#what’s stopping men from serving like this

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter one: Ultimatum

Summary: Y/Ns father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6

Click, Click, Click the sound of your heels clacking on the floor echoed throughout the hallway. You stood in front of the door to the VIP room, where sick and twisted men drop millions of dollars on a death game. Unfortunately your father is one of them. The room reeked of power and desperation, two forces colliding in ways that felt suffocating. The black walls with gold jungle like accents were a stark contrast to the mahogany table in the center of the room. You sat down in the farthest corner of the polished table, trying to avoid your father’s hawk-like gaze. The air conditioning hummed faintly, serving as the only sound punctuating the heavy silence, but it did little to cool the heat simmering beneath your skin.

Across from you, the man they called the Frontman sat stiffly, his sharp, black mask reflecting the harsh light of the overhead chandelier. He hasn���t moved an inch since you entered the room, and the lack of expression from the cold, unfeeling mask made your stomach churn violently.

“I’ve been more than generous,” your father began heatedly, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass. He wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about what he was suggesting. “The games thrive on my contributions, but generosity only goes so far without… stability.” Your father finished with a concerning glint in his eye.

The masked man tilted his head, just slightly. “What kind of stability are you referring to?” His voice was even, almost dismissive, like he already knew where this was going but didn’t care enough to stop it.

You did, though.

“Dad-” you attempted to start your protest, he couldn’t go through with this.

“Quiet,” he snapped demeaningly without even sparing a glance towards you. His attention was fixed on the Frontman, the kind of single-minded determination that always made him dangerous.

The Frontman leaned back in his chair, one hand resting lightly on the table. “Speak plainly.”

Your father smirked, a wolfish grin that made your stomach twist. “Marriage. My daughter will marry you. The deal will be sealed, and my funding continues uninterrupted. You gain the security to maintain the games without… complications.” A crazed look in his eyes matched his maniacal grin.

Your mouth fell open, a sharp, indignant laugh escaping before you could stop it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Your father shot you a look, the kind that demanded obedience, but you weren’t a child anymore.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said, as if this was a business deal like any other. “You’ve lived in comfort because of the wealth this partnership provides. It’s time to play your part.” The look on his face was nothing less than a look of hatred. Your eyes bounced between the frontman and your father incredulously.

“Play my part?” you repeated, standing so fast your chair scraped loudly against the marble floor. “You can’t just marry me off like some pawn in your sick games!”

“I can,” he said, his tone sharp and final.

You turned to the Frontman, searching for some sign of humanity beneath the mask. “And you’re okay with this? You’re just going to go along with it?” You were pleading, ready to get on your hands and knees and beg for him to reject this proposal.

The Frontman was silent, his stillness unnerving. Finally, he said, “What happens if I refuse?”

Your father shrugged, taking another sip of his drink. “The funding stops. The games collapse. And we both know what the VIPs will do if that happens.” That caused a slight falter in the frontman’s appearance. His gloved fingers curled against the edge of the table. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as if some invisible battle was taking place between the two men.

Finally, he stood. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he rose to his full height, towering over everyone in the room. “If this is the cost of stability, then so be it.” Your heart dropped to your stomach, any drop of freedom that you had previously had was stripped from you by a few mere words and you had no control over it, you were trapped just as much as the players were.

———————

The wedding took place two days later, in a grand hall that felt more like a theater than anything sacred. Rows of VIPs sat in velvet chairs, sipping champagne and watching the proceedings as if it were just another form of entertainment.

You stood at the end of the aisle in a dress that felt more like a costume, the intricate embroidery and heavy fabric weighing you down. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as the officiant droned on about unity and partnership, words that felt hollow in a place like this. You felt like you were drowning and couldn’t resurface.

The Frontman stood beside you, his mask still firmly in place, his posture rigid. He hadn’t spoken to you since the meeting. He hadn’t looked at you either.

When it came time for the vows, he recited them mechanically, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I do,” he said, the words landing like stones in the pit of your stomach.

You hesitated, your mouth dry as the Sahara when the officiant turned to you. For a brief moment, you considered saying no, throwing the whole charade into chaos. But the weight of your father’s expectations and the suffocating gaze of the VIPs pressed down on you.

“I do,” you said finally, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, laced with venom that would slowly suffocate you.

The crowd erupted into applause as the officiant pronounced you husband and wife. It felt wrong, surreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

The quarters you were escorted to after the ceremony were spacious and cold, a reflection of the man who now shared them with you. You wandered through the rooms in silence, your heels clicking against the marble floors.

When you finally stopped in the main sitting area, the Frontman was already there, standing by the window with his back to you.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you said, breaking the silence. Your voice was firm, but it wavered slightly at the edges.

“I know,” he replied without turning around.

You wanted to scream at him, to demand answers, but you were too exhausted. Instead, you turned and walked into the adjoining bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

You didn’t cry. You refused to. Instead, you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the ornate rug beneath your feet and wondering how your life had spiraled so completely out of your control.

Be nice lmao, this is my first time ever writing anything like this.. pls let me know how I did and you would actually like to see other parts. :)

also thank you to @sunny21200 for the idea!!

[vhannilah]

i. how to be a real man

pairing. player 388 | kang dae-ho x f! reader

summary. dae-ho's trauma serves as a reminder for him of his unpleasant past that keeps haunting him till this day. luckily, he always has you by his side.

contains. au, ooc(?), light angst w/ happy ending

EVEN without admitting it, Dae-ho was well aware of the fact that he's not as strong as he tries to appear to be.

The trauma he received from the past was a living proof of how Dae-ho would never be able to live up to the expectations of what his father had wanted and pressured him to be since he was a child— a real man.

But, he couldn't follow the rules dictated by the society of what makes one a real man. Not when his actions speak for what he truly is.

Dae-ho is a protector, not a dictator.

He was not like how other men usually act when in a relationship. This made him feel insecure about himself. It made him question whether he truly deserves to be with someone like you.

Dae-ho is not the type of boyfriend who puts great importance on emphasizing his masculinity through acts of being the dominant or tough one in the relationship.

No, your boyfriend, Kang Dae-ho, was the type of lover who shows his vulnerable side to you. A man who knows his boundaries and respects yours as well as your decisions, even when it doesn't align with his.

Kang Dae-ho is the type of man who can be tough when he needs to be.

And you preferred him to be that way.

ᯓ★

You were sitting on the sofa with Dae-ho's head on your lap while his body was sprawled on the couch. You played with his soft hair, occasionally massaging his scalp, while your other hand was on Dae-ho's own, playing with your fingers.

Your lips curled into a smile as you listened to your boyfriend rant about his day, observing and enjoying yourself at every expression he cutely displayed, showing you how he felt in every situation.

Both of you were enjoying the moment, having no one else but each other. Dae-ho was the one who mostly spoke, while you listened.

The two of you were relaxed together. Then all of a sudden, the sound of your phone ringing interrupted your conversation with him.

Being the one closest to the low table, he sat up and picked up the phone for you.

Once he handed you the phone, he stayed silent, allowing you to talk to the person on the other line.

Thanking him, you picked up the phone, noticing the caller was unknown.

The conversation you initiated was formal, intending to end it quickly. But, the person on the other side kept dismissing your words, asking personal questions about you despite being already told you have a boyfriend.

This made you feel annoyed and frustrated. People like these are very hard to talk to without losing your patience.

Dae-ho seemed to have sensed your frustration as he gently patted your shoulder. Seeing your frustrated expression, he gently took the phone from your hand, and confronted the person in a serious tone of voice, "Hey, man. This is her boyfriend. My girlfriend here is not comfortable with you talking to her. I know she already told you this, so I'd appreciate it if you stop bothering her from now on, thank you."

As soon as he ended the call, you jumped right into his arms, clinging onto him tightly. You started showering him with words of affection, expressing how grateful you were for having such a great boyfriend and how you didn't deserve him.

But to Dae-ho, it was the opposite. What he had done just a while ago is a bare minimum of what you truly deserved.

The truth is that he's willing to do much more for you. And all you have to do is to be by his side— and to stay with him forever.

©vhannilah

[stardust-swan]

What Message Do Moroccan Djinns Have for You?

Pick a picture: 1, 2, 3

This tarot reading is inspired by the Big 3 female djinns (genies) in the Moroccan pantheon. These are general readings. As most people aren't familiar with the Moroccan Pantheon, brief descriptions of each djinn are provided below.

Pile 1: Lalla Aisha 🖤

Lalla Aisha is a djinn who is beautiful, but terrifying. Her story is one often told as a horror story in Morocco. She normally manifests as a beautiful woman in a flowing kaftan - why does her kaftan flow? To hide that her feet are cloven. She can be found lingering near bodies of water after dark, where she may drown men who offend her, or reward those who please her (she may alternatively render a man who displeases her impotent while rewarding ones who please her with supernaturally good sexual prowess). According to one legend, she is Astarte, reduced to roaming the Earth after her temples were shut; enlisting her own devotees and making her own sacrifices. She can bring madness, miscarriages, illness and death; but she can also bring good health, abundance, fertility and luck. She is simultaneously cruel and benevolent. A woman who is very powerful and demanding; enchanting but unsettling.

What Message Does Lalla Aisha Have for You?

Lalla Aisha is ready to welcome you into her world of beauty and allure, but the path is not without its difficulties.

I get the feeling you're carrying too many burdens. Your own responsibilities and other people's expectations are weighing you down. Aisha Qandisha is a she-demon who does what she wants; like her you need to stop burdening yourself with things that don't serve you. Say no to things that drain you or that simply don't do anything for you.

Something in your life has stagnated. Whether that's a project you're struggling to finish, a relationship that's gone stale (or a sudden breakup or ghosting that left little closure), or finances stagnating as money comes in and then gets immediately spent on bills, you feel stuck. Well, if one thing is true about Lalla Aisha is that she's a go-getter; she will not let anything stop her. If she wants a man she'll make him obsess over her until he's almost mad with thoughts of her. If she wants a particular person to be her devotee she will personally recruit them. If she wants a sacrifice, she has no qualms about doing it herself. Her presence is an indication you need to chop some dead wood and close this chapter.

Although she has a fearsome reputation, she brings great blessings to those who she favours. And you, dear reader, are one of those lucky few. I'm getting a sense that she is bestowing domestic happiness specifically on you. In your future is a household full of abundance, home comforts, and harmony. Reunions and family gatherings will be many. Long-term relationships will be blissful and stable, perfect for bringing children into if you so wish (she also aides with fertility). You will feel content and positive, and those around you will feel your happiness radiating from you.

Advice: Wear black and/or red, take walks in the morning air, wear henna, burn benzoin, go for a swim, eat figs, tie ribbons to trees and make a wish to her (bring an offering to the tree if she fulfils your request).

Pile 2: Lalla Mira 💛

Lalla Mira is a djinn who is associated with fertility, marriage, healing, abundance, and especially love. She also has psychic gifts and is summoned to foretell the future via a spirit medium who she takes possession of. She has been compared to Aphrodite as they preside over similar areas, but unlike Aphrodite she tends to be quite volatile; assertive, aggressive, extremely demanding, and jealous. She engages in relations with human men and if someone she has her eye on is already married... She makes him ask for permission to continue relations with his own wife. However, she is kind to her own devotees (who she may aggressively pursue); healing infertility, finding spouses for them, and preventing illness. Her devotees credit her with their good health, happiness, and the existence of their families. This is a djinn who is incredibly kind to those she favours, but ruinous to those who displease her.

What Message Does Lalla Mira Have for You?

You've been working HARD. Maybe you've just sown the seeds, or maybe those seeds have already grown up into a lush garden. She is telling you that your hard work WILL have results. But she also wants you to let go of perfectionism, because obsessing over small details is making you feel frustrated or stagnated. Make sure you're focusing on the things that bring you joy, instead of fear of failure or the need for every detail to be perfect stealing your happiness. Progress is more important than perfection.

My reading of your future with Lalla Mira was (luckily for you) favourable. She is bringing you happiness, especially in social areas. You will spend time with friends, go on on more dates and get invited to more events. She wants you to have FUN, to connect to your inner child and to embrace what gives you joy, even if it's something you think of as frivolous or juvenile. I feel her encouraging you to experiment with your style - this is a good time to get the drastic haircut you've been wondering about, to update your wardrobe, to experiment with what colours look best on you, etc. Romance is looking good. If you have a secret crush, this is the time to signify you're interested in something more. If you don't have a crush, her presence signals you have a secret admirer. If you're in a relationship, don't be afraid to be romantic and plan dates and quality time - her presence may even foretell an engagement, wedding or pregnancy. Health will be good; and your intuition will become sharper as some of her physic abilities rub off on you.

Advice: Wear orange and/or yellow, dance (especially belly dance or Moroccan folkloric dances), wear henna, take strolls in the afternoon, bathe regularly and be very thorough in your baths (exfoliate when you need to and clean every inch of skin), light candles and incense, spend times around bodies of water like springs, wells and rivers.

Pile 3: Lalla Malika 💜

Lalla Malika is technically a princess as she's the daughter of a King, but her role is that of a Queen. She is a djinn of prosperity, helping her followers gain money, social status, professional success, and success in legal matters. As a very wealthy princess, she's associated with all things considered luxurious - fine perfume, silk kaftans with gold embroidery, gold jewellery, premium incense, beautiful decor, intricate henna (Aisha and Mira also request henna but their designs aren't as detailed or feminine), cosmetics, and delicious chocolates, sweets and pastries. Ritual ceremonies for her look like very lavish engagement parties. Unlike her peers Aisha and Mira, Malika is much gentler despite being just as powerful. If Aisha and Mira set their sights on a man, they will cause him to obsess over them, sometimes to the point of madness, whereas Malika seduces men by chatting to them and calmly stating her desire. When Aisha and Mira want to recruit a devotee, they may make their presence known by attacking or possessing the person, whereas Malika gently reveals herself through dreams, pleasant scents, laughter and tickling. When Aisha and Mira feel wronged they lash out, causing illness, miscarriage, paralysis, or even death, whereas Malika chooses not to attack but withdraws her presence from the situation instead. She is famous for her cheerful spirit, bringing joy and laughter wherever she goes. This is a djinn who is powerful both in status and magical ability, but yet is also soft, joyful, and friendly to all.

What Message Does Lalla Malika Have for You?

There's a sense of mental distress here. Specifically of high stress levels, anxiety or burnout, to the point that you are or will neglect your own needs. Lalla Malika is all about self-care, beautification routines, pleasure and indulgence, so the message here is very clear: you need to indulge yourself! Do what you have to do to make some time for yourself, whether that's dealing out responsibilities you've been burdened with more fairly, working on better time management, asking for help with a task that's overwhelming, etc. And then make sure to treat yourself! Take a long bath or shower complete with a face mask and your most deliciously scented soap and lotion, curl up with a good book or movie and a mug of hot chocolate, partake in your hobbies, or do anything else that brings you joy. Now is the time to pause and recalibrate.

You are in a period of transition, in a positive way - you are overcoming hardship and healing. Your problems will settle down and things will become easier to deal with. There may very well be travel in your future - one of the cards I selected has an association with travel, journeys and vacations, and Lalla Malika herself is associated with travel - she's a flying djinn who often descends from heaven to Earth, and her devotees are often said to be people who travel by airplane.

She is here to make sure you don't neglect your needs, whether emotional or physical. She asks you to consider how you can rest and care for yourself and is welcoming you into her world of abundance and happiness. People who have Malika on their side will flourish in social situations, find they have more money to spend, and will succeed professionally.

Malika's presence is a sure sign you're manifesting luxury and abundance. A life of comfort is coming to you, from every area from fine wine and gourmet chocolates, to good investments and advantages at work. You will cultivate a wide range of skills, hobbies and knowledge that will make you enchant people and make friends easily. You'll also be seen as more beautiful and alluring, both because your confidence will increase and because Malika's dedication to beautification rituals will rub off on you. She wants you to live the high life.

Advice: Wear purple, green or pink, wear perfume, burn incense and purple candles, indulge in sweets, chocolates, and pastries without guilt, dress up nice just because (wear jewellery/makeup if you want too), use creams, oils and lotions regularly, experiment with your style or hair (if you've been wondering about cutting or dying it this is your sign), make sure your wardrobe is organised, learn about business, law or a foreign language/culture, wear intricate henna designs, use your best manners even to people who are rude.

[olenoidedserratuspilled]

You spent this entire response talking about how, unfortunately, I wouldn't read it and surely I would block you

Because that is genuinely what I expected, and genuinely what the more long-term productive move in your end is.

and then at the end you basically asked me not to respond. Lol.

Yes, because I don't believe this conversation is productive to either of us, especially when you yourself stated that it's besides your original point. Keep reading if you like, but I know you are not going to shift on your stance, and neither am I in mine.

None of the examples you gave are using man-hating as a cover for anything, at least not successfully.

Emphasis on "Not successfully". The notes on all of those posts were full of the OOPs and their defenders arguing how their takes shouldn't be considered racist because they're only targeted men.

But women don't ask people not to complain about cisness or whiteness or wealth, just to stop singling out women and being misogynistic.

And I never said women should not complain about men. Only that the statement that TERFs like men is incorrect (it is), and that there very much are people who use man-hating to excuse actual bigotry to themselves and to their peers (there are).

Everyone else can complain about their oppressors, but women can't, because someone somewhere might use man-hating as a justification for something else.

I never said that. I only pointed out that it's something that happens, that it's something TERFs specifically do, and that it's a reason why the notion that TERFs like men is wrong.

If a woman makes a post about misogyny and singles out Indian men, it might because she's racist or it might be because she lives in India.

I wanna ask you if you saw any of the screenshots I posted and thought "Well, maybe that OOP is part of the racial minority they singled out". I don't think you did, because people talking about a racial minority they're part of tend not to paint them as demons or deserving of violence and death.

TERFs on the other hand, do that, and it is racist to do that. Pointing that out was the point of my post, and nothing else.

There is a long history of women of color being pressured to stay silent about misogyny within their own communities using the reasoning that the community must be united and any negativity will give ammo to racists. This puts women of color in a really difficult situation. It also serves to prevent them from forming solidarity with other women.

That's true, yes. It's also entirely unrelated to anything I said. Women of color are free to speak up against misogyny from men of color as long as they neither A) single them out as being somehow innately worse than white men (like the posts I showed) nor B) paint them as deserving of racially motivated violence for behaviors that aren't exclusive to their race (like the posts I showed).

Man-hating is not a good proxy for other kinds of bigotry.

Sure. It doesn't mean people don't use it as one. All I did was point out that they do.

You focused a lot on whether or not TERFs like men, which was really tangential to the actual point of this post.

Did you read the tags I was responding to? Because I was responding to a tag saying that TERFs like men. I focused on that because that's the statement I was responding to.

"TERFs like men actually" was referring to their eagerness to form relationships with right wing cis men to gain political power.

Right, so you can agree TERFs don't actually like men (especially not POC men), and that saying they do is just factually wrong. If you can agree with that statement, then you agree with my point, because that's the only point I'm making. You're also not the one who wrote those tags, so you don't know what their person meant.

Also, before it finally got taken down, a decent number of the posts on the TERF subreddit were from cis men claiming to be radical feminist allies who the TERFs gleefully and hypocritically pointed to as "one of the good ones" while they bonded over hating trans women.

Again, not remotely related to what I said. If what I posted doesn't count as evidence of TERFs disliking men, why should posts from a dead subreddit count towards evidence of them liking them? Didn't you just say this was just tangentially related to your post? If so, why is not conceding to that point seemingly so important?

TERFs live in the same society as everyone else (unfortunately) and in a society as patriarchal as ours, few people really hate men as much as they think they do.

Cool that you can read TERFs minds I guess, especially when I didn't think there'd be anything to read in there, but in my experience when somebody says something it's because they meant to say it.

Using man-hating as a shield for bigotry doesn't make a lot of sense because man-hating isn't socially accepted just about anywhere. It always gets pushback.

It is in TERF circles, and while TERFs do have many racist tendencies, a lot of them still at least performatively frown upon bold-faced racism that doesn't have "men" attached to it. They use man-hating as a shield for bigotry in the circles where it is socially accepted, and to justify it to themselves. That is the only point I'm making.

And TERFs spend a lot of time with the far right, where hating men is certainly not acceptable.

And they don't use man-hating rhetoric with them. They use it with themselves, with each other and to outsiders that are still receptive to it.

I don't know where you live, but on the anglophone internet man-hating is not generally accepted. And even when you do hear "I hate men," the power dynamics of patriarchy are such that it's just not a real problem.

Notice how I never said it is. That is just not a thing that I said. I only ever said that TERFs, specifically, hate men and use man-hating to excuse their own bigotry. You say you didn't mean to put words in my mouth, but you keep doing just that.

Quite often in hate movements like that, the ideology is a post-hoc justification for the bigotry. So the logic of men oppress women -> trans women are men -> trans women are bad because they oppress [cis] women may be what TERFs say but it's often not an honest representation of their thought process.

It is how they justify their thought process to themselves, to each other and to those they want to recruit, however. That is what I'm describing. That's the point I'm making.

TERFs will even say, disingenuously of course, that it would be fine if trans women would only live as gender non-conforming gay men. It's transness that transphobes despise, the act of existing while trans.

Yes, I'm aware. I've never said that wasn't the case, only that TERFs will use man-hating as a post-hoc justification for their own transphobia.

In general, a post that singles out transmascs is probably not okay, because the relevant part is that they are trans, and being cruel to trans people is… wait for it… transphobic.

Yes it is. It's transphobia that is being rationalized by the people doing it as acceptable because they're singling out men. That's the thing that I said is happening.

but that's an intracommunity issue that I'm honestly not qualified to speak on, because I'm cis. I only bring it up because I've dealt with analogous intracommunity in some communities I am a member of; it's a fairly universal concern but the particulars here are outside my lane.

That's cool, trans men still have to deal with takes like these, though:

These are people using man-hating to excuse their rancid behavior towards trans men. That is exactly the situation I described, and the one you claimed doesn't make sense and doesn't happen. And that you replied to by saying man-hating isn't a real problem - which is not a thing I said at any point, ever. Here or elsewhere.

I am not saying man-hating is a real problem

I am not saying you should not be allowed to do it

What I am saying is this:

A) Bad-faith actors have and continue to use it to excuse actual forms of bigotry. Even if you don't think they count, I've shown proof of it.

B) Whether or not it is relevant to the discussion, the statement of "TERFs like men actually" is just not factually true.

If this is what you wanted to read, I'll gladly say I agree with your original post's point. I simply reblogged to disagree with one person on the tags who said that TERFs like men, because that pure and simply isn't true.

If you're done putting words in my mouth, I do think we should stop talking here, because this is only tangentially related to your original point and fighting each other is a waste of time.

But I know you're not going to read this. And that you're not done putting words in my mouth.

Something I want this website specifically to reflect on! Are you mad at women for talking about men the same way you talk about cishets or neurotypicals? Why?

[yorobix]

Sweetie-Pie

Phillip Graves x Baker!Reader x Russell Adler

Chapter 3: Tension in the patisserie

You weren’t aware of the exchange which happened just outside your window. The beginning of a feud between two men who wanted your love. ‘Rivals’ in other words.

Every day without fail they stopped by your bakery; ordering whatever you said was made by yourself or what you recommended. It was nice being wanted; being appreciated. A week past.

This morning you did pick up on some tension as you were walking to open up front. Surprised to see both the men were up early and waiting outside your shop; the tall one with the dark glasses and the strange scar in the centre of his face and the other man who had a mark on his cheek which followed through to his ear. You opened the door hesitantly, they both looked like they were irritated; watching them stand there, smoking. As they heard the door open they dropped their cigarette’s in sync with one another. Cursing the butt on the floor.

You clear your throat. “Uhm, we’re opening soon and it’s pretty cold outside, would you both like to come in? I have the fire on.” They exchange glances at one another; or well, you thought so. The one with the shades was rather hard to read. “That would be greatly appreciated, doll.” Said the man with the chipped ear, smirking excessively as he pushed past the other man— both of them bumping shoulders rather harshly; making you jump. “It’s alright, I can’t exactly serve you both until we are allowed to open the kitchen at around 8 but I can get you both started on drinks if you’d like?” You offer as you close the door over once they each take a seat on the opposite tables beside the fireplace. You note the way they both avoid eye contact with one another; making you the common denominator. Their eyes tracing your face, body, the way they gawk at your actions and how they both perk up as you speak.

“A coffe, please darlin’.” The man takes off his shades; rubbing his eyes and temples. You provide a warm smile and nod as you take note of the order in your trusty notepad. “And, you..?” You ask. “Call me Phillip, baby. An’ I’ll have your famous banana milkshake, don’t hold back on the whip cream, now.” He winks, chuckling to himself. The man across from grasped his shades in his hand; teeming with rage as he notices the way he tries to woo you, already on first name basis. You gulp as you try to hide the blush that crept onto your face as he attempts swooning you. It was working.

“I’ll go and make them now, thanks.” You reply, going up to their tables and collecting the drink menu’s, approaching Phillip’s to gather the menu you notice how he places his hand on your lower back as you lean across. Making you crookedly smile; trying to hide it by faking a small cough. As you go over to the man with the shades you notice how he stares at your hands. Picking up the menu before you could and handing it to you. “Oh, thankyou…Uhm…sorry- I don’t know your name..” You awkwardly state. He gulps softly; cracking a small grin. “S’Russell, pretty. Russell Adler.” You smile fondly. “Well, thanks..Mr Adler.” You weren’t sure how he’d like to be addressed so you played it safe. Taking the menus through to the back. Taking a small breather— they were rather tense to be around, as if there was some sort of silent argument taking place between them. You also couldn’t help the fact that another reason you were slightly nervous was because of how kind they were to you. Always retorting some sort of affirmation. A cheerful grin, small gestures like nodding their heads and stubbing out their cigarettes before approaching you. It made your heart beat spike like crazy with desire; the want need for love.

You made your way through with their drinks; setting the milkshake in font of ‘Phillip’ to which he enthusiastically took a sip from and presenting a $20 bill. “S’delicious, but I can’t have my favourite sweet missin’ out on a well deserved treat.” You shake your head. “Oh no— I couldn’t possibly accept that!” Well you could, but it wouldn’t be ethical. “Nah, please, take it babes, I’ve got plenty to spare.” You heard Russell clearing his throat behind you, tapping his finger against the table surface where his coffee SHOULD be. You catch on and make your way over with his coffee mug— your face embarrassingly red. “M’sorry— Mr Alder..” You mumble out as you bend over to place down his scorching coffee. As you do so he grabs your wrist hastily but gently. “Don’t let him try and buy your heart dolly, he’s a womaniser; doesn’t know how to treat a lady properly except buying them.” He announces, staring holes into Phillip who sat directly ahead of him. Watching as he boils with anger. “Now don’t go listenin’ to him sweetheart— that weirdo wouldn’t know the first thing about treatin’ a woman; maybe about followin’ her but..”

Something snapped in Adler, he stands up rapidly. Making his way over to Phillip— grabbing him by the scruff of his collar. “Fucking dare you to say that again you— you bastard.” He threatens— slamming him into the wall; making a painting fall over.

whatsgoingawnnnnn????!!!!

You quickly make your way over to the two brawling men as the rough it out: knocking over tables, slamming into cabinets which held the fresh pastries (being merciful enough to not destroy them), tumbling over the counter where they began to wrestle behind the server counter. You yelp as they throw punches and kick one another. Blood painting both their knuckles. If I wanted a new wall colour I would’ve painted it! You huff to yourself.

“Would you both stop!!” You order. Watching as they both cease their ministrations. Looking up at you in admiration like you were some sort of angel; coming to claim their pathetic souls as their scarred and battered faces oozes with blood. You stare upon the sight of chaos and destruction left behind from their brawl.

You let out a shaky exhale; a look of defeat and despair as your expression. Tears prickling up in your eyes. They both get up from the floor. Phillip hoping over the counter and carefully making his way over to you placing his hand upon your waist gently. “Look what you’ve done you prick, making the little lady cry. Ruining her shop— should be ashamed.”

You push away from him. Looking at them both in shock and disbelief.

“I don’t know what you both think you’re playing at but I’m not having my livelihood be ruined by two men and some fantasy of whatever! So go patch up at the pharmacy down the street and NEVER speak to me again!” You hiss. Grabbing your satchel and making your way out the patisserie; pushing through the crowds which make their way down the street from the train station.

They both groan; looking at one another hatefully. Running to the door and squeezing between the doorframe beside one another; determined to be the first to comfort you.

[ryuzakemo128]

Nothing but a dream

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Italian! Serial Killer! Housewife! Female Reader

Content Warning: Violence against women, men, homophobia (story relevant),. murder, serial killing, serial killer female reader, biphobioa (against female reader, not from simon.) Possibly other things I might have missed.

Masterlist

Words: 4888

Divider Credit: @cafekitsune + @strangergraphics

Summary: But it wasn’t your sexuality he found out about it was that you are a serial killer who had killed at least twelve people in the past four years alone.

You weren’t stupid. Not by a long shot. Studying to be a nurse before you decided to dive into Forensic Pathology. The thing about death is that it never leaves. It never makes sense, and it never tells you how to deal with it when prejudice is the cause of death. Your older brother, Giovanni, found out the hard way, murdered in the alleyway twenty minutes past midnight just for being homosexual. 

Stabbed 47 times by a man twice his age, who lured him out to a secluded location with the premise of sex. You were a nurse at the time, recently finishing your nursing bachelor’s. You felt like your world fell from underneath you. 

Eventually, you had found the man responsible for his death. After months of tracking him, stalking his habitual places and digging into his personal life. You bought a home in the countryside, hoping it would be further enough away from civilisation and to keep the police from looking into the matter further. A calculated choice in your part. 

Studying into the criminal mind, figuring out what made them tick and how to undo themselves, rendering their flesh into confessions. Dissolving their corpses into a bathtub, a melting pot of acidic chemicals to erase the fact they had ever existed in the first place. 

Your basement, built to contain the mess into one small area, had become a morgue of death, depravity, a silent way for you to make those who hurt others meet their maker. 

The basement is made from concrete and limestone, the room is covered in crimson tiles to disguise the blood stains. The metal bathtub against the far wall to dispose of the bodies after you were done with them. Compost bins in case there were too many bodies to dissolve. Using them into your garden to prevent people from getting the idea you had something to hide.

Your basement had four extractor fans on the ceiling and two in the walls to quickly remove odours, chemical smells, the smell of slowly decomposing body parts inside the compost bins against the wall beside the metal bathtub.

The same place you clean, wash and remove hard stains from your children’s clothes, your clothes and your husband’s clothes.

Industrial cabinets to store the acidic chemicals you used to dispose of the dead bodies in your metal bathtub. Which are also used to store your equipment inside too. Locking them to prevent your children from getting into them and finding them.

On the outside it looked like a normal basement with clothes soaking in the bathtub to get them cleaned properly before you repaired them. The smell of bleach and fabric softener filled the room, but underneath that faint scent was the lingering odor of something much darker. The extractor fans hummed quietly in the background, working tirelessly to maintain the illusion of a typical household space.

You didn’t think he would have noticed by now. Though you kind of hoped you would be able to keep it a secret longer but alas that wasn’t the case with you and your secret basement anymore. You were prepared to be served with divorce papers and the ‘I don’t want you around the kids’ afterwards like you’ve seen with your older brother with his ex-wife after he came out as a homosexual.

Though in your case it is far different, you weren’t straight either but you certainly weren’t gay either. You’re bisexual and that wasn’t really well received by most of your previous partners in the past. So, you stopped telling people your sexuality because you got drained of the same song and dance.

But it wasn’t your sexuality he found out about it was that you are a serial killer who had killed at least twelve people in the past four years alone. You played the role of a housewife to Simon so well he almost didn’t catch it.

Almost.

Whenever he was deployed you would take down your targets. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him right? Tough he did see the mark where the previous victim of yours tried to strangle you to escape. But that didn’t prove anything related to the missing person report he heard over the news, right?

The neighbourhood you two lived in became peaceful, eerily so, people felt safe to walk around at night without having to look over their shoulder. But he wrote down the small changes occurring. Small enough to notice if someone paid close enough attention to the area. But not large enough to be worth causing a fuss over.

At least you weren’t like most of the cheating military wives you often bumped into. With their affair partners in tow. “If you can’t handle being married to a military man than you shouldn’t have done so and I don’t think you are qualified to give me advice on my own marriage when you are so content with ruining your own.” You snapped at one of them with a low growl. You didn’t speak to her again after that conversation.

At least you weren’t cheating on him, right? You were killing people. But you weren’t cheating on him. You were a killer not a emotional soul sucking demon posing as a housewife with several affair partners to suck off while your husband was deployed. You weren’t like the mothers and military wives who serially cheated on their husbands instead of communicating about what they wanted in the bedroom, right?

One thing they hated you for is that you always told their husbands that they were cheating on them. You would rather have no friends in the entire world than to accept that as something morally just or morally correct. If anyone excused them for it you would cut contact with them too.

Simon walked in when one of his exes came over making you absolutely uncomfortable. Saying your curves would be better as a sex worker rather than a housewife. Odd conversation to walk in on. But your discomfort remained palpable. Trying to be a gracious hostess while also contenting with the behaviour of someone who wouldn’t leave you alone.

The thought of being filled up with hot sticky semen forcing his ex-wife to listen to your moans and his grunts to drive home the fact he wasn’t going back to her again. It was becoming far more tempting the more you thought about it. You weren’t ashamed to admit that is what you wanted if he ever asked you in private either.

It would most certainly put his ex into her place, right? Right. It all hinges on whether Simon is willing to go along with it though.

Simon took off his shoes by the door, placing them neatly beside yours. The scent of freshly cut grass and gunpowder followed him into the living room. He glanced at his ex, raising an eyebrow, “What's she doing here?” he asked, his tone cold enough to make you shiver.

Simon knew you were far too polite for your own good sometimes. When you told him she had car troubles, and you paid for it to be towed to a car mechanic? Simon frowned thinking his ex-wife must have caused it on purpose or must have wanted to saw something to him in person. You were never comfortable with having her there. He couldn’t blame you. A stranger in your home? Preposterous. It won’t happen. Ever.

Another good reason why Simon always told his teammates in the task force 141 to call ahead of time. Preferably a three to four hours before they were going to be there in person. You never liked to be caught off guard at the last minute and you found it rude when guests never called before coming over unannounced.

He still remembers when John Price was scolded for it for thirty minutes for doing so. It wasn’t the type of scolding a child would get. No. No. No. It was the kind you would give an adult who should know better than to cross a boundary set by another adult.

John Price had to give her a handwritten apology to say he wouldn’t do it again. It was a first for Simon. His captain hadn’t been scolded like that in his life, not by his own mother or his own wife either. The look on his face when you were serious about his handwritten apology? Priceless. He knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Price the next time he’s deployed. But he also knew you had a good reason for it, even if he didn’t know the extent of your secret.

“Price, at least you can say you met my wife.” Simon snickered when he took his mates down to the pub nearby.

“Oh, I’ve met her before.” Price replied, his voice filled with a hint of embarrassment. “I just didn’t know she was like that. She’s so sweet and polite usually. Who knew she had a spine of steel?”

However, this wasn’t like Price’s visit, it wasn’t a misunderstanding and a handwritten apology. It felt far more deliberate on her part. Like she wanted to weasel into your life without having to say a word. It felt wrong. It wouldn’t be you. It would be someone posing like you and pretending like you hadn’t stepped into his life after his divorce.

You told him the children were in after school care, and they won’t be picked up until five. Another way you safeguarded them from external drama happening at home. He couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at that, knowing that he had at least a couple of hours before he had to deal with the awkwardness of her presence around them.

It was when you were starting to make dinner, the excuses came piling in and the look you gave Simon every few minutes. Saying, ‘Is she serious?’ and ‘I can’t believe you married that woman.’ His ex was pushing all of your buttons, and it was clear she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. She was trying to start something and you weren’t going to let her ruin your evening.

You muttered something in Italian about your frustration knowing for a fact his ex-wife won’t understand it, “I think you should leave, it's getting late and I don't think your new husband would take kindly to having you in someone else's home.” you remarked your Italian mannerisms starting to show your slight frustration.

Her eyes narrowed at you, and she took a sip of her wine, “Oh, I forgot you speak Italian. Did you learn that to impress Simon? Did you learn how to cook for him too?”

“I beg your pardon. Signora Shelby, what are you implying?” you remarked raising an eyebrow any possible implication she might have had.

Her smug expression didn't falter, “I'm just saying, it's suspicious how conveniently you know everything he likes after he's been married to me for so long.”

“Communication is a wonderful thing, I suggest you try it before you knock it dear. Perhaps you can always try that with your new husband Signor Shelby. I am sure you will have a much less bitter conversation when you learn how to communicate better.” you replied with a polite smile. “Perhaps he might listen to you more if you learned to listen to him better.”

You handed her a book on etiquette and manners, “Maybe this might jog your memory and help you with being polite. “Maybe this will help you in the future, I'm sure you'll find it quite enlightening.” The smug pride finally flowering inside your chest cavity. It wasn’t like you had given her a book on how to be a better housewife. It wasn’t like you made a comment on her looks.

You had dived straight for her faults, her attitude and her lack of respect. You didn’t make a comment on her fertility issues because your own mother had those, and it would be a low blow even you wouldn’t stoop down to.

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of his ex-wife’s face turning beet red. He knew you had clawed your way through a dozen of men in the past, both physically and mentally. He was quite surprised she didn’t catch onto your subtle hints and decide to leave sooner. Though, it was quite entertaining watching the two of you spar verbally. It was like watching a cat and a mouse, except the cat had teeth and wasn’t afraid to use them.

Not only that, but you also have a bachelor’s degree in nursing, a master’s degree in trauma surgery and a doctorate in Forensic Pathology. You were smarter than  people loved to assume you were. Something Simon picked up on while he started dating you. You're still a mortuary director for the funeral home in town.

“You know what's suspicious?” Simon's voice cut through the tension, his eyes flashing with a hint of irritation. “It's suspicious that you're here, unannounced, and you're causing trouble. What's your game, Mel?”

You sighed relieved, you said you were getting the children from school and you were going to get dessert on the way home. Fully trusting Simon knew what he was doing with his ex-wife.

Mel looked at Simon with a smug smile, “I just wanted to talk to you, Simon. It's been a while. And you know I never could resist a good surprise.”

“Well, you've had your surprise,” he said firmly, “And now it's time for you to leave.”

Mel, short for Melissa, didn’t take kindly to that, “You changed Simon, you used to like these surprises.”

“I liked your ‘surprises’ when they weren’t you being a thorn in my side,” Simon replied with a stern look. He knew his ex-wife well enough to know that she had an agenda and it wasn’t just to catch up.

Melissa replied, “So you would rather stay with your monster of a wife who kills people at night rather than stay with me?” She batted her eyelashes, which she conveniently had done longer to make herself appear more innocent than she truly was.

It didn’t matter that you weren’t there to defend yourself. It didn’t matter how foul your own deeds were in comparison to his own? They were rather tame, war criminals were in a different lane than serial killers, didn’t she know that? Did she have to bring your own personal issues to the forefront like that?

Simon had his own issues you weren’t blind, just like you had issues he wasn’t blind to either. But in the most twisted way possible. They complimented each other in ways most people wouldn’t possibly comprehend it.

On the way home, your children were oddly silent, “What happened? Did you have fun?” You asked, trying to ease their discomfort.

“Yeah, we had a blast at the park,” your youngest said, her eyes looking down at her lap.

You frowned, “What’s wrong, piccolo fiore?”

Your oldest spoke up, “It’s nothing, Mamma. Just a misunderstanding with a friend at school, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“When you want to, you’re more than welcome to speak about it alright?” you remarked hoping your oldest, Emilia would come to you when she wants to talk about what happened at school that day. Friend problems is something you were familiar with and you had a few of them growing up.

Your twin girls, Giovanna and Emilia, along with your youngest, Lucia, ran to their bedroom to watch their cartoons and do their homework. You had a careful discussion about your night work, Simon decided you had to do it while he was there and he wouldn’t want you doing any of it while it was just you alone in the house.

“Are you sure it would be better that way?” you asked him, as he sipped his earl grey tea in the basement as you finished the laundry.

Simon nodded, his eyes never leaving the TV where the news played quietly in the background, “Yes, I’d rather you didn’t have to deal with any of that...stuff on your own.” His voice was low and gruff, hinting at the weight of his past. You knew he was referring to the times when his military service took him away, leaving you to handle everything alone.

“If it makes you feel better, then I’ll make sure you’re home.” You reassured as you hung up the wet clothes up on the indoor clothesline above the metal tub.

Simon nodded, “It’s not that, I just don’t like the idea of you being down here all alone doing...that.” He gestured to the crimson tiles and the tub.

You listened to his concerns silently, you weren’t the type to talk over someone when they felt like they needed to say something. Simon noticed you were paying attention to him silently as you moved around. It felt like his own accepting silence is displayed to him this time, which is a rarity in his line of work. Yet, here you are, doing just that and you weren’t even in the military.

Simon saw the qualifications you have hanging on the basement wall. He knew you were smart, but he didn’t know just how smart you are. He had no idea you had that much education under your belt.

“What’s with all these degrees?” He asked, looking surprised.

“I got into wanting to help people even before all of this. I was going to be a nurse but I changed my mind after finally getting my bachelor’s. I got into trauma surgery and after getting a master’s in that, I changed my mind again. And finally settled on Forensics Pathologist.” You explained.

He looked at you with a mix of awe and admiration, “You’re a doctor?” He questioned, his voice low, as if he was afraid to disturb the air between you two.

“Yeah. Technically I am.” You answered.

“But you never said anything,” Simon was genuinely surprised, taking a step closer to you, his hand reaching out to touch your shoulder gently.

“You didn’t ask. So, I just didn’t bring it up?”

Simon nodded slowly, “I guess I didn’t think you’d be interested in something like that.”

“I also do body horror art in my spare time.” You told him, making him chuckle as he gazed at your art pieces close to it.

The art prints you had yet to hang up were by Vincent Van Gogh, Francisco Goya, H.R. Giger, Hans Memling, Hieronymus Bosch, and many other artists you keep going back to. Regardless of how much time has passed on.

The Halloween costumes you made your children never failed to make them happy. Last year they were princesses, the year before that they were pirates. This year? They wanted to be spooky ghosts. The sheet over the body kind of ghosts, but with a twist. They had to be Italian ghosts.

“Italian ghosts huh? What does an Italian ghost entail?” you asked.

“They get to wear fancy clothes and eat pasta all day.” Emilia exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

You laughed, “I suppose my grandfather would be eating pasta all day.” You remarked talking about their great grandfather.

Simon nodded, “I guess so. Though he’d probably be enjoying a nice Chianti with it, too.”

“And a tiramisu for dessert. He always did have a sweet tooth.” You added with a smile, remembering your Nonno’s love for the dessert. The conversation shifted to lighter topics as Simon helped you fold the clothes. You appreciated his company down here, even though you had grown quite accustomed to the solitude of your basement. It was a stark contrast to the darkness you usually brought down here, but his presence made it feel almost...normal.

The shirt folder folding board flip fold helped you fold shirts faster than you had before you got it from Amazon. Simon watched as you used it to fold the shirts up. You knew your girls would have to start learning how to do their own laundry when they grew older. But you weren't going to rush into that any time soon.

“I didn’t know you liked art so much.” Simon commented, his eyes scanning over the unframed art prints you had neatly stacked against the wall.

“My grandmother liked the painting of Kronos eating his child so much she had one in the sunroom, one in the living room and one in her bedroom.” You told him.

Simon’s eyes widened, “Your grandmother had a morbid sense of humour?”

“Something like that, she had a taste for the darker things and she wasn’t afraid of expressing it either. But she loved, loved cooking, she didn’t care if you wanted things a certain way, if you wanted a dish to your specifics, she will give it to you how you wanted it. My mother often complained, ‘She can’t have mac & cheese for dinner all the time’. But my grandmother knew how to win over her grandkids, especially when we were feeling sick. Her lasagna was heaven sent. She’s the one who taught me how to make it.” You spoke fondly of your grandmother as you folded the last of the laundry.

Simon nodded, “My mother was a bit of a neat freak. Everything had to be just so or she’d have a fit. It’s probably why I’m so... particular about my living space.” He chuckled, looking around the pristine basement.

“Did she tear out your clothes and tell you do it again?” you remarked remembering your mother doing that to your closet.

“More like she’d scrub the floors until they shone brighter than my medals and the kitchen looked like it was from a magazine. But she had a good heart, she just liked things clean.” Simon said with a small smile, “I guess that's why I noticed when something was off down here.”

“Odd considering the four extractor fans.” you stated. You told him your secret months after the fourth date, but you didn't think he took it nearly as serious as he should have. You figured it was the military in him, always so stoic and unfazed by everything.

Simon's gaze sharpened, “Is that what you do down here, when I'm not around?”

“Not lately, I haven't had the cause or reason to do it.” you assured him.

Simon's shoulders visibly relaxed at your words. He knew you had a vendetta but seeing your children grow up without their biological father due to his ex-wives spite was something that had been weighing on him.

“But I know you’ve done it before,” he said, his voice even, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I told you remember?”

Simon nodded slowly, “I do, but I need to know for sure.”

“I have done it before.” you reminded him. “I am capable of doing it. I can and I will do it again if someone threatens me or our kids.”

The basement felt hot and stuffy suddenly, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Simon looked at you, his expression unreadable. He had known about your past, but hearing you confirm it so bluntly was still a shock.

“But why?” he finally asked, his voice low and steady. “Why go to such lengths?”

“My reason is still the same. I don't think people should get away with heinous things just because they got rich blood.” you reminded him. “But I haven't done it again or seen something heinous enough to do it again.”

Simon nodded, “And what happens when you do?”

“You will be the first to know.” you promised.

Simon took a deep breath, his hand still on your shoulder, “I want to help you, you know. I don't want you to have to go through this alone.”

You promised to involve him from now on, you promised to make sure he was there in person before you decided to anything on your own and you made sure no matter what happened you would be honest with him.

Any normal person would have scoffed at Simon and tell him to leave you. Turn you in to the police. But Simon isn’t normal. He wasn’t raised in a normal environment either and he wasn’t a typical husband like you would see in the movies either. Suited you just fine. It was better for the both of you this way.

Simon finally saw the three chinchillas and the four bunnies you kept as pets. You didn’t know how he would react to them. But you weren’t prepared for the way his eyes lit up. He had a soft spot for animals. Something that was surprising considering his career choice.

“I told you they were fine.” You smirked, “I brought them in just before the storm rolled in.”

Simon chuckled, kneeling down to stroke the nearest rabbit’s ears. It twitched its nose at him and leaned into the gentle touch. “They’re adorable, I can see why you picked them up. What are their names?”

“The white one is Marshmallow, the black one is Moth, the light brown one is Princess, and the dark brown one is Panini.” You rattled off the names of the rabbits as Simon's eyes lit up with curiosity.

“The three chinchillas are Peppermint, Bee and Mouse.” you remarked.

Simon chuckled, “Mouse for the chinchilla with the little nose?”

“Yeah.” you answered. “The shyest one too.”

As you watched him interact with the animals, something shifted inside you. It was a rare moment of peace and vulnerability from a man who had seen too much war and bloodshed. His rough exterior melted away, revealing the gentle soul that had captured your heart.

The three girls had drawn mouse as a knight a few times, which Simon had found hilarious. He had promised to take them to the nearest castle when he had leave next. It was something they had talked about in passing. The children didn’t know about his line of work. They were too young to understand. You liked that about them, they still had their innocence.

And you always planned to have them keep that for as long as they possibly could. You taught them a few Italian phrases to use when they were annoyed at something or someone. As you believed it was healthier to let them vent out their frustrations to let them know it’s okay to express themselves in a safe and controlled environment, than to hold it all in and let it fester.

Simon heard Emilia say Cazzo when she bumped her toe into her wardrobe, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. You had taught them a few Italian curse words to use when they were upset. Nothing too serious, just enough to let off steam. He turned to you with a playful smile, “You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

“Better here than out there.” you remarked. Which was true, considering what you had seen in your line of work. You had seen people take out their frustrations in the most violent ways possible. This was the least of it.

Simon looked up at you, his hand still stroking the rabbit's soft fur, “I don't want you to be alone in this. If you ever need help...”

“You'll know it long before you say Cazzo.” you reassured.

After dinner you were fixing a dress Lucia had torn that afternoon after she was tripped over by her bully. You had decided to homeschool her, after multiple incidences at her school. Simon sat beside you, watching you skilfully mend the fabric with your nimble fingers. He had never seen you do this before, but the way you handled the needle and thread was mesmerizing.

“You're good at that,” he said, his voice a soft murmur.

“I hope so. I had practice with my teddy bears growing up.” you chuckled, the memory of your first sewing machine flashing through your mind. It was your mother’s old one, but you had made it your own, patching up dolls and clothes until you moved on to more complex things.

“It’s surprising you weren’t a fashion designer.” Simon teased, his eyes never leaving the stitches you were making on Lucia’s dress.

“Considering I only wear neutral and monochromatic shades like black, grey, and white, I think fashion might not be the best choice.” you quipped. “Besides half the naughty things I made would be illegal to wear outside.”

Simon remembered the lace night gowns and the leather outfits you had in your closet, and his cheeks turned a shade of pink. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, especially when it came to lingerie, you were specific in your tastes. Which was one of the many things he found fascinating about you. He took a sip of his tea, his mind wandering to the first time he saw you in one of those ensembles. It had been a surprise, one that had left him utterly speechless.

Things would be fine.

Right? Melissa wouldn’t know what hit her when her own affair came to her new husband’s attention. Sent anonymously to him in a large yellow envelope in the hope it would be enough to scare her into silence. Cruel but necessary. She should thank her lucky stars she was allowed to walk out of your home. Alive.

[greenlillies]

Ewan Mitchell | British GQ MOTY 2024 (Nov 19)

[meadowlarksabove]

How many walls and how many soldiers have crumbled before that gaze? The deepest shade of crimson he’d ever seen, like rich and seething blood. A blind rage made manifest in hulking muscles, the silhouette of a god scorched through mortal tapestry. What beauty and what horror! To know with certainty how their hands could reach and rip him apart. That just as Gabban had deftly peeled the skins from the fruits before them, they could also, and with as much ease, sleeve him of his own flesh. 

Yet he’d long stopped fearing pain and the call of the grave, the very shrouds that should befall them all in the end. Truth be told, Gabban had found an even greater evil in the short run of his life, a darker shade of midnight in the cradle of wicked hands. At the mercy of animals he dared not name, and who had left him in awe at the very depths of their wickedness, forever stricken by a malice he could scarcely believe had been committed by living and feeling creatures. In comparison, even the young Legate fell short of that terror. 

So he leveled their stare, not defiantly, but as a door which was held open with a smile. They may judge him, they may hurt him if they wanted, but he would never allow himself to cower again. He had to be better than that. He must. 

“Is no part of you selfish? Can you claim that for yourself?”

His expression sharpened as he searched the other’s face for an answer, but only slightly. There was little more he needed in order to grasp how the other was wild, stubborn, and fiercely loyal to the bull. That in their chest beat the heart of an honest warrior with a too-clear view of the battlefield, unclouded by the fog of war. That fact alone softened his features once more. It would only become even clearer for them… 

“Maybe you can. I could certainly believe it.” He truly would.

“I will speak for myself then. I can not claim to serve our Caesar selflessly. Because I know that serving our master is serving the Legion. That serving the Legion is both serving his people and the lands I love. It means fighting for my siblings for whom I would tear through any fortress and any person with my bare hands.” 

Again, he thought of his brothers, their confounding reports, and the words Dead Sea had used to describe their progress on the front. It was abnormal for them to be so unsure of their plans and of where they stood. If only he could go see them– help them directly!

“I think it’s right for men to fight for something they love, to devote themselves to a cause born of their flesh. Because we are mortal and we must labor as things that must someday die, we must work with the knowledge of our own impermanence. No one here, save for one who is presently not sitting at this table, can boast to be divine and as eternal as Mars. So we must fight, in the little time we have, to make our efforts worthwhile.” 

And who could stain their hands the way he had without a shred of care to drive it? Without the fervor of some pure and ardent desire fanning the flames? No one could be so sedate. 

“When it is over, when death comes for me, I would like to face it knowing I have done everything to protect all that I loved and believed in.” Perhaps then, he would have done something worthy, not of praise or of great note, but of being called a person. To have been someone who stood on their feet and not on their paws. “It’s surely a weakness to have your heart chained to something. Plenty have told me so– my princeps especially. But–” 

A small huff escaped his lips, a piece of a pretty yet stifled chuckle. “In that respect I am entirely hopeless. Once bound, I am bound forever. I do not abandon what is precious to me.” 

Again his eyes returned to the younger man. No less stern and no less piercing, a little more so even, perhaps. What could well be misunderstood as aggravation was all but that. No animosity despite the burning intensity that seethed in that hot red gaze still (accompanied by that tense muscle locking his jaw, by the way his herculean body sat comfortable but looked ready to spring up from his seat to crush and malm whoever next dared insulting, or belittling his views and ideals openly and plainly for everyone else to hear. The remnants of the bull coursing through blood-filled veins.

In truth, there was understanding. In truth it was a focus that had come with a revelation that he had not considered in a way and had come to the conclusion that he should have. It was the waking of a mind that caught its own sinking into depths that were unbefitting the occasion and sickening. An illness he had been fighting instead of allowing it to befall him, for many years now. Like a fresh breeze had kissed the soreness of skin. Like a balm gently applied to an infliction, a wound. Like precious water, spilled at the threatening of the imminent feast of an unstoppable wildfire. Like gentle hand that had cupped his face and had pulled from his eyes the veil of red, of murder. Cooing the softest syllables of a hum-sung hope, whisper-soft. That voice, so gentle, in the presence of mad dogs, or corrupted minds. No, those eyes looked not at something that was to their distaste or something displeasing. It was a sort of reverence, of awe.

Lupercus had to admit that he had forgotten (and perhaps had done so willingly and blindly, driven-mad by the ignorance of the man he could not even call his father. To allow for such differences to be bred into and amongst his very own men. That forces were separated through the mad-making promises of power, binded and sewn together through fals devotion to a cause that was not believed in but a title that was craved, and under which those that fought and bled mercilessly succumbed and were sacrificed under in baseless schemes and headless endeavors. He too had become bigoted and judgemental through the reflection he was shown by the men of the Fort at their arrival. They did not know and he did not either and still they were rabid enough to snarl and show teeth and aim for the throat.

The Frumentarius mentioned something else that had his brows shit and knit ever so slightly in a sign of light scrutiny. A confession he was not sure whether it was meant as such or if perhaps it had slipped him.

Unfortunately, one is often alone among comrades here.

The Legate observed the man before him, a figure marked by a precise mind and a sharp wit that cut. He found himself contemplating the depths of the Frumentarius’ character, pondering how much of his demeanor stemmed from an unwavering integrity and steadfast dedication to truth and how much of it (if there at all) was there, of a guarded honesty rooted in a fervent belief in justice. He understood yet again why the Frumentarii were talked about the way they were. Masters of intelligence, fighting the same war but in different ways There was an underlined admiration that he felt in that moment. A revelation he was in two minds about. He was not oblivious to the tales told and the deeds rumoured  to be done in more selfish and questionable endeavours. Bad-mouthed in uncertainty over a power that was found difficult to assess.

Were they truly so double-faced? Was all this man said and shared with him nothing but an act...?

He could not know. A truth that displeased him, turning his eyes into blood-slick daggers. Enough to let his gaze fall onto the massive table before them. To its contents, the lavish dinner, the wine. All there to be devoured in celebration. Never before had Lupercuss felt so strongly a sense of mourning. Never had it been sitting with him so closely - the reality of death.

            “What do you think. Have I found my flower? Do you suggest my loyalty being an act of selfishness rather than true and honest devotion to our Caesar?”

[hauntingblue]

Oden is winning the bad bitch competition jesus

[sundays-mutt]

john in rdr1 is so special to me i feel crazuyzuzyszy

[uncertainty5]

if the bi lesbian, trans men can be lesbians, non men loving non men discourse has taught me anything its that we all need to throw away labels. At this point they do nothing. If you tell me ur gay this tells me nothing. Doesnt tell me ur gender identity, doesnt tell me what kind of attraction u feel, doesn’t tell me who ur attracted to and who u make exceptions for. I could identify as bi but some people have a thousand different interpretations of wtf that means. So im not gonna use bi anyone. I use labels to let people know if an easy way what my identity is but u cant do that anymore. So fuck it get rid of the labels and tell people straight up what ur attraction is. Hello Im a person attracted to mostly men but sometimes women. People talk about the “gender fuckery” of the 80s and then u learn there were even less labels. Like we invent labels to describe our identities but then like…suddenly they dont matter? Everyone is valid or whatever but all ur left with are these empty hollow words that act more as decoration than like actual identities. And u cant tell people how to identify so like fuck it why even have them?

[babisawyer]

'a spicy haunted corn maze stalker scarecrow romance' I think we should all kill ourselves.

[navybrat817]

Mr. and Mrs. Barnes

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky suggests sneaking off at the gala. How can you resist?

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Unprotected v. sex, sex in a closet, dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, slight insecurities, mention of breeding, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's a simp for you (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Sorry, lovelies. I just really wanted this. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t bother to hide his discontent as he looked around at the ballroom. Was it a gala? Fundraiser? What cared? He hated functions like these. People were either there to kiss ass and move up the chain of command or gloat about how well off they were in life under the guise that they were doing good for others. He didn't attempt to converse with any of them, but still had to go as a way to support SHIELD in some capacity and show that he was no longer the Winter Soldier.

At least Steve and Sam were excused from the event due to a mission.

Leaning against one of the pillars and tugging at his bowtie, he spaced out momentarily. No one looked his way, but he still felt judged. Like he didn’t just belong at the event, but amongst anyone. He wanted to go home, get out of his tuxedo, and get the product out of his slicked back hair. He debated sneaking away from some air until he blinked and saw the reason he was truly there: you, the only real person in the crowd of liars and cheaters.

He never understood the expression of clothes clinging to someone like a second skin until you stepped into your floor-length black dress earlier this evening, the fabric enhancing every beautiful curve of your body. His eyes narrowed as you moved around the room and exchanged smiles and handshakes with people. Your aura drew people to you, men brushing against you and their stares lingering for far too long. It served as another reminder of why he didn’t want to go tonight, especially when a General gripped your arm.

If he had a glass in his hand it would’ve shattered.

Convincing you to stay in bed didn't work since you both had to make an appearance, but it didn't mean he wanted you apart from him. “Get over here,” he whispered, craving your attention, needing you close.

As if you sensed him seeking you out, likely feeling the weight of his stare, you turned to meet his gaze across the room. Your eyes sparkled with love that he never thought he’d receive in his lifetime. The kind of love he never wanted to be without again. “Would you please excuse me?” You asked loud enough for him to catch as you removed your arm from the man’s grip. “My husband is waiting for me.”

Your hips swayed as you worked your way toward Bucky, not stopping for any other man who tried to catch your eye. Hearing you call him your husband brought the first smile to his face since he arrived. He still couldn’t believe some days that you wanted forever with him. “I was wondering when my beautiful wife would remember I was here,” he said once you were close enough, reaching out for your hand.

The moment you took it, he stood tall and pulled you against him. He was certain no one else came close to the intimidating vibe he put out, his hold on you possessive as you smiled. “As if I could forget. Practically heard you growling when General Rando touched my arm,” you teased.

“Because he has no right to touch you,” he said, your lashes fluttering as you spun away. His hands guided you back to him. “I know you’re better with people than I am, which is why you’re the one who has to socialize and I’m sorry for that. But you also said I’m not allowed to break any fingers tonight and I won't be held responsible if he tries to touch you again.”

He swore he didn’t have a possessive bone in his body until you sauntered into his life, giving him hopes and dreams and longing.

You laughed at him, a seductive sound that had a few heads turning. “You do know I can break his fingers myself, right?”

He chuckled, leaning close to your ear and tickling your skin with his breath. “I know you're more than capable of kicking his ass. One of your many wonderful qualities,” he whispered. People underestimated you and that was always a mistake. “But I still don't like that he touched you like he wanted to own you.”

You rang a finger along his bowtie. “We all know who owns me and we know I own you, too,” you said, holding up your hand to show him your wedding ring. He tried to ignore how fast his heart pounded at the sight of his ring on your finger, the pledge you two made together. “In a very healthy, non-toxic sort of way, of course.”

He smirked, glancing around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Of course, but maybe we could give everyone a friendly reminder that we’re a happily married and loyal couple.” His voice dropped lower, teasingly. He wanted to make your heart race like his. “Or maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Make this night a little more interesting.”

“Sneak away?” You feigned innocence as you blinked at him. He was certain any innocence you had before he met you was gone thanks to him. “Whatever for?”

“You know what for. It’ll be like that expo we went to a few months ago.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying your face closely. He easily picked up your sharp inhale, the way your pupils dilated and lips parted. It was clear that sneaking off was something that very much interested you. “C’mon, baby. This gala is boring and neither of us want to be here. My idea is much more fun. You know it is.”

He touched your cheek, your skin warm under his hand. He wasn’t able to keep you in bed earlier like he wanted, but the thought of pulling you away and having you right here and now had his stomach fluttering with excitement. “This gala is boring,” you agreed carefully.

“Then let’s make it exciting.” His thumb brushed across your lips and it took everything in him not to push his thumb inside. “You made me come to this thing. Don’t I deserve something for showing up and behaving?”

“I haven't made you come yet.” His muscles went taut when you briefly sucked the digit into your mouth, electricity crackling under his skin. He admired your boldness, how you were unashamedly yourself in front of these people. You didn't and would never care what they thought. “And I didn't make you come to this event, but I can make it worth your while.”

He held your chin and moved close until only an inch separated your faces. Your eyes gleamed with a hunger that rivaled his. The air crackled between you, daring you both to give over to your obvious desires. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” He rasped when you suddenly pulled back and helped move him across the floor in a dance.

“My plan? I thought sneaking away was your idea,” you smiled, guiding you both closer to the open doorway. “But if we can find a closet or dark corner, you can do whatever you want with me. And I’ll even let you fuck my throat first thing tomorrow morning for behaving.”

A rumbling, deep groan escaped his throat. His fingers dug in possessively when he gripped the nape of your neck and tilted your head so he could taste your skin. Your body molding against his, soft and yielding against his solid frame, wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes in the way and he wanted to bury himself deep inside you.

“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, lifting his head to look into your eyes.

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Barnes.” You bit your lip once he waltzed you for enough away from prying eyes, the heat flaring between you. “I need you.”

Every nerve ending came to life when he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged past your lips, holding you steady as he devoured you. You melted against him, which only brought forth his primal hunger more. His intensity never scared you and he would be forever thankful for that.

You gasped as your back hit a wall, the sounds of chatter and music from the ballroom muffled. Your nails scraped the fabric of his jacket, both of you lost in sensations of lust and desire. As one of your hands continued its journey to his shoulder, the other wandered down his torso and didn’t stop until you gripped his thick erection through his pants.

He abruptly broke the kiss when you gave him a squeeze, his eyes wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, gripping your wrist and pushing more firmly against your hand. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

With dizzying speed, he spun you so that your back pressed against his front. You panted as his hand ventured through the slit of your dress and brushed along your trembling thigh. “Wait until you feel how wet I am,” you whispered, grinding your hips back against his.

His mouth brushed the exposed column of your throat, alternating between small bites and open mouthed kisses. “Still get wet for me?” He asked, massaging your breast with his vibranium hand and drawing another gasp from you when he pinched your nipple. He marveled at how much he could feel with that hand and how he’d never harm you with it.

“Have you seen yourself? One look from you and I’m soaked.” Your back arched as he bit down again. He wished he saw himself the way you did. “And you’re my husband. That craving for you isn’t going away.”

He rocked his hips against yours, seeking out more contact and friction as his cock throbbed and heart swelled. Marriage wasn’t a constant honeymoon phase. It took work. Effort. Compromise. But you were worth every moment, every struggle, every up and down.

Laughter from a few feet away had him lifting his head, both of you looking toward where the noise was coming from. “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away.

“There’s a closet around the corner. We just need to pick the lock,” you told him, smiling over your shoulder. “I may have scoped out the place in case this happened.”

He chuckled, utterly in awe of you. “I fucking love you,” he exhaled.

Walking with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but he managed to get you both further away from the ballroom. He picked the lock with record speed once you got to the door and moved you both inside. He flipped on the light, wanting to see as much of you as he could. For a moment, you two stared at each other and waited for the other to make a move. He loved the anticipation.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Barnes,” you said, reaching for the doorknob to lock it. He was about to ask what he possibly did to upset you when you smirked. “You didn’t mention anything about me not wearing any panties.”

His cock was ready to burst from his pants. “Because that fucking clown out there interupted me,” he rumbled, pinning you against the door and crowding your body. His nose touched yours as he hiked your dress up, desperate to kiss you again. Eager to feel your wetness. “You trust me?”

It was a question he always asked. You put all of yourself into his care, your body, mind, heart, and soul. It was only fair that he made sure you still wanted him to be the one for you today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Even then a single lifetime would never be enough for him. He wanted a thousand lives with you.

“Always,” you said, an ache in your voice that he couldn’t resist. He fused his lips with yours, building up the fire all over again when his hand found your damp heat. The most intimate part of you where you allowed him to make himself at home. Your hands shook as you went to undo his pants, wanting to free him. “And you trust me?”

It wasn’t just his heart that contracted. His very soul trembled, wanting to wrap itself up in your light and love. “With everything in me,” he promised, sighing when he pulled his cock free from his underwear. “I’ll worship you later. Those gorgeous tits of yours. Your sweet cunt.”

Once you were home, he’d slip off your dress and give every beautiful inch of your body the attention it deserved. He’d draw a bath for you, too, and hopefully join you so he could simply hold you. But he was desperate for you now. He thought he’d burn if he didn’t have you.

You hiked a leg around him, moving your hips enticingly. There was only so much he could take. And who wouldn’t fall under the tempting spell of your body? “I’m ready for you.” Your soft moan echoed in his ears as he trailed a finger along your slit to your clit, barely touching it. He knew it would shoot small sparks through your body until you begged for more. “I mean it, Barnes. Get. Your cock. In me.”

“My needy little wife,” he whispered against your lips as he gripped the base of his cock and probed your entrance. The breathy sound you made when he began to push in had his blood pulsing in euphoria. It was a wonder he fit some days with how tight you were, but your slick heat stretched and welcomed him every time.

“My needy husband,” you smiled as you enveloped him completely, your fingers curling in his hair.

“What kind of man isn’t needy for his wife?” He began to thrust in deep, deliberate strokes. It matched the rhythm of the music in the distant ballroom, the two of you creating your own sultry dance. Maybe he would go up in flames. At least he’d have you to burn with. “Fuck, your body was made for my cock.”

Each snap of his hips tore more moans and whimpers from your throat and sent shockwaves through his system. You clenched around him with a smile, looking like a debauched angel. “My pussy was made for you, so ruin it.”

He groaned, his pulse beating strongly as his grip tightened on your hips. He fucked you without restraint, just as greedy for you as you were for him. Allowing himself to feel you and what you did to him was everything he was denied for so long. His life had only been order. Pain. You let him lose control. You gave him pleasure. Even a home.

I love you.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you panted, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone as his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to surface. “I love you, too.”

His pace picked up, urgent, frenzied. At this rate, he might explode into fragments from your declaration and how good you felt. “You love me?” He bit out, his eyes opening and breaths harsh as he felt you clench again.

You cried out, his hand flying up to brace your head before it hit the door. “So much,” you moaned as you gazed at him. You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Fierce in love and loyalty, patient and steadfast. He feared some days he’d need you more than you needed him, but you drove that thought from his mind. “I’m yours.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned. He couldn’t with the way you looked at him, the way your walls gripped him, knowing you were his.

“Neither am…” Your mouth fell open as your release hit you, your fluids drenching him. It was a wonder to watch you go over the edge in a blissful orgasm. He wanted to be right there with you.

“There you go. Good girl,” he encouraged, your body still tight around his cock. He erupted in one last thrust, his head falling back with an animalistic roar. “Fuck…”

Bucky braced a hand against the door, the other holding you like a lifeline. If only the two of you were at home so he could properly cuddle with you. His breathing remained ragged for a bit as he came down from his high, your breathing beginning to steady, too. He couldn't help but smile as he took in the sight of you thoroughly ravaged and satisfied. “Worth every second of being here,” he sighed, slowly pulling out of your twitching hole. You inhaled when he moved a hand down and swiped two fingers along the mess seeping out of you. “Clean them off for me, baby,” he ordered huskily, bringing them to your mouth.

Obediently, you parted your lips and allowed him to push his fingers in. You swirled your tongue around them to taste your combined essence, moaning at the tangy flavor. He tucked himself away once you finished up, afraid that he’d fuck you all over again if he didn’t get completely dressed. It didn’t stop him from gazing longingly at you as he fixed his jacket.

And it didn’t stop him from imagining your mouth around his cock the next morning.

“Now.” You grimmaced slightly as he helped you steady yourself and straighten out your dress. He knew that look. It was the look you got for a split second whenever the sticky remnants continued to trickle down your thighs. He loved having that claim on you. “How do you expect me to go back to the gala after that?”

“I don’t,” he smirked, his hands moving back to your hips as he snuck in a gentle kiss. “I think it’s time to get you home and back in our bed where you belong. I promised I’d worship you, remember?”

You nodded, your eyes still slightly dazed. “On one condition.”

He titled his head. “What’s that?”

A slow smile curved your mouth, his heart pounding and cock twitching back to life at your answer, “You put a baby in me tonight.”

So, lovelies, was it okay? I feel rusty. And who wants a future fic of Bucky breeding you? Just me? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141! (Part 1)

Let's get this out of the way, the restaurant fucking sucks. Don't even know how it's still open. The food is terrible. The owner is an incompetent drunk who's never there. You got referred to the job from a friend of a friend. You did an interview with the head chef/manager, John. He hired you because you were hot.

"The fuckin ass on that one, huh?"

Just like any man that works in a restaurant, they're all horny fucks who love to tease you. You'd run back to the kitchen and ask to tweak an order. Price would wink and say:

"Next time it's gonna cost ya."

When it gets slow (which was all the time), you'd sit in the back and chat about how they met and what they did with their lives. They all get paid under the table for various reasons. Johnny takes smoke breaks with you, sometimes Price joins. Gaz pours shots for everyone after "busy" nights (busy meaning there was an hour where there were two tables to serve instead of one). Ghost... well he's strictly work. Sometimes he engages in banter with the guys, but he only acknowledges you when needed.

Your first month flies by, you basically get paid to sit around and talk with the most charming men on the planet, and Simon.

"He'll warm up eventually. Just gotta loosen 'em up, just like any tight ass."

Soap smirked as he leaned against a counter while everyone was wrapping up for the night.

"Don't you have dishes to put away?"

Ghost snapped while wiping down his station. At least he was nice to look at.

You and Gaz would roll up the forks and knives talking about bullshit, knees touching. Soap and you would light each others smokes by touching one lit end to the unlit one, all while still holding the cigarettes in your mouths (he called it a cigarette kiss). Price would constantly make food for you:

"Gotta plump you up 'fore it starts getting cold, yeah?"

He'd look you up and down while sliding you a basket of fries. And Simon? Cold as ever. Even when he started driving you to and from work because your car broke down. He drove like a madman, but it was totally silent. You made the mistake of reaching for the radio once, he gave a admonitory grunt and you snatched your hand away.

As time went on, you got comfortable with everyone and they got comfortable with you. It started with suggestive jokes.

"Simon's just straightforward, doesn't beat around the bush."

Price said one day while prepping vegetables with Ghost.

"What are you talking about? He beats around the bush all the time Price, you know that."

Soap walked by with a shit eating grin while he was carrying a bucket of dishes to the back. Uproar from the guys. Ghost storms off following Johnny, knife in hand. You want to stop him, but Gaz places a hand on your shoulder.

"Best not to do that, just let 'em settle that amongst themselves."

Johnny comes back disheveled, wearing a different shirt. Simon is stone faced as usual as he goes back to prep. It only got worse after that.

You'd watch as the boys messed with each other more; pats on the back, that turns to squeezes on the shoulders, that turned to slaps on the ass.

"They're just handsy," you think to yourself.

Eye contact that lingers for a second too long.

"They're just close friends," you think to yourself.

Compliments that boarder on harassment.

"They're just joking around," you think to yourself.

Then you entered the walk-in freezer, only to make direct eye contact with Johnny as he has Kyle's dick down his throat.

"Oh, uh-huh..." you think to yourself.

You didn't look at their faces for a week, they acted as if nothing happened. Then, the flirting only got worse.

"Behind!"

Price would yell while grinding up against Simon's ass when passing behind him.

"Yes, Chef."

He'd respond while he continued cooking, unfazed. They seemingly shared clothes: the younger guys preferred to don John and Simon's apparel all the time. You stopped going into the walk-in for a while, you figured you'd give Gaz and Soap some privacy (although they didn't seem to mind an audience). Christ, was everyone fucking everyone here?

You were taking a smoke break with Price when he leaned back on the railing and adjusted himself, it wasn't really adjusting himself as it was more him gripping his thick dick and looking directly into your eyes. You nearly choked as he smiled.

Ghost threw you a hoodie when he dropped you off one night. It started raining before you got home and you were complaining about just getting your hair done. You tried to give it back but he refused to take it.

"Keep it. I don't care about that one anyways."

He shrugged. You'd wear the oversized hoodie to bed, the smell was comforting. Smoky, dusty, boozy, like Javanese vetiver. It smelled like a grown man. Delicious. Accidentally wore it to work one day when you were in a rush getting ready. That started a trend for the rest of them to get you to wear their clothes. It less of a trend and more of a competition honestly. They'd "accidentally" spill drinks or food on you.

"No worries, I've got an extra shirt in my car!"

They'd have a wide, cheeky smile plastered on their faces while giving you their shirt. Of course, they wouldn't take them back either; so you had a growing collection of huge shirts that you'd wear around your apartment. Eventually, you had to go back to the walk-in. Thankfully, there were no exhibitionists present. You were reaching to grab some ketchup when the door opened. You and Johnny stared at each other for a long moment.

"Need help getting that, bonnie?"

Before you could respond he was reaching over you, pressing his chest on your back. He handed you the bottle while his dick grew hard on your ass. He was breathing hard in your ear, waiting for your reaction. You pushed back on him and that's all he needed, he gripped your hips and grinded into you. Even through your jeans you could feel his dick twitch when you moaned. It was a hot minute of panting while he pulled you back onto him desperately, like he was trying to fuck you right through the denim. The door handle clicked. You both froze, staring at the entryway.

"Johnny?"

Gaz's head popped in. Your face got hot while he stared back and forth at the two of you. One thing led to another, and your pants are around your ankles while Johnny is face first in your wet folds. Kyle is standing behind you, fucking your thighs and leaving sloppy kisses on your neck.

"Pretty doll, how long have ye bin waiting fur this, huh?"

Soap looked up at you with so much adoration, like he was servicing a goddess.

"Gonna cum Johnn-"

Gaz whimpered and bit your shoulder to muffle his groans as he came right between your thighs and cunt. Soap cleaned up the mess greedily, savouring the taste of both your juices. He didn't stop eating you out until you finished. Gaz held you up while your knees buckled when you came undone. Gentlemen they are, pulled up your pants for you and wiped the smeared lipgloss from your face. You stumbled out of the freezer, walking past the kitchen. Price's eyes crinkled as he saw you head out onto the floor.

~

"You shouldn't do that in there. It's unsanitary. And a health code violation."

Simon looked straight ahead as he weaved between cars. You opened your mouth, but no words came to mind, so you just nodded. Your leg bounced nervously. He grabbed your thigh, stopping the movement. His hand stayed there until you were in front of your place. You stared at him, his brown eyes boring into you.

"G'night."

He pulled his hand away, placing both of them on the steering wheel. You walked into your apartment, dizzy with confusion. "What the fuck is going on?"

[asmileforyourscrapbooks]

OMFG THIS COMMENT. GUISE. THAT LAST SENTENCE IS SO FUCKING RAW

edit: i see a lot of people arguing over the 'eat the rich' thing and i'd like to clear up my standing currently! i know they aren't the same kind of fancy multi-million corporation that our beloved phrase talks about, and the reason i agree to a point with this comment is that watcher is evidently trying to become that. they're doing some shitty things in regards do disregarding poorer fans, and are seemingly blatantly ignoring the economic crisis by saying 'everyone can afford that!', all in direct contrast to their entire branding of being leftist and openly supporting things like eat the rich.

"You said 'eat the rich' then handed us the forks, laid on the plate, and expected us to spare you?" at least from my understanding isn't flat-out saying watcher are now the rich we eat, but are well on the track to becoming so, and are quickly developing the same ego.

BUT!! don't like people directly hating on steven like that!! they're all grown men who can make their own decisions, and pretending like shane and ryan are out little baby beans and then calling steven evil and whatnot isn't okay. they can all be held equally accountable. though i do somewhat understand being the most disappointed in shane, as he's the one who speaks on shit like eating the rich the most, and is generally more outward with his ideals, so it's perfectly reasonable to feel betrayed more deeply. but bottom line is they're all equally accountable for this decision.

some shit we can't take back. i probably got pissed and said some weird/uncool shit initially because of the intense emotions i was dealing with, which other people amplified. i do regret some of the things i've said to a point when it comes to being hateful, but i can't just un-say it all, so i'm not even going to try. i'm going to leave everything be and allow it to serve as something to look back on for what not to do in future circumstances. while this new path for watcher is, in my opinion, not the smartest and generally really shitty, they're human beings who make mistakes, and they deserve our acknowledgement of that.

in short, i don't like it but i'll stop being a bitch about it because they don't deserve that. also sorry for the wall of (probably incoherent lmao) text i got passionate <3

edit 2: guys. im screaming. the apology was amazing imo and i genuinely think they really mean it, like it doesn't seem bullshitted. i think they realized they fucked up for reals and feel bad. im so happy for them, but also for us as fans. yay :D

[qqueenofhades]

I think its genuinely fascinating how Biden has somehow become the bad vibes sin eater for the party. I'm seeing people who were doing the whole "voting doesn't matter both old men are the same" pivot hard into voting as harm reduction. The anti voting rhetoric has COMPLETELY lost The Youths on tiktok. People suddenly remember the good things the Biden administration has done but don't associate Harris with any of the things they didn't like. In my swing state volunteers are signing up in droves. People feel ENERGIZED, the vibe shift pre and post Biden dropping from the race has just been insane

Y'know, that is a... good way of putting it. It's also why I'm quite sure that Biden has probably been planning it for a while. I don't think he was intending to step down, and didn't want to be forced out at the drop of a hat, but after he realized that the circus was never going to stop until he did, he did the honorable fall-on-his-own-sword thing and definitely, DEFINITELY spent some time choreographing this behind the scenes. Because while the roll-out has been very smooth, it could just as easily (as many of us were expecting) have been a total disaster, and that doesn't happen without SOME planning. It's also entirely possible that the campaign staff flipped from Biden to Harris are superhuman, to come up with a massive online roll-out, new branding, new signs (they had plenty of 'em in Wisconsin yesterday), new everything, but I'm guessing it's a combination of both. Biden has spent his entire political career being underestimated, and after we literally made a meme out of Dark Brandon juking the Republicans out of their shoes, we should definitely give credit where credit is due in how masterfully he pulled it off.

Because we have had eight years defined by the central question of Whether The President Is a God King Who Should Serve For Life (the MAGAts obviously think yes), the sheer idea of a president willingly giving up his power BEFORE he had to is also novel and admirable. It's sad that this is the case, but so be it. The Republicans also got a heaping helping of Be Careful What You Wish For that was undoubtedly brilliant; they've been yelling for years that Biden is old and frail and can't serve and should step down. Biden went "lol okay" and gave it to them, and now they're fucked.

Aside from that, on the most basic level, it's far, far easier to see the actual difference in the parties with Harris as the nominee, just because it shows that one party is willing to make progress and reflect the new demographic reality and social mores of America, and the other one is not. Now to be clear, Biden deserves an incredible amount of credit for coming out of retirement (he was ALREADY 77 years old when he became president and had had decades of a long and respected career in public service behind him) to fight, beat Trump, and deliver an incredibly successful presidency. He held the line against authoritarianism at home and abroad, he rescued the trashed American economy and managed a world-leading recovery from Covid, he stood up for democracy, he spent four years filling the benches with liberal judges to reverse even some of the Trump/McConnell hack job, he finally passed comprehensive infrastructure investment and the Green New Deal under the name of the Inflation Reduction Act -- and so on. Many of these priorities had been languishing for decades or were completely trashed under Trump, and he could not have done so much in just 4 years without all that age, skill, and experience. Hence why all the Ageism!!! was (aside from being a Republican/media smear job) dumb. He's able to do the job because he has had decades to study. Turns out that makes you actually pretty damn good at it.

Yes, Biden could not do as much as he wanted or originally planned, had to deal with MAGA Republicans and Joe Manchin/Kyrsten Sinema sabotaging him the whole time (lololol Manchin, possible possessor of the World's Biggest Ego and with Trump around that's saying something, popping out of obscurity to self-righteously announce he would not be willing to be Kamala's VP. YEAH ASSHOLE. LITERALLY NOBODY ASKED YOU. NOBODY WHATSOEVER. NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS AT LEAST WE WILL SOON NO LONGER HAVE MANCHIN IN THE SENATE). And yes, Biden made some serious mistakes of his own, because he IS from an older generation and a different style of doing politics/different beliefs that no longer resonate with the younger segments of the electorate. But this old white Catholic guy at the age of almost 80 still managed to be the most progressive president ever, coming in at a moment of incredible domestic and international crisis and getting us safely to the other side, and all cynicism, criticizing, and caveating aside, he deserves an incredible amount of credit for that. I mean that absolutely, and I am very grateful.

As I said, willingly relinquishing that power takes guts, and when Biden saw the writing on the wall that he had to sacrifice himself, he took his time, he didn't jump too early, and he didn't jump too late. On the most basic level, it becomes a hell of a lot easier to make the "both parties are not the same" argument when one is running a (comparatively) young brown woman and the other is still running their loathed felonious old demented orange traitor. Most Americans are not plugged into policy minutiae and details. They look at Biden-Trump, they see two old white guys. When you take one of those old white guys away (who goes in a self-sacrificially heroic manner and in sharp contrast with the coup-happy fascist) and put Kamala Harris in there instead, it generates an obvious jolt. People can see for themselves that there is a real difference that doesn't rely on closely reading news and tracking complex policy, because as noted, most Americans simply don't. The brown first-generation American daughter of brown immigrants is a quantifiably different story from "old white guy career politician," which for better or worse is how Biden was seen, especially the old part. We needed that establishment expertise to beat Trump in 2020; I still think Biden is the only one who could have done it, and as noted, we owe him a great debt for doing so.

However.... 2024 is not 2020, and it is not 2016. There has been this HUGE and unbelievable swing to Kamala because she represents the antithesis of what the last eight years of Trump-induced anger, fear, panic, chaos, and hatred has stirred up. That's why people are so ready to rally around her, just as they were (I daresay) around Obama in 2008, after the exhaustion, chaos, war, and mounting economic misery of Bush. Trump has been out of office for the last four years, but his shadow over the American political landscape has been omnipresent. Now people know that we finally have a real chance at getting rid of him forever, and just as Biden was uniquely positioned to capitalize on that in 2020, so Harris is now. Which is why, however tough it will be, she has a real shot at winning. I can guarantee the Republicans know that, and are shit scared. Because the Black Lady Army of Democracy has indeed arrived in force to Get This Shit Done and I don't know about you, but I found that incalculably comforting:

Yikes! All lined up for Kamala pic.twitter.com/Dt4OCDp7WX

— Alex Cole (@acnewsitics) July 24, 2024

This, at the most basic level, is what scares fascists the most, it's exactly what we need now, and what Harris is uniquely positioned to mobilize, along with her gangbusters appeal to young voters:

This is the energy we need. This is what Biden saw and planned for and which he launched us into, and where all that experience and age paid off. This is why people, even people otherwise disengaged, disillusioned, or checked out of the tedious and mind-numbering drudgery and depression of American politics, are responding to it. Because it's easy to understand, it offers hope, and it tells a very simple story that is nonetheless long overdue:

Thanks so much, Joe. Go absolutely waste that orange fucker, Kamala. We got your back.