#smear tactics

[all-doggirls-go-to-heaven-2]

It is wild seeing people that were VERY VERY quiet when I got publicly raked over the coals for defending trans women in a callout post in a very public server for trans women who NOW go out of their way to defend other women they dont know accused of the exact same. Not as easy when you have to confront your friends abt it, right? It would be much easier to choose to coddle the one doing the accusing instead of me. Like you did! Remember when you did that?I still remember who shot me a msg of support during those times and you were not among them, honey. Just because it was slightly before it became a faux pas.

Stop acting like you're the bravest tranny warrior in the world. You couldnt help people that were by your side.

[ms-boogie-man]

Umm…

… I think at this point, you are either a criminal, a patriot, or a stooge

Enough evidence has been shown and proven by we constitutionalists. You are either going to use the brains God gave you, or you are going to remain deluded and in denial of truth. Over the last 23 years, 85% of America has awakened to at least some of the truth re: how criminals in our government are trying to deceive us and destroy our constitutional republic. The 15% or so who wish to avoid truth are operating on ego. Every war or other variety of dispute you have ever heard of was started by, funded by, and profited from by global banking cartels. These same cartels own 97% of our government, and President Donald John Trump is not one whom they own … and I will leave it there yo

Angie/Maddie🦇❥✝︎🇺🇸

[anthroxlove]

[eclipsecrowned]

FINDING A POST THAT SO SUCCINCTLY SUMMARIZES A DRAMA VORTEX I GOT SUCKED INTO SEVERAL WEEKS AGO --

[raccoonb0y]

I forgot about a happy Halloween post

But yippee costume

[sophsweet]

Chemtrails - More Corporate Deflection onto Climate Science?

This could be a revelation. What about if fact checkers are to censor, silence or shadow ban speculation about hidden agendas and corporate activity, which we end up believing is about climate research?

Since the clear blue skies during lockdown, I’ve seen many people posting a “tippex sky” (Sonia Poulton) of aeroplane trails criss-crossing the skies. In my mind, any true story creates a complete picture with its components fitting together like a puzzle. How do we gather information? It becomes difficult when facts are drowned out by the din of everyone’s opinions. These tended to be stated…

[happy74827]

Bruised Shadows

[Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: While coming home from another grueling job, Bucky found himself ambushed by the unrelenting warmth of his neighbor’s compassion.

WC: 3002

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Grumpy x Sunshine (fav trope fr)

I decided to post one of my drafts since it has been decades since I’ve posted last… whoops 👀

『••✎••』

Bucky Barnes didn’t notice the blood until it dripped onto the scuffed toe of his boot. A crimson bead, sharp against the black leather, caught the dim hallway light as he trudged toward his apartment. He swiped the back of his flesh hand across the bridge of his nose, smearing the trickle, and grunted. Didn’t hurt. Barely registered. The serum had a way of dulling the sting of split skin and bruised bone—nothing a few hours wouldn’t knit back together. The ache in his knuckles from the job, though? That lingered, a quiet reminder of the fists he’d thrown and the unconscious bodies he’d left sprawled in some warehouse two states over.

The duffel bag slung over his vibranium shoulder thumped rhythmically against his hip, heavy with gear he hadn’t bothered to unpack. Another day, another mess cleaned up with Sam, for which he took most of the credit, but Bucky didn’t care much about the public eye—just the doing. It kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. Kept the nightmares at bay, if only for a night.

He was three steps from his door, key already fished from his pocket, when he heard it—your voice, soft as a damn spring breeze, cutting through the stale air of the hallway.

"James?"

He froze but didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew it was you—only you called his name like that like it wasn’t a curse or a weapon. Like it was just… his. He clenched his jaw, the ache in his bruised eye socket pulsing faintly as he willed you to keep walking. You lived two doors down, always too close for comfort, always too you—bright and warm and everything he wasn’t. He’d spent months dodging the way you lingered in his trajectory, all soft smiles and small talk he didn’t deserve.

"James, oh my God, what happened to your face?"

There it was—concern, thick and unfiltered, wrapping around him like a blanket he didn’t ask for. He turned his head just enough to catch you in his peripheral, and Christ, there you were—hair a little messy from whatever late-night project you’d been buried in, eyes wide and shining with that unbearable kindness. You were clutching a mug, steam curling from it, probably tea or something equally gentle. You looked like an angel, and he felt like the devil himself standing there, bloodied and hulking in his tactical gear.

"It’s nothing," he muttered, voice low and rough, turning back to his door. "I’m fine."

"You’re bleeding." Your footsteps pattered closer, too quick for him to escape, and suddenly you were right there—close enough that he could smell the lavender on you, feel the warmth radiating off your skin. His metal arm twitched, instinct screaming at him to pull away before he tainted you somehow. "Your nose, your eye—James, that’s not nothing."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, wincing when it stung the raw skin. "I’ve had worse. Go back to your tea."

But you didn’t. Of course, you didn’t. You never listened when he tried to brush you off, and it drove him up the damn wall—how you’d barrel through his gruff exterior like it was tissue paper. You set the mug on the floor—carefully because you were always careful—and grabbed his sleeve, tugging with a strength that surprised him for someone so soft. "No, you’re coming with me. I’m not letting you bleed all over your apartment when I can help."

"You?" He arched a brow, the bruised one, and regretted it when it pulled at the swelling. "What’re you gonna do, stitch me up?"

"If I have to." Your tone was firm and stubborn, and he hated how it made his chest tighten. "Come on."

He could’ve pulled away. He could’ve shrugged you off with a flick of his arm—vibranium or flesh. It didn’t matter; you were no match for him. He was a goddamn super soldier, a walking weapon, and you were… what? A civilian with a bleeding heart and a brain too sharp for your good. He’d seen you solve crossword puzzles in two minutes flat and heard you ramble about obscure history facts when he’d lingered too long in the laundry room. You weren’t an Avenger, weren’t SHIELD—just a woman who’d wormed her way into his life with cookies and quiet conversations, and now here you were, dragging him toward your apartment like he was some stray you needed to fix.

And he let you. God help him, he let you.

Your place smelled like you—lavender and vanilla and something faintly sweet, like the cookies you’d left outside his door last week with a note that said, "Don’t be a grump; eat something." The lights were warm and soft, nothing like the harsh fluorescents in his sparse apartment. You pushed him toward the couch with a gentle shove, and he dropped the duffel by the door, too tired to argue.

"Sit," you ordered, already darting to the kitchen. "And don’t move."

He sat, legs sprawled, metal arm resting heavily on the cushion. His flesh hand rubbed at the back of his neck, where tension coiled tight. He didn’t belong here—didn’t belong in your orbit, period. You were sunlight, and he was a shadow, all sharp edges and dark corners. The Winter Soldier might’ve been gone, scrubbed clean by Wakanda and time, but the nightmares still clawed at him—flashes of blood screams, faces he couldn’t unsee. He woke up some nights with his vibranium fist clenched so hard it creaked, half-expecting to find a body under him. You didn’t know that. You didn’t know him. And he’d kept it that way, only feeding you scraps—his arm, the war, vague mentions of missions—because the full truth would send you running.

You came back with a damp cloth, a bowl of water, and a first-aid kit that looked like it’d seen better days. "Tilt your head back," you said, kneeling in front of him.

You were too close. Way too close.

"I can do it myself," he grumbled, reaching for the cloth.

You swatted his hand away—actually swatted it like he wasn’t just pounds of muscle and metal who could snap your wrist without blinking. "Stop it. Let me."

He stared at you, jaw tight, blue eyes narrowing under the bruised lid. You stared back, unflinching, and he saw it—the worry etched into your brow, the way your lips pressed together like you were holding back a lecture. He relented, tipping his head back against the couch because fighting you felt like kicking a puppy.

The cloth was cool against his skin, and your touch—God, your touch—was feather-light, dabbing at the blood on his nose with a care that made his throat close up. He watched you through half-lidded eyes, the way your lashes fluttered as you focused, the little furrow between your brows. You were so gentle it hurt, like a bruise he couldn’t shake off.

"You don’t have to do this," he said, quieter than he meant. "I’m not your problem."

"You’re not a problem at all," you shot back, not missing a beat. "You’re my neighbor. And my friend. And you’re hurt, so I’m helping. Deal with it."

Friend. The word lodged in his chest like a bullet. He didn’t have any friends since Steve—not really. Sam, maybe, on a good day. But you? You’d been chipping away at him for months, ever since he’d moved in—leaving him coffee when you caught him coming back from a run, asking about his arm like it was just another part of him, not a relic of his sins. He’d grumbled, dodged, and kept his distance, but you kept coming back, sunny and relentless, until he couldn’t imagine the hallway without you in it.

"Does it hurt?" you asked, brushing the cloth over the swelling around his eye. Your fingers grazed his cheek, and he tensed, every muscle locking up.

"No," he lied. It didn’t hurt—not the way you meant. No, the pain was deeper, a gnawing thing that came from how soft you were, how close you were, how much he wanted to lean into it and couldn’t.

"You’re a terrible liar!" you said, smiling faintly. “You’re all tense. I’m not gonna break you, you know.”

But I could break you, he thought, and the idea made his stomach twist. His strength wasn’t just in the arm—it was in every fiber of him, honed by decades of violence. He could lift you with one hand and crush your bone without trying. He’d done it before, under Hydra’s leash, and the memory of it—of fragile things shattering under his grip… kept him up at night. You didn’t know that. You saw the arm, sure, but you didn’t know its weight or danger.

You rinsed the cloth, pink water swirling in the bowl, and came back to his eye, your breath fanning over his skin. He could feel the heat of you, the steadiness of your hands, and it undid him—slowly, thread by thread. He wanted to pull away, to growl at you to stop, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because you were looking at him like he was worth something, and he hadn’t felt that in so long, it scared him.

"Why do you care so much?" he asked, voice rough, almost accusatory. "I’m fine. I’m always fine."

You paused, cloth hovering over his cheek, and your eyes flicked up to his—big, earnest, piercing. "Because you’re not fine, Bucky. Not always. And even if you were, I’d still care. You don’t have to go through everything alone."

His breath hitched, and he hated it—hated how you saw through the cracks he’d patched up with sarcasm and silence. He shifted, flesh hand curling into a fist on his thigh. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Then tell me," you said, soft but insistent. "I mean… you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but… I’m here. You know that, right?"

He didn’t answer. The words were stuck, tangled in the mess of his head. And it seemed as if you knew that because you didn’t push; you just went back to cleaning his face, and the silence stretched thick with everything he wouldn’t say.

When you finished, the blood was gone, the bruising still dark but less angry. You sat back on your heels, studying him like you were checking your work. "There. You look less like you lost a bar fight."

He snorted, a rare sound, and your smile widened—bright, unguarded, like you’d won something. He felt it then, the pull he’d been fighting for months—the way his chest warmed when you looked at him, the way his guard slipped when you laughed. He liked you. More than liked you. And it terrified him.

You stood, gathering the supplies, and he caught your wrist—vibranium fingers light but firm. You froze, eyes darting to his, and he saw the question there, the flicker of surprise.

"You shouldn’t," he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brows furrowed. "Shouldn’t what?"

"Like me. Care about me. Whatever this is." He gestured vaguely between you, his metal hand dropping to hide under his jacket. "I’m not… I’m not good for you."

The silence that followed was heavy and thick with unspoken things. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, you leaned forward again, your hand resting lightly on his knee. He could’ve crushed steel with less effort than it took to stay still under that touch.

"James," you said, voice soft but firm, "you don’t get to decide that for me."

He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking. "You don’t know me. Not really."

"Then tell me." Your eyes searched his, open and unafraid. "Tell me who you are, what you think I can’t handle. Because from where I’m sitting, you’re the guy who’s sat through my terrible movie marathons, who’s fixed my leaky sink without me asking, who’s looked out for me even when you didn’t have to. That’s who I see."

He wanted to argue, to tell you about the bodies he’d left behind, the decades he’d spent as a puppet for killers. But the words wouldn’t come. You were looking at him like he was worth something, and it was unraveling him stitch by stitch.

"You deserve better," he rasped, barely audible. "Someone whole. Someone who’s not… broken."

You shook your head, a small, incredulous laugh escaping you. "James, I don’t want 'better.' I want you. Broken pieces and all."

He stared at you, heart hammering, torn between shoving you away and pulling you closer. Your hand was warm against the cool metal, your gaze unflinching, and he felt the dam break—the walls he’d built crumbling under the weight of you. He wanted to believe it, wanted to let himself have this, but the fear lingered, sharp and insistent.

"You’re too good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Too damn good."

You smiled, small and tentative, and leaned in—just enough that he could feel your breath on his lips. "Maybe you’re just enough."

He didn’t know who moved first—maybe him, maybe you—but suddenly, your lips were on his, soft and warm and tasting faintly of tea. It was slow and hesitant, his flesh hand cupping your cheek like you might shatter if he pressed too hard. The kiss was a question, a confession, and when you sighed against him, he answered—deepening it, letting himself feel you, taste you, for the first time.

The kiss didn’t last as long as he’d liked. He missed you the second you had pulled back to rest your forehead against him. Your fingers brushed his jaw, and he felt the tension bleed out of him, replaced by something softer, something he hadn’t let himself name until now.

"I’m not going anywhere," you whispered.

And for once, he believed it.

[palant1r]

not proshipper not anti but a secret third thing (person who has a career in the media and, through covering legislative politics, has watched "associating with problematic fiction or entertainment is an indicator of moral degeneracy" rapidly become a mainstream GOP position that they are encoding in legislation to target the queer community under the guise of protecting children, thus coming to the conclusion that positioning the "can people enjoy things that would be immoral IRL in their fiction" debate as a proship v anti fandom debate is akin to pretending that "should we have the death penalty" is a discussion that only matters in Death Note discourse — the extent and manner to which fiction affects reality is an issue that is immediately relevant to today's US politics, and to summarize my opinions on the matter in fandom terms would be to diminish the ways this debate is affecting america Right The Fuck Now. and i have stopped taking "this person is bad for shipping the wrong anime thing and being horny about it" in any sort of good faith ever since I saw it literally used as part of a GOP smear campaign against a transgender state legislator in an attempt to defend the right from backlash after they used their supermajority in the Montana house to prevent her from speaking on the floor. Anyway I think everyone on this site, especially Americans, could benefit from ceasing to think in proship v anti vocabulary and instead developing coherent political positions on the nature of fiction that do not directly align with current fascist political tactics)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon illegally interferes with an historic UK warehouse election

I'm in to TARTU, ESTONIA! Overcoming the Enshittocene (Monday, May 8, 6PM, Prima Vista Literary Festival keynote, University of Tartu Library, Struwe 1). AI, copyright and creative workers' labor rights (May 10, 8AM: Science Fiction Research Association talk, Institute of Foreign Languages and Cultures building, Lossi 3, lobby). A talk for hackers on seizing the means of computation (May 10, 3PM, University of Tartu Delta Centre, Narva 18, room 1037).

Amazon is very good at everything it does, including being very bad at the things it doesn't want to do. Take signing up for Prime: nothing could be simpler. The company has built a greased slide from Prime-curiosity to Prime-confirmed that is the envy of every UX designer.

But unsubscribing from Prime? That's a fucking nightmare. Somehow the company that can easily figure out how to sign up for a service is totally baffled when it comes to making it just as easy to leave. Now, there's two possibilities here: either Amazon's UX competence is a kind of erratic freak tide that sweeps in at unpredictable intervals and hits these unbelievable high-water marks, or the company just doesn't want to let you leave.

To investigate this question, let's consider a parallel: Black Flag's Roach Motel. This is an icon of American design, a little brown cardboard box that is saturated in irresistibly delicious (to cockroaches, at least) pheromones. These powerful scents make it admirably easy for all the roaches in your home to locate your Roach Motel and enter it.

But the interior of the Roach Motel is also coated in a sticky glue. Once roaches enter the motel, their legs and bodies brush up against this glue and become hopeless mired in it. A roach can't leave – not without tearing off its own legs.

It's possible that Black Flag made a mistake here. Maybe they wanted to make it just as easy for a roach to leave as it is to enter. If that seems improbable to you, well, you're right. We don't even have to speculate, we can just refer to Black Flag's slogan for Roach Motel: "Roaches check in, but they don't check out."

It's intentional, and we know that because they told us so.

Back to Amazon and Prime. Was it some oversight that cause the company make it so marvelously painless to sign up for Prime, but such a titanic pain in the ass to leave? Again, no speculation is required, because Amazon's executives exchanged a mountain of internal memos in which this is identified as a deliberate strategy, by which they deliberately chose to trick people into signing up for Prime and then hid the means of leaving Prime. Prime is a Roach Motel: users check in, but they don't check out:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

When it benefits Amazon, they are obsessive – "relentless" (Bezos's original for the company) – about user friendliness. They value ease of use so highly that they even patented "one click checkout" – the incredibly obvious idea that a company that stores your shipping address and credit card could let you buy something with a single click:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1-Click#Patent

But when it benefits Amazon to place obstacles in our way, they are even more relentless in inventing new forms of fuckery, spiteful little landmines they strew in our path. Just look at how Amazon deals with unionization efforts in its warehouses.

Amazon's relentless union-busting spans a wide diversity of tactics. On the one hand, they cook up media narratives to smear organizers, invoking racist dog-whistles to discredit workers who want a better deal:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2020/apr/02/amazon-chris-smalls-smart-articulate-leaked-memo

On the other hand, they collude with federal agencies to make workers afraid that their secret ballots will be visible to their bosses, exposing them to retaliation:

https://www.nbcnews.com/tech/tech-news/amazon-violated-labor-law-alabama-union-election-labor-official-finds-rcna1582

They hold Cultural Revolution-style forced indoctrination meetings where they illegally threaten workers with punishment for voting in favor of their union:

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/31/business/economy/amazon-union-staten-island-nlrb.html

And they fire Amazon tech workers who express solidarity with warehouse workers:

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/amazon-fires-tech-employees-workers-criticism-warehouse-climate-policies/

But all this is high-touch, labor-intensive fuckery. Amazon, as we know, loves automation, and so it automates much of its union-busting: for example, it created an employee chat app that refused to deliver any message containing words like "fairness" or "grievance":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/05/doubleplusrelentless/#quackspeak

Amazon also invents implausible corporate fictions that allow it to terminate entire sections of its workforce for trying to unionize, by maintaining the tormented pretense that these workers, who wear Amazon uniforms, drive Amazon trucks, deliver Amazon packages, and are tracked by Amazon down to the movements of their eyeballs, are, in fact, not Amazon employees:

https://www.wired.com/story/his-drivers-unionized-then-amazon-tried-to-terminate-his-contract/

These workers have plenty of cause to want to unionize. Amazon warehouses are sources of grueling torment. Take "megacycling," a ten-hour shift that runs from 1:20AM to 11:50AM that workers are plunged into without warning or the right to refuse. This isn't just a night shift – it's a night shift that makes it impossible to care for your children or maintain any kind of normal life.

Then there's Jeff Bezos's war on his workers' kidneys. Amazon warehouse workers and drivers notoriously have to pee in bottles, because they are monitored by algorithms that dock their pay for taking bathroom breaks. The road to Amazon's warehouse in Coventry, England is littered with sealed bottles of driver piss, defenestrated by drivers before they reach the depot inspection site.

There's so much piss on the side of the Coventry road that the prankster Oobah Butler was able to collect it, decant it into bottles, and market it on Amazon as an energy beverage called "Bitter Lemon Release Energy," where it briefly became Amazon's bestselling energy drink:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/20/release-energy/#the-bitterest-lemon

(Butler promises that he didn't actually ship any bottled piss to people who weren't in on the gag – but let's just pause here and note how weird it is that a guy who hates our kidneys as much as Jeff Bezos built and flies a penis-shaped rocket.)

Butler also secretly joined the surge of 1,000 workers that Amazon hired for the Coventry warehouse in advance of a union vote, with the hope of diluting the yes side of that vote and forestall the union. Amazon displayed more of its famously selective competence here, spotting Butler and firing him in short order, while totally failing to notice that he was marketing bottles of driver piss as a bitter lemon drink on Amazon's retail platform.

After a long fight, Amazon's Coventry workers are finally getting their union vote, thanks to the GMB union's hard fought battle at the Central Arbitration Committee:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/04/26/amazon-warehouse-workers-in-coventry-will-vote-on-trade-union-recognition/

And right on schedule, Amazon has once again discovered its incredible facility for ease-of-use. The company has blanketed its shop floor with radioactively illegal "one click to quit the union" QR codes. When a worker aims their phones at the code and clicks the link, the system auto-generates a letter resigning the worker from their union.

As noted, this is totally illegal. English law bans employers from "making an offer to an employee for the sole or main purpose of inducing workers not to be members of an independent trade union, take part in its activities, or make use of its services."

Now, legal or not, this may strike you as a benign intervention on Amazon's part. Why shouldn't it be easy for workers to choose how they are represented in their workplaces? But the one-click system is only half of Amazon's illegal union-busting: the other half is delivered by its managers, who have cornered workers on the shop floor and ordered them to quit their union, threatening them with workplace retaliation if they don't.

This is in addition to more forced "captive audience" meetings where workers are bombarded with lies about what life in an union shop is like.

Again, the contrast couldn't be more stark. If you want to quit a union, Amazon makes this as easy as joining Prime. But if you want to join a union, Amazon makes that even harder than quitting Prime. Amazon has the same attitude to its workers and its customers: they see us all as a resource to be extracted, and have no qualms about tricking or even intimidating us into doing what's best for Amazon, at the expense of our own interests.

The campaigning law-firm Foxglove is representing five of Amazon's Coventry workers. They're doing the lord's work:

https://www.foxglove.org.uk/2024/05/02/legal-challenge-to-amazon-uks-new-one-click-to-quit-the-union-tool/

All this highlights the increasing divergence between the UK and the US when it comes to labor rights. Under the Biden Administration, @NLRB General Counsel Jennifer Abruzzo has promulgated a rule that grants a union automatic recognition if the boss does anything to interfere with a union election:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

In other words, if Amazon tries these tactics in the USA now, their union will be immediately recognized. Abruzzo has installed an ultra-sensitive tilt-sensor in America's union elections, and if Bezos or his class allies so much as sneeze in the direction of their workers' democratic rights, they automatically lose.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/06/one-click-to-quit-the-union/#foxglove

Image: Isabela.Zanella (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ballot-box-2.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[reiding-writing]

congrats for reaching 3k, love!!! You deserve it sm<3

step one, prompt list RIVAL: ❛ you can yell at me later. just let me help you. ❜

step two, list one: 7. them getting angry on your behalf

with s1!Spence:))

COLLATERAL DAMAGE. /spencer reid/

“you can yell at me later, just let me help you.”

getting angry on your behalf.

s1! spencer x fem!rival!reader 1.4k flangst event page. event masterlist. main masterlist.

The pain shoots up your arm the second you try to move it. You curse under your breath, gritting your teeth as you push yourself upright, the damp, gravel-streaked concrete biting into your palm.

Blood clings to your fingers in thin, sticky ribbons, smearing across your skin as you drag yourself away from the scene. The flashing red and blue lights of the local police cruisers wash over you in nauseating pulses.

You’re barely on your feet when you feel a hand grip your elbow, steady but hesitant, as though unsure you’ll let it stay.

“Hey, hey—wait, slow down. You’re—” Spencer’s voice cracks slightly, his eyes wide and wild with panic. You can feel the faint tremor in his hand, and you already know he’s spiraling through statistical probabilities of untreated injuries. “You’re lightheaded, you’ll pass out if you push your luck,”

You wrench your arm away from his grip, biting back a hiss as the motion flares the pain up again. The sharp inhale you take only makes your ribs ache deeper.

“I’m fine, Reid,” you snap, harsher than intended. The adrenaline still floods your system, making your voice sharp and clipped. “I just need to—”

“Stop,” he cuts in, surprising you. His voice is firm. Desperate. “You’re bleeding.”

Before you can argue, your attention is ripped away by the sound of the local detective’s voice barking orders. The same detective who had dismissed your intel half an hour ago. The same one who claimed he didn’t need to wait for your team’s profile before sending officers into the building.

The same one whose arrogance got you caught in the middle of a shootout.

Your lips press into a thin line as you watch him casually wave off the severity of the situation, speaking with another officer as if his decision hadn’t nearly gotten you killed.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, your good hand curling into a fist at your side. You can feel the heat behind your eyes, not from pain but from the sheer rage clawing its way up your throat.

And then, before you can blink, Spencer’s voice cuts through the night.

Sharp.

Cold.

Furious.

“Are you kidding me?!”

Your eyes snap to him, momentarily stunned by the raw anger in his voice.

Spencer, who barely raises his voice in disagreement. Spencer, who avoids confrontation like it physically pains him. Spencer, who always speaks like he’s inconveniencing anyone listening.

But now? He’s stalking toward the detective with an uncharacteristic fury you’ve never seen in him. His shoulders are stiff with tension, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as though barely keeping himself contained.

The detective turns toward him with a look of lazy disinterest, which only makes Spencer’s voice sharpen.

“You ignored the profile we gave you. You dismissed every tactical recommendation. You refused backup,” Spencer spits, the words cracking slightly at the edges. He takes a step closer, his eyes flashing with unrestrained venom. “She could’ve died because of your incompetence.”

Your chest tightens.

You blink, unsure if you heard him correctly. You’ve seen Spencer angry before, but this is different. This isn’t quiet indignation or the soft condescension he sometimes falls into when correcting others. This is raw, unfiltered fury.

The detective stiffens slightly. “I don’t have to answer to you, kid. This is my jurisdiction—”

“You think jurisdiction makes you exempt from accountability?” Spencer’s voice pitches up, incredulous, eyes narrowing. “Jurisdiction doesn’t excuse negligence. You walked your officers straight into an unsub’s ambush. And you nearly got an FBI Agent killed.” He throws his hand out in your direction, voice cracking slightly on the last word.

You feel the eyes of several officers shift toward you, but you barely register them. Your gaze is locked on Spencer.

He’s still trembling. His hands, clenched into fists, are twitching slightly at his sides. You know him well enough to recognise the strain in his posture—the too-quick rise and fall of his chest, the darting of his eyes that signals he’s barely holding himself together.

The detective takes a half-step back. For a moment, he looks like he might argue, but then he mutters something under his breath and storms away.

Spencer is still glaring after him, eyes blazing with unspent fury, fists clenched so tightly you can see the faint tremor in his knuckles.

It’s only when you touch his arm that he flinches slightly, as if just realising you’re there. His eyes flick to you, still sharp with residual anger. His jaw clenches.

“Reid,” you say quietly. His name catches in your throat.

He swallows hard, his breathing still shallow, but the moment his eyes meet yours, they soften. Some of the fire drains from his gaze, replaced by a worried, desperate sort of tenderness. You’re not sure how you feel about it.

“You can yell at me later,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just… let me— help you.”

His eyes flick briefly to your arm. His hand hovers over it again, hesitating, clearly waiting for you to pull away.

And you almost do. The familiar instinct to keep your pain to yourself, to push through without letting anyone see you falter, kicks in on reflex.

But the expression on Spencer’s face stops you.

His eyes are pleading. His jaw is tight, his brows pulled together with a mixture of frustration and concern. There’s still a trace of anger lingering in his expression, but it’s not directed at you—it’s the sharp, protective kind. The kind that makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

You don’t stop him this time when he gently takes your wrist. His touch is light, almost hesitant, as though afraid you might break under his fingertips.

“Please,” he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding and finally nod.

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. He guides you to the back of the ambulance, staying close enough that his arm brushes yours, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets you stray too far.

Once you’re sitting on the edge of the ambulance, Spencer kneels beside you without hesitation. He’s quiet, watching the paramedic clean the bullet graze on your arm, but you can feel the weight of his gaze on you the entire time.

The paramedic presses an alcohol wipe to the wound, and you flinch slightly, exhaling sharply through your nose. Spencer’s hand is suddenly on your knee, grounding and steady.

You don’t shake him off.

After the medic finishes and walks away, Spencer stays kneeling in front of you. His eyes search your face, his brows still pulled together in concern.

“You almost died,” he murmurs quietly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the scene.

You exhale through your nose, feeling the lingering burn of adrenaline dissipate.

“You shouted at someone,” you murmur, your voice rougher than intended.

His lips press into a thin line, an almost smile. His gaze flicks downward, almost ashamed, as though realising how uncharacteristic his outburst was.

“I couldn’t—” He swallows thickly, blinking a few times too quickly. “I just—” His voice catches.

You surprise yourself when you reach out and gently touch his hand, still resting against your knee.

“Hey,” you say softly, waiting until he meets your eyes again. You force the corner of your mouth into the faintest of smirks. “If you’re gonna yell at the locals for me, you could at least let me join in next time. Or are you gonna take that from me too?”

His lips part slightly in surprise, then he lets out a faint, breathy laugh—barely more than a huff of air, but you feel the tension in his frame loosen slightly.

He squeezes your hand gently, almost absentmindedly, before clearing his throat.

“Deal,”

[ivysangel]

everyone always talks about jason/dick having pictures of you but what about you having pictures of them?? if i could do it you best believe i'd have a million pictures of jason's tits on my phone!!

-partition anon

let me take this opportunity to share what kind of nudes i think jason would take bc i've got some ideas:

okay first off, low-hanging towel selfies taken from below. you know those really thotty pics men take with their v-line showing, happy trail peeking out, and abs on display? i think he takes those when he's fresh out the shower, and there are still water droplets on his skin, and he doesn't even have to flex because his abs are just that defined. not necessarily a nude, but definitely screams "slut me out"

jerk off vids but specifically him smearing his precum all over his cock. he's got a half boner, and he's stroking it real slow, rubbing his thumb over the tip to get his dick wet. he keeps them short and sweet, lets out one low, gravelly "fuck." and then ends the vid

nut videos, but these only happen when he's in a super rare mood, and you have to practically beg him to send them. but he likes to get his cum on the camera on the moment, and he always regrets it later, but it's definitely hot in the moment

he frequently sends boner in sweats nudes because it's what the people (me) want and also because they're simple and get the point across. he's horny, and there's a log in his pants that needs attention, preferably from you

you know when gym bros on tiktok grab their pecs and squeeze them, i think he does that. and it started as a joke at first, literally just something he'd send when he was working out or getting dressed and then he realized it turned you on, which turns him on, so it ended up being categorized in the same family as dick pics and cumshot vids

also lastly, compression shirt pics also taken from a low angle just for shits and giggles.

bonus: dick sticking out of tactical pants pic!!! hand gripping the base, drops of cum on the tip. and he just sends it and goes awol bc he’s on patrol with a boner and can’t think of you and getting work done at the same time 🙏

edit: just realized you also mentioned dick i’ll just make a follow up post

[acexsmhking]

TOBY ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES BLOODY AND BRUISED AND WHIMPERING BEFORE GIVING READER HEAD PLEAEDSERA PLEA PLEAS PLEASE PLEASE PLS

𝐀𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐲

(𝗻.) 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Bloody!Toby x FEM!Reader

Summary: Toby coming back home fresh from a hunt to greet his pretty Lamm

Warning(s): 18+ content, sexual content, oral (f! receiving), sub-ish!tobias, pathetic pleading, pussy sniffing, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of gore, mentions of meat chunks, dark undertones of course

You will never quite understand just how much Toby loves fucking you covered in gore. Because he comes home absolutely covered in nothing but dirt and blood. Tobias always tries to be mindful about bloody/muddy footprints on the carpets or hardwood. But come on, he’s gone for weeks!! He misses his sweet girl so much.

Truly! He think about you the whole time. When he’s stalking something, looting their bodies and houses. Making sure to steal cute outfits or pieces of jewelry, not like they’re gonna use them again. When he comes home from successful hunts? Still covered in blood? That’s when he loves fucking you most, it’s so weirdly intimate. How much he tries keeping you from that part of his life. But being able to almost corrupt you just by these pure sinful moments alone.

It was normal, albeit cold and cloudy day when Tobias finally came back home. It had been two days since he went out, he was absolutely covered in head to toe in blood. Small pieces and bits of flesh tangled in his hair, a few torn nails even. Smeared handprints on his jacket, and prints along with claw marks on his neck and parts of his face.

The loud clatter is first to bring you out from your daze, just barely understanding when he grabbed you from your throat. Both an endearing and controlling tactic you learned. Blinking away from his bloody hatchets you looked up at him, your hands slipping around his torso. Tightly gripping onto the soaked fabric as he back pedaled you onto the couch.

You landed with a soft ‘ompf’ words caught in your throat as you watched Tobias. Shaky fingers hastily moving to remove the dress you had put on. A delicate thing, your absolute favorite for how soft and flowing it was. Now dirtied from his scheming hands, roughly tugging the fabric off your hips and onto the floor. A wheezed chuckle barely leaving your lips as your fingers moved to his head.

Twirling the strands before gently moving his head. “Sweetheart.. take a minute, hm?” You smiled, reaching to cradle his face. He whined, lips pouted as you pressed soft kisses to his cheek. “No wait, please.” He huffed, shaking off your hands before tugging down at your underwear. An embarrassed yelp as he buried his face between your legs, audible sniffs making your ears burn.

“You pervert!” Flushing, you squirmed in his tight grip. Bloody claw marks racking down your thighs as he spread them wider. “Brauche dich, please just -hic- lemme ha-ave you sweet girl.” His tongue lapping at the skin between your thigh and folds. The salty taste of your skin paired with the smell of your cunt making his head dizzy. There wasn’t anything more that he wanted right now besides simply losing himself in you.

Your own hands covering your face, what much could you do? Comparing his strength to yours was stupid. But gods did he have to smell you? You could feel the blood smeared on your legs hardening, cracking as Tobias moved your legs around. Your hips bucking as his tongue lapped your clit. Chapped lips suckling on the bud as he looked up at you, hands quickly moving to swat away your hands. “No no, loh-ok at me.” He whined, head just barely lifting to meet your eyes.

“Please, need you looking at-t me baby.” He sighed, lips pressing soft kisses to your folds. You huffed, lips quivering as you watched him. Fingers tangled in his hair as he lapped you, like a man starved. Which Tobias would argue that he was. He was so starved of you, he craved you in a way that so pathetic, so desperate yet so fulfilling. So fulfilling as you pushed his head closer, nails digging into his scalp. The both of you so uncaring of the blood and flesh lying around. It was most fulfilling how you watched him, he knew he’d do anything. Anything at all, just for that look.

Toby pulled back from you just ever so, hastily ripping his gloves off careful that no blood got on his hands. Two fingers teasing your slit as he watched, transfixed on how she molded to him. A pathetic whine leaving his lips as he slowly slide them inside you, legs shaking as you tried desperately not to cum. Lazily he pressed his tongue flat against your clit, slowly sucking and twirling the bud in his mouth. Sharp, narrowed eyes staring at you like a vulture as he dug in. You felt so hot, your body heating up beyond comfort. Your back squirmed against the felt of the couch, material becoming sticky and itchy against your back.

Toby grunted yet moved with you as you reached to turn on the fan. Mouth never once leaving yours and fingers buried in your cunt. A shaky laugh as you cupped the back of his head once more, relishing in the attention you missed far too much. “My darling..” You hummed, combing back hairs from his face, mesmerized by the sight of him devouring you. Globs of salvia and slick dripping down to his fingers and your ass. “Undress for me love, please? Let me see you.” Cooing you grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back. He huffed before drunkly pawing and snatching his own clothes off. Hasty to get your sweet cunt back in his mouth.

She smelled so good, looked so tempting. Clenching and wet as he yanked his pants off, chucking everything in some corner far in both your minds. You could see his hard on from the material of his briefs. Doing little to hide the yearning he felt. But Toby paid no mind to himself he needed you, he had to taste you. Doing nothing but eating blasted plants and prey, you felt like a reward for all the suffering. Once an upon a time, Tobias was sure nothing tasted better than a well traced meal. The fear merely added to the flavor, the thrill. But you?

The way you dribbled down his chin, clawed at his body. Pushing and pulling, your screams and pleads. It’s so much better, so fulfilling. The way he feels you cunt clenching his fingers, that familiar spasm of your muscles as you came. You’ve spoiled him, ruined him. He’ll never be able to eat another corpse without thinking about you.

Desperately you tried pulling his head off you, anything for a break as your orgasm rushed you. But he was relentless, lips glued to you and fingers buried deep as could go. His other hand crushing your thigh under his grip as he held you open. You could see but his looks alone he was far gone, too gone to reason with. “Noch einer, Lah-mm. Then I shall let yuh-you go.” He growled, tongue delving with his fingers as he ravished upon you. A strangled sob leaving your lips as your back arched. It felt too good, too fucking good.

Better than you’d been able to make yourself feel, not that you’d ever tell him. No, his ego didn’t need anything else to use against you, to tease you with. It was already a fact in his mind, you didn’t need to confirm verbally with him. He just itched that spot, that one spot in you every-time. You always forgot it or could never reach it. But he did. Every. Single. Time. It drove you crazy, the pleasure far too addictive for just one, even two rounds to sate you. You craved him so heinously already, this feeling in you just made it so much worse.

As he slapped your clit, a favorite of his, with shaky hands you gently ran over bruising on his head. So weirdly beautiful on him, so incredibly talented at how horny it made you. Your warrior, your precious warrior coming to stake claim on you as he won dozens and dozens of battles.

Sure the battles were really hunts, but in your dazed mind what mattered?

“Toby!” High pitched squeal signaling another orgasm. Less greedily, Toby rode you through this one. Soft praises he cooed as his fingers curled inside you, thumbing rubbing slow circles on your bud. “Da da, ist es ok-ay, Lamm.” You huffed, muscles tense as you relaxed into the couch. Shifting to lay down far better, actually allow oxygen in your lungs. Toby placed soft, flutter kisses on and around your cunt as you greedily took in air. Slowly, he massaged the muscles of your legs as he pulled them down.

“Tut mir-r leid, Schatz.” He chuckled, placing on last kiss to your clit as he stood up. Helping you stand on wobbly legs as you stretched. Satisfying pop and tension leaving your body, you lazily leaned against him. “Missed you.” Murmuring as you buried your face in his chest, the strong muscles littered with wounds and bruises. All that would be addressed in the shower. “Love-e you too, promise I’ll cl-lean up.” He chuckled, helping you to a much.. much needed shower. You didn’t want to think what piece of flesh was sliding down your calf.

: ̗̀➛ Wowza, haven’t written a real Fic in a hot minute, thank you so much kill pookie for the request. Sorry it took me so long my darling <3. I was enjoying answering some questionnaires, I love yapping to you all about my tiny thoughts and sharing ideas together. Hopefully, I’ll be able to pump out more works. I have a few requests I’ve been working on so have patience, my dears!

Love,

Ace

[fangdokja]

♡ TW. Dead Dove // Read at Your Own Risk ; ♡ WC. 1,032

The barracks reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and unwashed bodies—thick, stale air pressing down on you like a second skin. The walls, reinforced steel, felt like a prison, though you supposed prisoners had more rights than you did. You were nothing here. Less than nothing. A hole to be used, a body to be passed around between restless soldiers, desperate to bleed out their tension after missions.

The stomping of boots on concrete sent ice down your spine. A rhythm you had come to fear—predictable, inevitable. Each night blurred into the next, your body marked with the proof of their use—bruises in the shape of fingers, teeth, rope-burned wrists, aching thighs forced too wide for too long.

But none of them scared you like he did.

The leader.

He was built like a war machine—massive, thick with muscle hardened from years of battle. Where they saw you as something to be shared, he saw you as his. His to break. His to ruin. His to keep.

The heavy metal door slammed open, the force rattling the cot beneath you.

Silence.

The moment they saw him, the other men backed away, their gazes dropping. He didn’t need words to command obedience. Even they knew better than to test his patience.

And then his gaze landed on you.

A slow smile curled his lips—wolfish, predatory. Your stomach lurched.

A thick, calloused hand wrapped around your throat before you could flinch away. The sheer size difference was staggering—his fingers easily engulfing your neck, his grip firm, possessive. He wrenched your face upward, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with a Russian drawl, rough and deep like gravel grinding against metal. "Trembling already, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet."

The scent of him filled your lungs—leather, gunpowder, sweat, and something darkly masculine. It made you dizzy, made your skin prickle with a primal sense of dread.

He was still in uniform—combat vest strapped tight over broad shoulders, black tactical gear clinking with the weight of ammunition. Every movement controlled. Precise. Unstoppable.

His other hand ghosted over your thigh before gripping it, thick fingers pressing into tender, bruised flesh.

“You were made for this.” He sounded almost admiring, like he was appraising a well-crafted weapon. "Made for my cock."

You shuddered. It didn’t matter. He liked when you shuddered.

With one brutal motion, he flipped you onto your stomach, pressing your face into the cot. His knee shoved between your thighs, forcing them apart as his belt came undone. The clink of metal, the rustle of fabric—those sounds alone made your pulse hammer.

He chuckled, a low, pleased rumble. “Scared, little one?”

Your body locked up as something hot and heavy pressed against your inner thigh. Even without looking, you could feel the sheer size of it—pulsing with heat, thick, impossible. His fingers wrapped around the base, pumping lazily, smearing precum against your trembling skin.

“Feel that?” His voice was almost teasing. Almost. “Gonna split you open on this.”

You whimpered, and his hand fisted into your hair, yanking your head back until your ear was against his mouth.

“Use your words, fucktoy.” His breath was hot against your skin, his grip tightening when you didn’t respond.

You barely had time to gasp before he pushed in without warning.

Pain exploded through your core, your body forced open, stretched past what should be possible. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, muscles locking up from the sheer, unbearable intrusion. He bottomed out with a deep groan, grinding his hips against yours, forcing you to feel every inch buried inside.

“Fuuuuck,” he exhaled, voice thick with pleasure. “No matter how many times I break you in, you still squeeze like a virgin.”

Tears burned in your eyes. He didn’t care. He never cared.

His massive hand slid under your stomach, fingers pressing against the bulge in your lower abdomen, his bulge. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over it, as if mesmerized.

“Look at that.” He sounded pleased. “So small, yet you take me so well.”

Your throat burned, but no sound escaped as he pulled back and slammed in again. The force rocked your entire body, the cot creaking beneath both of you. He set a brutal pace—relentless, inhuman.

“That’s it,” he grunted. “Take it. Take all of it, little whore.”

Each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, a punishing rhythm that left no room for thought, no chance to resist. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, wrapping around your throat, slapping your ass hard enough to leave fresh welts. He fucked like a soldier—efficient, ruthless, absolute.

His fingers found your jaw, forcing it open. You barely had time to react before he spit directly onto your tongue.

“Swallow.”

You obeyed without thinking, throat convulsing around the thick wetness.

He laughed, deep and dark, then rewarded you with an even harsher thrust, driving you further into the mattress.

“Good little cumdump.” His voice dripped with amusement. “I should keep you chained under my desk—plug you full of my cock all day.”

You whined, and he gripped your chin, forcing your head back against his shoulder.

“No whining.” His teeth grazed your ear, his breath hot, dangerous. “You love this. You were made for this. Made for me.”

Your body shuddered. He could feel it. He always felt it.

His pace grew erratic, his grip bruising, movements sharper, rougher. He was close.

And when he came, he buried himself deep, pressing you flat against the cot as his body shuddered against yours. His grip never loosened, his cock throbbing inside you, filling you past what should have been possible.

A long, low groan rumbled from his chest, his breath uneven against your skin. His hand slid down, pressing against your belly once more, as if savoring the way his seed filled you.

For a moment, he was still. Heavy. Suffocating. His body, a wall of muscle trapping you beneath him.

Then his lips brushed against your temple—almost gentle.

“My little fucktoy,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Mine."

The claim settled over you like chains.

You had no escape.

He was going to break you.

And then he’d keep going.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

♡ List of Fandoms and Characters.

♡ Note. Due to Tumblr policy, all characters are all of age.

Ace Attorney: Barok van Zieks

Arcane: Jayce

Blue Lock: Michael Kaiser, Rin Itoshi, Sae Itoshi

Boku no Hero Academia: Endeavor

Brutal: Satsujin Kansatsukan no Kokuhaku: N/A

Death Note: N/A

Demon Slayer: Sanemi Shinazugawa

DC: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne

Dishonored Series: N/A

Genshin Impact: Childe

Haikyuu!!: Hajime Iwaizumi, Tetsurou Kuroo

Honkai Star Rail: Blade, Boothill, Nanook

How to Live as an Illegal Healer: N/A

Hunter x Hunter: Uvogin

I'm Not That Kind of Talent: N/A

Jujutsu Kaisen: Ryōmen Sukuna

Kill The Hero: N/A

Love and Deepspace: N/A

Mobile Legends: Bang Bang: N/A

MONSTER: N/A

Naruto Shippuden: Hidan, Zabuza Momochi

One Punch Man: Suiryu

Reverend Insanity: N/A

TOUCHSTARVED: Vere

Undertale Multiverse (Human AU): Bill! Sans, Fresh! Sans, Ink! Sans, Killer! Sans, Nightmare! Sans, Shattered Dream! Sans, Undertale Chara

Wuthering Waves: Brant, Scar

Your Throne: N/A

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood. Thank you.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh , @call-memissbrightside

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6 [you are here]. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”:

♡ Book 7. Corpus Delicti (CD): Donum Mortis.

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ one hundred paired prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ a pot of fresh coffee and split knuckles

²⁾ orange peels and a car battery

³⁾ sand dunes and leather boots

⁴⁾ a printer and a knife

⁵⁾ incense and handcuffs

⁶⁾ a crushed velvet sofa and a video camera

⁷⁾ stale cigarettes and cotton candy

⁸⁾ loose change and headlights

⁹⁾ grey hairs and a gold belt buckle

¹⁰⁾ burnt coffee and grass stains

¹¹⁾ cherry cola and blue jeans

¹²⁾ chipped green nail polish and an empty dinner table

¹³⁾ a stack of paperwork and metal music

¹⁴⁾ a patchwork quilt and sweet tea

¹⁵⁾ a hockey sweater and a two-seater sofa

¹⁶⁾ perfume oil and rolled up shirtsleeves

¹⁷⁾ fallen leaves and guilt

¹⁸⁾ radio channels and a birthday card

¹⁹⁾ ravens and meadowsweet

²⁰⁾ apologies and bitter red wine

²¹⁾ library books and pouring rain

²²⁾ a breathalyser and popcorn

²³⁾ princess plasters and iodine

²⁴⁾ a tote bag with one broken strap and a winding staircase

²⁵⁾ a parasol and a tumbler of straight whiskey

²⁶⁾ fresh honey and a cult

²⁷⁾ wisdom teeth and blue eyes

²⁸⁾ sour cherries and a stolen hoodie

²⁹⁾ the flu and a heatwave

³⁰⁾ a boonie hat and a sunset

³¹⁾ vanilla perfume and a kitchen counter

³²⁾ a buffalo skull and a leather armchair

³³⁾ a throw pillow and a doorway

³⁴⁾ pink fluffy handcuffs and an unexpected guest

³⁶⁾ a package and a divorce

³⁷⁾ a stripper pole and a hangover

³⁸⁾ familiar cologne and a black eye

³⁹⁾ a lit candle and a snowstorm

⁴⁰⁾ an unsealed letter and a fallen pine tree

⁴¹⁾ headlights and footprints

⁴²⁾ a blocked number and traffic lights

⁴³⁾ a racesuit and a countdown

⁴⁴⁾ a butcher’s apron and a phonecall

⁴⁵⁾ battered comic books and a broken window

⁴⁶⁾ cold floorboards and a roommate

⁴⁷⁾ smooth vermouth and gold rings

⁴⁸⁾ a lip piercing and a rough hand

⁴⁹⁾ someone’s spare room and an eclipse

⁵⁰⁾ a game of mahjong and bad jazz music

⁵¹⁾ a jigsaw puzzle and a mortuary

⁵²⁾ a broke-up sidewalk and a knitted scarf

⁵³⁾ a poundshop wig and broken glass

⁵⁴⁾ a bunk bed and a crush

⁵⁵⁾ a red ink tattoo and a dinner gone cold

⁵⁶⁾ a warm palm and a flannel shirt

⁵⁷⁾ fresh basil and a half-empty bottle of arrack

⁵⁸⁾ a nightclub bathroom and smeared eyeliner

⁵⁹⁾ a busted lip and strawberry icecream

⁶⁰⁾ a floral-patterned dress and a looming balcony

⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar

⁶²⁾ a white mercedes and cheap perfume

⁶³⁾ a fwb and a housekey

⁶⁴⁾ a blue sarong and a fingertip tracing over a scar

⁶⁵⁾ a sauna room and a terse exchange

⁶⁶⁾ fried plantains and a briefcase

⁶⁷⁾ dried lavender and a tiled bathtub

⁶⁸⁾ a hotel room and a bouquet of lilies

⁶⁹⁾ sweet mango lassi and a suitcase

⁷⁰⁾ orange streetlights and a nightmare

⁷¹⁾ a crucifix and a thigh tattoo

⁷²⁾ a palm tattoo and the thrum of a heartbeat

⁷³⁾ a champagne room and a police siren

⁷⁴⁾ blue nitrile gloves and a hickey

⁷⁵⁾ a double-wide trailer and shotgun shells

⁷⁶⁾ stitches and pyjama shorts

⁷⁷⁾ karaoke and a snowdrift

⁷⁸⁾ an older man and a twin bed

⁷⁹⁾ chinese takeout and a graveyard

⁸⁰⁾ wet clothes and ambulance sirens

⁸¹⁾ carbolic soap and a creaking staircase

⁸²⁾ an undercover assignment and wrung hands

⁸³⁾ the back seat of a limousine and bustling night streets

⁸⁴⁾ a steamed-up bathroom and cold floorboards

⁸⁵⁾ a grand prix and a breakup

⁸⁶⁾ a third place trophy and a picture frame

⁸⁷⁾ the last slice of birthday cake and crossed legs

⁸⁸⁾ squashed raspberries and heated cheeks

⁸⁹⁾ pink lipgloss and brass knuckles

⁹⁰⁾ a ghost mask and a late visit

⁹¹⁾ loose bullets and slashed tires

⁹²⁾ a tactical belt and patterned bedsheets

⁹³⁾ a goaltender’s stick and a lonely walk home

⁹⁴⁾ a dog bed and a migraine

⁹⁵⁾ lit billboards and a floor-length gown

⁹⁶⁾ a divebar negroni and a game of pool

⁹⁷⁾ olive trees at harvest time and divorce papers

⁹⁸⁾ a caviar bump and vanilla coke

⁹⁹⁾ a whale tail and pantsuit

¹⁰⁰⁾ legs thrown into a lap and calloused hands

[machveil]

POOKIE!! hear me out a fic for an extremely sub!ghost like to the point where he's on his hands and knees literally sobbing his heart out because he wants to eat you out and you're denying him because you're just enjoying watching him beg but eventually you give in

(I'm ovulating don't judge me im not usually this cruel 😭)

pookie… I see and hear you, I feel you in my bones we’re jumping straight in

CW: Fem!Reader, Sub!Ghost, weepy Simon Riley to soothe the soul… and other things, clothed humping, oral (fem!receiving)

tactical gear still fastened and balaclava tugged up just over his nose, the sight before you has your thighs pressed together as you sit on the edge of his bed. Ghost, in all his glory, sitting at your feet - tears wetting his eyelashes and balaclava as he looks up at you. he’s still large even when he’s kneeling, but the way he’s behaving makes him look so small

the last deployment he had been on, one where you stayed back at base, had taken such a toll on him. all in one piece, but exhausted and sore. he was admittedly gross right now, sweaty and gear dirty from field work, but god— as soon as he had guided you to his room he all but fell to his knees for you. “Please, jus’ wanna taste you sweet’art.”, strained, voice ragged and gravelly from giving out constant streams of orders. pitiful, deep brown eyes gazing at you as he tugged his mask up

something about the way he looked made a spark flicker to life in your chest, heat pooling in your gut. Ghost is never like this, your Ghost would never be like this - let alone on base. your Simon Riley? that’s what makes this all too familiar, the way he’s looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars. that’s saved for the comfort of your home, your shared flat back in Manchester. to see him like this? a needy, desperate man crawling towards you, resting his chin on your lap? who could blame you for wanting to see a little more?

it almost makes you feel bad when a choked sob leaves his lips - you had let him slip your slacks off, pooled around your boots. your boots, maybe that was why Ghost’s eyebrows were screwed together as he sloppily mouthed at your thighs. “You can— just need you to cum for me first, Ghost.”, maybe that request was too cruel for him, you knew him too well. the sight of him grinding his painfully hard bulge against your boot, spit and drool slicking your thighs as he cried against your lap. you know he can’t, not like this. Ghost— Simon’s too used to you helping him

he can’t cum, not without you - your hand, your mouth, anything you’re willing to give him, even if it’s just his mouth pleasing you. skin on skin contact, it’s nothing compared to grinding on your boot or using his hand. his sclera are tinted red at the edges, salty tears mixing with his spit as he sucks at your thighs, anything to keep his mouth occupied as his hips buck against your shoe. five minutes, five minutes too long when Simon looks up at you. scarred lips smeared with his own saliva, a broken little hiccup followed by a shoulder shaking sob leaves him, “Missed you— please, please, lemme make you feel good, lovie, m’sorry.”

he nearly breaks down when you shift to tug your underwear down, shaky hands coming up to rest on your knees. before you can even finish saying ‘okay’ Simon is parting your legs, slotting himself between your plush thighs. sloppy, a man starved of affection and your cunt for weeks. it would have tugged at your heartstrings if you were paying attention to him, head lolled back as he desperately sucks on your clit. if you had been paying attention you would have caught his sobs, your poor Simon, crying against your cunt. as good as you feel, Simon’s already gone, underwear soaked through as soon as he had his mouth on you

[bi-writes]

ex-tf141!mercenary!fem!reader x ex-husband!simon because there's nothing hotter than being covered in blood and debating whether or not to kill him or fuck him (18+) ⚠️🔞

cw: reader is curvy (deal with it), mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dramatization + graphic depictions of murder + violence, criticizes military service, blood kink, size kink (simon's huge ok), pet names (luv, sweetheart, baby, honey), mw3 spoilers, reader is unhinged and unapologetic about it, dark content ahead, unprotected piv, cumplay, (can this also be considered a throuple fic? maybe...)

this isn't her. he doesn't recognize her. she doesn't fight the way he remembers, she doesn't look like she used to.

she wears all black. the black cargo pants are tight around her perfect thighs, and the way they cinch around her waist makes his mouth water. her vest covers her torso, but he has vivid memories of ripping an identical one off of her, ripping the fabric of her shirt so he could bury his mouth between her tits.

when she used to be his. when she used to be a good girl.

he watches, frozen, as she shows off her newfound ruthlessness. she fires her weapon at one man's knees, bringing him to the ground. he feels sick when she kicks him onto his back, getting on top of him, and uses her tactical knife and shoves it into the softness of his neck. she leans over him, splatters of blood freckled across her face, and she watches the life leave his eyes.

she doesn't get up until he stops twitching.

he doesn't remember this. when she used to watch his six, he remembers having to hold her close at night, quieting her cries. he remembers the conversations they used to have, where she used to tell him that whenever she closes her eyes, she sees every person she ever killed.

the justification of murder behind the patches she wore on her vest had never been enough to quiet her nightmares. she was always so soft-hearted. she was always too good, too considerate, too kind. it was something her superiors always wanted to rip away from her; it was something simon fought hard to keep.

he had lost his humanity, but she had not, and he remembers smoothing his hand over her chest and across her heart, telling himself that he would never let it go, never let her lose it.

it is gone. he knows it--he knows it because she doesn't just kill her opponents, she tortures them. she aims for vulnerable places, and then she kills them angrily. she likes to hear them scream. she watches them cry. she wipes the blood of her enemies on her thigh, and then she gets up and does it all over again, in different ways, in heinous ways. she's terrifying, and she's laughing, and there is nothing behind those fucking eyes.

he holds her in his sight. he adjusts the scope, gripping the rifle tighter, and suddenly it feels too heavy in his hands. he can see her in it, and he watches in horror.

he knows his orders. permission to kill on sight, those are his orders--mercenaries had gotten the same intel as them, but they are not here to destroy the biochemical weapons. they are here to steal them.

he can kill her right now. he has her, right where he wants her, and even from this far away, he knows he won't miss.

when she's finally alone, she stands, and she looks up, turning in a slow circle. his heart squeezes--she knows he's here. she holds up a hand, four fingers held up. he reaches up to his radio and turns the knob to the right channel. it crackles, and then he hears her voice.

"hey, baby," you coo, and he sees you smile, and it's ugly, and he hates it. "you miss me that much that you gotta follow me around at work?"

"'f y'know wot's good for you, you'll pack up your shit and leave."

you tsk, spinning the knife around in your hand before sticking it back into your boot. you wipe the sweat from your forehead, and blood smears along your brow.

"awww, teddy bear, don't be that way," you pout. "how about you come down here?" you grin wide, turning just his way, giggling when you see him perched for overwatch. "hmm? you're just cranky, baby...need me to help you relax..."

"you're right fuckin' mad," he spits, and you reach down at the man beneath you, snatching his rifle off his back and making sure it's loaded. "and i'm gonna fuckin' kill you."

you wink up at him.

"yeah? so take the shot, honey," you challenge. the smirk that blooms on your face infuriates him. he hates you. but then you turn around and keep walking, knowing that he won't shoot, and his gaze follows the sway of your hips. instead of thinking about your brains splattered against gravel, he thinks about when he used to bend you over his bed in the barracks and eat your pussy from behind you--when he used to get on his knees and fuck you with his tongue and make you cum into his mouth.

when you disappear from his view, you laugh over comms. "you're pathetic, simon," your murmur. "could never trust you to get the fucking job done."

he remembers when you left. johnny had left a scar on you--an angry one, one that refused to heal. and while simon was equally as buried in his grief, he always felt just a little better when he was kissing you, holding you, feeling the warmth of you, knowing you were alive.

"you didn't love him. not like i did--" you snap, continuing to pack.

"are you fuckin' mad?! do y'hear yourself talk?! wot the fuck do you know about me and johnny?!"

"then how are you not angry?!" you scream. "how are still standing there, so fucking normal, how are you so fucking calm?!"

"sweetheart--"

"don't fucking touch me," you bite. "you don't get it--" angry tears flow easily down your face. "--you didn't love him the same."

"i did--" he grips your face, making you look at him. "i loved him like i love you, don't say that. don't fucking say that, don't you dare pretend you're the only one that feels anything--"

you rip his hands off of you, narrowing your eyes, and he does not recognize you. this is not you.

"y-you're a liar," you whisper. "you're a fucking liar. and you make me sick."

ghost steps over the bodies that you left behind. it is a massacre of men that you leave at your feet. slit throats, bullets in knees, in stomachs, little finishers you leave between their legs. you are not a fan of men--he knows this because of how hard it had been to get close to you. how difficult it had been to even so much as touch your arm, your face--to get you into his bed, to marry you in secret and fuck you spineless. the only easy thing that had ever happened to you was the way johnny fell right into step with you.

and the hardest thing that he had ever done was fucking die.

when he finds the trunk of biochemical vials, you are not there. he has found it first, and he bends down to inspect them, closing the lid and securing them inside before moving his hand up to press on the button of his comms to alert his team.

"uh uh uh," a low voice warns. "take your hand off the radio, sweetheart."

he moves, but the bloodied tip of a tactical knife is sharp against his throat, and he swallows hard. he calls your name, and you just giggle. this is a game to you. he lowers his hand, and you reach down, grabbing his rifle and tossing it. you also unholstered his handgun and the throwing knives from his boot, throwing them behind you.

"mmm..." you smooth a hand down his back. "you're as hot as the day i met you, baby..."

ghost grunts as you grip one side of his ass, and you grip his shoulder tight, kicking him just right so he was kneeling on both knees now. you lean over him and plant a warm, wet kiss to the jaw of his mask, moving so you were standing in front of him now. you kick the trunk of vials to the side, looking down at him, digging the sharp edge of the blade harder against his neck.

"look at you..." you hum, licking your bottom lip. "you're still so big, teddy bear..." he hisses when you lean over, cupping him through his pants. your warm hand squeeze the length of him, and you whine when you feel how hard he is, how much he still feels for you. he glares at you under that plastic, terrifying mask, but your panties are soaking. "so fucking hard for me, too...you miss me, baby?"

he leans over, into the blade, growling.

"'f you leave now, you can still take your life with ya."

you pucker your lips, and he snarls. your face is not one he knows--you have drying blood along your cheeks, smears of it along the softness of your neck. you have blood and dirt under your fingernails, and there is fire in your eyes, and you are not the good girl he fell in love with, but you look like her, and it scares him.

"awww, baby, if i thought you would kill me, you would be dead--" you lean forward and lick along his hard jaw, tasting the salt and sweat of his mask. "...right along your other boys. don't lie to me. it's not a good look for you."

he bites, and you laugh, and then you nod your head.

"sit down," you demand, and he sits. he is big, and his gear is heavy, and he sits with a grunt, and you climb over him, into his lap. you reach down, your eyes on his, and you unzip his cargo pants, your hand slipping under and pulling his cock out, and you smile when it stands hard and heavy. "oh, baby...you want this, don't you?"

you lean in, kissing him through the mask, sucking along the fabric and whining.

"you want this, don't you? you still want me? you still love me?"

"fuckin' hell--"

"you wanna fuck me, teddy bear?" you spit into the palm of your hand, reaching down and smoothing your wet hand over the red tip of him. "you're so big...as big as i remember..." you whimper. "say you wanna fuck me, simon--" fuck, you're using his name, "--say you want me."

against your lips, you feel him whisper yes--fuck--yes, luv--and you can't help it. you can't help yourself.

he's so warm and big. you hold onto his shoulders, still gripping the bloody knife, and you sink down on him. it's easy though, because you're soaking, and even though you're so fucking tight, you suck him in, right until your clit is grinding against the little hairs at the base of his cock and you're bouncing in his lap.

simon is weak. he's weak, and he knows it, because he loves you, and your pussy is so tight, and your moans are music, and fucking you is the only thing he truly understands, the only thing that still makes sense.

you smooth your hands along the back of his neck, and when you whimper and moan, simon thinks he sees you. his good girl, his pretty little wife, the soft girl that he loves, the one crying as she rides his cock because he's hitting all the gooey, pretty places inside of her that make her so fucking wet. he grips your ass tight, guiding you up and down, fucking up into you as he feels his stomach turn and his balls tighten.

"simon--" you cry, and he nods his head, cradling you to his chest, his head tilted back as he looks up at you. there is blood on your skin and a knife digging into his back, but you're saying his name, and his heart aches, and your pussy is so good-- "gonna come--gonna come--"

"yeah--" he growls, and you push up his mask, lick into his mouth, kiss him sloppy and hard and desperate. "fuck--fuck, yeah--"

he takes off his glove to touch you, two big fingers on your clit as you fuck him desperately. when you come, you soak his cock, and when you tighten, he comes, too, rolling his hips as he spills out of your tight hole and onto your thighs, onto his.

it feels so good. it feels so good to be full of him, to feel him deep, and you smooth your hands down your stomach, feeling him there, stretching you so wide with his come on your thighs, and when he pulls out, you giggle when he gathers the slick onto his fingers and feeds it to you.

you suck his fingers, tasting him, and you whine, looking right into his dark eyes. your heart hurts for a moment--but only a moment. when he pulls his fingers from your mouth, your eyes flicker.

because he still wears his fucking wedding ring.

at the sight of it, you grip your knife tight, and you sink it right into his stomach.

he is laying there in a pool of blood when you're dressed, when the trunk of vials is secure for you to take. you lean over him, pressing on the button of his radio, and you call for medevac to his team, and then you rip the radio in two.

you cup his cheeks, kissing him softly over the mask, and you smooth a finger down his cheek.

"don't pull the knife out, baby, or you'll bleed out," you coo. you tilt your head to the side, knowing you only have a few second window to leave, and you smile down at him.

"until next time, simon."

when you go, you take a piece of him with you.

and fuck--fuck you. because he wants it back.