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bunji-enthusiast · 4 months ago

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𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬

Sypnosis [When you found yourself settling down in the confines of the supposed Safe Haven, your worry coursed over to the thought of Kissy Missy. Then, the pain became clearly evident after that small conversation.]

Characters [Kissy Missy, Doey The Doughman.]

Note || some little bits of reconciliation and actually getting some time to take care of yourself. Lmao, lettuce make-up with our allies mob games. Damn.

The air in the Safe Haven was thick with tension, but it was the kind of tension that felt oddly… comfortable. Here, in the safety of this last sanctuary, the chaos of the factory’s horrors seemed miles away. Yet, you couldn’t escape the constant burn of exhaustion that clung to you, an aching reminder of the days that had stretched into weeks, the endless running, the ever-present sense of danger.

You winced as you sank into a worn chair, feeling the sharp pain in your hands—the reminder of the struggle, of how the factory had tried to break you down. The stabbing sensation still lingered, especially in your hands, where the cuts and bruises from your last fight had yet to fully heal. It wasn’t just the physical wounds that hurt; it was the mental ones too, the nightmares that had been following you since the factory’s horrors first caught up with you. But there was no time to rest—no time to truly heal—because there was still so much you hadn’t understood.

And that’s why, despite the physical toll, you found yourself making your way toward Kissy Missy.

She had been one of the many strange figures you’d encountered in the factory, her appearance eerily similar to Huggy Wuggy but… different. More fragile, perhaps. But you knew there was something deeper about her, something buried beneath that pink exterior, something that reminded you of the other experiments—each one with their own strange, tortured past.

You paused for a moment, standing at the entrance to the small corner of the Safe Haven where Kissy Missy resided. Despite the pain, despite the urge to just collapse and let sleep take you, you pushed forward. You’d never let yourself be the one to turn away from someone in need, and Kissy Missy had been in need ever since you met her. Sure, she had been a little… off after the massacre, but you knew what it was like to live in this place, to feel like a broken part of a machine you couldn’t escape.

When you finally saw her, she was sitting near the far wall, her left arm hanging loosely in a makeshift sling, the remnants of her earlier battle with the mystery attacker still visible in the gaping burns and slashes that marred the right side of her face and body. The pink fur that usually looked so vibrant was now matted and stained with dried blood, and her eyes—those long, heavy lashes framing her round, almost innocent eyes—were hollow with something… sadness. She didn’t look at you at first, too absorbed in whatever thoughts were racing through her head.

“Kissy?” you said softly, unsure of how to approach her.

Her head turned slowly, her gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment before flicking downward, avoiding eye contact.

You gave a slight wince as you took a step closer. “I, uh… I wanted to check on you.”

The silence between you two stretched, heavy and uncomfortable. It had been like this ever since the factory turned into a playground of madness, with no answers to any of the questions that haunted both of you. Despite her usual silence, despite the distance she often kept, you knew she appreciated your presence. She always had.

You let out a breath and moved to sit down across from her, trying not to jolt in pain as you lowered yourself into the chair. “You’ve been through a lot. I get it. We all have.”

Kissy Missy didn’t respond. Her lips barely twitched, but you could tell she was listening. Maybe she was too tired to speak, or maybe she was too worried about the Prototype's plans to say anything at all. But you didn’t mind the silence. Sometimes it was easier to exist with someone who understood the weight of it all, the weight that words couldn’t even begin to explain.

"I don't know if this helps," you continued quietly, "but I want you to know that you're not alone here. We’re in this together. Whatever happens next."

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours then, but only for a moment. It was like she was trying to read you, trying to understand what you meant. Slowly, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.

And that was enough. For now, it was enough. You didn’t need her to talk, to give you answers. What you needed—what you both needed—was to share this space, this fragile moment of peace, where there were no tasks, no monsters, no running for your life. Just a quiet connection between two lost souls in the middle of a nightmare.

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny flicker of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, the Safe Haven could give you both a chance to heal.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

As you sat there, you allowed yourself to close your eyes for a brief moment, just long enough to let the exhaustion settle in. You'll face whatever comes next. But for now, in this small, quiet space, you allowed yourself to rest. Kissy Missy, for once, didn’t seem so far away.

Though, after that small but hopeful interaction. An hour and half later, interception crossed your mind.

A brilliant cross by the sign of the infirmary, maybe not, with the way you’ve been seeing things. Between reality and illusion, you’ve tried not to think about that part too much.

The dim, flickering light of the Safe Haven's small infirmary provided little comfort, though it was still far better than the oppressive, clanging noises and hazardous atmosphere of the factory that lingered in the air. The exhaustion had settled into your bones, an aching weariness that seemed to make every muscle protest with the smallest movement. After hours of tense, grueling hours spent navigating through the factory, and the constant threat of being torn apart by both monsters and the harsh environment, you found yourself collapsing in the hallway of the Safe Haven, feeling the weight of your past decisions crash over you.

However you were glad you managed to talk to Kissy before your body—moreover you—went almost numb.

You winced, looking down at your hands. They were raw, battered, and covered in bruises from the constant handling of machinery, gripping metal bars, and escaping the clutches of various monsters. You tried to brush it off, but now, in the quiet confines of safety, the pain and damage were hard to ignore. The skin on your knuckles was torn, deep red streaks of blood seeping through the open wounds as the exertion of constant pressure finally caught up with you.

Doey, always perceptive despite his playful demeanor, had noticed the way you were favoring your hands and the way you winced as you flexed your fingers. He hopped over to your side, his multi-colored doughy body shifting with each movement, his orange arm extending to gently tap your wrist in concern.

"Hey, hey," he said, his voice a soft mix of concern and curiosity. "What happened to your hands? They look pretty bruised and, uh, kinda gnarly."

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. It wasn’t the kind of thing you liked to talk about. Not to someone like Doey, who was always so carefree, so light-hearted, always ready with a smile and a joke. The last thing you wanted was to burden him with the dark memories that haunted your hands.

"I... it’s nothing. Just the usual," you muttered, trying to hide the shame beneath a gruff voice, even as the truth flickered beneath it.

Doey raised an eyebrow, his blue face tilting slightly as if reading your tone, and then, with a playful tilt of his head, he leaned in closer. "Uh-uh. I don’t think 'nothing's gonna cut it this time. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?"

You sighed, rubbing a hand across your face, fingers brushing against the rough skin of your knuckles. "Yeah," you admitted, your voice quieter now, barely above a whisper. "It’s… it’s from working in the factory. A lot of heavy lifting, tight spaces, and, well... things went wrong. Lots of things went wrong."

Doey's eyes softened with understanding, but there was no pity in them—only concern. His orange arm gently rested on your shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Sounds like you’ve been pushing yourself harder than you should have. You’re safe here, y’know? You don’t have to keep that stuff to yourself."

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Safe Haven. It was a phrase you’d come to rely on, even if the dark memories of the factory still lingered like shadows at the edge of your mind. You looked over at Doey, forcing a small smile. "I guess I just… I just want to patch these up. Don't want to end up infecting them or something worse."

Doey thought for a moment, his expression furrowing slightly as if he was deep in thought. Then, in a sudden burst of energy, his orange and yellow arms shot out, his long limbs stretching and twisting as he moved around, digging through the nearby crates.

"Thread, yarn, string, fabric… Aha! Got it!" he exclaimed, pulling out a coil of old, faded string from a box in the corner. His hands moved with surprising speed as he held it up in front of you, a proud look on his face. "This should work, right? I’m not exactly a surgeon, but I can at least try to help with this!"

Your mind caught onto the first bit. Thread? It isn’t ideal but that’ll work too.

You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, despite the situation. "You’re a lifesaver, Doey."

He grinned wide, that playful energy never faltering. "Hey, it’s what I do best—saving lives, keeping things light, and making sure nobody's left behind, yeah?" His face shifted for just a moment, a flicker of something deeper passing through his eyes, but just as quickly as it appeared, the mask of his usual cheer returned.

Taking the string carefully from his hands, you positioned your hands before him. "Alright, let’s see what you’ve got," you said, trying to keep the moment light-hearted, but the weight of the past few hours hung heavily in the air.

Doey’s fingers worked with surprising delicacy, his doughy hands moving deftly as he wrapped the string around your injured knuckles, tying the wounds up as best as he could. His movements were slow, thoughtful, and you could tell he was taking extra care. There was a soft hum to his actions, a peaceful rhythm that somehow matched the calmness of the Safe Haven around you.

"Hang in there," Doey said, his voice steady, despite the playful nature of his words. "You’ve been through a lot, but you’re not alone here. Not anymore. We’ll get you patched up. You’ve got a place with us. Always."

For a moment, all the tension in your body seemed to ease, as if the weight of the world was momentarily lifted. It wasn’t much—just a bit of string and a comforting presence—but in that moment, it was enough. You didn’t have to carry everything alone. Not anymore.

As Doey finished tying the last knot, he stepped back and gave a satisfied nod. "There. Good as new! Well, maybe not new, but you get the idea."

You flexed your hands carefully, the makeshift bandages holding tight. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now. The pain was still there, but it felt like a distant thing, something that could be ignored for the moment.

"Thanks, Doey," you rasped, your voice quieter, but filled with gratitude.

Doey beamed, his face glowing with pride. "Anytime, buddy. Anytime. Now, let’s get some rest, yeah? we’ve got more adventures to go on."

And as you leaned back against the wall, the weight of all the hours that passed finally slipping from your shoulders, you allowed yourself another rare moment of peace. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to hold onto. Safe Haven. You could stay here for a while, maybe even find a sense of home.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe it.

#poppy playtime #poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime kissy missy #poppy playtime 4 #poppy playtime chapter 4 #kissy missy #kissy missy poppy playtime #ppt 4 #doey the doughman #poppy playtime doey

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infamousbondagemurder · 9 months ago

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DUCK! THE CARBINE HIGH MASSACRE - EVERYTHING YOU NEED TO KNOW!

Hello!!!! i’m very autistic and I wanted to put my effort into something I could share with you all, so without any more unnecessary ranting here’s all you need to know about duck! the carbine high massacre. please comment anything I should add or any mistakes I may make, beware this is my first post like this so im a newby go easy on a gal!

Full film:

https://youtu.be/UScvX4bjExg?si=Cohq29YGoYCsOtBY

Trailer:

https://youtu.be/zNtUviDpyQg?si=23nQgFQo75OQ-RC_

Film soundtrack:

https://youtu.be/2ky9FrEj8Fk?si=DqRVcTdFQEtJ6owC

Website archived:

https://web.archive.org/web/20040815013848/http://www.duck2k.com/docs/carbine_comm.html

Other interviews unrelated to specifically this film:

https://youtu.be/gEbZVXdsX-U?si=cG5bTGb41ee-1fFh

https://youtu.be/WUjqIoDidr4?si=sDMMUzzKhIWImuL5

https://youtu.be/W04lj1BdK0o?si=DHRIixDEpn39KBne

Filming:

Duck! the Carbine High Massacre was a spoof about Columbine that was made soon after the massacre, infact only 6 months after. It was created by Joey Smack (Joseph Miller) and William Hellfire (William Apriceno) two (at the time) collage aged film makers. A lot of viewers received it as this as distasteful and terrible, but others find this to be one of the greatest movies of all time. Smack and Hellfire mainly made a living on creating fetish content for their small but loyal cult following, but unlike most of Smack and Hellfires other films this one was based on true events and NOT made for fetish content. (it only had a few titties here and there ;-D) A lot of people who had starred the movie had received a lot of back lash including piles of death threats.

Duck, along with most other Factory 2000 films was edited in Adobe premier and shot on VHS cameras including a broadcast Super VHS camcorder, a handheld RCA, and another unidentified camcorder.

The films first dvd release was in 2004, along with minor color corrections.

The whole budget was about 3,000$ along with inexperienced actors, most of them being Hellfire and Smacks friends taking some time off work.

On Columbines anniversary they had a showing of the film at CBGB’s where an interview with Court Tv was held and they had stated some of the reasons behind making the movie, what they would say to the parents at Columbine, and the reasoning behind making the movie.

It was here where they explained they were *not* making fun of the victims but instead the media in America’s portrayal of all the victims and the shooters on the news.

Interview:

https://youtu.be/QjPlPsGUuKI?si=gel6kBCbpzmUmiDE

The producers had gotten arrested for creating this film, not because of the crude nature but because they had brought fire arms onto school property .

Court Tv producers getting arrested:

https://youtu.be/i7LiNTkksJs?si=C8IbynDgwj9oP9YE

The film racked up $6,034 in the box office and the film was said to have helped pay Hellfires legal fees.

Experiences on set:

William hellfire stated that he did remember filming and creating most of duck because he was so drugged up on pain killers he was using to treat his cancer pains. He had no remorse or regret for making the film

Chris Perez hopped on reddit to describe his experience “Fun and loose. Everyone was really laid back and chill and we had a good time with the filming. There was a script, but we also improved a lot of stuff. Sometimes, Bill, Joe, and Todd would just give us a general idea of what they wanted us to do and say and we'd work off that.” He along with many others would receive blowback from the incident.

Misty Mundae said that the film was a "crappy little movie" which "has permanently staked its place in underground cult cinema"

Cast:

Derick- Joey Smack (Joseph Miller)

Derwin- William Hellfire (William Apriceno)

Retard- Henry Krinkle

Bible Girl- Misty Mundae (Erin Brown)

Play Girl- Lilly Tiger

Car Kid- Chris Perez

Spam Jock- Michael Ovum

Benchpress- Ryan Trimmer

Afro-American- Kendall "Shorty" Ward

Song Girl- Mazur

Goth Boy- Mike Roser

Goth Girl- Liz Bathory

No Info Boy- Michael Lema

The Principal- Larry Wellman

The Janitor- Rodney Sleurtols

Policeman- Karl Pitt

Plot:

With a running of 101 minutes Duck! the Carbine High Masscre was about spoof about the events that took place at Columbine on April 20th, 1999. The movie took place at Carbine high school where two bullied, neo-nazi, trenchcoat wearing high-school students, Derick and Derwin fail at a double suicide attempt. While walking home Derwin gets attacked by jocks and misses school the next day. After school it is then the two high schoolers plan a massacre against their school. The pair then bought several guns from a black market dealer. The next day the two boys bid farewell to their parents for the last time and head to school with the guns in arm. Once they get to school they head to the cafeteria trying to get the student’s attention, when yelling failed Derwin got onto a chair and yelled “What’s for lunch?” before the two began shooting. The two kill several people in gruesome manners before heading down to the basement and sharing a last cigarette before shooting each other.

Other films:

William Hellfire and Joey Smack typically made fetish films and soft-core porno flicks, some notable ones include (but are not limited tooooo!) Erotic Survivor, Silk Stocking Strangler, Vampire Strangler, TITanic 2000, and so many other underground gems. I, infamousbondagemurder sincerely urge you to watch these movies, buy the dvds, and support the living William Hellfire.

Here’s a link to watch more movies by William (unfortunately not ALL his movies are on this keep in mind. i also did not create this link so credits to the creator, which i’m not sure who the creator is)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-2iH0WjcolYtbat61F2zLs8SSw5dbMy15mnCnuq4suE/edit

What most people don’t know is Joey Smack starred in the semi-popular film Where the Dead go to Die, where he voice acted as the characters Ralph Stanley, Tommy’s father, and The legless war veteran. He dropped iconic lines in this movie such as: “You fuckin’ dog! What the fuck are you some sort of faggot cannibal! Aggghhh! Your eatin’ my dick!”

Dvd:

Hello! so I am basing this off of the DVD that I personally own, these details may differ from DVD to DVD so if you own a different sort of DVD, please comment anything extra that you have on yours.

Dvd includes:

* Deleted scenes

* Behind COURT TV- cbgb’s screening

* PRODUCER/DIRECTOR interviews

* TODAY is the DAY LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* KING GHIDORAH! LIVE in Hoboken NJ

* Original trailers

* Shooting gallery

* Film soundtrack

* And of course, this wonderful shitty movie :-)

Rest in peace Joey Smack:

On Saturday June 29th, 2019 Joseph Robert Miller, better known by many fans as ‘Joey Smack’ passed away. The circumstances are unknown and a mystery to all fans. There are rumors of suicide but there are no confirmations. I advice you to read his obituary and donate to catholic charities, diocese of paterson, the charity which paid his brother joshua's medical bills after his passing in 1998.

Joseph was loved by many and passed at the age of 41. Fans, family and friends all mourn him to this day. He was described by friends as a kind hearted true and utter weirdo, who had lived in his own world. he didn’t talk to many people but if you had been let into his select group, he would go out of his way to make friends laugh and smile with his warped sense of humor.

His memorial services were held Tuesday, July 2nd, 2019 from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. at Browning-Forshay funeral home on Lafayette Ave in Hawthorne.

Rest in peace Joey Smack, a truely great man who loved what he did and put so much love into all of his creations. Well wishes to his surviving family and friends:

Joey Smacks obituary:

https://emeto.neocities.org/joeysmack

CREDS:

Mainly wiki like a chud

Actors themselfs

The dvd

I’m dumb

#duck the carbine high massacre #duck! the carbine high massacre #joey smack #tccblr #william hellfire #tcctwt #tcc tumblr #tc community

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venomvalley · 3 months ago

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sevika x gf who is silco's daughter — the two don't have a very good relationship, since he abandoned the reader's mother when she was still pregnant. silco never treated reader as he treats jinx and this makes reader sad & jealous, sevika decides to comfort her (angst/comfort). thanks 🫶

everybody with an estranged father, this one is for you….

The horrible turn your life took was catalyzed by your mother's death. She succumbed to Lung Blight, a direct consequence of the poisonous air she grew up inhaling. Her pain lasted years, and she spent the final months of her life as a bed-ridden shell of herself. You aren't ashamed to admit that her death was a blessing—an end to her suffering, freedom from the cage of your anticipatory grief.

A few days before she passed, though, she told you many secrets. About her past, the difficulties of raising you as a single mother, and the greatest mystery of all: the identity of your father. They both had you when they were kids themselves, freshly eighteen with no resources to raise a baby. The difference? He could run off with no consequences while your mother was left to pick up the pieces. She did what she could. You'd never fault her for that.

Everything began with a letter. A long five pages of heart-pouring anger in word form now that you finally knew where to aim the gun. It took you days of searching before finally finding the right person to deliver it to—the first time you met Sevika. She painted an intimidating figure, tall and scowling when you approached her at the docks.

("You wanna meet Silco? Talk to his Right Hand, woman named Sevika. She visits the docks every Friday to do something or other," the shopkeep had told you, barely acknowledging your presence as he stocked cans behind the counter.)

Upon your skittish approach, she craned her head back and narrowed her eyes. "Can I help you?"

The sound of her voice, steady and low, catapulted you into infatuation from that moment forward. You had blurted out a few words of explanation, handed her the letter, and fled from your own embarrassment. Maybe a subconscious part of you realized that she was your best chance to finally meet the man who abandoned you and give him the verbal lashing of a lifetime.

So when you heard nothing in response—no letter slid beneath your front door, no goon waiting to collect you, no sight of Silco himself—you went back to the docks the very next Friday. Strolled up to Sevika with renewed purpose before giving her a piece of your mind.

("Who does Silco think he is? My mother killed herself to give me a good life after he left us with nothing, and what? He can't even fucking acknowledge that I exist?")

Her response was simple: "He knows you exist. He just doesn't want to see you."

Really, you should have expected that. Almost thirty years with no word from the man who helped create you. Why would your mother's death change his heart? But you didn't want his money or his resources or his prestige. Nothing besides an apology that you would no doubt never receive.

"For what it's worth," she said, eyes softened as she stared down at you, "I don't think it's right."

Thus began your slow-blooming friendship. A bit one-sided from your end, but your persistence paid off, and before too long, she actually began to greet you when you strolled up.

Two months into your arrangement, the unthinkable happened. She stood outside the door of your apartment after your shift at the factory, then pulled you along with a hand around your arm.

"Where are we going?" you asked, still covered in grime and sweat from the day's labor, bag slung over your shoulder.

"You got your wish. Silco wants to meet."

(And you know, to this day, that she had a hand in it.)

For as monstrous as you had built him up inside your head, the man in the flesh was almost… disappointing. Tall and lanky, scarred, well-dressed. His presence devoured all the air in the room, a tangible weight that prickled the back of your neck.

"So. We finally meet." He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the large grease stain on the front of your shirt. "I read your letter. Quite… moving."

Murderous anger rose at the audacity of this man to sit and judge you for doing what you must to survive, while he sat in his opulent office, dressed in clothes made from the finest fabrics, king of the Undercity.

And your mother hadn't seen a cog of it.

"Go fuck yourself." The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

A metal hand curled over your shoulder, shoved you back a step—Sevika. "Cool it."

"No, I understand your anger." He shifted in his seat, hands clasped before him on the desk. "Perhaps I had been a bit too keen on running you off."

Thus began the budding relationship of an estranged father and daughter.

Not much has changed since then. He sends you gifts, sometimes. A necklace more expensive than a year's worth of your rent, a dozen flowers ordered from one of Piltover's shops, a new shirt to replace the one you had ruined at the factory (the completely wrong size, by the way). But you never wanted the gifts, or the money, or the prestige. You would rather speak to him, get to know him, ask him why he never searched you or your mother out.

You vent to Sevika about it the next time you visit her apartment. A bit of an awkward predicament given their connection, but you don't have anyone else to talk to. Still odd that she knows him better than you do.

"I just don't understand why he doesn't wanna be around me. He buys me stuff, but I don't want stuff, ya know?" You drop your head on her shoulder, stretched out beside her on the couch. "I just wanna sit down and have a damn conversation."

Since that time, you began unofficially seeing each other. Girlfriends-but-not, mainly due to her own insistence that you take things slow. No need to assign labels to your relationship just yet. You don't mind either way.

"He already does that shit with another daughter. Jinx."

She says the name with so much venom that you perk up and turn to look at her. "Who's that?"

"A problem." When you narrow your eyes in confusion, she huffs out a breath through her nose. "His golden child. The kid gets away with murder—literally."

You haven't met Jinx yet, and by the sound of it, you don't really want to. "So, did he adopt her or…?"

"Pretty much."

You heave a sigh, shifting your weight to lay across her lap. "Ya wanna know something?" She hums in assent, ashing her cigarette in the tray sat next to her on the couch. "I've never really been good enough for anybody." She doesn't say anything. Just pets your arm with her metal hand, so you continue. "My mom, she… resented me, I think. She loved me, of course, and she did the best she could, but I was always a reminder of the life she never got to have."

"Shit." A plume of smoke opaques your field of view. "No wonder you hate your old man."

Deep down, though, you crave his approval. His attention. His love. Sevika warns you many times that you're looking in the wrong place, and you believe her, but there's nothing you can do to rewire your brain.

The first time he invites you to his office, Sevika is nowhere to be found. A lone chair sits in front of his desk, and you take a moment to look around. Opulence offset by bits and bobs, papers strewn before his huched-over figure. A pair of long, blue braids hanging from a shadow-bathed rafter give you pause.

He looks up, shoots you a terse smile in assurance. "That's Jinx. She's been itching to meet you, you know."

In a blur, she drops onto his desk, boots a heavy thud atop the wood, and you stumble back with a lung-draining exhale. When she looks up at you, her eyes thin to slits, mouth twisting into a pout.

"Hi," you say, trapped between a rock (the locked door) and a hard place (the girl who looks ready to gouge your eyes out).

Unfortunately, Sevika wasn't lying.

"So you're her." A curious tilt of her head. "I expected… more."

"Yeah, well. I'm used to being a disappointment."

She leaps off the desk in one fluid motion then strolls over to you with hands clasped behind her back. Circles around you with a low hum. "You sure he's your dad? You don't look anything like him."

She continues to circle you, raising the hairs on the back of your neck as you keep her within view. Prey animal instincts. "My mom's side has strong genes."

"And where is this mom of yours?"

"Dead."

She stops at that. Stares at you with a glint in her eye before resuming. "Well, we have one thing in common. Any siblings?"

"No."

"Other family?"

"No." Finally, you whirl around to face her, patience hanging by a thread. "Listen. Can we stop with all the questions?"

Behind his desk, Silco rises to his feet. "Jinx, why don't you work on your… project? I would like to speak with my daughter alone."

She gives you a wide-eyed glare as she passes, steps straight into your path so you have no choice but to move. But you can't be bothered by her attitude. Not when he just called you his daughter for the very first time.

It shouldn't matter. He shouldn't matter to you, not after what he did. And yet, you barely manage to stop the warmth that swells in your chest.

When the door to his office slams shut, you cross the room and take a seat in the chair in front of his desk. "What an interesting girl."

He leans back in his own, lazily waving a hand. "Pay her no mind. She's sensitive."

You've thought for years about what you would say to him if given the chance. But now that you're here, the words stick in your throat. When you swallow, a boulder settles in the pit of your stomach.

Easy to be brave when the subject of your ire isn't sitting right in front of you. When you aren't on their turf, with their goons swarming the place. You're glorified strangers, and you have no idea how he'll react to an outburst.

So you close your eyes, inhale deep, and say, "Why did you leave us?"

He sighs out through his nose, fidgeting with a pen on his desk. "I wasn't ready to be a father. Truly, my plans for the future never aligned with having children."

"Until Jinx?"

His gaze cuts you in two, sharp as a blade. "She was a special case."

Ah, you've hit a nerve. Sevika told the truth, then. He doesn't need you when he has her. Now, here you are, gut curdled with jealousy over some kid that stole what semblance of a relationship you might've had with your birth father.

You rise to your feet, slowly nodding your head as the revelation settles in. "That's all I needed to know."

Sevika finds you later that night in the alley behind your apartment, nursing the final puffs of a cigarette. Heartbroken.

"From what I heard, today didn't go as planned," she says, leaning back against the wall, close enough that her arm brushes yours. A warmth that burrows down to the bone.

"You were right."

She scoffs, a lighthearted tease to the sound. "I always am."

For some reason, her offhanded comment is the thing to make you cry. Not a dramatic sob or a grimacing face, but a dimpled chin and two very watery eyes.

"Why can't I ever be good enough?" You curse the strain in your voice, humiliation burning your cheeks.

A large, familiar hand covers your shoulder, thumb digging into the muscle. "You want my opinion? Don't base your worth on what anybody thinks of you, let alone someone like Silco."

"Sevika, you work for him."

"Exactly. I know him better than anybody." She pulls you against her, jostling your shoulder as she speaks. "So fuck it. Keep getting his money and keep your distance."

That finally makes you laugh, a wet cough from the back of your throat. "I can't believe you're telling me to scam your boss."

"It's called back pay, honey. Getting what you're owed."

She scrubs a hand down your face to wipe away your tears, then searches through her pockets for the metal case housing her pre-rolls.

(How romantic.)

"The guy that owns the noodle shop owes me a favor," she says, words muffled by the filter trapped between her teeth. "Thought a free meal might be nice."

You round on her with an open-mouthed smile, arms curling around her waist. "Are you asking me on a date?"

She blows a puff of heady smoke in your face—the most irritable, sappy, adorable woman you've ever met. How things have changed from your first meeting at the docks to now.

"No. I'm asking you to eat food with me."

Still, the corner of her lips twitch into a sly grin, before she's kissing you rough and wet on the cheek just to see you giggle and squirm away.

Well. Maybe your whole life hasn't turned to shit.

As long as she's in it.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika angst #arcane x reader #arcane x you #my fics #fic: estranged

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xeas · 1 year ago

Note

Can you please do a Norton and fool's gold with a reader where the reader has cinnamoroll personality (cinnamoroll is from sanrio)

MIND OVER MATTER IS MAGIC!

🍍 IN WHICH: drabbles (seperately) of Norton Campbell and Fool's Gold with a reader who is like cinnamoroll from sanrio (basically, shy yet sweet who will also help out their friends whenever they can)

🥥 NOTE FROM XEA!: thank you so much for your request! i love writing for norton but im wary my fools gold may ooc...haha...

🫧CONTENT WARNINGS: pre-established relationship, Norton may appear overprotective, mc may appear to be 'pure and innocent' in a fashion that may be perceived as corny to some readers. reader is referred to as "doll" in Norton's section, "babyface" in Fools Gold's. Seer is mentioned and Grave keeper is implied in Fools Gold section. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

NORTON CAMPBELL; The Prospector

NORTON swears up and down he's done nothing worthy of him deserving you.

The way your thumb grazes his knuckles in a comforting manner--whether to soothe your own nerves or his is unsure-- but the expression of innocence coated on your face both makes his heart sink to his stomach and gives him butterflies.

You have the eyes of someone who has gazed at few possible traumatic scenarios and the skin of one who not been lashed by the harsh truths of the world. He squishes down his feeling of envy when he feels he's going too far down the rabbit hole of his thoughts.

But now, as he bandages up your wound from the cold Night Watch, he can't help but realize how that weighs you down. It wasn't supposed to be you with the gash in your thigh it was supposed to be the teammate you wasted no time saving. You took a hit for them, and for what? So they could have a futile 5 seconds to run as fast as they could only for the harsh winter wind to yank them back to the hunter? You we're such a fool, having so much faith in these people.

But that's what led you two to become such a power couple. You gave him a chance.

"Norton-"

"Hush up, doll." And you do just that.

He looks angry and you feel nervous because of it.

"I'm sorry for getting injured." You mumble quietly. You don't expect a 'Its fine' or a 'Its not your fault' because this was a rookie mistake and you by no means are a rookie.

He remains silent, finishing up dressing your wound. His gloved hands go to hold your thighs as you sit in some corner of burned down building in the Arms Factory.

"Don't do that again." He states. Its not up for debate and you silently nod, moving to give his forehead a kiss as you steady yourself to get up and work on getting out of here.

NORTON CAMPBELL; Fools Gold (Hunter Identity)

"Hm, shame. Really."

Fools Gold let out a teasing laugh as he shoved you into a chair. He leaned on the wall behind it as you glared up at him. Fools gold clicked his tongue (does he even have one??) and fake pouted, most likely mocking you.

"D'aw, don't look at me like that, Babyface. You wouldn't be like this if you didn't sacrifice yourself for that silly little seer."

At least he was brutally honest.

Your muscles are screaming at you and you can feel them throbbing after you spent the last 2 minutes running and jumping and rolling to get away from him.

He traces your jawline with his pickaxe, you can feel your face heat up as Fools Gold lets out a wheezing chuckle. "All bark huh?"

You try to stutter out a response not until you see the ground beside you break. This was going to take a while.

୨🐙୧ ‧ 𝙃𝘼𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝙉 𝘼𝙈𝘼𝙕𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝘿𝘼𝙔! ⋆ ˚｡

🌺 𝙓𝙊𝙓𝙊,

XEA!

#idv x reader #id5 x reader #Norton Campbell x reader #Norton Campbell #idv prospector #idv prospector x reader #Fools Gold x reader #Fools Gold #Identity V x reader

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artficlly · 5 months ago

Text

smog & spirits: a drink with deceit (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

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

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, heavy angst, wound description, threats, catcalling, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, drinking, smoking, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hello guess who is back!! this is very angsty, promise there will be more bucky in the next chapter just gotta set up the drama! much love <33 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Three days after Becca Barnes's visit, the bodies of thirty-six Penance Boys were found in the streets.

You hadn’t seen the bodies yourself, but the whispers that slithered through The Warrens painted a picture too horrific to ignore. The rumours spoke of a scene ripped straight from a penny dreadful. Maybe even worse than the stories that circulated, but in your heart, you knew the violence to be true. The bodies, each one marred by countless lashes, were barely recognisable. Their flesh was shredded, every inch of skin scarred beyond recognition. They were scattered across the Warrens like grotesque trophies. Some were dumped in the filthy, stagnant waters of the port, their bodies bloated and twisted. Others swung lifelessly from lamp-posts in the streets, their necks bent at unnatural angles. Several were displayed in the Smokestack District, mangled offerings laid out before the factories, and then there were the bodies hidden in the winding alleys, tucked into the shadows like forgotten, discarded trash, left to rot under the ever-thickening smog. It was all rather theatrical, a meticulously planned out act. One of the bodies, clutched tightly in a bloodstained fist, held a crumpled note. Smeared with copper, the words read: "Do you confess?"

You couldn’t help but remember Bucky’s words from that dreaded night.

Massacre.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you had stitched up thirty-six lashes, even though the flesh had been so ravaged, the wounds mashed together until they bled into one, an indistinguishable mess. The thought lingered in your mind, haunting you no matter how much you tried to push it away. Each memory of those nights felt like a needle driven deeper, not just into his skin but into yours as well. You had done what you thought was best, what you had to do to survive, but the consequences and marks were there for both of you to wear.

The letter you found on your doorstep that same day was no surprise. Becca’s warning had loomed over you, leaving little room for doubt. You hadn’t even bothered to open the envelope; instead, you had tossed it into the fireplace without a second thought, the flames licking at the paper until it was reduced to ash. It seemed Becca was fierce when protecting her brother, and you didn’t intend to test that determination. She had been clear—stay away from him, leave him alone. She had outright said it; the bitterness in her voice made the message unmistakable: I know a threat when I see one.

You spent the next three days simmering on her words, turning them over in your mind, weighing them against the memory of your hands working on Bucky’s back. Healing him—an act you never should’ve performed. Magic meant for destruction wasn’t meant to mend wounds, and you had known that. But you had done it anyway, given into his demands. He couldn’t have been entirely in his right mind… not with the wounds, the loss of blood. Is that why he had left? Did clarity finally strike him as he lay beside you in your rickety bed? Your magic wasn’t meant for healing. Those scars would remind him of what you had done, of what you were. It had been a mistake, yet it had also been a choice.

You were bitter in a sick and twisted way. You were furious. Part of you wanted to hold him accountable for his absence—no thank you, no goodbye, just an empty space where his presence had been. You had spent the better part of a week tending to him, feeling something unspoken between the two of you, a quiet understanding that hinted at more. But once the job was done, once he had healed, it was as if he had disappeared into the shadows of the Warrens, leaving you to deal with the mess of your emotions.

Maybe it had just left you to confront your own loneliness.

In those long, quiet moments in your home, you wondered if that was what he did best—leave. He had walked away without a word, without even a flicker of care. What about Bucky Barnes made you long for something you couldn’t quite name? Something that had you clinging to the fragments of him despite the warning signs you knew to be true?

You were fed up with yourself, with his pull on you, even after all that had happened. You were unsure if it was your heart or your cunt that was the culprit, but either way, your head knew one or both were the traitors keeping you eating from of his hand like the good little witch he had primed you to be. You had let him hurt you, and yet, part of you wanted to run toward him again, to go against Becca’s threats. The way he had looked at you and leaned into your touch—there was something there. Something more than just business. You could feel it. But the other part of you? The brighter part—the one that had always kept you alive in a city like Blackstone—wanted to just wash your hands of it all, to disappear.

And maybe that was the answer: You could leave.

The countryside called to you, with its quiet spaces and the promise of a life that didn’t involve constant vigilance and constant fear. Witches were always in high demand in such isolated places. You could have been a travelling act, banishing curses and hauntings, keeping your head down and movements quick. The law wouldn’t bother someone who was as transient as the wind. The Smog Boys wouldn’t have had the time or resources to track you. You could disappear. It was possible.

But it wasn’t just about Bucky. It was about your mother. Michael. The countless, nameless others. You had stayed because you had a game of your own to play, a plan for revenge that had been set in motion long before the Smog Boys ever darkened your doorstep. If anything, they had complicated the situation. That display in the Pony Club… that raw power within you…you were sure it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

—

Just beyond the Smokestack District, across the filthy, winding expanse of the Sootline River, lay the Grimrow District. Its streets resembled the Warrens: cramped rows of lower-class housing, grimy industrial factories, decrepit shops, and weathered churches that seemed to sag under the weight of sin and soot. Yet, for all their similarities, the two districts held a defining difference. While the Warrens belonged to the Smog Boys, Grimrow was claimed by the Iron Rats.

Like most rival factions in Blackstone, the Iron Rats and the Smog Boys maintained an uneasy truce—a brittle thread of peace stretched taut between their territories. The fragile truce held as long as each stayed within their respective borders. But to call it harmony would be a misstep. It was more of a begrudging tolerance, simmering hostility kept in check by necessity, not respect.

You would never typically risk crossing the Sootline. But tonight, your frustration had driven you to the brink of recklessness. The boundary, marked by the Sootline River’s churning filth and the crumbling bridge spanning its breadth, seemed less a warning and more an invitation to tempt fate. Maybe it was exhaustion from yourself, the relentless weight of the Warrens, and the invisible chains tethering you to its grime-soaked alleys.

You needed a drink. One poured by someone else’s hand in a place that didn’t reek of your desperation and solitude. The sight of your miserable flat had become unbearable, its four walls closing in tighter with each passing hour. And then there were the Smog Boys, whose ever-watchful eyes you had grown weary of evading. Maybe slipping away into Iron Rats territory would give you some reprieve. Maybe they’d let their guard down if they thought you had vanished entirely—an act of rebellion against the summons you had so pointedly ignored.

But the summons wasn’t something you could forget. Bucky’s call to a family meeting had been the last thing you’d expected, even if Becca had warned you in the days prior. It gnawed at you, questioning why he suddenly considered you significant enough to include. Family. What a strange, hollow word coming from him.

You didn’t trust it. The invitation felt like bait in a carefully laid trap. Why invite you into the fold now, after leaving without a word of thanks or farewell? Why disappear, only to pull you closer the very next day? It reeked of manipulation, and you couldn’t help but think it was somehow connected to the Penance Boys and the gruesome spectacle their deaths had created. The pit in your stomach told you it wasn’t a coincidence. You couldn’t deny your own hand in the sequence of events, no matter how indirect. If you hadn’t healed him, hadn’t used your forbidden magic to save him, would he have bled out on the floor of your home? Would his story have ended there, spilling his blood into the cracks of your rotting floorboards? And, in some twisted, alternate reality, would you now be living in a Bucky Barnes-free world?

The thought clawed at you, leaving a strange ache in its wake. As much as you despised the tangled mess of emotions that tethered you to him, the idea of his absence hollowed something out of you. That pit of dread opened wide, devouring any attempt to convince yourself that you’d be better off without him.

Bucky was a wound you couldn’t help but pick at—a scar you couldn’t stop tracing with trembling fingers.

The air of Grimrow reeked of industry—smoke, oil, and sweat mingling into a nauseating miasma. You passed groups of factory workers slumped on steps, nursing bottles of something too potent to be legal, and street vendors hawking stale bread or pilfered wares.

A bar came into view just as you sensed them: footsteps too close and laughter too loud, their presence evident in the silence they carried with them through the narrow streets. Three men trailed behind you, their voices brash and oily as they jeered.

“Oi, sweetheart! Where’ya off to in such a hurry?”

“Yeah, don’t be shy. Give us a smile, eh?”

You kept walking, your stride steady, your face unreadable. Reacting would only embolden them.

“She’s got an attitude, that one,” another mocked. “Maybe we should teach ‘er some manners.”

You turned a corner, hoping they’d lose interest, but their footsteps quickened. One of them closed the distance, and you felt his fingers graze your sleeve.

“You’ve got a death wish, ‘aven’t ya?” a new voice rang out, sharp and unwavering.

The three men halted as a woman stepped out of the shadows. She was tall and composed, her auburn hair curling at her shoulders, and her eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, each word like a warning.

The man closest to you sneered. “What’s it to you, love?”

“You’re botherin’ my friend.” she said, stepping forward.

Her words made you pause, but you didn’t correct her.

“You’ve got no business ‘ere,” the man growled, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

“And you do?,” she replied coolly. “Say, do’ya ‘ave friends in high places? ‘Cause I do. One word from me, and they’ll hunt you down. They ain’t the type you go lookin’ to make enemies with, that’s for sure, love.”

One of the men muttered something under his breath, probably the same question you had on your mind. Who were these friends in high places? Certainly wasn’t the Smog Boys. You had never heard or seen such a woman slinking around. She had a fierceness to rival Natasha, a sharp-tongue like Becca. The men hesitated, exchanged glances, then slunk away with grumbled curses, their bravado evaporating like steam.

She was with the Iron Rats, perhaps.

Or something worse.

The woman turned to you, the sharpness in her expression softening into something sly and amused. “You’re welcome.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

A tense pause washed over the two of you, the auburn assessing you with one swoop of her sharp eyes. You wondered if she was searching for a concealed weapon, assessing if you had the strength to take down a grown man with your hands alone. It was a fruitless pursuit, as the chaos inside of you was invisible.

But you had a sneaking suspicion the woman before you were also more than she let on, maybe something more like yourself, hiding in plain sight.

“You’re far from home.” She commented. There was a drawl to her words, a subtle accent foreign to Sootstone and Grimrow—one higher class, or perhaps from beyond the city walls in the countryside. “Dangerous for a woman of the Smog to be over the river.”

“And how would you know where I keep my home?” You test.

“You reek of it. The Warrens.” Her lips pulled into a honed smile. “I don’t blame ya, lookin’ for a change of scenery.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Let me buy you a drink.” You offer.

The woman grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”

—

The bar was exactly as you’d expected—a dark, smoky hole-in-the-wall with warped wooden tables, a cracked mirror behind the bar, and the faint smell of spilt beer and sweat clinging to the air. It was neither welcoming nor hostile, merely indifferent to the chaos of the outside world. You stepped inside, the noise of murmured conversations and clinking glasses briefly pausing as heads turned to size you up. They saw the woman with you, her confident stride and sharp gaze, and immediately lost interest.

The two of you weaved between tables, stepping over uneven floorboards and discarded peanuts. Wanda—as the auburn-haired woman had introduced herself—walked as though she belonged there, her boots clicking against the wood in a steady rhythm. You tried to match her nonchalance but felt out of place, the weight of the room’s gaze lingering even after it had turned away.

You slid into a corner table, its surface scarred with knife marks and initials dug deep into the wood. Wanda eased into the chair opposite you, draping one arm over the backrest and stretching her legs out beneath the table, completely at ease. She watched the room with a faint, amused smile, as though everything she saw confirmed something she already knew.

The bartender approached, a burly man with greying stubble and a perpetual scowl. Without asking, he set down two glasses of amber liquid and muttered something about payment later. You nodded, and he disappeared as quickly as he’d come.

You eyed the drink warily before lifting it, catching a faint whiff of cheap whiskey. Wanda, meanwhile, raised hers without hesitation, swirling the liquid in her glass with an air of appreciation. “Grimrow’s charm ‘asn’t changed much,” she remarked, her tone light, almost teasing.

“You’ve been here before?” you asked, leaning back against your chair.

“Once or twice,” she admitted, taking a slow sip. “Though it was a little... less grim the last time.” She chuckled, her eyes flicking back to yours. “Still, it has its appeal. Don’t ya think?”

“Depends on what you call appealin’,” you said, glancing around at the dimly lit room. “I guess it’s got character if nothin’ else.”

“Character,” she echoed, raising her glass as though in a toast. “A generous way to put it.”

You couldn’t help but smirk, though your guard stayed firmly in place. Wanda’s ease felt calculated, her words chosen with care.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly as she studied you. “Do ya always bring strangers to such charmin’ establishments, or am I special?”

“Strangers?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like much of a stranger, not with the way you act like you own the place.”

She laughed, a low, melodic sound that drew a few fleeting glances from nearby tables. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

You took a sip of your drink, the burn of the whiskey grounding you. “What’s worse than that?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Wanda said, her smile playful. “But enough about me. You’re the real mystery here. Someone like you, runnin’ around Grimrow? You’ve got to ‘ave a story.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, unsure if the comment was meant as a compliment or a probe. You got the sense the woman was lying, or atleast hiding something. “Maybe I’m just passin’ through,” you said evenly.

“Maybe,” she allowed, though the look in her eyes suggested she didn’t believe you. “Or maybe there’s more to it.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. “What about you, though?” you asked, deflecting. “What’s a woman like you doin’ in Grimrow?”

The question landed with a faint ripple of tension, but Wanda didn’t flinch. Instead, her smile widened, and she reclined back into her seat, looking at you as though she’d been waiting for you to ask. “A woman like me? Now, what does that mean?”

“You don’t exactly blend in,” you replied, motioning to the sharp lines of her coat, the expensive leather of her boots. “You’re not Iron Rat, and you’re definitely not factory folk. So, what are you?”

Wanda smirked, swirling her drink. “Observant, aren’t ya? Let’s just say I don’t stay in one place too long. Too many people eager to stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

“People like me?” you challenged, leaning forward slightly.

“Maybe,” she said, her tone light but her gaze sharp. “Though you’re not like the others I’ve met. Most witches these days—” She caught herself.

You forced your expression to remain neutral. “Most witches? That’s a strange thing to say.” You continued, feigning nonchalance. “And what about you? You don’t seem entirely ordinary yourself.”

Wanda chuckled, taking a slow sip of her drink. “You could say I have a... talent for recognisin’ my own kind.”

Your suspicion hardened into certainty, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of camaraderie. But something about her tone, her carefully chosen words, kept you wary.

“Let’s just say I’ve been around,” Wanda said, her voice smooth. “Blackstone is full of people. Some are content to lay low, keep their heads down. Others... well, others are harder to ignore.”

You narrowed your eyes at her words, your grip tightening around your glass. “And which category do I fall into, exactly?”

Wanda tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Oh, definitely the latter. You’re not exactly the lay-low type, are you? Not with the kind of power you carry.”

The statement caught you off guard, though you did your best not to show it. Power. She said it like it was obvious, like she could see it written across your skin. You leaned back slightly, studying her. “Is that your skill? Recognisin’ power in others?”

“Somewhat,” Wanda replied, her tone light as if this were a game. She swirled her glass idly, her eyes flicking to yours with a spark of something unreadable. “It’s all about readin’ the chaos, innit? The aura of a person, an object. Every thread leads back to somethin’.”

Your brow furrowed. “So you see power in the chaos? You read it like... energy?”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a quick smile. “I imagine it’s much like spottin’ a spirit tethered to an anchor—recognisin’ the energy surroundin’ it.”

There it was—a slip. A thread tugged loose. Your breath caught for a split second, your instincts sharpening like a blade. “I never said I was a spirit-raiser,” you pointed out, your voice colder now, every word deliberate.

Her smile faltered, just a fraction, but it was enough to confirm what you already suspected. “I believe ya did,” she countered lightly, though there was a tightness in her tone, a tension she couldn’t quite hide. Her fingers tightened around her glass, the faintest tremor betraying her rising panic.

“No,” you said, leaning forward now, your gaze boring into hers. “I didn’t.”

Her laughter was forced, brittle. “It must’ve been ‘n assumption—”

“Who’re you?” you cut her off, your voice sharp and unyielding, like a blade striking metal. Already, you were shifting back in your seat, the air between you charged with suspicion.

Wanda sighed sharply through her nose, placing her glass on the table more forcefully than necessary. “I’ve already told you,” she said, her voice cool but her expression uneasy. “My name’s Wanda. I read auras. That’s all.”

“This meetin’, it isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Your words came quickly, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “How long ‘ave you been followin’ me?”

The question hit like a hammer, and for the first time, Wanda hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the amber liquid in her glass, the faint clink of ice filling the silence. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “I know more than ya think,” she admitted, swirling her drink in a futile attempt at distraction. “I know you’re... different. Special.”

The room seemed to narrow around you, her words settling over your chest like a weight. Your heart was pounding, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or fear. “Special,” you repeated flatly, your voice thick with disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Wanda didn’t answer immediately, her eyes still fixed on her glass. When she finally looked up, there was something raw in her gaze, something that made your stomach twist. “You’re not wrong. It isn’t just a coincidence that we ‘ave crossed paths,” she said, her tone almost gentle.

You stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor, but Wanda reached out, her hand wrapping around your wrist. “Wait,” she said, her voice urgent. “Just listen to me.”

“Why should I?” you snapped, yanking your arm free.

“The Church of Light is your home.”

The name struck you like a thunderclap, the world tilting briefly, nauseatingly. You stared at her, uncomprehending, the name echoing in your mind. “The Church,” you said, your voice hollow. “You’re with them.”

“Father Leofric—he sees your potential. He won’t harm you. He wants to guide you.” Wanda urged, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Guide me,” you repeated, your voice cutting through the haze of the bar like a blade. Disbelief curled each syllable into a sneer. “Like they guided my mother? Like they tried to use her?”

Wanda’s face tightened, her carefully composed mask slipping. Rage flickered behind her eyes, barely restrained. “Your mother, the traitor. Are ya gonna follow in her footsteps? Run from ya destiny, Light-bringer?”

The name hit you like a blow to the chest. Your breath faltered, and you stumbled back a step, gripping the table's edge for balance. The entity's voice in the Pony Club whispered fresh in your memory, unshakable.

I know what you are.

Spirit-raiser… diviner… light-bringer.

It had felt abstract then, something distant and strange. But now, spoken aloud by Wanda in this grimy bar, it solidified into a terrifying reality.

“Don’t call me that,” you managed to hiss, but the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

Wanda stood now, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. Her composure cracked, and her anger bubbled over like a storm breaking.

“You don’t understand what you’re carryin’,” she snapped, her voice rising with an edge of desperation. “You don’t know how to control or use it! Do you know how ungrateful you are? Holdin’ onto such power? It’s wasted potential, wasted on you. Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

The mention of Bucky’s name stung, the scorn in Wanda’s voice twisting the knife already lodged in your gut. It wasn’t just how she said it, dripping with mockery—it was the storm it unleashed within you. Bucky Barnes was a thorn lodged deep in your side, one you couldn’t seem to dislodge, no matter how hard you tried. You opened your mouth to snap back, but a sudden hush stopped you short.

The bar had gone eerily silent. Every pair of eyes in the room was on you, the tension thick as smoke. Even the bartender had paused mid-motion, his expression slack-jawed. Wanda’s words hung heavy in the air, especially one name: Smog Boys.

Your heart dropped. Of course, this was Iron Rat territory. Of course, the wrong ears would be listening.

Fear clawed at your chest, and you didn’t wait for them to act. You shoved past Wanda, her protests drowned out by your pulse pounding and stormed out into the smog-filled streets.

Your thoughts spiralled as you made your way down the winding streets. This night was a mistake. This entire saga was a mistake.

You should have disappeared into the countryside when you had the chance. But you had stayed. And why? Because of Bucky Barnes? Because you had let yourself believe, for one stupid, vulnerable moment, that the man behind the brutality might see you as something more than a pawn?

Wanda’s mocking voice echoed in your ears. “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for clinging to the small moments of connection you thought you had shared with him. That flicker of warmth you thought you saw in his eyes? It had been a lie, or worse, a cruel trick to keep you in line.

Your thoughts raced, fear and anger warring within you. The Church of Light, your mother, the Smog Boys—your mother's burdens follow you more closely than you first realised. You were tired of running and being a pawn in everyone else’s game. It was a noose tightening around your neck. All this time, you’d thought you were free of it, that her choices wouldn’t define you. But now, it was clear.

They already had.

—

From the moment you’d left the bar, you knew they were following you. You felt it in the weight of their stares, in the scuff of boots behind you, in the way the streets seemed to close in tighter.

The Iron Rats weren’t subtle. They wanted you to know they were there.

You quickened your pace, ducking into side streets and weaving through narrow alleys, but the sound of their pursuit only grew louder. Panic clawed at your throat as you turned corner after corner, the labyrinth of Grimrow offering no sanctuary.

Ahead, the bridge over the Sootline loomed, its iron framework a skeletal silhouette against the hazy glow of gas lamps. Crossing it would bring you into Smog Boys territory, and though the idea of safety under Bucky’s rule left a bitter taste in your mouth, it was better than what awaited you here.

As you bolted across, the bridge groaned under your weight, its boards slick with soot and damp. The stench of the river below was overwhelming, a mix of rotting debris and chemicals that clung to the air. But you didn’t stop. When you reached the other side, you noticed the boundary. It wasn't marked by signs but by a change in the atmosphere—an unspoken rule. Here, the Iron Rats shouldn’t follow. Here, you were supposed to be safe.

But tonight, the rules didn’t seem to matter.

A shout rang out behind you, followed by the thunder of boots on the bridge. They were coming.

You didn’t have time to think, only to run, your breath ragged and your chest aching. The smog was thicker here, wrapping around you like a suffocatingly familiar embrace, but you pushed through, darting into an alley.

You didn’t see the fist until it collided with your jaw.

The impact sent you sprawling, your back slamming into the filthy cobblestones. Stars danced in your vision; before you could recover, they were on you.

Rough hands yanked you upright, shoving you against the alley wall. The cold stone bit into your back, but the pain was nothing compared to the fear twisting in your gut.

“What’d we‘ave ‘ere?” One of them sneered, “Little Smog Whore, all alone.”

“Thought crossin’ the bridge would save’ya?” another mocked, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol. “Not tonight.”

The first punch landed in your stomach, forcing the air from your lungs into a choking gasp. You doubled over, but they didn’t give you a chance to recover. Another blow, this time to your ribs, sent you crumpled to the ground.

The cobblestones were cold and slick beneath you as you curled in on yourself, arms instinctively wrapping around your head. It didn’t matter. They kicked and stomped, their boots a relentless assault. Pain exploded in your side as something cracked—your ribs, maybe more.

You tried to scream, but the sound caught in your throat lost in the chaos of their laughter. One jeered, his voice distant and distorted, like you were underwater. You pressed your face to the filthy ground, the grit cutting into your skin as you tried to will yourself away from this moment. But the pain kept you rooted.

And through it all, your thoughts betrayed you.

Bucky Barnes. The Church of Light. Your mother.

Wanda’s words rang in your ears repeatedly: “Do you think the Smog Boys will protect you? Do you think Bucky Barnes will? Pathetic.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were pathetic for staying, believing you could survive here, and thinking someone like Bucky might care. You should have fled the moment your mother passed. Staying in The Warrens had pushed fate to its limits and now you were suffering the consequences.

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by the sound of shouting—new voices, deep and commanding.

“Fuckin’ Smog Boys,” one of the Iron Rats hissed.

Boots scrambled on cobblestones as your attackers scattered, the echoes of their retreating footsteps fading into the smog. You didn’t move. Not when the Smog Boys’ shadows passed over you, chasing the clatter of shoes further down the alley, the Iron Rats racing at break-neck speeds back to the Sootline.

You forced yourself to sit up, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body. You dragged yourself upright with much effort, leaning heavily against the wall for support. The smog swallowed you as you stumbled away.

By the time you reached your home, the world was spinning, a disorienting blur of pain and exhaustion. Every step was a struggle, every breath shallow and sharp. Your ribs screamed with every movement, the fractured bones grinding against each other, each step sending a jagged edge of agony slicing through your chest. The dull throb in your face from the Iron Rat’s punch had blossomed into a searing ache, and the taste of blood lingered on your tongue.

Your trembling hands fumbled with the door latch, and for a moment, you thought you wouldn’t even manage that. When the door finally creaked open, you didn’t feel relief. Just the weight of the smog following you in, curling around your battered body like an unwanted embrace.

The room was dark and cold, the air thick with the musty scent of soot and old wood. You didn’t bother lighting a lamp. Your knees buckled before you made it to the bed. Instead, you collapsed onto the floor in front of the fireplace, your body folding in on itself like a broken marionette. The sharp jolt of the impact stole what little breath you had left, and you stayed there, gasping, too weak to even cry.

A thin blanket was within arm’s reach, and you dragged it over yourself, your fingers clumsy and stiff. It wasn’t warm—barely large enough to cover you—but it was enough to cocoon yourself in, enough to pretend for a fleeting moment that you were safe. The fireplace was nothing but a blackened shell, its faint embers flickering. You stared at them anyway, your vision blurred.

The smog clung to your clothes and skin, thick and choking, settling in your lungs with every laboured breath. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. There was something strangely comforting in its suffocating presence as if it was all left of you now—a swirling, toxic reminder that you belonged to this broken city, and it to you.

Pain radiated through your body in waves. You were too broken to think about the wounds that needed tending, too shattered to consider the risk of infection or what damage had been done to your ribs.

What a fool you’d been.

The tears finally came then, hot and bitter, spilling silently down your cheeks. You buried your face in the blanket, biting down on the fabric to stifle the sobs that threatened to shake your fragile body apart.

You wanted to move, feed the fire, and bring warmth and light back into the room. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you curled tighter into yourself, surrendering to the darkness. If you closed your eyes, you could almost pretend the smog wasn’t filling your lungs, almost pretend the world hadn’t left you broken and bleeding on the floor.

But no amount of pretending could quiet the truth. You were alone, and the city had won.

—

The morning light filtered through the grimy window, faint and cold. The air still smelled of smoke and smog, clinging to every surface of your home. You hadn't moved from your spot by the dying fire. Your body felt foreign—too heavy, too broken. The ache in your ribs was constant. You hadn't had the strength to tend to yourself, let alone address the mess of bruises and blood that painted your skin.

The floorboards creaked underfoot, and then the door to your tiny flat was pushed open with a sharp squeal. It didn’t take long for the familiar sound of shoes against the creaky set of stairs to echo up the hall.

“Spirit-raiser.” A voice sliced through the stillness, a low growl of irritation. Natasha. “You missed your summons; Barnes has got me playin’ messenger again. Better be a good reason.”

You remained silent, unable to summon the energy to respond. Of course, Bucky would send Natasha to do his dirty work, too proud to face you himself. The blanket was wrapped around you tightly, your face hidden from her view. You could feel her eyes on you, the judgment heavy in the air. Her boots scraped against the floor as she moved further into the room.

“Spirit-raiser.” Natasha's call was sharp, accusatory, “Your wards were down; what were you expectin’? Barnes to turn up and just forgive you for missin’ the meetin’?”

She gave a scornful snort. “That’s not how any of this works, I thought you’d know that by now, witch.”

The silence stretched long, the weight of her disdain unbearable. Finally, after a moment that felt like an eternity, you slowly turned your head. Just enough for her to see the state you were in—your bruised face and the bloodied split in your swollen bottom lip.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over your form, and the contempt was gone for a moment, replaced by something colder, harder. Her jaw tightened as she took in the sight. She didn’t rush to help you, but you could tell by how her eyebrow twitched that she was taken aback.

"Who did this?" she asked, her voice flat but cold.

You looked away, avoiding her gaze. "Why would you care?"

Her lips twisted into a thin line. She took a step closer, her posture rigid. "You know why."

The world felt heavy around you, each breath a struggle. You didn't want to acknowledge that she only cared because of who you were to Bucky, not due to any worry for your well-being. Bucky’s pet fucking witch, injured. How would they banish the skeletons from their closet without their witch, chains, leash and all?

"It doesn't matter," you muttered, a forced shrug, which was then followed by a wince. The words tasted bitter, but they were all you had left to cling to.

"Of course, it matters," Natasha pressed, her voice growing sharper. "Who did it? Who the fuck did this to you? If it’s those Penance Boys again I swear to the gods—"

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t stand the thought of going back, of being dragged back into the suffocating web of the Smog Boys.

"I don't want anything to do with that family," you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. You clutched the blanket tighter as if that would shield you from her questions, from everything else.

Natasha's lips curled in a sneer, a harsh laugh escaping her throat. She knew exactly what family you were referring to—the Barnes. "It's a little too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were cold, assessing. “You think you can just walk away from this?”

The words stung, cutting deeper than you thought they could.

"You know I didn’t have a choice." Your voice cracked, and you barely recognised it as your own.

Natasha’s expression softened for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing her face before it hardened again. “I know,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing as she studied you.

You wanted to scream. In a vulnerable, fucked up way, you wanted to tell her everything—the truth, the pain, the defeat, about Wanda and the Church, about your confliction and entanglement with the Barnes siblings—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

She stood over you for a moment longer. Then, without another word, Natasha turned on her heel and walked toward the door. She didn’t offer help, didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t need to.

She had said all that she wanted to say.

PART SIX

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dilemmaontwolegs · 1 year ago

Text

The Perfect Life || CL16 {6}

Summary: After a confusing first night together it is time for the first public appearance with Charles. Warnings: angst, little bit of fluff WC: 2k F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven Taglist: RETIRED Head over to my dedicated library blog @dilemmaslibrary and opt to get notifications from there.

An awkward silence filled the large space when you cut the engine inside the old factory and let the roller door close behind you. Charles rather elegantly dismounted and let you lock the motorbike up without a word. You had tried not to look at him too much after leaving the club but it was impossible to avoid now that there was nowhere to escape.

“I’m going to shower,” you muttered. Charles sat at the edge of the bed and watched you walk to the only internal door. The old plumbing creaked as you turned the hot water onto full blast because it never reached any decent temperature above warm. You couldn’t suppress the hiss of pain when the water hit your body, each droplet like shrapnel on your skin.

“Are you okay?” Charles asked through the door.

“Never been better, Charles.”

You stared at a spiderweb that had appeared since your last visit until the water all too soon ran cold. A fluffy towel swamped your body and you relished the softness on your bruises, grateful you had stolen it from your bathroom. When you stepped out of the bathroom you found Charles still sat on the bed but now there were two beers condensating on the wobbly side table.

“Help yourself then,” you murmured as you grabbed a fresh pair of clothes from your backpack. “Look and I will throttle you.”

Charles turned his back as you dropped the towel and pulled your panties up your legs. Bending over sent white hot pain flashing through your ribs and tears burned your eyes when you tried to reach behind your back for the bra strap. Without the adrenaline of the fight everything felt ten times worse.

You jumped when cold fingertips brushed your spine and swiped your hands aside. “Let me.”

“Rumour has it you only know how to take these off,” you said as he clipped your bra into place.

Charles turned you to face him and his eyes drifted down your body, lingering on the bruise blossoming on your ribs. “Since when have you cared about rumours?”

“I don’t, but your reputation precedes you. And, just so you know, I don’t have any friends for you to move on with after this ruse is up.”

“I don’t believe that,” he chuckled. “I think Alicia is your friend.”

“Alicia is too nice for her own good but she’s still on the payroll. I don’t think it’s friendship when it’s paid for.” You frowned as your stomach dropped as you realised what he had said and took a step back. “Plus, she is happily married so you’re out of luck there.”

Charles took a step to follow and caught your hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

You scoffed. “No?”

“No. You’re not as alone as you think you are. You have people who look out for you, and that’s friendship whether you believe it or not.” You tried not to let the words penetrate the internal walls you had built but they crumbled a little when he carefully embraced you. “You also don’t need to keep fighting, you have control of your future now.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” you admitted as you looked up under your lashes to meet his eyes.

“Then let me show you.” His palm cradled your cheek and his thumb caressed your jaw as you waited to see what he would do. “You can say no whenever you want. The choice is yours.” His eyes traced the shape of your lips before returning higher and his lips parted as he started to dip his head. “You are in control.”

It could have been the sleep deprivation, the crash of hormones after the fight, or the fact that he was as good looking as any of the models you had seen. But, whatever the reason for your weak resolve, you didn’t say no.

You didn’t say no when his lips brushed softly over yours, tentatively. You didn’t say no when he grew bolder and deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the curve of your lips.

“Stop,” you gasped when his hands began to glide down your body. They immediately froze and he pulled back with a deep breath. “I can’t tell if you are fucking with my head, Charles. You make me question everything I know about you.”

“I can only say ‘I’m sorry’ so many ways.”

“So you thought you would try fuck your apology onto me?”

“No,” he laughed. “That was purely self indulgent. Even when I couldn’t stand it I thought you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“I’m not having sex with you.”

“I told you, you’re in control,” he said with a nod.

You returned the nod and jutted your chin to the bed. “I’m a cuddler, don’t read too much into it when you wake up with me invading your personal space. Or, you can take the couch.”

He looked at the ratty couch and shook his head before a grin grew. “I like spooning.”

You pointedly looked at sweatpants and lifted a brow. “Little spoon, I bet.”

Charles smirked and dropped down on the bed, making himself comfortable on your pillow. “Nothing little about it, babe.”

You scrunched up your nose and reached under the pillow for the Prema shirt you slept in but before you could pull it on it was ripped out of your hands. “Hey!”

“You are not going to sleep next to me in my brother’s shirt.”

“There’s not exactly a wardrobe full of options here,” you said as you tried to grab it back.

Charles caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth movement before tossing it on your shoulder. “There you go.”

“I like that one.”

Charles gripped the fabric and tore the shirt in half as your eyes narrowed. “If we are going to fake this, we are doing it right. My girlfriend won’t be sleeping in another man’s shirt.”

“Fuck you, Leclerc,” you swore. It was better to be swathed in his clothing than half naked in your own, that was the only reason you pulled it on and breathed through your mouth so you didn’t have to inhale the rich cologne that clung to the soft fabric. You couldn’t be blamed for your actions if your hormones liked the smell too much because one thing was certain: when he lay there shirtless you had no control over your filthy thoughts.

You turned out the light and threw yourself down onto the bed with a pained groan that had nothing to do with your ribs. It was difficult but you managed to turn away from the man whose eyes drank in the sight of his shirt on you.

“Arthur said I wouldn’t recognise you in the ring,” he confessed in the darkness, “but I think that’s the first time I’ve really seen you.”

You didn’t know how to respond when your heart started to beat like a jack rabbit so you settled for a sedate, “Goodnight, Charles.”

The pallets groaned with his shifting as he rolled over and his arm curved low on your waist, missing your ribs. A soft kiss found a place on your heated cheek and he whispered his own, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“You’re distracting me,” you muttered as you saw the shadow moving again. “Stop fiddling.”

Charles walked into the reflective field of the mirror after showering and he struggled to get the cufflinks into his Valentino suit. He walked around the table you were fixing your makeup at and held his arm out. “Can you please help?”

You fixed the shiny white gold pins into place before completing the finishing touches that completely concealed the bruises on your cheeks. The arnica had done its best to bring down the swelling but if anyone questions your puffy eyes you would just claim a rough night's sleep.

“Can you zip me up?” you asked as you stepped out of the robe and into the gown chosen for the event. Charles knuckles traced your spine as he dragged the zip carefully up while you held your hair out of the way and the delicate touch sent goosebumps chasing in its wake.

The Cannes Film Festival would be the first official outing with Charles and would publicise the relationship just in time for his home race. After the photos were snapped on the red carpet there would be no more privacy and every interaction would be watched by his eager fans. You knew what to expect - hate and hypercritical analysis were nothing new - but now they would come from run of the mill 20 year old females instead of millionaire middle-aged men.

A knock at the door interrupted the staring contest you found yourself in with Charles in the mirror and you stepped away to slip your heels on.

“The car is waiting downstairs,” Veronica said as she waltzed into your room.

“Then it can keep waiting,” you replied while you chose an understanded clutch that wouldn’t distract from the dress. “I need two front row tickets to the opera next Saturday.”

“But you have a-”

You held a hand up to interrupt her. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, just get me the tickets.”

Charles watched silently from the door, his phone and wallet in hand, and stepped aside to dodge the surly assistant that breezed from the room as quickly as she entered.

“We are attending the Palace dinner with Prince Albert next Saturday,” he said after Veronica had disappeared down the stairs.

It wouldn’t be a Monaco Grand Prix without a Palace dinner and you had agreed to be Charles’ plus one. “I know.”

“Then why-”

“I don’t have to explain my every move to you, okay?”

His lips pressed closed in a tight line and he nodded sullenly.

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, feeling like crap for snapping at him. “I’m not used to having someone to explain my actions to.”

“I get it,” he said, but you got the feeling he really didn’t. He could talk to his family about what was happening in his life and they would listen, you didn’t have that luxury.

“We should go.”

The plush carpet absorbed your heel with each step and you held Charles’ arm a little tighter. Your father had been kind enough to remind you not to make an embarrassment of yourself and you really wished you had been able to take a separate vehicle. After escaping the last event with Charles they had made sure to keep you closer and stop that from happening again.

“Family photo,” your father said with a tight smile. “You too, Charles.”

“Yes, sir.” Charles stepped back into the frame and curled his arm around your waist, his palm warming your hip through your dress.

“Who are you wearing this evening?” the journalist beside the photographer asked, recording device at the ready.

“These divine pieces are from Bouchra Jarrar’s private collection,” your mother answered with a soft pat to your father’s suit jacket.

“And what is this knockout piece?”

You had far less enthusiasm when the attention turned to you. “Alexandre Vauthier, haute couture.”

“If only he knew what a knockout you really were,” Charles whispered in your ear, earning a real smile from you that the camera quickly snapped at.

“And you, Charles?”

“I’m not sure, she dressed me,” Charles said with a wink to you, charming everyone in the crowd including the reporter.

“He’s wearing new season Valentino but he was distracted by the Hypercar race when we picked it out.”

Charles’ laugh teased your skin and he shrugged innocently. “Forza Ferrari, baby.”

You eventually made it to the end of the red carpet and into the cinema for the special screening of some new drama film up for an award. The lights dimmed and the crowd fell silent with the opening credits but your entire focus was on the hand that slipped into yours.

“It’s dark in here,” you whispered. “You don’t need to pretend.”

“Who said I am pretending?”

The armrest was suddenly much closer as you found yourself gravitating to him and your cheek came to rest on his shoulder before the title even appeared.

“Pretending would probably be easier.”

“Probably, but it’s too late for me.”

You didn’t tell him but you had the exact same thought.

Click here for the next part.

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x you #f1 angst

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