#sure jan dot gif

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

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

Word Count: 5.8k

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

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

main masterlist | series masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were safe. You knew that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

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

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

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

“…Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your turn.”

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

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

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

“Left or right?”

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

But you didn’t.

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

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

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

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

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

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

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

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

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

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

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

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

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

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

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

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

—

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

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn’t you?

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

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

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

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

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

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

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

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

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

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

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

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART EIGHT

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Eighteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Minor smuttiness (smutty thoughts? is that a warning?)

Word Count: 3.9K

Note: Thank you so much to amazing @myfandomprompts for creating the banner for this chapter! Not only do they keep us fed with amazing EM gifs, they make beautiful things like this. Such an honour to have it begin this chapter, thank you!

Every now and then, Tom kicked the football beyond the reach of Mrs Mason’s children and their friends. Watching as they hurried up the street after it, calling and laughing, Tom took a minute’s pause to admire the two women sat in the doorway of his father’s house.

His sister, Lois, sat in the sun on a chair that Vernon had brought out from the kitchen. The dark hair she inherited from their mother was pulled back away from her face and the glow of new-motherhood shone about her bonny cheeks. Vernon stood stoically behind her, laughing freely if a little awkwardly; he had been raised by private schools and the air force. Hovering on doorsteps with babies as the world and their wife cooed over the little one was as far away from the world he knew as could be. Still, he was a damn sight better than Harry, with his brooding and joyless honour. Both Lois and Vernon’s faces were turned towards the woman on the doorstep, and the little bundle she cradled in her lap.

Bess’s hair, darker now that the summer sun had faded, was loose and uncurled, a simple scarf keeping the bulk of it away from the baby. A few strands fell forward from her shoulders, and Tom chuckled as a fat little hand reached up from its blanket to grasp at it. Whatever Bess was babbling to his niece, Tom didn’t know, but Lois and Vernon chortled. She seemed not to notice, completely caught up in the little life she had helped bring into the world. Her pale fingers curled around the little one’s, and Tom found himself momentarily jealous as she ran her thumb across the little knuckles.

A strange stillness came over him then, quite different to that which he had experienced since coming home to Bess. Where his arrival into Bess’ arms felt at once electric and sure, this new-found contentedness seemed to well deep from the spot between his naval and his heart. He tried to trace the feeling, watching Bess play with his niece and mulling over how it could feel old and new at the same time. The first signs of an answer dawned on him and he felt a brief swell of mortification, as though he had failed at a basic sum, when something else entirely hit his chest.

“You little tyke!” Jan hurried away from Tom, shrieking with glee and muttering apologies about sending the football flying into the man. Tom caught up to the little boy with ease and heaved him off the ground. Tucking him under one arm, Tom darted between Mrs Mason’s children as they ran after him, their game of football now a rugby match with Jan as the ball.

“Mam used to say that girls become women, and boys become bigger boys,” Lois said to Bess as they both watched Tom deposit Jan by Mrs Chase and run away in mock celebration.

“She’s not wrong,”

“But we wouldn’t change them, would we?” Lois nudged Bess’ shoulder with her foot.

“That we wouldn’t.” Bess tore her eyes away from Tom and back to the babe in her arms. It was at this moment that Fergal shouted from across the street.

“Tom! Vernon! Give us a hand!” Along with Douglas and Roger, Bess’ father strained to push the old upright out onto the street. Bess handed baby Bennett back to her mother and took out a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of her slacks. She offered one to Cora, who had joined from across the road, but she declined and the three of them watched as Tom, Roger and Vernon helped their fathers with the piano.

“The state of you three,” Dot said as she appeared at Cora’s side. “I’ve never known three such headstrong women forget their principles the moment a fella flexes his muscles.”

“You will one day, Dot.” said Cora distractedly.

“If you keep your mouth shut,” added Bess and Dot gave her a shove. Bess smiled at her sister then, with cigarette jauntily perched at the edge of her mouth, made her way to the piano. She patted Douglas on the back with a whispered thank you, and kissed her father on the cheek. All but one man dispersed as she sat at the stool and began to play the first few notes of In a Mellow Tone.

Tom perched next to her and watched Bess’ fingers skitter over the keys a moment before whispering in her ear. “Are you ok?”

She nodded, eyes focused on her fingers as they navigated the particularly hard movement of the pre-chorus. “Don’t worry about me, go and have fun” she whispered, before adding with a shout as he made to leave. “And save me a slice of cake.”

“I’ll save two,” Tom kissed her cheek quickly and made his lazy way towards his father, who stood chatting to Robina Chase.

The Vaughns were determined that today should be a happy one. If their mother were here, it’s what she would have done. The day would have been Albie’s 22nd birthday. In life he was bright, kind and mischievous. The sort to sweep all the ladies into a dance, regardless of their age, play with the children and charm the gentlemen. In death, why should they remember him by just their sadness? No, instead there would be bread and cheese, and a homemade cake, the inhabitants of the street sharing their ration books to make the day a happy one.

“Have a dance, Mrs Chase?” Bess watched from the piano as Tom held out his hand with a wry smile. The austere woman stuttered a little and looked to Douglas for help, but he simply smiled. “I won’t take no for an answer, Mrs.” Robina took him in, the curved lips, the sweep of dirty blond hair and the cocksure confidence that oozed from every pore. Somewhere, in the boyish youth of his face, she could make out Douglas. When Tom held his hand a little closer, his smile growing to dimple his cheeks, Mrs Chase relented.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about the Bennetts, it’s that they’re nothing if stubborn. Each and every one of you.”

“Aye, and my old man’s the worst so you best watch yourself.” Before Robina could retort, Tom took her in his arms and gently waltzed her around the street, between the other couples of Cora and Roger, Jude, Hattie and their farmers, even Queenie and Frank. Vernon had left Lois, while she fed the baby, to twirl around one of Mrs Mason’s little girls as she stood on his toes. Bess watched them over the lid of the piano with barely supressed happiness. Everyone she loved, and was growing to love, assembled in one place and one piece to help them through the day. Tom swayed with Mrs Chase near the piano and Bess spoke through and exhale of smoke.

“He’s not bad, is he, Mrs Chase?”

“I’ll tell you, Mrs Chase,” Tom spoke to her instead of Bess. “It’s nice getting to lead for once. You know what these Longsight lasses are like.” A charmed laugh, not dissimilar to a startled sparrow, escaped Robina’s lips and Tom winked at Bess over her shoulder. She watched him admiringly through her dark lashes and Tom drew his bottom lip between his teeth. Oh, the things that crossed his mind when she looked at him like that.

By four o’clock, only stragglers were left at the little street party. Mrs Mason’s children had long since vanished inside, exhausted from keeping up with Tom and Jan, who was saying his goodbyes as Mrs Chase attempted to hurry him into the car. Cora appeared from the house with a slice of cake wrapped in tissue for the little boy, and a box of Albie’s old toys. Hattie and Jude were dragging their fellas away, off to meet Roberta for dinner before they all went to the Palais, whispering crude suggestions in Bess’ ear about her new relationship with Tom. He stood with his father and Douglas, a bottle of ale in each of their hands, as Frank Smith made his goodbyes. Queenie Warren held onto his arm, giggling girlishly and no doubt thrilled at her position between the two men. Bess watched as she placed a manicured hand on Tom’s bicep and, as she laughed at something he said, he placed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Bess smiled to herself and made her way to the group. Sensing Bess nearby, Tom turned towards her. Frank, expecting Bess’ derision and, fearful of the woman she had become, began pulling Queenie but she wrestled from his grip and tottered to Bess.

“Earlier on, I could just hear your Albie laughing at Tom dancing with Mrs Chase.”

Bess laughed as Queenie took her by the hand. “I can hear what he would have said and all,”

“You’re in, Bennett.” Bess, Queenie and Tom said in unison. Douglas laughed, as did Fergal through a stifled sniffle.

“Ta-ra, Bess,” Queenie kissed her on the cheek. “Tom.” Tom placed his arm around Bess and watched as Frank led Queenie away. When the couple rounded the corner, Tom snaked his arms around Bess waist and brought her to him. She gripped Tom’s arms in surprise and a deep blush crept across her nose and cheeks. Tom leant forward, but before his lips could meet hers, Bess whispered in his ear.

“I still feel like we should sneak into the kitchen.”

Tom laughed and pulled back to look at her, arms still steadfastly holding her to him. “So you want to hide me now, hm?” Bess pecked the corner of his mouth, if only to wipe away the growing smirk that lingered there.

“You admit it then?”

“I just wanted you for myself,”

“Mm,” Bess relented, smiling into Tom’s mouth as he kissed her at last. Her arms made to move around his neck as he pulled her somehow closer and she sighed.

“Use your arms for something useful, boy, and help us get the upright inside.” Bess leapt back from Tom at her father’s harsh voice. “I can take back my permission you know.” Fergal stood from his chair and placed the empty ale bottle in Bess’ hands.

“Sorry, dadda.” She said meekly.

“Sorry, Fergal,” Tom said, though his boyish grin remained as he looked at his father. Much to Bess’ surprise, Douglas returned it with an amused smile of his own. Fergal clapped Tom on the back and the pair of them walked to the upright, Vernon and Roger already there and Douglas ambling towards them. Cora and Dot hurried from the front door as the men pushed the upright toward it and came to stand with Bess as she eyed the men, making sure they didn’t scratch Aunt Ida’s piano.

“Mrs Flaherty gave me a bottle of port to take to Mam,” Cora produced it from the pocket of her apron.

“And Mrs Mason’s little girl gave me these,” Dot held up a ragtag poesy of daisies and dandelions. Bess laughed as Dot raised her eyebrows at the flowers.

“I have ribbon left from Mrs Chase’s last order, in powder blue.”

“Mam’s favourite,” Dot sighed and Cora wrapped her arm around her.

“Will Tom come?” Cora said matter-of-factly. “Roger is.”

“I hadn’t ask-”

“He could see his mam too then,” Dot followed Bess’ eyes as she watched Tom push the piano from behind as the others guided it through the door.

“Come on, Bess. Tell him to come along. The Bennetts have always been family, it’s just official now.”

Bess nodded in surrender and crossed the pavement in a rouse to watch over the beloved piano, but in reality to speak with Tom. Pushing the upright over the threshold, he wiped his forehead and Bess took his hand, heart momentarily stopping as he looked at her with his sweat-coated brow and heaving chest.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

The graveyard, despite being in the centre of the town, was overgrown with grasses, climbing clematis and the last of the summer’s foxgloves. In the haze of the evening, insects scattered their wayward dances above the tombstones and Father Michael moved amongst the sleeping dead, removing dead flowers from the graves. He nodded to the approaching family and made his way towards the rectory. Led by Fergal, the Vaughns walked to the centre of graveyard. A tombstone, visibly younger than its friends, stood beneath an old yew tree.

Etta Frances Vaughn

Beloved wife of Fergal

Devoted mother to Cora, Elizabeth, Albert and Dorothy.

Ar scáth a chéile a mhaireann na daoine

A small, carved stone sat beneath it.

Albert Colm Vaughn

Their glory shall not be blotted out

Each of Etta’s daughters placed their gifts at her tombstone. Dot sat on the luscious grass that held Etta in its embrace and arranged the Mason’s flowers. Fergal popped the top off the bottle of port and took a swig before passing it around the gathered party. When it reached Bess, she drank from it deeply and handed it to Tom.

“What does that mean?” he whispered, indicating the writing on the grave and passing the port to Roger.

“‘In the shelter of each other, people survive.’ Mam through and through.”   

It was true. Tom looked around at the family. Even with Albie gone, each of them shone in each other’s company, loyally defending and raising each other up. Even Roger, with his kind face and stoic heart, holding Cora as she began to cry, seemed to fit in. Tom watched as Fergal bent double with grief as Bess rubbed his back, keeping her own grief at bay to allow space for her father’s. The familiar feeling from earlier in the day took hold behind his naval and, swallowing thickly, he made his quiet way from them and towards the church. Father Michael opened the door of the rectory and saw Tom hovering by the church door.

“Hello Tom,” Tom merely nodded, his eyes cast down at the stone a few paces ahead of him. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here.”

“There’s a war on.” Tom said flatly. Father Michael considered him before continuing.

“Years, I’d say.”

Tom looked up at that, somewhat annoyed. “Well Father, I don’t know if I believe in anything these days. War, Him,” he pointed towards the sky.

“I don’t know, Tom,” Father Michael unlatched the oak door of the church and before moving into the cool dark said, “I think there’s something for everyone to believe in.”

The church door shut behind the priest and Tom waited a minute before speaking. “Priests are nosey bastards, aren’t they?” He looked down at the stone, as though expecting it to reply. He sighed and brushed some leaves from its top.

In loving memory of Mary “Marie” Bennett

Wife to Douglas

Mother to Lois and Thomas

In the Lord’s house for evermore

“How are you doing? I could almost hear you and Etta tutting at me from beyond the grave. Well, what do you expect? You’d say dad’s a lonely soul and could do with God, but once you were gone he stopped taking us to church. The Vaughn girls only go because it makes them feel close to their mam.”

Tom looked over his shoulder. The Vaughns were still gathered around Etta’s grave, Bess stood separately, stroking the bark of the yew.

“I’m glad you have a friend now, wherever you are. Dad and Fergal still keep each other company, I think they sit there pretending you’re both at their side. Somehow, the family is growing. I’m an uncle now, though I’m sure Lois has already been down to see you. She wants to name the baby after you. Dad’s worried she might take after us three and not him. He could do with someone on his side.” He laughed sadly. How often Douglas had compared Tom to his mother. He wondered if it made him happy, to see his wife in the eyes of his son.

“Whether Etta has told you, Lois, or you’re watching over me, I’m sure you already know about Bess, too. What do you think? God mam, I wish you were here. Since I went away, I’ve had this feeling right here,” he placed a hand beneath his heart. “It hurts so much, worse than when they shot me, but I can’t help but enjoy it. I know you’re laughing at me now, because we both know what’s causing it, but I wanted to tell you all the same. I want you to tell me what it is, to tell me that I’m right. Christ,” He hadn’t spoken to his mum for years. A twig snapped behind him and he looked round. Bess stood a few metres away, gazing softly at him, not intruding but making sure he wasn’t alone just like she had done all those years ago when she spotted him here before.

“I miss you, mam.” He held his hand on the stone above where she lay and closed his eyes. If he tried hard enough, he could smell her perfume and the shampoo she used. “Speak soon,” Tom trailed his way through the thick grass towards Bess. She wrapped her hand tightly around his and brought it to her lips. Her family were already passing through the graveyard gates, and Tom realised that she had given him time to spend with his mother. Walking alongside her, Tom watched the hue of her hair catch fire in the setting sun and his stomach flipped.

“Tom?” Bess looked up at him, her eyebrows a hard line, lips slightly parted in a smile and he realised he had been caught staring at her. When he said nothing but raised a quizzical eyebrow, she laughed. “Dancing at the Palais. Tonight. The girls are going and now Dot wants in.”

“And I suppose you do to?” he swung her hand in his.

“Well, you’re all warmed up after your dance with Mrs Chase. Please?”

“Fine,” he sighed dramatically but smiled. Bess kissed his hand once again and led him slowly after her family. They ambled the short mile back to Longsight, laughing gaily despite the melancholy of the day. At some point not far from home, conversation turned to the dance at the Palais, Dot complaining that she was without a permanent partner.

“Don’t you worry Dot, I’ve got a fella for you.” Tom laughed as she whinged to her father.

“Is he handsome?”

“Let me keep you at my side a little while longer,” Fergal patted Dot’s hand. “Bess and Cora will be gone soon.” He looked pointedly between Tom and Roger, and the two young men grinned.

“I’d say so, Dot. Norman’s his name.” Tom stopped abruptly, causing Bess to stumble at his side. “Norman! That’s who sent the letter!”

“What letter?” Cora and Dot said simultaneously.

“Nothing,” Bess and Tom’s answer was quick. Cora eyed them suspiciously but Dot seemed not to notice, skipping ahead of the group to unlatch the ginnel gate for Fergal and going with him into their house. Cora and Roger followed arm in arm and when Cora’s navy skirt fluttered through the gate, Tom pushed Bess against the brick wall. She laughed as his hand pulled at the collar of her jumper and began to pepper hot kisses to her neck.

“What’s come over you, Mr Bennett?”

“The dance,” he placed his leg between her and widened her legs. “Thinking about you all dolled up,” Bess sighed when his teeth grazed the junction between her jaw and ear. “The men watching you and knowing you’re mine.”

“It’s the girls that’ll have to watch themselves,” Bess fisted Tom’s shirt and pulled him closer, grinding her hips scandalously against his leg. “Now I’ve got you, I’m not sharing you.”

A sentence like that from Bess’ lips would have sent blood rushing to his cock, but today, that cavity behind his naval twisted once more. Tom scrunched his nose, inhaled sharply and looked down at her. Her eyebrows were pulled together in calm curiosity, stating “I know something happened there, but I won’t push you to tell me”. Free from makeup, Tom could see every blemish on her face, from the scar she got on her sixth birthday jumping off a swing convinced she could fly, to the mottled pink of her cheeks from their kissing. Through her lashes, her brown eyes looked up at him with grace and openness, and his body hummed beneath her knowing gaze. The feeling in his stomach tugged him towards her and, if he had been a sentimental man, he could have sworn the scent of his mother’s perfume blew through the ginnel, urging his courage. He pressed his forehead to Bess’ own and closed his eyes.

“Bess?” His voice was a whisper.

“Mm?” Her own eyes fluttered shut and her lips quirked into a contented smile. Tom inhaled again and all around him, the world was Bess.

“I love you.”

The air stilled. The war was worlds away. They might not have been standing in the back alley of a Manchester suburb, but on the moon. When Bess opened her eyes, her heart hammering tenfold beneath her breast, she saw Tom’s icy blue ones wide-eyed and fearful staring back at her. Had he ever told anyone he loved them before? Smiling wide, Bess placed a hand to his chiselled jaw, caressing the skin there.

“I’ve always loved you, Tom.”

Tom watched as Bess’ eyes glazed with tears, and the nerves tumbling about his stomach fizzled away, replaced by sparks of electricity. Something of the smug sailor roared into life at her words, and he smirked.

“Hard not to-”

Bess tutted and tried to smack him but he was too fast, cupping her neck with large hands and bringing her into a heady kiss. “Wear that red dress tonight,” he whispered as her tongue languidly brushed against his lips. “I need some fuel to take back aboard-”

Bess tugged at his hair and he moaned. “Tom Bennett, you scoundrel.”

He broke their kiss. “And tell your family you’ll be back at the flat tonight.”

“Is that so?”

With a smack to her bottom and a wink over his shoulder, Tom swaggered down the ginnel. “You’ll need your energy tonight, my love. Not just for the dancing.”

Note: So. That was the last chapter of Volume One! With the BBC showing World on Fire in the summer (I think July), it won’t be too long until we’re back with Tom and Bess again. Expect them to go back to their snarky, sassy selves, just this time they’ll be doing it side by side!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67

[anextrapart]

#HANDS #handS in his HAIR #taggie getting all up in his Just For Men khol black total grey coverage like an absolute champ #good for her! #being touched with genuine affection no doubt ​rocking his world to the core tbh #rutshire’s reigning horndog and slutte extraordinaire experiences one (1) instance of honest tenderness #and he begins trembling like a wet chihuahua #love to see the Worst Person You’ve Ever Met experiencing a good old-fashioned ‘oh no’ #can’t wait to see him walk this back like a dickhead in season 2 #oh it means nothing! #sure jan dot gif (x)

[texasbama]

Hoops cause she'll still throw hands...sure jan dot gif

Literally me seeing her story.

[typhoidmeri]

light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle

It’s warm, downright cozy, when she finally stirs awake, dragging herself from dreams of ice and blood. She plastered across Johnny’s bare chest. Coarse hair tickling her nose and lips, the faint scent of ash and musk filling her lungs. His heavy arm is curled around her back pinning her in place.

“I’ve had dreams start like this,” Johnny laughs, the words rumbling through his chest. For a moment, just a moment, Darcy wants to kiss him.

“Half frozen to death after being vomited up by the demon of slushies?” Darcy says. She subtly scrubs a hand over her mouth, wiping away a string of drool.

“I thought it was Dippin’ Dots?”

“That too,” she murmurs. “You’re okay?”

He lifts a hand from the covers, fingers spreading wide. A white hot glow starts at the center of his palm and radiates out to the tips of his fingers. Flames burts from his hand lighting the room. “All good. Did you have something in mind?” Johnny says.

“How about going home?”

“I dunno, I kinda like it here. Cozy little shack, a naked girl in my arms, could be worse.”

“Cute as you are, Storm, and as Home, Sweet, Home as all this is, I want coffee, a cheeseburger, and whatever Midwestern monstrosity of a salad my dad’s obsessed with this week.”

“You choose salad over me?”

“No, I choose coffee first,” Darcy says, patting Johnny’s chest. “Don’t sulk.”

“The Human Torch does not sulk.”

“Sure, Jan.”

…

This little snippet is in the same universe as you’re closing the door, you leave the world behind. Just a few hours later. There is more in my head but the last few weeks have been a little unkind so I’m taking what words I can write and calling it a night.

@darcylewisbingohq

Prompt: Home, Sweet, Home