#the krays fandom

pairing: reggie kray x fem!reader

summary: you start working for the kray twins and set your sights on ronnie. reggie isn’t pleased.

warnings: MDNI, Explicit smut, Possessive/jealous behaviour, Mild violence, Alcohol & mild drug use, Period-typical language/attitudes (1960s East End), Power imbalance, Slight dub-con vibes at times (we fuck with that), Rough sex, Creampie, Reader is slightly bimbo (BIG bimbo reader defender round here)

word count: 3.9k

notes: first of all, I'm so sorry this took me like fifty years...I know I promised this before I disappeared. I'm so sorry, so here I am finally posting a cheeky little reg-one shot. this is loosely based of an ask I got a while ago. I had so much fun writing this, I love this reader so, so much. meanwhile, writing reggie and ronnie was so difficult because I've never done it before so hopefully I did their characters justice!!

“Right then.” Ronnie leans back in his chair, cigar balanced loosely between two thick fingers. Pale blue eyes study you through thick-rimmed glasses. Somewhere outside his office, a scream cuts off mid-note. You frown. Ronnie doesn’t even blink. He’s too busy stacking a neat tower of cash and deciding whether you’re worth the trouble. “You got experience?” he asks.

“Well…I’m very charming.”

His eyes leave the cash long enough to give you a slow once-over. The scowl doesn’t soften, but something in it makes your breath catch. “Don’t matter. You ain’t here ‘cause you got experience. You’re here ‘cause you’ve got legs. Think you’ll fit in just fine.”

You beam. He opens a drawer, digs around, and tosses a skimpy black skirt and matching top onto the desk. “You’re hired. Half these mugs come in ‘ere for a bird they can’t have. You smile at ‘em, laugh at their jokes, they’ll empty their bloody wallets.” He scratches his nose roughly, then adds, almost as an afterthought. “If Reg starts glarin,’ ignore ‘im.”

“Well, as long as I live up to your standards, that’s all that matters to me,” you chirp, picking up the club-hostess uniform. You hold it against yourself and frown. “I don’t really think this is my colour. It clashes with my hair.’’ You set the uniform down and bite your lip. “Do you have a different shade, Ronnie?” You tilt your head, the same little gesture that usually makes men melt.

Ronnie doesn’t melt. He just stares at you for a long, unblinking moment. Then he barks a laugh so sudden you jump. “Blokes ain’t gonna be lookin’ at the bloody skirt anyway, eh?” He nods at the one in your hand. “That’s all you’re gettin.’ ”

You blush, grin widening. “You think I’ll look good in it?”

Two minutes into the job interview and you’re already certain of two things.

One, Ronnie is exactly your type. Hot. Rich. Undeniably masculine in the way he carries himself. You’d bet good money he fights like a bull…and fucks like it too.

And two, you’ve always gotten exactly what you wanted. There was no reason this handsome nightclub owner should be any different. You’d been single for a long time. Looking at him, you finally understood why. You’d been searching for someone like him without even realising it.

Ronnie catches you openly staring and lets the silence stretch. “Right then. Finished? Uniform’s sorted. You’ll look like a lovely little tart. Bring in the business, so you will.” He stands, adjusts his jacket, and knocks over his cash tower without a second glance. “Let me show you 'round the club, love.”

His big hand settles on the small of your back as he steers you out of the office. The warmth of it bleeds through your blouse. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself from saying something stupid. “Well, Ronnie really is such a nice name, isn’t it?” 

He glances down at you and grunts. “Yeah. Me mum gave me the better name, innit?”

You both step into the main part of the club. In the daytime it feels strangely quiet. Polished wooden floors stretch between neatly arranged tables, cigarette smoke from the night before still clinging faintly in the air. Thick, velvet curtains keep the daylight at bay. Behind the bar, shelves glitter with more bottles of whiskey and gin than you’ve ever seen in one place. At the far end sits a small stage, empty now, waiting for tonight’s singer. Men in sharp suits linger near the back office despite the club being closed, talking quietly over cups of tea instead of whiskey.

Of course, your friends had all warned you not to take this job. The Krays are bad business, they’d said. Gangsters. East End animals. You’d shrugged and laughed it off. You needed your own money. You refused to keep busting your ass as a secretary in your mother’s hair salon any longer.

You smooth your blouse and throw Ronnie another heated look. Knowing how he looked, you were in no rush to quit anytime soon.

“Dancefloor’s there. Bar’s there. Toilets down the back,” Ronnie says, gesturing with the cigar still between his fingers. “Smile at the punters, laugh at their shite jokes, keep ‘em drinkin.” He looks you over properly then, almost clinically, as if he’s assessing livestock. “And keep your backside out of reach.”

You giggle and twirl a strand of your hair, “But not for you, right?”

Ronnie peers at you over the top of his glasses, brow furrowed like he’s trying to solve something he doesn’t particularly like. “You don’t waste time, do you? Listen ‘ere sweetheart—”

The door at the far end of the club slams open. A man who looks almost exactly like Ronnie storms across the floor so fast the men by the back office go dead silent. Before you can even process it, he’s got Ronnie by the collar and yanks him hard enough that Ronnie stumbles into the bar counter with a grunt.

“You fuckin’ idiot,” the twin snarls viciously. “You think you can start a war with the Richardsons? Do you want us to get sent away again?”

Ronnie babbles something incoherent, half-laughing, half-trying to shove him off. His twin shakes him like a ragdoll.

You blink. You’d clearly forgotten Ronnie had a twin. An angry one, clearly. Something protective rises in your chest. Nobody puts hands on your Ronnie. Before you can think better of it, you launch yourself at the twin. You grab a fistful of his carefully gelled hair and yank him as hard as you can. “LET HIM GO, YOU CAVEMAN!”

The force of it pulls him off Ronnie. Both of you go crashing backwards into a table. Glass shatters. The air is knocked clean out of your lungs as his solid weight lands on top of you.

He groans, then shoves himself off you almost instantly, sitting up in a daze. One hand comes up to rub the side of his head where you’d nearly ripped the hair out. He looks at you. Then at Ronnie. Then back at you again. “...You fucking mad?”  

Ronnie is laughing so hard he’s nearly doubled over, glasses fogging up as he wipes at his eyes. “She pulled your hair,” he wheezes. “Me new hostess pulled your fuckin’ hair, Reg. Was gonna introduce you proper, but—" He waves a hand between you both, still grinning like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Meet my brother. Reggie.”

Reggie doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at you like you’ve grown a second head. His brown hair is a mess now, sticking up already where you’d grabbed it.

You scramble to your feet on shaky legs, dusting glass off your skirt, and throw him your coldest glare.  “Well. I know who I prefer.”

Reggie rises slowly. Still staring. Still silent. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it up with a sharp flick of his lighter, and takes a long drag without ever looking away from you. Only then does he speak, his voice flat and quiet. “You hired…her?”

You scoff and step closer to Ronnie’s side. “Does he always make an entrance like that?”

Reggie’s eyebrow lifts, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t bother answering.

Women had always been simple to Reggie. Meet one. Fuck one. Move on. This one would be no different.

It was.

Reggie sits at the bar at three in the morning, staring into the creamy head of his pint. Three fucking weeks since the day you got hired, and you hadn’t even bothered to learn his name. You’d called him Regan. Remi. Once, Ronald. But never Reggie. Not once. You didn’t even glance at him if you could help it, and it was driving him quietly insane.

The first few shifts, he told himself you were just another pretty face Ronnie had brought in to keep the punters drinking. He told himself he didn’t need to look. You laughed too loud, worked too fast. Couldn’t carry a tray without nearly taking someone’s eye out. Reggie had girls on rotation—easy, willing, no trouble. He didn’t need to waste time on a ditzy hostess who once handed his associates pink gin when they’d asked for neat whiskey, and who had pulled his hair to defend his brother before he’d even properly seen her face.  

But he couldn’t stop looking. He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head since the second you yanked him off Ronnie. That night he’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scalp still burning, and instead of being angry he’d just…stared.  No one had ever put hands on him like that and not immediately apologised. You hadn’t been scared. You hadn’t flirted. You hadn’t wanted anything from him. You’d simply chosen his brother and dismissed him like he was nothing. He wasn’t used to that.

By the end of the first week he was watching the way the uniform pulled tight across your chest when you reached for the top shelf. The curve of your hips when you bent to clear a table. The way every man in the room tracked you whether you noticed it or not. Business had never been better. Ronnie was delighted. Reggie was not.  

So one night, after the last of the punters had gone, he walked up to where you were polishing glasses. Your hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, the curve of your neck left completely bare. He found himself staring at it longer than he should have—the line of it, the soft skin just below your ear—with an intensity that would’ve made most girls nervous. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, and said flatly, “You’re free after work.”

You didn’t even look up from the glass in your hand. “No.”

He blew smoke towards you. “Didn’t ask if you were.”

You stopped polishing. Met his eyes in the mirror behind the bar. Fixed your lip gloss with one finger. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “Fancy a fuck?”

Your face twisted in disgust. You threw the wet rag at his chest.

Unfortunately, that had only made it worse for him.

The two weeks after that, he started noticing more than just the obvious. The way the whole room seemed to light up when you smiled. Even the grumpiest of their business partners would unclench a little. The way you’d once wiped down the bar with Ronnie’s expensive cologne instead of proper cleaner, and somehow the place had smelled better for it. Everyone had laughed and loved you for the mistake.

Reggie had not.

To make matters worse, you were only interested in one man in the entire club. And that very man happened to be his twin brother.

“Ronnie!” You came clattering across the floor in your heels and short black skirt, nearly going over sideways, and skidded to a stop in front of him. “Can you undo my necklace? It’s stuck.”

Ronnie’s eyes flicked past you for half a second—straight to where Reggie was watching from the bar—and the corner of his mouth curled. The situation was far too entertaining for him to do the decent thing. He loved winding his brother up. He especially loved watching the one girl who had never thrown herself at Reggie, the one Reggie couldn’t seem to get his hands on, completely disregard him because she was hopelessly stuck on Ronnie instead.

So Ronnie just smiled, stepping in close, and took his time unfastening the clasp at the back of your neck while Reggie had to sit there and endure it. Reggie told himself it didn’t matter. He only wanted a quick fuck anyway. He told himself he felt nothing when he caught you crouched on the pavement outside the club, cooing at some mangy stray dog like it was the most precious thing in the world.

He told himself he felt nothing when you wrapped your arms around an older woman at the bar who was on her fifth glass of wine because her husband had been cheating.

And he definitely told himself he felt nothing when, after your shift, you swayed your hips to the late-night jazz with a drink in your hand while half the lads in the room stared. The way you moved. The way you took up space. It made something in his chest pull tight in a way he didn’t recognise and didn’t like.

But Reggie Kray didn’t do feelings. He fucked.

And since he couldn’t fuck you, he would simply move on and find the next best thing. Except, even when he was buried to the hilt in whatever girl he could find who looked a bit like you, he was still dissatisfied. Still miserable.

 A month into working at Esmeralda’s nightclub, you’d had enough.

You were desperate for Ronnie. You wanted him badly, and he was the only man in this place who didn’t seem to reciprocate. It was driving you mad. That night, you decided to ditch the uniform and wear the sluttiest dress you owned. A dusty pink thing that clings to you in all the right places, showing off every curve as you move through the crowd with a tray of shots. You hope Ronnie will finally take the hint and ask you out.

The club is packed. Every pair of eyes seems to follow you, but you couldn’t care less. You only want one man.

And then he walks in. Ronnie, sleeves rolled up, glasses on, looking devastating as he makes his way to the bar. You watch him prepare a line with practised precision, heart already hammering.

“Ronnie!” you call, abandoning your tray at the nearest table as you weave through the bodies towards him. He doesn’t look up until he’s finished his line, snorted it, and let out a long, satisfied breath. Only then do his eyes find you. “Y’alright, sweetheart?”

“Better now that you’re here,” you say, smiling at him. Your pulse is racing. This is it. You’re finally going to ask. “Ronnie…I was thinking… would you maybe want to get dinner some—"

A firm hand closes around your elbow and pulls you away from the bar before you can finish the sentence.  “You’re coming with me,” Reggie growls, and steers you straight off the dancefloor toward the small storage room at the back. He shuts the door firmly behind you.

You step away and spin around, furious. “And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I was in the middle of something.” You try to shoulder past him towards the door, but he blocks your path easily.

He’s breathing harder than usual as he takes a step towards you. Then another, until you’re backed against the storage crates. “You’re not walking out right now. I’m done watching this.” He points a finger straight at you. “Stop talkin’ to him like that.”

“What?”

“You’re gonna stop.”

“Stop what?”

He takes another step, crowding you completely, close enough that you can smell cigarette smoke and expensive cologne clinging to him, and something distinctly Reggie underneath. “Stop throwin’ yourself at my brother.”

You stare at him, genuinely baffled by what his problem is. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing with pure frustration. “No. No don’t you give me that. Now you know damn well my name’s Reggie, and I’ve been right here, haven’t I?”

“Fine. Reggie. Just let me out.” You cross your arms. “I have to get back to work.”

“You know what? No you ain’t.” He glances at the door, then back at you. “You’re stayin’ right here with me until I’m done. Alright?”

“Reggie—”

He takes another step, his chest brushing against yours now. A nervous little thrill runs through you. For the first time since you started working here, you really look at him. He’s in a navy suit tonight, jaw set, eyes cold and assessing in that way that always made people nervous. He looks dangerously handsome. You swallow and remind yourself that no, Ronnie’s the one you like. But boy does he look good too.

“He’d probably fuck you,” Reggie says suddenly.

“Huh?”

He shrugs, eyes never leaving yours. “Ronnie might fuck you. Might not. Don’t matter. He ain’t takin’ you to dinner. He’s got a bloke.”

“He has a what?”

“A boyfriend.”

You blink. Oh. That actually makes sense. Ronnie had been the only man in the club who never looked at you like he wanted to get you out of your dress.

Reggie drags a hand over his face, almost laughing at himself. “You think I don’t notice?” He shakes his head. “Every bloody day you come in here and you do the same thing. You sing when you think nobody’s listenin.’ You give Mrs Collins an extra cherry on her drink ‘cause she likes ‘em. You lose your earring then spend half the night crawlin’ around for it.” He pauses. “And you always go home with one shoe because your feet hurt.”

You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

He looks irritated by the question, like you’ve forced him to admit something he didn’t want to say out loud. “Because I can’t seem to stop watchin’ you like some daft cunt, can I.”

His words catch you off guard. They settle somewhere beneath your ribs, somewhere you weren’t expecting them to reach. People had always looked at you. You were easy on the eyes, you knew that. But nobody had ever really seen you. Not like this. Reggie had noticed the little things—the habits you never thought about twice, the pieces of yourself you left scattered around the club without even knowing.

He holds your gaze. His tongue briefly wets his lips. And then his mouth is on yours.

Your hands come to his chest, unsure at first, but the kiss feels more real than any you’ve had before. It feels like coming home to someone you didn’t realise you needed.

He kisses you like he does everything else—focused, thorough, a little rough. You taste smoke and whiskey on his tongue as it meets yours. A soft, breathy sound escapes you and you wrap your arms around his neck, deepening it.

When you pull back for air, you whisper, “I’m sorry I pulled your hair that time.”

His lips are already swollen. He huffs a short breath that might almost be a laugh. “Yeah?” Then he frowns again. “I don’t want you throwin’ yourself at Ronnie anymore.”

“Because you’re jealous?”

He looks at you for a second, his jaw twitching. “…Yeah.” It’s the first time he’s admitted it. “I’m jealous.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “Happy now?”

“Yes.” You tilt your head, playful. “You get one date.”

Something dark and pleased flashes in his eyes. He kisses you again, harder this time, nipping at your bottom lip before sliding his tongue back against yours. You moan and hitch one leg around his hip. He doesn’t hesitate. His hand grips your thigh, locks it against his side, and in the next second he’s lifting you clean off the floor. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist as your back hits the storage-room wall. You gasp into his mouth as he presses in close.

His mouth finds your neck, then your lips again as the kiss turns messy and desperate. His hand slides higher up your inner thigh and squeezes. “I’ve had enough of watchin’ you with him,” he mutters against your mouth. “You’re comin’ to me now. Understand?”

You cup his face and kiss him harder, grinding your hips against the thick length already hard against you. “Yes, Reggie. I understand.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, expression unreadable. His hand tightens around your thigh, then slides higher. He reaches between you, pushing your skirt up as he drags two fingers over the damp fabric of your panties. He presses harder, feeling exactly how wet you are, then hooks the material aside and slides his fingers against you properly. A low sound leaves him. His eyes stay fixed on yours. “And now you’re gonna let me fuck you. Do you understand that too?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I understand that too.”

He leans in, pressing a brief kiss to your neck as he frees himself, the thick weight of his cock heavy against your thigh as he strokes it once, lining up. One hand stays locked around your thigh, the other fists tight in the back of your hair. He pushes into you in a single, controlled thrust. The stretch steals your breath as you cling to him. “Reggie…”

He stays buried for a second, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing through his nose like he’s forcing himself to stay still.  “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Then he starts moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot until your thighs are shaking.  He watches your face the entire time, blue eyes dark and half-lidded, taking in every little sound you try to swallow. “Look at me.”

When you do, he gives a short, satisfied hum and fucks into you harder. “That’s it, keep those eyes on me.”

He keeps the same relentless pace until you’re clinging to his shoulders and moaning against his mouth. “Been watchin’ you throw yourself at him for weeks. Every night,” he grunts. “Smilin’ at him like he hung the fuckin’ moon."

He snaps his hips into you harder. “Ends now.”

You try to answer and only manage a whimper. He kisses it off your lips, then pulls out just long enough to put you down and turn you, pressing your chest to the cool wall. He sinks his cock back into you from behind in one smooth motion. One hand spans your hip. The other slides up to rest lightly on your throat.

He fucks into you harder like this. Deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room. When your legs start to give, he simply lifts one of them higher, opening you further, and keeps the same ruthless pace.

“You’re gonna come on my cock,” he says calmly. “And you’re gonna do it knowing whose it is.”

His words, the way he’s ramming his cock into you over and over, the steady pressure of his hand against your throat—it’s too much. You cry out as you come, your cunt clenching around him so hard he has to grit his teeth.

He fucks you through it with slowing, brutal strokes, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes hard, groaning against the back of your neck. He stays deep, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your neck as he feels your needy pussy suck up every drop.

He tugs your hair, forcing you to crane your neck and look at him over your shoulder. “You don’t look at him like that again.”

He finally pulls out, but he doesn’t let you turn around yet. Two fingers gather the mess running down your thigh and push it back inside you. Only then does he smooth your skirt down and turn you by the hips. Still flushed, he looks at you properly. “I’m takin’ you to dinner after. And it’s not just ‘cause I want back inside you.”

A small, shy smile tugs at your mouth. You run your hand up his chest and go to fix his tie. “Fine…but there better be dessert.”

"Don't push your luck." He buttons himself up, straightens his jacket, then opens the door just enough to check the corridor. When he glances back, there’s something almost fond under the usual hardness.

“Go finish your shift. Be good. Don’t make me come find you again.”

tags: @opaliteraven @potter-solomons @tomhearty1 @maywritesromance @sjuzn86 @milliemaig @crudaciudadasucia

thanks for reading ♡