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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
“Sausage rolls. Table of… three. No, four.” Ruth reads the ticket off before she leaves it on the counter.
“It’ll be a while. I just put another pan in, dear,” you say.
“It’s all they want.” She chuckles. “Think you’ve found gold.”
“Eh,” the door swings open behind her. Arthur Shelby skids to a stop and smirks at Ruth. “Oi, lass, anymore of ‘em rolls?”
“In the oven, Art,” she playful swings a hand towel at him. “Don’t be gettin’ in the way.”
“And who says you’re the boss.” He retorts.
“Out!” Ruth barks.
You glance over at them. Arthur catches your eyes. “Not meanin’ to be in the way,” he shows his palm and backs out of the door. “Don’t tell Tommy, eh.”
Ruth follows him out. You go back to your pastry. You didn’t prep enough. Diedre comes in with empty trays, Benjamin lets her dump the dishes in the deep sink, and sprays them with the hose. His sleeves are rolled up as he scours away the grease and crumbs.
You switch between the rolls and the pan of eggs. You scoop out the poached whites delicately clouded around yolk onto the toasted biscuits and ring the bell. Deirdre and Ruth come to load up their trays and go out.
You lose yourself in the hectic flurry of orders, tearing up tickets as you make your way through them. You turn and elbow a wall you don’t expect. It isn’t a spontaneously appearing bit of plaster but rather Mr. Shelby.
“What can I help with, love?” He asks.
“Mr. Shelby? Oh, I think I’ve got it in hand.” You assure him as you turn put more biscuits in to toast. He takes the rack from you.
“Tell me. I have two hands.” He insists.
“Mr. Shelby, this is my job–”
“It seems it might be more than I pay you for.” He nods to the oven. “Think I’ll need to invest in more help.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You open the left stove and let him slide in the rack of biscuits.
“I’ve heard lovely things about the sausage roll,” he backs up and takes off his jacket. He folds it over the stool at the end of the counter and places his cap on top.
“Still baking,” you say as you grab some brown eggs and crack them into the boiling water.
You double-check the ticket. Porridge. Right, you’ve got a pot warmed and ready to go.
You scoop up oats into the bowl and add cinnamon and milk. Two bowls up. Ruth sweeps them away.
As Mr. Shelby approaches, he rolls up his sleeve.
“Boss lady, tell me what to do.”
You scoff. “Sir.”
“Eh, you almost smiled,” he says.
“You can help with the rolls. Seems everyone wants one.”
You beckon him along the counter. “I’ve rolled out the pastry. It’ll need to be cut up.” You take a knife. “As such.” You point to the dish of sausage. “Then line it as thus.” You use a spoon to scoop onto the pastry. “Roll. Baste with egg.” You work as you explain. “Then a few slices in the top.”
“Ah, Stuart is a lucky man,” Shelby japes. You flinch and look at him. His brows draw together. “Apologies, ma’am, I only–”
“Nothing?” You ask. He shakes his head. You nod and set the roll onto the waiting pan. “No, I never had the fixings at home for this. Mincemeat, stew, beans. That’s most of it.”
“And even that must’ve been delicious.”
“Mm,” you hum dully.
“I didn’t mean–”
“No, no, it’s… I’m only… two weeks.” You sigh and take out the biscuits.
“I’ve got all my people watchin’ for him,” Shelby assures.
“I know. You’ve done more than you should.” You scoop the eggs out of the water.
He’s silent, you are too. He watches you then turns away. “I’ll wash up first and get started on this.”
“Thank you, Mr. Shelby…” you murmur. “For everything.”
🖤
You untie your apron and fold it up over your arm. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. You need to stop at the bank and be sure to deposit your cheque.
“On your way out?” Mr. Shelby surprises you as he enters from the back door. He picks up his cap and jacket. You can smell the tobacco wafting in with him.
“I think I’ve everything cleaned up. I set aside some leftovers for Charlie.” You bend to take your handbag from under the counter. Mr. Shelby nears as you head for the door. You stop as you meet him there. “Unless… I’m forgetting something.”
“No, I’ve a question.” He pulls on his jacket. “More a favour to ask. Though you will be compensated.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve some guests coming over. Very important ones. I thought you might be able to offer your skills this evening. For supper.” He says.
You’re taken aback by the suggestion. It’s not as though you have anyone waiting for you. Or any sort of responsibility outside of this.
“I suppose I could.” You say.
“Very well. I would need a list, you see. Ingredients, to be sure you’re equipped.”
“Right, er…”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you a pen and paper before you’re off.” He says.
“Certainly. I can do that.” You say. It’ll be a good distraction. You notice Stuart’s absence most at night.
He nods and sets off. You linger in the kitchen. You put your bag on the counter and slide out the cookbook you bought with your first pay. Shelby returns and hands you a ledger and pen.
You flutter through the pages. “Was there a set number of courses? It must be a fancy dinner?”
He taps his fingers as he stands close. His gaze weighs on you.
“What’s this, then?” He taps the corner of the page.
“Study.” You say. “Recipe book. I’m afraid I’ve only experience cooking for one man.”
“Ah, clever woman.” He praises.
You shrug. “I always wanted a proper one. I’d cut the ones out of the paper and keep them in the drawer. Never had all I needed to try them.”
You pause and read the dish description. “A salad to start, I think?”
“Mm. I leave it within your judgement.” He drags his hand away from the book. “I’ll send a car.”
“Oh, no, I could take the tram.”
“I live quite a ways off the route.” He sniffs. “And I’ll not have you wanderin’ in the dark. Benny will pick you up.”
You don’t argue. You take the pen and jot in the ledger. His eyes follow your hand.
“Anything you don’t prefer, sir?” You ask.
You don’t get an answer. You peek up and find him staring. Your brow lowers and you touch your chin then cheek. “I’ve got some flour on me?”
He blinks and clears his throat. “No, no.” He lifts his chin and looks away. “No, I was only thinking.” He leans on the counter. “I’m easy to please. I’ll eat it all just the same.” He looks at the ledger. “You know, you have one taste of field rations and even rancid rat meat’ll have you slavering.”
You don’t say anything to that. Most men these days are veterans. Stuart was called up but never went beyond the channel. He was kept at home in a mine.
“Dessert… chocolate? Citrus? Preferences?” You prompt.
“Chocolate. Ah, that was a wonder over in France.” He purrs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get that, just put it on the bar.” He backs up. “I’ll have Benny wait out front for you.”
“Sir–”
“No arguments.” He turns and points over his shoulder. “You worked a hard day. You earned it.”
🖤
Benjamin gets you to Mr. Shelby’s around four. You thank him and step out, hiding your awe at the immense mansion before you. Of course, you assumed it would be a nice home, but you could not have imagined anything so ornate and daunting.
It’s clearer to you now how out of your element you truly are. Something else tugs in your mind. There’s more to Mr. Shelby than you’ve seen. Not just money, something more. It’s not a secret who he is; he has men at his disposal in their notable caps, he was concerned with back alley gambling, he never truly asks but tells. Details are better left unsaid.
You go to the front door and lift the heavy brass knocker, a falcon’s head above it. It thunders through the dark oak. You wait but not long. A maid in black and white answers. Of course he has ‘help’. Well, isn’t that what you are?
Her name is Margeret. She leads you inside. Mr. Shelby told her you were coming instead of someone called Louise. She takes you to a large kitchen and tells you to ring a bell in case you need anything.
You walk around the large kitchen. The counters are dark wood, the furnishings in a coppery brass, and the stove and fridge look right out of the shop. You stop as you see the folded note with your name on it.
‘All is in order. If you need anything, ring the bell and ask for me. Thomas.’
It’s kind. You think you might figure it out. Margaret reappears.
“These are Ellie and Mildred. They’ll be helping you.” She explains. The girls are young and skinny; one has string black hair trailing out in a braid from under her cap, the other shows straw-coloured roots but much of it is tucked under the white linen.
“Ellie, Mildred, I’m…” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, ma’am.” They say in unison.
“I think it’ll be rather easy. Shall we start?”
They nod. “What do we do?” Ellie, the black-haired girl asks.
You hesitate then reach into your bag. You take out the notes you made at home from the cook book. You go to the girls and show them.
“Alright, we’ll start with the main. It’ll take the longest to cook and the salad will be simple enough.” You explain. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to help. If I’m honest, I’m still learning myself, yeah?”
The girls look at each other and back to you. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.
“And you promise, if I need help, you’ll do the same?”
The tension drains from their posture. They nod again, less stiffly. “Good, good. I think we’ll make a rather good team, ladies.”
Once you start, the task isn’t so intimidating. You work between Ellie and Mildred, then set them to chop potatoes together. You go down your list and organise everything so you can move from step to step.
You stand at the stove, melting the dark chocolate for the cake. The girls titter as they peel and pare. Then all at once, they’re silent.
“Mr. Shelby,” Mildred utters.
You glance over. Your employer barely looks at the girls before he nears you. You stir the chocolate away from the sides to keep it from burning.
“Evenin’, ma’am.” He greets. He’s wearing a nicer suit; with a bow tie and silk vest. “Things are well?”
“Yes, sir. I think we’ve figured it all out.” You say. “The ladies are a great help.”
“Mm. Anything you need?” He asks.
“No, sir. You?”
His brow arches. “Mm, no. Margaret is putting Charlie down. Guests will be here shortly.”
“Ah, well then, don’t let us keep you.”
He stares for a moment. “Rather, don’t let me keep you.”
He turns halfway, raises his finger as his lip twitches, then thinks better of it. He leaves you as the girls sigh in unison. You take the chocolate off the burner and look at them.
“You girls need a break?”
“No, ma’am.” Ellie says. “Potatoes are almost done.”
The night goes by with the mixing of batter, the boil of pots, and the dusting of seasoning over poultry, fish, and beef. Ellie and Mildred are diligent and polite. They leave you now and again to help clear away the previous course.
You send out dessert and tell Ellie and Mildred you’ll clean up. They argue but you convince them to call it a night. They’ve worked hard.
As you move a stack of plates to the sink, you hear a footstep behind you. “I told you, you’re done for the night.”
Your name comes in a higher pitch than you expect. You look over at Charlie as he stares at you bright-eyed, a stuffed rabbit in his hands as he wears a pair of linen pajamas. You pull your hands from the sink and dry them on your apron.
“Charles,” you say. “What on earth? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”
“I can’t.” He pouts. “I told papa I wanted to come down but he said no. He won’t even let me help you!”
“You should be getting your sleep,” you chide.
“But I don’t wanna.” He whines.
You harrumph and grip your hips. “Alright, Charles, you want to help?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He says.
You hush him. “Not so loud. You’ll bother the guests.”
He sticks out his tongue. You laugh at him. You wave him over and lift him up onto the counter. You pull a bowl over and scoop in some flour and put a cup of water next to it. You hate to waste it but it’ll keep him busy.
“Take this.” You gently move his stuffed rabbit against the wall then hand him the cup. “Only add a little at a time, alright?” You show him a whisk. “Stir with this.” You motion over the flour. “Remember, little bit at a time.” You put your hand around his and show him how to pour. “Stir.” You stir in the moisture. “More.”
You let go and he pours. You hand him the whisk and he puts the cup down. He uses both hands to stir.
You wash the dishes as he goes about his task. As you dry off a saucer, he says your name. “Is that good?”
You look in the bowl. “No, no, you want it smooth.” You gird.
“Oh…” he frowns and adds more water.
“Good job, Charles.” You praise.
“Yes, Charles,” a deeper voice gives you a start. “Good job.”
“Papa,” Charles drops the whisk and claps.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Shelby asks.
“He’s only helping,” you defend the boy.
“Helping?”
“Certainly. Keeping me company.”
“The maids are supposed to help.” He insists.
“I let them off. I can do it.” You assure.
“I didn’t pay you to clean.”
“Mr. Shelby, I messed the plates, I’ll tidy them,” you counter calmly. “Charles, more water.”
Charlie bounces and picks up the cup. He pours water in then stirs. Shelby approaches and watches him then peers over at you. You put another saucer in the cupboard.
“You know, I can never make him sit still.” He drawls.
“Children, so full of energy.” You say.
He leans a hand on the counter. “You never had any?”
“No. It… never happened.” You answer. “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”
He’s quiet. “Ah, I suppose it’s up to chance.”
“I’ve never had much good fortune,” you say. “But I do what I can with what I’ve got.”
“You do much and more than many. Hard work’s far more valuable than fortune.” He girds.
“Suppose.” You agree.
Unfortunately, Stuart never had either. Perhaps that’s what got him into trouble. When he comes back, you’re going to tell him to get a real job. Back to the mines or factory. No more of those back streets and shady men.
When he’s back, you don’t know he’ll let you keep working yourself.
But now I'm thinking about preparing for the wedding. Your bridesmaids are there in the suit with you, you're already in makeup, drinking champagne to prepare yourself for that forced future.
But then suddenly you hear gunshots, yelling, chaos. Then everything goes so quiet.
Until there's a knock on the door. He enters without waiting for your shaky voice. There's still gun in his hand.
You recognise him as the rival of the man you were supposed to marry.
He tells your bridesmaids to gather everyone for the ceremony, then sits in one of the armchairs and points with the gun at the wedding dress on the hanger.
"Put it on."
From this
With shaking hands you grab it, shooting him a wary look.
"I need help to zip it in the back," you manage to say, voice trembling.
He stands up, putting the gun in the back of his pants. As he zips you up, he lets his fingers caress your back.
"I told you not to run. No one is keeping you from me. And now people are dead because of it."
Once he's done, he sits back down.
"Put your jewelry on, and whatever other stuff you need to do. You got 5 minutes, and then I'm taking you to the altar, even if I have to carry you over my shoulder."
Pairing: Andy Barber x Female!Reader
Word Count: 4,683
Summary: It was hard to believe that once upon a time, Andy Barber was a stranger to you. Because now? Now he was your everything, just like you were his.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Established relationship. Flashback. Mob boss!Andy. Reader is a delicate thing with a rough history. Boss/employee relations. Reference to non-con touching. Touch avoidant. Allusions to past abuse and forced sex work. But also a good amount of fluff and affection tbh.
A/N: I am beyond tickled that this Andy won my recent poll. He’s the one I’ve been most eager to write, but there are so many other stories and babes that I know deserve my attention, so it was hard to commit to him. Thank you for giving me an excuse to indulge and also expand this verse. I hope you enjoy this ❤️
P.S. Andy made his debut in mob enforcer!Ari’s story, but you don’t need to read that to read this.
It was getting to be that time of day when you were starting to flag.
As hard as you worked, as supportive and helpful as you wanted to be–especially to Andy–your brain could only handle so much.
Especially when you were running on barely a few hours of sleep last night.
So you finished the final must do on your list for the day, closing your laptop with a small swell of relief as you rose from your seat at the small table in the corner of Andy’s home office.
It was one of your favorite rooms in the manor, and not just because you spent so much time here with Andy. The decor was traditional–and expensive–a myriad of dark woods and butter-smooth leather. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, stacked with books and dotted with expensive pieces of decor, and even some antiques that probably cost more money than your brain could comprehend.
But your favorite personal touch were the two pieces of framed artwork hanging behind Andy’s desk. They were abstract and colorful, and each time you got swept away staring at them, you swore your eyes gleaned a completely new shape or scene or meaning behind them.
Andy once told you the story of how he had won them in a bidding war at an antique auction after months of tracking down any artwork he could find by his late mother’s favorite artist.
It seemed like such a small thing about himself that he had shared with you–but it showed the kind of man that Andy Barber was.
Devoted. Determined. Strategic. Patient when it counted most.
And never willing to give up.
You smiled as you slowly made your way to where he sat hunched over his executive desk, still deep in his own work despite the approach of early evening.
It was traits like his devotion and patience that had finally won you over completely–despite how gun-shy you had been at the mere idea of anything more with Andy.
With anyone, really, given your history.
But even you couldn’t deny that the more you got to know Andy, the more time you had spent with him, the more the thought of something more had taken root in your brain and began to flourish.
And now here you were.
Clocking your proximity, Andy finally pulled his eyes from his computer screen, straightening in his leather-back chair. His gaze softened as it landed on you, his lips tilting up at the corners into your favorite smile.
“All done for the day?” he asked, pushing his seat back and making room for you, because he knew you well.
So Andy didn’t bat an eye when you nodded in response to his question before slowly sinking to the floor, until you were sat between his feet and resting your cheek against his knee with a soft sound of contentment.
“I rescheduled your meetings for tomorrow to next week, like you asked,” you murmured, your eyes fluttering as Andy reached out and began to gently pet your head. “And I ordered flowers for Ari’s mother for her birthday next week, too.”
“Thank you, honey,” Andy murmured, his fingers teasing along the shell of your ear and making you shiver. “You take such good care of me, of all of us. I bet you even reminded Ari of his mother’s birthday, just to be safe.”
Your cheeks warmed, because Andy was right, and his tone was so fond colored with the kind of tenderness–just for you–that made your insides swoop and flutter. You hid your face against his leg, your insides fluttering some more at the sound of Andy’s quiet, husky laugh.
But speaking of Ari, something tickled your brain, something that made you frown as you tilted your face up and opened your eyes, your gaze shining with worry.
“How are things with the art gallery?” you asked. “Is the business owner next door still causing you trouble?”
Andy’s eyes danced at the mention of the woman who owned the tea and bookshop next door to his new business. “She’s nothing to fret over, honey. Ari’s taking care of her.”
At that, you nervously gnawed on your lower lip. As much as you had come to accept the fact that Andy was a mob boss–and sometimes had to do ruthless, unsavory things–he treated you so well, and was so loving, that it wasn’t an issue for you.
In fact, it provided a sense of security that you had never known until Andy–the fact that you now had such a powerful and competent protector.
But still… you didn’t like the idea of Ari hurting anyone, of the things you were sure he had done and was capable of doing. No matter how respectful and protective he was of you.
You didn’t wish his dark intentions on anyone, even someone who had proven to be a thorn in Andy’s side from day one.
But then again, given the rivals and competition he usually dealt with, this woman’s antics were almost… charming.
“Don’t look so worried,” Andy hummed, gently caressing your cheek. “He’s dealing with her in a way I’m quite certain she enjoys.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh.” Your eyes widened enough to make Andy laugh. “Well… good. I know the gallery is your pet project and the first business that you’re genuinely excited for.”
“And it’s the perfect front for arms dealing, which drives the most revenue, so really it’s a win win.”
You hummed in agreement, once again sinking against Andy as he continued his light touches and caresses. His fingers danced along the tension in your shoulders, moving slower and pressing firmly, until you were making a quiet sound of relief as the knots of tension seemed to melt away into nothing.
“You slept fitfully last night,” Andy said.
You nodded, leaning into the cradle of Andy’s palm that now rested against your cheek. He tilted your face up so he could get a better look at you, observing the shadows beneath your eyes with a small frown and furrowed brow.
“More nightmares?” he asked.
This time you hesitated, but only briefly, before nodding again.
You didn’t hesitate because you wanted to hide your struggles from Andy, or because you were embarrassed he had of course noticed the state of you, but more so just because you hated to think about your nightmares, and the things from your past that caused them.
At your admission, and the way your shoulders hunched and curled just a little, Andy’s touch instantly became more intentional. His hand moved to grip the back of your neck, squeezing in that way he knew melted your brain and made all of your anxiety dissipate.
Of their own accord, your hands lifted so you could cling to Andy’s thighs, pressing your forehead against his knee and nearly curling around his leg like a koala–greedy for his touch.
Even after all this time, you still couldn’t believe it, the way Andy’s touch affected you–in a good way. That you loved it and often needed it now.
Because there had been a time when you thought that you would never enjoy the touch of another again…
18 Months Ago
“Another month in the green,” Andy said, sounding pleased as he scrolled through the financial slides on the tablet he held.
“Bet you’re fucking tickled that you went all in on the club with me,” Lloyd Hansen preened, sinking back in his desk chair and giving Andy a shit-eating grin. “I told you this would be a money maker. There’s nothing like it for miles and miles.”
Andy hummed, setting the tablet on Lloyd’s desk, his face serious as he eyed the other man. “And I bet you’re fucking tickled that I gave you permission to set up shop in my territory.”
Lloyd rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you made me work for it and go in halfsies with you, so.”
“You’re welcome,” Andy smirked.
Lloyd scoffed, opening his mouth to likely fire back something Andy would make him regret, but before he could speak a word, his office door flung open and you were forcefully shoved inside.
You squealed as Lloyd’s head of club security–the brute–gave you another shove that had you nearly face planting into the thick, expensive carpet.
“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be interrupted?” Lloyd snarled at said brute.
“Sorry, boss,” he grunted, giving you a lethal glare, “but she caused a scene out on the floor.”
Lloyd’s eyes snapped to you so quickly that you flinched.
“Did she?” The chill in his voice had you cowering in dread as the security guy quickly ducked out of the office, pulling the door closed as he went and shutting you away with your prickly boss.
You were too terrified of Lloyd, and too distressed after what had happened out on the night club floor, to notice the stranger sitting across from Lloyd’s desk.
“This is the thanks I get for hiring your cry baby ass?” Lloyd hissed as he rose from his seat.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hansen,” you quavered as he rounded his desk and stalked closer. “But… I, I told you, I don’t like to be touched and one of the men out there, he grabbed me and–”
Lloyd didn’t stop his approach until he stood toe-to-toe with you, causing you to visibly tremble as you hugged yourself tightly and kept your head ducked low, your eyes fixed on your feet.
“You’re in a fucking night club, toots, dressed like that, might I add–“ Lloyd scoffed.
“You made me–“ you countered weakly.
“It’s called a work uniform.”
You thought that was a stretch as you eyed your outfit which wasn’t much more than a pair of metallic booty shorts and a sorry excuse for a shirt that nearly had your breasts spilling out the top.
And you weren’t even one of the cage dancers, you were just a server.
“You told me you needed this job, that you were desperate for work,” Lloyd growled.
At that, your head lifted, your gaze frantic as it met Lloyd’s. “I am, I do! Please, I’m sorry–“
Lloyd shook his head. “I can’t have you out there causing a scene anytime the clientele gets a little handsy. That’s part of the job. I mean, what the fuck did you think you were getting into working here?”
“Please, sir, I need this job. I don’t have anything else or anyone or–”
“Oh boo fucking hoo,” Lloyd sneered, dipping his head close and making you recoil. “I gave you a chance. I was more than generous. You get paid well. You get benefits. And this is how you thank me?”
Your chest hitched, a sob working its way up to your throat, because he was right. You had been so obviously out of your depth when you had shown up here for your interview, but you had also been beyond desperate for the gig, for a steady income, to survive.
And now you had gone and fucked it all up because you couldn’t just do what all the other servers did and acclimate to your environment.
“Get out,” Lloyd enunciated slowly before straightening. “And don’t come back.”
“No! Please!” Your voice was pitched with hysteria as panic flared within you.
Because you couldn’t lose this job.
“I can… I can do something else! Anything else!” you cried, trailing behind Lloyd as he turned his back on you and sauntered toward his desk. “I can tend bar or or do inventory or–”
He whirled on you suddenly, making you squeak as you walked right into him and then sharply drew back as if you’d been burnt.
There was a mean glint in Lloyd’s eyes as they slowly trailed over you, in a familiar way that had your belly sinking and your skin crawling.
“The only other use I have for you wouldn’t be ideal since you don’t like being touched, cupcake.” Lloyd made a lewd gesture with his fingers and tongue to get his point across, giving a mean laugh as you hugged yourself tightly and stumbled away from him. “That’s what I thought. I have no use for you. You’re useless. So get fucking gone.”
He turned away, clearly dismissing you, his words reverberating in your head loud enough to drown out all of your panicked thoughts.
Because you were useless.
Your tears finally fell as your devastation consumed you. You would be out of your shitty apartment within weeks if you couldn’t make rent. You’d be back on the streets, needing to do whatever it took just to get by.
You shuddered with dread just thinking about it. Especially in this city.
But you had nowhere else to go. No one to turn to.
You had nothing.
You were nothing.
“GET OUT!” Lloyd’s holler made you snap back to the present moment.
You physically jumped at his raised voice, whimpering before turning on your heel to scurry out of his office, but a quiet, unfamiliar baritone made you freeze in place.
“Wait.”
Lloyd huffed. “Really, Barber? You’re undermining me in my own club?”
“Our club. And I’m not undermining you. Just because you don’t have a use for her, Hansen, doesn’t mean I don’t.”
The tiniest, weakest flare of hope flickered within you as you turned and looked at the man who spoke, not nearly as bold in your gaze as he was.
Even though he was seated, you could tell that he was tall, his posture straight and confident, his shoulders broad beneath the dark suit jacket he wore. His skin was fair and flawless, his face shadowed with a dark, meticulously kept beard that matched the floofy swoop of his brown hair.
But it was his dark blue eyes that made your own gaze linger, and widen.
Because you realized that the stranger wasn’t watching you with a lecherous look like most men you’d come into contact with. His gaze was shining with something new and unfamiliar–sympathy, and calculation.
“Take her out to the car,” he nodded, and another man you didn’t even notice until now materialized from the dark corner of the office.
He was the biggest, broadest man in the room. His hair dark and long enough to curl around his blue, denim shirt collar. He was so big, in fact, that when he stepped toward you, you whimpered again, cowering at the sheer size of him.
“He won’t hurt you,” the stranger with the pretty blue eyes promised. “Go on. We’ll speak once I’m done here.”
You swallowed hard–nervously–but you were nodding before you even realized it, your body picking up on the softness in his tone and gaze before your brain did.
It made zero sense, especially given your history, but you trusted him, instinctively.
So you turned, grateful when the man you assumed was his bodyguard didn’t touch you as he corralled you out of the office and down the back hallway of the club.
Once you were tucked away in the dark, luxurious SUV parked out back, your mind started to spiral again, all the frantic noise inside your head blaring on a loop.
What were you doing?
You didn’t even know this man.
If he was in business with Lloyd, you couldn’t imagine he was much better.
But then you remembered the softness in his voice when he spoke to you. In his gaze when he looked at you.
He saw your fear and desperation and it seemed like maybe he actually wanted to help you.
Lord knew you could use that right about now.
You were startled from your thoughts as the back door opened and the stranger appeared, climbing in beside you. You noticed how he seemed intentional in keeping some distance between you–in respecting your personal space.
It was such a far cry from Lloyd and pretty much every other man you had ever met, that you felt a lump swell in your throat, and you had to look away from his intent gaze to blink the tears from your own.
“What’s your name?” he asked gently.
You took a breath, peeking over at him as you murmured your name.
He gave you a small smile, introducing himself in return. “I’m Andy Barber, it’s a pleasure to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
Your lips trembled into an almost hopeful smile.
“You need work?”
You nodded fervently, so much so that you made yourself dizzy as you breathed, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you have any skills or notable experience?” Andy asked.
And just like that–you wilted.
Because you didn’t. You barely had an education, and your resume was laughable–just a string of odd jobs that never lasted long, and the kind of years-long gap that would make any eyebrow raise.
The only thing you had to offer was what Lloyd alluded to back in his office.
Yourself. Your body.
But you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t. Not again. Not even if it was your choice this time.
You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t.
Andy’s quiet voice broke through your internal spiral–your mindless mental chant–as he told you, “You know, I didn’t start out at the top. I came from nothing. But someone with means saw potential in me. They gave me a chance. So I’m willing to do the same for you.”
And there it was again, that tiny flicker of hope sparking to life in the deep recesses of your tarnished soul.
“Why?” you couldn’t help but ask. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’m very good at reading people, and I think you’re someone capable of loyalty, and that I prize most above all. Skills can be taught, knowledge can be gleaned, but loyalty? Trust? Those are innate and of the utmost value, especially in my world.”
You looked at Andy again and couldn't help but shiver. His poise, his confidence, his direct gaze.
You weren’t quite sure who he was, but you knew that you had somehow stumbled your way into the path of someone important. Someone powerful.
Someone who maybe, if you earned his trust, if you made him proud, he would keep you safe.
And that, to you, was of the utmost value.
So you took a deep, shaky breath before whispering, “I can be loyal.” You swallowed before continuing, “And I can work real hard, no matter what you ask of me,” your voice faltered. “Except… I don’t… please, I’m not–“
Despite your fumbling, Andy seemed to understand where your mind had gone. What fear overtook you now.
You saw him reach for you–perhaps his intention was a comforting touch–but he must have remembered you didn’t like to be touched, because he pulled up short and his hand retreated, resting on his thigh instead.
“That isn’t what this is,” he said gently.
“Okay,” you squeaked, sinking beneath the weight of your relief. “Good. T-thank you.”
You peeked over at him again, feeling unsure but also a little mesmerized. Because Andy Barber was beyond handsome. In fact, he was beautiful, but his eyes… your gaze couldn’t stop returning to his and the softness that resided there.
No one had ever looked at you that way before.
Without vile or cruel intentions aimed your way. Without malice or greed. Without the promise of pain, or worse. So much worse.
“Well, this seems pretty cut and dry to me, and genuinely the most pleasant interview process I’ve ever experienced,” Andy said. “So, you’re hired.” He winked, looking delighted when that got a quiet giggle out of you.
But the sound of your amusement cut off abruptly as the car began to move, and you jolted upright, panicked.
“Relax,” Andy soothed, his fingers twitching against his thigh like he was once again resisting the urge to reach out with a comforting touch. “We’re just driving you home, and then you can come to my place tomorrow and we can discuss how you can best support me,” Andy explained. “Where do you live?”
You didn’t respond for a moment, not so much because you didn’t trust him–didn’t know him–but because you were embarrassed by the answer. But after a beat, you gave it to him anyway.
Andy didn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust or make a judgmental remark like Lloyd had when he read your address on your new hire paperwork. He just relayed the address to his bodyguard, who was driving, before sitting back in his seat.
“Would you be open to relocating?” Andy asked, clearly taking you by surprise. “If I have you assisting me daily, it makes the most sense for you to live on my property.”
“I…” you hesitated, not wanting to spoil this gift so soon after receiving it.
Especially since you had no other prospects.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said carefully.
Andy’s eyes sparkled at your diplomatic answer. “You wouldn’t be. Most of my staff have quarters at my manor. Like Ari,” he nodded toward the beefy man in the driver’s seat. “Same with my personal chef and butler.”
“Oh,” you murmured, nervously wringing your hands together in your lap.
Because it seemed like Andy had a whole staff under his employ. Not to mention a manor.
Again, you couldn’t help but wonder who he was, whose orbit you had been drawn into.
“Can I think about it, please?” You asked, not wanting to give up all of your minimal autonomy at once.
Not wanting to make what could be a very life-changing decision before you knew Andy better.
“Of course,” he replied easily. “I can show you around tomorrow to help inform your decision. How does that sound?”
“Very generous.”
Andy shot you a small smile, and your belly swooped at the sight before you quickly looked away, your leg jiggling with nerves as Ari steered the SUV onto your street.
The vehicle eased to a stop at the curb just outside of your dingy apartment building, and you found yourself unable to look at Andy–to risk seeing the pity in his eyes.
“Here, why don’t we exchange numbers?” Andy suggested, fishing his cell phone from his inner jacket pocket.
You pulled your own dated device from your back pocket, quickly fulfilling his request before clutching your phone between your sweaty palms.
“I’ll send a driver to pick you up tomorrow at eight thirty, does that work for you?” Andy asked.
“Yes, but you don’t need to,“ you objected. “I can take the bus, or–”
“It’s a safety precaution on my end,” Andy assured you. “I don’t give out my home address to many. Not in my line of work.”
He winked to make light of something serious, and you once again found yourself wondering what–exactly–was Andy’s line of work?
What were you getting yourself into?
But you just as quickly shook that thought away, because this opportunity–Andy’s kindness–it was all you had, and it was truly a gift.
No one had ever done something like this for you before, had given you a chance, a helping hand in a moment when you needed it most.
And you wouldn’t waste it.
So you nodded, mustering a smile despite your anxiety as you told Andy, “I’ll be ready tomorrow at eight thirty.”
“Perfect,” he smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He watched as you opened the car door and slipped outside, hesitating before you turned back to him. Because a new feeling was overriding your nerves now.
Gratitude.
You felt so very thankful for this unexpected opportunity. For Andy’s empathy and belief in you.
You weren’t used to getting help or lucky breaks.
You weren’t used to anyone caring about you in any way at all.
It must have been written all over your face too, all these thoughts swirling inside of you, because Andy’s features softened as he watched you, another one of those small smiles cursing his lips.
“Go get some rest, honey, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
Your belly swooped at the term of endearment, and you lingered for a moment, wishing you were good with words, that you could articulate how grateful you were, how much this meant to you. But you finally settled on a very earnest, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”
“No need to thank me. And call me ‘Andy.’”
Your insides fluttered at his request, and you nodded. “Goodnight, Andy.”
“Goodnight,” he echoed, watching your retreat.
Despite the way you hurried up the front steps and into the entryway, the SUV seemed in no rush to depart, instead idling at the curb until you were safely inside.
You scurried up the four flights of stairs to your unit in a daze, your brain trying to process everything that happened tonight. You were out of your new job at the club, but it seemed like something better could be awaiting you.
Thanks to Andy.
You were terrified to really get your hopes up, because so rarely did things go your way, but this time, weirdly, the excitement–and anticipation to see Andy again–was something you just couldn’t shake…
“Come here, honey.”
The sound of Andy’s voice brought you back to the present moment, your hazy mind surfacing from one of the few pleasant memories you had.
Blinking owlishly, you glanced up to find Andy watching you in soft amusement, his big hand held out toward you.
You slipped your hand into his, allowing Andy to pull you first to your feet, then into his lap.
His arms circled you in an instant, tugging you close as his lips pressed a kiss to your forehead. As you went pliant against him, resting your cheek on his shoulder, he murmured, “We’re going away for a long weekend.”
Your head snapped up in surprise. “We are?”
Andy smiled as he caressed your cheek. “Well, as long as you want to, but it’s why I had you clear my calendar tomorrow. I think some peace, quiet, and nature will do you good.”
You couldn’t suppress your giddy smile if you tried. “We’re going to the lake house then?”
Andy’s smile was more of a grin as he nodded, “I know it’s your favorite.”
“Thank you, Andy!” you squealed, nearly bouncing in his lap as you hugged him and pressed a kiss to his beardy cheek.
Andy’s eyes twinkled at your sweet excitement. As you went to pull away, his fingers caught your chin, staying your retreat as his eyes ignited in a way that had a surge of warmth pooling low in your belly.
Slowly, his gaze meeting yours and not shying away, Andy pulled you in for a real kiss. The kind of kiss that made it impossible to catch your breath because you could feel with each and every press of Andy’s lips against yours how much he loved you, cherished you, wanted you.
You were nearly panting once he pulled away, your eyes dazed enough to make him smile.
“You never need to thank me for taking care of you,” Andy hummed, touching his lips to your forehead. “For treating you the way you deserve.” His next kiss warmed your cheek, then he placed a final kiss on the other before pulling away at last. “Why don’t you go pack?”
“I will, in a little while, but first, can we just…” You sank against him, loosely clinging to him as you nuzzled your cheek against his chest. “Stay like this for a little while?”
“We can stay this way for as long as you want,” Andy promised, his big hand touching your back before settling into a slow, soothing rhythm–up and down, up and down–making you go even more pliant against him.
Humming your content, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut, truly feeling your exhaustion for the first time all day.
But you felt something else alongside it, something that–once upon a time, but not so long ago–you never would have thought you would ever feel…
As Andy’s soft, musky scent filled your nose, as his warm, reassuring touch smoothed up and down your back, as you tucked your face against the crook of his neck and breathed in as deep, you felt truly and unequivocally safe.
🥹 You guysss. I love them SO hard. I would be so beyond grateful and delighted if you took a moment to drop me a comment or reblog with your thoughts. Pretty please! With a naked Andy and Ari on top?! 😘
—
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, prostitution, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your arrangement with Mr. Shelby wears you down.
Characters: Tommy Shelby
Note: this is a June scrabble but also a sequel to January 11: Tommy Shelby and Past Due.
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Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
The small wooden box holds a loaf, a wrapped hunk of cheese, a jar of jam, and a healthy cut of pork. It'll be enough for just you. You've still got banknotes to spare; you squirrel them away on the empty tea canister behind the full one. Just in case...
It isn't so easy having money. It fixed one problem but sparked others. The banknotes buy more than a night; they afford your dignity and each pence is another dint in your soul.
As you turn the corner, a whistle bristles behind your neck. A shadow snarls from against the grey brick, “nice skirt, lassie. Bet it looks better up high.”
You shudder and hug the box of your groceries tighter. A sole scuffs and drags as stale tobacco clouds from behind you. You don’t dare look back as you sense the stranger following you.
“Hey, kitty,” he slurs. “Why ain’t ya slow d–”
The man coughs and chokes loudly. You gasp and spin around at the blur of motion behind you. Rigid shoulders block your sight of the man now splayed on the cobbles.
Thomas Shelby steps on the littered cigarette still smoking and twists his foot to blot it out entirely. You stare at his back, paralysed by his sudden appearance. It’s only the second week of the month. He was only around days ago. A visit you still feel in your thighs.
The man sputters from the ground as Tommy kicks his leg. “Get up and go before you can’t.”
The stranger struggles to turn over onto his knees. He crawls away before getting his feet under him and wobbling up to half his height. He hacks and grumbles as he flees in a hunch.
Tommy turns to you as he reaches under his jacket. The butt of his gun sticks out from his holster as he slides free his cigarette case. He pulls a stick free and offers it to you. You shake your head and he puts it between his lips instead.
“Sweetheart,” he snaps the case shut and puts it under his jacket. “What’re ya out here wanderin’ for?”
You look down at your groceries. He flicks his lighter to spark the tip of the cigarette. He plumes out smoke as he slides the lighter away. He steps closer and puts his hands on the box.
“Y’alright?” He asks.
You nod dumbly. “Sir–”
“Ah, come on then, we know each other better’n that,” he growls around his cigarette as it dangles between his lips. He takes the groceries and gestures you ahead with a tilt of his chin.
You turn and walk along with him puffing tobacco at your side. You’re jittery. Not only from that man but from the one beside you; outwardly helping you though you know his intentions better than that. Why tonight? Why so early?
As you get to your building, you pull out your keys. He waits patiently. You open the door and pause. “Mr. Shelby, you don’t gotta do all that–” You reach for the box.
“Wasn’t calling me Mr. Shelby last week,” he clings to the groceries.
“I… do you want the money back–”
He scoffs and curls one arm around the box. He pulls the cigarette away and blows out a long stream of smoke. “You know what I want.”
You swallow. “It’s…”
“Early, eh?” He reads your mind. “Is it, then? You tell me when I come ‘n go now?”
“No, sir. Tommy,” you stutter. “I’m only… I didn’t have time to ready–”
“Look ready ‘nough for me.” He tosses the cigarette and reaches over you. He grabs the door. “In, now.” His voice dips even lower. “When we get to your place, don’t say a word.”
You turn your eyes downward and spin away. You march inside and he follows. He’s like a shadow on your heels. You climb the stairs and his hand creeps up the back of your dress. You hiccup in surprise as he gropes your rear and growls.
“Skirt is nice…” he drawls. “Fuck.”
You get to your floor and guide him down to your door. He snatches the keys from you and unlocks the door himself. He pushes the door inward and points. You enter and take off your jacket. You hang it as he goes to the kitchen and puts down the box.
You unbutton your blouse as he treads around. He rubs his lower lip as he paces, eyeing the couch and the empty tea cup beside it. He looks at you and hums.
“Looks like you been eatin’ better, eh?” He says.
“Yes, s– Tommy. I… Thank you, I’ve been shopping more.” You utter awkwardly as you reveal your camisole. His eyes fall down to your sharp nipples poking through the cotton.
“Have ya? Should but some satin…” he growls as he pushes his coat back and grips his hips.
“I… I buy what I need.”
“I’m tryna give ya what you want.” He insists.
He sighs and turns. He walks across the room to the writing desk. He pulls out the drawer and unholsters his gun. He puts it inside and closes it. He locks it with the key he keeps on him. It’s his habit, as if he thinks you could ever pull a trigger.
Next, he removes his hat, the key hidden in the trim with the blades he carries at all times. He hangs his overcoat on the chair and faces you. He remains in his full suit as you unbutton the back of your skirt. You slip free and stand in your camisole, bloomers, and stockings.
“You look fed,” he says as he nears, lips curling. He stares at your chest. “They look… fuller.”
“I don’t… I don’t know.” You shrug.
“Mm, come ‘ere,” he stands beside the couch.
You go to him, shivering. “Gas isn’t on.” He says.
“I can turn it on.” You offer.
“Nah, I’ll warm y’up, sweetheart.” He brushes his knuckles down your bare arms. “Why don’t you get all this off?”
He looks down at this suit. You follow his gaze. Sometimes he’ll take off his jacket and tie; usually he’s mostly dressed and you’re not.
You hook your thumbs under his lapels and push the jacket back on his shoulders. He lets you strip it off. You fold it over the threadbare chair on the other side of the couch. You return to him and unbutton his vest. You can see his chest rise and fall calmly. Your own heart is ragged.
You expect him to stop you. Vest, tie, shirt, belt, shoes, undershirt. He stands in his trousers and you wait for his order. It doesn’t come.
You push down his trousers and find him pressed up inside his undershorts. You never saw too much of him. Somehow, it made it easier. You could feel him but not seeing so much of what he did helped you get through.
Your hands shake as you touch the linen. He purrs and puts his hands over yours. He helps you guide them past his rigid need and lets them fall to his feet. He kicks free of them as he latches onto you.
“Keep this on,” he touches your camisole.
He turns and sits on the couch, his cock bobbing in front of his stomach. You try not to look at it. You push your bloomers down, leaving your camisole and stockings in place.
He beckons you with a curl of his fingers. “Get on me.”
Your lip trembles. He’s always in control. On top or behind. Never like this.
You go to him and he leans forward to guide you onto his lap. You kneel just above him and he reaches below you to rub his tip against your thigh. He quivers.
“Now. I need you.” He demands.
You let yourself down slowly. His tip stretches you and you whine. It’s not easier than the first, second, third, or however many other times. You sink onto him until you can’t take any more.
His hands crawl up your sides as he exhales loudly. He quakes as his voice grizzles in his throat. He fondles you under the loose cotton.
“Move,” he commands.
You tilt your hips and he groans. You do it again. You wince as your walls squeeze him. You put your hands on his shoulders as you carry the rhythm as best you can. He dips one hand around you to cup your bottom.
Your breath mingles with him as you pant wildly. Your insides strain and knot as you feel him tensing. His arm curls around you and he pulls you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He leads your tempo with his hand on your backside.
“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s what I need.”
You’re not going fast or hard, but the long strokes have you babbling. You hang your head back as he nuzzles you. His groans steam against your skin.
“Sweetheart, you’re so sweet.” He grits. “So sweet when I’m inside.”
-
You wake up, sweaty and sticky. Crowded on the couch. You open your eyes and stare at the wall. It’s been a long time since you woke up not being cold.
You shift under the arm around you. No. He’s still… there. He doesn’t stay. Not ever. No.
You don’t know why he would. You can’t guess at it. Just like you don’t know why he showed up unexpected, so needy. It scares you. You could handle the monthly visits, even if they lasted hours, but this is different. This is ominous.
You gently move his arm off of him. You roll off the edge of the couch. Your camisole is crumpled at your waist. You stand and pull it up. He’s naked. Hard, again or still. You can’t say.
You grab a blanket and drape it over him. He snores and wriggles, sinking further into the sofa. You find your thin robe and wrap yourself up.
You leave him and go into the kitchen. You smell the pork. It’s cold enough that it hasn’t turned. You put it all away.
You put the kettle over the lit gas burner and wait for it to boil. You find two cups. You’ll have to send him off with something… once he wakes. You don’t dare rouse him. A man like him is hardly one you want to disturb when at peace.
You slice into the loaf and set it on a tray with the butter dish and the fresh pot of jam. You hope it’ll be enough. The clink of the glass is loud in the silence; not as loud as his grunt.
“Sweetheart,” he rasps. “You runnin’ away?” He turns onto his back and his arm hangs over the edge.
“Mr.-- Tommy,” you approach him, wringing your hands. “I’m only making some tea.”
“Tea…” he lifts his hand to rub his forehead. “Mmm. Good woman.”
You don’t say anything. You don’t dare point out the obvious or ask questions. Why did he stay?
“And will I have something sweet with my tea?” He asks as he looks up at you with his bold blue eyes.
“I’ve bread and jam–”
He snorts. “Eh, not what I mean.” You gulp as he swings his arm down and grabs himself through the blanket. “A man hurts so early. Dreamin’ of pretty things like you.”
-
Tommy leaves again. When will he be back? It’s more and more often. You’re exhausted from his visits. Edgy at the expectation of his intrusion; both of your home and your body.
You stopped looking for real work. You sleep late most days and struggle to do more than feed yourself between his interruptions. You don’t know how much longer you can do this.
You look around at the apartment. The same couch and chair. The same stove and scratched floor. He brings you little things; a vase with flowers now drooping, a thicker blanket with beautiful embroidery, even a pair of shoes he said would look fine on you.
You don’t need gifts, you need money.
You count out the banknotes in the tin. It’s enough. It will have to be.
You look at the packed carpet bag by the door. He can keep the rest. You won’t go on like this. You won’t pay for your existence by giving away your very being. You can feel it splintering away bit by bit.
There’s a train out of town. It’ll take you to Manchester. You have enough for the trip and then some. Enough to go all the way home or to buy a room for a few months or so. Enough to get you away.
You leave without looking back. You can’t. You walk down the streets, slumping, paranoid. Is that one of his men? That hat! No, it isn’t Tommy, just another man with dark hair and a yen for tobacco.
The train station is busy. You feel better as you weave into the crowd, disappearing into it. You buy your ticket and board. You hug your bag and stare out the window as you chug away from Birmingham.
When you get to your stop, you feel the weight slowly lifting. It will probably always be there but you can breathe a bit better. You peer around the city as you emerge into the streets. It might be worse here but you just couldn’t stay there. Not with him.
-
You find something. It pays little but you make it work. You work at a factory sewing shirts. It’s better than rolling tobacco, you suppose. The smell alone reminds you…
The hours take you from a dark morning to the dark evening. You walk home to your shared apartment where you have tea and stale bread with stew. A pot lasts you the week.
Every day is like the last but you can’t complain for it. It’s easier to know what’s expected. Easier to be invisible and get by.
It’s another early morning. Your head is foggy with fatigue. You work at your station with needle and thread. The collars are too delicate to be put through a machine. You bend your neck as you push the sharp tip into your thimble, over and over.
“That must be ‘im,” Margie says from your left.
“Is. Saw him earlier in that fancy car.” Catherine replies.
You don’t stop. Chatter on the line will have the forewoman on you. You’re paid by the shirt, not the hour.
“What’s he want, ya think?” Margie asks.
“Heard he’s lookin’ to buy the heap.” Catherine hisses.
“Hmph, shirt sewers and all.”
“Nah, I heard he was gon’ make it inta a brewery,” Catherine counters.
“Eh? S’pose they won’t be havin’ us workin’ the barrels,” Margie harrumphs.
You try not to listen. Not to think. That’s the way things go these days. A job isn’t guaranteed. Not ever. You bet ale makes more money than shirts.
“You,” Anya, the forewoman, pokes your back meanly. “Boss wants y’up in the office.”
You flinch and look back and forth between Margie and Catherine.
“Yeah, you. Probably your tally from yesterday.” She snarls. “Some of ya girls don’t know yer numbers.”
You frown. That’s valuable time you could be sewing. You put your work down and get off your stool. You pass Anya and head for the metal stairs.
You climb up and head down to Mr. Pierre’s office. You heard he isn’t French, he just didn’t like his name. You fix the scarf over your hair and knock.
“Mr. Pierre?” You call through.
You wait. No answer. You try again. He might not be able to hear you past the pressing machines.
You turn the handle. It’s unlocked. You slowly poke your head inside. The desk is empty. Oh.
Before you can back out, you feel something against your temple. “Get in here, sweetheart.”
You cringe at the timbre. No. Please.
You have no choice. You obey. Tommy pushes the door shut as he keeps the pistol pointed at you. You turn to face him.
“Nice to see ya again, sweetheart.” His arm stays straight as he glares over the barrel. He drops his aim and huffs. “Well…”
You stare at him. You’re not stupid. This isn’t a surprise. You just hoped he wouldn’t care that much.
“You’re not even gonna beg?” He asks.
“For…”
“Your life?”
You shake your head.
“What about the little one’s?” He presses the gun to your stomach. “Eh? That might save ya.”
You look down at the subtle curve in your middle. You haven’t thought about it. Really, you just hoped it would go away. With how little you eat, how much you work, you figured it might just take care of itself.
He laughs. You flinch and lift your gaze back to him. Your lips part.
“You know what that means…” he pulls the gun back and holsters it. He steps closer and clicks his tongue. “You will never forget me.” He puts his hand on your bump. “You will never be rid of me.”
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Summary: Earth is dying, but Bucky chooses to save you.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: Groove Is In The Heart - Deee-Lite / “No, I couldn't ask for another”
Warnings: Soft dark futuristic AU, forced marriage vibes, Bucky Barnes(he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 24 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . One of the ideas on this ask. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You wanted to go home.
A government vehicle brought you there when you left your apartment, not allowing you to ask questions or decline. The room they had you in was small and cold. It felt like an interrogation room thanks to the chairs, tables, and cement walls, minus one wall of mirrors. The woman sitting across from you smiled, but it didn’t put you at ease.
Not when she was wearing a pin with the symbol of the new world.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said, taking a tablet from her bag and sliding it over. “You’ve been chosen.”
You couldn’t believe it.
The planet was dying. A new planet was the only hope for survival. But there was a catch.
Only a small percentage of the world population could go to the new planet to rebuild and repopulate.
Those with wealth and power were chosen, of course. People like doctors and those with skills needed to help the new world thrive were selected, too. And the protectors.
The Avengers.
So, no, you didn’t expect to be chosen.
“I don’t understand,” you said, looking at the screen. “Why me? And why are you showing me a picture of Bucky Barnes?”
Everyone knew who he was.
Her smile widened. “Because he chose you to be his wife,” she said like she was telling you about a dinner special. “Congratulations!”
Your stomach dropped.
“Bucky chose me?” you whispered.
It didn’t make any sense. Why you? You had only met him once.
“Isn’t there someone else?” you added softly.
“No, I couldn’t ask for another.”
You jumped at the deep male voice filling the room. Where did that come from?
“Oh, he’s watching,” she said, nodding to the mirror. “And it’s best not to resist.”
What can your muse do with Andy & "So this is what you call moving on from me."
Thank you, Anon! This was a fun one! ❤️
Starring: Dark!Enforcer!andy barber x fem!reader
Warnings: 18+. Murder. Implied stalking.
Word Count: 557
The restaurant is quiet enough that you hear the chair scrape against the hardwood before you ever see him. Your date is laughing. He’s halfway through telling you about some hiking trail he wants to take you to next weekend when the color drains from his face.
“Sir…?”
You don’t have to turn around. Every instinct in your body already knows.
Andy.
He stands beside the table in an immaculate charcoal suit, one gloved hand tucked into his pocket, the other lazily adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. To everyone else, he looks like another wealthy businessman.
To you, he’s death wearing a tailored smile.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Your stomach knots.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“No?” His eyes drift to the man sitting across from you. “Seems I arrived right on time.”
Your date clears his throat. “Listen, man, I don’t know who…”
“I wasn’t speaking to you.”
The words aren’t loud. They’re worse because they aren’t. You stand so fast your chair topples over.
“Andy.”
His gaze finally returns to yours, softening in a way that would almost look affectionate to anyone watching.
“There she is.”
“You need to leave.”
“I asked you to come home.”
“I told you I was done.”
His jaw flexes.
“You don’t get to be done.”
Your date rises beside you, trying to position himself between you.
“I think she made herself pretty clear.”
Andy studies him for a long moment. Almost curiously. Then he sighs.
“So…” His head tilts. “This is what you call moving on from me.”
The words are almost amused.
“You don’t understand,” you whisper.
Your date squares his shoulders.
“No. You don’t understand. She doesn’t want—”
The sound that follows is deafening.
A single crack.
The room erupts into screams. Your date crumples before the sentence is ever finished. Time stops.You stare.
No. No no no…
Blood creeps across the polished floor as Andy calmly lowers the suppressed pistol, his expression unreadable. He steps over the body as though it were an inconvenience. When he reaches you, your knees nearly give out.
“You…” Your voice breaks. “You killed him.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
His gloved fingers brush a tear from your cheek with unbearable tenderness.
“Because he touched what belongs to me.”
You slap him. Hard. The dining room falls silent except for distant crying. Andy barely reacts. Instead, he smiles.
“There you are.”
His hand closes gently—but unyieldingly—around your wrist.
“I’ve missed that fire.”
You try to pull away.
He doesn’t even strain to hold you.
“You don’t get to do this!” you scream. “I hate you!”
For the first time all night, Andy looks wounded. But only for a second. Then the coldness returns.
“No.”
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“You hate what I do.”
He steps closer until your forehead nearly brushes his chest.
“But if you truly hated me…”
His fingers tighten just enough to remind you escape isn’t an option.
“…you never would’ve looked over your shoulder every time the restaurant door opened.” His lips ghost your ear.
“You were hoping it would be me.”
Before you can deny it, he’s already leading you toward the waiting black sedan outside. Not because you’ve surrendered.
But because everyone in the restaurant is too terrified to stop the devil from taking back what he believes was always his.
I can only imagine Reader must be quite 🫠🥵🫣😏😬🥰😕 after her encounter with Enforcer!Ari... When will she see him again? Under what circumstances? Do we throw all our feminist gusto out the window for him? Was he just keeping us occupied to help his boss? Regardless of what he may have said or done, it was one night. That can get a clever girl spiraling...
I know the I AM SPIRALING!!!
How do we come to terms with the fact that we were taken up so easily and so completely by this big scary/not scary enforcer??????
WHAT'S A HOE/READER TO DO?
ASKING FOR ME AND ALL MY FRIENDS AND READERRRR. 😭
No but like oh my god, this man seriously had a chokehold on me from go, so I’m so happy I’m not the only one having an utter meltdown over him 🤭 But of course I can always rely on my beloved wifey and fellow hoes (especially those of you who voted for Ari in my recent poll) to be good hoe company hehe. I hope you all enjoy this ❤️
Unwelcome
Pairing: Ari Levinson x Female!Reader
Word Count: 2,462
Summary: You can’t shake the memories of that night with Ari, and to make matters worse, he returns–with another unwelcome guest in tow.
Warnings: Mob AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Soft!dark mob enforcer!Ari. Dub con. Vaginal fingering. Ruined orgasm. Mob boss!Andy. Reader owns her own business and is a spitfire with a complete lack of self-preservation lolll. Lots of antagonism.
A/N: You can read the ask and drabbles that started this all here.
You were distracted. Again.
Frustrated, too.
No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Ari in your office.
About Ari in general.
And it made you so fucking cranky and ashamed.
You kept trying to tell yourself it was because he was terrifying–an actual facts mob henchman–that you hadn’t resisted much as he had so sinfully touched you...
“Shh shh shh,” Ari cooed, his hand on your belly giving a gentle pet before it slowly started to descend.
You gasped sharply as his touch slid between your thighs, as he cupped your cunt through your jeans and panties as his teeth caught your earlobe and gave a warning nip.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Ari husked. “You won’t fall victim to my usual methods. It would be such a waste, and I have a much better idea for keeping you occupied and out of trouble.”
You could only whimper and squirm as Ari–this man you didn’t even know, who you had only just meant mere moments ago–popped open the button on your jeans and stuffed his big hand down the front of your pants and panties like he had every right to.
His fingers were thick and rough as they teased along your cunt. When his touch glanced off your clit for the first time, you gave a startled cry that had you going rigid in Ari’s lap.
“Oh, I liked that sound, sweetheart, give me another.”
His touch grew more intentional then–more wicked. It seemed like it took him no time at all, and barely any effort, to have you creaming all over his fingers and begging him to make you cum.
Because it had been so long since you had been touched like this–especially by someone who knew what they were doing, who was so confident and scary in a way that made your body tingle.
You could feel the rock hard length of Ari press along the small of your back, and you could only imagine the way he ached, but still, he kept all of his focus and intent on you.
“God, look at you, honey, you’re like putty in my hands, so needy and desperate for it, huh?”
You whined at the deep baritone of Ari’s voice, at his seductive words, at that delightful pull pulsing deep within you, feeling like a live wire as pleasure and the cusp of ecstasy danced all along your body from head to toe.
You arched your back in desperation, shameless now as you rutted against Ari’s touch, moaning loudly and without reserve as he shoved two thick fingers deep inside your cunt and began to rub along your sensitive walls.
Sounds that could only be described as primal and desperate began to fall from your lips as you curled your fingers into Ari’s thick thighs beneath you, inching closer and closer to the height of your pleasure.
“You wanna cum, sweetheart?” Ari rumbled against the curve of your jaw.
“Yes!”
“You gonna be good for me?” he asked. “You gonna promise to keep that cute little nose where it belongs and out of our business?”
“Uh huh,” you replied without hesitance, not really comprehending Ari’s words but also willing to agree to anything in this moment if it meant getting what you wanted–being able to cum, to completely unravel in the best way.
His fingers went at you harder, making you keen and bow against him. Just before you fully ascended, only a swipe or two of Ari’s thumb against your clit away from falling apart entirely–from surrendering to the type of toe-curling pleasure you knew you’d remember for days–Ari stopped.
“Nooo!” you whined as his fingers suddenly retreated from you entirely, leaving your poor body taut and woefully, horrifically unsatisfied.
“Only good girls get to cum, and you gotta earn that privilege, trouble,” Ari husked against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your warm cheek before he shifted you off of his lap then poured himself to his feet.
You gaped up at him in utter shock–in visceral betrayal–as Ari adjusted the bulge at the front of his jeans before shooting you a smirk and wink combo.
And then you could only stare after him as he turned and sauntered out the back door of your business, leaving you dazed, angry, and mourning the loss of what you knew would have been an incredible orgasm.
“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath, glowering at the memory.
And yet–you hadn’t stuck your nose where it didn’t belong since.
You weren’t sure if it was from fear and self-preservation, or if maybe you were hiding and didn’t want to draw any more unwanted attention your way.
Maybe you had learned the lesson Ari and his boss had wanted to teach you.
You crumpled today’s high tea menu in your hand at the very thought–being schooled, by anyone, let alone a couple of criminals. Then you frowned as you quickly tried to straighten out the wrinkles in the beige paper. The color of it, and the font printed on it, were a play on a book, since that was kind of your schtick.
Books & Brews.
Aka your baby. Your dream business that spawned from a combination of two of your passions–tea and books.
It was such a niche and novelty sort of business, that you hadn’t been able to secure any investors when you were first starting out. No one had believed in you and your dream except you, which honestly only made it all the sweeter now that it was such a success.
All it had taken was a couple of online influencers having high tea in your cute little shop, and raving about the food, tea, and book selection, and you had pretty much gone viral overnight.
And never looked back.
That was why you were so mad about the utter bullshit that had moved in next door.
This was a nice neighborhood. Safe. Family friendly. You had repeat customers that you loved. You hosted kids’ birthday parties, bridal showers, all types of milestone events.
If word got out that the fucking mob had moved in next door, you knew it would pretty much be a death sentence for Books & Brews.
“Ugh!” You tried to shake that thought–and all the thoughts like it–from your mind. Because then you would get mad. And start to spiral. You would get stupid protective over your business and all of your self-preservation would go out the window.
And now you knew what happened when that was the case.
So! Screw organized criminals and their unwanted neighbor status.
You had a successful dream business to run.
Speaking of… the little bell over the front door cheerfully jingled the arrival of new guests, and you straightened from leaning against the checkout counter, a smile already curling your lips.
But it instantly fell as you watched two figures step inside your shop. Although one was a total stranger to you, the other was familiar as hell–because it was Ari.
You hated that your first thought upon seeing him was that he was so ridiculously hot. So big and beefy. His worn denim button up shirt bulged with his muscles, his dark, wiry chest hair sticking out the top where quite a few buttons were undone. He was wearing another pair of those criminally tight jeans and–
Stop staring, you internally screamed at yourself when you caught sight of Ari’s arrogant smirk.
Because he had totally caught you ogling.
You made a face at him before rounding the counter, puffing up a little as your narrowed gaze shifted from him to the man beside him.
He wasn’t as tall or thick as Ari, but he was no slouch either in his obviously expensive suit and equally handsome features. He had fair skin, dark floofy hair that was perfectly styled, and a thick beard that was just as neatly trimmed. His eyes were an electric blue, and although they glittered with amusement as they met your fiery gaze, there was something about them that was too hard to be genuine.
Despite the charming smile spreading across his lips, there was an air of ruthlessness to him that you could see from a mile away.
And you knew that this man, he was the boss. Of Ari. Of the new “business” next door. Of an entire mob empire you wanted nothing to do with.
You also knew that he–and Ari–were ones not to be messed with, but they had your hackles rising so quickly, that it was like all logic evaporated from your brain as you marched right up to them, crossed your arms over your chest, and stared Ari’s boss down without care.
“You’re not welcome here,” you said firmly, giving yourself a mental high five at how confident you sounded.
The stranger’s eyes only twinkled more, a quiet chuckle spilling from his lips as he ignored your statement entirely and introduced himself. “Andy Barber,” he didn’t try to shake your hand, instead looking away from you as his gaze drifted around your small shop, which was a little quiet at the moment.
“What a… charming little place you have here,” he observed, and you knew just from his tone and delivery that he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
He meant for it to be condescending–to insult you and your business and put you in your place–but it had quite the opposite effect. Instead, it had you firing off your sassy response before you could think better of it–or realize just how closely Ari was watching you, awaiting your reaction like a teacher surveying their student’s progress.
“Certainly more charming than illegal activity and shady business associates,” you smiled beatifically, meeting Andy’s suddenly steely gaze without flinching. “But what’s a little murder and mayhem, as long as you don’t get caught, right?”
“Careful, neighbor,” Andy tutted, but his lips were curled in amusement, his eyes flickering with a hint of respect as he watched you.
For some reason, you got the sense that Andy wasn’t used to people mouthing off to him, that it was a rare novelty in fact, and he was actually enjoying it as you death stared him and tried to turn him away from your doorstep.
Him.
“We’ll stay for lunch,” he decided instead, stepping past you and picking the empty table of his choice without waiting for your response.
“You need a reservation,” you huffed, spinning on your heel and storming after him.
And, okay, while you did appreciate reservations, especially for larger parties, you never actually turned anyone away.
But today, for him—for both of them—it was an exception that you were willing to make.
“As luck would have it,” Andy hummed, reaching into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “I have my reservation right here.” He pulled out his wallet, flipping it open and plucking out a few crisp hundred dollar bills before tossing them on the edge of the table in front of you.
Which only made you seethe more.
“I don’t want your blood money,” you whisper!hissed, aware of the two small parties across the room, enjoying their high tea service.
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” Andy smirked at the way your nose wrinkled at the pet name. “I left my blood money wallet at home today. That’s legit and legal revenue.”
Clenching your hands into fists at your sides, you were just about to tell Andy where he could shove his legal revenue when you suddenly felt a searing heat at your back.
“Be nice, trouble,” Ari murmured against your ear, his big hands falling to your hips and giving a warning squeeze that had you gasping and your body instantly lighting up at his touch. “Or else.”
You spun around, smacking his hands away from you before trying to shove him out of your space. “I am at work! Maybe that aspect of your life isn’t important to you, but to me, it means everything, and I don’t need you pawing me in public, asshole.”
Andy’s bark of laughter surprised both you and Ari, and it also gave you a reason to look away from the scary displeased look Ari was aiming your way.
“And here I thought she’d be cowed and welcoming after your visit the other night,” Andy smirked, plucking one of the fancy linen napkins from the table and arranging it over his lap. “Seems like you have some more work to do, Levinson.”
“Seems like.” Ari gritted, giving you a look so dark it had a chill racing up your spine as he shifted past you and sat in the seat across from Andy.
For a moment, you were frozen, both from their combined audacity, and that look Ari had given you–a look that conveyed you were in deep shit and had your stomach sinking with regret.
Which is why you could only stare at them dumbly for a beat–these two big, scary mobsters who were sitting in the middle of your cute, cozy tea shop bookstore, looking so painfully out of place that it was almost funny.
Almost.
Thankfully, the thick tension in the air was alleviated as one of your servers who tended to this section bounded over, looking excited to have a table to wait on. You forced a smile to mirror her own, stiffly nodding as she asked if these gentlemen were ready to be served.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” you muttered, ignoring the watchful stares of Andy and Ari as you turned on your heel, intending to stalk away.
And maybe hide in your office until they were blessedly gone.
But the sound of Ari’s gravelly voice gave you pause, his words making your insides somehow wilt and flutter at the same time as he promised, “See you soon, trouble.”
Feeling your mouth go dry, you didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him, but you did low key hate yourself as you all but scurried away.
Desperate to be away from Ari and his boss, you cleared the main floor in record time before ducking down the back hallway. Once you were in your office, with the door shut tight behind you–and locked for good measure–you felt only the tiniest bit of relief.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, you sank back against the door, trying to get your rapid heart rate under control. As you felt anxiety–and something else, something that felt very much like anticipation–buzz along every inch of your body, you purposefully kept your gaze away from the small, worn sofa where all of this had started.
And you tried like hell to shove down all the sinful, shameful memories of Ari that just the mere thought of it conjured in your frazzled mind.
Raise your hand if you’re still in enforcer!Ari’s chokehold 🙋🏻♀️
—
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Summary: You think Bucky Barnes is just the quiet tenant from down the street, the one with the terrible apartment and a growing list of repairs. Bucky thinks you are the first good thing the world has put within reach in seventy years. And he has spent far too long with empty hands not to reach back.
Word Count: 1.5k
Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not decide to become selfish all at once. It happens slowly. Naturally. Almost innocently.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who moves into a cheap apartment with bad pipes, warped cabinets, thin walls, and a front door that sticks unless he throws his shoulder into it.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates the apartment, then hates himself for hating anything that has running water, a bed, and no one waiting to strap him down.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who is coming back from the grocery store one afternoon when the paper bag splits open in front of the hardware store.
Soft-dark!Bucky, whose oranges and plums roll across the sidewalk, whose bread lands in the gutter, whose jaw clenches so hard it aches because he feels exposed.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hears, "Oh, shit, hold on," before he sees you.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who finds you crouching in front of him with two of his oranges in your hands, wearing the store apron, your hair a little windblown from dragging the discount chalkboard onto the sidewalk.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who sees you clicking your tongue at the ruined bag and saying, "These things are useless. Come in, I'll give you a better one."
Soft-dark!Bucky, who follows because he has nowhere else to put the groceries, and because you have his bread under your arm and the oranges in your apron’s pocket.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who, when you ask if he lives close by, says he just moved into the building down the block.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who adds, after a beat, that the place is falling apart.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices the smell of cut wood, dust, metal shelving, floor cleaner, and underneath all of it, something that is only yours.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices the little nick on your thumb, the smudge of chalk on your wrist, the way you push a drawer shut with your hip.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who leaves with a reusable canvas bag, his groceries, and the sound of your voice circling in his head.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who lies awake that night replaying it -your hip against the drawer, the small huff of breath when you stood up too fast, the care when sorting his stuff inside the bag-.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he needs a screwdriver the next day.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who already has two.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes and buys it anyway.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who comes in while you’re restocking lightbulbs and pretends to study wall anchors like he knows a damn thing about wall anchors.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not smile often, but does when you say, "Oh, hi again. How’s the disaster apartment?” because you remembered him, because you’ve kept him in your thoughts.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes home and sets the screwdriver in an empty laundry basket by the door.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not fix the loose cabinet handle.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes back two days later for painter’s tape.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who buys sandpaper the day after that.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who buys a level, a box of screws, two cabinet knobs, felt pads, a wrench he does not need, a flashlight, wood glue, replacement washers, a tape measure, and a little packet of brass picture hooks.
Soft-dark!Bucky, whose apartment remains exactly the same.
Soft-dark!Bucky, whose basket fills slowly with small, useless proof that he has reasons to see you.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts knowing your shifts without meaning to.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself it is not stalking if he only notices.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who notices you always work the afternoon shift, notices you drink your coffee too sweet and too cold because you keep forgetting about it behind the counter, and notices your smile changes when you are being polite instead of pleased.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts walking past the store even when he has nothing to buy.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who pauses at the window if you are near the front.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he is checking whether you got home safe when he sees you leave after closing.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who keeps enough distance that you never turn around.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates himself the first time.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who does it again the next night.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself the city is dangerous, that men are dangerous, that he knows exactly what a dangerous man looks like because he was one - because maybe he still is one- because maybe that's exactly why he's the only one who could keep you safe.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who watches a contractor lean over the counter one Tuesday, with an elbow planted too close to your hand, voice low and easy in a way that has nothing to do with hardware.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands by the paint chips with a strip of color samples he doesn't need, watching the back of that man's neck, doing the kind of math he was trained to do in a different context. Distance, angle, how many seconds.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has never had much.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has had his body stolen, his mind fried, his name erased.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has spent decades being emptied out and then handed back to the world, and expected to act grateful there was anything left.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts thinking, quietly and then not quietly enough, that maybe he deserves one good thing.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who knows that is a selfish thought.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who lets himself have it anyway.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hears “Bucky” from your lips and feels something inside him sit up like a starving dog.
Soft-dark!Bucky, whose body remembers want before his mind permits it, a pressure in his loins when you reach for something on a high shelf and the hem of your skirt rides up, gone as fast as it came, leaving him furious at himself for noticing, for wanting, like wanting were still a thing that got him punished.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining you saying his name in his apartment, against his throat instead of across a counter.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining you barefoot in his kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, complaining about the cabinet handle he still has not fixed.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who starts imagining what your hands would feel like against his chest, his back, then lower.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has to leave the store early one afternoon because the thought arrives too vivid, too sudden, and his body answers before he can stop it.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands in an alley two blocks away, breathing hard like it's a flashback, except this one he doesn't want to end.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who does not think of taking you, but of bringing you home.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who knows exactly how that sounds.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who still comes into the store with his careful voice and his tired eyes and his useless little purchases.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who lets you tease him about becoming the most prepared tenant in Brooklyn.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who says, “Something like that.”
Soft-dark!Bucky, who is gentle with you every time he sees you.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who carries heavy boxes from the delivery truck because the kid scheduled to help called in sick.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who fixes the jammed back door in twelve seconds and pretends not to understand why you look impressed.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who walks you to the corner in the rain to take a cab because he has an umbrella and you do not.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who looks almost boyish when you say, “You’re sweet, you know that?”
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has been called many things.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has never believed that one.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who goes home shaking because you touched his arm when you said goodbye.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who sits on the edge of his bed for an hour with that touch burning through his sleeve, then gives in -finally, helplessly- to wanting, his metal hand braced on the headboard as the other strokes his aching cock.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates how easy it is now. How fast his body answers for you when it answered for no one, nothing, for seventy years.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks about the alley behind the store, the broken security light, and the back entrance you forget to lock until after counting the register.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks about how easy it would be.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hates that he knows how easy it would be.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who shows up the next day pale and quiet, buys a single pack of picture hooks.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who stares at your lips while you ring him up.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who listens to you talk about a customer, about the weather, about the chalkboard falling over again in the wind.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has to look away first when your gaze finds his, even if he has never had to look away first from anything in the last few decades.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who thinks you have no idea how close you are to being his.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who smiles when you hand him the receipt.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who says, “See you tomorrow.”
Soft-dark!Bucky, who means it like a promise.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who stands there in the dim apartment, surrounded by all the things he bought from you and never used, and realizes the basket was never full of repairs, but full of steps.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who looks at all that and understands he bought a home in pieces before he knew who he was making it for.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who finally fixes the cabinet handle.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who makes the apartment quieter, softer, less broken.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who hangs the brass hook by the door and imagines your coat there.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who tells himself he can make it all nice for you, that you’ll be scared at first, but only at first.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has survived too much to keep being empty-handed.
Soft-dark!Bucky, who has decided that the world has taken enough from him, and that this time, when it places something good within reach, he is not giving it back.
Warnings: this fic contains blood and violence. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Clark Kent + “You shouldn't have let me in.” (Medieval AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
The writing desk is littered in letters, those still curled up and sealed, others bent and read over time and time again. You ponder over the report of a dispute of marriage between two planter families. Your husband will have to be consulted in the matter, perhaps the bishop too.
As you pore over another letter requesting a forgiveness of debt, you hear a disturbance without the modest holding of your marital home. Your husband’s groom comes through the front door, his steps much lighter than those of the squat count. He rushes to knock upon the study door.
You bid him to enter.
“My lady,” Basil bends his neck. “The lord is receiving a visitor.”
You lay down the scroll and let it roll upon itself. “A visitor? Unannounced?”
“Yes, my lady. Most unexpected but the lord bids you make certain dinner is enough for all.” Basil rocks on his heels anxiously.
“Yes, yes, we would be sure to uphold hospitality,” you assure him as you come out from behind the desk. “Certainly, I am not upset, though Constance may be. Assure my lord husband it will be done.”
“Yes, my lady.” He shrinks into his shoulders and leaves.
You smile to yourself. You’re never cruel to those in your employ. There’s no reason in it. Your mother would roar at her maid and it only ever got her resent. When she died, none of the servants were very sombre.
You go to the kitchen and find Constance. “We’ll have a guest for dinner.”
“A guest?” She grumbles as she turns the spit in the firestove, a healthy hen roasting over the flames.
“Yes. It seems my husband has found company.”
“Lord Randall if much too amiable for the scantness of his larder.” She wipes her fingers on her apron.
“Mm, I know it.” You mull, not confessing the poor news from the sowers in the southern fields. You will be short of grain for the winter.
You leave the cook to her grumbling. She will use more potatoes than she meant to that night, though you would take a lesser ration for the occasion. You find Mirabel, your sole maid, and have her ready the table in expectation.
You climb up to your chambers to fuss at your plain gown and cap. Randall talks of attending court next season but you hardly have the wardrobe for it, even if you’ve the title. Third daughters are rarely left a fair lot but you wonder if a convent would’ve done you better.
You hear voices without and go to the window. You hide behind the thick curtain and watch your husband approach with a much larger man. Randall is not tall or handsome. His cheeks are ruddy and pocked, and his stature is squat.
The stranger is tall and burly. His collar is high and a jewel catches the sunlight. His attire is much brighter than your husband's. Your simple embroidery around the cuffs and collar does little to stand out against the tanned leather.
You descend to greet your husband and his companion. Basil opens the doors and announces them.
“The Lord Randall returns, with the Duke of Krypfort, Lord Clark Kent.” He declares in a wobbly voice. The formality is laughable. The countly holding is more a farmhouse than a castle.
“Lord Kent,” your husband gestures as you step off the last step. “My sweet wife,” he introduces you proudly. “She has no doubt been a flurry readying our dinner.”
“Lord Kent,” you curtsy. You know of him. Your husband’s overlord. Merely a name in your head until that very moment. His chin is cleft finely, his nose is strong, and his blue eyes are bolder than the sky. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“And very much surprised.” Lord Randall adds with a chortle.
“Ah, yes, I was unable to send word ahead.” Lord Kent explains as he nears you. He offers his hand. You glance at your husband then lift your own. The duke takes it and bends to kiss your knuckles. “Such a lovely wife. And your brood?”
“None, as yet.” Randall chafes in his boots. “But it is a young marriage.”
“And you are still a young man with a very young wife.” Kent’s mouth slants as his eyes linger on you. “You see, the king sends me upon business. The council has voted upon an audit of the counties. Thus I must submit my own holdings.”
“I recall last time it was the earl’s who came out, my lord.” Randall intones.
“They did.” Kent affirms as your husband leads him to the modest dining hall. You follow. “But my earls do bolster and shorten their numbers when it suits them. I figured to do the counting mine self. It is a fine opportunity to make myself familiar to my people as it were.” He pauses and turns, looking back at you. “Lady, let us not forget our manners. Please, sit.”
You bat your lashes. “Oh, no fuss. I should help Constance with dinner–”
“Let the cook and her servants attend to their own work,” he insists.” As he pulls back a chair. “Please sit. As I said, I long to know my vassals.”
You look to your husband again. He arches a brow. You abide and near, sitting as the lord pushes the chair under you. You thank him meekly. He claims the seat next to you as Randall hesitates before rounding the table to sit across from you.
“And how long have you been married, Lord Randall?” Kent eyes you as you try not to notice.
“Ah, I believe, just short two years or thus.” Your husband answers. “I’ve been much away at business.”
“Business? What business would be more important than a lovely wife.” The duke chides. “My own… she gave me a son before her tragic passing.” He pauses and exhales. “He’s a healthy boy. Growing fast but I should’ve liked to give him siblings.”
“Condelences, my lord. We received news and we were sad to hear it. I saw Lady Lois prior. In Noth as she was on her way to the Easter mass.”
“Oh, yes, wasn’t she shining. The most lovely hair.” He sighs again. He turns to look at you. “Cherish your wife and she will give you fine issue.”
Yes, my lord. Certainly, I only long to do so.” Randall assures.
You try not to blush at the underlying suggestions. Your husband does attempt to do his duty. You try not to think of his fumbling of how many times he’s spilled on your thigh before doing more than that. You hold an elegant smile.
“My lord,” your voice is squeaky. “Was it a long road here?”
“Ah, she is kind. Caring.” He praises. “I’ve been ahorse for some time. I’ve come down from Rochewyn all the way along the Bend.” He draws his route with his thick finger.
“That is a very long way. I came along the Bend for my wedding day. My family hails from Cynster.”
“Longer way than mine.” He remarks. “Let’s hope it was for a good marriage.”
Your husband shifts in his chair. Basil and Mirabel appear with trays of bread and butter. They lay them down as the duke observes them quietly. He doesn’t say anything as they go and he slices into a loaf.
“Is that the extent of your staff, Lord Randall?” He asks at last.
“At this time. When the season reaps, we will budget for more. My wife does keep a fine and tight household.”
“She must to subsist on a maid and a groom.”
“And a cook,” your husband adds.
Lord Kent bites into the hard bread. You butter a chunk for yourself but find your appetite waning. He swallows as you feel his gaze upon you once more.
“Her complexion welcomes colour. She would look fine in a shade of rose.” He drawls. “Perhaps a more fashionable silhouette as well.” Lord Kent rebukes.
“Well, as I’ve said, we hadn’t time to ready for you lord.”
“A noblewoman should always be kept in finery. And a wife should always be ready, yes?” Lord Kent insists boldly. “And she is a beautiful wife, Randall. Submissive, gentle.”
Your husband clears his throat. “She is a good wife, yes, Duke.”
“She deserves a good husband.”
You squirm as the words hang in the silence until it bubbles and boils. Mirabel and Basil return with plates of hen and potatoes, along with sliced beets and barley. You hesitate as the duke eagerly digs in and your husband moves his food around, chewing on his agitation.
“If you are to build your holding, Lord Randall, you will need to first build a family.” Kent pauses to lick his lips, smacking them together. He angles to lean on his elbow and looms over you. “Tell me, Lady, when last did your husband lay with you?”
“My lord,” Randall scoffs, appalled.
The duke raises his palm to your husband without looking. “Tell me, lady? When last did he pay his duty to you?”
“This is–” Your husband begins.
“It is upon my task. I must know whether I can expect any fruit to be borne of this hold.” Kent insists brusquely, staring you down as you wilt and look at your plate. “When?”
“My lord, I… I’m unsure–”
“Within the last fortnight?” He prompts.
You twitch. “My lord. I… it is indecent to say–”
“Yes?”
“I… believe so.” You peek up at Randal as his face scalds scarlet.
“Mm, well, I suppose he might have planted something in such a fertile field,” he touches your sleeve and you flinch.
“My lord,” Randall drones flatly.
“But did he pleasure you?”
You gulp. Your husband sits up as tall as he can and rests his hand over the blunt butter knife.
“My lord…” you whisper.
“Has he ever?” The duke pinches your sleeve and leans in. “Have you cried out his name as your entire being shook?”
You blanch as your lip trembles. You can’t speak. Your whole body is alight.
“With respect, my lord, I do not appreciate your impropriety–”
“With respect, Count,” Kent points at your husband without a glimpse in his direction. “You’ve no right to bid me of my manners on the ground I have rights to. On the grounds you pay me oversight to. So shut your fat mouth.”
Randall’s nostrils flare and he growls. He slaps his hand down and grips the butter knife. “You’ve offended me in my own home–” He charges around the table.
The duke stands calmly as your husband’s chair clatters. He faces Randall as he barrels around the end of the table. Kent’s hand works lithely around his belt and he steps forward without hesitation.
He bats the butter knife from Randall’s hand and your husband lurches and sputters, a sickly groan grinding up his throat. He leans on the duke as he wheezes and Kent’s elbow bends deep and his shoulder jerks. He shoves your husband away and the shorter man tips onto his back, trembling as he slaps at the leaking wound in his stomach.
You gasp as your scream sticks in your throat. Your eyes water as your head spins. This cannot be. It cannot!
“You shouldn't have let me in.” Lord Kent says as he bends to wipe his blade on your husband’s jerkin. “Not with such a precious lady within.”
As soon as Lord Kent started asking questions, it was a wrap! Randall just go ahead and pack your bags! But nooooooo he had to charge at that big man with a butter knife!
Warnings: Angst, toxic relationship, possessive Nick, confrontation
Words: 300 words
A/N: Entry for June Jukebox Scribbles over @societynsoelsscribbles
Prompt: June 10th - “Every night’s another reason why I left it all.”
You should have known Nick would find you.
A rented room two towns over, cash payment, false name at the desk. It had felt clever for almost six hours.
Then the knock came.
Not loud. Not frantic.
Certain.
You opened the door with your bag already in your hand, and there he stood in the hallway, coat dark with rain, jaw tight.
“You ran.” his eyes fixed on you as they narrowed down with the one betrayal.
You swallowed hard “I left.” Correcting.
“Without a word.”
“I wrote a note.”
His mouth hardened. “That was a coward’s exit.”
The sting landed, but you were too tired to bleed for him anymore.
“You don’t get to call me a coward when staying with you meant disappearing piece by piece.”
Nick stepped inside before you could stop him, presence filling the cheap little room until it felt smaller than it had any right to be.
“You think this is freedom?” His eyes swept the peeling wallpaper, the single bed, the bag clutched in your fist. “This?”
“I think it’s a start.”
Something shifted in his face. You’d really wounded him.
“You were not unhappy every night.” His gaze burned.
“No,” you agreed, voice breaking despite yourself. “Some nights I loved you so much it scared me.” You didn’t stop the words “But every night’s another reason why I left it all. Every secret. Every lie. Every time I woke up beside you and wondered what part of me I had traded to stay.”
Nick went still. For one breath, you thought he understood. Then he reached for your bag taking it from you.
“No.” You pleaded “Nick.”
“You can hate me in the car.”
“I’m not going with you.” You wouldn’t go back
His smile was ruined and beautiful. “Yes, you are.”
Prompt: Hey! Baby - Bruce Channel / “I'm gonna make her mine, all mine.”
Character: Steve Rogers
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
"On my way back," Steve taps the ear piece to silence the comms. He's not asking permission. He's the captain, he gives orders.
Even for him, the first avenger, there are things that elude him. There are those moments that make him feel like that scrawny kid in Brooklyn taking his licks in the back alley. Like her.
He sits on the low stone wall, staring across the green plains of overgrown grass waving beneath the evening breeze. Across the distance, he sees her small figure as she takes down sheets from the line. Among the pollen and dander, he smells only her.
She doesn't know he's watching. She can't see as far as him. She can't hear his heartbeat like he can hers.
He traces the edge of his shield. His cowl sits him, he can feel his hair askew. He smooths it and sniffs. He rubs together his gloved palms and feels the gash on his knuckle. He squeezes until it stings.
"I'm gonna make her mine, all mine," he whispers as he grips tighter.
But how? How does he cross that barrier? How does he approach without scaring her?
He pops his finger out of the socket with a stifled grunt. He grits his teeth and stands. He pushes his head back on his neck and picks up the shield. He flicks it around without a thought, flinging it in a curve that slices the air.
He doesn't flinch as it comes flying back at him. It cracks him in the shoulder, putting it out of place, renting through the outer layer of armour. He huffs and catches the shield before it hits the ground.
He watched her nurse orphaned chicks back to health. He knows she can't resist a wounded animal.
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Summary: You witness something you shouldn't have, and Bullseye just wants to talk.
Word Count: 300
Playlist Prompt: I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / “No I can't promise that I won't do that”
Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, mention of murder and blood, threat of violence (not against reader), Benjamin Poindexter (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Day 2 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
Your hand shook as you locked the door, your heart pounding so fast it ached. You blinked tears away and did your best to steady your breathing. You had to calm down and think of soothing things.
But all you saw was blood. A pair of lifeless eyes staring at you. And that man standing above the body. You heard enough about him to know who he was…
Bullseye.
He saw you. Of course, he did. Luck was never on your side.
“Why did I take the garbage out tonight?” you muttered.
The gentle knock on your door jolted you.
“Hello?” the man asked, like he knew you were still close enough to hear him. “Listen, I didn’t mean to scare you in the alley.”
You took a step back. Could you find something to defend yourself? Something he couldn’t use against you?
“Just open the door, okay? I won’t hurt you. I promise!” He sounded so sincere you almost believed him. “He was a bad guy. I’m one of the good guys.”
You almost laughed at the irony. He murdered someone. How did that make him a good guy?
“Please,” he said, his voice taking on an edge that made you tremble. “If you don’t, I’ll have to get the key from the landlord.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait!” you begged, your breath shaky when you opened the door. “Just… please, don’t kill me.”
He smiled like a madman once he stepped inside, his mask gone.
“Kill you?” he asked, shaking his head. “No. I’d never.”
He carefully covered your mouth when you opened it, smothering your sounds.
“Don’t scream,” he whispered.
No, I can’t promise that I won’t do that.
“Let’s just talk,” he suggested, wiping a tear away tenderly. “And you’ll see that I’m a really good guy.”
First time writing for this man. What do we think? Maybe this can be expanded? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️
frank castle doesn't think of himself as a curious man. he doesn't like getting into other people's business and knows where to draw the line. he thinks he already has enough of his own problems to get involved with a stranger. at least that's what he thinks.
but he can't control his curiosity when he notices his pretty neighbor around. frank sees you helping elderly women bring heavy grocery bags in their homes. you always greet him politely even though you don't even know his name. he can smell what you're cooking almost everyday and thinks your food probably tastes amazing.
he recognizes what groceries you get, when you have deep-clean days, when you shower, when you have friends over, when you're not around sometimes.
he can't help himself but peek over in your apartment every time the door is open to check what it looks like. the way you decorate it, pictures hanged on walls, what are you watching on tv?
frank searches for you at the nearest grocery store, thinking he can "randomly" bump into you and pull you for a chat. he catches you getting coffee every once in a while at the closest cafe, his immediate response after greeting you is to check what kind of coffee you like. frank now knows you like it sweet.
he also tries his hardest to find out where you work. you know, just in case some asshole decides to try something; or if it's raining and you need picking up; or maybe because he wants catch you for lunch.
sometimes he overhears the conversation with your friends when you invite them over. he listens closely and focused, already knowing you ordered pizza and now you're drinking wine while watching something on tv he can't make any sense out of.
frank also doesn't miss out on seeing you drunk. he catches you stumbling up on stairs one night, very drunk and helpless. he has no other choice but to help you get home. when you invite him in, his heart starts racing. he watched you from afar for so long and now he was with you. it didn't feel right. nevertheless, he helped you get in bed that night. you fell asleep immediately. frank didn't sleep at all.
your older grumpy neighbor also doesn't fail to see when you get sent flowers at your door. when he first sees them, he's confused. you surely don't have a boyfriend - are you getting to know someone? he takes a look at the bouquet and rolls his eyes. could do better, frank thinks to himself.
oh and don't even get him started if he sees you need something fixed at your place. he won't even ask, he just invites himself over with his box of equipment and gets to work. don't even think about paying him back with money, he would rather die than receive some kind of stupid compensation from you.
however, frank doesn't notice how much petnames he uses on you. he doesn't realize the way his voice gets softer when he talks to you, not the way his jaw relaxes and the way he smiles more. but you notice. you notice your older quiet neighbor slowly softening up on you.
frank doesn't admit to himself that his newly discovered stalking behavior is getting out of line. he just ignores the thoughts. because what else can he do? he's a curious man...
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