#tw; mafia
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sometimes i just sit here at work and think about isabella marie while internally sobbing. imagine what she’s witnessed at such a young age — kids at school gossiping about her father being in the mob, even if enzo tried his very best to hide it from his baby girl. imagine her finding guns lying around the house, or eavesdropping in on her father’s conversations. doing her own research and finding news articles about her father’s criminal involvement with the mafia, or the feds showing up at her sweet sixteen and arresting don luciano on bullshit charges, but making a spectacle out of it just to embarrass the family. as well as constantly feeling that her intelligence is being diminished when her parent’s and older brothers try to make excuses and continue to lie about their dirty dealings. her teenage years were frustrating, to say the least.. and she rebelled, a lot.
#╰ ✩. headcanons.#sorry.. i just have a lot of feelings about my girl right now 🥺#preferably her teenage years#that still torment her to this day#tw; guns#tw; mafia
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dont mind me
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huh how did i reach 6 followers
you know what heres some more garlic bread, enjoy
#sh!tpost#shitpost#asexual#aromantic#aroace#aspec mafia#aspec military#ventis garlic bread#lgbtqia#lgbtq#food#tw food
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buff ragatha guys
#tw: suggestive#???kinda#doodles#the amazing digital circus#tadc#tadc au#the amazing digital mafia#tadc mafia au#tadc ragatha
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🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."
❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.
��� Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader
♡ Novelette. #1 -The Enemy in His Bed
♡ Word Count. 8,853
♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play
You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.
He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.
“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”
His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.
“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.
The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”
The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”
Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.
“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”
His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.
But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.
────────────
The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.
The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.
"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.
"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.
His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.
His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.
With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.
You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.
But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.
His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."
He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."
The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.
His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”
Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.
The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.
He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.
Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”
The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.
He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.
“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”
The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.
The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.
It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.
His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”
The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.
The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.
He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”
You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.
────────────
The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.
He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.
"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."
He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.
You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.
He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."
He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."
With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.
He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.
With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.
He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.
The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.
"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.
You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.
He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.
The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.
The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.
The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.
He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."
He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.
The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.
The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."
The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.
The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.
He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.
His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.
You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.
The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.
He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."
He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.
The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."
His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.
You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.
The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.
He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.
He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."
He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.
He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."
His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."
With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."
You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.
He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.
You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.
With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.
"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"
His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.
"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.
"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."
You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.
His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."
The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.
With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.
You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.
He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.
"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.
"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.
"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.
The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.
Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."
The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.
As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.
He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.
But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.
He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.
"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."
With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.
"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."
His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."
His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.
He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.
Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.
Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.
"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.
Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.
He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."
You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.
"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.
After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."
His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.
"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.
It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."
His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."
Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.
The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.
"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.
But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.
The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.
He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.
"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."
He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.
The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.
But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.
He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.
He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.
"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.
His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.
The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.
"But you can't win, my love."
You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.
It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.
He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."
With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.
His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."
He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."
The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.
His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.
The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.
You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.
You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.
He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.
The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.
You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.
He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.
You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.
The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.
Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.
He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.
But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.
Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.
You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.
It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.
"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."
He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.
You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.
"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."
You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."
The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.
He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.
"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.
You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.
"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."
He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.
"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."
He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.
The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.
Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.
His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.
"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.
"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.
You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.
But you won't give him that power.
With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.
The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.
You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.
"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.
Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.
The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."
But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.
He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."
He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.
He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."
You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.
With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.
The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.
He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.
"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.
The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.
You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.
The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.
Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.
The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.
The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.
You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.
He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."
His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."
The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.
He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.
You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.
He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.
Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.
The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.
"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."
The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.
But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.
With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.
You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.
The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."
In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.
The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.
You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.
The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.
The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.
Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.
The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.
Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.
The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.
The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.
────────────
The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.
Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.
The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.
He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.
But he's not done with you yet.
He can't be.
You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.
The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.
The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.
His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.
The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.
"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.
Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.
The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.
He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.
He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.
"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."
He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.
He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.
You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.
Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.
He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.
He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.
The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.
Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.
But sleep doesn't come easy.
The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.
#yandere mafia#yandere mafia boss#yandere boss#mafia x reader#mafia boss#mafia romance#mafia au#smut#shameless smut#yandere smut#smut x reader#yandere x reader#yandere oneshots#male yandere x reader#yandere imagines#yandere scenarios#yandere#male yandere#obsessive yandere#possessive yandere#tw yandere#yandere male#yandere male x reader#yandere x darling#yandere x you#yandere blog#yandere romance#yandere boy#yandere oneshot#yandere crime boss
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Hot girl summer?
Hot boy summer?
Hot person summer?
WRONG!
Hot garlic bread summer!
#asexual#acespec mafia#aroace spec empire#acespec#aromantic#arospec mafia#aroace#arospec#aroace spec#aromantism#aroacespec mafia#aroacespec#gimmick blog/side blog#id in alt text btw#cw food#food cw#tw food#food tw#I know it's a animated gif but still gotta be careful!
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GIRLIE, YANDERE OLDER MAFIA BOSS!!(TAKE YOUR TIME IF YOU HAVE OTHER REQUESTSSSS!!💗)
ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴍᴀғɪᴀ ʙᴏss x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
yan mafia boss who you work under, with him being your boss and your his right hand woman
yan mafia boss who treats you like you own him, following with whatever you say
yan mafia boss who doesnt like any medics touching him, wanting you to be one treating him
The medic was standing in front of him, clearly fearful for her life bc the man in front of her could kill her if she did the slight mistake. She tried to pat and help the wounds of the Mafia boss who smacked her hand away and huffed.
"Bring me my n/n, now." He said glaring at her as she quickly nodded, basically running to you. She told you about how he refused to let her help and touch him as you sighed. You rubbed your temple before nodding and smiling at her.
"Don't worry, Ill deal with him." You said politely, nodding at her before walking past her, going to the room where he was at. You opened the door and you saw the way his eyes lit up, and a grin landed on his usually nonchalant face. "Love!" He said, as you walked up to him.
"Why are always acting so stubborn to the medics? You know that they're there to help you, idiot." You said clearly irritated, making him pout and tilt his head. "But, I want you to help me!!...and have your hands all over my body..." He whined, grabbing your hand and resting it on his cheek, looking up at you with hearts in his eyes.
yan mafia boss who has to always be in constant contact with you
ʏ/ɴsᴅ𝟷ᴅɪᴄᴋʀɪᴅᴇʀ!
n/nnn
where are uuuuu
n/nnnnn
n/nnnn
...?
...
...
no reply?
Have other hoes?
YOU DO DONT YOU?!!!?!?!!?
i hate u.
You getting blocked.
dont talk to me. I know you hate me.
Okay, im going to kill my self.
...?
....
...
This is (yans name, yall could make sum up) cat, he just shot himself
do you love him
...
...?
baby you know that was all a prank
i love u
pls let me eat ur ass
i wanna slurp ur kitty so good that the only thing i could taste is u mami
(seen 1 min ago)
ʏ/ɴsᴅ𝟷ᴅɪᴄᴋʀɪᴅᴇʀ!
ur rlly gonna leave me on seen?
ur lucky i dont come and cream all over ur face rn
pls touch me
yan mafia boss who has his bodyguards protect you no matter where you go
"Okat sigma 1, hawk tuah, ohio go protect n/n, you better fucking protect her with your life, ya hear?!" He said to his bodygaurds aggressively, scowling them down as they shook in fear,....i think one of them peed their pants...erm!
yan mafia boss who is madly jealous, putting a bullet into anyone's head he sees as threat for your love.
yan mafia boss who when you arent around, he struggles to sleep. He tosses and turns, his mind racing with scenarios about what they might be doing or who they’re with. "is she with that ugly bitch from work again?! Is she with one of my bodyguards?! Is she cheating on me?!" He hiccuped through his sobs, biting on his nails, hair all messy from tossing and turning throughout his sleep
He often wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling empty without them next to him. If you spends the night somewhere else, he'll start spamming you on everything even roblox.. If you dont answer within 5 mins, he immediately sends his men to try to find you, and paces around his house, restless waiting for your reply. bruh u were js buying sum takis...
yan mafia boss who is your boss who favors you a little too much!!! <333
IM PROB GONNA UPDATE SOME MORE ON TUMBLR BUT IM STILL ON BREAK ON WATTPAD CUZ I LOST MY GOD DAMN PHONEEE
SORRY IF THIS IS SHORT I DIDNT RLLY KNOW WHAT TO DO FOR MAFIA BOSS YAN
#yandere x reader#yanderemalexreader#soft yandere#clingy yandere#tw yandere#yandere blog#yandere x darling#yandere boyfriend#yandere male#yandere#yandere mafia#destinys worksss<333
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Bird Home in the Darkness
Characters/Pairings: Mean Mafia!Bucky x curvy!Millennial Female!Reader x Mean Mafia!Steve Word Count: 2.7k Summary: Your introduction to your new life has been relentless. Night and day, you're theirs. Period. Sequel to Little Lark and Bird on a Wire.
Content/Warnings: dub-con, explicit smut, somnophilia, oral (male receiving), PIV sex, vaginal fingering (male receiving), double cream pie, overstimulation, use of pet name (little lark), light degradation
Author Notes: Deliciously Debauched Labor Day Weekend continues! Late, but I'm determined to finish, so this is week ten of @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer - using the SOMNOPHILIA prompt.
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
They’d only been back in Brooklyn for two days, but earlier tonight Steve had already had to go deal with a business matter. Things were quiet in the penthouse when he got back, but that was to be expected since it was well past midnight.
He made his way through the living rooms and back to the bedrooms.
He was not shocked to find Bucky in the room they’d given you.
Bucky looked up briefly when Steve entered, and Steve surveyed the scene before him. The sheets were pulled back, leaving your body fully exposed. You were wearing a silk camisole, but your bottom half was laid bare, and Bucky’s hand was working between your thighs.
Steve narrowed his eyes as he gave your form a once-over again. “Is she…?”
Bucky nodded, “Sleeping. Out cold.”
Steve chuckled. “Not a surprise. We’ve certainly kept her,” he paused, and licked his lips, considering the best word to describe the last two days in their company, “immersed in her new life.”
Kidnapped, extracted, procured - your opinion differed from that of the two men as to you being brought into this new life. But Steve and Bucky had been forthcoming with what they wanted from you in their world, and over the last two days, they had proven how serious they were. Your role was to please them in whatever way they needed, and their appetites were abundant. Although you weren’t with Steve and Bucky constantly since they’d taken you away from your old job, you had not had a moment alone, one of them always with you - sleeping, eating, showering.
And the sex.
There had been so much sex.
Your body was beyond spent and exhausted.
But although you were completely overtaken by sleep, even now you weren’t left alone, nor could they leave your body untouched.
Steve quickly undressed down to his briefs, then got up onto the bed, kneeling on the other side of you from Bucky.
Steve watched intently as Bucky's fingers worked your slick folds. Even in sleep, your body reacted, your hips shifting subtly against Bucky's hand. A soft moan escaped your parted lips.
He could smell your arousal, a scent that had become intoxicatingly familiar over the past days.
Steve watched intently, his eyes darkening with desire. He leaned in closer, mesmerized by the glistening moisture coating Bucky's fingers as they glided over your sensitive flesh.
"How long have you been at this?" Steve asked, his voice low and husky.
Bucky smirked. "About an hour. She's so responsive, even like this. Watch."
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just so, and your back arched as another moan slipped out. Steve's breath caught in his throat at the sight.
"Let me," Steve whispered, reaching out to trace along your inner thigh.
Bucky shifted slightly, making room for Steve's hand. Together, they explored your body - Bucky's fingers circling your clit while Steve's dipped inside, curling to stroke that spot that made you whimper even in unconsciousness.
Your breathing quickened, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin silk of your camisole. Steve's free hand moved to cup your breast, thumb brushing over a hardened nipple through the fabric.
"God, she's perfect," Steve murmured, his eyes roaming hungrily over your body. "I can't get enough of her."
Bucky nodded in agreement, increasing the pressure of his fingers against your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the sensation even in sleep.
"Think we can make her come like this?" Steve asked, voice thick with arousal.
"Only one way to find out," Bucky replied with a wicked grin.
They worked in tandem, fingers moving in practiced synchronization. Steve curled his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot while Bucky circled your clit with increasing intensity. Your breaths came in short gasps, body tensing as pleasure built.
Suddenly, your back arched sharply off the bed as a cry escaped your lips. Your inner walls clenched around Steve's fingers as waves of orgasm washed over you.
Steve and Bucky continued their ministrations, drawing out your climax until you fell limply back onto the bed, chest heaving.
"Fuck," Bucky breathed, withdrawing his hand. "That was gorgeous."
Steve nodded, slowly removing his fingers from inside you. He brought them to his mouth, sucking your essence off his digits with a groan of satisfaction.
"She tastes even sweeter when she's sleeping," he murmured, eyes dark with lust.
Bucky watched intently, his own arousal evident in the tenting of his boxers. "Think she'll wake up if we keep going?"
Steve considered for a moment, gaze roaming over your still form. Your chest rose and fell steadily, face relaxed in deep slumber despite the intense orgasm you'd just experienced.
"Probably not," Steve replied with a smirk. "She's completely out of it. But even if she does..." He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. It didn't matter if you woke - you belonged to them now, to use as they pleased. “I'm not ready to stop yet. Are you?"
A wolfish grin spread across Bucky's face. "Not even close."
With practiced ease, they repositioned your sleeping form. Bucky slid behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. He hooked one arm under your knee, lifting your leg to open you up. Steve settled between your spread thighs, his large hands gripping your hips.
"Ready?" Steve asked, lining himself up at your entrance.
Bucky nodded, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "Do it."
Steve lined himself up and slowly pushed inside your slick heat in one slow, smooth motion. Your body yielded to him easily, and a low groan escaped him as he bottomed out.
Steve paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of being fully sheathed inside you. Your warmth enveloped him, still pulsing slightly from your earlier orgasm. He began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm.
Bucky's hand roamed over your body, caressing your curves and kneading your soft flesh. He paid special attention to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers through the thin silk of your camisole. His other arm kept your leg hitched up, giving Steve better access.
"Fuck, she feels amazing," Steve grunted, picking up the pace slightly. Your body rocked between them with each thrust, still completely lax in sleep.
Bucky hummed in agreement, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder. His own arousal was evident, pressing insistently against your lower back.
Steve's grip on your hips tightened as he picked up the pace, driving into you with increasing force. Your body rocked between them, completely pliant in your unconscious state. Soft whimpers and moans escaped your parted lips with each thrust, your body responding instinctively to the pleasure even in sleep.
Your brow furrowed slightly, the first signs that you might be stirring from your deep slumber.
"I think she's starting to wake up," Bucky murmured, nipping gently at your shoulder.
"Good," he growled, snapping his hips forward with renewed vigor. "I want to see her face when she realizes what's happening."
As if on cue, your eyelids began to flutter. A low moan escaped your lips, louder than before. Your body tensed slightly as consciousness slowly returned.
"That's it, little lark," Bucky whispered in your ear. "Come back to us."
Your eyes opened slowly, blinking in confusion as you tried to make sense of the sensations overwhelming your body. Steve's thrusts became more forceful, deliberately pushing you further into wakefulness.
"Wha-" you started to mumble, voice thick with sleep. But your question was cut off by a sharp gasp as Steve hit a particularly sensitive spot inside you.
"Wake up, little lark," Steve said with a predatory grin, never breaking his rhythm. "Sleep well?"
Realization dawned in your eyes as you became fully aware of your position - sandwiched between the two men, Steve buried deep inside you while Bucky held you open for him.
"Oh god," you whimpered. Your walls clenched around Steve as full awareness crashed over you. A mix of shock, arousal, and resignation flashed across your face as you took in the scene.
"There she is," Bucky purred in your ear, his hand sliding down to circle your clit.
You gasped at the added stimulation, your hips bucking involuntarily. "I... what... how long...?" you stammered, struggling to form coherent thoughts as pleasure overwhelmed your senses.
"Shh," Steve soothed, never breaking his rhythm. "Don't worry about that now.
We already made you come once while you were out."
Your mind reeled, trying to process the situation. But coherent thought was difficult with Steve pounding into you and Bucky's clever fingers working your sensitive bud. Your body responded eagerly, already primed from the earlier orgasm you'd experienced in your sleep. Every nerve ending felt electrified, hypersensitive to their touch after being worked over for so long without your knowledge.
"That's it," Bucky encouraged as your breathing quickened. "Let go for us, little lark."
You whimpered, torn between giving in to the pleasure and resisting on principle. But your body made the decision for you, waves of ecstasy building rapidly under their expert ministrations.
"Oh god, oh god," you chanted, your back arching as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open in a silent scream as your orgasm crashed over you.
Steve groaned, feeling your walls clench and pulse around him. He gripped your hips tighter, driving into you with renewed vigor as you writhed between them. "Take it all," he growled.
Bucky's fingers never stopped their relentless assault on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were shaking and gasping for air. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all.
As the last tremors subsided, Steve's thrusts became more erratic. With a guttural moan, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, spilling his release deep in your core.
For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of heavy breathing as you all came down from your respective highs. Steve carefully withdrew from you, eliciting a soft whimper at the loss.
But before you could catch your breath, Bucky was already maneuvering you.
He gently and swiftly rolled you onto your back, positioning himself between your thighs. His eyes roamed hungrily over your flushed skin and heaving chest.
"My turn," he growled, voice thick with desire.
You whimpered softly, still sensitive from your intense orgasm. But Bucky wasn't deterred. He lined himself up and pushed into you in one powerful motion, groaning at the feeling of your slick heat enveloping him.
"Fuck, so wet," he grunted, starting to move. "All filled up with Steve's cum."
You gasped at the vulgar words, fresh wave of arousal and humiliation washing over you despite your exhaustion. Bucky set a punishing pace, driving into you relentlessly.
Steve moved to lay next to you, one hand tangling in your hair while the other caressed your cheek, and then his thumb pressed at your lips. "Open up, little lark," he commanded softly.
You obediently parted your lips, allowing Steve to insert his thumb. “Now suck,” he said.
You complied, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on Steve's thumb. His eyes darkened with renewed lust as he watched your lips work around his digit. Meanwhile, Bucky continued his relentless pace, each thrust pushing you further up the bed.
"Perfect little slut," Bucky grunted, his hands gripping your soft thighs.
Your mind was hazy with pleasure and exhaustion, overwhelmed by the dual sensations of Bucky pounding into you and Steve's thumb in your mouth, pressing on your tongue. Soft whimpers escaped around Steve's digit with each thrust.
Steve leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "You're being such a good girl for us," he murmured. "Taking everything we give you."
You moaned around Steve's thumb in response, your body betraying you as it responded eagerly to their ministrations. Your hips began to move of their own accord, meeting Bucky's thrusts. Bucky groaned in response, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he redoubled his efforts.
"Fuck, she's close again," Bucky panted. "I can feel it."
Steve removed his thumb from your mouth, replacing it with his lips in a bruising kiss. He trailed his hand down your body, pausing to tweak a nipple through your camisole before continuing lower. When he reached the place where you and Bucky were joined, he pressed his fingers against your clit.
You cried out at the added stimulation, breaking away from Steve's kiss. Your body tensed, hovering on the edge of another orgasm.
"That's it, little lark," Bucky growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Come for me one more time."
Steve's fingers worked your sensitive bud in tight circles, perfectly in sync with Bucky's powerful thrusts. It was too much - the dual sensations, the exhaustion, the overwhelming pleasure. Your back arched off the bed as you came undone, walls clenching around Bucky's length as waves of ecstasy washed over you.
Bucky groaned, burying himself deep inside you as your climax triggered his own. He pulsed inside you, adding his release to Steve's.
For a long moment, the room was filled only with the sound of heavy breathing. Bucky carefully withdrew from you, eliciting a soft whimper at the loss. You lay boneless between them, completely spent.
Steve's hand gently caressed your cheek, brushing away a stray tear. "You did so well, little lark," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before pulling you against his chest. Bucky pressed up behind you, sandwiching you between their warm bodies.
You felt yourself drifting off again, utterly exhausted from the intense session. But before sleep could claim you, Steve's voice cut through the fog.
"Don't fall asleep just yet, little lark," he murmured, his hand trailing down your side. "We're not done with you."
You whimpered softly, your body trembling from overstimulation. "Please," you whispered, though you weren't sure if you were begging for more or for mercy.
Bucky chuckled darkly behind you, his hand joining Steve's in exploring your curves. "You should know better than to think we'd let you off that easy."
Their hands roamed your body, reawakening nerve endings you thought were spent. Steve's fingers found your breast, kneading the soft flesh before pinching your nipple. Bucky's hand slipped between your thighs, gathering the mixture of fluids there before bringing his fingers to your lips.
"Clean them," he commanded softly.
You obediently parted your lips, allowing Bucky to slide his fingers into your mouth. The taste of your combined essences flooded your senses as you sucked.
Steve's hand slid down your body, fingers trailing through the wetness between your thighs. You whimpered around Bucky's fingers as Steve began to circle your oversensitive clit.
"So wet," Steve murmured. "Our perfect little slut, always ready for us."
Your hips jerked involuntarily, caught between wanting to pull away from the overwhelming sensation and pressing into his touch. Bucky removed his fingers from your mouth, trailing them down to join Steve's between your legs.
"Please," you gasped. "I can't... it's too much."
"Shh," Bucky soothed, nipping at your earlobe. "You can take it. You're going to take as much as we decide to give you.”
You felt Bucky's length hardening against your lower back as Steve's fingers dipped inside you, gathering more of the mixture of fluids there before returning to your clit. The dual stimulation had you writhing between them, soft cries escaping your lips.
Steve captured your mouth in a deep kiss, swallowing your moans as he worked your sensitive bud. Bucky's fingers joined his, sliding inside you and curling to hit your g-spot, making you go rigid.
You could only moan in response, your body betraying you as it responded to their expert touch despite your exhaustion. You could only hope they would yield to sleep soon, unsure how much more your body could take. They certainly seemed determined to carry on all night.
Would you survive them?
Would you even refuse them if given a choice?
You wanted to protest, to remind them that you weren't some object to be owned. But sleep was already pulling you under, your mind hazy and unfocused. As consciousness slipped away, you felt a mix of emotions - resignation, arousal, and that grudging sense of belonging.
You don’t know how many more orgasms they exacted that night, but you felt them over every one of your muscles the next morning. Blessedly they were both asleep, but even in sleep they each had a hand somewhere on your body.
Theirs.
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
Read more stories from the Deliciously Debauched Labor Day Weekend!
DO THESE TWO HAVE ME IN A CHOKE HOLD? YEP. AM I COMPLAINING? NOPE.
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!
#bucky barnes smut#steve rogers smut#bucky barnes#steve rogers#bucky barnes x reader x steve rogers#steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes#female reader#millennial reader#curvy reader#aspen wrote something#hotbuckysummer2024#little lark verse#mafia au#tw: dubcon#tw: dub con#deliciously debauched labor day weekend#kink: somnophilia
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hiiiii! can i request a miguel x reader? miguel is a big shady business man (kinda like king pen) who owns a strip club and reader is one of the strippers who everyone knows not to mess with since she’s miguel’s girl. a guy starts sexually harassing reader and miguel kicks his ass and puts him in his place. if you’re cormfortable, i would like smut ❤️
Property Cw: smut, possessive behaviour, DUB-CON, worshipping, sex workers, strip club, pimp, cunnilingus, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, marking, stripper/sex worker!reader, tell me if I missed any.
Despite the place being a strip club - one on the higher end of the city - there was one rule that it followed to a T without exception: do not touch the workers without consent, yet this pig decided to forgo this fundamental rule put in place in ever strip club and touched you when you’ve told him many times to back off. His sweaty and grabby hands moving across your skin left you shuddering, his hands leaving you feeling disgusted by his touch.
“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, moving between the bodies to get away from the man.
“C’mon babe!” He moved to try to grab you, insistent that he only wanted to share a drink and talk, “Please! One lap dance!”
Men like him just couldn’t take no, it frustrated you. That might’ve been what he said : one lap dance, but you knew his type, he would demand for more after you were done and become forceful if you didn’t comply. You tried to distance yourself from him, your heels thumping quietly on the velvet flooring, hurried and annoyed while the man followed you, his fingers grazing the naked skin of your shoulder. You wore a blue teddy, the darkest shade of navy strapped to your skin, the bust acting as a corset to push out your breasts and the thin fabric cupping the swell of your ass. It was almost sheer, the few ribbons and decorative texture hiding anything too intimate from the public and garter straps holding your sheer stockings up your thighs. Your attire seemed to be the source of his obsession and of his liking, even following you to the boss’s VIP corner.
“No!” You swung your arm back, hurrying to the bodyguards standing between the VIP and public area of the club, “I told you-”
In your frantic hiss, you walked into a wall, groaning softly. The wall was more so a wall of sculpted muscle than a plaster and drywall, a firm hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his protective embrace. A wide and firm palm gripped your stomach, kneading the soft flesh under the lingerie.
“When she says no, it means no, cabrón,” Miguel growled, his broad stature overshadowing the man that followed you. When you turned your head, Miguel had his wrist in hand, the man winced and whimpered at the tight hold, strength threatening to break his wrist, “You got that?”
He nodded, running away with his tail tucked between his legs, out of the club and as far as he could from the beast that held you gently. Turning you around, he led you up the stairs connected to his upstairs suite, a personal balcony that overlooked the proudest part of his kingdom.
“He’s done.”
He wouldn’t be coming back, once Miguel gave the order, the person wouldn't ever be allowed back into any of his establishments. He had rules that he wanted to be respected, towards his employees and especially you, his sweet girl that he picked up from the previous pimp in the area he now controlled with an iron fist towards the cruel and abusive.
His mezzanine was spacious, a soft, faux leather couch, a black able and a private bar area in a corner for him to indulge in his drunken pleasures with or without guests. You’ve always liked this place, a distance from the music and crowd on the ground floor, it was a solace in the busy club. He sat you on the table, the cool surface making you flinch while he faced you, the leather dipping with his weight. He tenderly cradled your cheeks, thumb running along the curve of your painted lips, his eyes roving down your coverage, smooth skin uncovered to his hungry eyes and calling for him.
“Oh, mi dulce Musa,” he cooed, his lips kissing a line down your neck, the dip of your collar, the smell of your breasts and the warmth of your cunt, wetness pooling over the fabric of the teddy he gifted you. “I’m happy you came to me first.”
He hooked a thigh over his shoulder, spreading you on your back as he slipped a finger under your lace, pulling it aside to look at your glistening folds. Sliding two fingers between your labia and collecting your slick on his calloused pads, spreading them open to admire your cunt, clenching around air —hungry for his thick digits. He bowed his head, pressing a kiss on your throbbing clit, pulsing and needy, circling the entrance of your drooling hole, feeling it clench. Wrapping his lips around your nub, he sucked on it as he plunged in, two fingers stretching your tight warmth, guiding his hand in and out.
You cried out, bucking your hips against his rugged face, grinding upwards with a slow mewl. You felt stretched wide, a finger of his counted two of yours, long and sturdy, pumping into you with a goal in mind, tapping your gummy, sweet spot and pulling you apart from the seams. You moaned, shuddering under him, body wracked with tremors when he pumped a third finger, untangling you from the seams of your salacious and confident image you built from your time as a sex worker. You were a wanton mess, back arching and legs quaking, painted nails curled around Miguel’s hair, pleasure coiled tightly in your core.
His pace was steady, hand driving in deeply, coaxing more slick out of you, curling against your warmth. You clung to him desperately, head thrown back and teary eyed as you balanced on the precipice of your climax, an agonising thrum of pleasure beating between your thighs. Sensing your end, he rolled your clit with the tip of his tongue, giving you a bit of solace before he sunk his teeth into the meat of your thigh. You wailed, jerking around as your pussy closed around his fingers, your heat squirting over his hand. It was a blinding fire, eyes rolling back into a white cloud, sightless after your earth-shattering orgasm.
He whispered sweet compliments, laving over the bloodied mark with the flat of his tongue, slowly pumping in and out of you until you rode off your release, legs still shaking and hands still curled around his head. He kissed his bite, red eyes drinking in your debauched figure with his mark, a sign of ownership over you, the red indentation of his teeth bleeding you.
“Mía. Mi dulce Musa,” he whispered, gazing at you lovingly, predatory eyes glowing bright red under his lashes and wild curls.
Taglist: @yas-v @elliewilliamsbae @rinieloliver
#x reader#miguel 2099#boss!miguel o’hara#Mafia!miguel o’hara#miguel ohara#miguel o hara#miguel spiderman#atsv miguel#miguel o'hara smut#miguel x reader#miguel spiderverse#miguel o'hara#spiderman 2099#miguel ohara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel x you#mafia!miguel o’hara x reader#tw dubcon#sex worker!reader#Stripper!reader#spider man 2099#spiderman 2099 x reader#spiderman 2099 smut#x fem!reader#female!reader#fem!reader
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This didn't really come out the way I was imagining haha; making a comic is more difficult than it looks. But anyways this idea has been rattling around in my brain for a while so I thought I'd share it, because I think it would be really cool the reason dazai doesn't want his suicidal habits to affect others is because back in his port mafia days, chuuya caught him in the act and had a way stronger reaction than dazai would've expected.
#tw sui implied#tw sui ideation#tw sui attempt#bsd#bsd art#atsushi bsd#bsd atsushi#bsd chuuya#bsd chuuya nakahara#bsd dazai#fanart#my art#art#bsd dazai osamu#bsd fanart#bsd headcanons#bsd nakahara chuuya#bsd osamu dazai#atsushi#bsd port mafia#skk#bsd skk#atsushi nakajima#bsd soukoku#skk fanart#chuuya bsd#dazai bsd#dazai osamu bsd#bungo stray dogs#comics
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with the theory of scout's ma being in the mafia, i made this
how scout's ma and spy met
#tw suggestive#team fortress 2#tf2#tf2 animatic#spy tf2#scouts ma#scouts mom#scout's ma#scout's mom#spyma#i personally believe they met in a different way but i still had to make this cuz it was funny#this is for you mafia scout's ma believers#animatic
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So, Mafia Bosses get harassed by rival gang members while at the station. One of the other gang members say "having fun playing train conductor"
How do the bosses react?
they would respond appropriately
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Dark sbi where Tommy accidentally kidnaps Philza, not knowing he’s a crime lord. And he swears it was an accident! He just, you know, panicked. Tommy and Tubbo were just minding their own business slapping graffiti on a building (practicing their art skills, you see) when a cop started screeching at them, apparently not an appreciator of the fine arts. And since Mrs. Innit would KILL him if he got arrested, Tommy panics and takes a hostage, shouting at the cop not to take a step further or he’ll kill the random civilian he’s ducked behind so he can’t get shot.
Meanwhile Philza isn’t entirely paying attention, and realizes there’s suddenly a small child sheltering behind him from a cop. He gives the cop the nastiest look imaginable, which causes them to back off enough that Tommy thinks his plan is working. Once the negotiations start Philza is baffled by who would have the gall to kidnap him, and so poorly at that. Frankly it’s an umbrage to face the work of an amateur.
Well, till the abductor asks his name. “…do you not know who I am.?”
Tommy squints at the guy. His suit looks kinda fancy? Is it better or worse for him if he managed to randomly capture some Wall Street schmuck? “Hell no,” he hisses. “And I don’t care. I’m a dangerous guy alright? You don’t know what I’ll do to you.”
Philza’s laugh causes the cop to advance, wagering the situation isn’t intense. But because Tubbo’s ‘Yes And’ game is a force to be reckoned with, he casually pulls out a nerf gun (painted to look real for a prank on Ranboo) and trains it on the cop. Philza is positively delighted as he realizes just how amateur his abductors are. Oh this will be a riot to watch.
With more bluffing than Tommy knew he had in him, promising the hostage 20 bucks if he pretended to go along with it, the pure manic chaos bleeding from Tubbo’s eyes and ample gun waving, and creative use of spray paint in the eyes of the chasing cops, Tommy and Tubbo somehow manage to book it. For some reason the hostage keeps up with them instead of escaping. Huh. Can you develop Stockholm syndrome that fast? Tommy would ask, but he’s panting from sprinting. And as they live in an unjust world, hostage guy isn’t even breaking a sweat despite the three piece suit.
“You’re not going to get far on foot,” Philza murmurs. As corrupt and useless as the cops are for most things in this city, he doesn’t imagine there’d actually be that much fuss over a random man being kidnapped, but he wonders what they’ll do if spooked a little more. It’s been amusing thus far. The boys bicker, then elect to force him to drive as neither have licenses. They don’t ask him to drive to their homes, instead some secondary location. Smart, albeit Philza will definitely know both addresses within the hour.
While Tommy is busy ‘threatening’ Philza about the consequences of not getting them there, Tubbo just leans over from a bag of chips he’s munching on and offers them to Phil. Tommy rounds on him, less for showing exploitable kindness to the hostage and more for eating the Doritos that were meant to be his. Philza almost chides them for revealing each other’s names, but decides it might just be easier to hand them notes at the end of this. So far they aren’t getting a passing grade in abduction. But he has to admit it’s far more entertaining than the ‘business’ meeting he was planning to attend.
(Techno, meanwhile, hasn’t heard from Philza and is going BALLISTIC trying to figure out who kidnapped him. From the police report Phil just kinda went along with it, and looked terrified after a private exchange with the abductor, which has to mean the threat is ungodly to convince the Angel of Death to submit. Techno’s about to have a panic attack imagining the unthinkable horrors happening to his best friend, and is only holding it off by doing atrocities about it. This is the THIRD secret criminal organization he’s ripped apart in the last two hours and PHILZA ISNT HERE EITHER!?)
Philza has decided he likes his kidnappers. They’re not experienced in the slightest, but they make up for it with bravado, determination, and a certain lack of rationality that is necessary in the line of business Philza is in. Yes. They’ll do nicely if given a little guidance.
It’s half an hour before either of them notice Philza is driving aimlessly and they don’t recognize the city around them at all. “Hm? Next time I don’t recommend you give the hostage control of the vehicle. I could have immediately driven to the police station.”
Tommy frowns, almost more nervous at the implication the obvious blackmail would go unused. “…why didn’t you?”
“There’s no love lost between the cops and I. And even more importantly, you amuse me. I like your…potential.” He grins at the soft click of Tommy covertly trying the handle and finding the car doors locked. “Getting out at this speed is almost always fatal, Tommy.”
Tubbo lifts the muzzle of the fake gun towards him. “Let us go right. now.”
Philza leans over, ruffling Tubbo’s hair. The teen gulps at the glimpse of the holster Philza’s jacket was hiding, sharing a wide eyed look with Tommy. “I’m not exactly scared of foam bullets, mate.” He chuckles lowly at the tension freezing both of them. “Relax. You’ll be home by dinner. After you went through all the effort of kidnapping me to avoid trouble with your parents, I don’t intend to ruin it. I like you two; you have spunk I don’t see often. After all, it takes a lot of guts to kidnap the leader of the Syndicate.”
#Sbi#dark sbi#dark sbi fanfic#sbi fanfic#angel duo#clingy duo#emerald duo#philza#tommyinnit#technoblade#sbi au#tubbo#tw kidnapping#philza fanfic#tommyinnit fanfic#tubbo fanfic#for the record auto suggest tried to make the first sentence:#Dark sbi where Tommy accidentally kidnaps Philza not knowing he’s a vampire#Which is insanely different direction but also would be fun#But reverse mafia kidnapping story was the goal so#something to nom on
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„Now, will you behave?“
(Mob Boss Kylo Ren/attack dog Hux AU)
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To him, you're perfect. To you, he's just a mission.
❤︎ Synopsis. In a world of blood and power, you became his perfect wife—calm, obedient, and indispensable. But beneath your icy façade, a deadly game of lies and survival brews, and he’ll never know that you’re the one who could destroy him.
♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.
♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Fem. Reader
♡ Headcanon. The Bride of Blood - Part 1
♡ Word Count. 1,459
♡ TW. dom + top + older + sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, sexual themes, BDSM
♡ His Story. 🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who first noticed you during a violent upheaval in the criminal underworld, where blood was spilled more than ink on treaties.
You were the perfect wife—elegant, calm, and obedient.
His men whispered about your grace, but he only saw the subtle precision in your movements, a dancer in a minefield.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who felt a perverse sense of peace watching you tend to his wounds after a firefight.
"You’re reckless," you murmured, stitching his torn flesh with steady hands. The sharp tang of alcohol filled the air, mingling with the metallic stink of blood.
His laughter was low and cruel. “And yet you keep mending me, zhena moya.” You didn’t flinch under his gaze, but your fingers trembled ever so slightly, betraying a crack in your otherwise impenetrable façade.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who surrounded himself with walls of loyalty and fear, yet you slipped through them like a shadow.
Your quiet efficiency made you indispensable; your loyalty, unquestionable. You never balked at the grotesque reminders of his power—the severed hands of a traitor, the guttural pleas of dying men.
"Why do you stay?" he asked once, watching you clean blood from the floor with detached precision.
"Because I vowed to," you replied, voice devoid of warmth. He smirked, taking it as devotion, never suspecting the mission beneath your skin.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who made you his wife in a spectacle of opulence and terror.
The wedding was a gilded cage, a feast of gold and crimson.
He kissed you beneath a chandelier made of diamonds and glass, while outside, his enemies burned in their cars, charred bodies marking the territory of his love. You smiled as cameras flashed, but your stomach churned at the sound of distant screams.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who trusted you enough to let you into his inner sanctum. Late nights spent poring over ledgers and strategic maps became a routine.
"Tell me, what do you see?" he’d ask, his voice honeyed with suspicion.
You pointed out weaknesses, vulnerabilities, your mind calculating probabilities faster than his most seasoned lieutenants.
He called you brilliant; you called it survival.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who can’t keep his hands off you, as if touching you is the only way he can prove to himself that you’re real.
His fingers are always tracing the curve of your spine, ghosting along the edge of your jaw, a silent claim. His touch lingers, heavy with possession, even when his mood is lethal and his hands are stained with blood.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who wakes you in the middle of the night, his body already pressed against yours, hard and unyielding.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. The sheets are kicked aside as he drags you beneath him, his weight suffocating and intimate.
“You’re my peace,” he says, though his touch is anything but gentle. He takes you slowly at first, savoring every cry, every tremble, before his control snaps and he devours you whole.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who fucks you in places you shouldn't be touched—
Against the marble counter in the kitchen, your hands slipping on the smooth surface as he drives into you; in the backseat of his bulletproof car while his driver pretends not to notice the muffled moans and the rhythmic creak of leather; even in his private jet, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he degrades you in Russian, the words dark and guttural.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who loves watching you come undone beneath him, your carefully crafted mask shattering in his hands.
He knows you try to hide your reactions, to remain composed, but it only spurs him on. “Don’t hold back, lyubov moya,” he says, his voice velvet-soft and cruel.
“Let me hear how much you need me.” And when you finally break, crying out his name, his smirk is equal parts victorious and feral.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who becomes almost animalistic when his jealousy flares. One stray glance from another man and he’s dragging you to his private quarters, tearing at your clothes.
“I’ll remind you who you belong to,” he growls, his hands rough and demanding. He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling, marked, and utterly consumed by him, your body a canvas for his obsession.
“Mine,” he’d growl, over and over, as if the repetition could make it true.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who has a near-obsessive fixation on filling you, stretching you, owning you in the most primal way.
“How are you not pregnant yet?” he muses darkly, his fingers tracing circles on your inner thigh. He pulls you onto his lap, his grip firm and unyielding.
“Maybe I need to try harder,” he whispers, thrusting into you without warning, his eyes burning into yours as he takes you again and again, his movements relentless, determined.
“You’ll give me an heir one day,” he murmured, his voice thick with possessive desire. “A little prince or princess with your eyes and my ruthlessness.”
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who couldn’t keep his hands off you, even during the most mundane moments.
Cooking breakfast? He’d slide behind you, his hands wandering beneath your robe. Reading a book? He’d tug it from your grasp, his lips finding your neck as his body pressed against yours.
"You’re a distraction," you muttered one night as he pinned you to the bed, his lips trailing down your stomach.
"And you’re my obsession," he replied, his voice dripping with lethal promise.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who saw sex as another way to own you, to remind you of your place in his world. But even he couldn’t deny the way your body haunted him, the way he craved your touch like a drug.
“You make me weak,” he confessed one night, his voice low and raw as he traced the curve of your spine. “And I hate you for it.”
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who began to suspect that you were too perfect.
The way you navigated his world of violence with clinical detachment. The way you always seemed to know exactly what he needed, even before he did. It wasn’t love, he realized; it was precision. A scalpel disguised as a wife.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who saw glimpses of something darker beneath your calm exterior.
The first time you shot a man—clean between the eyes to save his life—he swore he saw something flicker in your gaze. Was it fear? Regret? Or was it just the ghost of the person you’d been before? He couldn’t tell, but the thought consumed him.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who pressed you for your past one drunken night, his voice slurred with vodka and possessiveness.
"Who were you before me, malyshka? What did you dream of?"
You lied through your teeth, weaving a story of lost parents and humble beginnings. He crushed your hand in his, murmuring, "You're mine now. I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you." You forced a smile, choking on the irony.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who unwittingly began to unravel his own empire in his obsession with you. His paranoia sharpened with every stray glance from his men, every unfamiliar scent on your clothes.
"Do you love me?" he asked one night, his breath hot against your neck.
You hesitated—only for a second—but it was enough.
His grip tightened, bruising your arm. "Say it," he demanded, voice a low growl. "Of course," you whispered, the words like glass shards in your throat.
Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss who built a kingdom of fear and blood but found himself undone by the ghost of a woman who had never truly been his.
A woman who kissed him with cold lips and watched him sleep with calculating eyes.
A woman who loved the mission more than she could ever love him.
────────────
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General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool
#yandere mafia boss#yandere mafia#mafia x reader#yandere x reader#yandere imagines#yanderecore#yandere male#male yandere#yancore#yandere x you#yandere oneshots#yandere headcanons#male yandere x reader#yandere boy#yandere scenarios#yandere drabble#yandere male x reader#yandere x darling#yandere#obsessive yandere#possessive yandere#tw yandere#yandere blurb#yandere blog#yandere romance#yandere oc#oneshotx reader#yandere oc x reader#reader insert#fem reader
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