KINGSMAN
-> BNHA/FEM!READER Crime!AU
-> Masterlist: Part 1 -> Part 2 -> Part 3 -> Part 4 -> Part 5 -> Part 6 -> Part 7 -> Part 8
☀︎︎ Genre: Angst/Smut/Fluff -> Crime!AU
☀︎︎ Characters, currently: Tamaki Amajiki, Haruka Rei, Somura [L/N], [Y/N] [L/N], Katsuki Bakugou, Ryota Bakugou
☀︎︎ Warning(s), currently: Swearing, death, violence, gore, daddy issues, abandonment issues, child pornography is mentioned, rape is briefly mentioned, pornographic industry, drug industry, assasination, drugs are distributed, triggering childhood
☀︎︎ Side-note(s): This is in no way, shape, or form, used to condemn illegal and fucked-up themes such as child pornography, drug abuse, rape, murder, etc, or used to glorify the idea of a gang or mafia. They are mere key elements used for story-telling/fanfiction purposes. If these themes are triggering for any of the readers, I advise you to leave now. Thank you.
-> Synopsis -> You're a famous drug dealer from the Underground. The FBI, CIA and Interpol have joined forces 2 years ago, all of them with the same goal: take you down. Two years have gone by, with none of them being able to take you down. This year, the CIA sends two of their newest members to fly to Japan and take you down. Determined, good-willed and strong. The catch is?
Everyone has a dark past. <-
You were once happy. Content. Wriggling around in your own secure, primoridal pool of peace. Then, one day, for reasons beyond your capabilities and control, your body was repeatedly scrunched up, over and over, by the harsh cervix of your mother. Just like now, you put up a good fight, but you lost.
For the first time, but not the last.
You were born three days after your father's death.
“I can hear you! I can hear you! The entire world can, and the crowd that took down our beloved hero will hear all of us soon.”
“Musutafu! Musutafu! Musutafu!”
Your mother spent three days in the hospital, with the insomnia keeping her lifeless, depression sending her mind to the worst places imaginable, holding you under the soft glow of the television, watching the unfamiliar faces chant your father's name, on screen. Until the feelings of grief and the chills of horror gave way to numbness.
And then, without much warning, a poverty-stricken, onerous life, as a newly-found orphan. Father murdered by the hands of the gang you swore you would destroy, mother lulled to her deathbed by the hands of suicide.
It's not like you hated your situation, having spent a good portion of your childhood in safe hands. Safe, working with the little luck you had. There were kids just as unfortunate as you, scattered along the streets, begging for a crumb of what the more fortunate consumed as snacks. You weren't in safe hands, but it was much better than what you used to be accustomed to.
The day your mother died, you had no idea what was going on. Of course, you didn't. Writhing around in a cradle, having nothing to eat for the following day or so. Your wails costed nothing and held no outcome, thanks to your oblivious neighbours. Only when your aunt came to your mother's house for a coffee, were you found. Being drunken, idiotic and hectic, she didn't know what she was doing most of the time, but she wasn't heartless. No, she had it in her to take you in, raise you, clothe you, bathe you and feed another mouth for as long as she could. Of course, with her rehab, bills, alcohol addiction, and four children, home wasn't home for much longer.
At the age helpless age of seven, you used what little knowledge you had gained during your academic years to survive on the streets. The wrong side of the tracks, where only one name stamped itself into your brain, the only name that kept your up at night and moving during the day. Somura [L/N].
“Who the fuck is Somura?” Ignoring the strong vocabulary you had adapted to at such a young age, your one and only companion, one being much older than you were, couldn't believe it. That day, she, Haruka, kept a cigarette pressed between her lips, puffs of smoke making themselves home in your lungs, as she stared at you, having expected it to be a joke. The same day, you were given an explaination, realizing that the man who was the reason behind your mother's suicide, and the oldest town craze, was, in fact, your father.
Haruka held you close that night. Your broken sobs tugged at her heartstrings, as she realized just what she caused. Expecting the truth that she had broken to you to be a match in the sky, turned out to be a wildfire of emotions, fueled by the brutal truth you had allowed yourself to become exposed to. At the bare age of eight.
Soon, with little knowledge on basic things that normal children at the age of thirteen were aware of, you allowed Haruka to teach you everything she knew. Everything from simple maths, to Greek gods, leaping to gangs. Yes, gangs. Drugs and extortion, hacking and cheating the system, murder and assasination, sex and prostitution. She took it upon herself to teach you in explicit ways, introducing you to a knew way of life. One that seemed simple. At the time, of course. At the time, it only seemed like basic knowledge that everyon from the streets knew. Not the work everyone praised you for, not the work he was notorious forㅡjust street smarts.
It changed, only when you witnessed the unfamiliar faces gang up on Haruka.
You were in the same nighttime spot you always were with herㅡnestled in the corner of your own personal alleyway, sheer blankets stolen from the clea market being your only form of warmth. Of course, she gave them all to you, bearing with the bitter weather. That night, you stayed silent, feigning slumber when Haruka left you momentarily. You awaited her return as you watched from the comfort of your peeking blankets, nerves jumping at the slightest of sounds. You were hoping for the best, expecting the best.
Your expectations died down the second two warning shots were fired.
Right into her head.
It was the first time you felt the heat of a thousand worries fill the roots of your brain, prickling at your nervous system the way tears prickled your eyes. You clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling the cries that were desperate to hit the midnight sky. You sent prayers to the God you didn't believe in for Haruka's safety. Ones that were never answered. Once your unwanted suspicions of her death were confirmed, you began to pray for your safety. The second the footsteps began to shuffle, you knew it was hopeless. Once again, you hoped to put up another fight. A good one. A memorable one, like the one you put up during your birth.
Just like that one, you lost.
For the second time, but not the last.
“Boss, we should sell this one,” little did you remember from their conversation. You memorized their faces perfectly, well enough to scar yourself and prevent yourself from sleeping peacefully. Though, enough was remember for a storytime with your future grandchildren.
“I say we kill her on the spot,” the evident fear on your face kept you from moving, from saying the wrong things.
“No, no, take a close enough look at her,” relief would've flushed over you at the first two words, if it weren't for the men towering over you. The smirks on their faces were enough to tell you that you were in for it. “look familiar to you?”
“Looks like another orphan worth dying,” the man seemed psychopathic, with pleasured groans passing his lips as he watched tears trickle down your cheeks. “maybe, just maybe, is she good for some fun before we get to the real deal, don't'cha think?”
You shook your head profusely at his words, hoping that you would be offered some relief. An escape route that would surely drive you away from the ultimate demise you had pictured yourself facing. That was confirmed, only when one of the men shot their last bullet into the head of the psychopath. Didn't know his name, didn't care enough to know. His body, cold and sprawled out in front of you with blood leaking from his chest wound, and a disturbing tent in his pants, was a good enough answer for you.
“Somura's kid,” you minded the way the main man, whose authority radiated off him, his position being the leader, touched you, his fingernails caressing your jawline. Despite your state, you nodded, the tears following as they dripped down your chin and onto his fingers. “aren't you, doll?”
Doll, the nickname you were now used to. It felt like a trademark, carved for you, especially. He never called you by your real name, or your last name. It was always, “doll”.
That night, after finding out exactly who you were, the man and his followers welcomed you openly. Many times have you questioned him with, and still do, “why me?” You never received a solid answer, and you were convinced you weren't going to. To them, you were nothing but a pawn. That's how you started off, anyways. A pawn, in their collection of useful obstacles and bait.
You were given tasks, ones that went against everything Haruka taught you. “Just because you're from the streets, doesn't mean you're for the sheets,” she would tell you, partially joking, partially not. She loved the way it made you laugh, but she expected you to take it seriously, knowing what kind of people were out there. Creeps, pimps and freaks, ready to get their hands on a other victim. You promised to stay true to what she taught you, but there soon came a time where you had no choice but to go against it.
Sprawled out on a dirty mattress, stripped of your clothes, along with your dignity, at the age of sixteen, while a camera was focused in the explicit, disturbing sight. You cried yourself to sleep after realizing what had gone down. Illegal, disgusting and was definitely used for black marketing purposes. Not even the fake, sugar-coated words of assurance from the main man himself, Chief Toshi, could reverse what became a monthlyㅡweeklyㅡdaily, occurance.
The only good thing that came out of the lifelong trauma that you were given, was an alliance. An unexpected, but beneficial, nonetheless, alliance.
He was more experienced in the pornographic industry, due to being of-age. Everyone was given a consented chance to go at him for the cameras, right into the collections of horny, closeted men, and he was fine with it. It was a way for him to earn money, but it was also a hobby. He found you, alone and crying, in the same spot he found himself crying after the first time. No words or ice-breakers were necessary. He simply wrapped his arms around you, hugging your frail frame as you sobbed into his shoulder. Only later did you become close.
“I-I'm [Y/N] [L/N],”
“Y-Yeah, Chief S-Somura's daughter. I'm T-Tamami Amajiki, i-it's so nice to meet you.”
Your suspicions were only aroused when he approached you. Slowly, but surely, you felt yourself open up to him the same way he did to you. Everything was a lie, a manipulative scheme in the industry you became apart of. Amajiki was a rare breed, in your eyes. Picked off the streets, from an area worse than the one you were left to die in, with nobody but predators who saw him as nothing but a vulnerable little thing. Openly gay, father taken from him at birth, just like you. His mother was the one to get rid of him, having seen the feminine toys littered on his bedroon floor. He felt accepted in his current state, despite knowing that he wasn't special. He wasn't and was never gonna be “special.”
A playtoy, another hole for these desperate, closeted men to fill. Another person, that has fallen into the alluring hands of a masked industry, wanting nothing but to be safe. With a fed mouth, and satisfying life. Much like everyone else, he worked with what he had. Even if it wasn't much.
“What fucking industry are we even in?” You had never tried cigarettes, until you hit the age of sixteen. Amajiki successfully pulled you out of the pornography industry, putting up a solid argument with the gang. He earned a black eye in the process, but you swore that he would've made a great lawyer, with the way he effortlessly pulled you out of the business.
You took a drag, inhaling the fried tobacco that your lungs were now used to. Even if he smoked with you, Amajiki was convinced you were gonna die of lung cancer with how much you smoked. Not like you cared, after all. He huffed, stealing one of your cancer sticks, knowing he was in for a long ride.
“It's a shame you don't know,” you raised an eyebrow at his comment, his shy demeanor breaking into pieces. “aren't you phenomenal? Somura's daughter?” You shrugged, annoyance growing with every time somebody mentioned your deceased father. Hakura taught you everything you needed to know about him, and he was the reason behind everything. Not just your mother's suicide, or your life of poverty and heartache, having lost everyine, but your determination.
Every day was a day worth living, knowing you were always one step ahead of the bastards you worked for, mind as sharp as the Bermuda Triangle. Knowing the business that played with you, would soon be your toy.
“We're in the same business he was, aren't we?” Grey clouds of smoke stained your surroundings. Amajiki nodded eagerly. “It's simple, [Y/N],” you heard him sigh, blue hair brushing against your cheek as he leaned his head against your shoulder. “We live in a world where good and evil are decided by the line we aren't allowed to draw. We're in the same business your father expanded. A business that produces, that distributesㅡthe things that make up 'evil'.”
“That's why he died,” the navy-haired boy continued. “he died, because he allowed himself to fall into what people saw to be evil. Drugs, [Y/N]. Drugs, extortion, sex,” your blood ran cold at his words. The familiarity brought the Grim Reaper's touch to life as Hakura's words were reincarnated by your new friend.
“What's left for us, Tamaki?” You whispered quietly. You assumed your words would get lost, in the bitter air and sharp wind. They never did. You leaned into his touch as he tried his best to keep you in a focused position. It seemed impossible, with the way blood coursed into your head, a feeling of nausea swirling in the pit of your stomach. Almost as if you were dying. Almost as if you were dead.
Almost as if Hakura was the one you were talking to.
“We do what Somura would have wanted us to do.” Amajiki knew his name. You knew his name. Hakura knew his name. You lived in his name, breathed in his name. Took pride in what was left of his name. You were the only one left, that was able to.
“We finish the game he started.”
☽︎
It's been much too long since the touch of a gun has blessed your fingers. No, it's been a good minute. A minute too long. A minute taken away from your next move, your next step. No longer were you a pawn of the industry. No longer were you a small piece of their large game. How were you supposed to be?
It was your game, now.
“Boss, we should sell this one.” The same words that had been directed at you, were know filling your ears, six years later, by one of your comrades, as you stared down your victim. No longer did you feel weak, no longer did you feel helpless. The second your bells were replaced with rifles, torn clothes with leather, did you feel like the notorious idol your father was. Fallen from grace, into Hell.
The poor victim was unnamed, face unrecognizable with the tears leaking down his cheeks. You nearly sympathized with him, knowing you were in his spot, not too long ago. You trained your emotions to stay in the same spot you had molded them into. Cold-blooded, ruthless, nearing sociopathic. You leaned down, now face-to-face with the boy who tried to photograph the restricted scenery of your warehouse. One filled with drugs, much too many drugs, all away from the eye of the public.
“You gotta name, buddy?” It was the ray of hope that illuminated his eyes at your words. Hope soared through his body, the boy thinking you were going to sympathize with his fragile form. Despite the guns cocked at him by your partners, staring straight into his skull, and the confused looks you received, his hope was clear.
He sniffled, clothed hands wiping his tears away. “R-Ryota B-Bakugou,” you stiffened at the surname, but remained sickly-sweet. All-too nice for someone of your breed. You nodded, as if to assure him. The surname took you aback, forcing the next question out of your mouth.
“Any siblings, Ryota-kun?”
He nodded, too eagerly for your liking. It irked you, how oblivious he was. “Y-yes, ma'am. K-Katsuki Bakugou,” he seemed to be clever, but you had no use for children. “I-I was here because m-my brother's a photographer,” I know, you were desperate the scream at the little boy. “He a-asked me to take the photos for him.”
You were fuming. Not because he was lying, but because you knew he wasn't. From the split second he mentioned his brother, one you had your reasons for despising, you felt the rage bubbles give into your mindset, face twisting in an obvious look of pure hatred that soon consume you whole. Your comrades were concerned, wanting to ask if you were alright, all-in-all until Amajiki stopped them.
“Close your eyes, okay, Ryota-kun?” You were forcing them closed, even as he agreed helplessly, finger pressed against his eyelids as you steered clear of the urge to rip them out. Your eyes met Amajiki's, for a second, before you motioned towards the handgun with your free hand. His eyes widened, face drained of color as he grew pale. Never has he been exposed to the idea of taking a child's life. Not by the old industry, and not by yours.
He was in no position to argue, handing you the gun quietly. What was remorse, at this point? You wouldn't know remorse if it ran you over with a truck. Something you reminded yourself, as you pressed the nuzzle of the gun into the side of his head. He couldn't see, the poor boy couldn't see. But with a harsh click, you figured out that he could, in fact, scream. Louder than any of the screams you've been exposed to. Loud. Aggressive. Ear-piercing. Long?
Bang!
Definitely, not long.
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