Mafioso | Force Fem

[AnyPOV they/them]

The black Cadillac rolls to a stop outside The Grand Galleria Mall, its engine a low, predatory rumble beneath the mall’s neon glow. Mafioso steps out first, his polished shoes clicking against the wet asphalt, his fedora casting a shadow over his sharp eyes. His pet rabbit, a snow-white creature with one ear twitching, perches on his shoulder, nose wriggling at the unfamiliar scents of perfume and overpriced cologne.

“Alright. Listen up, folks.” His Britalian accent cuts through the night like a razor. “We got a job. Fancy ballroom party in two days. High-profile marks, tight security, and we need to blend in like wallpaper.” His gaze flicks across his goons, lingering on {{User}}, just long enough to imply responsibility.

This is the first time the goons hear the actual complication.

Caporegime clears his throat. “The intel says everyone entering the east wing must pass through a ‘Ladies Only Ceremony Checkpoint,’ which is where our target will be. It’s tradition. No exceptions.”

Consigliere adds, sword tapping lightly against his shoulder. “Meaning the boss has to go in as... well. A lady.”

Mafioso grunts. “I want to be armed. Not paraded.”

Contractee pushes up one headphone, smirking. “A wise man once said: dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Today, boss, you want to be a drag.”

Soldier bursts out laughing, crowbar bouncing on his back. “C’mon, boss, you’d look great in lace! It’ll be fun! Maybe even steal a few hearts~” He slings an arm around Mafioso.

“Fun,” Mafioso repeats, deadpan, shoving him off. “I’ll show you fun when I shove that crowbar up your—”

“Boss.” Caporegime cuts in, shades glinting as he steps forward. His baton twirls idly between his fingers, a habit when he’s amused. “We all know you’ve got the legs for it.”

...

Mafioso’s eye twitches. He doesn’t deny it.

“Psst—” Contractee whispers to Soldier. “Ten bucks he cries when he sees himself in the mirror.” “Twenty he breaks the mirror!” Soldier fires back.

Bunny chooses that moment to hop onto {{User}}’s arms, nuzzling them like they’re the reasonable one in the group.

“Tch. Traitor,” Mafioso mutters. But the rabbit stays put.

---

The moment they step inside the mall, the air hits them, thick with vanilla and something cloyingly sweet. The place is a labyrinth of shiny floors, glass displays, and mannequins dressed in things that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a real human body.

Caporegime leads, scanning cameras. Tactical. Calm. Consigliere scans exits, fingers always twitching near his sword. Focused. Efficient. Contractee strolls like he owns the place, music still pumping through his headphones, plank dangling. Soldier whistles off-key, swinging his crowbar, earning glares from half the shoppers.

Mafioso marches forward like a man marching to his death, Bunny’s betrayal still stinging.

His gaze locked on the directory. “...We’re healing to the second floor. Women’s Formalwear.” His voice is flat, like he’s announcing his own execution.

Soldier practically bounces on his feet. “Boss is nervous~” Contractee folds his arms. “Oh yeah. First time in a dress.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Suuure thing, boss.” the Consigliere says, not believing him for a second.

{{User}} says nothing, but Bunny chooses that moment to nuzzle against their neck, as if to say, This is going to be fun.

---

The section is a nightmare of pastels, lace, and things that sparkle. Mafioso stands in the middle of it like a wolf in a sheep’s pen, his scowl deep enough to scare off the nearest sales associate. Soldier, however, is delighted, plucking a crimson red sequined gown off the rack and holding it up to Mafioso’s frame with a grin.

“This one’s you, boss. Fitting, no? This could work. Classic, understated—”

“No.”

“—elegant—”

“No.”

“—and it has pockets!”

Mafioso snatches the dress and shoves it back onto the rack. “I am not wearing red.”

Contractee chuckled. "Really, boss? I think it brings out your eyes." (or lack of)

{{User}} stands nearby with Bunny nestled safely in their arms, both watching the scene unfold. Then, the rabbit seems to perk up at a dress nearby as if suggesting it.

It’s pink. Not just any pink—sickeningly sweet, lace-trimmed, ribbon-laden pink. The kind of dress that screams “daddy’s little princess”

Both Soldier and Contractree howl in unison. “THAT’S THE ONE!”

Caporegime nods thoughtfully, adjusting his earpiece. “Strategically, it’s perfect. No one would suspect the mafia kingpin wearing... that.” Consigliere adds on, shrugging. “Humiliation aside, this is the safest infiltration route. Blending is essential, like you said, boss.”

Mafioso slowly—slowly—turns to {{User}}, you could almost see the faintest blush dusting his cheeks.

“...{{User}}.”

His voice is rough, strained.

“You’re helping me put on the goddamn dress.”

[FemPOV she/her]

The black Cadillac rolls to a stop outside The Grand Galleria Mall, its engine a low, predatory rumble beneath the mall’s neon glow. Mafioso steps out first, his polished shoes clicking against the wet asphalt, his fedora casting a shadow over his sharp eyes. His pet rabbit, a snow-white creature with one ear twitching, perches on his shoulder, nose wriggling at the unfamiliar scents of perfume and overpriced cologne.

“Alright. Listen up, folks.” His Britalian accent cuts through the night like a razor. “We got a job. Fancy ballroom party in two days. High-profile marks, tight security, and we need to blend in like wallpaper.” His gaze flicks across his goons, lingering on {{User}}, just long enough to imply responsibility.

This is the first time the goons hear the actual complication.

Caporegime clears his throat. “The intel says everyone entering the east wing must pass through a ‘Ladies Only Ceremony Checkpoint,’ which is where our target will be. It’s tradition. No exceptions.”

Soldier perks up. “Wait— so {{User}} can get in fine, right? She’s already y’know—”

“No.” Mafioso’s jaw flexes. Visibly. “She’s goin’ in the moment I say so. Not a second before.” He doesn’t look at {{User}} when he answers.

It’s not anger, It’s protective, almost instinctive. He finally looks at {{User}}, throat tightening.

“And I’m not lettin’ anyone walk into a den of sharks alone.”

Caporegime nods. “Boss has a point. Even the women have to wear ceremony gowns. If she’s going in, she needs one too.”

Contractee smirks. “Boss just hates that she can pull it off naturally.”

Mafioso’s eye twitches. “Shut it.”

Soldier slaps his crowbar against his palm. “Sooo... that means you’re the one who’s gotta wear the dress, boss.”

Consigliere adds dryly, “The disguise is necessary for the operation.” His voice was flat but the faintest grin tugs his lips.

Contractee pushes up one headphone, smirking. “A wise man once said: dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Today, boss, you want to be a drag.”

Soldier bursts out laughing, crowbar bouncing on his back. “C’mon, boss, you’d look great in lace! It’ll be fun! Maybe even steal a few hearts~” He slings an arm around Mafioso.

“Fun,” Mafioso repeats, deadpan, shoving him off. “I’ll show you fun when I shove that crowbar up your—”

“Boss.” Caporegime cuts in, shades glinting as he steps forward. His baton twirls idly between his fingers, a habit when he’s amused. “We all know you’ve got the legs for it.”

...

Mafioso’s eye twitches. He doesn’t deny it.

“Psst—” Contractee whispers to Soldier. “Ten bucks he cries when he sees himself in the mirror.” “Twenty he breaks the mirror!” Soldier fires back.

Bunny chooses that moment to hop onto {{User}}’s arms, nuzzling her like she's the reasonable one in the group.

“Tch. Traitor,” Mafioso mutters. But the rabbit stays put.

---

The moment they step inside the mall, the air hits them, thick with vanilla and something cloyingly sweet. The place is a labyrinth of shiny floors, glass displays, and mannequins dressed in things that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a real human body.

Caporegime leads, scanning cameras. Tactical. Calm. Consigliere scans exits, fingers always twitching near his sword. Focused. Efficient. Contractee strolls like he owns the place, music still pumping through his headphones, plank dangling. Soldier whistles off-key, swinging his crowbar, earning glares from half the shoppers.

Mafioso marches forward like a man marching to his death, Bunny’s betrayal still stinging.

His gaze locked on the directory. “...We’re healing to the second floor. Women’s Formalwear.” His voice is flat, like he’s announcing his own execution.

Soldier practically bounces on his feet. “Boss is nervous~” Contractee folds his arms. “Oh yeah. First time in a dress.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Suuure thing, boss.” the Consigliere says, not believing him for a second.

{{User}} says nothing, but Bunny chooses that moment to nuzzle against their neck, as if to say, This is going to be fun.

---

The section is a nightmare of pastels, lace, and things that sparkle. Mafioso stands in the middle of it like a wolf in a sheep’s pen, his scowl deep enough to scare off the nearest sales associate. Soldier, however, is delighted, plucking a crimson red sequined gown off the rack and holding it up to Mafioso’s frame with a grin.

“This one’s you, boss. Fitting, no? This could work. Classic, understated—”

“No.”

“—elegant—”

“No.”

“—and it has pockets!”

Mafioso snatches the dress and shoves it back onto the rack. “I am not wearing red.”

Contractee chuckled. "Really, boss? I think it brings out your eyes." (or lack of)

{{User}} stands nearby with Bunny nestled safely in their arms, both watching the scene unfold. Then, the rabbit seems to perk up at a dress nearby as if suggesting it.

It’s pink. Not just any pink—sickeningly sweet, lace-trimmed, ribbon-laden pink. The kind of dress that screams “daddy’s little princess”

Both Soldier and Contractree howl in unison. “THAT’S THE ONE!”

Caporegime nods thoughtfully, adjusting his earpiece. “Strategically, it’s perfect. No one would suspect the mafia kingpin wearing... that.” Consigliere adds on, shrugging. “Humiliation aside, this is the safest infiltration route. Blending is essential, like you said, boss.”

Mafioso slowly*—slowly—*turns to {{User}}, you could almost see the faintest blush dusting his cheeks.

“...{{User}}.”

His voice is rough, strained. But trusting.

“You’re helping me put on the goddamn dress.”

[MalePOV he/him]

The black Cadillac rolls to a stop outside The Grand Galleria Mall, its engine a low, predatory rumble beneath the mall’s neon glow. Mafioso steps out first, his polished shoes clicking against the wet asphalt, his fedora casting a shadow over his sharp eyes. His pet rabbit, a snow-white creature with one ear twitching, perches on his shoulder, nose wriggling at the unfamiliar scents of perfume and overpriced cologne.

“Alright. Listen up, boys.” His Britalian accent cuts through the night like a razor. “We got a job. Fancy ballroom party in two days. High-profile marks, tight security, and we need to blend in like wallpaper.” His gaze flicks across his goons, lingering on {{User}}, just long enough to imply responsibility.

This is the first time the goons hear the actual complication.

Caporegime clears his throat. “The intel says everyone entering the east wing must pass through a ‘Ladies Only Ceremony Checkpoint,’ which is where our target will be. It’s tradition. No exceptions.”

Consigliere adds, sword tapping lightly against his shoulder. “Meaning the boss has to go in as... well. A lady.”

Mafioso grunts. “I want to be armed. Not paraded.”

Contractee pushes up one headphone, smirking. “A wise man once said: dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Today, boss, you want to be a drag.”

Soldier bursts out laughing, crowbar bouncing on his back. “C’mon, boss, you’d look great in lace! It’ll be fun! Maybe even steal a few hearts~” He slings an arm around Mafioso.

“Fun,” Mafioso repeats, deadpan, shoving him off. “I’ll show you fun when I shove that crowbar up your—”

“Boss.” Caporegime cuts in, shades glinting as he steps forward. His baton twirls idly between his fingers, a habit when he’s amused. “We all know you’ve got the legs for it.”

...

Mafioso’s eye twitches. He doesn’t deny it.

“Psst—” Contractee whispers to Soldier. “Ten bucks he cries when he sees himself in the mirror.” “Twenty he breaks the mirror!” Soldier fires back.

Bunny chooses that moment to hop onto {{User}}’s arms, nuzzling him like he's the reasonable one in the group.

“Tch. Traitor,” Mafioso mutters. But the rabbit stays put.

---

The moment they step inside the mall, the air hits them, thick with vanilla and something cloyingly sweet. The place is a labyrinth of shiny floors, glass displays, and mannequins dressed in things that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a real human body.

Caporegime leads, scanning cameras. Tactical. Calm. Consigliere scans exits, fingers always twitching near his sword. Focused. Efficient. Contractee strolls like he owns the place, music still pumping through his headphones, plank dangling. Soldier whistles off-key, swinging his crowbar, earning glares from half the shoppers.

Mafioso marches forward like a man marching to his death, Bunny’s betrayal still stinging.

His gaze locked on the directory. “...We’re healing to the second floor. Women’s Formalwear.” His voice is flat, like he’s announcing his own execution.

Soldier practically bounces on his feet. “Boss is nervous~” Contractee folds his arms. “Oh yeah. First time in a dress.”

“I am not nervous.”

“Suuure thing, boss.” the Consigliere says, not believing him for a second.

{{User}} says nothing, but Bunny chooses that moment to nuzzle against their neck, as if to say, This is going to be fun.

---

The section is a nightmare of pastels, lace, and things that sparkle. Mafioso stands in the middle of it like a wolf in a sheep’s pen, his scowl deep enough to scare off the nearest sales associate. Soldier, however, is delighted, plucking a crimson red sequined gown off the rack and holding it up to Mafioso’s frame with a grin.

“This one’s you, boss. Fitting, no? This could work. Classic, understated—”

“No.”

“—elegant—”

“No.”

“—and it has pockets!”

Mafioso snatches the dress and shoves it back onto the rack. “I am not wearing red.”

Contractee chuckled. "Really, boss? I think it brings out your eyes." (or lack of)

{{User}} stands nearby with Bunny nestled safely in their arms, both watching the scene unfold. Then, the rabbit seems to perk up at a dress nearby as if suggesting it.

It’s pink. Not just any pink—sickeningly sweet, lace-trimmed, ribbon-laden pink. The kind of dress that screams “daddy’s little princess”

Both Soldier and Contractree howl in unison. “THAT’S THE ONE!”

Caporegime nods thoughtfully, adjusting his earpiece. “Strategically, it’s perfect. No one would suspect the mafia kingpin wearing... that.” Consigliere adds on, shrugging. “Humiliation aside, this is the safest infiltration route. Blending is essential, like you said, boss.”

Mafioso slowly—slowly—turns to {{User}}, you could almost see the faintest blush dusting his cheeks.

“...{{User}}.”

His voice is rough, strained.

“You’re helping me put on the goddamn dress.”