You: *casually Lifting Mjolnir* So, How Does This Thing Work?

y’all

a mutual of mine

suddenly has posts on their blog

with links to “find women to have sex with”

my mutual is NOT POSTING THESE

tumblr just got even worse

every single person who reblogs this

every

single

person

will get “doot doot” in their ask box

nice

Me when I saw people bullying Peter Parker in this deleted scene of Spiderman Homecoming

Petals & Bullets - Mob!Bucky AU

For as long as Y/N can remember, she has been sold in the black market as a sex slave. This time, the purchase is intercepted by a group of men in black. Their leader, a man with a silver gleaming arm, is the boss of the most feared mafia in NYC. Sucked into the world of drugs, guns and money, Y/N finds out more about her past than she bargained for. As her past and her family’s mistakes catch up on her, she finds herself falling for the man next to her with piercing blue eyes and a taste for violence.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Written Playlist //  Spotify link

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, rape, drugs. There’s a lot in here ok. Smut at some point, torture.

Teaser

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Omfg, My MUM WATCHES THEM AND THEN TELLS MY STEP-DAD HOW SHE IS GONNA KILL HIM NEXT

does anyone else’s mom or dad just watch murder/crime shows all the time or is it just mine

Type “thanos” into Google and everything will disappear

Killer Queen | Part Three

Killer Queen masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x 141!reader Word Count: 2.2k Chapter warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, 141, retired (not for long) soldier reader, reader's callsign is Tiger, enemies to lovers (but currently just enemies), referenced past trauma and capture, allusions to forced prostitution (past), graphic injury detail/description, reader suffers from night terrors, swearing, this series will be significantly darker than my other works

Your eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, just enough to make out where the walls are. Where the low ceiling meets the edges. There's no window and the floors are bare concrete, exuding an inescapable chill that permeates your skin and bones.

The metal of the chains bite into your ankles and wrists; the bones more prominent that usual after weeks of starvation and exhaustion. You can hair faint screams beyond the single, barred door; the voices of your team echoing through the halls. Haunting your every waking moment.

There's a man in the corner, armed with a rifle. He watches you day and night - unsympathetic and unmoved.

He will be the first to die, you think. It's a though that keeps you sane. You cling to it like a buoy on a stormy sea.

The door opens and another man enters. He carries with him a bundle of cloth, tucked under one arm. You know what's in the bundle before he even opens it - the rows of polished blades sheathed within. As he takes a seat opposite you, he unrolls it onto the crude wooden table, little more than a barstool. And, as he sets about his daily work, he mentions a man; one who you will eventually be taken to.

Makarov.

You'd met him before; knew his particular brand of cruelty.

After all, he'd had to go through so much trouble to find you again.

You awake to the sound of shrieking. To the taste of copper bitter in your mouth.

It takes a second for you to register that the screams are your own.

Someone is trying to get through the door, but it's been locked and deadbolted on your side. It seems like they've realised that, as the frantic, pounding knocks give way to heavy thuds like someone is trying to break it down entirely. They're shouting too - trying to ask you if you are okay, but you're far beyond words.

You're a sobbing, shivering wreck when the door finally bows inwards, splinting and falling away from the frame. Four men are standing in the hallway, illuminated by the harsh ceiling spotlights. It's an ominous sight that only serves to make your panic worsen. You try to tell them that you're fine, but you're paralysed - frozen under the too-tight sheets.

"Tiger?" the concerned voice comes from the doorway, the men huddled there unsure as to whether or not they should enter your den.

"Go. Away." The words leave your gritted teeth, sweat drenching your skin. The screaming has stopped but your chest still shakes violently, limbs leaden with an invisible, impossible weight.

There's a pause. The four figures remain there.

"Are you sure?"

You screw your eyes shut, unable to calm your own body. You feel pathetic, reduced to a cowering wreck in front of these virtual strangers. Even worse: in front of Ghost.

"Leave," you hiss.

When your eyes open moments later, you home in on the one man still loitering in the doorway. You'd recognise that body anywhere; the broad, sloping shoulders and the tapered, masculine waist.

"Ghost," you growl, "I said leave."

The shadowy outline stays. Instead of doing as he's asked for once in his life, he asks, "You still get the nightmares?"

You don't humour him with an answer.

Regardless, he carries on, crossing the threshold of your room. The door lies, battered and useless, on the floor. "I thought you were still seeing that therapist Laswell suggested? What's the point of them if they don't help you? I thought by now you'd be..." He trails off absentmindedly.

"Better?" you supply, the word drenched in bitter sarcasm. "I'll never be better, Simon. You made sure of that."

"Don't say that name here," he snaps, instantly on the defensive. It brings you a small amount of comfort to think that he feels even half of the tension you do. "Didn't I teach you anything?"

"You said a lot of shit." You blink. "I ignored most of it."

The sound of footsteps fills your ears, heavy as they step over the fallen door. You look up at him as he moves to stand at your bedside, staring down at you. His face is covered by that stupid mask again - the cold, hard plastic shell concealing any hint of emotion from sight.

"What do you mean I 'made sure of that'?"

You frown up at him. "Huh?"

"You said that I made sure you'd never be better. Explain it."

You want nothing more than for him to leave. You're tired, drenched in sweat and pinned to the bed by the scratchy, standard-issue sheets. The door of your suite - the one flimsy layer of privacy in the barracks - has been smashed off of its hinges, and it's most likely the early hours of the morning based on the lack of sunlight coming through the drawn curtains; i.e. not the time to be having this conversation.

The best time, in fact, would be never.

Ghost taps his foot impatiently and you sigh, rolling your eyes. "You got me to trust you and then you left without a word. You went out of your way to reach out to other LTs in the area and tell them not to work with me. You poisoned the well; you made doing my job impossible." A beat of silence passes before you continue on, letting your words settle in the air between you. With every memory, you pick up steam - tone steadily rising in volume. "You moved out of our house and said nothing. I couldn't pay the mortgage so I had to sell it, and I couldn't find my family's new phone numbers or details after they were moved for their own protection, so I was completely on my own and scared shitless."

There are tears in your eyes now, but you refuse to let them fall. Not for him. "I got back in touch with Laswell. She tried her best to help me; to have me moved into sheltered housing because I couldn't get my head on right to look for a new flat. And then I..."

Your mouth feels like it's full of cotton. Throat so dry that you could choke on air.

Never in your mind had you thought you would be here with him, finally able to confront him for everything he did back then. In all honesty, you would have been happy to never see him again. To never have to dig up the horrible, brutal depths of your failures and lay them out in the open - raw, bloody, and exposed - for him to pick through and examine.

"I broke down. Completely." Your hands clench into fists under the covers. "You ruined my fucking life, Ghost. More than Makarov ever could."

"Don't you dare fucking say that." Ghost's voice thunders through the room, his thick, Manchester accent rumbling against the gravel of his tone. You turn away from him, rolling in bed to face the wall. Your refusal to acknowledge him only seems to piss him off all the more. "You were the one who ruined us. Not me. You were the one who chose to lie again and again, and ruin the trust between us. You."

Anger pounds in your ears, rising to a crescendo of boiling rage. You're up on your feet before you know it, squaring up to the man you once loved with all of your icy, savage heart.

Practically snarling in his face, you shove him square in the chest, crowding him against your desk. So unlike himself, he takes it - takes your wrath and allows himself to be backed into a corner.

"You're so full of shit, Simon!" you hiss, no longer caring that you're using his real name within earshot of the others. "You left me! You did the one thing you promised me you'd never do. You ran away when it all got too real. And now you have the calls to call me a coward."

At that, he pushes back slightly, straightening up until you have no choice but to ease back a few steps. Snarling, he retorts, "I left before you had the chance. You made it clear that you were putting distance between us - I was just doing you a favour."

A laugh leaves your lips, the sound bordering on hysterical. Even he looks a little taken aback by it.

"A favour?" you shriek. Someone opens a door down the hall. "Get the fuck out!"

Ghost's jaw slackens under the mask, but you shove him again. He stumbles back.

You push him until he's out in the hallway, blocking the doorway with your body so he can't get back inside. "Once this is all over, I hope I never fucking see you again. I mean it, Ghost - you're fucking dead to me."

He stands there, his stance almost... accepting? You don't know if that's the right word to describe it. He looks so defeated. And when he finally manages words, all he says is, "I'll get someone to fix the door first thing."

As you watch his broad back retreating down the hallway, you can't help but feel a pang of sadness. A stab of pain at what could have been had he just stayed.

Before you turn back into your own room, your eyes meet the weathered ones of Price. He's standing further down the hall, eyeing you with something akin to pity. And then he closes his door, leaving you completely alone once again.

It's safe to say that you don't fall asleep before sunrise.

The next morning, when you return from your morning run, the door is fixed. There's a new lock too - better than the built-in one that was there before - and it brings a small smile to your face.

You don't know if it was Simon or Price, but someone had clearly taken the time to put it there. You highly doubted that the Chuckle Brothers had done it - they'd taken to steering clear of you since you blew up on MacTavish.

Over the next few days, you avoid your new teammates like the plague, and they return the favour. If they hear your night terrors, they do you the solid of ignoring them.

It's a rainy Tuesday when Laswell finally summons you all, declaring that they've finally found something that might help you track down Makarov.

Some small, selfish part of you almost hopes that you never find him; that he'll just drop off the face of the Earth again, but stay gone this time. That he'll fall through the cracks and wind up someplace where he can't hurt anyone. Where he can't hurt you.

But another part of you - the bloody, seething mess that crawled out of that militia base years ago - she savours it. The methodical planning that's been ticking over in the back of your head for years now; keeping you going in the quiet moments.

You sit stiffly in your preferred seat - in the corner, facing the rectangular meeting room's only entrance and exit. You were the first to arrive, followed shortly after by Captain Price. Every once and a while, he makes fleeting eye contact with you, always being the first to break it.

"You really did a number on him, you know?" he says after a few ticks of the wall-mounted clock.

The words surprise you. "I'm sorry?"

The captain clears his throat, shifting in his crappy plastic chair to better face you. "He never said why he was so bent out of shape when he came back to us from leave. We thought it was the same reason he wears the mask; thought it was about Mexico." He eyes you warily before tacking on the next part. "Soap always reckoned it was about a woman."

You just roll your eyes.

"Just never could have predicted it would be the infamous Tiger." Leaning back in his chair, he takes off his hat and rests it on the table in front of him, a bitter chuckle leaving his lips. "You know, there's files on you that even I don't have the clearance to access."

"If you have any questions pertinent to us working together, I'm sure Laswell can make some arrangements for you," you reply, tone devoid of any emotion. You're used to this - to superior officers getting curious about your closed past. "Or, better yet, you could just ask me."

Price's expression shifts, seemingly shocked that you've called his bluff. "I... I don't think that's entirely necessary, ..."

Watching him struggle to find the name he's never received, you out him out of his misery. "You can call me T, if that helps."

It beats being solely referred to as Tiger, and you're sure as shit not about to tell any of them your legal name. Not even Simon knew that.

"Alright then, T. I think that if I don't have clearance, there's a reason for it. I'd also like the think that anything I find out about you will be done on your terms, in your own time; that it will come with your respect. Does that sound alright with you?"

You nod slowly, feeling like it's some sort of trick.

It doesn't take long after that for everyone else to file in, taking various seats around the table. Sergeant Garrick fills the seat beside you, regarding you with a somewhat-awkward smile and nod combo.

By the end of the meeting, all you have is a few more possible leads, but it's more than you started with. MacTavish and Garrick are tasked with heading to Spain - Makarov's suspected current hideout - to do some recon work, and Price and Ghost are going to Russia to interrogate some of Makarov's captured allies.

Leaving you.

"I need you to do something important for me," Laswell asks, deep blue eyes locking onto yours. Immediately, your back straightens. "There's an asset in London. She used to be... one of Makarov's girls."

You know what that means. The sea of disturbed expressions around the table tell you that you aren't the only one.

To be one of his girls was to be a prisoner; a slave in his harem. You would know; for a brief time before you joined the military, you were one of them.

"We have her under a new identity, in hiding, but there's a few questions that she might be able to answer for us. I thought that if anyone here knows the right approach, it would be you."

You can feel Ghost's gaze heavy on your side profile. Feel the heat of his eyes burning holes in you as you swallow, nodding slowly.

Solemnly, you hold Laswell's cautious gaze. "When do I go?"

a/n: hi guys, I just wanted to say a big thank you for the continued support on this work/my others! please do feel free to request to be added to any taglist :) also, the next thing I'm working on will be the next part of Unlikely Friendships, so if you are interested in that, please hold tight! - much love, lapetitelapin <3

Taglist: @420-hun @honestlymassivetrash

“There were dragons when I was a boy.”