Homemade English muffins, whipping up a hollandaise without much effort… you can actually cook,” you remarked.

He kept his focus on incorporating the butter into the yolks properly, but still responded. “You somehow continue to underestimate me in many areas, Chef.”

That assertion nudged your conscience a little, but his tone was teasing, so you kept the level of banter going. “You still have to successfully poach the eggs and make sure your hollandaise doesn’t split. But if you manage to pull it off, I might have to take you back to bed after breakfast.”

He chuckled, and your core rumbled a little.

You sat with rapt attention and watched. You didn’t scrutinize, but it crossed your mind that there were probably very few men who would have had the self-assurance to cook in front of you without worrying or getting irritated, even though you knew you weren’t judging, only interested in observing someone else at your craft.

And as you sat, you did turn over his comment in your head – that you were underestimating him.

It had been seven weeks since everything started with this mob boss. He had insinuated himself into many aspects of your life, but as you navigated whatever it was that was developing between you two, most of the time his intrusions were welcome, if somewhat hesitantly by you at first - like fully exchanging your intimates, or hiring a housekeeper for your apartment (you had yet to see them, and you had to confess it felt nice to have some work eliminated from your plate). He had been incredibly aggressive about folding himself into many aspects in your life. Some of the evolution of this relationship had been thrilling, had you giddy, or quite simply stunned over the moments of softness or seeming adoration. Through any of the challenges, James had been open to any wants and needs you expressed when you brought them to his attention. What’s more, there hadn’t been many things to address with him – the time he spent with you wasn’t merely additional hours clocked, but as you looked back you had to confess it was time he spent truly getting to know you.  

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways, but had you gotten caught up in trying to preserve yourself?

The morning after the first night you’d slept together and stayed the night at his penthouse, you had been able to dress out of the closet he had already stocked for you. While a little shocking, it had not ultimately been surprising. It had bordered on overwhelming. The novelty and spoiling had been fun and flattering. That he had been able to stock a closet so well-suited to your taste and needs had been the part that edged toward the overwhelming side, but you ignored the more serious parts of the grand gesture, classified it as yet another audacious choice, not a sign of his knowing you or the clear signal that he was ready to have you seriously embedded in his life – in his home. He hadn’t said anything or even insinuated that you should move in, he just let that closet of clothes exist for you. It was a statement, but not a demand.

Aside from the housekeeper he’d started to send around to your place, he also had enlisted some kind of laundry service to take care of more of your needs, and last week before he left for his business trip he personally slipped a black card into your wallet.

“There,” your mob boss declared, spinning the two plated masterpieces toward you. “These would certainly be approved for service, would they not, Chef?”

You were impressed. “They look stunning. Final judgement at the table.”

You started to reach for one of the plates, but James tutted at you and carried them both over to the table, seating you at the corner next to each other where place settings had already been laid out. He was thorough, including going back to the fridge to retrieve a carafe of juice.

“And did you press this by hand?” you asked as he poured a glass for each of you.

He laughed. “No, I didn’t have time to grow and harvest the fruit myself, so it felt like cheating. This is the one my home chef keeps on hand for me.”

“I do like your chef. Do you think I could steal them for my restaurant?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he took his seat next to you. “Enough. Eat.”

You took up your knife and fork and made the first, signature cut into the egg draped with its silky hollandaise sauce. The yolk oozed, slow and gorgeous. “That’s a top tier poach,” you shot the praise truthfully.

James smiled and watched as you lifted the first bite to your mouth.

“Mmm,” you hummed, your eyes closing momentarily. “Nothing beats a beautiful benedict.”

“Success,” he crooned, finally digging into his own dish. He didn’t ask if for further accolades, didn’t ply you for more praise, again speaking to his nature – confident, perhaps too confident at times, but sure of himself.

After your second bite, you still reaffirmed your assessment. “Really, James, the sauce is the perfect consistency, and that English muffin could have carried the whole dish on its own if the rest had been just okay.”

He squeezed your thigh under the table. “Thank you.”

The two of you eat in silence for a few moments before James spoke again. “Where’s your lovely head this morning? You went somewhere while I was cooking.”

You looked at him, tilting your head while you chewed. His blue eyes, strong, piercing, warm, captivating, looked directly into yours. He really did see you in more ways than you had been giving him credit for.

Being with this man for the past seven weeks had changed something in you. Over the years you had learned to be direct and go after what you want, but not in romantic endeavors. When you were younger, you didn’t have the skills, experience, or confidence. Over the past few years, you had been clear and direct in the rare forays into talking or dates, but there had been nothing long or meaningful enough to require directness and vulnerability from you. You had been able to be direct with James, but you had skirted around being exposed to some of the moments of vulnerability.

But there was not much more skirting that you could do.

James had shown he was willing to show up.

It was time for you to do the same.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said – that I’ve been underestimating you. I think… You might be right.”

James leaned forward, reached for your hand, and brought it to his lips. He murmured your name softly against the palm of your hand and then pressed a long kiss there. You took a breath to calm your suddenly racing heart. “I know who I am. I don’t blame you having certain ideas of who that is or putting on your own armor to keep yourself safe.”

He let your hands fall to the table but kept a tight hold on your fingers.

“I ate at Devour for the first time a few months ago. The food was immaculate. I was looking to invest in new ventures and diversify my portfolio, so I started looking into buying the restaurant. It had a good track record, its reputation had been steadily growing, the location was prime, the service impeccable. The only point of debate that came back in my team’s assessment of whether to buy the establishment was our discovery the head chef was retiring.

“You were the heir apparent and confirmed successor, so we researched you, too. Clean background, solid career building; I saw that you were pretty, but that was immaterial – merely a PR bonus if we wanted to generate more buzz for the restaurant at any point. We ordered out and dined in many times the month leading up to your takeover so that we could have a solid handle on the standard we expected and could gage if there would be any significant changes night one.

“A third of the dining room that night was filled with my people. You introduced a few new dishes to the menu, bit it was conclusive all around that the quality had been maintained, and nothing had fundamentally changed. I walked in that night planning to make my purchase as long as I was satisfied, and I was.

“The last thing I wanted was to see the new head chef face to face before making the deal so I could get a sense of who you were off the page and beyond your plates.”

“I remember being summoned to a table rather inconveniently on the biggest night of my career,” you interjected.

He chuckled. “And I could see that fire in your demeanor. It confirmed my purchasing decision, but it also made me want to devour you.”

And he had. He had temporarily dismissed your staff, told you he was tripling your salary, and then roughly sexed you up according to his pleasure – giving you some of the best sex you’d had, but not because you wanted it that night, only because he had.

“New business acquisition, new girl,” you teased. But it was defensive.

He grunted and shook his head. “No. You’ve invested so much of yourself into your career and the restaurant that you assume they’d be tied together, but they’re not. To me there was the restaurant and then there was you. I only played my hand to my advantage to keep you there. If you’d walked after that night, I would’ve gone looking for you.”

You frowned at him, but he continued before you could argue.

“You weren’t easy. There are so few people in my life who don’t bow or bend to me, I wanted more of that.”

“You wanted the challenge?”

“No, more than the challenge, I wanted you for your strength. I was the mob boss you thought I was that night, but then you turned me into a man – demanded I be a version of myself who was worthy of you if I wanted more, and I did want more of you. You stopped making time for men because they kept disappearing or disappointing, didn’t you?”

You sighed.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Neither of us are content with easy. You wanted someone to romance and adore you, but you also needed someone who would challenge you, meet you stride for stride.”

“Don’t be smug,” you said.

“I told you the first night we slept together, I’m not smug about you. After things started unfolding between us, you drew me in. I wanted more than just sex. I knew I could get that.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head and put a finger to your lips. “We were both eager for it – those first encounters, and especially the first night together, now let me finish.”

You huffed, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. The sex had been heated and irresistible every time.

“I think you’ve worried more than you needed to over whether I want you, or if I knew what I was getting into.”

It was like he was reading pages of your most private thoughts. His eyes were impossibly intense now, and it made your chest ache.

“This has never been about someone to warm my bed. I’m too busy, and my life was just fine before. I want you, and, yes, glorious amounts of sex with you, but it’s your passion and your spirit I crave. You’ve seen me for more than who you thought I was in the beginning.”

“You’re remarkable, I couldn’t help being drawn to you,” you confessed. You’d called him audacious so many times, but that was only one facet of James Buchanan Barnes. He was passionate, intelligent, bold, calculating, and decisive. 

“You’ve let down some of your guards around and let me in, and because you do, I let you see pieces no one else knows. We’re swimming in deeper waters with each other all the time.”

You brought your hand up to his cheek and kissed him fiercely but briefly, needing to feel his lips on yours for a moment. You wanted so much more, but you knew he wasn’t finished, so you drew back.

He drew both your hands into his, resting them on the table between you two.

“I knew that if I ever married, I wanted a partner, not another yes person. The more time I’m with you, the more my soul hungers for you to be that part of my life. I want your company, your opinions, your soft snores, your teasing, your ideas. I’m insatiable for you, in every way. The first night I knew I wanted you, but that second night I saw in you my wife.”

“Your wife?” you gasped, your jaw going slack with surprise. But you didn’t make another sound or even a movement as his words swirled every thought in your head.

He waited, eyes still locked on yours. It was more than a full minute of silence before he finally spoke again. “Eventually, yes. Does that scare you?”

“No,” you said, without hesitation.

His words had brought you back and seemingly brought your frenzied thoughts into alignment. The only potential barrier your brain identified was time. But he wasn’t asking you to marry him right now, he was only asking if you were scared of potentially being his wife.

And that didn’t scare you.

Truthfully you would have cut things off if there had been any moment you didn’t see a long way down the road with him – you’d done it plenty of times with men before. Like him, you were too busy to trifle with men just to be coupled. You’d fought not only to make something of yourself in your career, but to make something of yourself in your life so that you didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy.

“It doesn’t scare me either,” he said.

Then he swept his napkin from his lap, laid it on the table, and, in no rush, pushed back his chair and stood up from the table. He tugged on your hand gently, invitingly, nodding toward the hall and back to your bedroom.

Your head and your heart were full – clear but full – so you let James take the lead.

His hands moved deftly and delicately as they untied the knot of your silk tie of your robe, then pushed it down off your shoulders, letting his fingers skim enticingly over your skin, and turned to hang it on the back of your bedroom door. Next his hand found the hem of your silk chemise and pulled it up you’re your hips, and you lifted your arms so he could sweep it clean up off your body. He set it gently on the end of your dresser before turning back to you. Then he stepped closer than he had been before, cupped your jaw in both hands, and lowered his face to capture your lips in another kiss. Slow, warmth and fire behind it, but still no rush. You slanted your mouth against his and darted your tongue out to tempt entrance, which he granted, licking into your mouth in kind.

From the very beginning, whether they were slow or frenzied, his kisses have always been so passionate they were intoxicating, and you never wanted that to end between the two of you.

You craved him almost constantly, and in so many ways. He had seeped into your bones and your veins and so many of your waking thoughts, like the thrumming undercurrent of your heartbeat.

James eased you back slowly until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he gently urged you back. “Get up there for me,” his voice husky and his pupils taking over his blue irises.

You scooted as smoothly as you could manage until you were most of the way up the bed, not wanting to put distance between you, but knowing it wouldn’t last long. You leaned back on your elbows, a slight shiver running down your spine as your eyes met James’ gaze, drinking in the full form of your naked body – far from the first time he’s seen it over the past few weeks, but the intensity still affected you, there was still vulnerability of newness in this relationship.

James pulled the soft t-shirt up and off his torso. Then, not looking away from you, he pushed down his lounge pants and stepped out of them. The sight of his thick, hard cock made your breath hitch, eager to feel the way he stretched and filled you up, but he remained rooted to his spot and began slowly pumping one hand up and down his length while he looked at you.

“Spread your legs for me, love,” he said.

You gasped because it was the first time either of you had vocalized the word to each other.

“I do,” he confirmed, “I love you.”

“James…”

He smiled. “Now, show me that pretty cunt, my love.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you let your legs drop open like a butterfly.

He moaned appreciatively and continued to slowly stroke his cock as he stepped forward. “Pretty and wet and mine.”

He joined you on the bed, quickly slotting his large form in the cradle of your thighs. He pressed heated kisses along your collarbone, but you guided his head up to yours.

“I love you, too,” you murmured fervently against his lips.

His eyes flared with happiness and satisfaction - a look you had grown familiar with, and one you relished in knowing you caused.

As he kissed you again, he propped himself up on one arm by your head, but his other hand landed on your puffy and dripping folds to lavish languid attention, not designed to drive you to orgasm, but only to dole out pleasure while his expert fingers played with your body. As ever, you were simultaneously eager for more but ready to relish the experience.

While James had you pinned down with the weight of his body, eventually you began to squirm and rock your hips, seeking more. Soft mewls tumbled out of you, and you scratched your nails down his broad back.

“Need,” you gasped when he broke off the kiss.

He pecked your lips to cut you off. “I know what you need.”

He pushed himself up, grabbed a pillow, placed it down next to your hip. You hummed as he and rolled you over and onto the pillow, propping your hips up for him. Spreading your knees with his, he knelt behind you. You stretched your right arm up above your head, grasping at the sheets to steady yourself for whatever he had in store for you next, and reached your left hand back, silently seeking his hand to twine with your, which he complied with, settling your entwined fingers together at your hip. Meanwhile, his free hand passed soothingly up and down the length of your right side, from knee to ribs, down and up and down again. He planted kisses from the base of your spine up to your neck, and it was so soft and intimate your eyes welled with tears, nearly overwhelmed with just how adored this unhurried worshipful moment made you feel. You blinked back the moisture in your eyes and focused on breathing.

His kisses continued up the side of your neck, and when he suddenly nipped at your ear, you laughed and swatted playfully at him.

He rolled away from you, and a whine of protest escaped your throat.

James chuckled.

“Just a moment,” he reassured you as he reached for something on the bedside table. You heard a small click you couldn’t place, then some other soft sounds of movement. When he rolled back to face you, you looked down to see what he’d retrieved.

You gasped and then looked back up to his face immediately, heat rising in your neck and cheeks.

But it wasn’t embarrassment that you felt, it was the rush of trepidatious arousal, hesitant because this was an area you’d never ventured in the sexual realm.

In his hand was the smallest from a set of platinum anal plugs set with sapphires, and it was prepared with lube.

“Oh,” the soft syllable fell from your lips.

“Trust me?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded.

He squeezed your hand, and you squeezed back. Then he released your hand and settled back to his kneeling position between your splayed thighs again. He caressed the swell of your ass, first one cheek, then the other. His thumbs spread your crack open, and gently nudged at the tight ring of muscle at your entrance a few times before he placed the rounded metal end of the plug at the puckering.

“Relax, let me feel you breathe,” he said. You took a deep breath in. Out. And with your next breath in, he pushed the plug softly in. You held your breath as he slowly finished slotting it inside of you. Then he was up near your cheek, nuzzling you softly. “How does that feel?”

You took a beat to think before answering. “Full.” You breathed in and out again. “Good.”

You felt him grin against your skin. “Good.”

His thumb lightly tapped against the jeweled end, and your breath hitched slightly. He waited a moment, tapped again, and again your breath hitched. He chuckled. “So responsive, love.”

You huffed and burrowed your face into the sheets.

“But still good?” he checked in.

“Yes,” you groaned. The feeling of your tight hole being full was unbelievably intense because it was so foreign, so insistent, so much. The plug provided an ever-present push, and the more moments that passed, the more your body latched onto it the rush. It laced every thought. His light taps on the plug had jolted that pleasure, giving it sharp, blissful pulses.

Another laugh at your reluctant acknowledgement. “I’ll stop teasing,” he promised. “For now,” he added.

He lined up the tip of his cock at the entrance to your weeping channel, hunched down over your back, and then slowly, deliciously, pushed his thick length inside of you. You moaned openly through every second of it, then took a deep breath when he settled in at the hilt.

James waited there, chest pressed against your back, letting you adjust to the sensation of being filled in both places at once. He peppered kisses along your shoulder.

“Mmm, ready for you to move,” you drawled through your haze.

One hand held the top of your hip, and he planted his arm at your side so he could get the right leverage to begin thrusting in and out of your cunt. He took a slow approach, but it still engulfed you immediately. His cock moving within your cunt while you were plugged, immovable fullness in one hole and a shifting fullness in the other, was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. The presence of the plug dialed up every other sensation you were experiencing as James started to speed up his thrusts.  

You fought to acclimate to the overwhelming fullness, as he gradually increased the pace of his thrusting, but your orgasm crashed over you earlier than either of you expected. Your body seized up and then shook as you cried out in ecstasy beneath him. He groaned as you milked his cock, then growled as he sped up even more.

His hand circled your hip to dive beneath your pelvis, in search of your clit.

You keened when his expert fingers found your swollen bud.

“Have to give me another, need you to cum with me,” he demanded, chest rumbling against your back.

His fingers dealt out exquisite torture as he circled your clit.

Your second orgasm built and crested, drawn out in longer bliss this time, and as your walls clenched this time, they triggered the release of your mob boss as well. He gave a shout, muffled into your neck as he pumped you full of his cum. You could feel the heat of it as he emptied himself fully inside you, and you relished in it, arching your back and stretching your arms out satisfyingly in the bursts of pleasure that rolled through your body in the aftershocks.

You turned your head to kiss your lover, full and satiated. He indulged and returned the kiss in kind but broke it off much too soon for your liking, also withdrawing his cock from your well-used cunt. You gave a little moan of protest, but he kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he assured you.

Too blissed out and loathe to move yet, you stayed exactly where you were, listening to James’s footsteps moving away to the bathroom. The running tap signaled a quick clean up, and when he returned, he had a warm washcloth to tend to you as well. He carefully removed the plug, and murmured, “You did so good for me.”

A little something fluttered ever so slightly at his soft praise. After he wiped away the mess of your combined spend, he tossed the washcloth to your laundry hamper, removed the pillow from beneath your hips, then settled down on his side on your mattress and collected your boneless body in his arms. You sighed in contentment.

“You ready to send me away yet?” he asked.

“No, you’ve earned at least a few more minutes.”

“Good, because I have one more thing for you.”

You laughed. “I might need a little more recovery time, muscles don’t want to move.”

He reached over to your bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled something out, but your eyes were drifting closed. You thought maybe he would relent and leave you be for at least a short amount of recovery time if you fell into a light doze.

But of course, he would not.

No.

James Buchanan Barnes, endearing but audacious bastard that he was, couldn’t let you rest.

He withdrew your hand from his chest and deposited something into your palm, wrapping your fingers around it, before he kissed your knuckles.

As your fingers registered the size and shape of the object in your hands – small and square, smooth surfaces, but tied with a satin bow – you stopped breathing, and your eyes flew open.

His face held the softest smile you had ever seen on his features. His thumb brushed smooth, reassuring circles, over the inside of your wrist. “Marry me.”

Your eyes flickered between his piercing blue gaze and the Tiffany blue box in your hands, mouth agape. You had resumed breathing, but you were speechless – happiness tinged with hesitancy. Your eyes went back to him, searching his face, and you knew he was searching your again. “In the other room, you said eventually.”

“Marry me tomorrow, or marry me in five years, but I know what I want,” his tone underscoring his evident resolve. “I told you, I’ve known since very early on, and every moment only solidifies how certain I am I can’t see a future I want more than one that involves you.”

You leaned in to kiss him. He was clever, your mob boss. Strategic. But you also believed he was sincere.

You broke the kiss this time. “I won’t marry you tomorrow, but I don’t want to wait five years, either.”

“We can set the timeline later, but now I want to see my ring on your finger, Chef.”

He reached to start tugging the white bow loose, but you tsked at him and went to work, untying the satin. You opened the blue box, then let your fingers run over the smooth velvet of the smaller box within. Neither of you spoke, the moment charged with anticipation. You tilted back the top half of the ring box.

“Oh, James,” you marveled.

The ring he’d selected could not have been more perfect. The setting of the stones was stunning.

You let him withdraw the ring from its cushion and slip it onto your finger.

Already having proven his track record when it came to knowing things about you, you didn’t question how he had managed to get the perfect sizing for your engagement ring.

Hours later, after hours of kissing and numerous post-engagement orgasms, you did ask how long that ring box had been in your top drawer, but he laughed and assured you only that morning.

You were reasonably sure that was the case, but with him, there was no telling for sure.

And now you knew this mischievous man and mob boss would continue to surprise and challenge you for a lifetime.   

THIS CONCLUDES THE ARC OF THEIR SERIES! I hope it provides a satisfying ending that you were able to devour! I have already written a few pieces for them that take place after this, and I imagine there will be drabbles here and there (there were two things I cut from this chapter already because of how things ended up flowing, and one of them I do at least still see as a conversation they will have in the midst of some smut), but we have at least gotten them from the beginning of their journey to where I wanted them to land in the original four parts I sketched out over a year ago.

Let me know what you think, now that you know how their story has been told! I can't believe we made it!

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I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[harrywavycurly]

Tuesday Dinner: A Sopranos meets Mafia!Harry Styles AU✨

A/N: This is based on this post right here and is probably the most dramatic thing I’ve ever written in my life but I just love the Sopranos and Harry Styles so please don’t take this seriously it’s just a bit of fun!

CW: Language, Harry is a dick but he loves you, threats of violence, brief act of minor violence (you toss something at the back of Harry’s head), this is probably a kinda toxic relationship but I don’t mind if you don’t?

Summary: You’re making dinner on a random Tuesday and Harry’s “coworkers” keep showing up unannounced✨

You place a wooden spoon in your pasta sauce to give it a stir in the pot it’s simmering in, having just moved it to one of the burners on the back of the stove. You feel a hand on your hip and a moment later you feel a soft kiss being placed to the side of your neck before a chin is resting on your shoulder, you smile as you take the spoon out of the pot and bring it up to your lips to give it a taste. You ignore the slight pouting noise Harry makes when you don’t offer him a taste before putting the spoon on the spoon rest next to the stove, deciding your sauce needs a little more salt.

“Where’s the pasta?” Harry questions when he doesn’t see a pot of boiling water next to the pot your sauce is on, you roll your eyes at his question because you know Harry is well aware where the pasta you’ll be using tonight is.

“M’serious what’s the sauce goin’ on?” He asks as he stands up giving your hip a squeeze before he turns to head towards the fridge his eyes landing on the bread on the counter next to it. “All I see is a baguette and-”

“Oh you didn’t just want some sauce with a side of bread and maybe a salad?” You ask feeling annoyed that he’s even in the kitchen in the first place, having been in the office since he got home from work a few hours ago. Harry shoots you a glare as his hand grips the handle of the fridge his wedding ring making a light clink sound when it comes in contact with the metal door handle, not liking your sudden attitude when all he’s doing is asking about what you’re making for dinner.

“You’ll know what the sauce is goin’ on when you open up the fridge and don’t go bein’ an ass about it either okay? I know how you get about-”

“Know how I get about what?” You go back to your sauce, adding a pinch of salt before grabbing the spoon to give it a quick stir as Harry opens the fridge and sees the container of leftover pasta sitting on the bottom shelf. Harry lets out a groan as he leans in and grabs the container off the shelf and sees its full of the rigatoni you didn’t use in the baked dish you made the other night.

“Oh you’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin me. We can’t get fresh pasta?”

“It is fresh I made that last night. This is just a Tuesday night dinner for the two of us Harry what are you expecting a Sunday dinner kinda spread for?”

“So you’re gonna ruin your good sauce with some microwaved noodles?” Your grip on the handle of the spoon tightens as you turn around so you can face Harry who is now standing by the fridge with the container of pasta in his hands.

“Tell me Harry does this look like the Olive Garden to you? You know damn well I’m not microwaving the fuckin’ pasta you jack-” Before you can finish your sentence you hear three loud knocks on the back door before it opens making Harry turn his attention away from you and towards the back door.

“H you’re not gonna believe the shit I just heard.” Harry puts the container of pasta on the counter next to the fridge as his younger cousin Christopher walks through the door. “Oh somethin’ smells good in here.” You give him a smile as he walks into the kitchen and automatically opens his arms out to give you a quick hug.

“You know that’s your problem. You’re always kissin’ the wrong ass Christopher.” Harry snaps as he places a hand on his hip as he sends a glare to his cousin as you place a kiss to his cheek before he pulls away from you. “Who’d you come over here to see huh? Me or her?” Christopher quirks a brow at you, silently asking what Harry’s problem is when he hears a slight edge in his voice making you roll your eyes and shrug as you turn and go back to perfecting your sauce.

“It’s called havin’ manners H. I mean come on you act like you don’t know who my mother is? She’d kick my ass if she knew I stepped into a woman’s kitchen and didn’t say hello to her first.” You chuckle to yourself as Christopher makes his way towards Harry who is still glaring at his cousin.

“What is it you need to tell me?” He asks as he runs a hand through his hair while his cousin walks past him and to the fridge to grab a beer.

“They got Jimmy.”

“Who got Jimmy?”

“They did H.”

“You’re talkin’ in fuckin circles Christopher who the hell got him? The feds? Sal’s guys? Who?” You bring your spoon up to your lips to give it another taste and smile to yourself when you finally feel you got it right and don’t need to add anything.

You hear Christopher let out a sigh as he opens his beer but before he can fully explain the situation to Harry your back door swings open. You let out a startled squeak as both men instantly place a hand on the back waistband of their slacks, reaching for something they keep tucked away for protection that their casual short sleeved dress shirts do a good job at keeping hidden.

“Boss!” Harry lets out a sigh of relief as Paulie rushes through the door in his usual matching tracksuit and heads straight into the kitchen, Harry’s hand that was on the waistband of his pants falls to his side while he uses the other to pinch the bridge of his nose as an attempt to calm himself down.

“How’ya doin sweetheart? Smells good.” You turn your head and give him a smile as he leans in and places a kiss to your cheek on his way to the other side of the kitchen where Harry and Christopher are still standing by the fridge.

“The fuck is the matter with you Paulie? Bustin’ in the door like that? You’re lucky I didn’t redecorate the walls with your fuckin’-”

“You didn’t hear me knock? I knocked before I came in boss I swear I’m not some kinda wild fuckin’ animal.” He says with his hands raised in a show of mock surrender since he can sense the irritation coming off his boss. “They got Jimmy.”

“I already told em’ Paulie.” Christopher explains after taking a sip of his beer. Harry lets out a frustrated groan as he places both hands on his hips and shakes his head while a sarcastic chuckle bubbles up and out of his mouth from his deep in his chest.

“Actually no one has told me shit because I still don’t know who got Jimmy?” He snaps while you just do your best to ignore the loudness of the men that are starting to take over your kitchen as you turn so you can grab the bread off the counter next to where Harry placed the container of pasta.

“Yo uncle H you hear what happened to Jimmy?” You turn your head to give Harry a warning glare as once again your back door flies open allowing a loud voice that can only belong to his nephew Anthony, to be heard well throughout the house. Harry ignores your glare as Paulie and Christopher turn to look at the youngest member of the Styles crew.

“If you tell em’ then half the damn neighborhood is gonna hear about it too you fuckin’ loud mouth.” Paulie teases as Anthony walks into the kitchen, you open your mouth to say something to your husband but feel a hand on your shoulder pulling you in for a side hug and a kiss to your cheek.

“How ya doin auntie? Smells incredible in here.” While you want to roll your eyes at him you can’t because you’re not annoyed with him or any of the men in your kitchen minus the one that they all came over to talk to, the one they call boss but you just call your husband.

“If one more of you ass kissin’ fucks tells her it smells good in here I’m kickin all you out on your asses. It’s just a fuckin’ sauce and some leftover pasta for Christ sake.” You feel your jaw clench as you reach for a small bread knife from the knife block, Harry watches you turn around and face him with the bread in one hand and the knife in the other. He has to hold off the smirk that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth as he crosses his arms over his chest making his biceps flex a bit as you narrow your eyes at him in a harsh glare while taking a step towards him causing Paulie and Christopher to move to the side to give you some space while Anthony just stands behind his uncle.

“Say one more thing about what I’m making for dinner Harry and you’ll be taking all your meals through a fuckin’ straw for the next few months.” You threaten as you raise the knife up and use it to point at him, Paulie raises an eyebrow as he looks from you to Harry who just gives you a nod as he takes a step towards you and slowly reaches a hand out and places it over yours that’s gripping the handle of the knife that’s still pointed at him.

“Yeah? You gonna break my jaw sweetheart? Is that it?” You shrug as you let him lower your hand holding the knife to your side while looking him in the eyes, you can tell by the way they are a light shade of green almost like a jade color that he’s not angry at you for speaking to him that way in front of company. “I’d let you if it meant I didn’t have to eat microwaved pasta and lukewarm sauce for a while.” He admits with a smirk knowing that comment is going to push you over the edge.

“You’re such a fuckin’ asshole.” Harry’s smirk turns into a full blown grin as you insult him because he knows you’re capable of calling him much worse things than an asshole so that’s his signal that you’re not really mad at him. He lets go of your hand that’s holding the knife and brings it up to cup the side of your face, his rings feeling cool against the warmth of your skin.

“Yeah m’a real fuckin’ prick but you love me.” You roll your eyes making Harry’s grip on your face tighten ever so slightly as his thumb presses into the side of your cheek as he leans down so his lips are right next to your ear. “Come on baby tell me you love me.” He whispers into your ear before placing a kiss to the spot just below it.

“I love you.” You say with an annoyed sigh making Harry smile because in that moment he feels he’s won. He places a kiss to your forehead before he drops his hand from your face and takes a step around you towards the dining room. The guys pause a moment when they hear you let out a scoff before you turn and see Harry’s back facing you as he reaches the edge of the kitchen.

You quickly reach over and place the knife on the counter and grab an apple out of the fruit basket you keep on the kitchen island and before you can second guess yourself you toss it, aiming for the back of Harry’s head. He pauses as the apple makes contact with his shoulder instead of where you had intended it to go but a hit is a hit so you aren’t too upset. He slowly turns around and looks at the apple on the ground, bending down to pick it up before he looks over at you with a glare.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Say it back you fuckin’ jackass.” Harry looks at you with a quirked brow as you stare at him waiting to hear him say he loves you back.

“I love you. You’re the love of my whole miserable fuckin’ life okay? Happy now?” Harry admits and you just nod and turn to grab the knife and make your way over to the area by stove so you can begin to slice the bread and get it ready to be put in the oven with some oil and a bit of garlic.

“Maybe your life wouldn’t be so miserable if you were nicer to your wife you prick.” You mumble making Harry laugh as he turns and walks into the dining room.

“I love when we get dinner and a show.” Paulie jokes as he walks behind you and off in the direction Harry went.

“Always with the jokes. How bout you make yourself useful and set the table huh?” You laugh when you hear Harry’s voice from the dining room followed by what you know is the sound of his hand smacking Paulie upside the head.

“The fuck you two waitin around for? Someone better tell me what the hell happened to Jimmy before my wife sets foot in this room or I’m lettin’ her break all your jaws.” He shouts from the table and you look over your shoulder and watch Christopher and Anthony nearly trip over themselves trying to get in the dining room.

“M’sorry bout the whole dinner and a show comment. You know m’a fuckin’ idiot sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it Paulie you’re fine he’s just an ass.” You reassure him with a smile as he stands next to you while he opens the cabinet you keep the plates in.

“Just a normal Tuesday at the Styles house huh?” He teases with a giggle and you can’t help but laugh and nod because while normally there aren’t this many unexpected visitors on a Tuesday night you can’t say it hasn’t happened before and that it won’t happen again.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

Any thoughts on sub!mob boss Wanda?

OH BOY I ABSOLUTELY DO!!!

You're practically drooling while watching her, your eyes landing on the curve of her backside while she leans over the man currently restrained to a chair. A knife glints in her hand, twisting slightly against the mans neck while he whimpers and tells her that he doesn't know anything.

That's bullshit, even you know that.

Green eyes glance back at you, pupils expanding as she takes in your casual stance by the doorway. You're leaned up against the wall, arms crossed as you take in every detail. You nod, and she smiles slightly before digging the knife beneath one of the man's fingernails.

God, she's so attractive when she smiles as a man writhes in pain beneath her.

---

"You did so well," You murmur, locking her office door behind you. There's a faint scent of blood, and you know that she'll have to bleach yet another one of her shirts.

Wanda smiles, not bothering to turn on the lights, the lamplight from outside streaming in. She'd sent most of her men home for the day, besides the ones you had guard duty tonight, so you practically had the whole warehouse to yourselves.

"Thank you, love," she responds, and steps towards you. It feels like something snaps in you, and you surge forward to meet her lips with your own, your hands planting themselves around her waist as you push her back towards the desk.

God, you've been waiting all day to do this. It's been many hours of watching Wanda lead, giving orders and harsh glares while she runs her - honestly very illegal - business. Technically she was a mob boss, but you didn't really care.

Now that you were finally alone with her, that cold exterior of hers melts away the second your tongue swipes across her lips. Her body is warm and pliant beneath your fingertips, your hands moving her to bend over the desk.

You press yourself against her, and Wanda gasps at your hard length as she grinds back on it. You can feel her desperation beginning to fill the air as she moans slightly when you rock your hips forward.

"Do you want it?"

"Fuck, yes I want your strap. Please, fuck me. I need to let go, its been a long day. I need you, darling."

Well, you can't say no when she begs so prettily.

"Oh baby, you know I can't deny you when those pretty lips start begging," you murmur in her ear, watching her cheeks flush as she grinds back against you.

You kiss her neck, drawing whines and moans from her as she grips the table until her knuckles bleed white. With one hands, you unzip your pants and let the strap spring free, pulling down Wanda's bottoms in one smooth motion.

Rubbing the strap against her slick entrance, you breathe in the scent of her arousal. She's fully moaning now, begging you in between sharp breaths to fuck her. Her skin is slightly damp against yours, evidence of her desperation.

In one smooth movement, you bury the strap inside her, one hand reaching around to wrap around her neck. You start pumping your hips as you bite into her neck and suck harshly.

"You're mine, say it," you grunt, hearing Wanda moan loudly as you angel the strap to hit her g-spot.

"I'm yours, fuck sweetheart. I'm all yours and everybody knows it."

You feels your orgasm starting to ride, pleasure coursing through you at the feeling of Wanda fucking herself back on your strap with each thrust of your hips.

"You need this, don't you, honey? You need me to put you in your place after a long day of pretending to like control. Isn't that right? You like being my little pet, don't you?"

Wanda lets out a choked whimper, your hand tightening further around her neck as she reaches back to brace herself against your hips. Her fingernails dig in slightly, causing you to hiss in pain and pump your hips harder.

"Yes, yes I love it," she confesses, her words breathy and low. "I like giving you control and I like it when you use me. Please, let me cum. Oh, god I need to cum all over your strap."

"Go on," you urge. "You deserve it."

With a few more thrusts, you feel Wanda begin to shake as her climax hits her. Her moans sound out loudly, bouncing off the walls of her dark office. Her cum smears over your strap, dripping down it's length as it dampens the fronts of your thighs. You slow down, fucking her slowly but deeply, drawing out the last few waves of her orgasm.

"Thank you thank you," she babbles, resting her head against your shoulder.

"Mhmm," You hum and reach around her with your other hand, circling her swollen clit. She looks back at you with wide eyes, fighting briefly against your hold at the overstimulation before your hand squeezes her neck painfully.

"I'm not done with you yet."

[thirtysomethingloser92]

The Last Great American Dynasty.

For my darling @thefandomfires Mob Boss!Remy Lebeau/Reader. Warnings: Violence, Smut, 18+

The soft flicker of candlelight danced across the long mahogany table, casting shadows that whispered secrets along the walls of the private dining room. The opulence of the space was undeniable—velvet drapes, gold accents, and the finest crystal glasses—yet it felt stifling, the heavy air weighed down by tension masquerading as light conversation. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the room, but beneath the surface, an unspoken current of danger hummed. This was Remy LeBeau’s world, a kingdom where power and respect ruled, and any misstep could be fatal.

You sat beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his body through the layers of tailored fabric and expensive linen. His leg rested against yours under the table, a silent gesture of connection that was as grounding as it was intimate. It was a reminder—a quiet declaration in this volatile world—that no matter how dark things got, you were the constant in his life. The only one who truly knew him beneath the mask he wore so well.

To the outside world, Remy LeBeau was a force to be reckoned with—a man who commanded loyalty and fear with equal ease. His charm was legendary, the kind that could make people trust him even when they knew they shouldn’t. He was suave, dangerous, and always in control. But with you, all of that fell away. When it was just the two of you, he wasn’t the infamous Head of the Guild, the kingpin, or the rogue gambler. He was just Remy—your Remy.

He loved you with a quiet intensity, one that simmered beneath the surface of every touch, every glance. It wasn’t always spoken aloud, but you didn’t need words to understand the depths of his devotion. You saw it in the way he looked at you, as if you were the one thing in his life that made sense, the one thing he could always count on. With you, there were no games, no pretence. You were the only person who saw the parts of him he kept hidden from the world—the vulnerability, the doubts, the weariness that came from living in a world where trust was a rare commodity.

When his hand lingered on yours under the table, fingers brushing over your skin in slow, deliberate strokes, it was a reminder that you were his anchor. In a life filled with chaos and danger, you were the calm in the storm. You were the one who saw the man behind the mask, the one who loved him not for his power, but for the person he was beneath it all. And that was something Remy cherished more than he could ever put into words.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments late at night, when the world outside seemed miles away, he would hold you close, his head resting on your shoulder as if he could bury himself in your presence. “Y’ keep me grounded, chère,” he’d murmur, his voice hushed, his accent thicker when the weight of his emotions got the best of him. “Y’ keep me whole.”

And you did. You were the one thing that reminded him he was more than the reputation, more than the leader of a dangerous empire. You saw him—the real him—and loved all the parts that even he sometimes struggled to accept.

Remy’s love for you was fierce and unwavering. He’d burn bridges, topple empires, and face down any danger if it meant keeping you safe. But it wasn’t just about protection. It was about trust, about the way he let you into his life, into the darkest corners of his heart that no one else had ever touched. You were his sanctuary, the one place where he could let his guard down and just exist.

And in return, you gave him everything. Your trust, your loyalty, your heart—all of it belonged to him, just as his belonged to you.

His leg pressed a little more firmly against yours, the subtle pressure a quiet assurance that even in this world of power plays and dangerous loyalties, you were the one thing that mattered most to him. You leaned into him ever so slightly, your fingers finding his beneath the table, the warmth of his skin a comfort in the midst of the volatile world you both inhabited.

To everyone else, Remy LeBeau was a man of shadows, a figure who could never be truly known. But to you, he was simply Remy—the man who loved you with a depth that went beyond words, beyond actions. It was a love that transcended the chaos of his world, a love that was quiet, fierce, and unshakable.

Remy’s hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers brushing over your knuckles in a gesture meant only for you. When he turned to you, his smile softened, and for a moment, the room and all its dangers seemed to fade. “Y’ doin’ okay, chère?” His voice was low, a deep rumble that slid through the air like velvet.

You nodded, returning his smile with a soft one of your own. “I’m fine, Remy. Just… keeping an eye on things.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, like a balm to the tension that always seemed to hang in the air at these gatherings. “Ain’t nothin’ y’ need t’worry ‘bout, darlin’. I got it all under control.”

But control was a fragile thing in his world, and it took only one careless voice to crack it.

Dinner was winding down, the remnants of the main course being cleared by the staff. The conversation had lightened, the mood growing more relaxed as the night wore on. Remy’s men, his most trusted lieutenants, were gathered around the table, their loyalty as unwavering as it was dangerous. But loyalty had its limits, especially when pride and arrogance were involved.

It was Marco, one of the newer recruits, who shattered the fragile peace. Young, brash, and intoxicated by both the wine and his newfound proximity to power, he leaned back in his chair, eyes lazily drifting over to you. You felt his gaze before you saw it, a slimy prickle on your skin that made your stomach churn. You shifted uncomfortably, hoping it would go unnoticed. But nothing ever escaped Remy’s attention.

Marco’s voice cut through the murmurs of conversation, slurred and dripping with misplaced confidence. “Hey, boss,” he drawled, his words thick with arrogance, “gotta say, you got good taste.” He gestured toward you with the tip of his fork, his smirk widening as he continued. “But uh, if you ever get tired of ‘em, you know where to find me.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Your heart pounded in your chest, a flush of anger and humiliation rising up your neck. You could feel the tension in Remy’s body beside you, the way his fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass until his knuckles turned white. The easy charm he had worn all night was gone in an instant, replaced by something far more dangerous. You knew Remy better than anyone else here—you knew the storm that brewed just beneath the surface when it came to you.

And so did his men.

They had learned, some through whispers and others the hard way, that you were untouchable. To insult you, to even hint at disrespect, was to invite a wrath that not even the bravest of them dared to face. Remy LeBeau was a man of patience and strategy, known for playing the long game in the world of power and alliances. But when it came to you, there was no calculation, no restraint—only swift and unrelenting fury.

His men had seen it before, the way his entire demeanour would shift the moment your name was mentioned with anything less than reverence. They’d witnessed the transformation—the dangerous glint in his red-on-black eyes, the way his casual posture would turn rigid, shoulders tight with barely-restrained violence. It didn’t take long for them to understand: you weren’t just someone Remy cared about. You were his everything, and to cross that line was to invite consequences no one wanted to face.

There had been a time, early on, when some of the newer recruits hadn’t grasped the gravity of your position in Remy’s life. A careless comment here, a snide remark there—nothing overt, but enough to test the waters, to see how much Remy really cared. The first time it happened, the room had gone silent, the air thick with tension as every man waited to see how Remy would react.

He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even stood from his chair. But the look in his eyes—the cold, dangerous calm that settled over him—had been enough to make the offender’s blood run cold. Remy had leaned forward, his voice soft but deadly, as he made it clear that such disrespect would never be tolerated again. After that, it was understood: to disrespect you was to cross a line that no one could come back from.

And if there were any doubts, they had been erased a long time ago.

It had been a careless, drunken comment—a stupid, arrogant suggestion about you that had barely left the young man’s lips before Remy’s fist had shattered his jaw. The room had erupted into chaos, but the message had been clear. Remy’s men had learned in that moment, once and for all, that your name was sacred, and any insult, no matter how small, would be met with swift and brutal consequences.

Since that night, there had been no more jokes, no more careless glances in your direction. When you walked into a room, they stood straighter, their eyes averted, as if they were in the presence of royalty. And in a way, they were. You weren’t just Remy’s partner—you were the queen beside the king, the one who held his heart, and by extension, the one who held their fate in your hands.

Remy never had to say it aloud. He didn’t need to. His men knew, from the way he looked at you, from the unspoken protection that surrounded you like a shield, that you were off-limits. And should anyone forget that, they would be reminded in the most painful way possible.

Now, as you sat beside him, your heart still racing from the tension in the room, you could feel the weight of his protective fury radiating off him like heat from a flame. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as everyone waited for Remy’s response to the insult that had just been thrown your way.

You didn’t need to look at him to know what was coming. His fingers, still clenched around the wine glass, began to loosen, but the danger hadn’t passed. If anything, it was just beginning. The air crackled with anticipation, every man in the room holding their breath, knowing that what came next could very well be the last mistake Marco would ever make.

Then, in a move that startled everyone, Remy threw his head back and laughed—a deep, ringing sound that echoed off the walls, startling in its suddenness. Some of the men around the table hesitantly joined in, their laughter tinged with nervousness, unsure of what the boss’s reaction really meant. Marco’s grin widened, clearly thinking he’d somehow earned Remy’s approval.

But you knew better. You saw the telltale twitch at the corner of Remy’s eye, the slight clench of his jaw that hadn’t quite relaxed. He was playing a dangerous game, letting Marco believe he was safe, if only for a heartbeat longer.

And then, without warning, Remy picked up his fork and drove it into the back of Marco’s hand with a brutal, precise force. The sharp tines pierced through skin and muscle, embedding deep into the wood of the table beneath. The violent sound of metal meeting flesh and bone echoed through the room, cutting through the low murmur of conversation like a gunshot.

Marco’s strangled yell tore from his throat, his eyes wide with shock and pain as he looked down at the fork now pinning his hand to the table. Blood welled up around the wound, pooling under his palm and running in rivulets across the tablecloth. The room froze, every man too stunned to move, too terrified to intervene.

Remy didn’t give anyone a chance to react. He was already moving with a terrifying, fluid precision, his hand shooting out to grab the back of Marco’s head. In one swift motion, he slammed the young man’s face down onto the table with a sickening crack. The force of the impact sent plates and glasses skittering across the surface, the once-elegant dinner table now a chaotic mess of spilled wine and shattered glass.

Marco’s cry of agony was muffled as his face collided with the hard wood, his nose breaking instantly under the pressure. Blood spattered across the table, mingling with the wine in a gruesome tableau of violence. His body jerked involuntarily, his free hand clawing at the table, but the fork still lodged in his other hand kept him pinned in place, helpless beneath Remy’s unrelenting grip.

For a moment, the only sound was the ragged breathing of the men around the table, all of them too shocked, too afraid to even think about stepping in. Remy stood over Marco, his chest rising and falling steadily, but his eyes—those cold, red-on-black eyes—were alight with a fury that chilled the room.

With deliberate slowness, Remy leaned over, his grip tightening on Marco’s head as he yanked it back, forcing the young man to lift his face from the bloodied table. Marco’s nose was a mess of blood and broken cartilage, his breathing coming in ragged, wet gasps as blood poured from his nostrils and down his face, staining his shirt and the pristine tablecloth beneath him. His hand, still pinned by the fork, trembled violently, the pain etched into every feature of his face.

Remy’s expression remained eerily calm, his voice low and deadly as he spoke, his accent thicker now, the Cajun drawl wrapping around his words like a noose. “You think you can talk ‘bout her like that, mon ami? You think I’d let you walk away after disrespectin’ what’s mine?” He leaned in closer, his lips curled into a dangerous smirk, though his eyes held none of the humor his voice suggested. “Non, boy. You don’t know me at all.”

With a sharp yank, Remy ripped the fork out of Marco’s hand, the tines dragging through the already torn flesh with a sickening squelch. Marco let out a guttural scream, his hand now a bloody, mangled mess, trembling and useless. Blood spurted from the wound, staining the tablecloth in a growing pool of crimson, but Remy didn’t seem to care. His focus was solely on the man before him, bleeding and broken, but still conscious enough to understand the gravity of his mistake.

Remy’s grip on Marco’s head remained firm as he pulled him back again, forcing the young man to meet his gaze. Blood dripped from Marco’s face, staining his lips and teeth, his eyes wide with fear and pain. He was a far cry from the arrogant, cocky recruit who had dared to speak against you just moments before.

Remy’s voice was steady, cold as ice, as he tilted Marco’s head back further, making sure the young man couldn’t look away. “I told you once, and I’ll tell you again ami—you ever disrespect her again, I’ll do worse than this. You understand me?” He twisted Marco’s head slightly, the pressure making the younger man wince, though he barely had the strength left to nod.

“Y-yes, boss,” Marco managed to choke out, his voice barely a whisper through the blood clogging his throat. His body shook with pain and fear, every breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps.

Remy gave a slow, satisfied nod, though the fire in his eyes had yet to fade. He let go of Marco’s head, allowing the young man to slump forward, his body collapsing onto the table as he cradled his wounded hand to his chest. Marco whimpered, his face still streaked with blood, his pride and arrogance shattered along with the bones in his hand.

The room remained deathly silent, every man at the table too terrified to move, too terrified to speak. They had all seen Remy angry before, had all witnessed his temper flare in dangerous ways, but this… this was different. This was personal. And every one of them knew, without a doubt, that this was a line none of them could ever cross.

Remy straightened, brushing a hand across his suit jacket as if to wipe away some invisible speck of dust. He didn’t spare another glance at Marco, who lay trembling and broken on the table, his blood staining everything around him. Instead, Remy turned to you, his expression softening instantly, the fury in his eyes melting into something far gentler, far more familiar.

“You alright, chère?” he asked, his voice low, filled with concern for you, as if the chaos of the last few moments hadn’t even happened. He reached for your hand, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles in that familiar, grounding way that always anchored you to him.

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, but your gaze never left his. In that moment, you knew—just as every man in the room now knew—that Remy would tear the world apart for you without a second thought. And as much as the violence had shaken you, the sight of him standing there, his eyes filled with nothing but love and concern for you, reminded you of one undeniable truth: you were his, and there was nothing in this world—or any other—that he wouldn’t do to protect you.

Remy gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before turning back to the room, his voice sharp and commanding once more as he reached into the jacket and threw several hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Clean this up,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And make sure Marco remembers his lesson.”

Without another word, he led you out of the room, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, his body still radiating that quiet, dangerous energy. But with each step away from the carnage, his touch softened, his focus shifting entirely to you.

As the heavy door to his suite clicked shut behind you, the tension from the dining room still clung to the air between you and Remy like a thick fog. His arm remained around your waist, his touch protective, but you could feel the residual energy of his anger still thrumming beneath his skin. The soft glow of the room’s golden lighting contrasted sharply with the chaos you’d just left behind—this space was a sanctuary from the violence and danger of Remy’s world, but tonight, even here, the weight of what had just transpired followed you.

He led you deeper into the suite, the warmth of his body pressed close to yours, but you could sense the quiet storm beneath his calm exterior. It was always like this after someone crossed that invisible line—Remy’s fury was a force of nature, but it was only ever ignited when it came to you.

Once you reached the living area, he gently released his hold on you and turned, his eyes searching your face for any sign of distress. The intensity in his gaze had softened, but the concern still lingered in the depths of those red-on-black eyes. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the quiet of the room.

“Y’ alright, chère?” His voice was low, gentle now, the rough edge of his anger smoothed away for you. He always checked on you after moments like that, as if he needed to be sure you were okay, that his actions hadn’t shaken you too much.

You nodded, but your heart was still pounding, not just from the adrenaline of the evening, but from the lingering tension between you. “I’m fine, Remy,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “But you… you don’t always have to do that. You don’t have to—” Your words faltered for a moment, trying to find the right way to say it without setting off his protective instincts again. “You don’t have to hurt people just because they say something stupid about me.”

His expression shifted slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied you. He stepped closer, his fingers trailing down your arm until his hand found yours, squeezing it gently. “Non, chère, I do,” he said, his voice still soft, but the intensity in it unmistakable. “Ain’t nobody gonna disrespect y’. Not while I’m around.”

You sighed, your gaze dropping to where his hand held yours. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Remy. I don’t want you to lose control because of me.” You looked back up at him, your voice steady but filled with concern. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk—you’re carrying this whole empire. It’s more than just you and me.”

His hand cupped your cheek again, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His eyes were smoldering now, not with anger, but with something deeper, something fierce and unyielding that made your heart race. “You don’t get it, do y’?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Ain’t nothin’ more important to me than y’. Not this empire, not the money, not any of it. You’re the only thing that matters.”

Your breath caught in your throat at the raw honesty in his voice. He wasn’t just saying it to reassure you—he meant every word, and that knowledge settled into your chest, heavy and warm. But still, the way he protected you, the way he reacted with such violence, it was something you struggled with. “But—”

“Non,” he interrupted softly, his voice dropping lower, his eyes darkening with emotion. “Y’ listen to me, ma belle. You’re mine. An’ I’m yours. Ain’t nobody gonna touch you, not even with their words. I’ll rip ‘em apart if I have to.”

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t care how many of ‘em I gotta deal with. I’ll do it every time if it means keepin’ y’ safe.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, not just from the possessiveness in them, but from the unshakable devotion that lay beneath it. You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening as his hand slid from your cheek down to your neck, his fingers resting lightly against your pulse, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin.

“Remy…” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, but the way he looked at you, the way his thumb stroked over your pulse, made it hard to speak, hard to think. There was a hunger in his gaze now, a need that matched the intensity of his earlier fury, but this time it wasn’t directed outward—it was all for you.

“I’d burn this whole world down for y’,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw, trailing down your neck, each word a promise that sent heat pooling low in your belly. “Ain’t nobody worth more t’me than y’.”

His hand slid down your back, pulling you flush against him, the warmth of his body sinking into yours. Your hands instinctively found their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the tension between you ignited into something else—something deeper, something that had been building all night.

His mouth found yours, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, every movement filled with purpose. It wasn’t just about passion—it was about reassuring you, about showing you just how much you meant to him, how far he was willing to go to keep you by his side. His tongue brushed against your lips, coaxing them open as he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding up into your hair, gripping it just enough to make you gasp against his mouth.

“Let me show y’,” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough, filled with need. “Let me show you how much y’ mean t’me.”

Your breath hitched as his hands moved to the small of your back, pulling you even closer until you could feel every inch of him pressed against you. His lips trailed down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that made your knees weak, heat flooding through your body with each touch.

“Remy…” His name fell from your lips as a breathless plea, your fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed along the curve of your collarbone, his hands already working at the zipper of your dress. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you standing before him in nothing but the barest of undergarments. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, his hands sliding over your hips, his touch reverent and possessive all at once.

“You’re so beautiful, chère,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire. His hands moved up your sides, fingers tracing the curve of your waist before slipping around to your back, unclasping your bra in one fluid motion. The garment fell away, leaving you exposed to him, your skin tingling under his gaze.

He kissed you again, harder this time, his hands roaming over your bare skin, pulling you against him as if he couldn’t stand to be apart for even a second. The heat between you was electric, your bodies moving together with a desperate urgency, as if the world outside no longer mattered. There was only this—only the two of you, wrapped in the intensity of your connection.

He backed you up toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours as he guided you down onto the soft sheets. His body hovered over yours, his hands bracing on either side of your head as he looked down at you, his gaze filled with a hunger that sent a thrill of anticipation through your veins.

“Le’ me take care of y’, ma belle,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. His hand slid down your body, fingers teasing the edge of your panties before slipping beneath the fabric, his touch sending a jolt of pleasure through you. You arched into him, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he explored you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his lips tracing a path along your jaw, down your neck, over your collarbone. His fingers slipped deeper, finding that sweet spot that made you shudder with pleasure. You moaned into his mouth, your hips bucking against his hand as he continued his relentless exploration. His thumb brushed against your clit, sending waves of ecstasy crashing through you. Your nails dug into his back, urging him on, your body begging for more.

"Please," you whispered, your voice trembling with need. "Don't stop."

He growled in response, a sound of pure animalistic desire, and pulled your panties down your legs, leaving them pooled at your ankles. He paused for a moment, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, completely exposed and at his mercy. The intensity in his gaze made your heart race, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

Without warning, he thrust two fingers inside you, filling you completely. You cried out, your body arching off the bed as he began to move them in a steady, rhythmic pace. His thumb returned to your clit, circling it with deliberate pressure, heightening your pleasure. Your mind was spiralling, every touch, every movement sending you closer to the edge.

"Faster," you begged, your voice barely audible. "Please, faster."

He obliged, increasing the speed of his fingers, his movements becoming more frantic. The sensation was overwhelming, your body tightening around his fingers as you felt the familiar rush of an impending climax. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as you came apart beneath him.

Your body trembled, waves of pleasure coursing through you as you clung to him, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. He didn’t let up, his fingers continuing their relentless pace, drawing out your orgasm until you were utterly spent. Only then did he pull away, his fingers glistening with your arousal.

He looked down at you, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Y’ taste s’ good, chère," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of him tasting you sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.

"Now it's my turn," he said, his tone commanding. He rose from the bed, stripping off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing his muscular chest and arms. His pants followed, discarded carelessly on the floor, leaving him gloriously naked before you.

You couldn’t help but stare, your eyes tracing every inch of his powerful form. He was a vision of raw masculinity, every muscle defined, every line of his body honed by years of discipline and power. And now, he was all yours, ready to claim you in the most primal way possible.

He climbed back onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. His eyes locked onto yours, a silent promise of what was to come. With one swift movement, he positioned himself at your entrance, his cock hard and throbbing against your slick folds.

"Are y’ ready, ma belle?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

You nodded, unable to form words, your body trembling with anticipation. He didn’t wait for a verbal response, instead, he slowly pushed himself inside you, filling you inch by inch. The sensation was exquisite, your body stretching to accommodate him, the fullness overwhelming and perfect.

He paused when he was fully inside you, allowing you to adjust to his size. His hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he looked down at you, his eyes burning with intensity. "Y’ feel so good," he rasped, his voice rough with need.

With a growl, he began to move, pulling almost all the way out before thrusting back in, his rhythm slow and deliberate. Each thrust was measured, controlled, yet filled with undeniable passion. You could feel every ridge of his hardness, every pulse of his desire, as he claimed you with a possessive fervor.

"Yes," you gasped, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. "More, please."

He obliged, increasing the speed of his thrusts, his hips slamming into yours with a force that made the bed creak beneath you. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, punctuated by your moans and his growls of pleasure. The world outside ceased to exist, there was only this—only the two of you, lost in the heat of your shared desire.

His hands moved from your hips to your breasts, squeezing and kneading them roughly, his thumbs flicking over your nipples, sending shocks of pleasure radiating through you. You arched into his touch, your back bowing off the bed as you rode the waves of ecstasy he was creating within you.

"S’ tight," he muttered, his voice strained with effort. "S’ fucking perfect."

His thrusts grew more erratic, each one hitting deeper, harder, driving you both closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter within you, waiting for release. He must have sensed it too, because he suddenly changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you that made you see stars.

"Fuck,” you cried out, your body convulsing around him as you came, your walls clenching tightly around his length. He followed you over the edge, his thrusts becoming wild and uncontrolled as he spilled inside you, his seed filling you completely.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your combined panting, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the feeling of his heartbeat thudding against your chest. Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, his softening cock slipping out of you with a wet sound.

He rolled off you, pulling you into his arms as he lay back against the pillows. You nestled against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder, your breaths gradually slowing to a normal pace. The room was filled with the scent of sex, mingled with the faint aroma of the hotel room’s expensive linens.

"That was... incredible," you murmured, your voice soft and content.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. "Only the beginning, chère," he said, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. "We have all night."

You smiled, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift in the warmth of his embrace. For now, that was enough. But you knew, deep down, that the night was far from over. Remy watched you with a quiet intensity, his fingers gently combing through your hair, the softness of each strand slipping between his fingers like silk. The tenderness in his touch was a stark contrast to the ruthless persona he wore in his world. Here, in the privacy of this dimly lit room, with the city buzzing faintly beyond the windows, Remy allowed himself the luxury of vulnerability—a rare thing for a man who often had to keep his guard up.

He shifted slightly, adjusting the pillows behind him without disturbing you, his eyes lingering on your peaceful expression. You looked so serene, your lashes resting against your cheeks, your breaths slow and steady as sleep began to pull you under. It wasn’t often that he got to see you like this—utterly relaxed, completely unguarded—and the sight tugged at something deep inside him.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, one that was reserved solely for moments like these. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, breathing you in. “Mon cœur,” he whispered against your skin, his voice barely a murmur. “Y’ don’ even know what y’ do t’me.”

He held you closer, one arm wrapped securely around your waist as the other continued its soothing path through your hair. It amazed him how easily you fit against him, like the missing piece of a puzzle he hadn’t known he was solving. Remy’s life was a constant whirlwind of chaos and danger, a never-ending game of chess where every move could be his last. But with you in his arms, all of that faded into the background, leaving only the quiet, undeniable certainty that he would do anything to keep you safe.

As you drifted further into sleep, Remy’s thoughts began to wander. He knew the path he walked was a dangerous one, and bringing you into his world was a risk—a risk he took willingly, even if it meant putting everything on the line. The men he commanded, the deals he brokered, the rivals he crushed—it all seemed insignificant in comparison to the way you made him feel. He would burn it all down in a heartbeat if it meant keeping you beside him.

For a long moment, he simply watched you, memorizing the way your chest rose and fell with each breath, the gentle curve of your lips, the way your fingers curled slightly against his skin. He wanted to remember everything, to hold onto this moment for as long as he could. Because with you, time seemed to slow, the relentless pace of his life easing into something softer, more manageable.

Remy’s thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand. He glanced over, his expression hardening momentarily as the screen lit up with a message. His world never slept; the business never paused, not even for moments like this. But tonight, he could afford to let it wait. Whatever it was, whoever it was—it could wait until morning.

He silenced the phone, returning his focus to you, the tension easing from his features as he resumed his gentle ministrations. The warmth of your body against his was like a balm, soothing the rough edges of his soul in a way that nothing else ever had. He continued to run his fingers through your hair, tracing the shape of your shoulder, your arm, every curve and line etched into his memory.

As he watched you sleep, Remy couldn’t help but wonder how he had ever gotten so lucky. In a world filled with betrayal and deceit, you were his one constant, the one person who saw him not as a ruthless leader but as the man beneath the mask. And for that, he was grateful beyond words.

The night stretched on, the city’s distant hum lulling him into a state of quiet contentment. Remy closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of your head, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the lingering traces of their earlier passion. He was tired, but it was a good kind of tired—the kind that came from being exactly where he wanted to be, with exactly who he wanted to be with.

Remy’s fingers stilled, resting gently on your back as he let his own eyes drift shut. “All night, mon amour,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with a promise. “An' every night after that.”

For the first time in a long time, Remy LeBeau allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—there was a place for him beyond the shadows of his empire. And that place was here, with you, in the quiet moments that stretched between dusk and dawn. Moments where nothing else mattered but the steady beat of your heart against his, and the certainty that whatever battles lay ahead, you would face them together.

As sleep finally claimed him, Remy held you a little tighter, his grip firm and unyielding. He wasn’t letting go—not now, not ever. The world outside could wait. For tonight, and every night after, you were his to protect, his to cherish, and he was yours in every way that mattered.

And that, for Remy, was more than enough.

[moonlightdawn1102]

'You Had Me At Hello'

Pairings: Single Mom Reader x Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, Slight Reader x OMC

Word Count: 2516

Warnings: Verbal Abuse, Slight Physical Abuse

Being a single mom wasn’t something you’d ever envisioned for yourself. You’d always thought that you’d be the type of woman to have the whole white picket fence lifestyle with a husband that loved you deeply. That didn’t happen though and instead you ended up dating some jerk of a businessman for three years until he left you at eight months pregnant for his secretary.

You should have seen it coming considering how pretentious and conceited he was, but you were a fool in love who held out hope that he’d change for the better. You thought the pregnancy would help the two of you become closer again, but it did the complete opposite.

In the long run, you supposed that walking in on Tommy fucking his secretary was a blessing in disguise. At the time you’d been heartbroken but now you were glad to no longer have him in your life despite the hardships you’d faced. You’d been able to get emergency housing due to the fact you were eight months pregnant when he kicked you out, but it hadn’t been easy and money was hard to come by, you'd done whatever you could just to scrape enough money together to get all of the necessities for your baby before they arrived.

When your daughter was born everything in your life changed, you’d never experienced a love like it before and you knew from that moment on that she would always be your number one priority. When Gracie turned one was when you officially went back to work, your neighbour helped out when she could with taking care of Gracie, but for the most part you’d have to take her with you. It wasn’t the best plan but you had no other choice, you needed the money and couldn’t leave Gracie alone.

That plan worked just fine until Gracie started attending preschool and your landlord decided to put your rent up by fifteen percent. After that you had to work two jobs just to make ends meet, ideally you would have worked three but you needed that time to spend with Gracie.

Today was one of those days where just about everything that could go wrong did. Firstly two people called in sick at the diner you worked at which meant that apart from the cook, you would be the only one working. Then Gracie’s preschool called and told you that you needed to pick her up because she’d bitten another student. By some miracle you’d managed to get a hold of your neighbour who picked Gracie up for you and dropped her off at the diner.

You hadn’t spoken to her about the incident at school yet because you were far too busy, but you planned on it once your shift finished. Currently, Gracie was sitting at the counter doing some colouring while you worked. If only that had been as stressful as your day would get, but apparently the universe hated you.

You walk over to the corner booth and smile brightly when you spot one of your regulars, James Barnes. He'd been coming to the diner for around four months now, he was always kind to you and always made sure to tip you generously. He tended to flirt with you, but it was never taken seriously on your part, you were sure that someone as handsome and as charming as James wouldn’t ever be interested in you. That didn’t mean you didn’t feel good when he’d make sweet remarks and flash that award winning smile at you. 

“Hey Sugar, you look beautiful today” he says with his signature smirk. You roll your eyes playfully and giggle gently, “James, I’ve been running around this place like a crazy woman. I couldn’t look less beautiful. Now would you like the usual?” you say with a smile. James leans back in his seat and looks you over, “Firstly, I’ve told you to call me Bucky. Secondly, you look as beautiful as ever. Thirdly, you shouldn’t have to run around this place to begin with, you should have someone to take care of you. But yeah, I’ll have my usual please” he says softly. You blush and nod your head, “I’ll bring it over in a minute” you say with a slight smile. 

Bucky always ordered the same thing which was a black coffee and a slice of pie. You grab the coffee pot and pour him a cup before placing a slice of lemon meringue pie on a plate. You turn around to walk back over to Bucky, but are stopped in your tracks at the man walking inside the diner. What the hell was Tommy doing here?

You hadn’t seen him since he’d kicked you out on the street. Your hands were shaking and you threw the cup and plate down on the counter, “Pumpkin, come here” you said quickly to your daughter. Gracie hopped down from the stool and came over to you, Tommy was walking this way and you felt like you were going to pass out. 

You picked Gracie up and held her on your hip, you couldn’t let her be a part of this especially considering the fact you’d told her that her father was in heaven. You look around for a way out before your eyes land on Bucky, you swallow thickly and walk over to him, “I..I’m really sorry to ask, but could you please just watch my daughter for a minute? I need to take care of something and I..” you begin to ramble.

Bucky shakes his head and gestures for you to put Gracie in the booth opposite him, “It’s no problem. I love kids and she seems like an angel” he says softly. You felt relief flood your system and you set Gracie down, “Be good Pumpkin. Stay here with Mr Bucky” you say before pressing a kiss to her head.

“Y/N, I want to speak to you. Is that her?” you hear Tommy call out from behind you. Taking a calming breath, you walk over and grab hold of him before pulling him out of the back entrance. “Who the hell do you think you are Tommy?! I haven’t seen you in over three years. You don’t just get to turn up and announce yourself to my daughter!” you exclaim.

Tommy scoffs slightly, “Our daughter, Y/N. I’ve spent two months tracking you down. I’m her father and I want to see her. You either let me see her, or I file for custody. Who do you think will win that court case? The struggling mother who can barely afford to clothe her or the father who has the capability to send her to the best school in the state?” 

“Y..You can’t do that. You can’t take her away from me. I won’t let you, Tommy” you say firmly. He laughs and takes a step closer to you, “Oh yeah? And how do you plan on stopping me? You’re still the pathetic little fool that you’ve always been. You were just an easy fuck, Y/N. That’s the only reason I put up with you for so long, but I’ll be damned if I let my daughter grow up to be like her mother” he says flatly.

You couldn’t handle his words of torment any longer and slapped him hard across the face, it was the only time since you’d met Tommy that you’d ever stuck up for yourself. It might not have been the brightest idea though, because the next second Tommy had his hand around your throat and had knocked your head against the wall. You groan out in pain and try to pull his hand away, “You stupid fucking bitch” he snarls out, he raised his fist to hit you but it never made contact.

Suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere near you and Bucky was standing in front of you. He lifted your chin with his fingers to check over your face before turning your head gently to check the cut on the back of your head from when it had hit the wall, “Hey Sugar, are you alright?” he said softly. You nod gently but wince at the pain in your head, “I don’t think you are. I’ll take you to the doctor, you’ve got quite a nasty cut” he says sympathetically.

Tommy stands back up from the ground where Bucky had thrown him, “Hey man, get the fuck out of here. My girl and I were just talking” he shouts. Anger flickered behind Bucky’s eyes at Tommy’s words, he turned around to stare Tommy down and you saw the fear that immediately consumed Tommy, it was almost as if he recognised Bucky. 

“M..Mr Barnes..I..I didn’t know it was you” he stutters out. Bucky laughs darkly, “So you know who I am? And what do I do for a living, correct?” he asks calmly. Tommy quickly nods his head and holds his hands up in defence, “Yes..Yes of course” he says, you’d never seen Tommy look afraid of anyone so why did he look like he was about to cry in front of James? Bucky hums gently, “Right, so do you want to explain to me why you put your hands on my girl?” he asks.

Your eyes flicker to Bucky in confusion, you weren’t his..Not that you hadn’t dreamt about it. Tommy glances at you, “Wait..Wait..You’re dating him? You let a man like that around our daughter but won’t let me speak to her? Do you even know who he is?” he spits out. You swallow thickly and fiddle with your fingers, “You kicked me out and left me for your secretary while I was eight months pregnant. You don’t get to dictate who I date or sleep with, and you definitely don’t get to tell me who I bring around MY daughter” you say firmly while taking a step forward to stand by Bucky’s side.

He looked proud of you and subtly reached for your hand squeezing it softly. Tommy looked like he was about to blow a gasket and scoffs loudly, “You know what, you’re not even worth it. You’ll come crawling back when he moves on to his next whore” he says before straightening his suit and making his way out of the alleyway.

You let out a sigh of relief and let go of Bucky’s hand but he just holds it tighter refusing to let you part ways, “What do you think you’re doing Sugar?” he asks. You blush and look up at him, “Well..I..erm..I figured that you were just putting on a show to get him to leave. I can take myself to the doctors, it’s no big deal” you say quietly. 

“Oh Sugar, I wasn’t putting on a show. I meant every word that I said. You’re my girl. You have been ever since I walked into this diner. I’ve just been waiting for you to realise it” he says with his usual charming smile. Your mouth drops open in shock at his words, “Wh..What? But I’m..I’m not..You could do so much better, I’m not the type of woman you want by your side. I mean, you’re..You know..From a certain societal class and I’m a single mother working two jobs” you say quietly.

Bucky laughs softly, “None of that matters to me, Sugar. I’ve been trying to do this at your pace, but clearly I wasn’t obvious enough. So, Y/N would you please let me take you out on a date?” he asks with a smile. You were about to answer when you heard crying, a tall blonde man walked out the back of the diner with Gracie in his arms. You felt your body freeze up at this strange man holding your crying daughter, you were about to lose it when he spoke whilst looking at Bucky.

“I’m sorry Buck, she won't stop crying” he says while bouncing Gracie up and down. You walk over and Gracie immediately calms down, you take her from the man and glance back at Bucky. He shakes his head with a smile, “Don’t worry about it. Y/N this is Steve, he’s my right hand man, but more importantly he’s like my brother” he says to you which allows you to relax.

At least Gracie hadn’t been left with some random man, “It’s nice to meet you Steve” you say softly. He nods his head with a polite smile, “It’s nice to finally meet you too. Buck hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks” he says with a chuckle. You let out a laugh and smile brightly before remembering what Bucky had said, “Wait, you said that he’s your right hand man. What is it you do for work?” you ask curiously. Steve stares at Bucky and shakes his head, “You haven’t told her? Jesus Buck. You need to tell her, I’ll wait for you in the car” he says with a sigh. He gives you a friendly smile before walking back into the diner.

Bucky scratches the back of his head which makes you narrow your eyes in suspicion, “What is it? What do you do?” you ask firmly. He sighs softly, “I’m..erh..involved with some not so legal activities” he says vaguely. “What kind of illegal activities?” you ask. He looks at the ground before making eye contact with you, “I may or may not be a mob boss..” he says with a slight laugh.

You just stare at him in shock for a few minutes and try to process what he’d just told you. There was no way that this sweet and lovely man could be a mob boss, he was like a damn cupcake half the time and made you feel safer than anyone had in years. “I know it’s a lot to process and if you want me to leave and never come back then I’ll do it. But I just want you to know that I like you Y.N, I want you in every way imaginable and I want to take care of you. I want to be the man that you deserve. I want to be there for you and Gracie if you’ll let me” he says softly.

His words made any resolve you had left crumble into pieces, you decided that you didn’t care what he did for work as long as he treated you and Gracie in the way that he’d promised. You smile up at him before leaning up and pressing a deep kiss to his lips, “Eww mommy..” Gracie whines which makes you laugh and pull away from Bucky.

You look at him with a light in your eyes that hadn't been there since you were a child, “Well, I can speak confidently when I say that we want you. I just want to know if this is really what you want. Are you sure you want us?” you say softly. Bucky chuckles gently and shakes his head fondly, “Sugar, you had me at hello” 

[tonysslut]

hear me out, mob boss Tony Stark smoking a cigar while you sit on his lap and he gently plays with your pussy!!!! and in the meantime the two of you also share a glass of his best whiskey... I bet that would be his favorite way to unwind after a hard day

i wanna kiss your brain for sending this 😩

minors dni, pls don't copy or repost my work

warnings: teasing, fingering, overstimulation, italian mob boss tony 😏

tony stark masterlist

You were sitting on Tony's lap with your white lacey panties pushed to the side while he buried his knuckles in your cunt. His other hand held a cigar. The smell invades your senses as you try your best to keep still and not spill the amber liquid that was in the glass you were holding. 

“Such a pretty little pussy, squeezing my fingers so tight.” He groans, slowly thrusting in and out of your heat. “Don’t spill my whiskey, amore mio.” a warning as you start to squirm. 

 You weren’t sure how many orgasms he’d pulled from you. You could barely feel your legs, and Tony’s pants were soaked with your arousal, permanently marking them with your scent.  

“I won’t, daddy.” You whine, trying to focus on the glass instead of how good his fingers feel. 

Tony came home stressed from all his meetings, texting you to wait in his office with a glass of whiskey and his favorite lingerie set. You expected him to down his drink and fuck you senseless, but instead, he patted his lap and insisted on just playing with your pussy, calling you his “stress reliever." 

How could you deny him that? 

You watched as he pulled his fingers out of your cunt, your arousal glistening in the light as he sucked them into his mouth, moaning at your sweet taste. “You want a taste?” He asked, and you eagerly nodded as you parted your lips. 

A mixture of whiskey and your arousal hit your tongue, you moaned as your tongue swirled around his fingers to get every last drop. He watched, almost hypnotized, as you sucked on his finger, big doe eyes staring back up at him. 

He set his cigar on the holder and took the whiskey glass from your hands, taking a swig, then placing the glass on his desk. Pulling his fingers out of your mouth, he trailed them down your sternum and stomach before pressing against your swollen and oversensitive clit. 

At the same time, he presses his lips against yours, swallowing your gasp as he drags you closer to your orgasm. His tongue slips past your parted lips, roaming your mouth as he draws you closer to your orgasm. You dig your nails into his arm when he thrusts his fingers into your cunt, almost instantly hitting a spot that has your eyes rolling back into your head. 

“Feels good, huh?” He groans, putting his palm flushed against your clit to stimulate it while he curls his fingers inside you. 

“S’good.” You whine, back arching as he uses his free hand to grab you hips, keeping you seated on his lap. “Gonna cum!” 

Your legs shake as your release washes over you, muscles stiff and vision blurry. Tony’s movements don’t stop, he makes sure to drag it out for as long as possible, loving how you turn into putty afterwards. 

“Good girl, you’ve made such a mess.” He whispers in your ear. 

You look up at him with glazed eyes, barely registering his words, only attempting to jerk away when he pulls his fingers out only to place them on your clit once again. 

“Can’t. S’too much.” You slurred but give into the painful pleasure.  “Just give me one more, amore mio. Then I’m going to need you to clean up the mess you’ve made.”

likes, reblogs, and feedback are highly appreciated! ੈ♡˳

[mad-maximoff]

I might not post a chapter of my CZJ fanfic on here. I’ll just post the link⬇️❤️

https://www.wattpad.com/story/330300164?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=mad-maximoff&wp_originator=llaG7D%2FiMHrZt3UyyA53tFzSZZOdzPDmUVu4jwOqkh7zSTt%2B9Trk2iCRjxRJkldo5grQ%2BnPXytecKj0YJ7W%2Bpm8TpGLkydHqmPVm4ushNl72aJVXrvGYp7KsAl8bZnjN

[darkdemeter]

・issue #1・ KNOW YOUR RHYTHM

⚤ Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Dance choreo! Female Reader Mafia related topics — some profanity — mention of blood and violence and stuff — mob boss Bucky who just thirsts for reader HARD — bit a spice and flirting — I think that's it? ✎ 5.6k He is the king of crime, the one mob boss nobody wants to mess with. Funny how you end up here, hired as a dance choreographer for his new club. It was meant to be a simple paycheck, nothing more. But Bucky Barnes, the big bad mafia boss, wants you.

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

 You’re too stubborn to retire the rhythm and hang up those dancing shoes. No, you fight for what’s yours, that’s how you were brought up, and you committed so much to lead this life to escape another that loomed over with a darkened destiny. 

  Even then you had your limits. Though it seems those limits would be tested as of today. A promise that undoubtedly falls in the blurring of lines. 

  “The Crimson Star Nightclub,” you say with a click of your tongue that audibly pops on the other end of the call. “In… that territory of New York.” 

  You swear you can feel her grimace of regret through the phone.

  “I know, I know! I’m sorry, I just— I told him that you’d just be perfect for the job.” Your friend and student wasn’t pleading herself a forgivable case here, you scowl outwardly as you toss your bag atop the nearby railing, sifting through its contents for a moment.

  “I taught you everything I know, babes, why’re you struggling?”

  She’s silent for a minute before she groans, “I just don’t have what it takes to teach, like you do. You’ve got the drive for it! C’mon, he’s willing to pay triple your usual rates. Besides… I’m kinda scared he’ll kill, gut and dump my body over a bridge if you don’t come.”

  That last point shakes you more than you’d like but you quickly dismiss the arrival of dread that falls on your shoulders. You grapple your wallet from your bag and begin to hail a taxi, a gloved hand raised high, the familiar fluorescent yellow swerving to a stop at the curb with a screeching frictional drag of its tires. “What’s the address?”

  She’s smiling, you just know it as she rains down a thousand thank you’s, her heels clapping loudly in the background. 

  Pulling up to the joint made your stomach turn over a hundred times. Exiting the cab, your heeled boot scrubs against the pavement with a leathery rumble as you take in the building. A big establishment from its outward appearance. Peeling off the cover of your sunglasses, you study the freshly reinstated brickwork absolved of any form of gang graffiti. A havenous roofing overheads the entrance where guests would line up in wait with complimenting stanchions. 

  Atop the two – or maybe three story – building is the unlit title, Crimson Star Lounge and Nightclub, and the most flattering of all: a giant red star with a blackened silhouette of what you believe to be either a nude or lingerie clad woman sat within on an invisible seat of some kind. 

  With a hum, you bet a personal wager against yourself that the neon sign’s simple display would articulate the upper leg that hangs over her other to kick up as she arches herself back, accentuating her body more.

  You cannot help but chuckle to yourself. Oh, you’re definitely in for a treat you shouldn’t have let yourself be lured in by. 

  You walk up to the entrance where a large hulk of a man stands idle, his long, blonde hair tied back and out of his face, his browline shifts awkwardly to frown at you behind a thick layer of facial hair. Gruffly, with a low baritone, he speaks. “Club’s not open yet, sweetheart, and we’re full on resumes. Come back in a few months.”

  With a fashionable tilt of your head, a smirk presses into the corner of your lips as you grin.   “Oh, I know you’re not. The star girl doesn’t have her legs spread open for business.”

  From the ease that follows his features with a bashful grin to boot, you continue, “A girl named Tam is inside? She called me, asked me to come and meet the big boss man for a potential dance choreographer job.”

  He grins a pearly smile at you. “A woman with your attitude, he’s gonna have no choice but to give you the job. Right this way, Miss.”

  He steps aside and gestures with a muscular arm for you to continue in and with a curt nod of your head, you stalk down the dimly lit hall until you reach the wide expanse of the club.   An elevated platform is guarded by a railing of dark steel to oversee the ground level, the second floor is cut off some feet away from the T shaped stage. Along the back wall that’s closer to your right shelters a pristine, obsidian marble counter with a set of modernised saloon doors behind, leading off into what you assume to be a backbar. 

  It appears that the second floor acts as some sort of VIP section with the barely visible wall of booths pinning into the wall in an orderly fashion, a few booths decorating the first floor and located closer to the bar, the remaining space reserved for the dance floor and tables. 

  Already you begin to piece together the potential air and radiance the club is looking to create, but it helps your workload when asking whoever is in charge what it is they’re trying to achieve. 

  The brighter, overhead lights blare down to make life and work in the dark a tad more tolerable, so employees shuffling around, going about their duties, many don’t spare so much as a third glance your way much to your relief. The last thing you need is anyone recognising you from your prior glory days. 

  Falling into a slow crawl of a stride as you explore your new surroundings, your potential new work space, a voice is sudden to drawl over the glassy rim of an auburn-hued shiver on the tongue, ice swaying with a chorus of clinks. “Club’s closed, sweet—”

  “Alright, I can’t make the same comment twice. I’ve got a thing about repeating myself.”

  That comeback rings as a shocker through the atmosphere. Turning himself to press his side into the counter, glass in hand, you take in the numerous glimmers of gold adorning his fingers, one of which tells of who exactly this man was. What he was.

His chin dips down to peer over the tint of his glasses. “Sharp. I like it. What’d you want?”

  You take a step forward, head craning to look around you before you turn back to the man, plucking your gloves off your hands to discard them into your bag. “Sightseeing clubs that aren’t open,” you scoff, “I’m looking for the boss of the joint. Tam’s voucher.”

  His shoulders rise and roll back, most likely sensing the cutting way you get right to it through your charade of jest. He flashes you a grin. “You’re funny. Tony Stark, pleasure to meet you.”

  He extends his hand forward and you reach to shake it, your throat scratchy and dry from even looking at the ring on his pinky and its embossed insignia. Tucking his hand away into the pocket of his dress pants, he cocks his head awry. “The boss is kinda in a meeting right now.”

  Your lashes flutter in a flurry, eyes rolling skyward into your skull with an exasperated sigh. 

“Do you guys get off to wasting a girl’s time? Honestly, that’s what makes it harder to please us in this day and age.” 

  “I have my ways.” 

  His voice is a fine contour, rich and smooth, you cannot help the chill from running up your spine. Your heel pivots and your body follows, hands situated on your hips as your chin tilts up and up to meet the fiercest pair of winter blue eyes you’ve ever seen. A layer of dark stubble hides little of the smirk plastered on his pink, soft lips as he leans, arms straight and pressed to the railing until his muscles beneath his flex and the veins in his rough hands budge. 

  “Are you the big boss I’ve heard so much about?”

  His cheeks flex under the weight of his thinned smile and nods. “The one and only, dollface.”

  Shaking yourself from momentary stun, you face to realise that the club’s owner was the top mob boss of New York himself. Of course Tam had to bury you six feet in this mess. It had been bad enough that the establishment itself resided in mob territory. Now, as it turns out, the mob king himself owns the place. And your possible contract and paycheck. 

  How fucking fitting. 

  “Right so… what’s the big idea? Tam said something about you needing a choreo instructor.”

  You almost find the way his lips pull to reveal a row of pearly teeth endearing. Almost. You dare not forget who you’re talking with. 

  “Yes, she said you’d be coming.” You don’t miss the way his words care to articulate the words, their enunciation versed with a seductive purr. You scoff at the comment that fails to filter his lewd mind. Still, he has one hell of a smile that can surely make any woman swoon.

Though you don't very much care to be one of those women. You much prefer to stay very much away from that. From him.

  “She told me you were her dance teacher and that you’re the best of the best. Showed me a few demo tapes of your work.”

  You give a simple shrug of your shoulders to ease the flush that rises in your blood. “And?”

  He moves like a wolf on the prowl and maybe because he very much is. Your eyes watch him with careful calculation, the way the bulk of his body swaggers down from his throne on high to meet you on the bottom level. 

  “I’d like to take her word for it and take you on,” he rumbles lowly. 

  His eyes rake up and down your body slowly, undoubtedly sizing you up like a meal. The waft of his cologne is powerful, a stern odour of expensive luxuries only affordable by his wallet. It overpowers your sense of smell like some love spell that you find half a mind to tilt your axis away from his reach; now beginning to worry that those illustrious women draped on his arm in printed magazines and articles may have been victims to a fling they were entrapped by. 

  You have to keep your posture strong and sure to recover from that relapse, however, given that your action may be interpreted as weakness. These men thrive and feed off weakness. He extends a hand forward. “Bucky Barnes. But I get the feeling you already knew that.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  Nevertheless, you take his hand and shake it, reluctantly giving him yours in return. He tastes it for the first time and, by the way his tongue runs below the risen quirk of his lip, revealing his incisor, enjoys the way it rolls off. 

  You walk with him as he shows you around the club and accommodates you with the knowledge of how he wants this little business joint to succeed in its intended market. You meet the girls who would be under your charge, your attitude taking a noticeable shift from its standoffish tone to one much lighter, friendlier in terms of interacting with the dancers. 

  Returning back to the main stage and dismissing the girls off, Bucky turns to you, broadly puffed out from chest to shoulders that the suit strains slightly against the expanse of muscle. 

  “Right, I’ll need to browse around for a hirable studio and give you the info to give the dancers,” you note first and foremost, running your hand over your mouth, your demeanour now lessened and eased into one more befitting of contemplation. Bucky can see and even admire the spark of dedication to the job in your eyes.

  “Can you pull it off?” 

  You gasp, a tad and touch higher in your defence than you should have let on. But ultimately, you meet the dark, playful challenge in his raised brow and wicked smirk. 

  “Outstandingly so for the interesting logo for the club.”

  “Ooh,” he winces behind pursed lips, “tell me what you really think.”

  Tongue unsheathing from your cheek, you turn to face him, stepping forward one step and then another, standing barely chest to chest with him. The fog of his cologne is a whirlwind intending to knock you loose of your inhibitions. You thinly smile through it. “Well, it certainly follows the saying.”

  His brows move higher to his forehead, almost cocky that you don’t fall into betraying yourself and believing he means anything sincere as he asks coolly, “what saying would that be?”

  And quickly you answer, “sex — or the appeal of it — sells.”

  His face leans in closer until his lips hover over yours some inches away, invading the presence of personal space, uncaring to the way your body goes rigid; caught in fight or flight mode, knowing damn well between the two of you that you’re stuck and fucked by either response. “And just how much do you sell for, I wonder.”

  His words are soft, low and oh-so laced to be seductive. The striking allure of those blues moving to take in every aspect of your features as if to engrain them into his memory. 

 Just before he can ever dream of letting his lips close in any more, you take initiative and move back, flaunting a huff that eases his ego down, his features faltering visibly right before your eyes. 

  “I’ll send you an invoice tonight, Mr Barnes…” Your words inspire hope within him as he slowly grins, only to fall. “But don’t excite yourself. I don’t mix business with pleasure.” 

 You send yourself off in the direction of the exit with a measured wave, but his words leave with you and have your stomach in a strange flutter. 

 “You sure? Because I see potentially a lot of pleasure in this contract.”

THREE MONTHS LATER

  It’s cruel to watch you, knowing that this is your last rehearsal with the girls. After this, the doors will promise an opening night to remember. But if you’ve given any hints, you don’t exactly intend on seeing it. 

  And for Bucky, that is just plain torture for him. Over the past three months, you have been working your pretty arse off creating a whole show routine, expertly weaving the backbone of the club’s entertainment and allocating the playlist to fit the atmosphere Bucky and his club managers wanted. 

  Lounging in the VIP section, the raised loft that oversaw the club’s dance floor, stage and regulars bar, Bucky still cannot take his eyes off of you. Why of all nights did you have to go racing off to another job so soon? He had paid you generously, far more than any hired choreographer could ever dream of, and yet that still didn’t seem enough to convince you. He hovers like a shadow, leaning to the dark steel railing, his ring-lined fingers drum against the dark steel as he contemplates his next move. 

  He barely pays any mind to his captains who take their place in the sleek, refined office that are the booths, sipping at their drinks and chatting about the club’s interests and rates. Shit that he tunes out. He can’t focus on anything when you move like that, your body arching this way and that; sinful and cause for impossible. But you prove him wrong. There are many positions he’s fantasised taking you in mid rehearsal. And once, when it was just the two of you in the club during a routine practice, he almost had the chance. But it – you – slipped right through his fingers.

  Your body is pulled into the music itself. A process many seem to struggle with, but for you, it’s as easy as breathing. At first, it’d been a gamble of who to hire for the job, now Bucky cannot dream of regretting choosing you. Renowned as a star dancer, you’re credited with awards from around the globe, in solos, duos and exceeding the numbers. Competition after competition, your name became well known. Your prodigy, dear little Tammy, had been a resourceful source that he later forwarded onto his boys, ordering them to dig up more information about you. 

  A nasty red line was found in your record, as Bucky had his men find, and though the exact details are still unknown to him, it’s given him an indicator that something hit rock bottom. Some time afterwards, however, you resurfaced as a dance choreographer. 

  And if you were still the best of the best, then he’d take you for the job. But now, he wants you for good. Dressed to the nines in outfits he’s spent on all his cards, riding to events together and having the envy of every man and woman’s eyes upon you. Hell, he’s already contemplated the venue and diamond ring. All he needs now is that chance you refute at every turn.

  “Chins forward, eyes open,” you call in correction, gaze set straight ahead of you in the midst of a spinning twirl before planting your heeled stiletto hard into the stage floor with a resounding boom. 

  Bucky’s eyes trail then upwards, the dark colour of your pantyhose hiding your skin that he’s desperate to bruise and leave his fingerprints on. His fingers curl harshly into the railing while his eyes continue to admire while simultaneously undress you, your body hugged in a very form-admiring bodysuit. 

  Dropping down low with the girls following suit, your hips move on beat with the music, grinding into the floor. That, of all moves, is when you make the grave mistake in glancing up at a striking pair of blue eyes, dark in their passionate longing and so bright you’re quick to force your eyes away. 

  But not before you flashed him a toothy smile. A smile that kills him every time. Heat rushes through your veins and rises higher into the surface of your skin, in your core it feels electric with pulsating need, but you carry on with the routine, to save face from what Bucky Barnes did to you. Unbeknownst to you at this moment of what you did to the mob boss, he groans at the tightness surrounding his clothed cock as you rock your hips back and forth, suggestive in your choreographed manner. But so dismissive in how it affects him greatly and his ability to conduct business. 

  No. You can’t let yourself fall into that sort of mess again. Focus. Rolling onto your back, your back arches so beautifully off the floor, it almost has Bucky gasping. The pointed pink of his tongue’s tip darts out to wet his lips. 

  Completely and utterly mesmerised by your rhythm, he growls like a feral animal when Steve’s voice interjects his still continuing list of how he plans to ruin you and save you.

  Now at the end of your routine, you wave for Torres to cut the music and your shoulders fall heavily with an exerted sigh.

  “Good work, girls,” you applaud with your friendly smile, clapping for their efforts. The girls in turn repay your praise with bashful smiles and compliments of your mentorship. 

  You had this way with people, and especially those under your study, you were kind and playful but remained an air of professionalism to ensure your students or your time wasn’t wasted. 

  Bucky feels his skin crawl and his heart drop a thousand yards into his stomach. From the lavish watch strapped to his wrist, he inspects the time. End of rehearsal. End of your contract with him. 

  “Well, they learnt from the best.” Your head turns fast, vision momentarily blurred, there again is that feeling - that spell - he has you under as he saunters down the stairs and towards the stage where you stood, hands pressed idly into your hips. 

  His tongue runs over his teeth, groaning inwardly as his eyes sink and rise in study of your entire form. He could see you being his queen. You’ve a powerful stance, that much he can see, and you possess a quality that has the attention of anyone and everyone on you. A commanding presence. 

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Barnes.” Your cheeks redden more. Praise from your clients always makes your heart flutter with adoration and joy. For them to express their gratitude in the ways they do, it’s good to know you have succeeded in your job. 

  But when Bucky praises you, you become a giddy girl that gushes and yearns to hear more. He sees the way your face shifts to reflect that professionalism, all to hide the reality of what he does to you; what he could do to you if you just gave him the chance. 

  “I could be much kinder, doll.” His voice has lowered into a velvety purr, the callous massage of his fingers shoot a blaze of electricity through the thin fabric of your pantyhose and into your skin like ice, a simple touch over your calf, teasing you further as his palm encloses around you as well, sliding up and down gently. Despite your position above him, a sight he’ll never grow tired off, his up-tilted chin reaches level just below your stomach. Right at the apex of something dangerous. He sees the inner turmoil of conflict flash in your eyes, a battle he’s sure he can win if he plays his cards just right. 

  “VIP access tonight to start?”

  You scoff, shaking your head. But the furrow in your brows betrays your true, raw disappointment. You can’t hide it. Not from him. “I can’t. I have an early flight tomorrow.”

  And just like that, you refuse him yet again. His bottom lip rolls in and over his teeth, tongue pushing hard against the thickened fold of intruding skin in his internal flare of anger, eyes darkening with a single promise he cannot keep; because he can’t have you to make it. You attempt to step back only for his hand to curl tighter around your ankle, keeping you in place.

  “Make an exception this one time for me.”

  Your eyebrows crease between the middle, a frown tugging your lips into an unamused sneer as you tug at your leg that Bucky refuses to let go. 

  “Mr. Barnes, this is extremely unprofessional—”

  “Your contract has expired. We can be as unprofessional as we want. No consequences. No regrets.” He coats his words heavily with a honey of seduction. One that is awfully tempting… one you must deny. 

  You swear this man would kiss the ground you walk upon if you asked him to. Would paint and drown the streets red with blood if you wished it. And that’s what frightens you. Beneath those adoring pools of blue hide a darkness to a world you seek escape from, therein his eyes hides the nature of a killer who’s not only dangerous to those who cross him because of who he is as a man; but also dangerous because of you. 

  You know that love — and lust — are a powerful motivator to a man. It can and will make him do anything. The impossible, the reckless and the most horrid of things. 

  No matter how softly he pleads, you must not say yes…

  His head tilts ever so slightly to the side, streaking locks of dark brown fall loosely to frame over his brow, highlighting an innocence that isn’t there. You pull your leg away again and he allows you to leave him though with the exception of those eyes faltering from yours. Like a kicked puppy.

  “I’ll come tonight. We’ll need to talk about my payment before I leave.”

  There it is, that bright spark in his ocean hues again, a grin pulls his lips wide that battling a smile of your own causing your lips to quiver is half won. Hopping down from the stage his eyes follow after you, watching you gather your belongings, your sights meet one another and he nods to you.

  “See you tonight, beautiful.”

  Scoffing with a shake of your head, this time that smile graces your lips wholly and Bucky feels the air in his lungs flatline. What he would give, who he would kill to see that smile forever on your face. 

  “Right. Tonight. See you then, Mr. Barnes.”

  How you say his name in a manner of such proprietary has him a certain way, but what often has him throbbing and hard is the thought of you moaning his name, skin hot in a sweaty flush pressed to his as he has you on the verge of climactic euphoria and promising that you will be his, that you will never leave his side. He’s left only to his imagination of how you would sound, how you would feel around his hard and thick cock, in his strong and passionate grip that would never let you go — let you falter. 

  He wants you so badly it’s driving him insane. 

  Bucky takes the time to admire your form that currently flees for now, but soon enough he guarantees otherwise, paying particular attention to the wondrous body of your arse right before you pull your coat over your shoulders. 

  He pulls out his phone from his suit pocket and with a few minor taps of his thumb, he holds it to his ear, the receiver on high alert to his order.

  “Get her ticket reimbursed and have the jet on standby, just in case.”

  If you had known he’d send a car to pick you up, you’d have thought twice on a decision you should have said no to at the very beginning. From your seat, you eye the neon title and star, indeed the female figure doing just as you thought. A provocative display to allure its target audience. Right on command, Sam arrives, strutting out from the main doors to your door and pulls it open for your exit. The once dark tinted window shielding you from the envious stares of those stuck to line up on the velvety carpet. 

  “Looking good, princess. C’mon in, Bucky’s waiting for ya.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” 

Sam’s allegiances may have set prejudice to keep you from trusting him or any of the other boys under Bucky’s command, but he was kind and attentive to you the more he saw you around his boss and the club premises. 

  You do well to keep your eyes forward and your focus straight, ignoring the few whispers of a gaggle of women clad in colourful, sparkling cocktail dresses, dolled up faces contorted into spiteful sneers as Thor granted you unrestrained access much to the shagrin of the female pack whining and complaining. 

  You weren’t here for the explicit pleasures that they were after on the inside. You’re strictly here to see what it was you accomplished, hoping that these business partners of Bucky will be entertained by the routine and show you poured hours of soul and heart into, then collect your paycheck and leave. That’s it. 

  Sam commands to part the crowd ahead of you, allowing you a clear path and direction up the stairs to the upper floor, smirking and ushering you off when you press him with a sceptical raise of your brow. But at his insistence that you don’t fall into the same category as the guests, you head on up, climbing each milestone with a heeled step that draws you possibly closer to the very man who you cannot seem to get away from. 

  Atop the stairs and rounding along the railside, you press your stomach to, overseeing the crowd below, streaks of red lights beaming from the rafters above to illuminate the dark, sensual aura of the club, the music a thriving beat as the dancers on stage perform their routine. 

  Life on the stage… there are days where you miss it. With a drag of a sigh parting your lips, you straighten a little from having leant on the railing a little during the show. Your body bristles instantly as something large and warm presses into your back, almost nuzzling the diamond cut out of skin, his long arms coming into view to cage you between him and the cold steel, his hands rest over your own. 

  “Glad to see you made it,” he hums deeply against the curve of your ear, nose gentle to nuzzle against your neck. “My business partners love the show, they’ve been asking for you.”

 “Trying to drum up business for me, Mr Barnes?” you muse with a pout, voice offering a sickly sweet mockery of appreciation only for him to snort and direct you towards the booths where several men sat within a cloud of cigar smoke and breath of pure alcohol.

  “Gentlemen, this is the woman I was telling you about.” He introduces you and your hand traverses into numerous exchanges of hand shakes as you greet each of them.

  “Have to say, little lady, your vision for performance is immaculate,” a man of rounder physique appraises with a grin, half burnt cigar jammed between two fat digits and his dark brown eyes sparkling with hopeful aspiration for your future. 

  “Pray tell that Bucky will allow us to perhaps offer you a longer term contract?” His question ends with the butt of his cigar popped into the o of his mouth and huffing.

  It hits you like a freight train going a hundred miles an hour, your jaw unhinges only to clamp shut, bouncing between the motion as you tend to this new revelation. “I–I uh…” Eyes glancing to Bucky who stands at your side, chest puffed out with a smirk twisted into his lips, he cocks his brows at you. 

   “A kind offer but I have another job already lined up in Chicago. It’ll conflict too much, I’m afraid.”

  The men hum and sigh in their disappointment but offer you wishes, the man then plucks a card from a silver plate box and slides it towards you. “Of course. I admire your commitment to prior contracts. But don’t hesitate to call us if you change your mind. Mr. Barnes here has put in a good word for you.”

  “Oh, has he?” You draw the words slowly with care, but the hint of suspicion has Bucky’s eyes pinned to yours for a moment until he looks to the men, bidding them to excuse him a moment as he takes to lead you away from their table. 

  Once in the private hallway that leads to Bucky’s office, your words choke behind a scoff, “What the hell was that all about? I– I told you, I have a flight to catch tomorrow and– Bucky this is too much, even for someone like you, to give to someone like me.”

  He leads you to the door and opens it, beckoning you to enter before shutting the door promptly behind you both. All you can do is watch the broad span of his back as he struts over to his desk, merely gesturing a hand for you to sit. 

  “Doll, check your bank account.” 

  The way his voice maintains a firm timbre almost spawns concern to spur you to run out that office and never look back, but you do as he says, checking your bank account. Your eyes blink widely. 

  “My ticket! Bucky you—”

  “You deserve better than living in some slum studio apartment, living to survive on paycheck to paycheck,” he rasps hoarsely as if the words and very idea of your situation leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, he continues, “A forty-five grand monthly salary to start, upgraded living in a penthouse and a licensed studio all of your own and signed to your name.”

  A poisonous drought covers your tongue and coats your throat, your eyes peer down at the white card, font pristinely spaced and organised, minimally professional. Bucky faces you now after having realise that you didn’t sit down upon his request – or what you assume order. Your eyes then raise to glower at him, narrowing sharply. 

  “And your agenda behind this?”

  Can you trust the way his brows relax, bending to curve in a manner of sympathy as he reaches you, chest to chest and his calloused palms come to hold your jaw between them, nursing in his hand the one thing he desires above all else. 

  His head bows lower until his lips graze over yours, causing your breath to hold and you feel the form of his lips curl into a small grin and with a hum he connects the kiss. At first he is gentle to test the waters until he is consumed by that fire, heat ensuing to take hold of the kiss, he groans lowly like a ravenous animal. 

  Your stomach turns into knots and your thighs push together when the threat of arousal pools between them, a gasp teetering on your voice, your own lips meeting his as your hands manoeuvre over the curvature of his muscles that tense beneath you. The kiss grows hotter, heat forces its way to burn in your lungs like embers and ash searing the fabric of your soul that when you pull apart, your chest expands to brush against his as you breathe deeply. 

  “Be my girl, doll. Be m—”

  You cut him off with the delicate pillar of your index finger as he intends to sweep in for another kiss. You know for sure that if you allowed him, you would agree to his terms. 

  That cannot happen. 

  You pull yourself away from him until your distance pits your back against the office door, hands lingering on the knob and twist. His  hands that once held the apex of your hips flush to his body fall to clench at his sides. You still choose to refuse him yet again.  “Sorry, Barnes… but mama always told me, papa always warned me, don’t hang around with boys like you.”

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ a note from the author, Seeing the responses on the original post was really cool and I’m glad to finally put this simple brain concoction of mine into a fully written fic.

on this issue's taglist, we've got: @mostlymarvelgirl @hollyseb @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @identity2212 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @boobsbeesbongos @blackhawkfanatic

[artficlly]

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

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

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

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

Word Count: 8k

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

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “A favour?”

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

“Sit.” He commands. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rot. 

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

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

“You tell me.”

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

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

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

“I know her name.”

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

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morwenna Blackthorn

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

Morwenna Blackthorn.

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

Morwenna Blackthorn.

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

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

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

“How do I break the curse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

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

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

“Chaos magic?” He questions. 

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

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

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please—” you gasp out. 

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

“Please—I need to—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

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

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

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

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt. 

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Yes Mama Chapter 1

Summary:  Bucky Barnes has made quite the name for himself in the underground mob boss world.  But he’s not the boss.  Just the face of the Family.  

Warnings:  violence, subtle mention of drugs, murder, language, possessiveness, smut, mild choking, public sex

Kids: oldest (from Steve) Frankie 12, second (from Tony) Antonia 10, third (from T’Challa) Uuka 8, fourth (from Bucky) Beau 6, fifth (from Bucky) Lottie 5, sixth (from Bucky) Valentina 3

Next chapter

The man cried heavily, his pathetic sniffles and watery eyes making Bucky’s eye twitch in annoyance.  “Please, boss, I’m sorry!” he said for the hundredth time.

Bucky punched him again with his metal hand, splitting the man’s cheek open, a fresh gush of blood spattering across the wall next to them.  “Fucking prick,” Bucky sneered.  “All I asked was for you to make sure the shipment got from point fucking A, to point fucking B.  But you saw a golden opportunity and decided to try out the merchandise for yourself and your buddies–”

“Boss, I–”

“Shut up!” Bucky yelled, slapping him hard across the face, making the man whimper.  “I wasn’t done speaking, asshole.”  The man nodded, his hands up in surrender.  “Apparently I have to babysit every fucking piece of shit driver on the payroll.  Don’t we take care of you?  What is your family gonna do without your monthly stipend?”

The man’s eyes widened.  “No, please, I made a mistake.  I’ve got a problem, but I’ll get clean!” he pleaded.  “I’ll make it up to you!”  

“Even if you could,” Bucky sighed, reaching into the side of his jacket and pulling out a gun from the holster on his side, turning the safety off and pointing it at the man, “how could we ever trust you again?”

The man started hyperventilating as he stared at Bucky’s gun.  “Please, my wife…my kids, I–”

“They’ll be taken care of,” Bucky said, sounding bored.  “Just not by you.”  He shot him between the eyes, watching the life drain from his face and his body crumple to the blood soaked floor.  He stood still for a moment before turning the safety back on and putting the gun back in the holster.  He turned to the people lining the wall behind him who had watched on.  “Clean this up before Mama gets home,” he said.  “I don’t want the kids to see or hear anything.”

“Yes, boss,” they all said in unison, before jumping into action, cleaning the room and disposing of the body.  Bucky sighed again and headed out of the room, walking up the stairs, taking the elevator then trudging through the hallways until he got to his room.  He stripped out of his clothes, throwing the blood spattered ones in the fireplace before getting in the shower.  He scrubbed his hands thoroughly, taking extra care to make sure all the blood and gore was cleaned from the plates and divots in his metal hand and arm.  Once he was sure all the evidence was gone he got out of the shower, wrapping the towel around his waist before opening the bathroom door to find Y/N sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Buck,” she greeted him, her ever-present smirk on her lips.

“Mama,” Bucky greeted her back, his own smirk lighting up his face.  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?  Especially after I just got out of the shower?”

Y/N shrugged, her eyes scanning his body before looking toward the fireplace where his clothes were already burning.  “Business as usual,” she said.  “Report?”

Bucky hummed and approached her until he was standing a foot away.  “Had to take care of a rat problem.”

“Again?” Y/N’s face morphed into a look of frustration.  

Bucky nodded, crossing his arms.  “A driver got handsy with the shipment and shared it with his buddies.  Took care of them, too,” he answered her question as she opened her mouth.  

Y/N sighed heavily, shaking her head as she looked down at her hands.  “So disappointing,” she murmured.

Bucky frowned.  He knew how much this kind of thing affected her, and it always pulled at his heartstrings whenever she was upset.  Damn his overprotective, bleeding heart.  “Don’t worry about it, Mama,” he reassured her, his metal hand reaching forward, his fingers tipping her chin up to look at him.  “I’ve got you.”

Y/N eyed his metal hand, a hungry look flashing in her eyes.  She looked up at him through her lashes then took his metal hand in hers as she stood up.  He was much taller than her, but it didn’t deter her as she peered up at him then brought his hand to her lips, softly kissing each fingertip.  “I know you do, Buck,” she whispered, kissing his palm.  “You’re always my number one.”

“And I always will be,” he promised, pulling the hand that held his hand from her mouth to his lips, kissing the ring on her left index finger that she always wore.  It was a thick, gold banded signet ring, a crest etched into each side of the band with a large, deep but vibrant red ruby setting.  “Till the end of the line.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked across his face before she squeezed his fingers and dropped their hands, loosely holding his fingers still.  “You should come see the kids.  They haven’t seen you in a while.”

Bucky nodded.  “I’ll come down in a few.”

Y/N nodded then slowly took a step back.  Her smirk returned and she let go of his hand before walking around him toward his door.  She didn’t look back as she opened the door and left, shutting it behind her soundly.  Bucky puffed out a harsh breath as he palmed himself through the towel.  When was he ever going to stop reacting to her this way? 

***

Bucky and Y/N had a long and complicated history together.  He was born into a rival family under the Hydra organization.  His father had made a deal with Y/N’s father, and when he couldn’t keep his end of the bargain Y/N’s father had swooped in and laid waste to Hydra, taking over their operations and merchandise.  Bucky was a teenager when it all went down, and Y/N’s father had taken him under his wing rather than offing him, seeing he held a lot of potential.  Bucky knew that his parents were doing illegal things, and that Y/N’s family was doing the same, but hers did it with a sense of dignity and strong family ties to the people around them, rather than treating them like servants or less-than.  He felt like this was where he belonged all along.  When they met as teenagers she was cordial, sometimes flirtatious, and Bucky liked her, but her father was overly protective and wouldn’t have stood for any adolescent, angsty shenanigans

Bucky quickly rose through the ranks in her father’s inner circle, and when he died and Y/N took over, Bucky was inherited as part of the empire.  He admired the way she ran things.  Her father was old fashioned, traditional, while she was ready to expand and do so with 21st century means and a nod to her father’s old ways.  She had made sure nobody but those closest to her knew she was the boss, and made Bucky the face of the Family, handling most duties while she worked behind the scenes.  She infiltrated other families, going as far as getting pregnant with three of the neighboring Dons and having their children so that they wouldn’t ever dare try to come after her and her empire since she held their predecessors, thereby procuring lasting alliances and business deals.  If there was one thing mob bosses respected, it was family ties.  

Bucky was the boss, but she was the Queen.  Bucky and Y/N’s camaraderie quickly shifted into something deeper and more meaningful until they were married, popping out three kids of their own within four years.  It most likely would have been more if it wasn’t for the fights about the first three kids.  Bucky found it hard to care for them as anything more than like a neighbor kid that comes over all the time, whereas Y/N was always the attentive and caring mother they deserved.  And the fact that the oldest was his childhood best friend’s son always grated on him.  They were currently separated, not quite daring to divorce, but the option always loomed over them, feeling heavy and causing stress and tension.  

Even if they did divorce, it would technically mean nothing.  He would never leave her, the Family, or his kids.  She had saved him, in every sense of the word.  After a nasty fire fight that left him with a stump of a left arm she had done everything in her power to heal him and get him upgraded.  The metal arm was top of the line, made of materials and technology that was so otherworldly he couldn’t wrap his head around it.  All he knew was that she was his everything, and loved and cared for him more than anyone else ever had.  

He got dressed and went downstairs to the dining room where he heard the kids' voices echoing loudly.  Bucky walked into the room to find all six of them nearly bouncing off the walls as they awaited dinner to be served.  He shook his head then whistled loudly, making them all snap their heads toward him then run to face him in a single file line.

“That’s better,” Bucky huffed.  He walked down the line, inspecting each of them carefully, adjusting their shirts or their hair.  When he was finished his smirk grew on his face.  “You little heathens been good for Mama?”  

They all started smiling at him.  “Yes, boss,” they all said in unison.  

Bucky started to bend forward.  “You sure?” He narrowed his eyes.  They all started to lean away from him, fighting back giggles, until he jumped forward with a playful growl and they all squealed and scrambled away from him.  They were all laughing as he chased them, trying to grab each one at least once, tickling them and kissing their faces.  He finally caught the last one, the littlest and his youngest baby, Valentina, and kissed all over her face as she laughed and tried pushing him away.  “Act like you’ve got some sense and sit down for dinner,” Bucky laughed as he led the kids back over to the long table.  

“You and Ma take too long,” the oldest, Frankie, said as he sat down at his spot.

“Yeah, we were waiting forever!” the second oldest, Antonia said dramatically, her head rolling.  “We’re hungry!”  

Uuka, Beau, Lottie and Valentina all agreed with her until the clearing of a throat in the corner had them all stiffening in their seats and sitting up straight as Y/N walked in.  She had changed into a different dress, one of Bucky’s favorites that she would wear around the house, and she was followed by the staff bringing in the plates for dinner.  “Patience is a virtue, Toni,” she chastised.  She sat at the head of the table and waited until the plates had been served and she thanked the staff that left the room before she leaned forward and smiled at each of them.  “How were your days, my darlings?”

The room erupted with sound again as they each started talking about their day.  Y/N listened to each of them, giving her undivided attention to what they were saying, no matter how mundane it was, asking questions and making sure they felt heard.  Bucky always admired her way of parenting.  Her father had been a bit of a hardass, and she was that way, too, demanding respect from her kids.  But she was able to have fun and be personable with them, truly loving them each as their own person as well as in the collective of the Family.  

Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off her.  While they were separated, that didn’t mean that they didn’t occasionally enjoy each other.  As he watched her interact with the kids, in that damned house dress, he felt that sexual tension from earlier return.  Each child had made her curvier, plumper, and in his eyes, all the more beautiful.  She caught his stare a couple of times over dinner, a twinkle in her eye and a playful smirk on her face.  He hoped that meant she was feeling it for tonight, as well.

“Alright, my loves, time for bed,” Y/N announced, standing from the table.  There was a round of groans from the kids, but at the rise of Y/N’s eyebrows it went silent immediately.  “Bed.  Now.”  They all ran over to her, giving her hugs and kisses then doing the same to Bucky before quickly walking over to the nannies and body guards they had on staff that led them away to their rooms to help them get ready.  Bucky stood and walked around the table to stand next to her.

“God, I love it when you’re bossy,” he said lowly, leaning toward her ear.

Y/N huffed a silent laugh as she watched the kids walk away.  “I know you do,” she said.

Bucky moved to stand behind her, making sure the kids were all out of sight before he looped his arms around her waist and pulled her back against him, his head dipping down to the curve of her neck to her shoulder.  His lips pressed firm kisses along the skin exposed there, subtly licking and sucking up to her ear.  “You wanna boss me around tonight?” he whispered.

Y/N hummed, her head tilting so he could have easier access to her throat.  “I thought we were separated,” she said teasingly.

Bucky nipped at her jaw, making her gasp.  “So?” he asked.

She turned in his arms to face him, her hands settling on his chest.  “What are you trying to do, Buck?” she asked, her tone more sober and upset.  

Bucky frowned.  “I…”

“You want me, then you don’t want me.  You love the kids and you’re great with them, but confessed you don’t feel the same about all of them,” Y/N ranted, pushing away from him on his chest.  

“Y/N–”

“No,” Y/N shook her head and stepped away from him.  “I may want you, and god knows I love you something fierce.  That’ll probably never go away.  But if you’re not all in, with all that comes with me, then I don’t want it,” she said, tears starting to build in her eyes and her lips trembling.  Bucky felt like the wind was knocked out of him.  He’d made her cry.  He’d seen her cry before, but it had never been his doing.  How much had she cried since they separated?  She always put on such a strong front, he thought she was doing okay overall.  

“Mama–” 

“Goodnight, Buck,” Y/N interrupted him, sniffling quickly and clearing her throat.  She turned and swiftly walked out of the room, leaving him alone and even more heartbroken than before.

[megamindsecretlair]

Blackbird, Part 2: Envy

Pairing: Mob Boss!Fontaine x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Smut, fluff, angst, cursing, PIV, fingering (female receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, all consensual. Use of n-word and non-inclusive language. Minor OC backstory. Graphic depictions of violence.

Summary: You are a dancer trying to make it in a world not built for your body type. Fontaine is a gangster trying to rise through the ranks of a prominent gang. You were growing in your relationship with Fontaine. He was rising quickly through the ranks of the Scarlets, carving a name for himself while you fell in with a theater troupe, getting closer to the life of your dreams. You spend some time with Fontaine before he’s ordered to handle a shipment for his boss, Porter.

Word Count: 10,893k

Interested in a Blackbird playlist? I'm not the greatest at curating songs but these remind me of these two. I may add or remove songs at my discretion.

A/N: WHEW. I know it's been forever since I updated this. But I finally got inspired. Woot! Please let me know what you think! Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, reblog, or umhinged ask!

Moodboard by the sweestest person ever, planetblaque!

Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @logansblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @8ttached @judymfmoody @notapradagurl7 @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @sageispunk @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland @umber-cinders @longpause-awkwardsmile @insburner @slippinninque @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @iv0rysoap @amethyst09 @ciaqui @harmshake @00aijia00 @ms-angiealsina @satoruya

It was a fresh day. Mornings had a way of clearing everything up the night before. Wiped the slate clean. All those dark and depressing thoughts were tucked away for the time being. 

You had the window partially open now so you could watch the night swallow the sun as you sat in the office, ready to confess more of your sins. And mistakes. You sighed, looking down at your royal blue dress. It was one of the first things Fontaine bought you. One of the first things he liked doing with his building wealth.

He liked to buy you things so you could model it for him. Watch whatever piece it was or jewelry it was shine and mold to your body. He liked to fuck you in it, so it ended up being more dresses and skirts than anything else.

Your core heated up just thinking of it. Those days where the kisses came more frequently, a burning need to stick around each other. Orbit each other. Like each moment spent apart hurt like hell. 

Mr. Gates shuffled into the room, making plenty of noises so that he didn’t startle you. These things came more often. Times where you zoned out, reliving every memory. As if you visited it often enough, when you died, you’d be able to take it with you. Play it in the afterlife as if not even your murdered soul would be able to hate Fontaine.

You smiled at him as he closed the office door. The floor had been cleared, upon request, and now it was just you, your lawyer, and this damning tape. It had never been easy for you to admit failure. Failure was just an opportunity to learn and do better. And now it was immortalized on tape. 

Mr. Gates sat down and placed the recorder on the desk. He turned it on and went through the intro, introducing himself, the date, the time, and who else was present. He asked if you were doing this of your own free and clear will and you stated your name and agreed. He nodded his head. 

You missed the old school recorders. The kind that you could hear the tape moving. Now, it was just a blinking red button flashing up at you. You took a deep breath.

“I guess what excited me the most was that Fontaine loved me. And that kind of love is addicting. After a year of dating, you’d have sworn we’d just met by the way we couldn’t go a day without seeing or feeling each other…”

You danced around your apartment, learning the choreography you needed. You worked hard continuing to go on auditions and sticking to your workout regiment. You were slimming down in the areas that mattered like your face and arms. Who knew that stress didn’t go so well with losing weight? 

Fontaine had been a godsend. Your feathers were ruffled at first, everything in you screaming not to rely so heavily on a man. But Fontaine would have none of it. He was too smart for his own good. Whatever you didn’t want to fess up, he conned, bribed, and schemed to find out some other way.

Sometimes you did it on purpose. You liked seeing him in focused mode, hunting after his target with hunger in his eyes. Fontaine was able to knock down each moral that you had by every stroke of his dick. Every kiss of his lips. Things that used to turn your stomach became justified in your mind the more Fontaine explained it away.

A condition of you being with him was that you had to hear the truth from him. You didn’t want to be surprised. If you were going into this with both eyes open, then your punishment would be to listen. To become complicit in everything he did. Every piece of drug that shipped out, every person that had to be bribed, every head that was taken to make his fat boss Porter richer and richer. That man was greedy.

And his greed only made those around him more and more jealous. All of that wealth. Won off of the backs of his employees. While he sat up and got fatter and fatter. It was disgusting. And you feared that Fontaine would fall into the same trap. So you listened. And you hoped to serve as a reminder that he did have something else to live for. Not just the next dollar.

Fontaine walked into the living room, zipping up his pants. He worked on his open shirt next, buttoning it up. You swayed your hips a bit more, bent over when you didn’t have to, and teased him with your eyes.

Fontaine stopped short and watched you, instantly hypnotized by your movements. He has never missed a chance to watch you dance. Watch you entice him with your body. You loved the bit of power, the bit of thrill it sent you to know that you had a powerful man like him putty in your hands. For a brief moment anyway. 

You turned around, baring your back. You wore a pink tank top and booty shorts. You dropped slowly to your knees, spreading your legs and lightly shaking your ass. 

Fontaine groaned. “That’s not part of the routine,” he said.

You looked at him over your shoulder and then started rising. “You know all of my routines?” You asked.

“Every one. And that is not part of it,” he said. His voice got rougher at the end. You wondered if it was because of the way you started dropping again. 

“Are you sure? This could be a new one,” you said. 

“I know the new one too,” he said. 

You laughed. You looked back to see if he was continuing to dress. His shirt was still open, hands clenched in fists by his side. He had only planned to drop by for a quickie, the texts you were sending driving him insane until he rushed over and hit it like you needed him too. It had been…five hours since you last had a taste and he couldn’t leave a junkie for long.

You bent over and raised back up, shaking your ass for him. You turned around slowly and fondled your breasts over your tank top. The rough material rubbed against your hardening nipples and you bit your lip. 

Fontaine moved over to the couch, beckoning you closer. You took a few steps forward and then stopped. “Are you sure? Don’t you have a busy day?” You asked.

“Fuck all that, come here,” he said. He inserted some bass in his voice and it sent shivers of desire down your arms and body. 

Pulled by his words, you walked closer to him. He rubbed his thighs as you got closer, petting his dick over the fabric of his pants. His bulge was visible where you were and you licked your lips. With him, you were never satisfied enough. Never wanted to go a minute without him inside of you. 

You’d never thought that being dickmitized was a thing. A year ago, you would have thought that no man would have you speaking in tongues. Or calling late at night for a booty call. Or not letting him leave the next morning because you needed one more. Begged for one more time and one more time. 

You dropped into Fontaine’s lap, spreading your legs over his massive thighs. He groaned as you leaned on him. He cupped the back of your head with his big hands, cradling you like you were the most precious thing on the planet. He slanted his lips against yours, plush, full lips that kissed you so well. 

You gasped into his mouth and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue inside. Dance with yours. He suckled on your bottom lip. You moaned and rubbed your pussy into his crotch. You needed one more time before he left you again. Left you to do more awful things in the streets of LA. 

His left hand left your head and skimmed down the right side of your body. He pushed the seat of your shorts and panties to the side, fingers finding you wet, and he groaned. He played with your pussy, rubbing you up and down from your clit to your entrance. He gathered more and more of your slick, to the point that you could hear his fingers smacking in your clenching pussy. 

You moaned into his mouth as he continued with his sweet torture, bringing you to the edge only to back away and retreat to your entrance. His plunging fingers were a distraction, calming your orgasm down enough to where it was no longer imminent. 

“Fuck, Fontaine, please,” you moaned. 

“I love to hear your pretty ass beg, sweetheart,” he moaned against your lips. 

“Please, Fontaine, please, Fontaine,” you said between kisses. He was killing you from the inside out. 

“Keep begging like that, I’ma bust this nut I’m holding,” Fontaine groaned.

“‘Taine, please,” you whispered. He smiled against your lips, kissing down your jaw and down your neck. He licked your neck, licked the gathered sweat there and moaned. He curled his fingers inside of you, rubbing against a tiny little button that had flashbulbs going off in your mind’s eye. 

You bucked and moaned, back cowing into him. His right hand held you closer, held you to the rapid thumping in his chest. You gripped onto his shirt and grunted, biting down on your lip. 

“There we go. There we go. I bet that shit feel good, don’t it?” Fontaine said against your neck. 

You trembled on his fingers, shivering. You managed to nod. “More, please,” you whispered.

Fontaine chuckled. “Can’t get enough?” He asked.

You shook your head, still panting from an intense orgasm. You could craft entire ballets devoted to Fontaine’s fingers. The same hands he drew life with, he breathed it right back into you. And it turned you on that he was capable of both. Capable of protecting and ending a life with the same breath that told you he loved you.

“You gon’ rethink moving in with me?” He asked.

You snapped your eyes to him and narrowed them. “‘Taine!” You said. You tried to shuffle off of him, but his fingers had never left your pussy. As if remembering that fact with you, he wiggled his fingers against that same nub of nerves and you were groaning and shifting your hips more, almost forgetting what you were upset about.

Fontaine had been asking you to move in with him for some weeks now. You hated seeing the disappointment in his eyes when you turned him down. You hated making him think that you didn’t want to live with him. You did, of course you did. 

But who would look after Kimmy? You already stopped dancing as much as the club, finally falling in with a theater troupe. You saw less of your friend and she grew more distant and resentful of how much time you spent with Fontaine. 

You tried to make her see that you had enough love in your heart to love them both. She only knew love as the way Rusty taught it to her. Forced it on her. She didn’t see love as beautifully as you did. Didn’t know that love only made you love more. Love everything. 

All Kimmy saw was that you were pulling away first. If you moved out, Kimmy was liable to hate you forever. And then you truly would be what she accused you of. Relying too heavily on Fontaine and making your entire world about a man. You may have loved Fontaine, but you always loved you first. 

Moving in with Fontaine at the moment was terrible timing. You weren’t sure what you needed to do to win back one of the bestest friends you’d ever made. You and Kimmy had been through hell together. You were there for her when she had her son. Moved in with her to help with the baby. Studying dances while you consoled her weeping son so that she could get some rest.

You didn’t understand her animosity. And you needed time to figure it out. “Did you only come over here to ask me that shit again?” You asked.

Fontaine shook his head and looked you in the eyes. There was something deeply erotic about looking down into Fontaine’s eyes, seeing the pathetic desperation. The pleading and begging. 

“I know your reasons, but sweetheart, I only want you closer. I’m tired of telling you I miss you. I want to tell you to come home. So I won’t ever have to leave you again,” he said. 

You sighed, kissing his forehead. Fuck. You hated this. You wanted to say yes so badly, but your heart was split in two. You had dueling desires and a pit in your stomach. If you chose wrong, it’d spell the end of a very important relationship in your life. It was becoming abundantly clear that you could only have one. 

“I hate leaving you too,” you said. The mere thought of it had your chest squeezing painfully. Your stomach sinking. You hated feeling sick like that. Hated that dreaded phone call that told you that Fontaine took a bullet and wasn’t ever waking up again.

“Then come home with me, baby. I’m getting closer. I’m earning the guys’ respect like Porter said I need to. Pretty soon, they’ll follow me because of me. Not because Porter favors me. Pretty soon, I’ll be right by his side. And when he passes the business to me, we can run shit how I want,” he said. 

You’d heard this before. This plan that Fontaine cooked up while he was a corner boy. When each of their families blew up and they made the decision to get into gangs, Isaac and Fontaine were immediately snatched up by the Scarlets. Porter took pity on them, his own backstory mirroring theirs. As they got older, the other guys resented how much Porter favored them. Giving them the best assignments, letting them flake whenever they wanted, ordering guys around.

Fontaine volunteered to earn his way. Truly earn it. There would be some that would always see him as someone who was spoon fed. Who was the chosen one to take over the business with Isaac as his number one. But if Fontaine could be ruthless enough, mean enough, tough enough, then he could earn their respect because of who he was as a person. No one else. 

“I’ll think about it, ‘Taine. That’s all you’ll get. Stop pestering me,” you said. You lifted off of him, no longer wanting to be seduced into saying yes. 

Fontaine held on to you, kissing on your neck and chest. “Let me make it up to you for being so annoying. I just wanted you to think about it,” he said.

“Then ask, like a normal person,” you said.

“Sweetheart, I’m never normal whenever it’s with you,” he said. 

Bastard. You sighed, melting into his arms like he knew you would. He was such a cute bastard when he wanted to be, saying or doing something that tore your heart to pieces. He shoved your panties down your legs, instructing you to stand up and remove it completely. Tank top too.

He unbuttoned his pants, the quiet snap sending a quiet thrill through you. He freed his fat dick, smacking it in his palm and telling you to get back on. You hopped back into his lap, scooting up until you were able to kneel up and line his dick up with your entrance. You slowly sank on his dick, crying out. 

You still weren’t used to his size. Used to the way he stretched you completely, filling every inch of you with every inch of him. He groaned with you, sliding you down further and further until he was buried to the hilt. 

“Fuuuck,” you moaned, pussy throbbing against his dick. 

“Fuck, you feel good. Fuck, you feel good,” Fontaine moaned, moving his hands underneath your thighs and moving you up and down. You helped by bouncing on his dick, helping him ram himself inside without mercy. Apologizing with his dick, showing you that he truly was sorry. 

“I’m sorry to pressure you. I just miss you so much, sweetheart. Miss you crying on this dick. Miss talking to you, kissing you, cooking for you, playing with you, tasting you,” Fontaine said. He moved his head to your chest, suckling his two chocolate kisses into his mouth. He alternated, one nipple after the other, until both were aching.

Your stomach clenched, the best ab workout ever to hover like this and get pounded. Your moans were loud and needy, choppy little grunts as you held onto Fontaine for dear life. 

“Let me come over when I’m done tonight. Need to taste that fat pussy again,” he groaned into your chest. He teased one of your nipples with his teeth, rubbing the sensitive bud back and forth and causing you to shiver. 

You were looking forward to one quiet night. That rebellious streak flaring up. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see Fontaine, only that you needed some alone time to reflect on things. Move around without someone hovering. But at the same time, your body craved Fontaine. Needed whatever he was promising in his words. 

You found yourself nodding, enjoying his dick now but looking ahead to what he had planned later. When he didn’t have anywhere else to be for a while and could take his time. Savor your body. And let him savor yours. 

He groaned, dropping his head back to the couch cushion. He was so hot like this. Neck bared. Eyes and jaw slack. Moaning and groaning under you because you felt that damn good. 

Your belly flipped and twitched, getting closer and closer. A knock on the door pulled you out of the bubble you erected with Fontaine. You turned your head, but Fontaine grabbed your chin. He made you look into his eyes. 

“The world and the moon with it, sweetheart. Just look at me. Nothing else. I’m all you need,” he said. He groaned, hips jerking faster as you flooded his dick with your essence. As your whimpers and cries brought tears cascading down your face. You sniffled as you came with a strangled cry, nails digging into his shoulders as you held on and let the orgasm wash all over. 

“That’s my sweetheart, there she is,” Fontaine cooed as he sped up, taking advantage of how wet you were. He pumped a few more times before cumming himself, groaning against your chest as he pulled you closer.

He knocked the breath from your lungs and you choked on your breaths. He could have it all. Every last bit of oxygen if it meant that he’d survive. You didn’t care how that made you sound. You only knew that there was no you without him. 

You panted into each other’s mouths, stealing kisses when you could spare a breath. You moaned into his mouth, wishing there was some other way to thank him. To give him back a tenth of what he gave to you. 

He kissed you a few more times before the knock at your door grew louder, causing a loud ruckus. You smacked your teeth and leaned away from Fontaine.

“You need to tell your friend to watch whose door he’s knocking on like that,” you said. You stuck a thumb over your shoulder as Fontaine sighed, and smacked your ass lightly. 

“He don’t mean nothing,” Fontaine said. You scooted off of him with a huff. You put on your clothes and then hunted for your robe. Isaac made you feel ickier every time you saw him. Like each rung on the ladder that he climbed to more wealth, made him slick. Made him twist his words and meanings.

Fontaine didn’t see it. His childhood loyalty was blinding him to what you saw. What you saw in Isaac’s eyes every time Fontaine kissed or hugged you. He was jealous.  Fontaine listened but ultimately blew you off. He was always going to defend his friend.

Locating your matching pink robe, you crossed your arms. Fontaine looked from you to the front door and sighed. He got up, tucking his softening dick in his pants and zipping himself up. He ducked down to kiss your cheek. 

“I’ll see you later, sweetheart. I know it’s tough, but I promise all of this is for you. I’m going to give you that world,” he said.

“I never asked for the fucking world,” you said. 

“But it’s no less than what you deserve, okay?” He said. He didn’t wait for you to finish before stealing a kiss on your lips. He backed away before you could smack him, your worry and nerves making you lash out and pick a fight. 

Fontaine went to the door and opened it. Isaac stood on the other side, whispering something to Fontaine. You asked Fontaine not to tell Isaac that you knew everything. Your grandmother would have called it your family’s gift. A weird sense of intuition that just told you all about a person’s character from interacting with them enough times.

Isaac was firmly in your red flag column. There was something you couldn’t puzzle out about him and it was driving you nuts. 

Fontaine nodded. He turned to look at you. He smirked, his mask firmly back in place now that he was in front of his friends. You blew him a kiss. When you were done, you looked at Isaac who looked at Fontaine like he hated him. He schooled his features by the time Fontaine looked forwards, heading out of your apartment. 

Isaac looked at you, daggers in his eyes, as he closed the door behind him. Your heart was in your throat. Isaac scared you. But you didn’t want to make Fontaine choose like Kimmy wanted you to. You wouldn’t stand between him and his best friend. You only hoped you lived long enough to let Fontaine see it for himself.

You went to your living room window, peeking out of the curtains. Isaac and Fontaine were laughing at something, egging each other on with adding more to the story. Fontaine had fixed his shirt, getting into the passenger seat while Isaac got on the driver’s side. Three large trucks pulled off down the road, the tiny road on Stocker making it impossible for anyone else to get through. 

You sighed and looked at the retreating cars, praying for Fontaine to be okay. You took a shower and got dressed, taking the bus to Culver City. You entered the studio, already coming alive by being here. Fontaine certainly made you feel as if you could fly. But it was also satisfying flying solo. 

You were still part of a group, but you were higher on the call sheet than you were used to. You had more dances to learn and more chances to outshine everyone else and become a lead. To try your hand at acting and really getting noticed. You knew with every fiber in your being that you were going to get what you wanted. You just had to keep doing what you were doing. 

While you were following your dream, Fontaine was following his own version. All the way across to downtown, fighting traffic to get there. 

Mr. Gates held up a hand and leaned over the tape. “Let the record reflect that the next piece is hearsay and not admissible in a recognized court of law.”

He waved for you to continue. You hadn’t expected the interruption but you were grateful for this. For his help. You didn’t want this to blow back on Fontaine if this ever reached someone else. This was intended for your one true love. It’d crush you if someone else heard your words and tried to hurt him with it. 

You collected yourself and took a deep breath. Each tick of the clock was like another tiny nail in your coffin. You pushed through it, keeping your end goal in mind.

“Fontaine told me that it was all Isaac’s idea. He remembered this because it seemed so odd for someone who’s never pulled a trigger,” you explained.

“Man, stop talkin’ about that shit,” Fontaine said and shook his head. Isaac was starting to piss him off. And he didn’t want to ruin the sweet moments he spent with you. Didn’t want anything messing up his buzz from being between your legs. Hearing your voice. Or feeling you clamp down on him like you didn’t want to let him go. 

That’s what he wanted to focus on. Not whatever fucking scheme Isaac had this week. Isaac slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “I’m fuckin’ telling you that Porter is going to get rid of me first chance he gets. I’m not his favorite like you are,” Isaac said.

Fontaine rolled his eyes. Some days he wished that Porter hadn’t taken such an interest in Fontaine and Isaac. He was taught everything he knew, learning the business from Porter’s hip. Isaac resented all of it. He wanted to get in on his own steam. Prove himself.

The problem was, Isaac could never follow through. And now the nigga thought that he could take down Porter on his own. Or more stupidly, with Fontaine’s help. Porter was like a father to them both. Talking about this was giving him a headache and he shook his head. 

“Ain’t you fuckin’ tired of this shit? Being his fuckin’ errand boys? Hopping to whenever that fat fuck snaps his fingers?” Isaac asked.

Fontaine watched the cars whizz by while on the freeway. His thoughts turned to you, to what you were doing. He wished he had enough time to watch you rehearse. He had more free time when he was a corner boy, standing outside in the heat. But this was all for you, whether you knew it or not. He had something to build and he hoped that you had enough trust in him to see it through.

“I don’t wanna hear this shit, Isaac. And you better not let Porter hear it neither. He’s on his way out anyway. He’s a few cinnamon rolls away from a heart attack, alright? There’s no rush,” Fontaine said.

“No rush for you. The other guys think I get special treatment too,” Isaac said. He eased them off of the freeway and headed deep downtown, weaving around until reaching the Scarlet Lounge. 

“So the fuck what? They ain’t gon’ do nothing,” Fontaine said, waving his hand. The other men under Porter were old school as well. Following whoever was paying their bills. None of them had leadership potential, none of them had what it took to take Porter’s place. He didn’t understand where this urgency was coming from. 

“Just think about it, cool?” Isaac asked, pulling around back and closing the door. Fontaine shook his head, getting out of the car and fixing his suit. Getting higher in the organization meant that he had to start dressing the part. He still didn’t feel like a grown up when he wore suits. But he wanted to be taken seriously.

He’d have to stop fucking you in his suits. He had too many wrinkles. But he couldn’t find it in him to be embarrassed about it. He slammed the door shut to Isaac’s car and walked up the back of the tall building. Isaac knocked on the back door, giving Fontaine a look that he chose to ignore.

He wasn’t thinking about shit. He was not going to have a hand in killing his boss. The man who saved him. Fontaine would be dead, buried by grief, if Porter hadn’t stepped in. 

The back door swung wide, Stanton, one of the guards looking at them both before waving them in. They were immediately swept up in the hustle and bustle of the Scarlets’ home base. The back door led past the dressing rooms and back rooms. The kitchen and extra storage rooms. The stage was in front of them, stagehands moving around carrying props or sets, or following behind dancers.

You used to work in a place like this. Yours were further west, catering to a different type of crowd. He was secretly glad that you were out of that game. There were too many seedy people that frequented those places and he didn’t want some asshole ogling your body. 

Fontaine led the way to the other side of the club, crossing through the front of the house, and entering the door behind the bar. He took the steps all the way to the top, to Porter’s office. 

The door was open, Porter standing at the window and looking down at the stage. His favorite dancer, Jackie, was practicing on stage. Fontaine wondered what it was about gangsters and pretty girls. What was so appealing about stealing innocence. He may tell you about this life, but you managed to stay the one bright thing in his life. 

He looked up at Fontaine and Isaac entering. He waved for Isaac to shut the door and he did. 

“‘Bout fuckin’ time, boys. Got a job for you,” Porter said. He wobbled back to his desk, his weight making him waddle side to side. He sighed as he got back in his chair, the metal groaning from the weight. 

Fontaine sat down on the sofa underneath the windows. Isaac chose the seat in front of Porter’s desk. He crossed his legs and got comfortable while Fontaine stretched his arms across the couch cushion. 

“I need you to oversee a shipment today. I’ve been hearing some whispers about it when no one should know about this shit,” Porter said. 

“We’re not runners anymore,” Isaac said.

“What’s with the attitude, you little shit?” Porter asked, puffing his cheeks out at Isaac. He squinted at him, seemingly waiting for a response. Fontaine’s pulse beat in his veins. He didn’t know what Isaac would do. If he was talking about killing the man, would he do it here? Would he try to kill Fontaine too? Would he kill everyone in this place?

Would he spare Fontaine? Would others think he had something to do with it if he was spared? Fontaine hated that he was now technically complicit since Isaac told him. He didn’t know what Isaac would do at any given moment and it made him nervous to ride around with him.

Maybe you were right. Maybe there was something wrong with his best friend. He looked at Isaac’s side profile, at the way his jaw clenched as he stared at Porter. When Isaac didn’t say anything, Porter huffed.

“I need extra eyes on this since Shayne thinks he can encroach on my territory,” Porter said. He pulled a file from his desk and tossed it across his desk. Isaac stood up and grabbed it, sitting down with it as he perused it. 

“I’ve got the pigs covered. Cameras will go down while you’re moving it. I need an extra car. Take whoever you need to, but ensure that that package reaches its destination like it’s supposed to,” Porter said. 

Fontaine nodded. They were dismissed. They got up, heading out of the office. Isaac handed Fontaine the folder. There was the list of names of who was on it, the police they bought off, the streets they were supposed to take. 

Safely down in the front, Isaac tapped Fontaine’s shoulder. “He’s got us doing this shit like we’re back on the street running his drugs. C’mon man. You like being ordered around like this?” 

Fontaine’s head swiveled around the club, at the work staff working to get the place ready for the night. There was no one looking their way. “Stop talking about that shit. Are you trynna get us killed? Whatever the hell you’re thinking, stop it. I don’t want any parts of it,” Fontaine said.

“I’m not the only one feeling like this. You say the word, ‘Taine, and we’ll follow you. A lot of us are tired of being under his thumb,” Isaac said. He looked at Fontaine and then snorted. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. You’re so busy buried in pussy, you forget why we signed up for this in the first place. So that no one could ever tell us what to do again.”

Fontaine shoved Isaac into the wall. “Keep her out of your fucking mouth,” Fontaine said. His mind was spinning, reeling. He knew that his head was so completely wrapped up into you that he let some things slide. Lost track of the day to day as he focused on the distribution of the drugs that Isaac ensured crossed customs. They worked as a team all this time. But now, it was like looking at a fun house mirror version of Isaac. It had his face and it spoke with his voice, but this was something different. Somebody possessed his friend. 

“If you’re not going to join us, we’re moving without you. Tonight will be the last night that Porter Sommer runs this town,” Isaac said. He shoved Fontaine away and then left the building, leaving Fontaine to reluctantly follow after.

He felt sick. He felt like he needed to puke. How could he choose between them? Why was Isaac making him choose? If he ratted Isaac out, Porter was going to kill him. If he went along with Isaac, he’d be losing Porter and becoming an enemy of the Scarlets. Loyalty was everything to him. 

He climbed in the car like a zombie, following Isaac, unsure of what to do. Why the fuck would he spring this on him tonight. 

“Why are you doing this, Isaac?” Fontaine asked. He needed all of the facts before he could make his decision. 

“I’m getting the life I’ve always deserved. I’ve done everything for that, nigga. Everything he fucking asked. And who does he choose to take his place, you?” Isaac snorted. “You’re head’s on backwards because of that girl. You’re not fit to lead any fucking body.” 

Fontaine laughed, but it was harsh and quick. No mirth whatsoever. “I’m the one who pulled the triggers while you sat there and sobbed like a little bitch,” Fontaine said. He shook his head. This was some unbelievable shit. He had to think. He had to find a way to save Isaac’s dumb ass. He only wished he could find a way to save him and his relationship with Porter.

Sweat poured down your neck as you ran through rehearsal once more. The lead kept fucking up, doing her own thing instead of listening to the director. If he wasn’t so busy burying his dick in her, he’d see that she was a talentless hack. 

Your ego would always get the better of you, as you groaned and turned around to walk to your starting point. 

“Got a problem?” The lead, Christa, said and placed her hands on her hips. You turned around to see who the hell she was talking to. She was flanked by a few of the friends she made in the troupe, turning the gathered people into an “us” versus “them” situation. 

You crossed your arms. “Yeah, learn the damn dance,” you said.

A few of the others laughed, but looked away when Christa leveled them with a stare. She walked closer, her long thin legs crossing the space in no time. She stopped before she got into your personal space.

“You always think you’re so funny,” she said. 

“No, I just talk a lot of shit. And people happen to agree with me,” you said. You looked her up and down. She was a joke. All those looks and she couldn’t manage to learn something besides kicking her feet and smiling. And her singing was even fucking worse. 

“You’re a joke. You think you could do any better?” She asked.

You smirked. “I know I can. Anytime you wanna be embarrassed, let me know,” you said.

“What the hell is going on?” The director, Arthur, climbed onto the stage. He shoved his way through the gathering crowd and stopped when he saw that it involved his sex toy and you. He looked between you, smacking his lips with an impatient huff.

“Get back to your positions, now,” he said.

“She just threatened to hurt me. She said she was going to break my legs before show time,” Christa said, leaning into Arthur. She was decidedly taller than the man, but managed to make herself seem like a victim. She hunched her shoulders and grabbed Arthur’s arm, looking at him. 

Arthur sniffed in your direction. “I had heard about how difficult you were and I was reluctant to take you in. I knew you wouldn’t fit into our troupe but I was willing to give you a chance,” he said.

You reared back, looking from Christa to Arthur. “Are you fucking serious? You’re going to believe her lies? Not even ask if it’s true?” You asked. 

The audacity of it all. Heat burrowed in your chest, pressure building with how angry you got. That white hot anger was coursing through you, bubbling under the surface. You were close to exploding like a volcano. Ready to knock all this shit over.

“Why would she lie about something like that? God, I should have listened when David said not to hire you. But the donation from your little boyfriend…”

“Wait, what?” You asked. 

Christa’s face turned more smug, looking at you as she stood behind Arthur. “Tell her, baby,” she cooed in his ear. 

Arthur folded his arms and sighed. “Fontaine made a donation to the theater to ensure that you’re happy here. I didn’t want to take the money but we needed it. But that does not mean that you can do whatever you want or threaten whoever you’d like,” he said. 

Your eyes bugged out of your head. Fontaine paid for you to be here? Tears stung your eyes but you refused to give these bastards the satisfaction. You held your head up high and squared your shoulders. 

“If that’s the case, then fine. Believe whatever you want. This is a terrible play you chose, you’re a suck ass director, and no amount of pussy will help you become a better one. You’re always going to be several degrees separated from Broadway and with good reason,” you spat at Arthur. Fuck him and his racist bullshit. You didn’t need this. 

Your anger bubbled over, chest heaving. Your eyes were itchy, but you willed the tears not to fall. Willed your tongue to speak true and strong. “And no amount of sucking dick is going to make you a better dancer or singer. This play is going to fail and I’m glad I’m out of here before opening night,” you said. You stormed past Arthur, catching the looks from other people.

Some were on your side, giving you thumbs up and smiles. Others were looking at you like you were crazy. Christa gaped at you while Arthur sputtered. You stopped near Arthur and looked at Christa on the other side of him.

“I hope her pussy was worth it. When my boyfriend gets done with this place, you’ll never work again. I’m pretty sure that donation came with terms you just violated,” you said.

Arthur turned wide eyes towards you. “Please don’t tell him. We can work something out. I can make you lead,” he said. 

“Hey!” Christa said, smacking his shoulder. Arthur paid her no mind as a cruel smirk twisted your lips. 

“I hope he buries you under this place so I can tap dance on your grave,” you whispered to him and then got off of the stage. You grabbed your dance bag, slung it over your shoulders, and then stormed out of the doors. 

You let the tears fall. Big hiccuping sobs that made your chest ache. You thought…you thought you were finally on your way. You worked so hard this past year. Why would he do this? Why would he interfere in something you were adamant about doing on your own terms? 

His betrayal was like a knife in your heart. Did he not believe in you? All this time, had he been lying? Pretending to be interested in your dancing? You believed everything he said up until now. But was that merely a ploy? What was his end game? 

You didn’t know when you’d see him again. He texted you saying that he had something important to do tonight and now wasn’t sure if he’d see you after. He was going to try his hardest of course. Now, you weren’t so sure you wanted to see him. If you saw him right now, you were going to kill him. 

You waited for the bus, stewing in how humiliated you felt. How someone like Christa could bypass all of your hard work by making some idiot feel good every night. It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this fucking insidious. 

You made it home in a blur of tears, your door swimming in front of your face. You sniffled, finally able to truly break down since you were at home. Free and clear, you closed the door behind you and then slid down the door, wracking cries shaking your shoulders. 

Kimmy walked into the kitchen and spotted you, face buried in your hands. Your tears were hot, making your face scrunch up as you cried. Your mind screamed that Fontaine wouldn’t do something like this. Wouldn’t go against your wishes. Wouldn’t intervene when you told him countless times that it wouldn’t count unless you were able to do it yourself.

She crossed the room, asking what’s wrong, and pulling you into her arms. You cried on her shoulder and told her through hard tears of what happened. She stroked your back and then helped you off of the floor. 

You had no clue what you were going to do to Fontaine the next time you saw him.

You stopped here and swiped at your tears. That was one of the first blows to your relationship with Fontaine. At the moment, it got lost in everything that followed. You weren’t able to tell Fontaine exactly how much it hurt you that he betrayed you in such a way. 

Mr. Gates stopped the recorder and handed you some tissue. You blew your nose, apologizing for being gross.

“That’s quite alright. Tears do the soul some good,” he said. 

You chuckled. “I don’t know about all that, Mr. Gates,” you said. You drank some water that he provided earlier. You looked down at the recorder. “Do you think he’ll listen to it? To any of it?” 

Mr. Gates leaned back in his seat. His charcoal suit looked good on the old man. It reminded you of Fontaine, at how he started to look forward to wearing suits. To how dignified he liked looking. 

“He will. If he wants to find you after,” he said.

“He might kill you for this,” you said. 

Mr. Gates smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about me, young lady,” he said. He smiled patiently but still. You warned him of the risks of putting this in motion and he still helped you. You didn’t know how Fontaine was going to react to this tape. You only hoped he got to the end. 

You took another sip of water and then swiped at your eyes. You nodded to Mr. Gates and he started the recorder again. 

Fontaine blew warm air into his hands as he stood on the docks in San Pedro, waiting for the shipment to come in with Porter’s important package. Isaac had been silent next to him, standing as if the cold didn’t bother him at all. 

Hours later, Fontaine was no closer to how he was going to protect both Isaac and Porter. There had to be something. This night couldn’t end how Isaac hoped. He was diving head first into something they wouldn’t be able to take back. 

“Does it have to be tonight? Can you give me a few days?” Fontaine asked.

Isaac looked at Fontaine out of the corners of his eyes and rolled his shoulders. “Porter will be distracted tonight. All eyes are on this shipment. He has a skeleton crew over at the Lounge right now. We won’t get another chance like this,” Isaac said. 

Fontaine cursed under his breath. A light flickered in the distance, signaling that their ship was finally coming in. They watched the little dot approach, getting bigger the closer it got. 

“Dammit Isaac, this ain’t right,” Fontaine said.

Isaac shrugged. “Dog eat dog world, my nigga. If we don’t act now, we’re always gonna be under that fat fuck. He’s gonna order us around until he ninety, wanting us to wipe his ass. It’s time for the Scarlets to show some strength. Shayne’s bitch ass out there taunting us,” Isaac said.

Fontaine eyed the wild look in Isaac’s eyes. This was about more than getting from underneath Porter. Isaac had always been a hot head, reacting instead of taking his time to think things through. Porter could make Isaac feel inferior all he wanted, but Isaac just wanted this for himself. He wanted to be the one that the men took orders from.

Now their talks over the past few months made sense. Isaac had to be planning this for a long time. Had to cook this up with like-minded people. Plotting without Fontaine’s knowledge. Because he wasn’t sure which side Fontaine would fall on. 

Fontaine grinded his teeth as the ship came in. Porter’s boys started unloading the drug shipment. It was a new drug Porter wanted to introduce. A longer high with worse symptoms on the come down. Fontaine looked around, feeling like it was a little too quiet. 

There was an itch between his shoulder blades that he couldn’t quite reach. He put his hand on his gun, looking around. Something didn’t fucking feel right. He nudged Isaac and jerked his head, made Isaac go to the other side of the truck to keep an eye on the shipment.

Fontaine glanced around, pulling his gun all the way out. He scanned the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There were just the overhead lights, casting a harsh pale light over the boardwalk. The water rumbled beneath and there was a distant bell in the breeze. Mist rolled in off of the ocean but he still couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. 

The shot rang out and pinged next to his head. Fontaine ducked, calling out for everyone to look out. The shots continued, focusing on him by the sound of it. He ducked down, running behind the nearest docked boat.

He looked over the edge. There was a flash coming from the tree line. Fontaine aimed for it. He must have hit something because the flashes stopped, only to start coming from another point. There was yelling and gunshots rang out, going back and forth. 

Fontaine cursed. He was too far away from the shipment. He wasn’t sure how far along they were or if everything was already packed up. 

“Isaac!” Fontaine yelled.

“Good! We got everything!” Isaac called back. 

“Get to the drop point!” Fontaine yelled out. He stood up and let off a few more shots, the gun heavy in his hand. Adrenaline rushed through him, making his hand shake but he had to focus. 

“I’m not leaving you!” Isaac yelled.

“Fucking do it!” He yelled back. Metal pinged next to his head and he dropped down further. He needed to move. He ducked and ran, hoping against all hope that he’d make it. He ran towards the cars, ducking as bullets pinged all around him.

“You stupid fuck! I said go!” Fontaine yelled. He pointed his gun behind him, pointing towards the tree line and unloaded. Sirens sounded off in the distance. They needed to leave right this second. 

Fontaine hopped into Isaac’s truck. Isaac started it, reversing and following the drive to the parking lot and then out of the docks. The trucks squealed down the streets, splitting up to confuse the people pursuing them.

Fontaine reloaded his gun, slamming his hand on the dash. “Fuck! I told you to fucking go,” he yelled at Isaac. Isaac blew past freshly turned red lights, honking at other cars as he got on the 405 freeway. 

“I wasn’t leaving you!” Isaac yelled. He looked over at Fontaine. “You’re my brother, nigga.” 

Fontaine growled and hit the dash again, looking behind him for anyone pursuing them. They seemed to be okay now. There were always cars on the 405 freeway, but this time of night didn’t lend itself to many cars. Isaac easily floored it, speeding along the freeway and as far away from the scene as possible. 

Isaac blew past Hawthorne, continuing on the freeway. “Where are you going?” Fontaine asked.

“It’s time we finished this. I’m sorry, but I need you on this one. I won’t make it if you don’t help me,” he said. 

“Turn the car around, Isaac,” Fontaine said.

Isaac shook his head, gripping the steering wheel harder. He said nothing more as they traveled, the sound of the road the only thing keeping them company. Fear gripped Fontaine’s heart the closer they got to downtown, switching to the 110 for the rest of the way. 

Fontaine’s fingers turned numb as they got closer to the Lounge. “Isaac, you don’t need to do this,” Fontaine said.

“Yes, I do. Sick of that motherfucker laughing at us, man. Living large on the fucking money we made for him. While we run around hustling for every dollar we got,” he said. He shook his head. “Shit ain’t right, ‘Taine, and you know that.” 

“We have more than we could ever spend, Isaac. This ain’t it,” Fontaine said. 

“It’s him or me, ‘Taine,” he said. He pulled around the back of the Lounge. The place was busy, music spilling out onto the street through the open door. 

Fontaine’s heart jumped as Isaac made his way inside. Fontaine looked at the other guards, the other men who swore to follow Porter. Because they were close to Porter, they were not impeded as they went through the backstage area, moved around fluttering dancers and haphazard stage hands. 

They crossed the main room, behind important business men and the clueless average person who wanted to see a good show. Isaac made a beeline for Porter’s office. Fontaine grabbed his arm. 

“Don’t do this shit,” Fontaine pleaded one last time. Isaac looked at him, nothing but determination in his eyes. He shrugged off Fontaine. 

“Stay here, Fontaine. It’ll be okay,” he said.

He turned and went up the stairs to Porter's office. Fontaine flirted with the idea of letting Isaac go. Of letting Porter kill Isaac and spend his time explaining that he had no idea. No clue. Spent his time proving his loyalty by rooting out anyone loyal to Isaac and killing them too. Buying his innocence with the blood of his friends. 

One person. Or the lives of many. The bloodbath that would ensue. The infighting. The betrayal. Not being able to trust the next person. But he couldn’t lose his friend either. Couldn’t stand by and let his friend do something stupid.

He took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he heard yelling and arguing. When he entered the office, Isaac had his gun pointed at Porter. 

“The fuck is this, Fontaine? You in on this shit too?” Porter asked and then dug into his steak. Blood seeped out of the steak as he cut into it and Fontaine’s stomach turned. Porter acted like he wasn’t in mortal danger. 

“I wasn’t in this shit,” Fontaine said. He looked to Isaac. “Put that shit down!” 

Isaac’s hand trembled as he looked at Porter. He shook violently as he stared at the big man. “I did everything for you, you sick fuck,” Isaac said.

Porter chuckled. “It’s always some ungrateful mu’fucka like you. Someone who looks at what I got and forgets why I’m sitting in this chair, and your ass is on the street. You remember when I found you? Covered in your own shit, sleeping underneath a trash can lid?” Porter laughed around a bite of steak and potatoes.

Isaac’s grip tightened on the silver beretta, pointed right at Porter’s head. “You were a punk ass kid then, with your little hand out every time you wanted something. But ‘Taine? Heh. Fontaine got something you can’t teach. He’s got a ruthlessness you’ll never possess,” Porter said.

“All you do is pit us together. Like we’re some fucked up version of Cain and Abel, playing some fucked up game in your head,” Isaac said. 

“I needed to see which one of you had enough balls to take my place. ‘Taine will make a wonderful boss. You? Heh. I’ll be surprised your nappy headed ass makes it out of here alive,” Porter said. 

Isaac stepped forward, gripping the gun with both hands. “Issac, no!” Fontaine yelled, stepping closer. Isaac swung the gun towards Fontaine.

“Stay there and don’t interfere, ‘Taine!” Isaac yelled.

This was like a nightmare. He was watching his best friend fall apart. And he hadn’t been here. Hadn’t listened, not truly. He would never regret a single moment he spent with you, but he did feel shame about letting Isaac slip through the cracks. 

“Fucking Mr. Perfect. You always get everything don’t you? You get the job, the money, the girl. All of it.” 

Fontaine held up his hands, trying to placate Isaac. “Isaac, we’re boys. What the fuck?” He asked. 

Isaac wiped the sweat off of his brow on his forearm. He was shaking, blinking too much, and swinging the gun between Fontaine and Porter. “You’ve been by my side all this time. You’re telling me your ass has been jealous of me? Like whatever is mine isn’t already yours? If you needed money…”

Isaac laughed, spit flying from his mouth. “Needed money! The shit I needed would’ve robbed the world blind.” 

Fontaine cursed. “You back on that gambling shit?” Fontaine cursed some more, disappointment bleeding through his tone. He was there the last time Isaac got into a giant hole. The people he owed money to were threatening to break his kneecaps if Isaac didn’t pay up. Fontaine helped Isaac get clean, taking him to meetings when he could. When did he slip? 

“Who do you owe money to, Isaac?” Fontaine asked, dreading the answer.

“I thought if I went to Shayne’s hall, I wouldn’t be recognized. I had been feeling lucky,” Isaac said.

Fontaine cursed again. “Feeling lucky. You can’t fucking gamble, nigga!” Fontaine yelled. Isaac had the worst luck. Constantly going for the longshot. There was no strategy. He just had a burning need to keep going because he could hit at any moment. A broken clock had to be right twice a day but not Isaac. It was nothing but a rash of losses. The rare time he did win, he used it as an excuse that his luck was turning around.

Porter laughed. “Fucking addict. You went to Shayne? To our biggest enemy? You’re lucky they didn’t shoot your ass when you first walked into the hall,” Porter said and laughed. He shifted in his seat. 

“Isaac, damn,” Fontaine said. 

“I’m in too deep, ‘Taine. He said to get square, I had to kill Porter. Or he’ll kill my family,” Isaac said. He turned pleading eyes to Fontaine. To his brother. Fontaine didn’t know what to do. 

He’d failed. He failed his best friend. He didn’t see any of this. Had no earthly clue. He looked at Porter who squinted at Isaac. He moved his hand while Isaac was busy looking at Fontaine. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Isaac said. Sounding small. Sounding like the little kid who had his back on the streets. 

Porter lifted his hand. Fontaine grabbed his gun and shot Porter to protect Isaac. Music thumped down below. The office was soundproof, so that Porter could still do business while he watched the dance routines below. Watched the money rake in. 

Isaac turned his body, aiming his gun at Porter. Porter was slumped over his desk, blood pooling and mixing with the blood of the steak. Isaac sighed, heavy gulps of air loud in the room. He turned wide eyes to Fontaine.

“‘Taine, thank you,” Isaac said, wiping his eyes. He lowered his gun and looked between Fontaine and Porter’s dead body. “Thank you.”

Fontaine sniffed and looked at his gun, at the wisps of smoke escaping. Isaac was thanking him for killing the first man who ever gave a damn about him. He swallowed the huge lump in his throat and lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger.

Isaac’s shocked face was horrific as the bullet went neat through his forehead. He crumpled to the floor, blood pooling onto the dark carpet. 

The keening whine in Fontaine’s ears was actually coming from himself. He watched the blood seep into the floor as his best friend was dead. Dead by his own hands. He shivered, freezing cold all of a sudden.

He lowered his hand to his side and looked around the office. The blood spatter. The two bodies. He had no clue how he was going to explain this shit. No clue how he was going to clean it up. 

He stood there for a while, crying. He hadn’t cried since he was on the streets, crying for something to eat and not understanding why someone wouldn’t help a starving kid. He knew he was on his own when his mom retreated further into herself and didn’t give a shit if her sons ate. He knew then that he would always be on his own and would always have to fend for himself. 

His thoughts turned to you. That you’d know what to do somehow, even though this wasn’t your world. He’d greedily brought you in, wanting you for himself. Believing that you were owed to him like some stupid prize from all of the hard work he put in. He was so damn selfish. 

And selfish still because he didn’t want to give you up. Now that Isaac was gone, dead, you were all he had left in this world. Would you judge him for this? Would this be your final straw? 

He promised never to lie to you but he’d never been tempted before now. He didn’t want you to stop looking at him like he mattered. Like you loved him. He didn’t want you to stop loving him for being a monster. 

He took a deep breath, committing to what he had to do next. He used his phone to alert whoever was on duty that Porter was dead and Isaac was the one who did it. 

You cried yourself to sleep. You woke up with a deep sense that something wasn’t right. You lifted up in bed. Kimmy was asleep in her bed behind you, at your request not to leave you alone. You felt groggy and terrible, achy all over. Your face was puffy and sore. You hated crying, but you did feel slightly better about it.

You weren’t a stranger to having your dreams dashed yet again. You would find a way through it. After you got done beating Fontaine’s ass. 

You got out of bed and checked on her son. He was sleeping soundly in his toddler bed, chubby fingers pressed close to his mouth. You closed the door and then headed to the kitchen. You turned on the light above the stove so you had enough light to see by. 

You warmed up some tea, pulling the hot kettle off of the base as it clicked when done. You poured the steaming water in your cup, still feeling like shit. You needed a shower. You were gross and you wanted to wash today off of your hands.

You blew on the mug and moved to sit at the kitchen table when there was a knock on the door. You stood back up, padding over to the door. The only person who would dare swing by right now would be Fontaine. He was lucky that Kimmy’s son was here, otherwise you’d wake up the whole neighborhood with your screaming.

You looked out of the peephole just in case. Fontaine stood there, leaning against the door frame with his head held low. He grew his hair out even more, telling you that he was thinking about growing locs. 

You opened the door and quietly opened the door. The rare cool air hit your exposed legs in your nightgown as you stared at Fontaine. He lifted his head when you opened the door. The speech you prepared died on your tongue as you took in the haunted look in his eyes. 

He was still wearing the blue suit he wore earlier, much more disheveled and blood spattered on him. His face fell when he looked into your eyes. He grabbed you and pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply.

“‘Taine, what’s wrong?” You asked. 

He held on more and you maneuvered underneath him to close the door behind him. You stood there, taking on the majority of his weight as he sobbed on your shoulder. It was scary seeing Fontaine cry on your shoulder. Whatever it was, it made your own fear rise the longer he quietly sobbed.

You pulled him into the living room and made him sit down. You grabbed the whiskey bottle from the pantry, bringing it to the living room with a shot glass. You poured Fontaine a glass. He drank three before he calmed down enough to start telling you what happened.

He wouldn’t look you in the eye as he spoke. You grabbed his hand and squeezed as he recounted everything that took place when he left your house. How Isaac had been acting differently, more distant. Lying more often. Fontaine blamed himself for not seeing the signs. For not checking in on his friend.

“Someone else’s habit is not your fault. Isaac was intentionally keeping it from you. Because he knew that you would make him stop,” you said.

Fontaine shook his head. “It was my job to take care of him. I promised I would,” he said. 

You scooted closer to Fontaine on the couch. You snuggled into his side and kissed his cheek. “You did everything you could, baby. Isaac made his choice. He had plenty of chances to ask for your help,” you said. 

“I shot my best friend, sweetheart. I don’t know how to live with that,” he said. 

You wanted to ease his pain. The way you felt betrayed earlier paled in comparison to Fontaine killing his best friend. This was not how you thought today would end up. You and Fontaine were supposed to be at the top of your game. 

He would still get an earful, but it wouldn’t be right now. You helped Fontaine to his feet and walked him to your room. You stripped him of his shoes and clothes, tucking him into bed. You slipped in behind him and held him while he cried himself to sleep. 

You yawned, getting sleepier as you remembered all of those emotions as if it were fresh in your mind. That night had been rough. The subsequent nights that followed were rough. The transition of the Scarlets to Fontaine’s control was bad all around.

Some refused to believe Fontaine’s version of events. But since there were only three people in the room, two now dead, they had no choice but to follow Fontaine. They called him Kingkiller behind his back but he never let them know it fazed him. He let them believe the myth so that they wouldn’t try to test him like Isaac tried to do to Porter. 

Your mind drifted thinking of that time. Even as you recount everything, you weren’t sure where it started. Was it when he asked you to be his girlfriend? When he took you on all of those dates? When he kissed you at the fair? Was it when you bumped into him outside of the theater, facing another rejection? Another door in your face. Another person believing that you were nothing but scum under their shoe. 

Whenever it was, it started you down this dark path. Facing your imminent death with dread in your belly. You hated the waiting part. Hated that all you could do was sit here and count the days. Sit here and get your affairs in order. Move around your money, getting your family together. 

You wanted to have everything taken care of. So that when you left this world, you left it better than when you entered it. That you touched enough people’s hearts, lived as wildly as you could, lived as freely as you could. That somewhere deep down, Fontaine wouldn’t hate you when you were gone. 

Whew! There's always more! The Secret Tyrone Files | Part 1