Your gangster tom x reader IS SO INSANELY GOOD!! could you also do one where the reader is a, how do i say it😭😭 like shes in the industry aswell like a gangster theyre BOTH BADDIES🙏😊
SWEET POISON | TOM KAULITZ
before you were a name whispered through berlin’s streets, before tom kaulitz ever pressed a kiss to your throat or put a gun in your hand, you were just a girl trying to survive in a man’s world.
you came up through south kreuzberg — crooked deals, stiletto heels, bloodied knuckles under lace gloves. no gang claimed you. you were your own army. the men tried to use you, to own you, to break you.
none of them lasted long.
you were sharp. untouchable. you made your living seducing power out of the powerful and bleeding dry the ones who got cocky. your signature? never the same. sometimes they’d wake up in a hotel bed and all their secrets would be gone. sometimes they didn’t wake up at all.
and tom? he’d been running his empire for years.
quietly. efficiently. with a kind of cold, deliberate cruelty that made grown men fold with a single glance. his crew was tight. his circle tighter. twins, guns, and silence — that’s all he trusted. but there were whispers in his ear: of you.
“she’s good,” gustav told him once, flicking ash from a cigarette, “too good.”
tom didn’t believe in “too good.” he believed in leverage. in loyalty.
so he sent someone to recruit you.
you slit that man’s throat in a bathroom stall and mailed his Rolex back to tom in a velvet box.
and still, he was impressed.
you met for the first time in an abandoned art gallery — full of shattered glass and bad history. tom leaned against a pillar, dreads pulled back, heavy silver on his neck, cigarette burning slow. he didn’t flinch when you walked in with two pistols strapped to your thighs.
“you wanted me,” you said., “so talk.”
he smirked. “i respect the way you handled oliver.”
“then he deserved worse.”
you blinked. “you came here to flirt?”
“nah,” he said, “i came here to see if you were worth building something with.”
you studied him. tom kaulitz, berlin’s ghost. he looked like trouble, like everything you’d been trying to avoid since the day you first stole a blade from your father’s desk.
“you work with men who obey,” you said, “i’m not that.”
he stepped closer, voice like smoke. “good. i’m tired of obedience. i want chaos. control. fire. i want someone who’ll walk into a room and make men question everything.”
you didn’t say yes that night.
three weeks later, you showed up to his club wearing red and dragging behind you the severed ear of a man who tried to sell him out. you dropped it on his table with a smile.
“let’s build your empire,” you said, “but on my terms.”
“we’ll see.” he replied. but he was already gone for you.
the warehouse on the edge of the spree was silent when you arrived.
just you, a blade strapped to your thigh and a gun hidden in your jacket. you walked like you owned the night — hips loose, steps quiet, heart steady. tom was already there, leaning against a rusted metal crate, cigarette between his lips, eyes tracking you like a predator tracks a rival.
you smirked. “i like to be fashionably late.”
this was your first job together. nothing too flashy — just a loose end from a botched deal, some idiot who thought he could cross tom and still breathe. the plan was simple: you’d get close, he’d pull the trigger. teamwork. easy.
except nothing with you two was ever really easy.
you slipped into the backroom of a strip club with the target already melting under your gaze. he was pathetic. talking too much, laughing too hard, licking his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. he thought you were alone. he thought he had a chance.
you sat on his lap like sin, whispering into his ear, hands tracing his chest. and just when his guard dropped — when his hands wandered a little too far and his mouth got a little too eager —
you pulled the knife from your thigh.
“shh,” you said, pressing it to his throat, “it’s better if you don’t scream.”
“what the fuck —” he started, voice cracking.
no rush. no panic. just calm, casual destruction.
he didn’t even look at the man. he looked at you.
“you want it?” he asked, nodding toward the gun in his waistband.
“i’ve got him.” you said.
tom raised an eyebrow. “prove it.”
and just like that, the balance shifted.
you hesitated. not because you were afraid — but because you didn’t like being tested. you pressed the blade deeper, just enough to draw blood. the man whimpered. tom watched, still silent.
you realized then: this wasn’t a job. this was a test.
he wanted to see what kind of monster you were.
so you smiled and dragged the blade across his neck. clean. deliberate. never letting tom’s gaze go.
tom exhaled like he’d been holding his breath.
you turned to him, breathing steady. “was that good enough for you?”
he walked over. slowly. stopped inches from you. his hand reached up — not to touch you, but to tilt your chin up with a single finger.
lyou’re dangerous.” he said.
you scoffed. “and you think you can give it to me?”
“no,” he said, “i think i can take it from you.”
the tension between you tightened — thick as smoke, sharp as glass. you didn’t move. neither did he. the body on the floor cooled between you.
you hated that he made your pulse race.
later, in the car, you sat beside him — blood drying on your hands, adrenaline still humming under your skin.
“next time,” you said, “don’t test me.”
he glanced over, mouth curled into a smirk. “next time, don’t hesitate.”
and just like that, the war began.
because you were both built for power.
but him? he was born to rule.
and you were starting to wonder what it’d feel like to be ruled by him — just once.
just enough to see if he could really handle it.
the next deal was simple.
you had to go in first — alone — smooth things over with the bratva contact. you flirt, buy some time. tom waits outside. watches from the car, a ghost in the shadows, gun within reach. he doesn’t interfere unless it goes sideways.
he should’ve known. he should’ve seen it coming the second you stepped out of the car in that little black dress and cocky smile, chewing on a toothpick like you had nothing to lose. tom had warned you — “these guys aren’t stupid. don’t play too hard.”
twenty minutes later, he saw the panic flare inside the warehouse — one of the russians shoved you against the table, another pulled a pistol. he didn’t think. he moved.
two shots. one scream. chaos.
by the time tom stormed in, you already had a broken vodka bottle held to a guy’s throat, lip busted, hair falling over your face like war paint. your eyes lit up when you saw him.
“took your time.” you said, voice breathless.
tom didn’t answer. didn’t look at the bodies. didn’t care.
he grabbed your wrist — hard — yanked the bottle from your hand, and dragged you out the back door like a misbehaving child.
“the fuck is your problem?” you snapped, stumbling after him in heels, blood drying on your hands.
he slammed the car door behind you, peeled off down the road, knuckles white on the wheel.
“they had it coming.” you muttered, licking the blood off your bottom lip.
but you saw it — the way his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking, the heat rising behind his cold stare. he was silent all the way to his place. dark apartment on the top floor of a converted factory. gunmetal walls. heavy black curtains. a wolf’s den.
he didn’t say a word until the door slammed shut behind you.
before you could speak, his hand was on your throat — tight, bruising, firm. your back hit the wall.
his face was inches from yours. “you could’ve been fucking killed.”
you smiled, slow, shameless. “but i wasn’t.”
“you think this is a game?” he said, voice low, dangerous, “you think i won’t bury every man in that room just to keep you alive?”
“i knew you’d come.” you whispered.
“you shouldn’t have needed me.”
your hand slid up his arm, nails grazing the veins there. your breath was fast, chest rising against his. “but you like it. when i make you lose control.”
his lips were at your ear now. “you don’t want me to lose control, schatz.”
a pause. electricity crackling in the space between your bodies.
you leaned forward, just a little. voice almost soft now. “i like it… when you get like this.”
“like what?” he asked, quiet. almost a threat.
you looked him dead in the eyes. “like you own me.”
the air shifted. then he kissed you.
it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was hot, and deep, and messy. teeth clashing. breath stolen. a war you didn’t want to win. his hand still held your throat as he kissed you like it was the only language he knew — like your mouth was the only thing that had ever shut him up.
you moaned softly into it. and he grinned against your lips like he’d known all along.
when you finally pulled away, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless, he whispered:
“next time you try something that reckless… i’ll fuck the attitude out of you.”
you smiled. “can’t wait.”
the kind of job that leaves your knuckles bruised and your breath thin. blood on your ribs, gunpowder in your hair, and silence hanging thick between you and tom like fog.
the car ride back to his place was quiet.
not angry quiet, just… heavy.
like something was about to shift.
you didn’t look at him. not until the engine cut off and the night wrapped around the building like a shroud.
“come upstairs.” he said.
you hesitated. swallowed. then nodded.
you followed him up the concrete steps — boots echoing in time with his. he held the door open for you. didn’t speak. just watched you from behind his lashes like he was afraid you’d vanish.
inside, the lights were low. warm. golden. the place smelled like tobacco, leather, and something faintly sweet — maybe you.
you kicked off your boots, peeled off your jacket, revealing the blood-streaked tank top beneath. tom watched you from the kitchen, lighting a cigarette with one hand and grabbing a bottle of water with the other.
you expected him to make a comment. tease you. flirt.
instead, he held out the water. “you’re shaking.”
you blinked. “no i’m not.”
his eyes softened. “yes, you are.”
you took the bottle. drank. didn’t look at him.
his hands were on your face. not rough. not demanding. just… there. steady. his thumbs brushed under your eyes like he was memorizing the shape of you.
“you scared me tonight.” he whispered.
he never said things like that.
“because you didn’t flinch when he pointed that gun at you.”
you smirked. “why would i?”
he leaned in, his voice dropped. “because i’ve got something to lose now.”
and just like that, the walls cracked.
your mouth was on his before either of you could think. it wasn’t rushed — it was deep. slow. hands gripping his shirt, his neck, his jaw. your body pressing into his like gravity had finally won.
he lifted you gently — not like a trophy, but like you were sacred. he walked you to the bedroom, lips never leaving yours. the way he kissed you… it wasn’t how killers kiss.
it was how men in love kiss.
that night, he didn’t rush you.
he backed you against the bedroom door, hands braced beside your face. not touching yet. just looking. like he needed to memorize you before the mask fell.
you swallowed. “say what?”
you didn’t answer — you kissed him again instead. harder this time. hungrier.
he groaned against your mouth and finally touched you. fingers curling around your waist, pulling you into him like gravity had been waiting for this moment since the beginning of time.
when his hands slipped beneath your shirt, they didn’t rush. they were reverent. slow. like he knew what it meant for you to let him this close — to take off armor and offer him skin.
he lifted the fabric over your head and stared.
he looked at you like a man at confession.
you reached for his hoodie, tugging it upward. he let you take it off. let you see the sharp lines of his chest, the ink curled around his ribs, the scars that told stories he’d never speak aloud.
“you’re beautiful.” you murmured, almost surprised.
his throat flexed. “so are you.”
you backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. he let you climb into his lap, straddling his thighs, hands in his braids, your lips pressed to the side of his neck.
“i’m not gentle.” you whispered.
“i know,” he said, “i’m not either. but i want to be.”
he flipped you carefully, laying you beneath him. his mouth moved from your jaw to your collarbone, your chest, your stomach — kissing like he had all night to worship every inch of you.
and when your body arched beneath him, he smiled.“tell me what you need.”
“touch me.” you breathed out, taking his hand and guiding it between your thighs.
his lips parted and he didn’t ask any other question, just begin to move his finger inside you, panties moved aside.
you moaned, throwing your head back as your hands traveled up your own body, caressing it as he watched you silently.
soon he added a second finger, and your voice had never been that high. you kept repeating his name, over and over, like a spell.
he lowered down, taking your nipple in his mouth and sucking on it, making you shiver.
your hands found his braids and you tugged on them as you pressed him more against your flesh.
he looked up at you, slowly tracing his tongue around it before kissing you.
you came, moaning against his mouth and biting his lower lip as your hips kept searching for his fingers.
that seemed to make him crazy.
his fingers found the buckle of his belt, pulling it loose in one practiced motion. the sound — leather sliding through denim — hit you like thunder. he kicked off his jeans with low curses under his breath, all while watching you like you were something holy.
and then he was back over you, bare and burning.
he cupped your face like he was trying to ground himself. like he was making sure this was real.
“you sure?” he whispered.
you nodded, eyes locked to his. “tom,” you breathed, “i’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
he didn’t say another word.
he kissed you — deep, slow, desperate — as his hips met yours and he finally slid into you, filling you all at once. the breath you let out wasn’t a gasp — it was a surrender.
he groaned against your mouth. “fuck, baby.”
his forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your thighs, your hips, your waist like he needed to hold onto every piece of you or lose himself completely.
you clung to him just as tight.
“move,” you whispered, “please.”
his rhythm was urgent, but careful — every thrust deliberate, every sound you made etched into his memory. his mouth never left your skin, trailing kisses over your neck, your chest, your shoulder.
the heat between you was wildfire — fast and consuming.
you were tangled in sheets and sweat and whispered curses, neither of you letting go. every time you moaned his name, he moved harder. deeper. like he wanted to feel your heartbeat wrapped around his.
“look at me.” he said, voice rough and shaking.
you did and in that moment, with your eyes locked and your bodies joined, it wasn’t just about sex.
it was about everything you’d never said. everything you were both too afraid to want.
and he gave it to you — every inch of control, every piece of devotion — until you shattered underneath him.
he followed a heartbeat later, biting down on your shoulder, body trembling against yours.
when it was over, he didn’t move away.
he stayed wrapped around you, breathing like he’d just come back to life.
“i’m never letting you go.” he said into your neck.
you smiled, weak and honest. “good.”
the morning after was warm.
the kind of warmth that didn’t come from sunlight — but from still limbs wrapped in a sheet, skin pressed to skin, silence soft as breath. tom lay behind you, one arm across your waist, the other tangled in your hair. his nose brushed your shoulder, and every so often, you’d feel the lazy trail of his fingers down your ribs, your hip, like he couldn’t stop touching you even in sleep.
his hoodie was still on you — oversized, smelling like him, sleeves too long. your legs were bare, curled up beneath his, and for the first time in months… maybe years… you felt still.
just a man who’d laid himself down beside you like he belonged there.
he opened his eyes slowly, lids heavy. and when he saw you, he smiled.
not the cocky one, the real one.
“morning, baby.” his voice was rough. wrecked from the night before.
you leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “you look stupid when you smile.”
he grinned wider. “you like it.”
he rolled you onto your back, his body moving over yours again, but softer this time. slower. it wasn’t about taking anymore. it was about staying.
you kissed lazily. deeply. like there was nothing else to do.
and then — the world snapped back.
his phone buzzed across the room.
the third time, it didn’t stop.
“fucking hell.” he muttered, dragging himself up, bare feet hitting the cold floor. he grabbed the phone off the dresser, answered without looking.
you watched from the bed.
the second you saw the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his back tensed — you knew.
“how much?” he said, voice low.
his jaw locked. “are you fucking kidding me?”
then — the sound of glass and metal cracking. you jumped slightly as he hurled the phone at the wall, shattering it in half.
he stood still, breathing like he’d just sprinted a mile.
you sat up in the bed, legs crossed, hoodie sliding off one shoulder. “what happened?”
his eyes were wild. blood-hot. he couldn’t even speak.
he finally looked at you.
“it’s that prick from antwerp. stefan. the one we let walk last time. he took the money and ran. seventy thousand. gone.”
you blinked slowly. “and breaking your phone helps… how?”
“i swear to god, baby, i’m gonna find him myself and—”
you stood up, walking toward him. barefoot. calm. a storm in still water.
“no,” you said, “you’re not.”
he looked at you like you’d slapped him. “what?”
you stepped closer. “we don’t lose control over rats. we cut off their tails.”
his chest rose and fell hard. he wanted to argue — you saw it in his jaw, in the fire in his eyes — but he didn’t.
you lifted a hand, rested it gently on his chest. “think straight. be smarter.”
he didn’t speak, so you did.
“we’ve got eyes on every side of this city. all you have to do is give the word.”
you turned away from him, grabbed your own phone off the nightstand. scrolled. dialed.
“leo,” you said when the line picked up, “yeah. we’ve got a problem. that man from antwerp, remember him? yeah, he stole from tom. find out where he lives and get it back. now.”
tom stared at you, like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.
“you’re scary when you do that.” he muttered.
you smiled faintly. “you like it.”
“fuck yeah, i do.” he stepped forward, slipped his arms around your waist from behind, pressed his lips to your neck.
“you keep me sane.” he said.
you were still in the bedroom, the wreckage of the shattered phone in the corner, your fingers lazily wrapped around a coffee mug tom had handed you ten minutes earlier.
your gaze was razor sharp, tracking him with the ease of someone who’s seen worse mornings and survived them all.
then — your phone lit up.
leo. you answered instantly, putting it on speaker.
“we’ve got him,” leo’s voice rasped on the other end, the sound of wind and movement behind him, “motherfucker was trying to book a train to rotterdam with a fake passport. real sloppy.”
a muffled voice could be heard in the background. desperate. trembling.
“please — please, i didn’t know they’d come back so soon — i swear, i didn’t — just let me—”
you could hear the slap — sharp and flat. the man went silent.
leo chuckled darkly. “he says he doesn’t have the money anymore. swears he can ‘get it back.’ wants time.”
you didn’t look at tom. you didn’t have to. you could feel the heat radiating off him.
he stepped closer to the phone, voice low and lethal.“put him on.”
there was rustling. a pause.
his voice cracked like a teenager’s. fear leaked through every syllable.
“listen to me,” tom said, slowly. coldly. “you had one job. one chance. and you fucked it.”
“i— i didn’t mean to— i just— i didn’t think you’d notice—”
“i notice everything,” tom snapped, voice still somehow quiet, “and now you’re mine. do you understand that?”
the man whimpered. “please don’t kill me. just give me time, i swear i’ll get it back—”
“fine.” tom said, and your brows lifted slightly.
the man paused, confused. “wait— you mean it?”
“i mean,” tom continued, “you have three days. seventy-two hours. and until then?”
you met his gaze, gave him a single nod.
he turned back to the phone. “leo’s going to follow you. everywhere. sleep outside your door. watch you piss. breathe down your neck. and the second you do anything stupid — blink too fast, text someone, look over your shoulder — he puts a bullet in your knee.”
“do you fucking understand me?”
tom hung up without another word.
then he turned to you, eyes still hard.
you sipped your coffee slowly. “you let him live.”
you tilted your head. “mercy, or message?”
he smirked, finally. “both.”
you walked toward him, pressed your lips lightly to his jaw. “that’s my boy.”
the night started like any other.
the club was closed for the night.
lights dimmed. backroom cleared. just tom, you, and leo in that velvet-drenched space behind the glass doors — the one built for business that never reached the books.
and now… the man who owed seventy thousand euros stood in front of you, shaking.
slick mouth, slicker hands. always thought he was smarter than the room. and now?
his face was swollen. bruised. split lip bleeding. shirt stained. hands trembling behind his back where leo had zip-tied him just tight enough to remind him what pain was.
leo shoved him forward. he stumbled.
you sat perched on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, dress riding high. tom stood behind you, arms folded, silent and still. a shadow with teeth.
you tilted your head at stefan, almost amused. “look what the cat dragged in.”
stefan coughed hard, spit blood onto the floor.
“you look good,” you said, smirking.,“for a rat.”
just looked between you and tom, sweat dripping down his temple. you could feel the fear coming off him like smoke.
you slid off the desk, walking slow.
heels clicking, dress brushing your thighs.
“you remember me, don’t you?” you asked, voice soft, lilting, “you remember how good i was at getting you to talk.”
he flinched when you touched his jaw, brushing a knuckle along the bruise.
“you liked it.” you whispered, mouth close to his ear. “didn’t you? liked how soft i got just to make you feel safe.”
he looked at you — and for a second, you saw it flicker. the memory. the want.
his face hardened. he shook his head.
“not this time.” he croaked. “i know what you do. i know what you are.”
you smiled slowly. “do you?”
he reached into his coat pocket — slowly, carefully — and pulled out a black plastic bag.
leo moved to stop him, but tom lifted a hand.
“it’s all there,” he said, “every cent.”
you took the bag instead, walked it over to the desk, and dumped the contents onto the polished wood — stacks of cash, rubber-banded and dirty, but there.
you counted one. flipped through it with your thumb.
“seems legit.” you murmured.
his silence was louder than any gunshot.
stefan looked up, breath shaking. “i gave it back. i did what you said.”
“what do you think, baby?” you asked, sweet. teasing. “do we let him go? second chances and all that?”
tom walked toward stefan slowly.
he looked him in the eye.
and then he pulled the gun from under his jacket and shot him once — straight to the heart.
the sound echoed off the walls.
stefan dropped like a stone, blood blooming under him like spilled wine.
you stepped forward slowly and crouched beside the body. leaned in. and pressed a kiss to stefan’s still-warm cheek.
“should’ve walked away when you had the chance.” you whispered.
when you stood, tom was staring at you.
“what?” you asked, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “he liked me. figured he deserved a goodbye.”
he didn’t answer right away.
“don’t do that again.” he said, voice low.
“kiss another man,” he growled, “dead or not.”
your smile curved like a knife. “are you jealous, tommy?”
you walked toward him, slow. smug. dragging a finger down his chest.
“you kill them,” you murmured, “i make them talk. that’s how this works.”
“you don’t have to touch them.” he snapped.
his hand gripped your waist, pulled you into him hard. your breath hitched.
“don’t care,” he whispered, voice sharp at your throat, “next time you try to be cute for another man — i’m reminding you who you belong to. right then and there.”
you leaned into his mouth. “promise?”
and for a second — the room went quiet again.
you tilted your chin up, challenging. “gonna punish me for it?”
he didn’t answer — not with words.
he grabbed your hand, rough and fast, and pulled you through the back hallway of the club without another look at leo or stefan’s blood cooling on the floor. the red lights made everything feel more dangerous, more cinematic. his grip never loosened.
by the time he shoved the private door open and kicked it shut behind you, you were already smiling.
“jealousy looks good on you.” you whispered, backing into the room.
his voice was low. possessive. ruined.
he cornered you against the wall. one hand flat against it beside your head. the other still gripping your wrist.
“you think this is funny?” he asked, chest pressed to yours. “you think you can fuck with me?”
you leaned up, brushing your lips along the sharp line of his jaw. “i think it’s hot.”
he dragged your face to his.
“you’re mine.” he whispered.
you smiled. “i always was.”
and when he kissed you — bruising and deep, all tongue and teeth and punishment — it wasn’t out of lust.
it was out of possession.
because even though you were dangerous, powerful, untouchable — you’d always let him have the last word when it came to you.
