#workplace disagreement

[anatomical-puppet]

i love thinking about my organs :) like there’s a bunch of little guys in here and they work so so hard to keep my body goin!! and that’s just delightful

[autumnalhappiness]

Random tips for disagreeing with someone at work

Explain the problem with the plan they want to go with

Propose an option, and explain how the option may work better

Remember to ask for any thoughts on your plan, but be firm!

[vawtee]

Leaders, Are You Building a Safe Space or Breeding Fear?

The Line Between Leadership and Bullying

Here’s the hard truth: The real test of leadership is how you respond when someone disagrees with you.

Do you shut them down or invite them in?

Psychological safety and challenge safety are not just buzzwords—they are fundamental to creating a thriving team. If your team feels afraid to speak up or challenge your ideas, you may have a problem on your hands.

❗ Warning Signs You’re Leading Through Fear:

People agree with everything you say, no matter what.

You notice a lack of diverse ideas or innovation in meetings.

Your team gives you the bare minimum instead of their best work.

So, how can you create an environment where people feel safe to disagree?

3 Tips to Build a Culture of Psychological Safety:

🧠 Invite Dissenting Opinions: Actively ask for opposing viewpoints in meetings. Show your team that differing ideas are not just tolerated—they’re welcomed. You might be surprised at the innovative solutions that arise when you foster a space for debate.

🗣️ Listen Without Judgment: When someone disagrees, resist the urge to react defensively. Pause, listen, and ask clarifying questions. Leaders who can manage their ego and avoid defensiveness build trust and respect.

💡 Encourage “Challenge” Moments: Create dedicated times where team members are encouraged to challenge ideas, processes, or even you as the leader. This can be done in a structured, respectful manner, ensuring everyone’s voice is heard and valued.

The Bottom Line? Leaders who embrace disagreement aren’t weak—they’re the ones who create environments where creativity and innovation flourish.

What’s your strategy for encouraging healthy disagreements in the workplace? Drop your thoughts in the comments below!

#Leadership #PsychologicalSafety #Innovation #ChallengeSafety #TeamCulture #EffectiveLeadership

[ozzgin]

Its been 6 months😭😭 pleaasseeee make a part 2 of the android x human story im beggingggg😭

-H❤️

Yandere! Android x Reader (II)

Featuring your assigned android partner who is not as devoid of humanity as you originally thought.

Content: female reader, AI yandere, mildly NSFW, based on Caves of Steel

[Part 1] | [More original works]

The case had been solved.

Not only that, but you'd managed to prove that human officers were just as efficient as their robot counterparts. The Commissioner was beyond ecstatic, pacing back and forth in his office and finding new ways to praise your detective skills.

"That'll show those Spacers. They think some glorified tin box can match our skill?"

You frowned at his words and glanced to your side, where the android was sitting. He observed the Commissioner with the same polite smile, no hint of disagreement on his features. Was he not insulted? You questioned him once the formal meeting had finished.

"I have no reason to be offended, (Y/N). It is a personal opinion, and thus I have no control over it."

"So you don't mind people disliking robots to such an extent?"

He pondered your statement.

"I would certainly be upset if it was you who harbored the disdain. The beliefs of other humans hold no meaning to me otherwise."

You couldn't tell if he said it out of politeness, or if he actually meant it. Most likely the former, in order to part on good terms. After all, your partnership has reached its completion. He'd return to the Spacer Colony with his report on human customs, and you'd go back to your regular job.

Except he never left. Days later, he was still sipping on his morning coffee, lounging at your table. You fiddled with your cup in contemplation. Was there anything else left to do?

"When are you leaving, actually?"

The pale man raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Is my presence here of such significant disturbance?"

"What? No!" you swiftly exclaimed, stumbling on your words. His lips widened in yet another cheeky grin. He was teasing you again.

"My assignment on Earth is done, thus I should have returned to the Colony already. That's what you're wondering about, yes? I am awaiting a response from my superiors."

"Whether you can go back?"

"No, whether my transfer has been accepted. I have applied to be your permanent partner."

You could feel your cheeks burning with heat. Was it that obvious to the synthetic that you enjoyed his company? Then again, he wouldn't have gone through such motions just for your sake.

"Why did you..." you probed sheepishly. There was no logical reason for him to keep working in a poorer, less advanced environment.

"Because I want to continue spending time with you."

Nonsense. An artificial being wouldn't make its decision based on such mundane, emotional reasons.

"I don't believe you."

"I understand. It is a faulty answer to come out of a machine. Though unlike common AI assistants, we have been invested with the capacity to develop likes and dislikes. Interests. Wants. It helps with variety and individualization."

"And you want to stay here? If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you have a crush on me or something", you attempted to joke.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence. Had you gone too far with your humor? Was it too cliché of a sentence? You turned away, tucking some strands of hair behind your ear. You just had to be witty, huh?

"I'm afraid I do not know what to tell you, (Y/N)."

"You don't need to say anything, it was a poor choice of-"

"Many social aspects have been implemented into my behavioral network. Workplace rapport, friendships, intimate relationships. What seems to be lacking is the transition from one to another. I know how to act as a romantic partner, but how does one achieve such a title in the first place?"

You gazed at him, incredulous. What was he trying to say?

"I am trying to convey that I am indeed infatuated with you. Which, then, makes my initial explanation dishonest: while I do appreciate our fruitful work cooperation, it is not a main reason for my decision. I hope this clears up any misunderstandings."

You'd never been a romantic. You sometimes flipped through sample pages of contemporary romance books at stores and community centers, but they always felt forcefully cheesy. Predictable. Consequently, you never had any grand dreams of passionate confessions under the rain.

On the other hand, you also didn't expect to be asked out in such a mechanical, calculated manner. Or that a machine would be the suitor. Yet there was something charming about his approach. For the first time since meeting him at the border, you saw him struggle. There was something human-like in his uncertainty.

You stood up from the table, and walked towards the android. Then, you placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, expressing the mutual feeling and understanding.

His eyes bore an eerie glint to them. It was most kind of you to offer a common ground, but he knew better. The affections you held for him were, with utmost certainty, a mere fraction of whatever overwhelmed him from the moment he encountered you. Limerence, obsession, compulsion, there were many definitions that aptly described his otherwise unexplainable desires towards you. Even more unexplainable was the fact they'd evolved from a blank slate, a programmed agent with no previous knowledge on feelings or humans.

You noticed his hesitation.

"Is there anything else troubling you presently?" you nudged.

Nothing of immediate urgency. Well, not for you, at least. The android remained thoughtful. What were the variables which needed to be met in order to initiate a sexual encounter? Would it have been inappropriate for him to suggest intercourse straight after this conversation? To him, it was a natural escalation he'd considered many times in the past. To you, it could've come as a sudden, crass, and hurried proposal.

He reached for your wrist and discreetly pressed a thumb against your skin. Judging from your resting heart rate, facial expression, and localized temperature, there was a fair chance you wouldn't reject his advances. Once the statistical risk had been assessed, he pulled you in for a kiss.

"Would it be possible to continue this in your bedroom?" he inquired, standing up.

"Alright, just don't...ask for approval for every single step" you retorted. You'd rather not become a narrator of your own pounding.

You open your eyes with a squint, greeted by unexpected natural light flooding your bedroom. Someone must’ve lifted the hologram blinds.

“My apologies, I hadn’t considered the discomfort it would cause you. My Spacer colony uses artificial lightning, though I am becoming rather fond of the natural sun rays here.”

Your android partner is meticulously preparing his outfit for the day. Judging by the stark nakedness and the glistening skin, you suppose he’s had a shower while you were still sleeping. You involuntarily furrow your brows and blush at the sight. He notices your embarrassment. 

“A most surprising reaction. You have seen the very same genital organ…”, he says as he quickly checks his wristwatch, “...precisely eight hours and forty-five minutes ago.”

“It’s just…most people get dressed once they start doing other things. I also wear a towel for coverage when I come out of the shower.”

He processes your words.

“Hmmm. Illogical, but it explains your reaction.”

You stand up and stretch with a prolonged yawn. Suddenly, a revelation hits you: your mind flashes with images of the android fondling your body, your ears ring with the shameless moans you’ve let out throughout the night. Your face turns pale.

“Listen, when is your next functional inspection?” you ask, without waiting for the synthetic to answer. “Will they, uh…will they have access to all of your memories?”

You know that the android permanently records all data and saves it into a memory unit. It’s a pointless fear, of course. The Spacers couldn’t care less about irrelevant details. If the intended tasks are fulfilled, what happens on the side is out of their concern. Yet you don’t exactly appreciate the possibility of your personal deeds airing like this, before the eyes of multiple engineers. 

“You may rest assured, whatever involves your privacy will not be included in the examination.”

“Do you get to decide what is checked and what isn’t?”

“No, most data is sampled randomly.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Then how-”

“It is not common practice, nor encouraged by our code of ethics. I can, however, choose which information is available to begin with.”

“What? I thought you’re fully controlled by whoever created you. If they so desired, couldn’t they open you up and take whatever they require?”

The robot smiles at your assumption and takes a few steps towards you.

“Once an android model is finished, one can no longer modify the processor. Not without compromising everything else with it. It is not a device to be deconstructed, (Y/N).” He taps his temple, then continues: “I am a biocomputer. While most of my parts are mechanical, my processor is a cortical organoid developed in a laboratory. A human brain, if you will.”

Somehow, the discovery fills you with dread. A living organ, encapsulated within a machine. What does that say about consciousness? About self-awareness? The Spacers didn't just tinker with metal scraps and smart computers. They artificially birthed life.

You were always under the impression that your robot companion is closer to the computer you have on your desk. Billions of lines of code within a black box, which then lead to spontaneous, novel interactions with the outside world. To think that at the very core of his functions lies a clump of living cells...

Perhaps you weren't so different, after all. The line between machines and humans is suddenly blurred.

[saphronethaleph]

“...because the council did not trust you, my young apprentice, I believe you are the only Jedi with no knowledge of this plot,” Sidious said, pulling on his cloak.

He frowned. “What are you doing, Vader?”

“I’m going to get proof,” Anakin replied, pressing some buttons on his comlink. “I don’t know if Obi-Wan was involved with the plot, and – I have to know.”

“Don’t-” Sidious began.

The comlink beeped, interrupting him, and Anakin lifted the device to his mouth.

“Obi-Wan!” he said.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan replied. “Good news – General Grievous is dead. I’ve lost my lightsaber, though.”

Anakin hid a snort. “Right – that’s, uh, really funny. Listen, I’ve got some good news too.”

“You have?” Obi-Wan replied. “Let’s hear it – down, Boga, down! Sorry, Anakin, she’s a bit excited… you were saying?”

“The Chancellor’s dead,” Anakin said, winking at Sidious.

“What?” Obi-Wan asked. “How is that good news – how did he die? I swear, I leave Coruscant for two days-”

“The Jedi killed him,” Anakin explained.

“Why?” Obi-Wan said, sounding completely and honestly baffled. “Which Jedi? I don’t think they could all do it, after the first couple of dozen there simply wouldn’t be any politician left if nothing else – but why would they do that?”

“Because he’s a Sith, I think,” Anakin said, then corrected himself. “Was a Sith, I mean. Because he’s definitely dead now.”

There was silence from the comlink for a couple of seconds, interrupted by a sort of rippling hwaa hwaa sound from some kind of animal, and some blasterfire.

“Obi-Wan?” Anakin said.

“I’m sorry, Anakin, you did just drop an extremely large bombshell on me,” Obi-Wan said, sounding quite distracted now. “I’m rethinking the last several years. That means he was behind – he was behind the war, behind the invasion of Naboo, behind the assassination attempts on Padme, behind everything.”

Anakin blinked down at his comlink.

“...that’s… a good point,” he said, slowly, then glanced over at Sidious.

Who wasn’t where he’d been before.

Anakin kept turning, and saw that Sidious had pulled a bookshelf off the wall of his office and was halfway through getting into a concealed escape pod.

The Dark Lord of the Sith froze, staring back at Anakin.

“...there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this,” he said, waving his hand.

In hindsight, this would be the last error he would ever make.

Anakin was never one for perfectly reasonable explanations.

“...Anakin? Anakin?” Obi-Wan said, frowning at his comlink. “Anakin, you can’t just tell me something like that and then disappear… or, well, apparently you can but it’s very inconvenient.”

There seemed to be an awful lot of noise coming down the comlink, but none of it made much sense. In fact, it sounded like someone was testing a lightsaber in the middle of a thunderstorm, and Obi-Wan frowned at the little device before nearly losing his grip on it as Boga skidded to a halt next to Commander Cody.

“Sir,” Cody said, with a nod.

“Commander!” Obi-Wan replied. “Contact your troops – tell them to move to the higher levels. We’ll want to clear out this force and then move on Mustafar, though since the Sith Lord is dead that might actually mean this war is over soon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Cody replied, then tossed Obi-Wan his lightsaber.

Obi-Wan caught it. “Thank you, Commander! I do apologize-”

The comlink crackled again, and Obi-Wan dropped Boga’s reins so he could hold both devices at once without potentially cutting his head off. “Anakin!”

“Sorry about that, Master,” Anakin replied. “Bit of a workplace disagreement. Anyway, uh… Masters Windu, Fisto, Tiin and Kolar are all dead in the fight with the Chancellor. Please send help, there’s not many Councillors left and I don’t want to have to ask Master Nu what a quorum is…”

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, fondly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to rescue you from the deadly perils of procedure. Until then, ask Padme if you need advice.”

He paused.

“Do you have any names picked out yet, by the way? I’m quite partial to the name Ben. It has a nice sound to it, even as a middle name.”

He clicked the comlink off and set it to silent, smiling slightly.

“Getting the last word, General?” Cody asked.

“It’s about the only way I can, with Anakin, I find,” Obi-Wan agreed, pocketing the comlink. “Now, let’s see about clearing those upper levels. Come on, Boga!”

[rahochka]

DAY 3

Y|N is feeling extremely depressed and shaken by the murder of her landlord Don this morning, which happened exactly within the walls of her workplace.

On the eve of this terrible massacre, an unpleasant conversation took place between the young woman and this man, in which they inquired into the regular violations of the rent contract on the part of her roommate. Y|N, who recognized the necessity of the enterprise of taking measures to prevent herself from falling into poverty and exhaustion when paying money for the place of the unemployed roommate, at the same time, bore to this unfortunate girl a warm, trusting regard which prevented her from disposing to concur with Don's demand that Lucy be thrown out into the cold streets. She thought the decision was wrong and sentenced Don, who didn't like Y/N's criticism of his work rules and behavior with people at all. Fortunately for the blonde, Don wasn't the kind of property owner who evicted his tenants for personal disagreements.

On this tragic morning, Y/N felt an undivided guilt for the deceased Don, as she realized the unbearable feeling in a relationship in which the epilogue of the meetings concluded on a silly conflict.

Illustration by Procreate

[lostcatinthedark]

I think I've mentioned in many people's asks much how Jimin's personality intrigues me. And I think it's due to the fact that he knows how to create a boundary between Jimin the artist and Jimin the human. In fact, I would say rather Jimin the idol and Jimin the artist/ human. Because his art is usually morphed with his true emotions and thoughts, so you can grasp his sincerity as a human in his songs and in his lyrics. But the idol world and culture is something completely different than that. One of the reasons why I can't really connect with most kpop idols is because the genre and the fan culture feel very manufactured: from the companies studying the audience and controling the way their idols present themselves everytime they are in front of a camera, to the music which is most of the times a carbon copy of the latest trends and even of certain cultural styles and idiosyncrasies. It's very colorful and catchy, but it feels extremely superficial.

Idol Jimin remains cordial and sincere, he does his best to entertain the audience. The stage is his workplace. But you can tell he chooses his words very carefully, always chooses diplomacy, even if he is uncomfortable or in disagreement. In his idol persona, Jimin only shows what he wants you to see. The rest, he keeps to himself. And this is probably why so many people get a wrong idea of him or underestimate him: He will never tell you what he's working on, what he wants to achieve, what he plans or even how he truly feels about something, he will never boast about it or complain. He'll show it to you when it's done, because he works in silence. If he didn't like something, he simply won't do it again next time. If he feels like he has to change, you will only see the final version of his metamorphosis . Because everything in between that process it's part of human - artist Jimin, and he keeps that to himself (wisely so).

He is a total wild card because no one but him has the script. And that may lead people to think: oh he's not doing anything, oh he won't release solo music (like armys thought back in 2022), oh he's OK with this. Wrong!! You don't have access to that, you'll only see what idol Jimin wants you to see and if you read between the lines maybe you'll understand just a little bit more about him. But this is just his way of being, he'll keep everyone on their toes trying to figure out what he'll do next. Just like a theater act. I love it.

[hermetiqa]

When and where will you meet your twin flame?

Reminder: it doesn't matter if you saw this reading a day or a week or a month or a year after posting this. My readings are timeless. You'll see this when you're meant to see this and receive your message.

MDNI.

Close your eyes and take a deep breath before picking a pile. If you feel drawn to more than one pile, it's alright, you may take the piles that you're drawn to. What's important is to take it how it resonates and leave what doesn't.

PAID READINGS | TIP JAR | FEEDBACK | MASTERLIST

PLEASE HELP IF YOU CAN

NOTE: Please feel free to give me a feedback on my asks about the reading! I would highly appreciate it and it'll be a huge help for me to improve as a reader.

Pile 1

I feel like you'll meet your twin flame when you already let go of your karmic relationship. You might be in a karmic relationship right now and it's toxic but it's a healthy relationship in disguise. So it could be near. But if you're not, then you might go through a karmic relationship first before meeting your twin flame. It's like your partner is telling you that they'll change when in reality, they don't and won't. This relationship is causing you so much anxiety and sleepless nights, and right now, you don't know what to do. You're confused about which path to take, whether you should break up with them or not because you're seeing so much potential in this relationship. But in reality, you're just too focused on this relationship that you don't see other relationships that you have, which is why you don't realize it's actually toxic and they're not the one for you. You have to let this relationship go first before meeting your twin flame. You might meet your twin flame in your workplace or someplace formal or a café/place you can eat near your workplace where you're wearing a blouse, trousers, heels, and blouse. I'm seeing a white long sleeves blouse, light brown trousers, light brown blazer that matches the trousers, black heels/shoes, black thin belt, and black handbag. I'm getting strong feminine energy from you so you might be the divine feminine. When you meet, it'll be too fast and too intense. You might have some disagreements when it comes to your opinions on some things, simply because you want to challenge each other, especially on an intellectual level. You'll both be intellectually inclined and connected deeply and you'll both feel like you're the one for each other when you meet. You'll need some strength on this one because your insecurities and dark sides will come out and you'll have to face them eventually.

Pile 2

As I was about to do this reading for you, Pile 2, I accidentally said "need" instead of "meet" and then there it hits me. I feel like you'll meet your twin flame in times of need. This is when you have to take the risk in making decisions. You'll be in a situation where the whole situation depends on your decision. My phone just automatically switches to dark mode so you might meet them at night. I'm seeing a bar where you might be drinking a lot because you're really stressed and frustrated and don't know what to do. You can't make a decision. You can't think straight. Then your twin flame will suddenly just come up and approach you and ask you if you're okay because apparently, they've been noticing you for quite a while in that bar. I feel like you might or might not be into alcohol right now, but if you're not, the time will come that you'll be influenced by people to be into alcohol and you might need to drink on some occasions. I feel like your twin flame will lend you some ear so you can talk about what's bothering you, which I feel like it could be related to your family, and then you'll refuse. But eventually, you'll open up to your twin flame because their presence is comforting already. Your twin flame will give you some advice and words that you really need to hear. There's this sudden strike of curiosity when you meet. You'll be interested in each other so much that you don't want the night to end. You might end up coming home to either of your own place, and you might do something sexual there because the attraction will be so strong that you might not be able to control it. Then the rest is history.

Pile 3

I feel like you're going to meet your twin flame when you feel like your life is falling apart and you want to start over. You might be moving out to your new place and you'll encounter them in the streets, specifically in front of a university or a church. I'm seeing that you might be carrying a huge box that contains your stuff, especially the ones that you use for work or studies (if you're still studying, specifically at university, taking master's). It'll be a sunny day and this could be during summertime because I'm seeing so much sweat here and they're holding a huge cup of iced coffee. You'll catch their attention because you'll walk past by each other and their eyes will follow you walk past them. I feel like they'll have the courage to approach you, talk to you, and ask you if you need some help. I feel like they'll do this in a good timing too, they'll try to "empathize" with you, they'll do their best to feel what you're feeling at the moment before approaching you because they're scared that you might take it negatively and just turn them down. I feel like your twin flame could be a professor at a university and there's a significant age gap between you, at least 5-6 years. When you meet your twin flame, you might decline their offer to help because you're confident that you can do it on your own. So they'll walk away and accept your decision, but eventually they'll come back and act like they're just heading out to grab some food. Then they'll see you there. But in reality, this is actually their way of approaching you again because they've been overthinking about your encounter and they're bothered that you didn't get to know each other, and they're really interested in you. So they thought of pretending to grab some food and walked your way on purpose, when in fact, the food they'll be grabbing is on the other street. You might notice this and realize eventually that they're doing this for you. You just have the "feeling" that they are so you accepted their offer this time.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Black Metal and Bourbon (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Biker/Mechanic!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Bartender!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.1k

WARNINGS: Alcohol consumption, drug usage, mentions of sex & intimacy, dark jokes/dirty jokes, rumors, gossip, past toxic relationship, a shitty Ex, protective!Simon, etc. (18+ mini-series)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You slapped the damp rag back into the bar top, the fabric heavy with spilled alcohol and other fluids that you didn’t even want to try and think about. 

“Jesus.” Your muscles ache, neck stiff from having to try and slap a dart from the ceiling where some jackass had been too drunk to attempt and hit the target. The thing was still up there, as you weren’t about to spend your entire night fruitlessly attempting to fix someone else's blurry mistakes. 

You glare over your shoulder, seeing the unconscious form of the man in question being dragged out by his friends presently, his slurring chuckles making him sound like a drowning elephant. Intoxicated yells of goodbye attached to your name make you roll your eyes slowly as they begin being said; you push through the waist-height door to allow you behind the front counter. Your middle finger flips the patrons off before boisterous flirting hits the air.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that—!” Is cut off by the slam of the front doors and you couldn’t be more happy that your boss hadn’t gotten the bolts tightened. 

“Don’t get paid enough…” You grumble, eyes slithering over to the tip jar and seeing the overflow of bills and coins as your fingers wrap the neck of a bottle of Vodka. 

The profit would be split with your coworker even if she’d been gone for more than half a night getting railed by her new boy toy. You can still remember the look she’d given you as she’d walked out during rush hour, her sharp smirk and smug sheen of ‘you won’t say anything, will you?’

Grumbling under your breath, you slip the Vodka back into its slot on the wall racks, while telling yourself you can’t drink on the job; trying to forget the face of the man that had been attached to hers before they’d stumbled to the back alley.  

“Graham Whitaker, you’re such a five-cent sell-out,” you shake your head, sighing heavily into the air that smells like booze and sweat. 

Graham Whitaker—your Ex in every sense. 

You decided to tell your coworker, if she ever showed back up, that the only reason she was getting dicked-down was because it was that man’s plan to try and make you jealous. As if you’d be caught with your pants down over a prick that had cheated on you more times than you could count before you threw his ass out. 

“Not my problem anymore,” your hands move to display themselves in a motion of a settled disagreement before wiping them on your black pants. 

It was late now, of course, with the dart-drunk and his friends being the last patrons that you had to serve. But you’d been in this town a long, long time. 

Sorrel the construction worker came in an hour, Miss Anna-Lee accompanying for her nightly Gin and Tonic before she talked about her late love from the seventies. From there it was three more regulars before closing activities and fighting to get up tomorrow by noon only to do it all over again. 

Over and over and over. 

You lean back on the counter and look across the brown wood and warm overhead lights, behind you, the illumination from the drink rack gives off a dead glow. 

This was your workplace since you'd been of age, and over the years that seemed to drag, here is where you’d stayed. Nothing ever changed in this town—the biggest shock was when you’d broken up with Graham; people hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

This place was like a prison of slow death and abandoned dreams. Safe to say this was not what you had envisioned for yourself.

You scoff, pushing off the back counter and snatching your rag back up before you can spiral once more.

The stains weren’t going to buff themselves out.

Maybe it was chance that the mechanics shop across the street had shut down, too few employees and too many drug busts. Chance, or fate, whichever it was you chose to believe in that still-air Sunday, it was still a shock to you when you looked out the front window as Sorrel called goodnight through his heavy accent. 

‘SOLD’

“Sold?” Sorrel pauses with one foot out of the door, and he chuckles when he sees where you’re looking in shock, your hand holding a dirty glass. 

“Haven’t heard, then? Few newcomers snuck in under our noses—they’ll be running the place; mechanics!” 

“New?” You laugh. “Who in their right mind would come here of all places?” 

Sorrel shakes his head, grumbling as he pulls a cigarette from his pocket. “You’ll just have to meet ‘em, Doll. Sure you’ll leave a glowing impression.”

“Take that shit outside, you ass. You know I hate the smell.” A smirk graces your dead eyes. 

“Like I said. Glowing.” You glare, but the man slips out of the door quickly and his form passes by the window outside to climb into his truck parked in the street. Two honks from the horn and the older man is off, grizzly-like beard gone just like your boredness. 

New arrivals? 

You blink at the blackened shadows of the street, illuminated by the lights and their tall tree-like bases—the sway of the planted bushes in the boxes outside. Your head tilts at the abyssal building that was once in working order. 

It was a shitshow now, years of abandonment not giving it any helping hand regarding upkeep. The concrete was cracked, the garage door was hanging off of one side, and the front windows had been broken by your Ex’s buddies when they had gotten into a fight like the three-year-olds they were. 

You hum lowly. A hard-chucked set of keys, you recalled. You’d seen it from here easily enough. Hadn't lied to Sheriff Russel when he’d come knocking, and, you suppose, that was why even now the immature posse still tried to scare you by following you home at night to this day.

As if everyone didn’t know where everyone else lived already. 

But back to the current interest for the night. 

“Let’s have a little look-see, then,” you breathe, knowing Miss Anna-Lee would be a good while away like always. You could chance five minutes—it was just across the street after all. 

Shuffling outside, making sure to hold the door until it closes slowly, you step down the single step and stick your hands into your pockets. The night wasn’t hot or cold, simply there like a metaphorical cut on your palm; it wasn’t surprising the more you lived with it, but it still made your skin itch. 

Feet padding, you cross the dead street and take in the long stretch of unkempt grass, stepping onto the broken curb as your shoes crunch broken glass. Long-gone cigarette butts are scattered here and there, the occasional stray bit of metal or trash. Your eyes shift slowly from one brick that makes up the frame to another, the peeling blue color that could use touching up. 

The mural you had painted in middle school had faded a long time ago, just like the great expectations of going into an art career. The eyes of a great gray wolf are only a dark outline that you can’t help but stare at as if a cancer was growing in your brain, hidden behind the reach of green ivy. 

Ripping your eyes away, you ignore the cry of tires from across the town and the pop of an exhaust pipe—the roar of either a car chase by the repeat offender Irene Chaney, or by some stupid kid related to Irene Chaney. 

“She’s gonna wreck one of these days,” you breathe, looking down at your object of intention—the sold sign in all of its red and white glory. 

Your hand snakes out and grabs the cheap plastic, stopping its swaying with a creak and a tilt of your head. 

You just couldn’t understand it—who in their right mind would buy this place? The only thing it would be good as is rubble, at least then some rabbit could make its very dusty home here. 

Sorrel had mentioned multiple people too. 

“Must be up at the B&B then,” your voice carries over the space, the stars twinkling above you as a shadow stands at the end of the cracked driveway. Its hands are in its pockets, tall form bulky with the dark brown leather jacket around its intimidating form. You’re none the wiser, letting the sign drop as you put your hands to your hips. “They better not be fuckin’ dickheads—”

“Mind explainin’ to me why I came to get a drink and now I’m talkin’ to some Bird on my property?” 

You startle, gasp peeling out of your lips as your head swivels as if attached to a string which, in turn, tracks back to the source of a heavy Manchester accent. Grass breaks under your feet, as the gravel of the tone makes you cringe. Your eyes lock on the man who looks like he just came back from a warzone. 

The first thing you noticed was the balaclava and the skeleton detailing, of course, how could you not—the lower half was an inch below those October eyes of the deepest shade of brown you’d ever witnessed. 

Your spine straightens in cautious surprise, hiding the way your hands had clenched as if ready to swing on your Ex if he so happened to be there instead of…this person. 

“Excuse me?” You say, quickly, as if it was forced out instead of a scream. Your face pushes that stern expression back to your face as your throat clears out the hoarseness.

A covered head tilts with its small sliver of pale flesh visible to you—the strong bones of his nose bridge and hidden jawline. The bulk of large muscles and thighs spoke to hard labor, and his booted feet shifted below loose black cargo pants. 

The mask alone caused you a hint of worry in those few seconds of fast study of this phantom’s anatomy. 

He blinks at you slowly, raising the small corner of a dark brow from a respectable distance away.

“Said you’re trespassing, yeah?” Your face gains a sheen of heat, and you glance at your bar behind the stranger, at the bright burn of the lights. 

Taking a stiff breath, your lips pull into a frown as you try to hide your embarrassment.

“Well…a holler would have been just fine.” A fake glare is put on. “What’s with sneaking up on a woman in the middle of the night? Are you some creep or something?”

Those dark eyes stay locked on yours, and for a moment you don’t know if you’ve encountered a statue or not because he doesn’t speak for a moment. 

A puff of breath from his nose. 

“You the bartender, then?” You motion to your nametag above your left breast and grunt. His gaze homes in before he simply says, “Good.”

Without another word, the man turns stiffly before he steadily begins making his way back to the bar; crossing the street with a swift check of the road. You watch him saunter off, jaw slackened and your cheeks hot. The span of his shoulder blades levels out as he rolls his shoulders. 

Where did this guy even come from? The answer was simple, the bed and breakfast was only four buildings down and to the left. Guy must have come in for a late-night serenade with a bottle.

A quick glance is thrown back to the rundown property behind you before you growl and hurry after this individual who currently pushes open the faulty doors of your work. Jogging across the asphalt, you catch the thing right before it closes and slip inside with a puff of air and a shoved-down snap of a sarcastic ‘thanks’. 

Yet, the man is already pulling back one of the bar stools and easing into it when you make it behind the counter. You study him yet again. 

“You’re one of the new mechanics?” Brown-Eyes blinks at you. 

Without missing a beat, he goes, “Bourbon—Kentucky.”

“I asked a question,” you cross your arms, not even for a moment looking away as the silence of the bar sneaks in around you and this strange creature. “Least you can do for a lady is answer it when you act like a damn cat and sneak up on her.”

“You were on my property.” This is leveled out through a grunt, and after a moment of staring, you scoff. 

“I was curious about who had bought such a piece of junk. Guess I have my answer.” Your hand grabs the bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, the amber liquid inside sloshing as you turn back and put it into the wood. There’s a fraction of a dead tease that makes the man seem more human than he looks.

“Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?”

“I prefer a solar flair.” You comment dryly and set an engraved glass next to the bottle. Something flickers past the mechanic’s eyes, a quirk to the fabric of his balaclava. 

“On The Rocks or Neat?” Your brow raises and you tilt your head. 

“That even a bloody question? Neat.” You snort, splaying your hands before you grab the bottle as he watches you blankly. 

“Sorry, it's kind of my job to ask.” Your hand shifts and you pour a reasonable amount into the glass, knowing exactly when to stop. As you shift the bottle away, you leave it on the bar top and gently push the beverage to him as his gloved fingers take it up. You repress a small smile at the matching bone gloves to go with the detailing on his balaclava.

“Bartenders always have this much attitude?” The glass is kept in front of his person, carefully held in his large grip. 

Moving back, you go to lean on the back counter. This night was quickly taking an interesting turn. “Only if they’re me.” You sigh. “You have a name, then, Brown-Eyes?” 

The individual snorts at the title, but his eyes narrow on you at the same time as if he was held hesitant at the ability for you to make him. He had an air of casual tension around him, like a dog on a thin leash that can only just manage to meet others and stay his fangs. 

Danger, you pinpoint. The man felt like danger. A riptide; surface tension.

Then why was it that you felt more and more intrigued by the second?

“Simon Riley,” he eases, staring with those numb eyes of his before he tips the glass slightly your way. With the thumb on the same hand that holds the bourbon, he hooks it under his face covering and pulls it up until he can connect the glass to his lips and take down a sip as his Adam’s apple bobs in a swallow. 

On the way back, his thumb drags the fabric back to its previous position as if nothing had happened. The image of pale skin and stubble sticks with you, and your eyes shift away quickly without you realizing it as the glass is returned to the counter. 

“Well, Simon Riley,” you mutter, “welcome to nowhere.”

The man hums, eyes looking you over in a single glance before the gaze shifts to the wall behind your head. He says nothing, and the door opens to the next three familiar customers as you move to take their order. As you slip out from behind the barrier, you grumble under your breath before you slip past Simon to the corner booth. 

“For the record, Riley, I do enjoy seein’ that old place getting taken on. Don’t run it into the ground, would you? And if you need a fresh coat of paint, for the love of all things holy, don’t go down to the Schafersons’ place, you come right to me.” 

Walking casually, you greet the three ladies from the downtown library with a smirk and an easy comment about if their husbands knew they were out so late, to which you promptly got cursed out on good faith. Sharing a few chuckles, you get them started on what they need, all the while feeling those brown orbs now following subtly from the side of their sockets, intrigued. 

Simon wasn’t sure what to make of you, and the same could be said about this town as a whole. A woman with such a future trapped behind her eyes, adventure in her blood, why were you here in a place with nothing promised for it except dying businesses and old faces? This was a place where people came to hang up the coat, not try and rip it off of its peg. 

The children born here with ambitions leave, that was the common denominator. Even Simon could see that. But you? Here you were. 

The man peels his eyes away, taking up his glass again and re-hooking his thumb to his mask. Amber liquid seeps into his mouth, pulling the scars on his lips and cheeks as he swallows it down as easily as water. The bourbon pools in his stomach, sending its honied effects to the back of his mind; it would take much more to get drunk, but that wasn’t what Simon was looking for. 

Perhaps he was just out tonight wondering why he’d left the military for a mechanic’s job and come out here—asking anything for a sign that this was the right decision even as his head echoed with the screams and the gunfire. 

And then he’d seen you standing in front of the fuckin’ worst mechanics shop he’d ever seen that he’d signed the property deed for not three hours ago. Hell, he hadn’t even looked at the place before buying it—Price was responsible for the official financial actions, and the man had made him swear that it was worth it.

But fuck, he’d just needed a way out of the city. Too loud, too unpredictable in that previous shop of theirs right by the busy street. MacTavish and Garrick had been easy to convince; they’d all served together before and had no family over here either. 

A new start thousands upon thousands of miles away. 

Your head pulls up from where you chat with the librarians, hearing the slam of the door as the draft wafts in from outside—a small breeze has picked up. 

Inside walks in your very ruffled, and very well-pleased, coworker, Celina Bell. 

She brushes down her top and black skirt, blinking around with blown pupils until her eyes lock on you. A poisonous smile meets your eyes as you raise a brow slowly—Lord, if this girl didn’t realize that fucking your Ex over some workplace squabble wasn’t something to be proud of, she was really a lost cause. 

Simon only glances over his shoulder before turning back around and tapping his fingers against his glass absentmindedly. 

“You alright?” You ask out of due diligence, sparing the ladies an apology look for them being interrupted. 

“Better than alright,” Celina chuckles, walking over with a limp in her step. “Just scored Graham Whitaker.” She fake pauses, blinking as if in realization that a child would know was taking the piss. Your face is stuck in the expression of boredom. “Wait…you two were involved for a few years, right? Oh, I’m really sorry—I had no clue.”

“Yeah,” you look her up and down and blink at the disheveledness. “Sure. Quite the score.” A pause, her lips pulling back into that smug smirk that reminds you of a weasel. Yet your next words leave her face devoid of blood. “You know he got Chlamydia from Stacy Green a week ago, right?”

A pin could be heard dropping. Brown eyes are firmly stuck to the scene, unsure what to make of it. The ladies stifle their laughter.

“...W-what?”

“Y’know,” you motion a hand to her lower body, walking past her back to the bar. “STD. Chlamydia. Results in—”

“I know what the fuck an STD is, you bitch.”

“Woah,” you whistle, “language.” Your body returns to the counter as loud stuttering is left behind you, the frantic patting of a pocket to look for a phone before enraged feet rush to the exit. “Need a refill, Riley?”

“It can wait,” Simon utters slowly. The door slams shut.

You chuckle, shrugging. “Alright, suit yourself.” 

The man takes the names you drop and files them away, slotting them into his mental database for when he needs to work with these people. Yet, there’s already a sour impression just off of comments alone. Who better to get your news from than a bartender? 

You know everyone's dirty little secrets.

You diligently serve the drinks to the librarians, placing them down carefully before Simon once more has a re-filled glass of his drink. He moves it slightly up in a cheer and gives you a stare as you wipe your hands with a clean rag.

“Seems you know everything ‘round ‘ere.” His accent is what draws you in, and you find yourself eager to hear more from him. 

“I’m easy to talk to,” you respond, shrugging and leaning on the counter a foot or two away as you both watch the other. A smirk overtakes your features. “And I am the one that gives people the drinks.”

“So, what I’m hearing,” Simon raises a brow. “Is that you get ‘em dunker than a man on his execution date.” 

You click your tongue, tilting your head in a teasing manner while maintaining a serious face. 

“Afraid you’ll spill your secrets, Riley?” 

His eyes flash at you, and his lips flicker into a smirk you can hear in his voice. 

“It’ll take more than two glasses of Bourbon to get me talking, Sunshine.” 

Your face shifts away, but the sudden fight with a smile leaves you nearly breathless. 

Who is this man?

“Why are you here,” your question meets his ears as he takes back the last of his drink, stomach filled for the night and his searching, for the moment, abated. 

The glass meets the bar top. 

He grunts. “Needed a drink.”

Your lips pull in annoyance. “You know what I mean. You’re terrible at answering questions.”

“Hm, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” you grumble, shaking your head as a low chuckle makes your insides swirl. 

A stack of bills is placed on the counter, and the man stands, grabbing the hood of his black sweatshirt and pulling it up. His gloved hands go to the pockets of his leather jacket with a roll of his wide shoulders. From under the hood, the white of the painted mask glares out from under the shadows that now shroud him. 

You both sneak a glance at the mechanic's shop—a clear view from the front window. 

“See you around, then?” Your head is tilted at him, blinking. You hum under your breath. “I’m going to keep asking you why you showed up in this town, Riley, and I won’t stop until I get an answer.”

Simon quirks a brow, eyes glinting with interest. When was the last time someone had spoken to him like this outside of his boys?

“Look forward to it,” he utters slowly. With a blink and one more dead look, he’s already out the front door and walking back down the street—disappearing like a ghost the same way he had appeared. 

Picking up his cash and counting through it, the librarians across the way snicker, and one calls out, “So, the new mechanic, huh?”

“One more peep and I’m doubling your tab.”

But…you did have to admit, he had been charming…hadn’t he? At least someone here could juggle your attitude.

—

Three days pass with no sighting of Simon Riley, but just because you didn’t see him doesn’t mean you weren’t witness to his aftermath. 

The shop across the street was practically fixed up while you were asleep. 

Where there had been overgrown grass, there was now a cut lawn getting watered by the reach of an angry sprinkler. The fast movement of the spray reaches the sidewalk that was, somehow, still there under all that trash hiding away like a criminal. Stray bricks are gone and stacked into a pile as you pause outside the bar, staring wide-eyed with your breath caught in your throat in the late morning air. 

The ivy over your mural was peeled back—that faded wolf’s gaze locking with yours, unyielding to the calls of time as its canid body stool as a silent sentinel. 

But, on the third day, as you’re going on break before the night sets in, you manage to not only see Simon again but meet two of the other men who’d moved here.

You pick up your feet and jog across the street, hopping the curb as you blink, impressed at the open garage with its fixed and oiled bay door. Inside it was still dusty—remnants of what was left behind in the corners and scattered. But it was getting there. Quickly. 

“Didn’t know Simon was goin’ to sign on such a piece of rusted shite—where’s the fuckin’ outlets?” Gritted Scottish. You stick your hands into your pockets and enter the large opening. 

“If I remember,” you speak, finding the two men standing slightly off to the side as the bulkier one with a mohawk carries a series of extension cords. Cobalt and brown eyes dart to you in shock—the second man of darker complexion sharing a glance with the other in swift confusion. “When you manage to find them, they’ll all be burst.” 

Blank stares are sent your way. 

“Kids would come by and watch ‘em spark when they were bored. No one really cared enough to stop them.” A clearing of a throat meets your ears as you study the room more. 

It was small, with only one main garage for all the repairs, but that wasn’t new to you. The motorcycles were, though. 

Five in total all parked and resting next to one another near the back wall, all in varying shades of black and gray. Your lips twitch at the sight, imagining your late-night acquaintance riding one of them—you dare say that it fit him quite well, and you weren’t that surprised at all by this.

Biker mechanics. It fits the script. 

“Who’s this then?” The Scot asks you, raising a brow as a friendly smirk pulls his mouth up. “Can’t remember bookin’ any repairs today, Ma’am, might have to wait a few more days before we get it all up and runnin’.”

“I can see. No, I work just across the street,” you spare a friendly smile. 

“So you’re the bartender? The bartender.” The second man speaks, grinning kindly as he searches through a toolbox on a small table. He hums, looking playful. “So that’s why Ghost was gone so long.” 

Ghost…? Did they mean Simon?

The skeletal accents suddenly make far more sense.

“Johnny MacTavish,” A hand is leveled out ahead of you, and you take it casually with a muttering of your own name. “Soap’s just fine as well.” 

Your brow quirks, but you only share an amused nod.

The other individual stands and makes his way over, tall and leaner as to where Soap’s more blatant strength is. 

“Kyle Garrick—Gaz. Pleasure.” 

“Just came over to introduce myself,” your hand shifts back into your pockets as you motion with your head back to the bar. “I’m on my break.” 

“Ah,” Soap’s hands move the cables he holds as he loops them into a more storable shape vertically around his elbow and palm. “Last one to meet then is Price—man’s in town gettin’ lunch for us,” he grunts under his breath. “Hopefully a damn set of zip-ties, too.”

“Zip-ties, Mate?” Gaz breathes a chuckle with a fix of the backward ball cap on his head. “C-4 would bloody help more. At least then we can have a clean starting point.” 

“I think we’re fresh out of C-4, unfortunately,” you huff a laugh, motioning around as the men smirk at you, Johnny snorting a chuckle. “You guys have done a pretty good job so far. I can’t remember when it looked this nice in here.”

“Well, we’re honored, Bonnie,” Soap tilts his head as he ties off the cord with one of the ends. “Makin’ me blush.”

“If Simon had just looked at the place before buying it, we might have been able to open sooner.” Gaz huffs, thinning his lips as he glances over the broken window and the peeling paint—the door to the main lobby that has a punched dent in it. “Couldn’t be worse.”

“Well then it can only get better,” you breathe, shrugging. 

Gaz huffs affectionately. “Not wrong there, then.”

You lean forward, tilting your head. “You’ll find I rarely am.”

“Second time you’ve snuck on,” a Manchester accent scares you once more, head snapping to the side as the light spills in from the garage opening. “This a pattern, Sunshine?”

Simon’s brows are raised as those October eyes lock with yours. Gaz and Soap share a look, smirking before the Scot peels off to find a place to store his belongings. 

“Where have you been?” Gaz asks as you glare at the masked man for once again coming up behind you. 

A bag is presented, leaning off three fingers as a glance gets thrown past you. 

“Down the street. Needed these made.” The bag is tossed and Kyle catches it easily. 

You watch as the crinkly plastic is opened and the dark fabric of four black pairs of overalls is produced, each embroidered with their respective names. 

“What’s wrong with the old ones?” Johnny pipes up, brows furrowed. 

“Looks like you got fuckin’ mugged in ‘em.” Simon slides his attention back to you as Johnny curses with a glint of amusement in his blues. 

“Aren’t open yet.” Your face peels back to a stiff annoyance. 

“I can see that, Riley.” You motion to the other men. “I was being polite.”

He grunts while walking past, muttering through a brief smirk, “Doubt that.” 

Your jaw slackens, but you only growl and hold your tongue as you glance the mechanic over. He still had his leather jacket, but a loose shirt took the place of a hoodie. 

“You ready to answer my question?” Simon locks those eyes with yours from over his shoulder before sliding up to the black form of one of the motorcycles. 

Visible to the naked eye, you take in the lack of fairings around the frame—eyeing the pure black metal of the entire engine from any angle that you might move to you’d still be able to see. It was nice. Perfect, even; damn expensive too. While the thought was enticing, you can’t imagine Simon riding it—he seemed more rugged, more…classy. 

“Negative.” You roll your eyes, but Soap speaks before you can retort. 

“Finally takin’ out the CB1000R, Ghost? ‘Bout time.” The brute throws a blank look at the Scot as Gaz utters to you a few feet away before a casual ‘no’ is leveled out through the space.

“He got it months ago,” Kyle’s eyes crinkle. “Can’t seem to take it out for a ride yet. No one knows what he’s waiting on.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” your words confide. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was a fucking fortune—no use collecting dust is what I say.” You hum, shifting back to Simon who taps the seat of the CB1000R before moving past it to an older cruiser with dents and dirt along the sides. This was more him you thought. Rugged and more dated than the first; something you use on long rides to nowhere.

“Maybe he’s just waiting for a special occasion,” you guess.

“Better get on with it.” Gaz moves away with a shrug and a huff. 

Your lips pull in a small smile, and you watch Simon pull keys from his jacket and insert them as he moves to straddle the larger body of the cruiser, easing into it slowly. Staring, you think about how far that bike could take you—what you could see with it on the open road of possibilities and whipping air. Where would you go? Anywhere. Anywhere and everywhere. 

Eyes shifting away from the motorcycle, they widen as they softly meet Simon’s own—locked for a moment in a staring contest. His lids barely pull down, studying something. You clear your throat and exhale.

Sensing your company was most likely a hindrance at this point, you turn to leave as the engine flares—you wave easily behind your back with a call of well-wishes.

“Come have a drink one time, boys, yeah? I need stories that come from strangers for once.” A ruckus of ‘affirmatives’ and ‘will do, Ma’ams’ sparks up from Johnny and Kyle as you exit to the roar of the motorcycle behind you, your feet kicking a stray rock into the grass before you make it to the curb. 

Before you can cross, a steel body blocks your path. 

“I’ll be needing a drink later tonight, then.” Simon watches from atop his seat, one booted foot to the ground to steady himself as he comes to a slow halt. His fingers curl the handles, twitching.

“Let me guess,” you tilt your head, smirking, “Bourbon?”

“A woman after my own heart,” he draws numbly, October browns as dead as mulch. As dead as dirt.

“And do you have a heart, Simon Riley?” You question, blinking at him as your mind tells you to walk away. Your brain doesn’t need a repeat of Graham—you already had enough problems on your plate right now besides some attraction to this stranger. This push and pull made your heart jerk, even when you know it shouldn’t.

You’d only just met him.

The man hums, thighs shifting on the black metal frame. He says the easiest answer he can. 

“A cold one.” 

Pushing on the ground, he takes off down the road back into the main town for whatever errand he was on this time. Your eyes follow until the figure is no more than a memory of the smell of oil and the metallic tinge of caution.

—

You hated the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Like a pregnant woman’s aversion to the scent of meat, you grew nauseous at the very hint of cheap tobacco and paper on the air—loathed the burn of it. It had to do with your Ex, of course. The man had been a habitual chain smoker, lighting up one after the other until you had to leave his house entirely to puke on the front lawn. If you thought about it hard enough, you could still taste the ash on your tongue from when he kissed you after lighting up. 

But that was only one of the reasons you’d never moved in with him despite being together for years—the cheating was the other problem. 

Girl after girl, broken promise after broken promise, you’d still held onto him as if he deserved it. Hell, all that Graham Whitaker deserved were the copious amounts of STDs he probably had after sleeping with as many women as he could to try and get back at you. You didn’t have ample reason to ban him from the bar—him or his loud-mouth friends, you should say—so the problem, like a bad rash, persisted. Cars following you after work and all. 

But, the here, the now.

Simon had, in fact, come in for that drink that night—just as he had for the last week up until the grand opening of the boys’ shop. You’d both spoken throughout these encounters and formed some sarcastic and sly-looked bond that the other locals couldn’t understand. You had even learned about his military service. 

The both of you were just…different, people said. No one else really argued with it. 

You finally met John Price before the party that you’d heard from Simon that Soap and Gaz had been eager to host for the town—‘come meet the bastards that bought that old shitty building and see how they fixed it up all by themselves. You should come and give us your money.’

It was there that a proposal was offered. 

“Simon says you told him to come to you about paint.” John was late thirties, keeping a well-trimmed beard with a mustache that was the same shade of brunette as his head of hair. Tall, as well as built, he had found you as you were closing up the bar early for the town-wide party, Celina having already slipped out. 

You were dressed in a long skirt and a nice shirt for the occasion. 

“John Price, I’d imagine,” you comment, stuffing your keys into your pocket as your purse hangs from your shoulder. A throaty grunt tells you all you need to know as you move down the step. “Yeah, I did say that. Do you need some?” You look over his shoulder to the still peeling color on the outside of the bricks as the men are dragging out folding chairs and long tables. There was the clatter of laughter and loud calls. 

John’s blue eyes shift behind him, and he raises a brow slowly. 

“Thinkin’ we’d just hire you,” a side-eye. “If you’d be interested.” 

That was a surprise. 

You begin walking across the street, the man beside you and awaiting your answer. 

“Hire me?” Your voice asks, but you aren’t against the idea. “How do you know I’ll be any good at it,” you chuckle in question. 

“Simon says he found your initials next to the mural—the wolf.” Your feet pause, stuttering for a second before you catch yourself. The blood on your face stops its circulation in shock. “Not a bad piece, then.” John grunts. “...Think you can do a skull and wings?” 

So, you sat with your sketchbook in front of the wall, a portable camping chair below your bare feet as your legs folded under you. Your slip-on sneakers rest in the green grass, kicked off with a sigh. Blinking, the chatter and mumble from the party surround you in a sheen of community and calmness. You can pinpoint every voice, every story being re-told as if new news when it goes in one ear and out the other like a breeze on the wind. 

Humming under your breath as the sun is low in the sky, you hear the silent feet still from over your shoulder. A smirk flickers your lips.

“Snooping, Riley?” 

“My building.” He grumbles, “Seein’ what you plan to do to it.”

You snort, looking over your shoulder and smiling. “If I recall, you’re the one who took up my offer and told Price about it.” 

Simon was dressed in cargos and a compression shirt pushed up to his elbows, the swell of his forearms on full display along with the scars and…tattoos. You blink at them, the swirl of black skulls and guns; barbed wire and dog tags—the dark images that fit him as his motorcycles did on his left limb. Brown eyes flicker from yours to the painted wolf.

“Good at that,” the man says, balaclava shifting. 

Your expression slowly shifts to something far softer than you can remember it ever being; inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

“Thank you.” 

He levels you, the corners of his eyes easing out of the numb nothingness to show something akin to shielded affection. Molten sunlight on the side of his face, making the color of his irises glow amber. Simon nods to your sketchbook, clearing his throat. 

“I able to see it, then, or is it some secret?” You huff.

“Come here,” your hand motions, palm brushing away eraser shavings as your fingers get stained with graphite. The shadow comes closer, leaning over you as the scent of oil pools in your gut. You blink at the side visage, swiftly looking back down to your sketchbook as a slight wind ruffles your skirt. 

“Price was talking about a skull with wings beside it—later on he made mention of a sword through the top.” While you explain the concept, you inadvertently study the tattoos on the flesh beside you, one scarred hand coming out to lightly grab the armrest of your chair as Simon leans even closer. 

As your face begins burning, breath caught in your throat, he blinks down at the image as he looms, head tilting. 

Simon breathes, chest rising and falling as his eyes go far off. You know the symbol means something, though you also have a good guess that it’s related to this group’s time in the service. 

He hums, and you see his lips open, the rough grate of his vocal cords as he begins to form words for you. 

“It’s—”

Your name is loudly called from across the way, both Simon’s and your heads snapping back as you both realize exactly how close you two have become. The stealing of the other’s warmth like wraiths of hidden longing ceases when you wrench your attention to the man you wished would leave you alone. 

Graham raises the dark bottle of a cheap beer from the dollar store in your direction, walking over. Now, your Ex wasn’t anything spectacular, but even you had to admit it was the best you could do around here if you didn’t want to date men only five years from the grave. Graham was tall, strong, and heavy-willed like a bear. In the day hours, he worked as a farmhand down the way. 

Your body tenses, eyes going tight. Simon sees.

“Who’s this,” he asks slowly, fingers twitching. 

“Ex,” you mutter, grimacing. “He’s going to make a scene.”

Already gazes had started drifting over, conversations lapsing into mute silence as orbs shifted to three different individuals all stuck in the same storm. 

Simon grunts, standing up to his full height and crossing his arms over his chest, legs shifting below him and thighs trading weight. His moving leaves half of you kept firmly behind him and your eyes study his stance as you notice that fact. You blink, and feel something stir in your ribcage, blooming like a flower. 

“Hey, Bartender!” Graham takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it as his fingers fumble over the neck of the bottle. “Though I’d seen you over here missing all the action. Nothing’s changed I see.” 

Your face pulls in with disgust.

“Graham, you’re drunk. Go home.” It was true—his words were slurring, his limbs loose with drink. He smirks at you, taking a drag of his cancer stick and puffing it directly at you. Your hand snaps to your nose to try and cover the horrendous smell.

“Nah,” he breathes. “I’m here with Celina, see’s a pretty nice lookin’ broad don’t you think? Not as good of a fuck as you, but, hey, I take what I get.” His expression shifts to hidden anger and Simon takes a heavy step forward before he can finish the rest of his sentence, hands shifting to grasp his biceps harder. Those browns simmer with low ferality—a warning.

The air gets heavy.

“Pretty good little lie you spread about me gettin’ that shit from Stacy.”

“That was a lie?” You drawl lazily and watch your Ex’s eyes flash with rage. But he should know you don’t take shit from him anymore. “Oh,” your fingers tighten over your flesh and make you sound stuffy. “Maybe I heard wrong, you’re right. You don’t have Chlamydia.” You glare. “It was Gonorrhea, wasn’t it?”

“Bitch!” Graham barks, moving forward, but before anyone can realize it, Simon already has him shoved back with a stone-like push to your Ex’s chest.

“Not smart, Mate.” The former soldier utters, arms falling back to his sides. The party by this point had entirely halted in sharp gasps and bated breath. 

Graham’s beer bottle shatters as it hits the ground, the grass not able to absorb the way it slams down to dirt. Your wide eyes stay stuck on Simon’s figure, who’s now entirely hiding your view of your Ex—the wide expansive back that shows the writhe of his shoulder blades and how his spine shifts under the tight shirt. 

Your hand lowers from your face.

“What the fuck?!” Graham spits. “You made me drop my fucking drunk, man!”

“Be thankful that was all, yeah?” Simon’s dead voice is a cold chill on a winter evening. Any sane person would turn and leave immediately. “Cut your losses.”

No one breaths for a long minute, and you can see the other new mechanics inching closer from the sides. All of the locals are deep into the scene, fingers to their lips in surprise. There’s going to be talk tomorrow—the bar will be busy. 

“Graham,” you try to sway the pig-headed man once more from behind Simon. “Go home.”

“So this is what I get,” your Ex spits, head trying to peek over the larger man’s frame to look at you. Simon’s hands clench into tight fists. “I’m with you for years and this is how you treat me? I gave you everything!”

“Those are years that I never want to think about again,” you say with a stiff finality. “And it’ll be a cold day in hell before you ever see me worrying about where you are or who you fuck.” 

Knowing that the situation is over and done with, Simon takes a single step forward and leans into the man. 

“You heard ‘er,” he levels, unblinking. “Scatter.” Simon’s accent made it sound more like a threat, but maybe it was. 

Graham growls and takes a long drag from his cigarette, staring Simon down. 

“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” But all he does is turn sharply on his heel and stomp away, crossing the street to his truck before he opens and closes the door with a violent slam. From across the way, Celina gasps and calls his name, but the engine has already started and Graham is down the road with a roar from the exhaust. 

Everyone is watching you and Simon, and the staring peels back your skin until Simon grumbles and grabs your arm. 

Blinking in shock, he only gives you a moment to steady yourself and slip on your shoes before he drags you inside the garage. You huff and look up at him as you close your sketchbook–trying to not look at those tattoos again. Your finger wanted to trace them—to study the ink down to the layer of skin where it ended and became red flesh and weeping veins. How far up his left arm did they go? Did they only stay at his forearm, or up to his shoulder?

Inside he lets you go, head slightly tilted to the outside as the sounds of hushed whispering pick back up; hurried and filled with electricity. Simon grunts, blinking. 

A heated silence encompasses the two of you, and as your eyes lock, neither can speak for a moment. 

“Sorry about that,” you glance at your feet. “Should have guessed he’d show up and do something.”

“Don’t apologize,” Simon crosses his arms again, boots righting themselves. “That’s not your fault that some bastard can’t act right, yeah? Forget about it, it’s all nothing.”

“You shouldn’t have to be involved—”

“Bloody cut it out, would you?” Simon glares, brows pulling in. “I said it’s nothing.”

He was very passionate about this, it seemed.

You sigh, shaking your head before a tiny chuckle makes the mechanic blink in confusion. “Suppose I can call you my guard dog now, huh?”

“Piss off,” you laugh, covering your mouth with your hand while your eyes narrow down. Simon's own crinkle along the edges, lowering his hands to push them into his pockets. 

A second leads into another, but neither of you has any particular interest in re-joining the others, even if Soap is smugly passing looks and Price smirks into his drink. Gaz fixes his hat while he tips back a beer bottle, hiding a glint of amusement. 

Simon’s voice lowers, seeming to hover closer. 

“You alright, then?” You nod, face heating up as you stare at his shadow-tainted visage and how the face-covering obscured him from your eager eyes. 

“I’m used to his drama. I have no problem giving it back.” Simon hums, October browns glinting like Halloween lights. 

“Seems so.” He pauses, and pushes out a joking, “Not surprised, Sunshine.”

“Good, Brown-Eyes,” you lean back on your heels and smirk. “I’d be offended if you were, with all we’ve been talking to one another.” 

“Getting familiar, Bartender?”

“Of course, Mechanic. Haven’t you heard?” He tilts his head, prodding you on as his eyes soften that candle-like smidge. “I keep everyone’s secrets—and you still have to tell me yours.”

Simon chuffs a low chuckle, and the fabric of his mask pulls as he shakes his skull. “Maybe one day, yeah? Need to stick ‘round to know ‘em.”

Then perhaps this town was worth wasting away in.  

—

“Bastard won’t cause any problems, will he?”

“No, no, he’s too much of a coward to try and get back at anyone. He won’t do anything.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @aldis-nuts, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[honestsycrets]

omg sex worker miguel o’hara? 🤧🫡

grande | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader

❛ pairing | sex worker!miguel o'hara x assistant!reader.

❛ type | extended drabble; 2kish words; explicit

❛ summary | you probably shouldn't tell a man that he's small. even if you've known him a very long time-- and especially if you see him fuck every day.

❛ tags | sex worker au, improper use of belts, male receiving oral, slight disagreements, workplace argument, Spanish is not translated

❛ sy’s notes | ...i now have an escort!miggy x rich girl!reader in my drafts to be finished at some other time because it became a bit depressing and plotty. needed something light to get back into writing for a bit.

He doesn’t play fair. Most women understand that about him. They know Miguel to be the man who bends the delicate boundaries of rules for a good fuck— be it a place, be it a position. Miguel would do what he had to for a better clip. 

“Miggy?” You said, hands behind your hips. He should have known then that you were up to some shit. You hover somewhere in his vision with a sugar-sweet smile. You’ve worked with him alongside him since he chose this profession. Most days, he watched you sit by your favorite window that cast a warm midday sun, tacking away with fingers that flew across the keys. Some days, you’re watching him-- mounted on another woman. He cocked his thick brow at you. 

“What?”

“I… it’s just… fuck. Elena had something come up.” 

“Like I said she would."

Miguel set his fist to his cheek, swirling his protein shake in the other hand. This woman was your idea, not his. There’s a reason your voice choked on the words. You were anxious about your news the way your hands rounded to the front of your body, clammy hands plastered onto your tablet.

“I just thought—“

“I know what you thought. You thought my followers would like her.” He took a swig of his drink. “Not if she’d like me.”

That was exactly the issue. You do too much worrying about what the viewer likes, not enough about what he would like. He was well aware from every ping from Elena and the contorted little face you made that she was scared of him. As to why, he was not certain. He's grumpy, not dangerous.

“She does like you— it’s just your dick,“ you fumbled with your tablet, nearly spilling it over on his lap. “I told her you weren’t that big. She’s just— dramatic.”

“Not that big?” 

You’re not winning this fight. He threw a look at the tablet, finding your suggestion more egregious than your description of it. Too thick! She complained. He’d stretch her out. Or, so she feared. He sincerely doubted that. She took enough dick that if that were the case, she’d have an issue long before now.

He’s not that big in real life. All that big dick crap is just marketing. I see his dick all the time. 

Then you fuck him!

His mouth flattened into an unmoveable line, clearly unappeased with your response. For a moment, he did not move. He did not fidget. Nor respond. He simply stared down at you with those sharp, unhumored eyes. What little security you had in convincing him flitted away. He abandoned his drink on the table and leaned in close. Close enough that his thick strands of dark hair tickle your skin. Enough that you can smell the perfumed oil that lingered on his tanned skin. He always smelled so good.

“Until you’ve fucked me onscreen,” he brushed past. “Don’t tell women who will what I’m like.” 

Oh. You made a mistake.

You don’t like it when Miguel is angry. 

Most days coming to work, Miguel has a hot coffee on the table for you as you edit his finest ball-busting work. When the days stretch a little too long, he tells you when enough is enough. And, if you were lucky, he hovered at the stove and made you something to eat. It gave you a perfect sight of his toned shoulders and the long column of his spine-- which he so graciously allowed you to drool over day by day. Today, there was no half-dressed hunk making your delicious meals in sight. 

He’s still angry. You pulled up his socials, scrolling through the responses to the latest video. A teasing blooper of a clip with a woman with Miguel’s length halfway down her throat, coughing up his seed all over her chest as you mistakingly giggle behind the screen. 

“Keep laughing and see what happens,” Miguel drifted to yours, eyes hazy and soft, chest rising violently with the sundering sensation of his orgasm. He watched for the span of only a few heartbeats, a decadent warning exchanged between the two of you immeasurable before the camera. He reached for a tissue.

“Perdóname, papi.” 

Does anyone know if they’re fucking? A user asked. It’s as if Miguel’s co-star was but a fading character. Any chance of seeing him fuck her?? Whats her @? 

She’s just his employee.

Need this.

Just an employee. The words pulled on a string of connection that could at any time be cut. Miguel had no interest in wielding the scissors to do so, rather, over the past few years the string only became stronger. He’ll get over it. You stared at the reflection of your poorly made cup of cafecito, undrunken because no one made it like Miguel made it. He’s there, hovering around the sink, but you feel all the more alone in the room. Producer, editor, friend-- your eyes fell back to the cup. 

“Are you done?” Miguel hovered by your coffee cup. It was cool to the touch. 

“Ah. Sí.” 

You gazed up at him, regret seeping from your features. If you apologized yet again, he’d simply leave the room. There are no good words. No ones that would make sense, no words that would… be good enough to make him come back when he’s in this mood, unmoveable and distant. You’re so close to him-- but all alone.

He takes the cup away.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

Miguel dropped his phone on your office desk. It thumped over the tablespace, his expression morphing into something wrong. You turn his phone upright, knowing the contents before the information actually registers in your mind. 

“It’s a picture of me,” you closed the top of your laptop and whirled around in the chair, knocking your knees against his. He’s closer than he’s been in days. 

“Yes. But what else?” he rumbled. 

You’re not stupid, remembering the launch of merch that Miguel sincerely doubted anyone would be seriously interested in. How many people wore a male sex worker’s merch? This was all your idea, of course. Your lip is bitten fat, stripped of skin. Your eyes wandered across the table to the cabinet with an array of different cameras. Miguel rapped his scarred knuckles over the table, blocking your desperation for an escape. He wanted a substantial answer.

“You told me to make sure it sold.” 

“And that meant model with your ass out on my page.”

“You don’t like it?” 

"Dios," that’s not the point. He breathed a forceful breath, navigating your rolling chair up against the bed in the room. Typically the bed was used for a late night at the office or one of Miguel’s performances with any number of women you cast him with. Or, as you preferred, when he masturbates by himself-- squeezing his hand along his length as your phantom hand poured more wet lubricant over his cock. The sheets are always stained and consequentially changed.

“I don’t like that they know what you look like,” Miguel supplied, his chest cresting into a fall. His gaze fell to your hands, settled in a clasp over your short skirt. Now he knew what you looked like. “Do you know how many requests I have to…”

“Fuck me.” 

“Sí,” Miguel said, your name dying on his tongue. “To fuck you.” 

“Then do it. You have a camera.”

What-- his gaze read. It’s in the way his brow pushed together, how his lips fell just so lightly apart. He would say something more, but your hands are on his dark slacks, tracking up toward his sturdy leather belt. In only an hour or so, Miguel was meant to record with Elena, who, you convinced. He should be saving his stamina for that, not this. Even so, his hands hovered atop your own, grunting slightly in response, unable to stop what you were doing. 

“Don’t ask me to ruin you.”

“I think you already have,” you murmured, finding his soft cock. You stroked him through his pants, drawing along his length, getting him where you want him. With every scene you recorded, you knew what Miguel liked. You knew he liked scenes where he could take his time, as short and far between as they were. You want that too. You drew the belt loose and unbuttoned the little spry button. So close, you could almost taste him.

“Are you going to record it?” You gestured toward the desk, pulling his cock into the free air. He’s an impressive length, just as you recall, you think he has to be to be an adult actor. The real treat is Miguel’s thick girth, swirled with delicious veins. You had seen his dick at least a hundred times, delighted in watching him meet his orgasm time and time again, and touched yourself to the thought of being just like his many girls. 

“No,” Miguel pulled his belt from the loops and tugged it around his wrist. He let the other hand find the back of your head, weaving through smooth locks of hair, guiding your lush lips to his cock. “This is all for me.” 

When he spoke like that, all you wanted was to make him happy. Your moist mouth separated, warm breath tickling the length that he shoved into your wet mouth. Maybe Elena had a point, you think, suckling around his length once, drawing to his fat tip. He hums in response, bucking back deep into your mouth. Miguel didn't want to wait, causing you to gag over his length, a terrible coughing resonating about his dick. Now that he had you here, he would show you how wrong you were.

“I thought I wasn’t that big,” Miguel’s hand left your head, stretching his belt across the back of your neck. Bucking forward, you gagged around his length, scratching his clothed hip for some mercy. If he wasn’t so big-- you could take it, couldn’t you? “Just like that. Hm? Cómo?” 

He was gracious enough to allow you off his cock, gasping for air as you were, the depth of his plunging cock having pricked a few oversensitized tears on the sides of your eyes. You’re beautiful like that, overwrought and needy. Your heart rattled in the confines of your ribcage, wheezing as you jerked him pathetically. How certain you look now, tugging on him for a moment of relief.

“I’m sorry--” 

“Ya sé.” 

Your eyes fluttered shut, guiding him back into your mouth. Your cheeks hollowed out, drawing him in fast and hard. If not for the belt around the back of your neck, he might have stumbled, stuck between the warmth of your mouth and the pleasured groans tickling his length. You’re well-accustomed to what the girls do, stretching your palm around his dick.

“Harder,” he remarked, throwing a half-chewed-up curse aside. Unlike with the other girls, he’s weak before the pleasure, usually focused and refined, his jaw clenches. He’s gotten weak-- has it been that long since he’s had sex outside of the roll of the camera? 

“Miggy,” you pulled back, your sloppy tongue swirling about his fat tip. He catches the moan in his chest, refusing to let it crest over, not yet. His eyes catch yours, muscular stomach flexing, he’s listening. “I want to taste you. Can I taste you?” 

You’re such a good niña. Miguel forces you back to your rightful place on his cock, the band stretched so tight around his fists that he might break it. Your name becomes an unbearable, pleasurable slur on his tongue. He’s a trained man, knowing to cum when you say to come on each shoot. In many ways, he's your trained dog: cuming when he's told to.

His length pulsed in your mouth for one final thrust before he gave you what you wanted, strands of release spraying the back of your warm little mouth. You suckled him up, even as he tried to pull free. You cleaned his cock, sucking him nice and clean. Miguel brushed off your attempt to zip him away.

“Don’t bother,” Miguel breathed, pulling at the black-tie strapped to his throat. His white dress shirt was soaked, causing him to roll the sleeves up to his elbows. His voice dropped, well-fucked out but nearly ready for another round. “Your cunt is next.” 

“But Elena is on her w--” 

“Fuck her,” Miguel waved his hand, slouching into your chair. “Fix the camera. We have a video to shoot.” 

If nothing else-- now you can tell her how big he really is.

[panerasbox]

Sweat & Victoria’s Secret

Genre: Light enemy to lovers | Sexual Content

Pairing: Ava Coleman X Fem!Reader

Summary: You called Ava Coleman out at a staff meeting. She called you into her office after hours. Now you’re half-dressed, fully ruined, and realizing Ava doesn’t lose—she collects.

Word count: 1,425.

Rating: Mature (18+)

CW: sexual content, workplace romance, light power dynamics, mild language

Ava’s office always smells like expensive perfume, ambition, and a little bit of chaos. You don’t know how she makes a room feel like both a power move and a trap, but here you are—after hours, door shut, blinds tilted just enough for maximum drama.

She called you in to “talk” about your little disagreement at the staff meeting. You’d challenged her—nothing rude, just a polite note that maybe her “Motivational TikTok Fridays” were… distracting. Barbara nodded. Jacob clapped like a damn seal. Ava looked at you like she was already picking out your gravestone.

Now, she’s perched behind her desk, one leg crossed over the other, lashes fluttering like she’s bored—but her eyes are locked onto yours like you’re prey and she’s already bored of the chase.

“You really had the nerve to challenge me,” she says, syrup-sweet and razor-sharp, “in front of Barbara.”

You shrug, arms crossed. “It was a suggestion. You always say you value feedback.”

She snorts. “Babe, I say a lot of things when I’m trying to look good for the school board. Doesn’t mean I actually mean it.”

Then that grin spreads—slow, wicked, knowing.

“Especially from my new favorite eye candy.”

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, boo. Loud and clear, like my highlighter under cheap fluorescent lights.”

Before you can find words, she stands—moving like she invented gravity—and circles the desk. Every click of her heels is a countdown.

You hold your ground, even as she stops so close you can smell her perfume.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, because brain is short-circuiting.

She tilts her head, faux-innocent. “Like what?”

You exhale hard. “Like you wanna murder me… and also kiss me.”

Her grin doubles, dirtier now. “Maybe I’m a multitasker.”

She brushes your sleeve with the backs of her fingers—barely touching, but it burns. You fight the urge to shiver.

“You’re annoying as hell,” you bite out.

“And you’re clingier than a clearance sticker,” she purrs. “Yet here you are. In my office. Again.”

She leans in until your noses almost brush. Her breath hits your cheek, hot and cocky.

“You gonna kiss me,” she whispers, “or keep trying to win a staring contest you’re losing badly?”

You don’t remember deciding to move. One second her mouth is a dare—and the next, you’re answering it.

The kiss is all teeth and heat, messy, angry, addictive. Her hands find your waist; yours fist into her silk blazer like it’s a lifeline.

You back her into the desk. She gasps into your mouth, laughing—genuinely delighted. “Took you long enough, lover girl.”

“Shut up,” you growl, biting her bottom lip.

She moans—and it’s criminal—and then drags you onto her lap like you belong there.

There’s no logic anymore, just hands, lips, heat. You don’t even know who’s winning. Probably her. Definitely her.

You grip her hair, tugging. “You drive me insane.”

“Good,” she grins against your throat. “Now do something about it.”

Your back hits her desk with a dull thud, scattering a pile of folders she’s probably been ignoring since 2022. She lifts you up onto it like you’re weightless, stepping between your thighs like she owns the space—and you.

“I should be mad at you,” she says, tugging your shirt up and off like it’s just another obstacle. “Embarrassing me in front of Barbara. Acting like you run this school.”

“You’re the one who called me in here,” you manage, voice breaking when her hands run up your bare thighs.

“That’s right,” Ava purrs. “And now I’m running you.”

She kisses you hard enough to bruise. Her hand slides between your legs—over your panties—pressing just enough to make you whimper.

“God, you’re soaked,” she breathes out, smug as hell. “That from arguing with me or imagining this the whole time?”

You arch into her touch, breathless. “Does it matter?”

“Mmm. Not really.”

She hooks her fingers into your underwear and drags them down slow, savoring it. The second the cool air hits, her mouth replaces it—no hesitation, no mercy.

Ava Coleman devours you like she’s starving.

Her tongue is confident, relentless, obscene. She groans when your hips jerk, holding you down with one strong arm like you’re not getting away until she’s done.

Every flick, every suck, every rough swirl is calculated to wreck you.

“Fucking—Ava—” you gasp, dragging your fingers through her curls.

She looks up at you through heavy lashes, grinning like she just aced a test she didn’t study for. “Say my name again, babe.”

Then she doubles down.

You don’t stand a chance.

You come hard, legs shaking around her shoulders, gasping her name like a curse and a prayer. She doesn’t stop until you’re wrecked, limp, breathless on her desk.

When she finally stands, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she just finished a three-course meal—and she’s still hungry.

“You always taste that good when you’re mad?” she asks, smirking.

You laugh—shaky, wrecked—and yank her into another kiss. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” she dares.

Round two happens fast and dirty.

And round three almost happens right in front of the janitor, Mr. Johnson.

You wake up tangled in ridiculous silk sheets Ava somehow keeps stashed in her office. Your legs are sore. Your mascara’s wrecked. The office is spinning—or maybe that’s just Ava Coleman draped over you like you’re her personal mattress.

“Rise and grind, lover girl,” she croons, voice rough and smug. “And by grind, I mean both the coffee and your hips.”

You groan into the satin pillow. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet you let me eat you alive on school property. Sounds like a you problem, boo.”

You sit up, realizing you’re wearing her ridiculous purple silk shirt—and nothing else.

“We have work in an hour.”

She yawns, stretching like a cat in the sun. “Correction. You have work. I have ‘mysterious administrative obligations.’” She finger-quotes lazily.

“You left hickeys on my thighs.”

She shrugs. “I like to sign my work.”

You shoot her a look. She grins like she’s ten seconds from tackling you again.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you warn.

“Like what?” she teases, already crawling toward you.

You shove a pillow into her face, laughing. “Like you’re about to ruin my life before I’ve had caffeine.”

She pins your wrists, smiling down at you. “Baby, I am the caffeine.”

You hate her. You want her. You’re doomed.

“Are we pretending this didn’t happen?” you ask, breathless.

Her smile falters—just for a second. Real, vulnerable.

“No,” she says firmly. “We’re not pretending anything.”

She kisses you hard, soft, hungry, all at once. You kiss her back like you’re already in too deep.

“Now hurry up,” she says, slapping your ass as you roll out of her makeshift bed. “You’re not allowed to be late. I am. That’s foreplay, baby.”

You almost make it out unnoticed.

Fully dressed, coffee in hand, Ava still basking in her victory nap. You’re halfway out the door when it creaks open.

Melissa.

Red nails tapping on the doorframe. Smirk already locked and loaded.

“Mornin’,” she says, eyes flicking to your messy ponytail and Ava’s purple silk shirt on your body.

“Hi!” you say way too fast. “Uh. Wellness check! On Ava. She seemed… stressed.”

Melissa steps inside, suspicious. “You do wellness checks now? That your job description?”

You laugh, brittle. “She’s been working hard! Needed some, uh, emotional support.”

Melissa’s eyes land on the suspiciously messy “nap station.” She raises one skeptical brow.

“Uh huh. Smells like sweat and Victoria’s Secret in here.”

Thunk!

Something falls over in Ava’s closet.

Melissa stiffens. You panic. “Rats! Maybe mice! Ava was talking about pest control—”

The closet door slams open.

Ava.

Shirtless. Lipstick smudged. Hair a whole situation. Grabbing a blazer and shrugging it on without a single ounce of shame.

“Hey, Miss Frizzle,” she greets lazily. “You here to join the nap circle or just spying?”

Melissa smirks. “Just confirming what I already knew. Y’all are nasty.”

You whimper. Ava winks. Melissa turns to leave, but tosses one parting shot over her shoulder:

“Oh, and hon? Next time? Don’t wear her damn shirt. At least pretend you didn’t spend the night.”

Door slams.

You turn to Ava, mortified. “She’s going to tell everyone.”

Ava flops back onto the nap station, hands behind her head like she’s on vacation. “Good,” she grins. “I like it when people know I’m winning.”

[ollieolliewrld]

How The DMC Men Enter Relationships (SFW)

How your relationship with the Sparda Trio start~ gn!reader

1.4k words

Dante 

❥ How you meet

♡ You meet Dante late at night 

♡ You were both lonely and looking for a body to ease that pain

♡ He has no intentions of having feelings for you, and you were not looking for a relationship

♡ At first, all that is exchanged are first names and phone numbers 

♡ Conversation is limited to simple greetings and partings 

♡ The interactions are mainly physical 

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ As time goes on Dante begins to miss you when you leave and starts asking you to stay the night

♡ He starts to ask you about yourself, questioning about your hobbies and favorite foods

♡ As much as he does not want to admit it, he is starting to develop feelings for you

♡ He doesn't outright ask you to date him instead he asks if you would like to leave some things at his place 

♡ Late-night phone calls turn into him inviting you to dinner 

♡ After some time Trish refers to you as his s/o in conversation and Dante is taken back

♡ He hadn’t thought of it that way but you two are doing all of the relationship things, but more importantly, he really enjoyed hearing you referred to as his s/o

♡ A few days later Dante is lying in bed with you when he asks if you would like to put a label on things 

♡ He explains that he would like mutual commitment and to pursue a future with you but he understands if you want to keep things more casual

♡ Although he has no interest in anyone else and would not be ok if you were seeing other people no matter if there was a label or not 

♡ When you do agree to put a label on things Dante becomes a little cocky about now bringing you up specifically as his s/o in most conversations

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ Dante would want you to stay at home more, not locked in there or anything but more just not overworked

♡ He likes to come home to you, it brings him peace of mind and motivates him

♡ Small disagreements take place when you move in with him, Dante has never had a long-term serious relationship so he is unsure of how to split up housework and tasks like cooking

♡ Nothing ever gets too heated as he comes to an agreement with you pretty quickly

♡ He wants to be in charge of breakfast and dinner when he is home, but would really appreciate it if you could make dinner when he comes home late and you are already home

♡ It’s decided that you will both use Saturday as the day to get all of the house cleaning done together

♡ It takes about a month for you two to settle in together but once the adjustment period is over you two work fluidly together with very few arguments

Vergil

❥ How you meet

♡ He comes into your work by accident, he had no reason to be there but the rain outside was terrible and he wanted to find reprieve for just a moment to get himself together

♡ You very kindly offered him your umbrella seeing the state he was in

♡ Not being used to this kind of kindness he simply stares at you unsure of how to respond

♡ Silently he takes the umbrella and walks out 

♡ After this, he happens to wander into your workplace more often hoping to see you again

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ Vergil does not start the conversation but rather you do as you come up behind him

♡ You jokingly ask if he’s stalking you and his demeanor changes to be very flustered with a slight blush appearing across his cheeks 

♡ He stops coming to your workplace after this but you catch him reading a book in a park not too far away about a week later

♡ This time he begins with a simple hello

♡ To his surprise, the conversation flows very naturally and learns that you actually missed his random appearances at work

♡ Never did he expect to be able to talk to anyone like this, casually and freely

♡ Not knowing who he was and what he had been through allows him to start fresh not feeling any levels of judgment

♡ You two stay as friends for a while, he never makes a move as he does not want you to leave when he opens up to you

♡ After a few months, Vergil cannot keep secrets from you anymore and he finally tells you about who he is and what he has done expecting you to be scared and leave

♡ But you are not scared and when he turns to see your reaction you lean in to kiss him

♡ The feeling of your lips on his sets him free, he can finally be his entire self around you without fear

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ That day was the start of your romantic relationship, but Vergil does not like to refer to you as his s/o preferring terms like “My light” and “My love”

♡ You two would move in together shortly after that first kiss 

♡ A lot of time is spent teaching Vergil the ways of average human life 

♡ He enjoys taking care of the home and finds a passion for cooking 

♡ Doing things like furniture shopping brings him a lot of joy and finds it to be a very important time with you

♡ He likes to take you on dinner dates at nice restaurants and to museums 

♡ Overall the beginning of your relationship is pretty smooth the only potential issue being that Vergil is a bit reclusive not liking to be in very high-energy areas like a concert or club 

Nero

❥ How you meet

♡ Nero is still young and has not gotten the hang of relationships fully yet

♡ The dating world is still pretty new to him

♡ He meets you in the most cliche way, you were carrying boxes in your hands and Nero was sprinting around the corner knocking into you and sending the boxes to the ground

♡ Dropping what he was doing he cleans up your mess while apologizing and then turns to help you up but when his eyes met yours, the ability to speak the English language left him

♡ Stumbling over words he attempts to introduce himself not making a lot of progress

♡ With a smile you tell him your name and that he can make up for the incident by buying you a coffee

❥ How the relationship begins

♡ He is very nervous around you at first, before getting coffee with you the first time he changed his outfit three times and brushed his teeth twice

♡ Despite the nerves, he was able to talk to you and your sweet demeanor helped to calm him down

♡ You were kind and confident and that combo worked on him as he asked when he could see you again right after you both finished your drinks

♡ Nero is a very sweet guy making sure to hold doors open for you and following the sidewalk rule

♡ His age shows though when he tries to show off in front of you by doing things like attempting to do tricks on a random skateboard despite him having zero experience 

♡ Or telling you very over-the-top embellished stories about his Devil May Cry work

♡ After going out a few more times he asks if he can start calling you his s/o

♡ You agree and the smile that forms on his face tells you how long he has been waiting to ask you that

❥ Early relationship dynamics

♡ Neither of you are in a rush to move in together 

♡ Instead, it’s a lot of sleepovers and him tagging along to run errands with you

♡ Nero discovers that he enjoys going to stores like Target not looking to buy anything and instead just looking around

♡ He also loves to binge shows with you

♡ If you watch any level of reality TV, Nero will become the biggest fan but will deny it if you ever ask him

♡ Finds it romantic to know all of your orders at your favorite food places, Nero likes to surprise you with them whenever you are feeling sad

♡ Some fights happen when he has to leave for work, you don't want him to go and he doesn't want to leave you and because he is young the emotions are a little hard to navigate 

♡ But with proper and open communication these problems fade away

Author's note: This was so cute to write! I had a lot of fun taking my time with this and really feeling the characters out and I hope you all have fun reading it!

[imagine-it-was-us]

mine || Charles Leclerc

Inspiration: Kristian Kostov "mine"

Author's note: I have to admit, not my finest work, just needed to write something through the slump. Yet I love the idea of letting someone go and coming to peace with it after some time. Been there, done that.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x female reader

Warnings: none. As per usual.

Summary: They didn’t end in flames, but in silence — the kind that lingers. And though it hurt, they both found peace in the aftermath. He finally understood that some people aren’t meant to be yours forever, just long enough to change you. And she? She learned to choose herself first.

Word count: 1.7k+

There are many reasons why dating a coworker is strongly discouraged. Workplace relationships can be complicated, and when they do happen, it is often advised that they be reported to HR and monitored carefully by management. While everything may seem perfect in the beginning, as long as the connection between two people is strong, few stop to consider what might happen if things fall apart.

Charles learned that lesson the hard way. When they first got together, he never imagined how it would end, or that it even could. Love has a way of making people believe in permanence, even when reality suggests otherwise. Now, nearly a year after their breakup, he still felt a dull ache in his chest whenever he saw her smiling at someone else. It wasn’t just jealousy – it was the lingering weight of a past that he hadn’t fully shaken off.

The worst part was that there was no escaping it. Their paths were intertwined in a way he couldn’t control. It didn’t bother him at first, that she was Lewis’ minder. The problem arose when LH made a move to Ferrari which meant that his minder would always be in the same paddock he was. It was an impossible situation – one he never could have predicted when they first started dating. Back then, she had been on an entirely different team, their work lives separate enough to keep their personal relationship from interfering.

Who could have guessed that, four years later, not only would they be broken up, but they would also end up working side by side on the same team? Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

Charles first met her in 2020, when she joined Mercedes. It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment. No immediate spark, no love at first sight. They had simply bumped into each other during one of the Grand Prix weekends, a casual encounter that could have been easily forgotten. But fate, or perhaps just the nature of the paddock, had other plans.

Over the next six months, their paths continued to cross. Conversations started as polite small talk, then gradually turned into something more – longer chats over coffee, shared laughter between hectic schedules, inside jokes that only they understood. There was no rush, no whirlwind romance, just a slow and steady build-up of familiarity and comfort. By the time they finally got together, it felt natural, like slipping into something that had been waiting for them all along.

For a while, everything was smooth. Their relationship fit seamlessly into their fast-paced world, a rare pocket of warmth in an otherwise high-pressure environment. But as time went on, differences that once seemed minor began to surface. Clashes, some small, some unavoidable, started to chip away at what they had built. Maybe it was the stress of the job, the constant travel, or simply the reality that they weren’t as perfectly aligned as they once thought.

In the end, they made the difficult decision to part ways. It wasn’t a dramatic fallout, no messy fights or harsh words – just two people realizing that love alone wasn’t enough to keep them together. Yet it wasn’t mutual – Charles just felt that trying to love her beyond her imperfections and their disagreements was far too time and energy consuming. But even if he was set and, at first, at ease with his decision,  letting go of someone who once felt like home was never easy.

The day then everything shifted was far from unusual. The paddock before the Grand Prix was alive with noise. Buzzing radios, distant cheers, engineers shouting into headsets – for him, it was just another day in the office. But all of it blurred into background static the second Charles saw her. And for the first time, she wasn't alone.

She was laughing. Her hand slipped so naturally into someone else’s, like it had always belonged there. The way she looked at the man beside her cut deeper than anything loud or cruel ever could.

And yet, Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just stood there, letting it wash over him – this strange, aching blend of longing and... something close to peace. It hurt, yes. But beneath that familiar sting was an unsettling truth: maybe she was always meant to end up with someone else. Maybe letting her go was the only kind thing he ever did right.

Still, when they locked eyes across the paddock – just for a second – something shifted. Somehow the rush of emotions at that moment felt like the sharpest knife stabbed to the chest and the softest hug from your loved one at the same time. He should have looked away. Maybe that would’ve been easier. But Charles had never been good at pretending he didn’t care, especially not about her.

Later, after the paddock had quieted and the sun had dipped low behind the trailers, he found himself leaning against the team truck, running a hand through his hair, replaying that moment like some cruel highlight reel.

She approached quietly, like she always used to when she knew his thoughts were louder than he could handle. Even though they always kept their relationship post break-up down to a minimum and straight up professional, it didn’t mean that she stopped caring.

"You okay?" she asked, voice calm and steady. She kept some distance between them, not wanting to push him in any shape or form.  

He let out a breath, not quite a laugh. “You always ask me that when I’m clearly not.”

She smiled faintly. “Sorry, old habits.”

Charles glanced sideways at her to take a proper look at her. She hadn’t changed much. Maybe it was down to the fact that he saw her more than he did his family, or maybe the physical change would still be meaningless.

"I saw you earlier," he said. "With him."

There was a pause before she replied, soft but steady. "I figured."

"You looked happy."

"I am."

He nodded, looking down at the ground, scuffing his boot against the asphalt. "I’m glad. Really."

"You don’t have to pretend, Charles."

"I’m not," he said, his voice quieter now. “That’s the worst part. I mean – yeah, there’s a part of me that wants to hate him. That wants to go back and rewrite everything, because we were pretty good together. But then I see you like that, and I think... maybe I was just the chapter before the right one came along.”

Her expression faltered, just for a second.

"You weren’t just a chapter," she said. It hit a nerve, instantly triggering something sharp in her. Four years, and he reduced it to a footnote?

"I know." He turned to face her more fully, something unreadable in his eyes. "But you... you were the whole damn book for me."

She didn’t say anything at first, still in her thoughts. But his admission made her a little bit softer. The silence stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said when it still mattered.

"So why’d you put it down?" she asked finally after sorting her thoughts out.

Charles inhaled, slow and shallow. “Because I didn’t know how to keep reading when the words stopped making sense. I didn’t know how to love you without losing parts of myself. I’m sad I never took the time to move past that.”

The admission hit her hard. If he only could work through all the fights, that now seemed meaningless. If only he would have fought for her.

"I just needed you to stay."

But she hadn’t waited. She couldn’t. When he didn’t stay, she had no choice but to stand on her own. It took time, longer than she liked to admit, but somewhere between the long nights and lonely hotel rooms, she learned to be enough for herself. She stopped needing someone to read her mind or fix what wasn’t broken. And then, when love came again, it didn’t demand that she shrink or bend to fit. It just... stayed. With all the mess and all the beauty.

"I know," he said. "And I didn’t. That’s on me." The silence returned, softer this time. Almost kind. "But seeing you happy now..." Charles trailed off, running a hand over his face. "It hurts. Like hell. But I think it’s the kind of pain I deserve. And maybe… maybe that means I did something right, when I chose to walk away. Even if it broke me at the moment."

She nodded slowly, and for a moment, her hand twitched like she might reach for him. But she didn’t.

"You’ll fall in love again, you know," she said.

He offered her a tired smile, worn, but genuine. “Yeah. But it won’t be you.”

He didn’t say it to hurt her. Just the truth, laid bare between them, no bitterness, no resentment. Just a fact.

He exhaled, the tension in his chest finally loosening after what felt like a year of holding his breath. A strange calm settled in the spaces grief used to occupy. Maybe this was what closure looked like. Not dramatic goodbyes or rekindled sparks, just quiet understanding and a little less weight to carry.

“I’m glad you’re someone else’s mine,” he added, and this time, he meant it. Not out of self-pity, not to sound noble, but just because he’d finally accepted it. She found someone who could meet her where she needed to be met, and that was enough.

She smiled then, small but warm. “I agree, you know. That as you said, we were pretty good together, but I think we are so much better apart. And I’m glad you’re still you, Charles.”

He gave her a playful look, something flickering in his eyes. There was less sadness now, more peace. “Well, I wouldn’t survive in this world being anyone else.”

A soft laugh passed between them, easy and unforced, like a distant echo of who they used to be. Then, with a final nod, he pushed off the truck and stood tall.

“Take care of him. And yourself,” he said, voice light but steady.

“I will,” she replied.

And just like that, they walked away in opposite directions – not broken, not aching. Just two people who once loved each other deeply, now loving themselves enough to let go.

[yourlocalravendork]

Whovian arguments

As a doctor who girlie, I felt so seen when Spencer showed up season 7 in his 4th doctor cosplay. The things I'd do to have an in depth discussion about what doctor is best and best story arcs with Spencer while knitting doctor who themed stuff… Hopefully this reaches the right niche of interests. CW: Civil disagreement, reader and Spencer being petty, honeymoon phase relationship between Spencer and reader, slight creep in of my own personal doctor who opinions (Ninth Doctor appreciatetion club here)

"Clearly it's Nine," You said, your tone firm. Confident even. "Most people skip Nine. How can he be one of the best?" Spencer countered with a raised eyebrow. Ever since he found out you were a Doctor Who fan, he'd been falling deeper and deeper in love. He was mesmerised by the way your lips moved when pronouncing made up alien species, the way your head bobbed absentmindedly at the iconic intro music, the smile that plastered your face every single time you watched the British show. Spencer hadn't thought it possible, but he'd fall in love a little deeper every time.

"That's because everyone skips Nine because they think David Tennant is hot or Matt Smith is hot. While I'm not saying they're not, I'm just saying some people care more about who plays the Doctor than the actual Doctor. Besides, need I remind you of the Empty Child arc or even Bad Wolf?" God Spencer was falling even harder. You were so… Passionate. It was hard not to find passion attractive. "Need I remind you that this is also the season with Boom Town," Spencer countered back, a slightly smug tone about his voice. "There is nothing inherently wrong with Boom Town. That is just a weak episode in a series of great episodes," You protested. Spencer just chuckled and shook his head. "You," he began, pressing a kiss to your forehead before continuing, "Are incredibly stubborn." He couldn't complain though. He'd rather have an incredibly stubborn, Doctor Who loving partner than someone who looked at him weird whenever he went on about Weeping Angels or Cybermen. He felt like he found his twin flame.

The next morning, the two of you arrived at work like usual. To everyone else, the two of you seemed normal. Too normal. No ramblings about obscure books or foreign films. The two of you sat at your respective desks while Derek and Emily watched the two of you work, determined to figure out what was up. "They've been… Quiet," Emily murmured to Derek. "Almost too quiet," Derek agreed with a hum, "What do you reckon got into them?" Now they were going to have some fun. I mean, who didn't love a little workplace gossip? "Spencer spoilt a book they were reading?" Emily suggested. Derek considered it for a second. It was possible. With the number of books Spencer read, it was bound to happen at some point. "Possible," Derek mused, watching the two of you work with your heads down low.

The truth was far more simple. A stupid disagreement. It was nothing relationship changing, no shouting, just the two of you being petty. In a way, it was endearing. Neither one of you had to worry about the other cheating or have an argument about some major issues. No, it was just the two of you debating your favourite British show together.

Derek and Emily couldn't sit in suspense much longer, so they decided to approach Spencer about it. "Hey, kid, everything alright?" Derek asked, leaning against Spencer's desk, as he so often did. "Yeah, you've been a bit… Quiet this morning," Emily added, concern almost lacing her voice. Your coworkers cared about your relationship. It was sweet, it was innocent, it was endearing. So seeing the two of you so quiet was odd. "He's not alright. I mean, he's alright but not all right. He's wrong, for once, that's what I'm saying," you chirped up from your desk next to Spencer's. That earned you an eyebrow raise from your colleagues. A silent plea for you to continue to explain. "Pretty boy? Wrong? Now this is a story I want to hear," Derek pressed with his usual smirk. "He thinks that Nine isn't one of the best Doctors," you said with a small shrug. "He's not bad but come on, how many whovians start with Nine?" Spencer piped up to defend himself. Derek and Emily just exchanged looks at each other. So this was what it was about. At least they didn't have to worry about the office sweethearts breaking up. "I mean, you started with Ten. You didn't even start with Nine," Spencer pointed out. You didn't have an argument there. You let out a small huff which resulted in a small, victorious smirk on Spencer's lips. "We'll let you two lovebirds debate your shows in peace then," Derek said, giving Spencer a small pat on the back with a small smile before heading off with Emily.

"You know, even if you are wrong," Spencer started with a small smile, "I think the fact that you actually like Doctor Who and know what you're on about makes up for it." You couldn't help but laugh softly. It really was nice that you'd found someone who liked the same niches as you. "I am not wrong. Agree to disagree?" you offered. "I guess I can live with that," Spencer hummed, his smile turning into a soft smirk, "If you watch the Fourth Doctor with me as I continue to knit my scarf." "Deal," you nodded, looking forward to tonight that little bit more.

If you're reading this, hello! I really hope you enjoyed this. Criticism is welcome, and I hope you enjoyed the ramblings of this nerd

[imagineredwood]

Daddy Yandere Chibs with A? Number 3?

I have a HUNGER for Daddy!!!

Summary: Chibs has honored your foolish wishes for a separation for the last month, but you still haven't come to your senses yet, so it's time for Daddy to bring you back home; by any means necessary.

Warnings: ...it's a yandere drabble 🧍🏻‍♀️ So stalking, manipulation, what could be perceived as emotional abuse because of the manipulation. As always, these are just for fun, not to be taken as a healthy or safe relationship. No means no and turning up at someone's work when they don't want you to or anywhere they're at for that matter is creepy af in real life!! Also daddy kink. I wrote it with somewhat of a big age gap in mind but it doesn't have to be read like that 💕

Also just as a reminder, since dark content isn’t for everyone, I don’t use the regular tag lists for these, only specific taglist for those who want to read the darker content. I wouldn’t want to expose someone that didn’t want to read it. So if you DO want to be tagged, let me know

"You shouldn't be here. This is my workplace. I don't have time for this."

Chibs didn't flinch as you rejected him, his stance relaxed as he leaned against the wall of your breakroom. He'd been dying to see you. He'd given you the space you had asked for, knowing that of course that wasn't what you truly wanted. But he'd given it to you anyway. You would see soon enough that being apart from him wasn't actually what you wanted at all. Yet it was going on a month now, and he had decided that enough was enough.

So he'd ridden over to your job to get you back and now here you were, acting as if you were simply too busy to speak to the man who had loved and protected you these last few years.

"Oh course ya do, Lass. You're on break. You've got,"

He made a show of looking down at his watch and calculating.

"Got 24 minutes left of break, I reckon."

You swallowed dryly, realizing that he did have a point. You took your break at the same time every day. You'd used that break to talk to him on the phone most days. Of course, he would remember. So you tried a different tactic.

"How did you even get in here? It's employees only back here."

The Son nodded, eyes warm as they regarded you, a hint of playful ridicule there as well.

"I've lived in this town a long while, love. Longer than you. All I had to do was ask."

He pulled off the wall then, standing at his full height, taking each slow step one at a time.

"Everyone knows me here. Knows us. All that yellin' about me being so controlling, yet you didn't tell your work to keep me out?"

You gulped as he stalked toward you, eyes on you every second.

"Didn't put me on some kinda list? Didn't tell them that if they saw me to call the cops? None of that?"

You stared at him as your heart pounded in your chest. He wouldn't hurt you; never. But you wouldn't put it past him to somehow manipulate you and the situation into ending with you giving him another chance. All if would take is the feeling of his hands, warm and loving as they caressed you, and your resolve would fall apart. And he knew as much.

You took one more step back and bumped against the wall, the giant silver fridge blocking you on one side, and Chibs arm coming up to block the other. You whimpered, willing yourself to be strong as the scent of leather, cologne, and cigarette smoke flooded your senses. It all smelled just exactly as you remembered and you ached for him, the stone you'd fortified around your heart beginning to crumble.

"Even with all the arguments and disagreements, you know you've always been safest with me. Safe, and at home. You've proven your point. It's time for you to come home with Daddy now, yeah?"

You hesitated for a moment before your head was nodding slowly of its own volition. The Son clicked his teeth and offered you a smile then, eyes trailing down your front. He brought a ringed finger up and traced down the valley of your breasts, eyes raking over you how a lion would a gazelle. His voice was low when he spoke again.

"Twenty minutes left."

"Huh?"

The sentence threw you off, your break no longer on your mind as you looked at him.

"You've got twenty minutes left before they start looking for you, so I've got time. You look delicious. I won't stop until I've tasted every bite."

Dark fiction taglist 

@whitetxilwxlf @kikijackson-blog @ben-c-group-therapy @ravennaortiz @mama-mischief

[mariacallous]

Kevin Lee’s father used to grunt in affirmation if someone asked if Lee was a girl. He did the same if someone asked if Lee was a boy. Growing up in the 1980s in Guiyang in southwestern China, Lee was relatively withdrawn, in part because he didn’t know what gender he was. He was less sensitive than the girls, he said. But he looked different than the boys.

Lee came out to his parents when they asked him about dating. He said he wasn’t interested in dating men and that he saw himself as male. They said “OK” and ignored the issue. Their response, Lee said, felt like being shoved back inside the closet.

It’s not uncommon for transgender people to get a negative reaction from their parents when they come out. But parental support is particularly crucial in China, where trans people need parental consent to undergo gender-affirming surgery and change their legal gender—even as adults. (If their parents are deceased, trans people must prove that to authorities.) These hurdles often make it harder for trans people to obtain care.

Lee, who wanted to pursue the surgery, said he considered the consent requirement an effort to prevent parents from seeking legal or physical retribution against doctors. “They’ll make a scene,” he said of parents who may not support their child’s decision to undergo surgery. “There will be family members taking out knives to kill doctors. It will become a social issue.”

That was one of the reasons Lee didn’t pursue gender-affirming surgery in China. “My mom is conservative,” he said. Though consent forms can be forged, he didn’t want her to go after the doctor who helped him.

In China, the need to obtain parental consent for gender-affirming care forces families to resolve their differences about the procedure ahead of time, dealing with drama or disagreements inside the family. According to Cherry, an LGBTQ+ organization worker, who requested the use of a pseudonym to protect their safety, the requirement exists to avoid parents causing a stir at the hospital.

It is also the product of a Confucian and patriarchal way of organizing society, Cherry said. For instance, police who want to put pressure on young queer activists often visit their parents’ workplaces and out them—so that the target has to deal with the ensuing family drama. “The person is managed through the family so they don’t become a problem in the public domain,” Cherry said.

The first gender-affirming procedure in China was carried out in 1983. The process entered the mainstream consciousness when Jin Xing, a famous dancer and TV presenter, recorded her surgery in a documentary released in 2000. Her father, a military officer, gave her his unconditional support. He even went to the local police station and demanded that they give Jin Xing a new ID card that reflected her gender.

That kind of parental support is rare. A 2021 report by the Beijing LGBT+ Center, which was shut down in 2023, found that only 3.2 percent of fathers and 5.9 percent of mothers in China “completely supported” their children after they came out as transgender.

Some conservative parents who do not accept their children’s gender identities send them to conversion therapy. A trans woman successfully sued a hospital last year for being subjected to electroshock therapy and being held against her will for three months. “People making policies lived through the Cultural Revolution,” Cherry said. “There’s a fear of not being the same,” they said, referring to the great emphasis placed on collectivism during that time.

Xiaoma, who grew up in the small city of Huzhou in southeastern China and requested a pseudonym to protect her privacy, recalled that before the internet reached her town, her first encounter with trans culture came from tabloids sold by street vendors, which told sensationalist stories about trans people. In phone directories, she saw advertisements for gender-affirming operations alongside those for double eyelids and breast augmentations. When she came out to her parents and told them she wanted to get gender-affirming surgery, “there was crying, there was arguing,” she said.

“There is a saying: Your body, your hair, your skin is from your parents,” said a doctor working in fertility who spoke on the condition of anonymity because she was not authorized to talk to media. Ties between generations are close: “Most parents will think you’re always their child and that they have authority over you,” she said. To her knowledge, gender-affirming surgery is the only surgery undertaken by adults in China that legally requires parental consent. Other major or high-risk surgeries, such as heart surgery, often require a family member’s consent, but it can come from another direct relative or a spouse.

Xiaoma’s parents eventually acquiesced to her gender identity, even offering to help pay for a better doctor for gender-affirming surgery than she could afford on her own. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to ask for their consent. “Acceptance is one thing. Asking them to sign a consent form is another,” she said, since it would require that they actively support her decision rather than simply tolerate it. Xiaoma instead traveled to Thailand, where she could get the surgery without asking for anyone’s approval.

The barrier posed by parental consent has led to the growth of a gray industry of illegal surgeries and hormone replacement drugs in China. People exploring their sexuality and gender identity often turn to sources outside the public medical system for guidance.

When Lee was looking into gender-affirming surgery, he turned to the online forum Baidu Tieba, which is similar to Reddit. He reached out to people posting about which hormone replacement drugs worked and which did not and bought the drugs they recommended. He joined a group organized by drug sellers on the social media platform QQ, where the group’s 1,500-plus members could purchase the drugs.

After taking the medicine, Lee felt strange, and his periods got heavier. When he complained about these side effects, the drug sellers pushed him to get surgery. They told them that unless he did, he’d still be a woman. He believed everything they said. “To put it nicely,” Lee said, “they brainwashed me.”

Lee flew to Shanghai to visit the hospital where these sellers worked; he said he saw them sell the same medicine directly to another patient, a 16-year-old boy, in exchange for cash—far from standard procedure in Chinese public hospitals. Lee left and took a walk along the city’s waterfront, processing what he had seen. He turned it over in his mind. Something felt wrong.

Lee sent the hormone replacement drugs that he bought to a lab for testing. The results revealed that they were substandard anabolic steroids made from a mix of veterinary drugs. “It’s like they sold me an iPhone but just a shell,” he said. “I didn’t know what brand of battery they replaced it with, and it could explode.” When Lee applied to study abroad in Australia, he didn’t initially pass the health tests required to obtain a visa because the drugs had affected his liver and kidneys. “I was responsible for my own ignorance,” he said.

There have been some victories for China’s trans community over the past decade, such as winning a landmark work discrimination case in 2016. But it is still very difficult for trans people to change their gender on the education certificates often required by employers, which in effect outs them. Public medical insurance doesn’t cover hormone replacement therapy and gender-affirming surgery.

In 2022, China released regulations that lowered the minimum age for gender-affirming surgery from 20 to 18 and removed a requirement that people undergo a year of psychiatric treatment before surgery. It also lowered the threshold for changing official ID documents: Though the Chinese government used to require that individuals had undergone full reconstruction of their sex organs, a person can now apply for a new ID after having their reproductive organs removed—a less complex surgery that nevertheless carries medical risk.

However, those looking to change their IDs still face obstruction from local administrators, who are not always up to date on the regulations, slowing down the process.

“I was very willing to go for surgery” after reading the new regulations, Lee said. He chose to have gender-affirming surgery in Thailand rather than in China, in part because he did not want to push for his parents’ consent when he knew they did not approve of his decision. He also wanted to avoid causing them more pain. “I don’t want my parents to be gossiped about on the street,” Lee said. “My parents live in a small city where everyone knows each other.”

Lee flew to Bangkok and stayed in the hospital for four days. While he was undergoing surgery, he dreamed of Burger King. When he woke up, he had a hamburger and then vaped.

The ensuing paperwork did not go as smoothly. After returning to China, he started the process of changing his ID card in the island province of Hainan, where he previously lived and was registered as a resident. It was the start of a legal tug-of-war. The administrators asked him to prove that he was a man. He asked them to prove that he was a woman. They found reasons to delay the process, and he had to keep flying back and forth from Guizhou in southwestern China, where he currently lives.

At one point, Lee lost his temper and told the authorities that he would make a reel on Douyin, the mainland Chinese counterpart to TikTok, or talk to the media about his experience. He eventually received his new ID card.

Though China leaves a route open for trans people to pursue gender-affirming surgery, the government actively discourages open trans activism and advocacy. Under its current leadership, China has seen a rise in nationalist rhetoric and heightened distrust of foreign influence, leading to a crackdown on international funding for local organizations, which often rely on such support.

In 2016, the government passed the Overseas NGO Law, which made it more difficult for grassroots organizations to receive funding from international donors. Organizations such as Cherry’s, which received overseas funding before the law was passed, have had to shrink the scope of their work significantly.

Before 2016, Cherry and their colleagues used to go to schools and universities to talk about sexual diversity. They displayed the Pride flag openly and organized rainbow-themed runs and cycles.

The organization still helps transgender people who are looking into surgery, providing them with information on where to stay, which doctors are friendly, and which hospitals can provide the appropriate medicine. They also put on small-scale gatherings and carry out sexual disease prevention work.

But the organization must now report any gathering with more than 10 people to the police for approval, which is not a given. Ahead of dates the authorities consider politically sensitive, such as International Day Against Homophobia, Biphobia, and Transphobia or International Women’s Day, Cherry’s organization receives calls from the police checking that it will not hold any events, according to people who work there.

Advocating for the rights of sexual minorities and displaying symbols such as the Pride flag are increasingly considered by authorities as proof of foreign influence. “Anything involving the Pride flag is not allowed,” said Lotus, who works with Cherry and also asked to use a pseudonym for fear of political retribution.

“There are many voices telling us to shut up,” Lotus said. A lot of people online take the attitude “We respect you—just don’t speak out.” Though the comments are made by private individuals, that social media moderators do not delete them shows that the comments reflect an “official stance,” they said.

The main sources of funding for Lotus and Cherry’s organization are now state bodies, including the China’s Center for Disease Control and Prevention and the All-China Women’s Federation, which focus on AIDS prevention rather than trans advocacy. The organization can receive money from these bodies when their work aligns with that objective.

Lotus gestured to a jar near where we were sitting in their office, which contained a miniature Pride flag alongside China’s national flag. “If we only put the Pride flag, there would be a problem.”

Lee now runs his own company, selling prosthetics to trans people. He drives a bright orange electric vehicle that bears a sign saying, “I’m a straight guy.” Despite the red tape that he encountered in his transition, Lee told me that he considers China’s policies to be friendly toward trans people. He pointed to other countries such as North Korea, where transgender issues are not formally addressed in law, or Russia, where trans people are not permitted to change their legal gender. In Thailand, trans people cannot change their ID cards following surgery.

He acknowledged that many trans people were reluctant to acknowledge their past for fear of discrimination. He often fielded questions from other people in the trans community asking him how he dealt with showing his education certificates to employers. But since he is self-employed, he has not faced that issue.

Lee had little contact with his parents before his surgery, and that did not change after he returned to China from Thailand. When I spoke to him in January, he said he planned to travel over the Lunar New Year holiday to Xishuangbanna in southwestern China. I asked him if he planned to see his parents, and he said he might see his father, that they might even travel together. He didn’t think his mother would want to join them.