#I've gone through the tag on ao3

[sophaeros]

what do you mean i tripped into mcr bandom and got attached to frikey only to find out that theyre unpopular 😐

[altruistic-meme]

just discovered i have blocked a user on ao3 and couldn't for the life of me remember why only to find out i ALSO blocked them on tumblr :')

[youremyonlyhope]

6am and still awake... yay

[megwritesriddles]

Line of Fire ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Sebastian (Stardew Valley) x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 13 - Accidental stimulation. It's Friday night and the Saloon is busier than normal, Sebastian can't seem to keep his eyes off of Reader as she plays pool. He comes to offer his assistance and is left flustered, and now she has to sit in his lap...

Tags: Accidental stimulation, Dry humping/Grinding, Clothed sex, Semi-public sex, Coming in pants, Against a wall, Teasing, Friends to lovers.

Word count: 3.2k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: It's finally here!! Sorry I'm falling a bit behind on my kinktober but as soon as I have time to catch up I will, I've just been a little sick lately :(!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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Friday night, Saloon night. Almost everyone in town was at the saloon tonight, more so than usual, as drinks were half-price tonight. You were in the little separate room off the main bar area, the one with the pool table, with your friends. This was quite standard for your little friend group, Abigail, Sam, Sebastian and you. You did this every Friday, rain or shine, but the amount of people there with you wasn’t usually this high. There were only so many places to sit. Sebastian was glad he’d been able to snag one of the chairs for himself, sitting comfortably as he watched you play pool against Sam. Abigail sat on his side, having a chat with some of the other residents of the town who were all gathered around watching the game and talking. He smiled subtly as he saw your flustered look, so many eyes on you as you tried to play your usual game against Sam. The room was filled with the hum of slightly tipsy conversation and normally Sebastian might have gone back home by now, not a fan of the noise levels, but you’re wearing such a tight skirt and bending over in his view so… how can he? He watches you line up shot after shot, a little shaky from all the eyes on you. He’s sure it doesn’t help that Alex is loudly rooting against you and for Sam. Sam has tried to get him to quiet down a few times, but Sebastian can tell he really likes the attention, even coming at your expense. On a normal Friday, you would be demolishing Sam, but he can tell your confidence is shaken. He feels for you, deeply, he knows what it’s like, especially as you still feel out of place in town. 

“Don’t you dare let anyone steal my seat,” he hisses in Abigail’s ear as he stands. She gives him a quick nod and returns to chatting with Haley, he’s never seen them get along before… He stands just beside you as Sam lines up a shot. You turn to him and flash him an awkward smile. 

“Need help?” he whispers softly. You watch Sam’s ball knock another into a pocket and sigh.

“Normally I’d kick your ass for even suggesting it but… yeah…” you admit, chewing your lip. He imagines how it would feel between his own teeth. “I can’t get my damn hands to stop shaking,” you whisper into his ear as Alex cheers and pats Sam on the back. “I feel like everyone is watching me,” 

“Well… everyone is watching you,” he comments dryly and then laughs when you smack his arm. “Okay, okay, I’ll line up your next shot yeah?” he offers, his breath tickling your ear, making you squirm and him chuckle. He watches you bend over the table and try to set up a shot with trembling hands, his eyes skimming the curve of your back down to your ass for a second. Then he moves behind you and leans over to take hold of your cue. He didn’t think this through and immediately realises what a bad idea this was when his chest presses against your back. He tries to pretend he feels normal about this, about the fact his hips are about an inch from your ass, about how the smell of your perfume is suddenly all around him. He swallows as subtly as he can, knowing he’s right by your ear and lines up your shot, fighting to not let his own hands start shaking. Sam and Alex protest loudly from across the table.

“That’s cheating!” Sam whines.

“You can have Alex line up your shot, I don’t mind,” you grin, your eyes flickering up to meet Sam’s challengingly. Sam chuckles nervously. The comment stirs something in Sebastian, your implication in what you’ve said to Sam is clear and glaring. That if Alex was to line up his shot, it would be in some way… flirtatious? Suggestive? So what did it make him lining up your shot? You shift under him, moving to more comfortably angle the cue where he’s shown you and Sebastian momentarily tenses. Your ass brushes against him through his jeans. He doesn’t spot you reacting. Did you do it on purpose? Or did you not even notice? He backs off, standing upright for you to take your shot. He stares at the curve of your ass, fighting against the temptation to grab ahold of your hips and press you against the table and grind on you from behind. That little brush had felt amazing, much more intense than it probably should have, aided by him having already been stirring from watching your ass all night as well as his thoughts just now. He doesn’t even mind the looks he gets from Alex and Sam as he clearly ogles your ass. You make the shot and shoot up, clapping excitedly.

“Yeah, yeah, but Sebastian can’t help you anymore, you have to win on your own merits,” Sam asserts, shooting you both a look. Sebastian shrugs.

“Good luck, don’t get so in your head,” he whispers to you, before returning to his (thankfully still empty despite Abigail’s clear lack of focus) seat. It’s ironic, because he’s entirely in his head, trying to figure out what to make of all that. Surely you hadn’t brushed against him like that on purpose? Why would you have? Especially as you hadn’t seemed to stop to spot any sort of reaction from him. It was an accident, he concludes, a very exciting accident. You’d really felt good against him, soft and full, perfect just like you looked. He continued to watch your game intensely, his eyes straying downwards periodically. You seem calmer and less shaky now, and you’re playing better, even with Alex still there being obnoxious. Sebastian feels bad, clearly, his presence and assistance had calmed you down, but he was being a complete perv about it. He kept his eyes fixed on your shoulders and above from then on. 

You win the game despite the less-than-promising start and gloat in the boys' faces. Alex seems more put out than Sam is, despite not having been the one playing, grumbling and frowning at you. Sam challenges Penny to a game, who accepts, despite not being too familiar with the game. You hand over the cue and whisper a few tips to her, telling her to destroy Sam in a playful tone. Sebastian smiles at you fondly. You come over to where he and Abigail are sitting and pout. 

“Where can I sit?” Sebastian glances around and realises that indeed, there don’t seem to be any free spaces to sit, even the place Penny was just sitting across the room has been filled by Alex, sitting down for a drink break. It’s never been this busy in the games room before and he wonders if watching people play pool can really be this interesting to this many people.

“Sit in his lap,” Abigail suggests with a grin. Sebastian shoots her a look. Abigail is the only person who knows about his feelings for you. Sure, Sam has caught him looking at you a fair few times, but he likely chalks that up to simple lust. A lot of it is lust, it’s impossible for it not to be when you’re as attractive as you are, but he really does like you. He might even love you, but he doesn’t know how to start unpacking that when you don’t even know he likes you. He’d told Abigail because, after seeing his eyes straying a few times, she had insisted on starting to ask questions rather than just to leave it alone. He doesn’t know how to handle it when you shrug and sit yourself sideways across his lap, your thigh frightfully close to the bulge in his jeans. One of his hands flies onto your leg, just above your knee, to steady you. He swallows, surprised by the casualness of your body language given the situation. You act like sitting in his lap means absolutely nothing. He realises with a mental curse that it probably doesn’t, you’re friends, and he’s the one reading too much into it and assigning it unnecessary meaning. He feels like a perv all over again. You watch the game of pool, swinging your legs softly, oblivious to the silent conversation between Sebastian and Abigail.

They communicate through looks. Sebastian is furious that Abigail suggested this to you, even if it feels good. Abigail is just amused and tries to silently tell him that you clearly don’t mind sitting there. His fingers tense and release on your leg, wondering desperately what you might be thinking right now. His hand slides a little up your leg, just enough that there’s still plausible deniability if you question him about it, but you don’t react, your feet still softly bumping against his calf as you swing them. He enjoys the feel of your skin under his hand, soft and warm. He’s unsure if he’ll ever be granted an opportunity like this again, with everyone around you drunk enough they won’t recall seeing this in the morning,  so he sneaks his hand just a little higher up your outer thigh. Once again, you don’t react, although he thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile on your lips.

You suddenly shift in his lap, turning yourself to face forward toward the pool table. He inhales sharply and presses his lips into a thin line. Your ass is right on his erection, oddly, not for the first time tonight. He tries furiously to will it not to grow as you shout across the room at Penny, trying to give her advice on the game. You wiggle in his lap inadvertently, trying to demonstrate over the hum of conversation to poor Penny how she should position herself. He takes shaky shallow breaths behind you as you wriggle against his ever-hardening cock. By now, you must have noticed, or at least you will when you stop writhing in his lap. He’s unsure what to do, mortification setting in and his cheeks going pink. In a last-ditch effort, he places his hands on your waist and tries to gently urge you to stand. You finally stop wriggling and turn back to look at him in confusion. He sees on your face the moment you put it all together, his flushed cheeks, the hardness pressing against your backside, him trying to move you off of him. He braces himself for your anger. Yet it doesn’t come. You look shocked for a little while, but then you smile mischievously. 

“Is that what I think it is?” you lean back to whisper in his ear, your back against his chest. His hands thoughtlessly slide around your waist to hold you there.

“Yeah,” he exhales, seeing no way to deny it when it’s so painfully obvious. He’s relieved to hear you giggle softly. 

“Sebastian! I didn’t know you liked me like that!” you tease, wriggling again, making his eyes flutter. He groans softly, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Shut up…” his voice is too weak to be convincing, not that he’s ever actually wanted you to shut up a day in his life. You just laugh again and continue wriggling against him. He can’t believe this is happening, that you’re doing this, knowing how he’s reacting to it. He tightens his arms around you to force you to stop moving. As much as he loves the feeling, there are way too many people around, and, more than anything, Abigail could turn away from her conversation with Haley any moment and he’d never hear the end of it. “I need to go to the bathroom,” he grumbles in your ear. “Come with?” he adds with a surge of confidence when you clearly seemed disappointed for this to be stopping. 

“Hmm, yeah, I need the bathroom too,” you chuckle and he chuckles too. You subtly grasp his hand and feel it flex under your touch. Your hand fits perfectly in his. You try your best to remain in front of him as you leave the room, protecting him from the gazes of the others in the room. Luckily, no one is paying much attention anyway. You guide him to the storeroom instead, turning to face him. He searches your eyes.

“Come here…” he urges gently, his hands coming back to your waist and squeezing gently.  You reach forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him desperately against your lips. He kisses back with just as much fervour, pressing himself against you, walking you back until your back is against the wall. His hand skims down to the curve of your hip, grabbing greedily. Your lips mould together, pressing and sucking, full of the need you have for one another, suppressed since the day you met. Your hands come up to rake through his jet-black hair, tugging gently and making him groan against your lips. He kisses harder in return, exhaling harshly through his nose. His hands are all over you, memorising your shape for later use. One hand slides onto your back under your shirt, his cool hand against your overheated skin. The other smooths up and down the arch of your hip. “So perfect,” he praises you. “Feel as perfect as you look,” his lips push harder against yours. His tongue presses itself into your mouth, exploring with clear excitement, swirling softly against yours. The kiss becomes open-mouthed and needy, drawing noises from the both of you. Your hands slide down his chest, tugging down the zip of his hoodie. He shrugs it off clumsily, too focused on getting back to you. It hits the floor with a soft thud and his hands return to your body. You map out his slender frame with your hands, making him shiver as you trace your fingertips across his abdomen. You spot him twitching in his jeans and smirk to yourself.

“When did you get hard?” you ask teasingly as his lips venture down your jaw and to your neck. You rest your head back against the wall and moan softly as he gently sucks on a few spots.

“I’ve basically been hard all night, your stupid little skirt,” he growls, carefully sucking on your pulse point, not thinking about the consequences of leaving marks on you. You chuckle, amused that you’d been torturing him all night without even realising it, he smiles against your skin, loving the way you vibrate with your laughter. 

“You like it?” you tease. He looks up at you with a soft grin, kissing down to your collarbones. 

“Yes, I like it, babe,” he nips the skin at your collarbone gently, making you sigh. He pecks his way back up to your lips once more, kissing you deeply and pressing you harder against the wall. Your head tilts to deepen it, tugging at his hair once more, which he seems to enjoy. His hand slides down your body once more, grabbing your hip for a moment before lifting your thigh and wrapping your leg around his hip, the movement causing your skirt to ride up to the tops of your thighs. You both gasp as his aching hardness presses against your clothed core. He growls against your lips, starting to softly rock his hips. You hold onto his hair, panting between feverish presses of your lips. He slides your skirt even further up, pressing as close as he can to you without removing any clothing fully. Sure, this was a compromising position that you could be caught in any minute, but being caught in some state of undress too would be infinitely more embarrassing. He grinds slowly against you, nipping at your bottom lip. You arch and squirm, feeling his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your thigh. He adjusts himself against you until he’s rocking perfectly to stimulate your clit with his aching bulge. He wishes desperately that he could do more, but he knows he can’t. “Your place after this?” he pants against your lips. 

“Yeah, definitely,” you respond breathily, using your leg to try and pull him impossibly closer. He starts to rut against you faster, twitching needily in his jeans, the rough fabric providing a delicious layer of extra friction.

“Can’t wait to fuck you later, feel you around my cock,” he groans, placing sloppy kisses across your jaw. You moan, bucking your hips against his. “Yeah? Want me to fill you? Make you feel good? I’ll make you feel so good, I’ll fuck you all night,” he promises hoarsely, his hips rutting furiously against yours. He wraps his arm around your back, bracing you in place, his other hand still tightly gripping your thigh, nails digging into your skin. You feel a knot tightening in the pit of your stomach, making you whimper and hold him tighter. “You close?” he asks breathlessly, to which you can only nod, not trusting the volume of your voice if you were to open your mouth. “Me too,” he chuckles, pressing himself even harder against you. You flutter your eyes open to look at him, his eyes gleaming in the dim light, pupils blown wide as he stares at you, lips pink and parted with soft groans. He grinds deeper, pressing against you hard, his hips starting to falter a little. He’s so worked up, and watching as you tilt your head back against the wall and moan loudly, still staring into his eyes, undoes him entirely. He ducks his head down against your shoulder, gently biting down to muffle his choked groans as he pulses in his jeans, coming embarrassingly hard, gasping for breath and letting his eyes close. He feels you still gyrating your hips against him and he helps guide your hips as he comes down from his high. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “Come on, let go, babe,” he encourages softly. With a couple more shaky rocks of your hips, you still and cry out in pleasure as the knot finally snaps with a wave of pure heaven. He clamps a hand over your mouth, shushing you gently as you ride it out. You whine against his palm, feeling the warm haze of pleasure settling over you, your body tingling with a pleasant buzz. He presses a firm kiss to your cheek before slipping his hand off of your mouth. You can only hope no one heard you, based on the consistent buzz of conversation down the hall, you’re probably safe. You smile at each other, a little dazed. This was certainly new.

“So… my place?” you suggest playfully, lowering your leg from his hip, your skirt sliding down a little with it. He smiles, squeezing your waist once more. 

“Definitely,” he chuckles, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips which you happily return. “But I need to go to the bathroom first,” he hums, kissing one of the marks he’s left on your neck.

“For real this time?” you tease, running your fingers through his mussed-up hair. He smiles against your skin.

“I kind of have a mess to clean up,” he grins teasingly. “And it’s all your fault,”

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xoxoxo

[venusbyline]

Pretending ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 25, oct.

(late post)

— pairing: Aaron Hotchner x love affair!reader

— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: deepthroating

— summary: Hotch is trying to teach you a new blowjob method, but things are not that easy when you are still sexually inexperienced.

— word count: 1.0k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 25th day, female!reader, intern!reader, rough!Hotch (BUT NOT REALLY), soft!Hotch, deepthroating, rough oral sex (male receiving), mild dubcon, degradation, aftercare, accidental orgasm denial, praise kink, curse words, mild verbal humiliation, mild dumbification, corruption kink, cooking, dacryphilia, crying, college student!reader, married!Hotch, age gap (older man/younger woman), BAU member!reader, jealous!Hotch, gagging reflex, sex gone wrong, fluff, inexperienced/innocent!reader, secret relationship, cheating, referenced infidelity, minor Aaron Hotchner x Haley Hotchner, implied Derek Morgan x reader, implied Spencer Reid x reader, bittersweet ending, dom!Hotch, sub! reader, porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

— crossposting: AO3

"Watch your damn teeth, girl. I've already warned you once and you can be sure I won't even warn you if there's a third." Hotch growled as your beautiful eyes filled with tears at the feeling of his cock pushing its way into your mouth.

Your jaw felt like it was going to rip in half, wide enough so that your teeth would not scrape painfully against Hotch's sensitive skin. Your body was lying on your back on the bed, which was quite high and made the position easier for the new experience. Your head tilted back as Hotch was right there, trying to take his length in carefully. He knew it was not a very comfortable position for either of you and it would probably be difficult for you to deepthroating him like that, but he was interested enough to see the shape of his cock highlighted inside your delicate throat.

"F-fuck... Your little mouth's even tighter." His muffled moan echoed through your room when he pushed deeper, taking advantage of the new angle to hit the head of his cock in the back of your throat, causing you to suddenly gag. Your eyes widened and tried to move back down, but Hotch grabbed your neck, keeping you in place and taking the opportunity to squeeze the bulge that became clear as he continued thrusting, fucking your throat. You whimpered around Hotch's cock, filling him with goosebumps from the vibrations your lips made when you tried to explain explain with gestures about how this was already too much. "We've barely even started and you're already acting like a crybaby whore?"

A few minutes passed and every time Hotch was getting close to cumming, you gagged around him and tried to pull out.

"FUCK! What the hell, girl?" When Hotch saw you were starting to sob and cry hopelessly, he growled and pulled his cock out, watching you stand up and start coughing, your lungs thanking the world for the return of air. However, all it took was for your sad eyes to turn to Hotch for him to sigh, putting his black boxers back on and sitting on the bed, pulling you to snuggle into his chest, hearing you crying softly and feeling how your tears soaked his skin during the hug. You could not say anything coherent, but Hotch knew very well that you were feeling bad about not being able to give him a good deepthroat. "It's okay, darling. It's not a big deal, it was just a stupid kink that I wanted to try out with you. I was really so fucking horny and I took it out on you by being rude. I'm so sorry, little girl."

You shook your head, pouting your lips. "I-It's not a stupid kink, Sir. Any men likes deepthroating." You muttered with a frown. He was about to tell you to stop calling him by the name you always used within the BAU, when he was pretending to be just an agent mentoring a dedicated intern, but something caught his attention.

"Yeah? And since when do you know what men really like?" Hotch's husky voice caught you off guard and you looked down with shame. It was obvious that he knew that you had not done anything like this with other guy, after all, he had been the one to take your virginity a few weeks after your arrival at the internship at the BAU.

“Well, the guys at my college talk so much about sex very loud during the class…” It was all you said and he rolled his eyes. Damn it, he hated teenagers with raging hormones and especially frat boys.

Hotch cleared his throat, determined not to let you know he was jealous at the mere thought of your classmates trying to flirt with you on a daily basis. He wanted you in the office at all times, where he could watch you and make sure Morgan was not trying to ask you out or that Reid did not have an arousal every time you brought coffee to everyone's desks. "Anyway, we can try it again another day when you're more comfortable. In another position, maybe."

You smiled at Hotch's suggestion. "I'd love to try again in a few days, Sir... Sorry! Love, just love." You corrected yourself when you saw his frown at the unnecessary formality. Hotch chuckled lightly and got up from the bed, immediately followed by you. "You're leaving right now?" You asked worried, both because he had not cum yet that night and also because he was not even saying goodbye.

"What? Of course not, darling." Hotch defended himself, looking quite offended that you would even consider him to be so careless to you. "I'm gonna sleep here tonight, forgot? So now I'm just gonna make some hot tea to help your sore throat. Then we can watch some pathetic romcom movies and have sex later, but nothing too rough for now."

The teasing in his tone made you smile. Still naked, with your cheeks wet with tears and your lips swollen, you caressed your own neck to soothe the sore throat during the process, watching Hotch wearing only those black boxers and opening your cabinets to look for things to heat up some tea. You would love to see him like this every day, practically naked in your kitchen, looking like the real husband material's definition, cooking and spoiling you as an aftercare. You would love to have him as your boyfriend, as your husband, as the future father of your children... However, you knew that the next morning the lie would have to be maintained. You would have to keep pretending he was just a BAU agent, just your mentor. Hotch would have to keep pretending that he was loyal to his wife and son, and did not care about the cute young intern of the office.

Both of you would have to keep pretending that nothing was happening between you two and that you did not have sex often. Both of you would have to keep pretending you did not love each other.

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[steddie-island]

Plenty Implied

Written for @steddiesongfics and @steddiebingo Song: Baby, It's Cold Outside Prompts: Under the influence (R1), winter (R1 and 12 days of Christmas) Rating: E | WC: 2,343 | Tags: Alpha Eddie Munson, Omega Steve Harrington, getting together, first kiss, snowed in For full list of tags see ao3 | Divider credit

This wasn't how Steve had expected his night to go. He'd expected the blind date his mother had set him up on to suck (it had). He'd expected there to be a kerfuffle over the bill, no matter which of them paid (his date had). He'd expected the night to end with him and Robin cuddled on the couch, eating cookies and ice cream while they talked about how bad his mother's taste in dates for him was.

The getting home part was where everything had gone wonky. Even if he hadn't locked the keys in his car, the snow had piled up so fast that he wouldn't have been able to make it out of the parking lot.

Maybe if he'd left at the same time as his date then he would've been able to get out. But he hadn't, he'd stayed behind and finished the wine he'd ordered while watching the Alpha behind the bar.

Now here he was, sitting in the corner of said Alpha's couch while Eddie puttered around the kitchen. He hadn't yet decided whether Eddie living above the restaurant was good luck or not. It would depend on if Steve's mother found out he'd started the evening with one Alpha and ended it with another.

"Marshmallows or no marshmallows?"

Eddie's voice pulled Steve back to the moment. "Marshmallows," he said, looking towards the kitchen.

When Eddie joined him again he was holding two mugs piled high with whipped cream, marshmallows, and… chocolate shavings? As if the cocoa wasn't surprising enough, it was brought out in matching Garfield mugs.

"I sort of thought you were joking about making cocoa." Steve took his mug and held it close. The warm scent of chocolate and cinnamon wrapped around him. It mixed surprisingly well with the scent of Eddie — tobacco and leather.

"Stevie. I would never joke about hot cocoa." Eddie didn't sit down beside him right away and instead crossed to a table pushed against the wall. Steve watched nimble fingers flip through the vinyls until he'd found what he wanted.

"…Really?" Steve laughed as the voice of Ella Fitzgerald filled the room. "Isn't this a little on the nose?"

"Maybe that's why I picked it." Eddie grinned as he took his seat. "Did you get ahold of your friend?" He gestured to the cordless he'd given Steve before stepping into the kitchen.

"No. She didn't answer, I figured I would try again in a few minutes." Steve flicked his tongue out to try and clear a spot for himself to drink out of through the whipped cream. Rich chocolate flavor exploded on his tongue, followed by the subtle burn of alcohol.

"I think Ella was on to something, there's definitely more than chocolate in this," he teased.

Eddie's rumbling laugh made Steve shiver. "I just figured it would help warm you up," he said. His nose wrinkled in a way that made Steve want to lean in and kiss the tip of it. "…Was that creepy? I can make you some without, I just remembered you having wine earlier, didn't think it would hurt—"

"You were watching me?" Steve asked.

"I didn't say that." Eddie arched one brow as he took a long drink. He licked the whipped cream mustache away before Steve could offer to do it. "But yeah, I was. It's always fun to be an innocent bystander for the trainwreck dates."

"Trainwreck!" Steve barked out in a laugh. "You could not tell it was a trainwreck from all the way over by the bar."

"Trust me, you work with people as long as I have, you learn to pick up on things." Eddie settled in against the couch with one arm stretched out along the back of it. "If that's what you count as a good date, I would hate to see what counts as bad."

Steve settled back, too, with his hands around his mug and his body facing Eddie's. "It wasn't the worst date I've ever had. Just… awkward."

"What is the worst date you've ever had?"

Another laugh bubbled up as Steve drained half of his mug. "It'll take more than one mug of hard cocoa to get that out of me."

"You're not serious." Eddie watched Steve with wide eyes.

"I fucking wish I was joking!"

It had taken more than one hard cocoa, but just barely. Steve had managed to get through to Robin (who, to her credit, only panicked a little at the idea of Steve being with a guy neither of them knew, and she only demanded his full name, address, a physical description, and his license plate number in case Steve didn't show up again once the weather had cleared up). Once the cocoa was gone and Robin knew Steve was somewhere safe for the night, they had switched to a bottle of bourbon Eddie had brought home from work.

There was something about Eddie that Steve found comforting in a way he hadn't found with anyone but Robin in a very long time. Maybe it was because Eddie hadn't even blinked when Robin had demanded to speak to him, too. Maybe it was because he looked tough and rugged, with his ripped jeans and his motorcycle boots and the tattoos covering his arms, but he had at least two Garfield mugs in his kitchen and he listened to Ella Fitzgerald on snowy nights.

Eddie's laugh was big and bright and Steve found that he wanted to wrap himself up in it because it warmed him even more than their drinks had. He was just warm, and Steve found himself slowly gravitating closer and closer to Eddie's end of the couch.

If Robin was here, she would be telling him that he needed to be careful. He fell too hard too fast and he always got hurt for it. This night, though, Eddie, it all felt different. This wasn't even a date, Eddie had just been nice enough to offer Steve somewhere to warm himself up for the night.

Now Steve wanted to offer Eddie somewhere warm, too.

It was a stupid line brought on by a horny thought, and Steve nearly spat out his drink.

"You good, man?" Eddie asked as he reached over to lightly clap Steve on the back. His scent was even stronger when he was this close.

"I'm good." Steve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. "Just— stupid thought. I think I need to take that as my sign to head to bed."

"Okay." Eddie tossed back the rest of his drink and started cleaning their dishes up. Steve reached out to help and Eddie stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Stay there, I've got this."

"I can help," Steve insisted. He stood up and grabbed their empty mugs. "Besides, I'm, uh… going to need some pajamas, if you have anything I can borrow?"

"Oh fuck, right!" Eddie put the bottle of bourbon back down on the coffee table and hurried down a short hallway to what Steve assumed was his bedroom.

While Eddie was gone Steve carried their dishes to the kitchen. He rinsed them out and left them to be washed in the morning. Eddie could still be heard rummaging in his room, so Steve took a moment to be a little nosy. He let his fingertip curl around the cabinet door.

Eddie didn't just have a Garfield mug. There were juice glasses with the fat orange cat on them, and were those dinner plates? Steve lifted one up carefully to get a closer look— Garfield in a night dress and cap, beside Odie in a rocking chair.

"Not what you expected, huh?"

Caught, Steve put the plate back and turned to Eddie with pink cheeks. "I was just wondering, after I saw the mugs. I would say I'm not usually that nosy, but…" He shrugged. "I would be lying."

Eddie grinned wide and Steve once more found himself watching the way the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"It's something I got into with my uncle," he explained. "We watched the cartoons together. It's something we bonded over when I moved in with him." He held something out to Steve. "I don't actually have any clean pajama pants…"

Steve unfolded the shirt. It was soft and worn, with a few tiny holes around the neck. Clearly this was a shirt that Eddie had had for a while, one he loved. And he was offering it up to Steve to use for the night.

Whatever resolve or sense of propriety Steve had left flew out the window. He'd wondered earlier what his mother would think about him having dinner with one Alpha and then going home with another one entirely.

Finding out her son not only went home with a stranger, but that he was the one who made the first move, might've sent her to an early grave.

Steve didn't let that stop him as he closed the distance between them. His hand cupped Eddie's cheek, thumb stroking his jaw, and then their lips were pressed together.

Eddie's lips were soft and warm. He tasted like chocolate and alcohol and Steve would never get enough.

"Look, I know it might be forward," he murmured. "But you smell so good, and you're so nice, and I would kick myself if I didn't shoot my shot."

Warm air brushed Steve's mouth as Eddie laughed again. Steve was becoming addicted to that, too.

"I got you tipsy and didn't give you pants to sleep in, and you think you're being forward?"

"Giving me pants would've just made it that much harder for you to get into them, wouldn't it?"

Eddie actually groaned, but then his mouth was on Steve's again and Steve's back was pressed against the lip of the counter. "Fuck, that was cheesy."

"Says the man with the Garfield collec— hey!" Steve yelped as he was lifted up onto the counter. Eddie was slim, lean, but there was a strength in his arms that was surprising.

Eddie's lips trailed over his jaw and up towards his ear. "Don't pretend the Garfield collection isn't what won you over."

"Was I that transparent?" Steve murmured. His legs came up to wrap around Eddie's waist, his arms draped around those wide shoulders.

"'Fraid so." Eddie pressed a kiss to the moles on the underside of Steve's jaw. "You know… if seeing my dinnerware made you want to jump into bed with me, I can't wait until you see my pajamas."

Steve threaded a hand into Eddie's soft hair and stole another kiss that was almost teasing. "Oh, baby. I don't think either of us could handle that."

Neither of them stopped smiling as Eddie lifted him off of the counter, as they bumped their way down the hallway.

Steve was far from a blushing virgin, had been around the block more than few times. None of his partners had been like Eddie, though.

Eddie's mouth left a trail of fire as he played connect the dots with Steve's moles. His fingers stoked Steve's pleasure higher and higher, until his thighs shook and there was a patch of slick on the bed beneath them, until he'd fallen apart not once but twice.

Eddie was right there after, too, kissing Steve's shattered edges and melting them until they were fitted together and he was whole again.

When Eddie finally settled over him, when they were finally joined as one, it was with their hands threaded together on either side of Steve's head.

It wasn't rushed. It was slow and languid, with kisses to eyelids and cheeks and chins, with Eddie sucking marks into Steve's skin and Steve urging Eddie on with his heels.

They came together with a cry from Steve and Eddie panting Steve's name into the hollow of his throat.

Afterward there was an ease with Eddie that Steve hadn't gotten from other partners. There was no hasty cleanup, no scrambling for clothes. Eddie just rolled them away from the wet spot. He kissed Steve gently, then slipped out of bed to get a wet washcloth to wipe them both off.

Steve slipped into the shirt Eddie had brought to him. It was even softer when it was on. Eddie's scent was there beneath the laundry detergent scent, too.

Eddie wrapped around him when he got back into bed. He tucked the blankets around them and buried his face in Steve's neck in a way that showed Steve wasn't the only one feeling a little scent addicted.

Sleep was just taking over when Eddie's voice roused him again.

"You think roses would be appropriate?"

"Hmm?" Steve cracked one eye open. "For what?"

"Feel like I owe your date a thank you after this."

Steve lightly smacked Eddie's hip. "You don't think there's someone else you should be thanking?"

"Oh, right." Eddie nuzzled down against the top of Steve's head and held him that much tighter. "I'll have to get some for your mom, too."

"Eddie!" Steve dissolved into sleepy giggles that he tried to stifle against Eddie's shoulder. "That's still not who I was talking about!"

"I know." Eddie pressed a kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth and gathered him impossibly closer. "Thought you might like breakfast more than flowers. Figured I would save flowers for our first date."

"This wasn't a date?" Steve asked. "What would you call it?"

Eddie took so long to answer that Steve was almost sure he'd fallen asleep, too. "Our meet cute. But we should probably leave out the sex when we tell our future grandpups."

Steve couldn't stop the purr that started in his chest.

Even if there was talk tomorrow about what he'd done, and if it made its way back to his parents, he'd met the Alpha of his dreams, someone who collected Garfield memorbilia and talked about pups before they'd even technically been on a date.

They fell asleep wrapped up together, with Steve's purr still rumbling on and the snow falling down around them.

[netherfeildren]

Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 1. Genus: Tragedy

Series Masterlist ; Part 2.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Existence is a needful thing. Choice is fickle, nature inescapable. Run to the end of the world, Joel, all those things will still find you. 

She'll still come for you. 

-OR-

the A/B/O outbreak AU 

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Light Angst; Slow Burn; Shocking Considering the Implications of Me and This Trope but Alas; Biologically Assigned Soulmates; Power Dynamics; Topping From the Bottom; Government Controlled Reproduction; Segregation of the Designations; Institutionalized Sexism; Vaguely Handmaidien Undertones; Incredibly Soft Despite the Tags; Be Not Afraid, Dear Reader!; Yearning; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Competence Kink; Alpha Joel; Omega MC; Very Soft Joel; Older and Jaded Alpha; Young and Needy Omega; Age Gap; Size Difference; Size Kink

A/N: I've found there is an absolutely shocking lack of A/B/O in this fandom, and this is my contribution to begin rectifying that. I swear that despite the way the tags read, this is entirely and sickeningly sweet soft, comfort, caretaking fic.

Share thoughts, please. It's sort of a different one.

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Tip Jar

Genus : Tragedy

To a one Mr. Joel Miller,

500 Sheahan Road

Clallam Bay, WA 98326

United States 

We are writing to inform you that as of January 8th, 2015 there remain two weeks until your designated omega’s twenty second birthday, and a year since she has come of age. We have made several attempts to contact you with no response. As mandated by the federal government, you must collect her by January 22nd, 2015 or she will be distributed to another individual of the designation alpha who would be willing to accommodate her. 

The omega’s evaluations are all up to date, and she has displayed pristine results in both health and behavioral tests. It is estimated that her first heat will occur soon, and we strongly encourage you to collect before the fever starts and our facility is forced to place her with another willing alpha that may see the process through. As she is part of the Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program, and is biologically paired to an alpha already, that being you, if not collected she would be placed in the bidding pool and distributed to the highest offer. 

Again, we strongly encourage you to contact our facility with a response on your decision as soon as possible so that we may prepare the omega. We would like to remind you that these creatures are delicate, and unexpected changes to their habitats and surroundings cause high levels of distress. It is of the utmost importance that we proceed in accordance with the omega’s nature. 

Enclosed is a brief note from your omega that she has requested to attach:

Dear sir,

I hope that you are well. I have been told that you have not decided if you will come for me, but I ask that you please do. I have been waiting, but they have told me I cannot wait anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me if you don’t come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And at the bottom, in a pristine and swirly pen, and kindly, her signature, there for him to see. The name of the woman, or girl, who seems to have taken all of Joel’s choices from him. He follows the letters with the nail of his thumb, scratching at the ink as if he could make it disappear, make the reality of this poor thing out there in the world waiting for him, disappear. 

At the outbreak of the designations, twelve years ago, there had been mass hysteria, mass chaos, a terrible uncertainty of how the world could continue on, segregated into biological designations as it had suddenly become. Thought to be a product of the dwindling population rates, some whispered a government experiment gone awry, a freak genetic mutation had begun to appear within the biological markers of certain people. 

Designations: Alpha, Beta, Omega. 

It was not that society had unfolded, lost sight of itself, it was more so that from one day to the next, a new and unknown sort of hierarchy had been established, those that were, those that were not. Those that could live their lives as they’d always done, unruled by their biological urges, and those now marked as something new and different and set by a different sort of mandates. 

Joel had been one of these people. 

The designations had become controlled, weaponized, systemized, almost immediately. Almost. Before the government had mobilized and taken stock and hold of the situation, there had been a momentary lapse of order. Chaos wearing the names and faces of the people he’d once known, people that should have been safe or protected, protective. The true nature of the dynamics were quickly revealed. Obvious: an unmated alpha in need of an omega was a volatile thing, quick to aggression, hungry for violence. Less so: an omega, once thought self sufficient, independent, autonomous, was found to be at times fragile, vulnerable, full of necessity. Both connected by that string of desperation that could only be soothed in a pairing of the two. The desperate drama of being no longer only yourself.

It should have been an obvious thing, the mutation, a byproduct of the dwindling population levels, reproduction rates, was in service of something that would correct this misdirection of nature. Alphas and omegas were, are, idealized pairings for one another in terms of reproduction, in terms of biological pairings. It should have been obvious that this would be wielded as a means of control. It should have been obvious that this was an untenable situation that would cast people into roles that left no choice for autonomy, for freedom. 

It should have been obvious to Joel, who almost immediately, and even though he had been well into adulthood, a father to a young daughter, presented as an alpha, growing pains once again this late into his life. It should have been obvious that this was a situation that should have necessitated greater care, vigilance, protection. After all, this was the role of an alpha. He should have listened to this new nature of his that was suddenly, demandingly, presenting itself, acted quicker, stronger, with more wisdom. But he’d failed, he’d continued to fail for years to come after that terrible night when the world had turned back to its base nature in a hedonistic attempt for the preservation of humanity. 

Alphas were immediately feared, ostracized, and above all else, obvious. A designation was not a thing a person could hide, especially not an alpha, the truth of their nature. Many were gunned down in the streets at the start, imprisoned, experimented on and sold, debased and tortured. They’d been caught, him and Sarah, separated from Tommy trying to escape the madness. She had, in her innocence and without designation, still only herself, still only his little girl, been caught in the crossfire of a world's desire to tame or trap something it could not understand. 

Joel had, in many and the worst of ways, been caught in the crossfire too. 

With time, years and the sort of suffering that can only be forced upon anything that is different or out of the norm, a system had been created. Government mandated programs, laws, registries that kept track of the designations. A hierarchy in which those that were essentially and biologically considered stronger than what a normal human should be, were ostracized, exiled, denigrated, muzzled, and those that would be considered weakest, left without any voice at all, without freedom either. 

The Federal Alpha/Omega Pairing Program had been established for the continued preservation and furthering of reproductive rates. A registry was created in which all those with the designation either alpha or omega had to present themselves on, biological markers determined, all choices stripped. The program served as a match making machine, when two biological markers presented themselves as compatible, as mates of one another, an omega was assigned to an alpha for keeping. To do with as they’d see fit. 

He had gotten word of her only last year. Twelve years of solitude, of nothing, of running from a girl with green eyes he’d not been able to protect and the reality of himself he detested, the what and why of who he was. He’d left Austin, wandered and hidden and groveled in the dirt like a worm until he’d finally found a quiet place to settle. A place alone, undisturbed. And for so long, he’d not been happy, surely, but he had been. Joel had been.

He looks down at the letter in his hand, dragging his thumbnail over the swoop and slope of her signature once again. This was a person who, as mandated by law or biology or fucking whatever, had been deemed as his. His other half, mate, ball and chain. The terrible reminder of what he really was and could not escape, in the form and shape of his perfect opposite. 

Last year, when he’d gotten word of her existence, that she’d reached the age of twenty one and was now ready and available for his retrieving, he’d balled up the letter and thrown it with such weightless force into the fireplace in his living room that the air filled wad of paper had fallen limp and nothingful just shy of the flames, rolling in the ashes and dust, coating the reality of this imposed, undesired fate in dark soot. He’d been so angry he’d gone out and howled at the moon like the beast the world would have themselves believe he truly was. 

He did not want to be an alpha. He did not want an omega. He did not want to live off the coast of Clallam Bay alone in this house he’d built with his bare hands because he had no other use of them now, no other function or purpose or meaning. He did not want it to be now, he wanted it to be twelve years ago. He wanted to still be a father. 

He did not want to be an alpha. 

He did not want an omega.

He crumples the letter in his fist, looking out at the bay over the edge of the cliffs from where the cabin is perched. From his spot on the deck he can see as far out as the sea allows, sight stopping suddenly as if the edge of the world had dropped off a ledge. Sometimes he longed, so, so badly, to go find that edge, to drop off it as well. He had only tried once. Never again. The grizzle of scar tissue at his temple, a testament to yet another one of his failures. 

The first summons had come two weeks before her twenty-first birthday, and he’d laughed, after the anger, he’d laughed. A girl-woman of only twenty one years, deemed of age, for the role the government or God had deemed her ready for, served up on a platter to him for his own ravaging. For the correction of what nature told was an anomaly that only their coming together could solve. It was sick, disgusting. He wanted no part of it. And so, despite the knowledge that this poor thing was out there, in some government facility, places they took omegas, many orphans, but also, oftentimes separating them from their families for so called safe keeping, just another word for kidnapping. Rearing and breeding and no choices, no choices for any of them ever. 

He’d ignored it, turned a blind eye and a revolted heart away from it all, and shirked the supposed responsibilities he owed this omega who he knew nothing about, who knew nothing about him. But nature is, after all, a terrible and inescapable thing. And not even so much the nature of his designation, although that did, unfailingly, play a part in his demise, surely, but the nature of his character, of Joel’s heart, that was the true heavy player. He was not the sort of man who could turn away from someone who’d rely on him, who’d need him. A responsibility. That was, he convinced himself, all he should or could see her as. And for a year there’d been a sort of tugging of a string from behind his navel, an umbilical cord connecting him to his ignored fate. He hated it all. He wanted nothing to do with any of it. He wanted to rot in his aloneness and misery and bitterness, fester in the fear that lived around him from the world. It’s why he’d come here, it’s why he’d exiled himself. Balanced on the tightrope border between the Salish Sea and the Makah Reservation on this high and pristine cliffside cut from the crust of the earth; he was left entirely alone, at peace with only his own chaotic demons to torment him. He wanted it this way, he wanted this; please, please, he’d already given away so much, lost so much of himself. Should he also be forced into this too? To sacrifice the terrible peace of his solitude to save this poor creature that was being forced on him. He wanted to say no, that he didn’t give a fuck, that what would happen to her could, it was no business of his. But those words… another willing alpha, bidding pool, highest offer… they made him see, not even red, black, black and devastating anger or rage or something horrible and base, and what could only be a product of mother nature railing against him for ignoring what he truly was. Something that whispered terrible words of mine, mine, fucking mine. A hiss he did not recognize, did not want to admit he recognized. 

He was old, weathered and beaten and past his prime. Unmated. At the end of his line and unmated and purposeless, and his bones were tired, but itching and clamoring within the confines of his skin that this was wrong, that he was wrong, and that he needed to right this immediately. 

That she’s waiting, and dear sir, I do not know what will become of me if you do not come. I promise that I’ll be good if you do. 

And so Joel goes to her because he knows she is waiting, because fate or purpose or nature is not a thing to be ignored forever. 

-

“It’s her birthday today,” the caretaker says, voice ascetic and cold and direct. Not a voice, Joel thinks, for soft things; cadence that has his teeth on edge, hackles raised. “You’ve arrived just in time. She’s been asking for you, and we’d just set her name in the pool, ready to release for auction tomorrow.” That black rage muddies the corners of his vision, and he focuses on the cold shock of the blank white hallway they’re making their way down. Hospital-like, barren and hard, this place, facility, prison, they keep them in, the omegas in the program. He feels slightly sick, uninhibitedly angry as if his teeth would fall out of his skull, as if he could throw himself to the ground as a child throws a fit, spew his anger for the world to see how much he does not want this, how vehemently he’s opposed to it all. 

“She may seem young and small, but she’s twenty two now. She’s ready, and she’ll take it as you wish. It’s what she was made for.” 

Joel seriously considers, just for a moment, killing the cretinous little man beside him. Take it, he says as if he has any right to speak of you taking anything that Joel would give you, as if it’s any of his business, anything he could ever understand if the beta stench oozing off of him is any indication. He hums nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement. If he parts his teeth he’ll take out a chunk of flesh. He should behave, there are easily frightened things nearby. 

White doors with a small circular window at the center line the hall on either side, endlessly down the length of the seemingly endless corridor. The caretaker, white scrubs, pristine like the rest of everything here, and Joel feels suddenly huge and bestial and brutish, marring and dirtying this place that is supposed to be of peace and quiet for the fragile things locked inside. 

A terrible place that makes him desolately depressed. You’ve been here so long, and he had not come, and it’s all just one more tally of failure on his rap sheet. 

When they finally stop before a singular door, the number fourteen emblazoned in large black, bold print just beneath the small viewing window, Joel suddenly feels– he can’t say for certain, he doesn’t know, or doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of the voices and sounds ringing in his ears, but he knows, recognizes it for the sound of the moment Sarah died all those years ago. His past and present suddenly clashing to meet here in this antiseptic white void, before the door to this fate that’s clamored in quiet waiting for exactly a year today. The sound of her voice, calling his name, saying it hurts, Tommy, his shouts ringing loud and then ebbing soft and as lifeless as she was while the reality of what they were living came to pass before Joel too, could realize. He’d left too, his brother, ran from the truth of Joel at the first easy opportunity. And she’s just there, her voice and her eyes and the feel of her is just there in his mind, on the tip of the tongue of his memory, and then the man opens the door and then there you are. 

He feels worse now, hulking, deformed, malformed like he was born wrong. “I’ll give you a moment,” the man says low, that cold voice monotone and almost too quiet to bear now. Joel feels he needs something loud and shocking. He fears he won’t fit through the door. “It’s better if you meet for the first time without distractions. She knows you’re coming.”

He thinks he asks if you’re sleeping, he can’t be sure, but he feels the vibrations of his throat work, his jaw move as if it’d come unhinged, his tongue swollen in his mouth, gums fat and painful, full of bile and terrible memories, and he is a badly made thing in need of some goodness in this moment. And then a shift of the small lump beneath the blankets, the reality of the moment snaps into focus, he steps inside the white box cage you’re kept in. The door shuts behind him, and then it is only him, the thing he would not be, and you, the thing he would not want. 

He doesn’t decide it until he finally peers into your eyes, that he can’t, will not, keep you. 

Wide, luminous and wet, but not afraid, wholly curious, peering up at him from above the edge of a thick wool blanket. Something drab and gray and stiff looking that immediately sets him on edge, brings that anger back, just the simple sight of the blanket. The two of you stare at each other in silence, the weight of that thing that tells of what you are, sitting heavy between the two of you as he looks down at you from his great height, presence that should be intimidating and cowing, looming over your prone and small form on the bed. But despite his stance, something swelling within him causing him to puff up like an angry dog and want to bear his teeth at you, despite the curtain of tears in your eyes, there’s nothing of the stench of fear. 

He shuts his eyes to the sight of you, huffing long and bullish through his nose, mistake, the scent of you, God, help me, and he listens to the rustle and shift of the blankets, opens his eyes to see a little nose peeking out from beneath the gray, drab thing to sniff primly at the air he’s now filling with his presence. 

Soft and warm and woman, the smell of a cunt that belongs to him. That’s what it is at its basest. More complexly: vanilla, bergamot, juniper berries, sweat and fever and salt. Taking a plunge off the cliffside, bypassing the sharp teeth of rocks that would kill you, waiting for the dark ice shock of sea and finding nothing but molten life. This is what you smell like. 

Worst of all, there is something in you that smells of him. His, yes, but not what he means, not his, him. Something that smells of recognition, like the two of you are the same. 

Something chained inside of him rattles at the bars of its cage, desperate to be let out and quenched. 

He steps back, frightened at your movement, at the reality of what the two of you are, so obvious here in this cage, at your perking up, your recognition of who and what he is, what he’s come for. You don’t speak, but you tell him. You wriggle beneath the covers, shimmying to turn and face him more fully, still clutching the blanket up high over your mouth, still covering half of your face, and he wants to bark at you to let him see, that he needs to see, but he grinds his teeth together. Molars going to dust down his throat, muscle wrapped around his mandible strung so tight he fears the fibers of it might burst and pop. 

You settle on your side facing him now, and then something to beguile him, to bring him to his knees muzzled and obedient and calm, the sweetest, sultry little crooning cry. Something provoking, alluring, something to beckon him to you in surrender and acceptance and welcome, come from your chest up your throat to his ears. He jerks back at the sound, your big eyes still expectant and wet but demanding now. I am here waiting for you. I have been here waiting for you. Come now. He steps back to your bedside, a too small, too stiff metal railed cot he’s going to wrap around that fucking guard, caretaker, idiot, whatever he is when he comes back, falls to his knees, and your little fingers peek out and up and over the edge of the blanket now. And you surprise him doubly, tenfold, more than he can comprehend – but he already decided he will not keep you, he already made up his mind – when you say: “You came. You remembered me.”

He could never have forgotten.

A low hum, a sound to make your eyelids flutter and your legs shift beneath the heavily draped blankets. “Today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? Would you like to come home with me as your gift?” 

He could never have forgotten.

-

The house that the large man who you’d waited your whole life and then a year for, brings you to – and you can’t be entirely sure, for you’ve so little experience or knowledge – but from what you can think you’re feeling now, from what you can decide, is lovely. 

He had taken you in a car, a truck, you like the sound of the word, —ck, —ck, —ck, and driven a long while, through the big city which you’d seen little of, between forest and beside sea, and then finally up a long and winding road and more forest, more trees and green than you’d ever seen in your entire life, until you’d come to a cliffside, the backyard a drop off of air and rock and endless dark water, and a small house perched just there at the edge. Wooden slats, weather beaten and salt lashed, a copper sloped roof, and two pert chimneys, despite the not large area of the house, cabin. It looks, very much, as if it had grown straight from the cliff rock, sprouted by the forest, strong bones that spoke resolutely of remaining where they were no matter how hard the wind howled. 

“How did it get here?” You ask the man, alpha, who’s name is Joel who has finally come for you after a life and a year of waiting. 

“I made it,” and his voice is rough and demanding of attention, demanding of you, even if you don’t know, although, you do understand, what it is he’s demanding. 

And you think, yes, of course. It looks a little, a lot, like him. Obvious, that it came from him. 

It would be easy to think that you’re nothing but young and stupid and untried. Just a little omega kept in a cage. But you feel, after this life, not life, of being you and the thing you are, that you’re none of those things despite it all. You had lived, you had been out in the world at one time, even if briefly, even if only as a child, green and inexperienced and innocent, and although you still remain all those things, you had been out there at one point. You had never had a mother or a father, dead when you were an infant, killed in the outbreak, but you had lived with your aunt, your mother’s, many years older,  sister, until you’d been ten years old. So you see, and he should see too, this man now before you, this alpha, that you were untried and inexperienced and young compared to him, but you’d had a decade of real life, even if it was the life of a child, even if afterwards it was a not life, but the before, that counted very, very much to you and so deserved respect and acknowledgement. And he should see that, although you do not know, you do understand.

After your aunt had died, and they’d taken you, first to the orphanage, and then to the place for omegas, after you’d started to mature and develop, perhaps that real life had ended. Or been put on hold, waiting for him, this alpha who seems, for all intents and purposes and from what you can gather from his sullen silence and dark looks, nothing like pleased at your presence here now. But then there was the: today’s your birthday, sweetheart, is it? And yes, yes it is your birthday. 

It’s your birthday, and you’re free. And yes, you’d lived the not life in the white box for so long, and yes, you are, in fractions, so afraid and knowing so little of the world, but you do know that you want to live and to see the sky. 

You want to see the sky every single day. 

His big clunking truck rolls to a slow stop before the house, a wide deck wrapping around the entire boxed thing of it, and he starts to move, unclipping his belt, grabbing the bag he’d brought with him stuffed with his clothes he’d promptly tucked and folded you into when he’d shuffled you into the cabin of his truck, and you’d been all thank you, sir, to which he’d given a shake of his head, only Joel. Only Joel. No other words, no other directions, only his hands pulling your strings like a puppet. You had accepted it for the chance to feel his touch, to familiarize yourself with the closeness of him. 

You want to know things. You want to know him. 

He’d barely said a word the entire drive here, but you could be patient, and they’d prepared you for this, after all. They’d prepared you long and well and told you all they thought you’d need to know. So you find yourself, and not at all shockingly, as you’d waited so long for this, for him, for freedom and the sky, and look, now there’s even sea too, not even a little bit afraid, only anticipatory in bated breath, stuttering heart, excitement. 

You had never seen the sea before, and you want to know things. You want to know him. 

He jumps heavy and thudding form the truck, and you start to shift, something suddenly frantic and clawing rolling in your chest when you realize he’s leaving the confines of the small space the two of you had found yourselves encased in together, the warm heat from the vents blowing his smell, his smell, all around you. You’d never encountered anything like it before. Salted vetiver and warm cardamom, something sweet and musked and heavy like what your fingers taste like after you’ve pet long and needy at that soft wet place between your legs when the hurt was so tight you felt nothing would sate it. It’s a scent that you think would devastate to have taken away now that you’ve tasted it. And it’s everywhere as the two of you’d sat in his staunchly imposed silence on the truck ride to this place he was bringing you to, his home at what seems like the end of the world. It’s in your nose and down your throat, heavy and cloying and sweet on your tongue, wrapping around your waist and covering your skin and your hands so that you’d even pressed your palms entirely over your face and rubbed yourself like a cat, coating yourself in him. 

The door slams, bringing you out of his scent induced reverie and back to the present, and you scramble to undo your buckle too, even though when he’d clipped it for you he’d very sternly said to not take it off, desperate to follow him wherever he’d go. But you realize quickly he’s coming around the front of the truck to your door, and then he’s there pulling it open and letting in a biting gust of wind come off the sea and up the cliffside to slash you across the face with its icy rancor. You shiver, teeth clattering and chattering in your mouth, trying to gather the blankets he’d cocooned you in, his too big, so soft clothes, more tightly around yourself, and find your feet. 

He gives a rough but soothing noise, and easy as anything, plucks you up and out of the seat and into his arms, kicking the door closed behind him as he goes. Into his arms. You hold yourself stiff and wide eyed, chewing on the tips of your frozen cold fingers, and staring at him this closely, it’s shocking. Large, had been the first thing. Tall and broad and thick the way they’d said alphas are. This you had expected. The rest, you had not. The eyes, you think, more than anything. His eyes, a strange mix of hazel and brown, but dark. Eyes, that even in your greenness, you can recognize as sad and angry. And the creases at the corners, between his brows, the gray threaded through the lush, dark curls and at the corners of the hair along his jaw. He looks like he would be someone’s father. The patch of bare skin, heart shaped, amongst the whiskers. He’s beautiful, and unthinkingly, or perhaps entirely intentional, you stick out one of your saliva soaked fingers and poke him gently there, only a small prod, to feel what the heart feels like. His gait stops instantly, that permanent frown he’d worn since you’d first laid eyes on him, deepening. “Don’t do that,” he gruffs, continuing his steps up the porch now, the dark, heavy boots you’d noted as he’d taken you from the facility falling thunk, thunk on the wooden boards beneath. He’d not given you shoes of your own. And at his tone, the grumpy look, you have the inexplicable urge to laugh. To laugh at him. Surly, you want to tease, but swallow it, itchy fingertips back into the warmth of your mouth to stop yourself from touching again.

Another gust blows against the two of you as he somehow transfers you, cradled into only one arm, to pull the jingle of keys from his pocket, and you’re jarred with painful shivers, huddling closer into the unbelievably broad expanse of his chest, the unbelievably steaming warm slab. At the touch of your cheek against his collarbone you realize all he’s wearing is a simple, green flannel, no coat, nothing warm. “Aren’t you cold?” It seems suddenly, supremely important you ask, head shooting back up. He peers down his nose at you, finally getting the door open, and his eyes are a very peculiar sort of dark, you cock your head at him, a very strange sort of creature this man is, who’s come to collect you, who you’d waited all your life and a year for. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

You don’t believe him.

He sets you down on a large, dark leather sofa, chocolate, the hide smooth and worn and lived in. The rest of the house, not only a house, also a home, for it’s obvious in the way of his things, the way they’re arranged and fixed and the way they too live here, not only exist here. I’ll be like that too, you think. It’s all comfortable, it’s all warm, like a den and a place to relax and be protected, juxtaposed by the sight beyond the large windows, nothing but dark, violent sea as you’ve never before seen. 

He really had found a perch at the edge of the world, brought you here to perch as well. 

There’s a large fireplace, inlaid with large slabs of dark stone and thick beams of wood, and yes, this too is also obvious in a peculiar and particular way. The house very much looks like it was made by the hands of a single man in some way that you cannot specifically say, but can obviously see the truth of. He made this house, and then he came for you and now he’s brought you here, and you feel, suddenly, so pleased and warm and right. Everything feels so, so right. You sigh dreamily, suffused at once with a tight, deep heat at the pit of your belly, the scent of him everywhere, bubbles floating up from the bottom of you and seeming to pop out your ears. You lean back into the deep couch, wiggling this way and that, rubbing your bottom into the soft cushions to snuggle up, bringing the neck of his sweater he’d put you in up to your nose to breathe deep and long. 

He’s moving around, arranging things this way and that, a thick log in the slumbering coals, a pillow here, another blanket atop you, not looking at you, setting a wide berth once he’s settled the throw, not talking to you. It’s fine, let him do as he pleases and needs, you’ll sit here and watch. You can tell he doesn’t like to talk, that words cost him something, and you know so little, but you understand this. Words do cost something, truths, the truth of your before life and your not life. The truth of those realities cost. So, yes, you understand, and he doesn’t have to talk if he doesn’t want to yet. And looking at him, you realize that everything inside of you feels soft and bruised and little. And yet, despite all that, ready, in want and need of him. Ready to be big. 

Joel.

You must say the word out loud, his name, for he stops and finally turns to face you. There is something vibrational within him. Different. You’ve never seen a creature as such. You’d never seen an alpha before, not since you’d presented, you’ve never been around one. The caretakers were all always betas, people who would not be affected by the omega’s presence and fluctuations. 

He swallows once, twice, twitches and jerks and heaves a big sigh. He’s so full of energy as you, suddenly, in opposition, feel so sleepy and drowsy and ready to close your eyes and only feel warm and relaxed. You like his house, you might love it, even. 

Your eyelids droop low, slow blinks, and you watch his face fold into a frown. You want to laugh, he does that so much. They’d said that alphas could have big tempers, that they could be brash and aggressive and loud, but that the omega would naturally temper that. You think it may be true because as you watch him through the weave of your lashes, his frown deepening the longer he stares at you slowly drowsing on his couch which you hope he’ll never make you move from, the jitters and the shakes and the trembling that he’d seemed, just a moment ago, to be so full of, begin to quietly abate. 

He takes a step toward you, another and another until his shins meet the edge of the sofa, and you snuggle deeper into the cushions, making yourself into as little a ball as possible, so full of sleepiness. 

“How do you feel?”

“I like your house so much,” you slur, head drooping, lashes drooping. 

He clicks his tongue, makes that rumbly noise you think is an alpha thing because it has your eyes suddenly clicking open, sleep haze clearing momentarily so that you can look up at him again, and he’s looking at you so peculiarly. You scrunch your nose up at him, there’s no need to look at you so, you’re only an omega, only a little tired, nothing to stare at so strangely. 

“I’m–” he clears his throat, makes that rumble, growl, huff sound again, “I’m glad you like it. I wanted you to be comfortable while you’re here.”

And oh, he’s so nice, you tell him, and, “I am. I’m so comfortable.” You melt further into the couch, and he crouches down to peer at you more directly, pulling a soft pillow from the opposite end and tucking it under your head, the large, rough cup of his paw cradling your skull, big fingers weaving through your hair. He arranges you so gently, like he’d take care of you. Like you’re here, finally, finally, you’re here to be taken care of. 

It’s what they’d said would happen, and you’d waited so long. You’d waited too long to be let out of the white box, for him to come, to see the sky. And now there was so much; of him, of the house, of the sky, of your whole life and the sea.

You nuzzle your head into his big hand, the heat of it searing your scalp, your ear tucked into his palm. “Brave girl,” he hums. He has such a deep voice, a good voice for an alpha, you think, a very good voice. You feel it vibrating in your toes and in your eyelashes and in your belly. “You’ve been through a great deal, haven’t you?” You want to say yes, you want to remind him that you’d waited for him for so very long, and that when you woke up, if you remembered, you’d be very cross with him for taking so long to come for you. 

“You rest now,” he says. “It’s all alright now.” Yes, a very good voice.

2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog

[yannawayne]

i. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Mild sexual jokes, Making out, Blood, Explosions, Mentions of Child Abuse, Good Aunt-Mom Selina Kyle AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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༻⊰───⋅

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 9:02 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City.

SELINA'S DEFT FINGERS SLID over the fabric of the dress, adjusting and smoothing it until it drapes perfectly over your figure. The elegant emerald gown shimmered softly under the dim apartment lights, the material flowing luxuriously against your skin.

"You didn’t steal this, did you?" you murmur, adjusting the necklace that rests delicately around your neck. "I’d rather not end up in jail tonight."

"The dress? No, it’s one of my old ones," Selina scoffed, turning away and handing you a pair of black heels. "But if anyone asks about the necklace, just say it’s a family heirloom. Which, technically, it is."

You shot her a pointed look. She rolled her eyes with a smirk.

"Oh, hush. I haven’t stolen anything in... at least a month," she drawled.

"A month, wow! That’s a new record," you teased, slipping into the heels.

Selina laughed and shook her head. "Don’t get too comfortable. Just because I’m on a hiatus doesn’t mean I’ve gone straight."

"Well, let’s hope your hiatus lasts at least through tonight," you winced.

She smirked, giving you a once-over. "Trust me, darling, tonight is all about you."

You were about to respond when Selina suddenly snapped her fingers.

“Before I forget...” she said, reaching into one of her drawers. She pulled out a thigh strap and wrapped the leather around your leg, fastening it securely. 

Then, she slid one of her blades into the strap. You rolled your eyes but accepted the gesture with a resigned nod. It was Gotham, after all—being prepared was always a need.

“Damian’s got me covered tonight,” you say, trying to reassure her. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

Selina paused, her hands still on the thigh strap, and gave you a skeptical look. “Sweetheart, I worry about you all the time. It’s not that I don’t trust Damian—he’s solid. But Gotham? That’s a different story. Where those Bats go, trouble’s sure to follow.”

You chuckled, adjusting the strap to make sure it was secure. “We’ll manage, mom.”

Selina Kyle might not have been your biological mother, but she became your mother the moment you were placed in her arms years ago. In that instant, the blood that bound you was inconsequential compared to the unspoken promise she made to protect you.

To Selina, you were her child. Not because of any legal ties or shared genetics, but because she chose to be your mother every single day.

And to you, Selina was more than just an aunt. She was the lifeline who stepped in when everything else had crumbled around you.

Selina and Maggie, your biological mother, had both grown up in a fractured family. Their father was a vicious drunkard. Their mother, Maria, was a ghost in their lives—emotionally absent and detached. 

When Maria died, the world turned colder. The sisters were torn apart: Maggie was adopted by a warm, loving family, while Selina was abandoned to the unforgiving grip of Gotham’s orphanages. Those grim streets, steeped in shadows and danger, carved her into Catwoman.

But darkness has a way of creeping back into the light, no matter how hard you try to keep it at bay. Maggie, who had managed to build a life of stability and warmth, became a target for the shadows of Catwoman’s past. 

Black Mask.

Kidnapped, tortured, and left to die, Maggie was nothing but a ghost by the time the attack was done. Her husband was slain in the carnage, and the only remnant of their family was you— barely a toddler, too young to grasp the gravity of your loss but old enough to feel its weight.

With no other family to turn to, she took you in, binding her fate to yours and vowing to protect you from a world that had already taken so much from both of you.

Her life wasn’t easy. She was young, barely in her twenties, struggling to make ends meet in one of Gotham’s most unforgiving neighborhoods. The meager jobs she managed to scrape together were barely enough to cover the rent, let alone the needs of a growing child.

Selina's decision to take up the mantle of Catwoman was never about the thrill of the heist or the allure of jewels; it was about survival—yours and hers. Gotham demanded a price, and she chose to pay it herself, risking her life each time she donned the suit to give you a chance at something better.

You grew up with a keen sense of the world, your intelligence uncovering bits and pieces of her double life. The mysterious disappearances, the luxurious items that mysteriously appeared—each clue painted a picture that you slowly began to understand.

When the time came for the truth to be revealed, it wasn’t easy

Selina’s hand glided across her vanity, fingers brushing over the cool surface before settling on a sleek black clutch. With a flick of her wrist, she turned and handed it to you.

You accepted it with a gleam in your eye, stepping back as you held it close. A playful twirl sent the emerald fabric of your gown swirling around you, catching the light in a way that made it shimmer. 

“Well? What do you think?”

Selina’s stern look melted away like ice under a warming sun. Her gaze swept over your outfit, absorbing the delicate neckline, the tailored fit around your waist, and the gown’s fluid cascade to the floor. 

In this small, quiet moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. For just a heartbeat, she allowed herself to pretend that the two of you were simply a normal mother and daughter, sharing a simple, beautiful moment together.

“You’ve always had a way of making everything around you look better,” she purred. “You’re going to knock the whole school off their feet. Damian’s going to need a crowbar to keep the other guys away.”

Selina reached out to adjust the straps on your dress, her touch precise and caring. Her fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, the movement as gentle as a whisper.

“Just remember, darling,” she spoke slowly, “it never hurts to stay safe.”

Ruby-red manicured nails tapped your cheek as she straightened up, a knowing look in her eyes.

Pause. Your eyes widened as you caught the hint of her meaning. “You’re not saying I—”

“I was at that age,” she interrupted with a mock-serious tone. “I’m just saying you should be prepared. Especially with the way that boy looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Make sure he wraps something else too.”

A flush of embarrassment rose to your cheeks. You sputtered and fumbled with the clutch in your hand. “Mom! What the hell?! I think that’s enough advice for one night!”

BEEP!

Just as Selina was about to respond, a car horn blared from outside, slicing through the evening’s quiet. Both of you turned towards the window, where a Porsche 911 emerged from the darkness. It looked painfully out of place against the backdrop of your neighborhood—cracked sidewalks strewn with trash, graffiti-streaked walls, and the occasional flickering streetlamp battling the encroaching shadows.

“Looks like your chariot awaits,” Selina said, her hands sliding up your shoulders as she gently nudged you toward the door. “Have a great time, but keep your wits about you. Gotham’s never as calm as it seems.”

With one final hug, you stepped out of the apartment and descended the narrow, dimly lit staircase. As you reached the bottom, you emerged into the cool night air, where Damian stood by his car parked right under a street lamp.

He was impeccably dressed in a deep black suit that seemed to swallow the surrounding light, giving him an almost smoky allure. An emerald button-up shirt peeked from beneath the jacket, its rich hue a perfect match for the striking color of your dress. 

Damian’s smoldering gaze warmed as he saw you approaching, a small, approving smile curling at the corners of his lips. He lifted two fingers in a beckoning motion, and though you rolled your eyes, you stepped forward.

“Beloved,” he greeted, extending a hand to you. “You look stunning.”

“Hi, handsome,” you grinned, taking his hand and stepping closer to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Damian responded with a soft hum, his arm slipping around your shoulders as he tilted his head slightly. The kiss deepened just enough to make the moment linger, leaving a warmth that held between you. 

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely, Selina’s voice sliced through the night air. 

“You’re going to be late!”

Damian pulled away from you so abruptly that it looked as if he’d been yanked back by an invisible force. His face flushed a patchy red, a blend of embarrassment and irritation. He shot a sidelong glance at Selina, his eyes quickly shifting back to you.

Damian huffs, releasing a sharp exhale through his teeth. “Shall we go?”

The click of the car door echoed as Damian opened it for you, his lips twisting into a scowl. You settled into the plush passenger seat, the soft fabric of your gown rustling as Damian carefully lifted it to prevent any creases. 

While you adjusted yourself in the seat, you glanced back and waved at Selina, her silhouette framed against the windows. A snort escaped you as you noticed the deadpan look Damian shot in her direction.

Damian was always somewhat awkward around Selina. As Robin, his view of Catwoman was clear-cut—she was a criminal to be dealt with. And yet, he still held a deep respect for her as your mother.

Once he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the car roared to life with a smooth, powerful purr. The sleek vehicle glided down the streets with impressive speed, Damian navigating through traffic with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. 

As he shifted gears, the radio flicked on, filling the car with a soft, pulsing beat.

This may be the night that my dreams might let me know All the stars are closer All the stars are closer All the stars are closer This may be the night that my dreams might let me know

Tilting your head back into the seat, your hair bunching around your shoulders, your thoughts drifted to the first time Damian took you for a drive. Both of you had been sixteen then, and his aggressive maneuvering had left you gripping the seat, your heart racing as if you were in a high-speed chase. Now, though, the thrill was familiar, adrenaline thrumming steadily in your blood.

The ride was brief but exhilarating, and soon the car pulled into the school’s parking lot. Sleek cars and limousines lined the lot, each more extravagant than the last. Students and their dates, dressed in their finest formal wear, mingled and laughed, making their way toward the entrance.

Stepping out of the car, the crisp night air greeted you like a refreshing embrace, carrying the delicate scent of fresh flowers and the faint strains of classical music wafting from the entrance. The soft glow of string lights and lanterns illuminated the path ahead, casting a warm, golden hue over the scene. Damian drew you close, his arm slipping around your waist as you walked together.

The ballroom was stunningly elegant. 

Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their shimmering prisms scattering colorful reflections across the polished marble floor. Tables draped in white linens, adorned with fresh roses and flickering candles, lined the room. The dance floor gleamed under the ambient light, already alive with couples swaying gracefully to the gentle strains of Franz Liszt. 

The whole scene practically screamed old money.

You were going to die.

You’d never quite get used to events like these. Over the years, you’d been to your fair share of galas and charity balls, mostly because of your relationship with Damian and that brief, awkward phase when Selina was involved with Bruce.  

Each time, you had a knack for stumbling through social minefields, unintentionally insulting high-profile guests or spilling wine on someone’s multimillion-dollar gown And, without fail, the next day’s press would seize the opportunity to spotlight you and your social faux pas.

Gotham Academy, with its glossy veneer and elite crowd, was just another arena 

It was a breeding ground for rich fucks, each one more insufferable than the last. The halls echoed with the chatter of kids who had everything handed to them, their lives a far cry from yours. The only reason you’d managed to slip through those gilded gates was thanks to the Martha-Wayne scholarship. Without it, you’d still be stuck in the middle of nowhere with your mother, scraping by on whatever scraps you could find.

“Ya amar, are you going to keep staring at the floor? Or may I have the honor of requesting a dance?”

Damian’s voice cut through your self-deprecating spiral as he snapped his fingers in front of your eyes.

Blinking up at him, you pursed your lips. “I don’t know... this is a really interesting floor.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, really? Pray tell, what makes it so interesting that you’d rather stand here instead of dancing with me?”

“I don’t know. I could stare at it all night,” you hummed, crossing your arms. “Plus, we’ve got to keep our thing going, you know? I can't give in that easily.”

“Our thing? What thing?” Damian blinked.

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but still want each other carnally,” you said, throwing your head back as you laughed.

"Tt," Damian deadpanned, reaching out to grab you by the waist. He lifted you off the ground, your feet barely brushing the polished marble beneath. You wrapped an arm around his neck and giggled, holding on as he carried you toward the center of the ballroom.

“You never miss an opportunity to mortify me, do you?” Damian scolded, gently setting you back down on the floor. Both of you assumed a waltz stance, your hands finding their places on each other’s shoulders and waist.

“I think I just enjoy keeping you on your toes,” you replied with a grin, swaying gracefully with him as the music enveloped you.

Damian's lips curved into a wry smile, despite his grumbling. "You know how much I despise these games you play, Cat."

“Oh? Cat?” you laughed, the rich, velvety fabric of your dress brushing against Damian’s sleek suit as you danced. “Are we going for the classic Batman and Catwoman trope here? Because once Selina retires, I could always take up the mantle of the next Catwoman.”

Damian’s smile dropped, replaced by a look of exasperation. “Please do not. I fear what will become of you then."

“Why not?” you asked, batting your lashes coyly. “Does the idea of me as Catwoman not thrill you?”

Damian made a noncommittal sound, his ears tinged with red as he averted his gaze.

“Don’t get shy on me,” you said with a grin, your voice dropping to a teasing purr. Your hand glided up his jaw, your touch lingering just enough to be felt.

A shadow of something intense flickered in the depths of his jade-green eyes. Damian’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his gaze narrowing into a mock glare that barely concealed the warmth beneath.

“I guess I would not... be entirely opposed to that idea,” he muttered.

He led you into a slow dance, his movements fluid and graceful, reminiscent of those quiet, moonlit nights in his manor’s kitchen. You recalled late evenings when the room was bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight streaming through the windows. On those nights, the world outside felt far away, leaving just the two of you swaying gently to the soft strains of music playing from his phone’s speakers.

It was moments like these that peeled away his walls. In the soft glow of the ballroom lights, the tender, affectionate side of him emerged—like a rare flower blooming in the quiet of twilight. Each layer revealed a deeper, more intimate part of him, offering you a special kind of attention that made every shared glance and touch feel intimate.

“This crazy, almost maddening attraction I have for you makes me feel like I want to stab myself,” Damian murmured as he spun you around, the fabric of your dress flared out like a blooming flower at his feet.

“Wow, you really have a way with words,” you said with a smile. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Damian’s lips curled into a smirk.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. He drew you back into his embrace as he guided you across the dance floor, your bodies moved in perfect harmony, like two pieces fitting together in a delicate puzzle.

The world around you seemed to blur into a gentle haze of soft music and swirling lights. Damian’s gaze, however, remained sharp and vigilant.

“I don’t like how they’re staring at you,” he murmured, his green eyes narrowing as they scanned the crowd. His voice carried the familiar edge of possessiveness. “Perhaps they need a reminder of whom you belong to.”

“Damian, no—”

Before you could protest, Damian leaned in, closing the distance between you with a smooth turn of his head. The kiss was tender yet heated, his teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip.

Anyone who glanced your way would see Damian Thomas Wayne with his lips pressed against yours, making it clear who he was with. It wasn’t the first time he’d been so overt—there was that incident when you both ended up in detention because he couldn’t keep his hands off you by your locker.

You whined softly, trying to pull away, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips in a delicate, glistening thread. “We’re in public—”

“Shut up,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, before diving back in. The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow, shuddering sigh, mingling with his as he drew you closer, his hands firmly cupping your hips.

Damian seemed to swallow every sweet sound you made, chuckling softly as you mumbled curses against his lips, your grip on his tie tightening. The world around you blurred into insignificance, leaving just the two of you enveloped in a bubble of intense sensation. Your breaths came in ragged bursts, eyes fluttering open and then closing again, lost in the heat of the moment. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless and flushed, the lingering electric buzz of the kiss still crackling in the air between you.

Damian and you locked eyes, his face blank until a shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face.

"I hate you so much," you scowled. “You’re impossible, Damian Wayne.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing whisper. He leaned in, using your own words against you. “Admit it—you love every second of it, don’t you?”

Before you could respond, he tilted your chin up, his lips brushing lightly against yours as he whispered, “Let them see. They’ll just have to get used to the sight.”

The kiss was softer this time, more tender, as you swayed gently against him, savoring the moment of calm.

BOOM.

Without warning, the tranquility was shattered by a deafening explosion. 

The sound of shattering glass and a violent burst of energy tore through the ballroom, turning the once elegant space into a scene of utter chaos. Crystal chandeliers swung erratically from the ceiling, their light flickering in disorienting patterns as debris rained down like confetti. The room erupted into a frenzy of screams and frantic movement as everyone scrambled for cover.

“Holy shit!” you gasped, your voice barely piercing through the screams and destruction.

CREAK.

A sudden, ominous groan echoed through the room, drawing your gaze upward. The chandelier, swaying precariously, seemed to shudder as its support gave way. Then, with a heart-stopping creak, the massive fixture began to fall. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Damian’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a firm grip. 

“Move!”

You scrambled to keep up with his rapid pace, but your long gown snagged on the edge of a flipped table, sending you sprawling to the floor with a jarring thud. Your hand slipped from his grip, and Damian, realizing you were no longer beside him, turned back in a surge of panic.

With no time to guide you gently to safety, he yanked you up from the floor. He pulled you both behind the overturned table, using it as a makeshift barricade.

The chandelier crashed down with a thunderous roar, sending shards of glass, splintered wood, and shattered fragments spiraling through the air. As the debris rained down, you screamed and reached out desperately for Damian. Without hesitation, he rushed to your side, enveloping you in his arms. He pulled you close, pressing your face into his chest and shielding you from the rain of debris with his body.

Finally, the noise of destruction faded into a heavy silence. Damian lifted his head slightly, peering down at you.

“Are you okay?” he panted, voice edged with worry.

Shaken up, you heaved and shook your head vehemently, unable to find the words through your trembling fear.

“What the fuck was that?” 

"I don't have a single clue," Damian shrugged, eyes still scanning the room as he peeked over the edge of the table.

From the smoke emerged a middle-aged man, suspended in the air by his mechanical arms—sleek, metallic, and bristling with a variety of intimidating gadgets. The arms whirred and slashed through the air with deadly force, carving through the walls and sending more chunks of debris down.

“You think you can just throw away everything I’ve built?” the man roared. “This school, this place, it’s all been a mockery of my work, my life! I’ve sacrificed everything for this and you’ve repaid me with nothing but scorn!”

Damian cursed under his breath. He settled back down, biting off the fingertip of his glove and pulling it off with a grunt. Pulling up his sleeve, he tapped an emergency button on his wrist, activating a silent alert to his family.

“We have to go,” Damian whispered. He shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped you in the fabric, pulling you close. He lifted you effortlessly, cradling you in his arms as he sprinted through the chaos.

He carried you swiftly through the building’s hallways, the shrill sound of distant alarms and the echo of your hurried footsteps reverberating off the walls. When you finally reached a safer location, he paused briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any further threats.

“I’ll be okay,” you said, your voice trembling as he gently set you down. You gripped his hands tightly, trying to steady your breath. “Do—do you have your suit?”

“It’s in the car,” Damian grumbled, frustration evident in his voice as he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“I’ll stay here and start helping with evacuations,” you say, already moving to slip out of your heels, the shoes discarded onto the floor.

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, shaking your head firmly.

“No,” you said firmly, your scowl sharpening. “None of this again. I make my own decisions.”

Damian’s expression hardened. “You’re not a trained fighter. You’re not supposed to be in harm’s way.”

"It's just evacuations. I’m not going to be fighting," you met his gaze as you stood up straight again. “And I’m not going to stand by while others are in danger.”

��Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “but stay hidden and keep away from the villain.”

“I know,” you said softly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. You met his gaze lovingly before turning to re-enter the chaos. The corridors were now a frenzy of frantic students and faculty, desperately trying to evacuate.

Damian shot you one last look before sprinting back toward the parking lot.

You slipped back into the ballroom, heart pounding in your chest. The smoke swirled around you, as decor and debris lay strewn across the floor. Amid the chaos, you spotted a girl trapped beneath a toppled table, her muffled cries barely reaching your ears. Clutching your dress in your hands to avoid tripping, you hurried over to her.

“Hey, we need to move!” you called out, shoving aside the debris and wrestling with the heavy wood. With a determined push, you finally freed her from the wreckage. She wobbled as she stood, but you swiftly caught her, your grip steady and reassuring. “You’re okay now. Let’s get out of here.”

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Everyone’s heading for the exits. We need to move quickly,” you replied, guiding her toward the nearest emergency exit. The sounds of the villain’s rampage echoed through the room, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens.

Once the girl was able to get back on her feet and run on her own, you rushed to assist another group, directing them towards the exits and making sure they stayed calm.

SWISH.

There was a sudden, sharp slice, and you snapped your head back toward the ballroom. Damian had reappeared, now clad in his suit.

“Robin?!”

With a decisive, diagonal slash, his katana cleaved through one of the villain’s mechanical arms. The blade sliced through the metal with a sharp, resonant hiss, and the arm’s severed end burst into a cascade of dazzling sparks. Pieces of twisted metal flew through the air like shrapnel, their jagged edges catching the erratic light from the shattered chandeliers.

His cape, a deep, blood-red shroud, billowed behind him like a dark wave, trailing in his wake as he moved. The clash of his katana against the villain’s mechanical arms echoed through the room, each strike a precise blur of red and black. 

Amidst the fight, your eyes were drawn to a figure huddled in the far corner. The student, paralyzed with fear, was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed on the destruction unfolding before them.

Without a second thought, you sprinted towards them, nimbly navigating through the scattered debris and overturned tables. As you reached the student, you crouched beside them and gently placed a reassuring hand on their shoulder.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Alright? We’re going to get through this, but you need to move—now!” 

The student’s terrified eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope as they slowly began to rise with your help. Their breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, each exhale mingling with the smoky haze that filled the air. You grunted, your muscles straining as you slipped your arms beneath their shoulders, lifting them to their feet.

"Move!" you urged, guiding the student toward the doors. Their feet stumbled over the debris, but you kept a firm grip on their arm, pulling them along through the chaos. As you hurriedly navigated the wreckage-strewn floor, you felt a strange tingling sensation creeping up your leg.

It started as a subtle prickle, almost like static electricity, but quickly grew into an unsettling sensation that made your skin crawl. You glanced down, trying to pinpoint the source, but the shifting shadows and debris obscured your view. 

The legs of a spider, sleek and shadowy, crawled up the fabric of your emerald dress. Its tiny, pulsating body was nearly camouflaged against the rich material, and its eight eyes glinted with an eerie green glow, peering out from the shadows of the gown. 

Oblivious to its presence, you continued leading the student toward the safer part of the ballroom, focused on ensuring their escape.

The spider’s glow intensified, its eerie green light pulsating with an ominous rhythm as it crawled up your arm. Just as you pushed the student to safety, a sharp, burning sensation erupted where the spider sank its fangs deep into your skin. A piercing scream erupted from your lips.  The searing pain surged through your body, radiating outwards from the bite like a fiery wave. In a frantic, instinctive reaction, you slapped at your bicep, your nails digging into the skin. 

Panicked, Damian’s head snapped in your direction, eyes widening in alarm as he spotted you writhing in pain. In his moment of distraction, a metal arm swung violently towards him. The arm connected with a sickening thud against his side, the force of the impact sending him hurtling through the air. 

Damian crashed into a wall with a bone-jarring slam and his body crumpled to the ground, the force of the impact visibly shaking him. He lay there, gasping for breath, spit and blood spilling from his chin.

Groaning, he raised his head, feeling the crack in his mask press against his face. Strands of dark hair fell over his single exposed eye, partially obscuring his vision. Squinting through the haze of pain, he cursed under his breath as he saw the villain advancing toward you.

The spider's venom surged through your veins, a wave of searing, unbearable pain radiating from the bite. You stumbled and collapsed to the floor, struggling to stay upright. Pain tore through you as you crawled toward a nearby pillar, your fingers clawing weakly at the surface

Through the haze of your deteriorating vision and the throbbing fog that clouded your mind, you could barely make out the figure of the villain advancing toward you. His mechanical arms whirred with a menacing hum, their sharp, glinting edges catching the dim light of the ruined ballroom.

The last thing you saw before darkness swallowed you was a blur of red.

With a snarl, Damian lunged, his katana slicing through the air with deadly intent. The blade crashed into the villain's mechanical arm, the impact resonating like a gunshot. Sparks exploded from the severed joint, showering the room in a cascade of crackling light as the villain staggered, his metal limbs convulsing with malfunction.

Sliding across the debris-strewn floor, Damian executed a perfect skid, coming to a stop on his knees. He positioned himself between you and the advancing threat, his katana held in a poised, defensive stance.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Damian seethes. “A pathetic tantrum because your grandiose plans fell apart? You’re nothing more than a washed-up has-been clinging to your failures.” 

“You think you know what it’s like to sacrifice everything? To watch your life's work crumble? You have no idea what I’ve lost! My research was going to change the world!”

The villain’s mechanical arms flared up in response, their whirring growing louder as he prepared to strike again. Just as an arm was about to land, the piercing whir of a batarang sliced through the air. It struck the villain’s mechanical arm with precision, a bright explosion erupting from the impact. Damian grunted as he braced himself, holding firm against the shockwave, his muscles straining to keep steady. One hand instinctively dropped to your head, shielding you from the force. 

The villain recoiled in surprise, momentarily disoriented by the sudden blast, his movements faltering as the shockwave threw him off balance.

Suddenly, the room was engulfed in darkness. The lights flickered and died, plunging the space into a pitch-black void. Shadows danced along the walls, punctuated by loud bangs and the crackling of debris.

Through the darkness, Batman emerged, his imposing figure cutting through the shadows. The sound of his cape rustling was almost like a herald of doom as he got into a fighting stance.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was a low, commanding growl, “take the girl. I’ll handle it from here.”

Damian wasted no time, swiftly scooping you into his arms. The icy chill of your skin against his own drove a spear of terror through him. The panic clawing at the edges of his mind was a monster he couldn’t afford to face, not now. He focused on keeping you as steady as possible, though your limp form felt like dead weight against him.

He tore out of the ballroom, his shoes skidding on the polished floor as he barreled into the hallway. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale burning in his lungs, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. The entrance was just ahead.

Bursting through the doors, Damian propelled himself into the open air. The scene outside was pure pandemonium. Parents screamed for their children, kids clung to each other in terror, and the harsh wail of sirens pierced the night. Ambulance lights flickered like distant stars in the dark, red and blue blurs.

Now outside, Damian spotted a group of paramedics and, without a second thought, sprinted toward them. His hands shook slightly as he laid you down on the gurney, the coldness of your skin searing itself into his memory.

“She’s unresponsive,” he rushed out in a pant. “Pale skin, cold to the touch. Vital signs are unknown. She needs immediate attention.”

As he spoke, Selina rushed over, her fur coat billowing with each urgent step. The strands of her short, dark hair whipped wildly around her face, framing eyes wide with fear.

She bent down to your level, her breath visible in the cool night air as she placed a trembling hand on your forehead. Her fingers, warm against the alarming chill of your skin, recoiled slightly at the clammy coldness that greeted them. Selina winced, her gaze hardening as she took in the stark contrast between your deathly pallor.

“What happened?” she demanded, her voice taut with concern.

A paramedic, swiftly assessing your condition, replied, “We think she’s in shock. We’ll stabilize her and check for any other issues.”

Selina’s eyes, reflecting a storm of emotions, darted between you and Damian.

“Go,” she urged Damian, her voice carrying a firm edge despite the underlying tremor of her fear. “I’ve got this under control. Go take down that bastard and make him pay for what he did.”

Damian hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze lingering on you. Every muscle in his body screamed to stay, but there was still a threat that left no room for hesitation. He nodded and without another word, turned and sprinted back toward the building. His cape flared out behind him, a streak against the night sky.

Selina's eyes followed Damian's retreating figure momentarily before refocusing on the paramedics. She watched them with sharp eyes, taking in every action and every word. Her hand never left your forehead, each pass of her thumb trying to provide comfort that her heart couldn’t.

As the haze of unconsciousness began to lift, you slowly became aware of your surroundings. The dim, unfamiliar light filtered through your closed eyelids, and a dull, persistent ache from the bite lingered in your arm. You winced, raising a hand to your arm to find that the pain had subsided, leaving only a faint, dull throb. There was no scar, just a vague sense of discomfort. 

Was that just a dream?

Before you could think about it anymore, your aunt's face was already in your peripheral. 

Selina's voice caught in her throat as your eyes began to flutter open. Her grip on your hand tightened involuntarily, a mix of relief and worry playing across her features.

"Hey, there," she said softly. "You gave us quite a scare, sweetheart."

You stared at her in confusion, teeth chattering against the biting cold. Selina’s eyes softened and she shed her coat, the plush fur rustling softly as it slipped from her shoulders. With gentle hands, she draped the coat around you, the dense, velvety texture brushing against your skin. The rich, warm scent of her perfume mingled with the coat’s embrace. As the coat enveloped you, its heat began to seep into your shivering body, gradually easing the icy grip of the cold.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, the words more for her own reassurance than yours.

The night was supposed to be a celebration, a rite of passage, a milestone to cherish. Instead, it had turned into yet another brutal reminder of what Gotham’s streets truly were: a merciless battleground that chewed up hope and spat it out with a sneer.

God, this city was shit. 

Selina sighed, pushing those thoughts aside for the moment. The priority now was clear: get you home and into dry clothes.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly, her fingers tracing a path along your cheek as if trying to reassure herself that you were truly okay. 

“Dizzy,” you mumbled. A soft groan escaped your lips as you tried to shake off the haze clinging to your senses. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, only to snap open again with a jolt as a sudden realization struck you.

“Damian—where—” you gasped, your voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. In a frantic attempt to sit up, you tried to push yourself upright, but the paramedics and Selina were quick to intervene. Their hands gently, yet firmly, guided you back down onto the gurney.

“Whoa, easy there,” Selina murmured soothingly. “Don’t push yourself. The paramedics said you’re in shock. You need to stay still for now.” 

You could feel the gentle pressure of her hands, steady and reassuring, as they anchored you in place. Her eyes, bright green, locked onto yours, conveying more than words ever could. She took a breath, her gaze flickering to the paramedics who were working swiftly around you.

“And Damian is... with his father,” she said, her voice trailing off as she gave you a look, the unspoken meaning in it clear.

Selina’s gaze shifted back to the paramedics with her usual air of confidence. She squared her shoulders, her tone now authoritative.

“Is there a chance I could take her home?” Selina asked, brushing her fingers through your hair with a gentle but firm touch. “It’s getting late, and I’d really rather have her safe in her room.”

The paramedic, a no-nonsense woman named Helen, gave Selina a critical once-over before shifting her gaze to you. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in your pale face and the faint tremors still running through your body.

“Well, she’s stable enough for transport, and we’ve done the basic stabilizing procedures,” Helen said, her tone pragmatic. “But she’s still in shock, and it could be risky to move her too quickly. Are you sure you can handle her?”

“She’s my kid. I’ve dealt with worse, believe me,” she replied with a wry grin.

Helen’s gaze softened slightly, though her voice remained stern. “Alright, but she’ll need monitoring for the next 24-48 hours. Light meals, plenty of rest. And no strenuous activity. She should see a doctor as soon as possible.”

Selina’s fingers idly traced patterns on the back of your hand as she listened intently to Helen’s instructions. 

“I’ll make sure all of that’s taken care of. Thank you,” Selina said, her voice carrying a rare note of sincerity. Helen nodded, seemingly satisfied with Selina’s response. She handed Selina a card with basic instructions and a phone number to call if any complications arose.

Despite your reluctance to leave while Damian was still knee-deep in the battle, your hazy mind and Selina's insistence eventually led to you being pushed into the back of your aunt's sleek convertible.

The drive was a blur of city lights and concerned glances from Selina. You leaned back, your head resting against the cool, smooth leather of the seat. The gentle hum of the engine beneath you was a steady, rhythmic comfort, a small solace amidst the turmoil. 

"Don't worry," Selina murmured, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you. "Damian can handle himself. And the Bat will make sure he's safe. You rest. I'll tell you if anything happens to him."

Her words were a quiet promise amidst the rush of the city outside. You nodded weakly, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on your eyelids. As the city sped by, its neon glow and shifting shadows blending into a dreamlike haze, you closed your eyes. The fatigue finally overtook you, and you drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

༻⊰───⋅

 Sunday , 9:02 AM - Your room, Catwoman’s Apartment.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

There was a deep, throbbing ache in your arm, an insistent rhythm that seemed to pulse with each heartbeat, dragging you reluctantly from the depths of sleep. Your eyelids fluttered open to the soft, golden light spilling through the curtains, bathing your bedroom in a warm, comforting glow.

Through the thin walls, the distant murmur of the waking metropolis began to seep in—honking horns, the rhythmic rumble of early morning traffic, and the intermittent chatter of pedestrians starting their day. Occasionally, a siren's wail pierced through the background noise, a sharp reminder of the city's ceaseless pulse.

Faintly, through the walls, the muffled sound of the living room TV drifted to you.

“Good morning, Gothamites! Looking for another beautiful day here in the city. Clouds to start off with, but a pleasant afternoon ahead. Temperature’s in the high 40s—”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

With a groan of frustration, you reached out to silence the blaring alarm clock. As you swung your arm toward it, the clock was crushed under the force. It slammed into the table, which splintered and buckled under the impact. Wood cracked and shattered, sending fragments skittering across the floor. The sudden and violent destruction jolted you fully awake. You stared, wide-eyed and disbelieving, at the mess, your arm still extended in mid-air as if it was frozen.

“What the—?” you muttered, your voice trailing off as you inspected your hand. It looked like your hand, perfectly normal and familiar. Just a normal hand.

Carefully, you climbed out of bed, wincing as you surveyed the mess of splintered wood and scattered debris strewn across the floor. 

You paused. A sudden, sharp tingle pulsed through your arm, like an electric jolt that raced beneath your skin. It was both invigorating and disorienting, sending a rush of awareness through your senses. Instinctively, you turned your head, your reflexes sharp as your hand darted out to catch a fly that had buzzed too close.

To your shock, your fingers closed around the tiny insect with a reflex you didn’t know you possessed. You stared at the fly, trapped gently between your fingers. Carefully, you opened your hand and let the fly go. 

It darted away, disappearing into the room. 

“Okay... That was new,” you muttered, shaking your head as if trying to clear away the confusion.

The tingling in your arm surged again, sharper and more insistent this time. You winced, the sensation both alien and unsettling, your mind struggling to grasp what was happening. Instinctively, you extended your hand, your gaze fixed on it in growing confusion.

Then, without warning, your fingers curled involuntarily, and something shot out from your wrist. A thin, silvery thread erupted into the air, glistening with a strange, iridescent sheen. 

THWIP.

The web snaked through the room, swift and fluid, before anchoring itself with a solid thunk against the wall. The sight of it—a web, unmistakably organic, stretching taut and firm—left you gaping in shock.

“What the actual fuck,” you freaked out. You took a hesitant step forward and tugged on it, half-expecting it to dissolve under your touch. But the webbing held firm.

You tried to pull it away, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Grunting, you pressed a foot against the wall for leverage and yanked harder. The webbing resisted with surprising strength, and a series of warning cracks echoed before a chunk of concrete broke away, crumbling under the strain.

The sudden release caught you off guard, sending you stumbling backward. You lost your balance and fell hard onto the floor, the impact knocking the breath out of you. For a moment, you just lay there, sprawled across the hardwood, your chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what just happened.

“What the fuck did I just get myself into?” you muttered to yourself, a disbelieving laugh bubbling up in your throat.

When you finally moved to stand, curiosity got the better of you. Experimenting, you aimed your hand at different parts of the room, determined to understand this strange new ability. 

This time, when you extended your hand, the web shot out with precision, latching onto a nearby lamp. You gave it a pull, and the lamp skidded across the floor toward you.

There was another tingle, and you perked up. The sensation was almost electric, a ripple of anticipation that seemed to focus on your bedroom door. As you turned toward it, the door swung open and Selina stepped in, dressed in her pajamas.

"What's with the noise...?” she trailed off and froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as they took in the chaos of the room. Broken wood and scattered debris covered the floor, interspersed with strands of glistening webbing clinging to the walls and lamp.

“Oh,” Selina murmured in surprise. She stepped cautiously over a particularly large piece of broken wood, her eyes darting around the room. Her gaze lingered on the webs, her brow furrowing as she raised an eyebrow at you. 

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

You stood there, face heating up as you tried to pull your hand back. “Y-Yeah, I think I need to work on my control.”

Selina shook her head, a frown on her lips. “Okay. First... Let’s get this mess cleaned up before the landlord starts asking questions. And maybe—just maybe—try not to redecorate the whole apartment with your... spider silk.”

༻⊰───⋅

A warm mug of coffee was placed in your hands as Selina settled beside you. You took a sip, but your knee continued to bounce in an anxious rhythm. She had called the school earlier to inform them that you would be taking it easy for the week, citing sickness as the reason.

You cast a glance at the puncture marks on your wrists with a mix of disgust and unease.

Oh, you felt sick alright.

"Alright," Selina said, taking a sip from her own coffee mug and setting it down with a clink. "We need to figure out what’s going on and how to handle it. The sooner we get a grasp on this, the better."

You nodded absentmindedly, flexing your fingers around your mug.

Selina sat with a laptop positioned between the two of you, its screen a chaotic mosaic of open newspaper articles and news websites. Humming softly to herself, she clicked through the pages, her eyes darting across headlines and images. The rhythmic clatter of her clicks was punctuated by occasional pauses as she focused on key details.

“Am I a meta?” you blurted out, staring at your reflection in the dark liquid of your coffee.

"Well," Selina began, her tone measured, "based on what we've seen so far, you're likely displaying meta-human traits. Though," she added with a wry smile, "I'm pretty sure I’m human despite the whole cat shtick. Same goes for your mother. Your father...well, that’s a different story."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"

"Secretive guy. Kind of insane," Selina murmured to herself. "He did genetics research—"

She paused.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice trailing off as she seemed to piece together something significant. "Your father was involved in genetics research..."

Selina licked her lips before grumbling and typing into the laptop. The screen flickered, and she pulled up a dense academic paper with your father's name prominently displayed. The title read: "Genetic Enhancement through Arachnid DNA Integration: Potential and Pitfalls."

She stared at the screen for a moment, a mix of disbelief and concern crossing her face. "Total nutjob," she muttered, shaking her head.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the technical jargon. "So... what’s it say?"

Selina’s fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling through the dense paragraphs. "It describes experiments involving spider DNA to enhance human traits—strength, agility, and reflexes. Medical use too."

RING!

The sharp ring of your phone shattered the silence, jolting you both. Startled, you fumbled with the mug in your hand, which slipped from your grip and tumbled toward the floor. Your reflexes kicked in, and your foot shot out, catching the mug mid-fall with a swift kick, sending it flying back up into your hand. You blinked.

Selina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, her gaze flicking from the mug in your foot to you. She grabbed a notepad from the desk, her pen already poised, and began scribbling furiously.

“Fast reflexes,” she muttered.

You scrambled to set the mug back on the table, your hands slick with sweat as you snatched your phone off the couch.

"Hello?" you answered, nervously wiping your damp hands on the fabric of your jeans. "W-Who’s this?"

"Beloved?" Damian’s voice crackled through your phone, sharp with an edge of worry. Arabic curses slipped through his words. “I’m sorry for calling so late. I didn’t mean to. I was knocked out after the confrontation.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “You got knocked out? What happened?”

"Just a minor inconvenience for someone of my skillset," he said dismissively. "I’m fine now. But what of you? Father mentioned that Selina told him about your sudden absences from school.”

You hesitated, glancing at Selina, who shook her head vehemently. She pressed a finger to her lips, urging you to stay silent about the spider situation.

"Fine!" you squeaked. "Totally fine. Just... family matters."

Damian’s voice was laced with skepticism. "Family matters? Are you sure you’re alright?"

"Yep," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the strain. "Absolutely. Just... you know, the explosion rattled me a bit. The paramedics said I needed some rest for a few days.”

"I can head over to care for you—"

Selina rolled her eyes and extended her hand.

“Give me the phone,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. You hesitated for a moment, but the stern look on her face made it clear you had no choice. Reluctantly, you handed it over.

"Damian," she greeted him with a sickly sweet tone, "this is Selina. Everything is under control here. There’s no need for you to come breaking into my apartment."

There was a grunt before Damian responded, "Miss Kyle, I insist. It’s no trouble. I should be there to help. As any partner would."

Selina’s eyes flashed with irritation as she leaned against the couch, arms crossed. "I appreciate your concern, kid. But it’s really not necessary. She’s fine."

"Fine?" Damian’s voice took on a mocking tone. "After a confrontation like that? I highly doubt it. Recovery after such an incident can be complicated.”

Selina scowled. Her voice cut through the phone line with a sharp edge. "Damian, do you seriously doubt my abilities as a guardian?"

There was a pause.

"With all due respect—"

"I've got this!" Selina hissed. "She's safe, she's resting, and you're not needed here right now. Understood?"

There was another pause before Damian reluctantly agreed. "Understood. But if anything happens—"

"You'll be the first to know," Selina assured him "Now, go take care of yourself. I have got this handled."

"Fine," Damian said, still sounding begrudging. "Take care."

Selina handed the phone back to you, her expression exasperated. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“You couldn’t even imagine,” you snorted as you pressed the phone back to your ear. “Hi, baby.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the speakers, the faint static only adding to the gruffness of his tone. 

"Tt. Hello," he grumbled, his tone falling flat. You couldn’t help but snicker, the sound escaping despite your best efforts to stifle it. 

“Don’t be mad,” you whisper into the phone. “I’ll only be gone for a week. You’ll survive. Mom's right—I’m in good hands. You need to focus on recovering too.”

“Anything at all. Father and Alfred have confined me to my bed, but the window to my bedroom remains open. The sheer ignorance of their restraint measures astounds me—they failed to account for my skills in evading such confinement.”

"Please, don’t try to escape through your window on my behalf. I really don’t need Bruce lecturing us again,” you groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. 

“Very well,” Damian said with a hint of a pout, “but do remember, I am at your disposal if you should require anything.”

“Uh huh,” you hummed. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself, Dami.”

“And you, my beloved,” he said, his voice softening. “Until then.”

There was a beep, and the call ended. You sighed, letting your hand drop.

Selina took a sip of her coffee, her lips curling into a wry grin. “He’s just like his father—equally obsessive and protective. Must run in the genes. That or we just have a knack for ensnaring emotionally constipated men.”

You laughed, a light, nervous sound that filled the room. As you tried to drop your phone back on the couch, you were met with unexpected resistance. The phone stubbornly adhered to your hand, as if it had decided to become a permanent accessory.

“Uh…” 

You squinted at the phone, wriggling your fingers and trying to shake it off. No matter what you did, the phone remained firmly in place, glued to your palm.

"Sticky hands?" Selina suggested, glancing at the notepad in her hand now filled with scribbled notes and observations. She made a note with a touch of amusement, her pen moving quickly across the page.

Grumbling under your breath, you made a few more attempts to pry the phone off your hand. “Looks like it. Just another thing to add to the list of weird,” you huffed.

With furrowed brows, you used your other hand to grip the phone, attempting to twist it away. In your distracted state, you failed to account for your newfound strength. The device crumbled under your grip, shards of plastic and glass exploding across the couch.

You stared at the wreckage in disbelief, your heart sinking. Not missing a beat, Selina quickly scribbled down “Enhanced strength” on her notepad.

You grumbled as the remnants of your phone fell to the floor, a mix of frustration and embarrassment washing over you.

"Can't we—can't we call Batman for this?" you asked, your hand nervously tangling in your hair. "Why'd you stop me from telling Damian anyway?"

Selina’s expression turned severe. Her hands gripped your shoulders firmly, guiding you to face her.

"Listen to me. Batman, Damian, or anyone else cannot know about this right now."

"What—Mom—"

"Not a word," she cut in sharply. "This is meta-level stuff we're dealing with. The Bats don’t handle metas well. We need to keep this under wraps until we fully understand it. The last thing I need is Bruce doing something to hurt my daughter."

Your face fell as her words sank in.

Selina’s grip on your shoulders relaxed slightly, and her gaze softened. Her voice took on a gentler, more empathetic tone. "Power frightens people, especially when it’s something they don’t understand. When they encounter something extraordinary, their confusion often morphs into fear. And fear... well, fear can make people see threats where there are none."

She took a deep breath, her expression grim. "Batman, in particular, has contingency plans for every potential threat, even for his closest allies. We—I can't risk him viewing you as one." Her fingers tightened on your shoulders, a silent plea for understanding.

"Alright," you said quietly, trying to steady your voice. Lying to Bruce was one thing. But Damian... Damian was different. The thought of deceiving him felt like a weight pressing heavily on your chest.

Selina seemed to sense your hesitation. Her gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I know it’s not easy,” she said, her tone soothing. “Damian is—”

“Different,” you finished for her, the word catching in your throat. “He’s always been there for me, and now... I’m just lying to him.”

Selina nodded. “I understand. But you know, that boy looks up to his father. There’s no telling he won’t spill something. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

"I get it,” your lips pursed. “But... what do we do now?"

Selina’s expression shifted from intense to thoughtful as she took a step back, her grip loosening. She glanced at the scattered remnants of your phone, then at the notepad filled with her hastily scribbled notes.

"Well," she sighed, "we need to find another space. I think you've done enough damage in our apartment."

 ༻⊰───⋅

NEXT ->

[leighsartworks216]

Insatiable

Sylus x gn!Reader

Inspired by a gif I keep seeing that I have no idea how I'd find again and my own yearning

Not full smut but contains sexual content

Warnings: fluff, established relationship, implied sexual content, banter, sweat, kissing, cuddling, teasing, licking, marking, biting, swearing

Word Count: 511

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus takes a large gulp from the water bottle. It comes away from his lips with the sound of plastic snapping back into place and his panting breaths. He passes it over to you.

You're both sweaty, sore, and utterly shameless. It's a mystery how many rounds you've gone - though Sylus is probably still keeping count - and the night is still young.

Rivulets of water escape the corner of your mouth and trail the bruised, glistening length of your neck. He turns to lean over you, wasting no time as the flat of his tongue catches the stray drops. He sighs against your throat, leaving little pecks in his wake. "You need a shower, sweetie," he teases.

You chuckle as you stop drinking. "I'd need another one after."

"Mhm. Need help washing your back?"

He dissolves into laughter with you. His nose traces up along your jaw, nuzzles into your pulse and behind your ear. You reach to set the bottle aside on the nightstand, assisted by his Evol when you just can't quite close the distance. "You're insatiable." You grab his hair to pull him away. You're both grinning like fools. He's never looked prettier.

"When you're with me, it's a wonder I have any self-control." You pull harder and he laughs, cute little canines showing and eyes squinting from the pain he loves so much. "You can tap out at any time, beloved," he reminds you with a playful lilt. His eyes seem to gleam in the dim light. "You're just as insatiable as me."

You loosen your grip. "If I am, it's your fault."

He leans heavier into one hand where it presses into the mattress beside you, and catches your wrist before you can even think about pulling it away - not that you would. He holds it tenderly despite it all, holding it in place as he nuzzles into your palm. His face is warm. You'd think he was feverish if you weren't the cause.

"Hmm, I could be worse," he says, nodding to your naked body. "There's still some spots I've missed."

You snort. "Where?"

He hums, pretending to think as he kisses the meat of your thumb, up to your fingers. "Your left ass cheek."

You reach up with your free hand to pinch his shoulder. "You sure about that? ‘Cuz I can feel how sore it is."

"That's not from biting you." He rolls his eyes.

"It's still gonna bruise."

"Mm, should I kiss it better?"

"I can think of better uses for that pretty mouth of yours."

He huffs a laugh. "Such as?"

You comb your fingers through his hair, pushing his sweaty bangs from his face. He's so receptive to your touch. His eyes flutter slightly, head tilts into your hand, breath stutters. It's addictive just to see all the little reactions he has.

He's pliant as you cup his cheek and draw him close. He interlaces your fingers together, holds your connected hands over his rapid heart, and tilts his head to meet your lips and the languid pace you set.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[cyanide-e-pistachio]

Shuake Fics from 2024 that Give Bonafide ✨SHUAKE CLASSICS ENERGY✨🙏🏻

I've been seeing the frankly untrue sentiment that there are "no good Shuake fics out there right now". The purpose of this post is to not only provide evidence against that sentiment, but uplift fics from this year that, in my opinion, are just as good as any of the Shuake classic fics we might find at the top of AO3.

DISCLAIMER: I have not read every shuake fic in 2024, nor did I suggest fics that are currently ongoing (with one exception). If you feel like I missed a Bonafide Shuake Classic(tm) from this year, FEEL FREE to rb with your suggestion!!! This is all about uplifting the wonderful authors in the shuake community who deserve more love!!!!! xoxo

Rebellious Birds by @sixteen-juniper

A post-canon fic where Akiren and Akechi explore a new and deadly Mementos, and an encounter gone wrong forces the tension between them to the surface. I have always loved this author's writing style. Their prose and technique is 10/10.

crowded rooms and highways i call home by sailboating

Rahhhhhh I just finished this one so it is extremely on my mind but holy shit!!! What a classic!!! A early 2000s Band AU in which Akiren and Akechi discover their ship tag on Livejournal. Full of fun LJ references and callbacks to the fandom scene of the time. It was such a fun ride with incredibly engaging prose from the author.

true blue by campanellaes

Listen man, campanellaes is one of those authors where every work of theirs is gonna be a banger. True blue is no different. A very unique post-canon story where Akiren and Akechi are in the Shadow Ops together and we watch as their relationship slowly develops. If you're looking for a sweet yet hilariously chaotic shuake dynamic this is the one for you.

finger twist & split by nexxis

Oh my god NEXXIS is on a roll this year and this is not the last time you'll see this author on the list. Essentially Akiren jokingly mentions to Akechi that he'll finger him and Akechi devolves into gay panic for 6,000+ words. It's so incredibly delightful, hot, and full of fun introspection that I just adore.

Closed For Renovation by @chaoticconstellation

My god, what a wholesome fic AAHHHHH ok ok so basically it's a found family fic in which Sojiro and Akechi scheme with his friends to renovate Akiren's attic bedroom. It's incredibly sweet and just downright adorable at times. Definitely the Feel Good Fic of the Year(tm) for me.

A first spring with you by @manibarilo

A post-canon reunion longfic that just OOZES Shuake Classic energy. Five years after P5R, Akiren and Akechi reunite after Akechi is released from prison. Lots of fluff, wholesomeness, and healing ensue.

we apologize for our streamer by sailboating

This author is truly the master at writing engaging Shuake fics. A Twitch streamer AU in which a glitch streamer Akiren finds a chess streamer with zero viewers and simps. Hard lol. A great ride from start to finish, and despite being 35,000+ words it feels like it ends too quickly!

sweetness by nexxis

Another banger from nexxis. An ABO fic in which Akiren accidentally discovers Akechi is an omega. I just love the way their dynamic is written here, and it's also incredibly :fire: :fire: :fire:

But Live Another Day by @tomiokajen

This is the one exception to the completed fic rule because I've beta'ed it lol. However I think it deserves to be on this list as, much like a first spring, it oozes Shuake classic energy. A post-canon reunion fic that explores Akechi as a wildcard. The way Akechi is characterized in this fic is masterclass, and truly shows that the author has a very good understanding of him. I also love the OC links in this fic. Has classic energy through and though and I can't recommend it enough.

Old Habits Die Loved by @malevolentmango

Technically written in 2023 but I read it in 2024. I love fics where Akiren is in need and Akechi has to step up to help him, and this one does that in spades. An established relationship fic in which Akechi has to do some Scooby-doo style detective work to figure out what's been going on with Akiren. Lots of delicious hurt/comfort involved.

Valerie by bisexualbluesargent

Listen guys I KNOW this was technically posted in 2023 but this was literally posted A DAY before January 1st 2024 so I'll give it to them. A protagonist Palace Fic AU that SCREAMS classic Shuake Fic energy. Honestly I won't say much more than that because half the fun of this fic is piecing together the story, so please give it a read!

Alright, that's all I have for now! Again, if I missed anything please feel free to contribute! Have a lovely day! 💚

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary: Sunday morning at Agatha’s house starts innocently enough… until it doesn’t. Turns out, the kitchen has more to offer than just coffee.

Chapter Tags: Power Dynamics, Ethics Are for Mortals, Soft Moments Amidst the Heat, Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, Mommy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Kitchen Sesbian Lex 

Word Count: 9k

A/N: It’s 5 AM here, and I have no one to blame for my lack of sleep but Agatha Harkness and this absolute filth I've been pouring my soul into for the past four days. I had plans to be a functioning adult tomorrow since I am the designated xmas chef in my family, but instead, I stayed up crafting kitchen sesbian lex for you gorgeous, unhinged humans in my phone. Priorities, am I right?

And remember when I said Chapter 3 was the longest thing I’d ever written? Yeah, well… that record didn't last long. Behold 9k words of depravity only mommy!Agatha could inspire. So, I hope you’re ready to spend your xmas in the sin bin with me.

Happy reading, my fellow degenerates 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The next morning, you awaken gradually, muffled sounds drifting up from downstairs, gently drawing you back to wakefulness.

You immediately recognize Agatha’s voice, rich, melodic, carrying that unmistakable tone that shifts effortlessly between alluring and intimidating. Nicholas’s laughter echoes in the background, joined by another voice you don’t recognize. 

They’re talking, but the words are indistinct, a steady murmur. Then you hear the sound of the front door closing, and silence falls.

Groaning softly, you let consciousness settle, the faint throb of a headache a subtle reminder of the wine from the night before. 

Bit by bit, the blurry details of last night start to piece themselves together: you and Agatha almost kissing, her voice soft as she asked you to stay, and the haunting sound of her pleasure echoing in your mind as you retreated to the guest room to lose yourself in your own.

The memory makes heat rise to your cheeks, but you push it aside, shaking your head as if to clear it.

Deciding not to dwell on it, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand. You’re still wearing the oversized t-shirt Agatha gave you to sleep in, its hem brushing against your thighs as you pad barefoot across the room and into the hallway to head downstairs.

The house is silent, so quiet that you assume Agatha and Nicholas must have gone out. The thought of being alone eases some of your tension, though it leaves you feeling a bit… off. 

You make your way into the kitchen, still half-asleep and craving coffee, but the moment you step through the doorway your breath catches in your throat.

Agatha is sitting at the table, two stacked empty plates and a half-filled mug of coffee in front of her. She looks completely at ease, a quiet aura of domestic bliss enveloping her, and the sight almost knocks you off balance. 

She’s not wearing her usual tailored work outfits or the expensive accessories you’ve come to associate with her presence. Instead, she’s dressed in a dark grey sweatshirt and matching sweatpants—comfortable, simple, but somehow still effortlessly refined. 

Her hair cascades in loose, wild waves over her shoulders and down her back, and her face is bare, untouched by the usual hint of makeup. The simplicity does nothing to diminish her allure—if anything, it magnifies it, leaving you unable to look away.

Agatha senses your presence instantly.

Her head turns, and her gaze finds yours, steady and piercing. With an almost languid motion, she brings her mug to her lips and takes a slow sip, never once breaking the connection between your eyes.

You’re suddenly acutely aware that her t-shirt is the only thing you’re wearing, the soft fabric skimming over bare skin and leaving far too much of you exposed.

You shift awkwardly, feeling her gaze linger before she finally speaks.

“Good morning, hon.” she says with that ever-present undertone of playfulness.

“Good morning.” you groan back, your own voice still thick and raspy from sleep, betraying the weight of the night before.

The silence stretches, taut and charged, its heaviness almost laughable this early in the day. You clear your throat, forcing out the first question that drifts into your thoughts.

“Where’s Nicky?” you ask, tilting your head slightly, the movement unconsciously mirroring your curiosity.

“Rio picked him up this morning. They had a trip planned for today.” Agatha replies casually, her tone breezy, almost dismissive as she takes another sip of her coffee.

Her words click in your mind, and you realize the voice you heard earlier must have been hers, Rio’s. It feels odd to know that Nicholas and Rio were here just moments ago, yet now the house is empty except for you and Agatha. 

“Did you sleep well?” her question seems innocuous, but it lands like a jarring interruption, scattering your thoughts before you can fully process them.

“Yes.” you answer, forcing yourself to sound steady. “The bed was really comfortable. Honestly, I think I slept better than I do at home.”

“The guest bed is nice, but it’s not the most comfortable one in the house.��� she quips, the curve of her lips dancing on the edge of saccharine charm and predatory intent, her eyes alight with unmistakable mischief.

The meaning behind her words is impossible to miss. It lands with striking clarity, and for an instant, you falter. 

Then, slowly, you arch a brow, pairing it with a half-smile that practically screams, I can’t cope with your teasing first thing in the morning. 

“I really, really, need coffee right now.” you mutter, turning toward the counter to prepare some, your heart still racing from her comment.  

The hum of the coffee machine fills the room as you busy yourself. As you reach for a mug in one of the top cabinets, you glance over your shoulder. 

“Do you want some more cof—” the words catch in your throat. Agatha’s eyes aren’t on your face. They’re fixed, unmistakably, on your ass.

She doesn’t look away quickly enough, and for a split second, you see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe even the faintest hint of embarrassment. 

You blink, then a grin spreads across your lips as you seize the moment, not thinking too much about the words slipping from your lips.

“Something on your mind, Agatha?” you tease, your tone dripping with feigned innocence.

Agatha leans back slightly in her chair, recovering quickly. A slow, unapologetic smile curves her lips as she meets your gaze. 

“Maybe.” she replies nonchalantly, though there’s a fiery spark in her eyes that betrays her.

The tension thickens, and your heart pounds in your chest as a satisfied smirk spreads across your lips, impossible to suppress.

The coffee machine beeps, signaling that your morning fuel is ready, the sound slicing through the air like a blade. 

With your mug now filled, you turn and lean against the counter, your grip on the handle a little too tight.

The room feels quiet, too quiet, and you try to ignore how aware you are of her—how the air feels heavier with her in it. Then, her voice weaves itself into the stillness.

“I wanted to say…” she begins, her tone dropping lower, carrying a careful edge as if she’s testing the waters. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable last night, hon.”

Your stomach twists, a pang of disappointment spreading through your chest. You manage a soft laugh, hoping it sounds casual. 

“No, of course not.” you say, waving it off. “I figured… I mean, I knew it was just the wine.”

“The wine?” Agatha asks, her brows knitting together as confusion flickers across her face. 

Her reaction is subtle but unmistakable, and you realize instantly that your answer wasn’t what she expected, or wanted, to hear.

“Yeah. You know, it… loosened things up a little.” you nod quickly, looking away as you bring the mug to your lips. 

When you glance back, her expression has changed—sharper, more focused. Her eyes lock onto yours, and the intensity of her gaze makes you seriously consider crawling into the dishwasher for cover.

“It wasn’t the wine.” she scoffs, her voice firmer now, frustrated almost, cutting cleanly through the space between you. There’s no room for misinterpretation, no hesitation in her tone.

The air shifts as she pushes her chair back with a deliberate slowness, rising to her feet with an elegance that feels almost dangerous. 

How is it possible for someone’s movements alone to change the entire atmosphere of a room? The look on her face—annoyed, almost angry—isn’t one you see often, but it’s impossible to misread. It’s the expression of someone who’s extremely close to reaching the limit of their patience, and the tension radiating from her seems to charge the very air between you.

“Tell me, is it Nicholas?” she asks abruptly, her tone laced with mock curiosity and dripping with provocation, her lips curling into a wicked, knowing smirk. “Is that what’s holding you back? The fact that I’m his mother? Or is it the fact that you work for me? Does that little moral compass of yours make this feel wrong, unethical?”

Your heart stutters, her questions catching you completely off guard, every coherent thought scattering like leaves in the wind.

You can’t answer because, truthfully, you don’t know. Maybe it’s all of those things, or maybe it’s none. Perhaps you’ve clung to the excuse of ethics as a way to convince yourself you’re not selfish, to believe you’re a good person, whatever that means. But does that even matter when, for months, you’ve been lying in bed at night, your fingers between your thighs, her name a whisper on your lips, and the dark corners of your mind drowning in visions of her?

You honestly never thought Agatha would ever look at you like this, like she wants you, like she’s already decided you’re hers. And now, faced with the reality of it, you’re completely unprepared. You’d convinced yourself she was an indulgence, a fantasy to steal yourself away from reality at night. But now that she’s here, so real and so close, you have no idea what to do, no idea how to reconcile the fantasy with the reality.

And worse, you can’t find a single excuse for what might happen next. If ethics were just a convenient mask for your own fears, if it’s obvious now that she wants you as much as you’ve always wanted her… then what’s left to hide behind?

Her smirk deepens at your wordless floundering, her eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of unspoken triumph. She steps closer, the heat of her presence enveloping you, the air between you crackling with intensity.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’d never do anything to hurt Nicky. He’s my priority, always. But don’t confuse that with restraint.” her tone drops, low and velvety, her words wrapping around you like a silk ribbon pulling tight.

You know that she is right, about all of it. Agatha Harkness isn’t the kind of woman who lets anything—ethics, doubts, or even the love she has for her son—stand between her and what she wants. You know she’d never risk Nicholas’ well-being, but you also know that nothing gets in her way. Not morality, not caution, and certainly not you.

You blink once, twice, your grip on the mug tightening to the point you’re genuinely surprised it hasn’t cracked yet.

The room seems to shrink, the walls pressing closer as she takes one step forward, then another, each movement unhurried yet charged with intent.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, each beat echoing louder as she closes the distance. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing inches away, so close that you can feel the heat radiating from her skin, mingling with the inebriating scent of her perfume.

Slowly, she reaches out and takes the mug from your hands, her fingers grazing yours as she sets it down on the counter, the touch lingering just long enough to leave your skin tingling.

Her gaze drops, settling on the oversized t-shirt that hangs loosely over your frame. Her lips curve into one of those knowing smiles of hers, the kind that always makes you feel like she can see straight through you.

“This looks good on you, hon.” she murmurs, each word curling through the air like a caress. Her eyes drift back up, locking onto yours, and the intensity in her gaze knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I like seeing you in something of mine.” she adds, each syllable dripping with meaning.

You can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is stand there, your chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as the tension between you hums like a live wire. 

For a moment, time seems to pause. Then, without warning, a flood of memories crashes over you, unbidden and vivid, rushing through your mind like a reel on fast-forward.

You see it all in an instant, the whole past 4 months: the first time you stepped into this house and were struck by Agatha’s presence, how you immediately felt her gravitational pull. The way her voice always seemed to carry an edge of authority that made your pulse quicken and your thighs clench. The fleeting glances, the teasing comments, the nights you spent lying awake replaying the moments you could swear were more than just polite and casual conversation. Her scent lingering on the sofa after she left for one of her Friday night outings. The way her laughter filled the kitchen, rich and melodic, when Nicholas shared one of his funny anecdotes.

And then, last night. Her face mere inches from yours, close enough to see every intricate shade of blue in her eyes. The way her voice dipped when she asked you to stay. The sound of her, breathless and undone, breaking the silence of the night.

Your grip on reality snaps. 

Fuck it.

You are done. So. Fucking. Done. With this game, with her teasing, with the endless tug-of-war between your self-doubt and the ache that consumes you every time she’s near.

Your voice is low but steady as you finally speak, your lips curving into a sly smile.

“You know…” you pause, letting the tension hang between you, your eyes locking onto hers with bold intent. “I can think of a few other things of yours I’d rather have on me.”

It takes a heartbeat for your words to sink in, but when they do, the shift in her is instantaneous.

Her pupils dilate, the faintest twitch of her lips betraying her composure. She takes one final step forward, and the space between you vanishes entirely. 

Your breath hitches as she leans in, the warmth of her body enveloping you, the faint brush of her exhale against your cheek.

It feels just like last night, on the couch. But this time, there’s no wine to blur the edges, no excuses to hide behind.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name barely more than a breath, but it’s enough for her eyes to flicker with something raw, something unrestrained.

“Do you have any idea…” she murmurs, her voice a husky rasp “how long I’ve wanted this? How long I’ve wanted you?”

Her words slam into you like a shockwave, your knees threatening to buckle as a rush of heat coils low in your abdomen. You take in the raw hunger on her face, the barely restrained need, and with it, the last fragile threads of your restraint finally snap.

Your voice trembles, dripping with desire, as it escapes your lips.

“Then fucking take me already.”

Yours words hang in the air for the briefest second before she closes the distance, her movements charged with unbridled need.

She grabs you like she’s starving. One hand clamps firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against her, while the other slides up to the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair. 

The heat of her palm burns through the fabric of her t-shirt, branding itself onto your skin as her mouth crashes against yours.

The kiss starts slow, teasing, her lips achingly soft as they claim yours, drawing you in until nothing else exists. 

Without thinking, you let your tongue flick against her lower lip. And then, the dam breaks.

Your small, tentative act unleashes something feral and untamed in her. She deepens the kiss, her lips pressing harder, more demanding as her tongue curls and twists with yours, exploring, tasting, claiming with a hunger that leaves you dizzy and reeling. Each stroke feels purposeful, like she’s determined to make you forget how to breathe, how to think. 

Completely lost in the sensation, you cling to her, your fingers curling into the fabric of her sweatshirt as she presses closer. The edge of the counter bites into your back, but it’s a distant ache, overshadowed by the heat of her body against yours.

The moan that just slipped from your lips is still echoing in the air when you feel Agatha’s hands slide down, firm and purposeful, gripping your thighs just beneath your ass.

You catch on quickly, instinctively bracing on the counter for leverage. It happens seamlessly, her hands guiding you upward as you hoist yourself up with your arms.

In the process, for the briefest, agonizing moment, her lips leave yours, and it feels like a punishment. But the second you’re seated, she’s back, her mouth claiming yours with even more intensity than before. 

Her body slots perfectly between your thighs, her hips pressing insistently against yours as the kiss turns hotter, rougher.

You pull back just enough to gasp for air, your eyes half-lidded and dazed as you look at her.

“I need to see you.” you whisper, your voice breathless and thick with desperation as your fingers tug lightly  at the hem of her sweatshirt. “I want to see you.”

“Oh, you want to see me?” she coos, her tone low and laced with amusement as her breath ghosts over your cheek. “Then ask nicely, sweetheart.”

“Please, mo-” the word catches in your throat, half-formed, and your entire body stiffens at the realization of what you were about to say.

Shit, really?! That fast?! you think, half-mortified, half in awe of just how quickly you were folding for her. You’ve barely even started, and here you are, ready to hand over your dignity on a silver platter.

But Agatha’s eyes darken, her eyebrows arching in feigned surprise, while her lips curl into the most depraved smirk you’ve ever seen.

“Go on, baby. Say it.” she murmurs, a velvet invitation laced with command. “I know you want to.”

The air crackles with anticipation, every nerve in your body screaming at you to let go.

You try to hold back, clinging to the last shred of composure you have left, but it’s futile. The way she looks at you, the way her touch sends fire racing through your veins, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, mommy.” you whisper, the words trembling but filled with raw, unfiltered need. “Please, let me see you.”

Sinfulness flares up in her eyes, and the grin that spreads across her lips is equal parts dangerous and thrilling.

“That’s my good girl.” she praises, her voice dripping with satisfaction as her hands move to the hem of her sweatshirt.

When Agatha’s hands leave your body, you can’t stop the whine that slips from your lips. It’s needy and pathetic, but you’re already too far gone to care.

“Oh, sweetheart…” she mocks as she tilts her head. “You really are that desperate, aren’t you?”

Her words make your cheeks burn, and you bite your lip hard, swallowing back another whine. But the look on her face, so smug and in control, has you clenching your thighs around the edge of the counter.

Your gaze is locked on her hands as they slowly, tantalizingly lift the fabric. Her eyes never leave yours as she teases you with every inch of skin revealed, and when the sweatshirt comes off entirely, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

She’s bare beneath it. Completely bare.

Your mouth goes dry, and then the exact opposite—you feel your tongue press against the roof of your mouth as you practically salivate at the sight of her.

“Look at you.” she purrs, a wicked grin spreading across her lips as she tosses the sweatshirt aside. Her hands slide to her hips, her fingers brushing over her skin as if to emphasize the curves you can’t stop staring at. “You’re such a fucking mess for me.”

Your teeth sink harder into your lip, your eyes shamelessly roaming her chest. You’re utterly entranced—the fullness of her breasts, the way her nipples harden in the cool air, her confidence radiating off her in waves. Everything about her leaves you utterly speechless.

She notices, of course she does, and her grin sharpens, cruel and knowing.

“This little shirt of mine… it’s cute on you. But wouldn’t it look better crumpled on the floor?” she coos as her fingers hook under the hem of your t-shirt, lifting the fabric just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach.

“Tell me, sweetheart…” she drawls, her tone dripping with mockery as she leans in closer, her breath brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you want mommy to strip you down? Hmm? Want me to see every inch of that needy little body of yours?”

Your body reacts before your brain can catch up. You nod quickly, far too eagerly, your thighs pressing against her hips as your breath comes in short, uneven bursts.

She smirks at your silent response, her nails dragging upward, grazing the underside of your breasts.

“You’re gonna have to use your words, baby.” she whispers, her tone dark and commanding. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Your voice seems nowhere to be found, the weight of her touch and her voice combined too much to bear. But, when her nails scrape higher, barely brushing your nipples, words spill out in a rushed, broken plea.

“Take it off, mommy, please.” you whimper, your voice shaky and drenched in desperation. “I need you, I need you touch me.”

Her laugh is low, and entirely self-satisfied. 

“That’s better.” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Such a good girl, begging so pretty for me.”

In one fluid motion, she yanks the t-shirt over your head, tossing it aside with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes rake over your bare skin, the hunger in her gaze making your thighs tremble.

“You’re perfect, baby.” she breathes, her voice rough and uneven, her restraint barely in check.

Agatha doesn’t hesitate. Her lips descend on your breasts with a ferocity that makes your entire body jolt. Her tongue flicks over a sensitive peak, and you can’t stop the cry that rips from your throat as your head falls back against the cabinet with a soft thud.

“Fuck!” you gasp, your body arching into her mouth as her teeth graze you, the sharp sting sending a delicious pulse straight between your legs.

She doesn’t stop. Her tongue circles the hardened bud, before sucking hard enough to pull a strangled moan from your lips. The sound only seems to spur her on, her mouth devouring you with unrelenting hunger.

Her finger slides up your thigh, nails dragging across your skin, stopping at the edge of your panties, teasing, her thumb brushing over the damp fabric.

You’re completely lost in the moment, drowning in the heat of her mouth on your chest and the agonizing proximity of her fingers to where you crave her touch the most.

But as her lips move to your other nipple, sucking it into her mouth with equal fervor, one frustrating realization claws its way through the haze of your pleasure. 

She’s still wearing her sweatpants.

For some lame, inexplicable reason, the thought makes your blood boil, snapping you out of your trance just enough to notice the imbalance. She’s standing there, all smug dominance, fully in control while you’re bare and completely at her mercy.

It won’t do.

One of your hands finds her chest, cupping her breast with a boldness that earns a muffled groan against your skin. You squeeze, your thumb flicking over her nipple just as your other hand trails downward, nails scraping over the curve of her hip before hooking under the waistband of her sweatpants.

The sudden touch makes her pause. Her lips leave your chest abruptly and her head snaps up, narrowed eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, she looks almost… intrigued.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, a dangerous edge lacing her tone.

Your fingers tug lightly at the waistband, your lips curving into a smirk. 

“Catching up.” you murmur, your voice breathy but steady, even as your fingers push lower.

“Is that right? And here I thought you couldn’t wait for mommy to take what’s hers.” she purrs, her voice as cocky and controlled as ever. But the faint roll of her hips, the way her body leans just slightly into your touch, betrays the fire burning under her skin.

Your hand moves decisively, slipping lower and sliding beneath the fabric of her sweatpants and underwear in one seamless, fluid motion.

The second your fingers touch her folds, you both moan obscenely loudly.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me.” you whisper, reverent and breathless, as your fingers slide through her slick heat.

Her groan is low and guttural, her control slipping as both of her hands fly to your hips, gripping you tightly as her head dips closer to your ear.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” she growls, her breath hot and ragged against your skin. “But if you think you’re calling the shots, baby, think again.”

But you barely register Agatha’s words. You’re too lost in her—the way she feels against your fingers, wet and burning hot, the slight roll of her hips against your hand.

You realize that your own hips have started moving on the counter, mirroring her rhythm, your body subconsciously chasing the same friction.

The heat between you is unbearable, your body responding to every movement, every sound, every flicker of dominance she tries to hold onto. You can’t help but press your fingers deeper, teasing her entrance, dipping just enough to feel the way she clenches around you. 

But, of course, Agatha won’t give in and relinquish control that easily. One of her hands snaps to your wrist, her grip firm and unyielding, halting your movements in an instant.

“Mmh, looks like I’ve got a greedy little brat on my hands.” she purrs, her voice a silky threat. Her eyes gleam with intent as she removes your hand. “Let’s fix that.”

Before you can respond, her hands grip your hips firmly, dragging you forward off the counter in one fluid, confident motion.

You instinctively wrap your legs around her waist, your arms looping around her neck for balance. Your chest is pressed flush against hers as she effortlessly takes back control.

“W-what are-” you stammer, but your words are cut off as her lips find yours again, her mouth devouring yours with a ravenousness that leaves you lightheaded.

You immediately kiss her back with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in her hair, your teeth catching her bottom lip in a teasing nip. The combination earns you a raspy moan slipping from her throat, and your hips grind instinctively against hers.

You assume she’s taking you to the table to set you down, the same way you were perched on the counter. But when her stride slows, instead of placing you on the table, Agatha lowers you to the ground.

The second your feet touch the floor, her hands are on your waist, spinning you around with a forceful motion.

You gasp as your hips meet the edge of the table and a knee slots between your legs to part them. Your palms fly forward, bracing yourself on the cold wood as her presence looms behind you, her breath warm against your neck.

Her front presses against your back, and the fabric of her sweatpants brushes against the bare skin of your ass. The contrast—soft cotton against heated skin—is maddening, and you push back instinctively, grinding against her.

“Let’s get rid of these, shall we?”  she murmurs, her tone carrying the faint lilt of a question, though it’s clear no answer is required, no permission sought. Her fingers hook under the waistband of your panties, her intent already decided.

She pulls them down in one smooth motion, the fabric slipping over your thighs and pooling around your ankles. The cool air brushes against your wet core, but you barely have time to process the sensation before her hands are back on you, landing on your hips with a firm and possessive grip. 

One hand stays there, squeezing tightly, grounding you while the other slides lower. Her fingers graze your ass before dipping further between your thighs to brush against the wetness dripping down your legs.

Her touch is maddening—a tantalizing blend of featherlight and firm—as her fingers glide through your folds. The wet mess she finds draws a low groan from her throat, a sound that’s both satisfied and utterly depraved.

“God, you’re soaked.” she growls, her voice rough and thick with lust as her other hand tightens its grip on your hip, holding you firmly in place as you instinctively try to roll them.

Her fingers press against your entrance, circling, teasing, never giving you the satisfaction of what you need. Your knees threaten to give out as you cling to the table for support.

“Agatha—” you choke out, your voice trembling with desperation. Your hips buck involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking her, but she pulls her fingers away just enough to leave you whining.

“That’s not how you address me, sweetheart.” she murmurs as her nails dig into your hip just enough to promise marks you’ll feel later.

You shake your head, your breath coming in short bursts as you try to find the words.

“Please.” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please, mommy, I need—”

Before you can finish, two fingers plunge into you, your breath catching at the sudden fullness. 

Your body arches instinctively, your walls fluttering around her fingers as she sets an infuriatingly controlled rhythm. You can feel every drag of her fingertips against your inner walls, waves of pleasure crashing over you with each calculated stroke.

“Look at you.” she coos, her own tone ragged and breathy, but never losing its condescending edge. “Dripping down my table, clenching around me like you don’t ever want me to stop. Is that it, baby? You don’t want mommy to stop?”

“Fuck! Don’t stop!” you gasp, your voice barely recognizable, breaking on the words as your fingers dig into the edge of the table. “Please mommy, don’t stop!”

Your words are still hanging in the air when she slams a third finger into you, the stretch pulling a sharp cry from your lips.

She chuckles darkly, and even without seeing her face, you can picture it perfectly—that satisfied, smug grin of hers, curling across her lips, oozing with triumph.

Her fingers thrust harder now, deeper, each movement striking that perfect spot inside you with unerring precision, sending tremors through your thighs. The sheer pleasure sends your body folding forward, your elbows replacing your palms on the table as your head dips low.

You can hear it, the obscene sound of how wet you are as she sinks into you over and over again. The slick, rhythmic noises filling the space between her low groans and your soft mewls.

Her pace is merciless as her fingers drive you closer and closer to the brink, your body trembling under the unbearable pressure as it builds to a breaking point. Every nerve is alive, ablaze and hypersensitive, and you’re so close, so achingly close—the coil inside you feels stretched to its limit, ready to snap and drag you under completely.

And, apparently, Agatha feels it too.

Her fingers slide out of you slowly, and your walls clench around the sudden emptiness, making you whimper. But before you can beg, before you can even think, her hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp crack of her palm against your skin echoing through the room.

The sting is immediate—electric, and utterly unexpected—dragging a strangled gasp from your lips. The sheer force and suddenness make your elbows buckle, your upper body collapsing fully onto the table, palms splayed weakly on either side of your head.

“That’s for making me wait so damn long.” she snarls, her voice dripping with controlled anger as her fingers ghost over the burning outline of where her hand just landed. “For wasting my time when we both knew you were already mine.”

Her words send a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs, but before you can process it, another spank lands on your other cheek, just as sharp, just as precise.

You cry out, your hands scrambling for purchase on the table as the sting radiates through you, mixing pain with a sickeningly addictive pleasure.

“Say you’re sorry, baby.” she commands, her free hand sliding up your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you firmly in place.

“I—I’m sorry, mommy!” you manage, your voice trembling as your nails dig into the wood beneath you.

“Louder.” she growls as her nails lightly scrape the tender flesh of your ass, making you hiss.

“I’m sorry, mommy!” you cry, your voice breaking on the words as your thighs clench together instinctively, desperate for any friction, any relief.

“Good girl.” she praises, her tone softening just a fraction. “Apology accepted.”

Her fingers plunge back into you with a roughness that makes your body instinctively try to arch off the table, but the hand forcefully planted between your shoulder blades keeps you pinned in place, pressing you down and keeping you bent over, completely at her mercy.

“Do you hear yourself, baby? How good you sound when I’m ruining you?” she groans, her tone husky and frayed as the wet, filthy sounds of her thrusts fill the air once more.

You don’t even try to answer, you can’t. You’re too far gone, blissed out beyond reason, your mind an empty haze, her fingers fucking every last coherent thought straight out of your head until all that’s left is her.

Agatha’s pace is so brutal and purposeful that it seems impossible it could increase, that her fervor could intensify. But then the pressure on your shoulder blades vanishes and her hand moves back to your hip. 

She grips you with bruising strength as she pulls you back onto her fingers, forcing you to take her deeper, faster, leaving you no room to escape the overwhelming sensation.

“You want to come, don’t you?” she scoffs, her breath hot against your neck as she leans in closer, her teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You want me to let you fall apart right here on this table?”

“Yes!” you gasp, your voice breaking as you cling to the edge of the table for dear life. “Yes, please, mommy—please let me come—I can’t—”

“Not until I say so.” she warns, cutting you off. “You’ll come when I tell you to, and not a second before.”

“Please!” you beg, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, the need for release becoming too much to bear. “Please, mommy, I’ll be good—I’ll be so good, just please—fuck!” 

It’s clear that your pleading isn’t just affecting you—it’s unraveling her too, every word dragging her closer to giving in and granting you what you’re unashamedly begging for. The proof is in the sounds spilling from her lips, perfectly synchronized with each slide of her fingers into your dripping hole. Each thrust draws a deep hum, a choked groan, as if your submission alone is enough to push her to the edge. It’s intoxicating, the way her pleasure seems to mirror yours, feeding off your helplessness, as though dominating you is quickly becoming her favorite indulgence.

As her fingers curl insistently against that delicious spot inside you, her other hand leaves your hip, gliding between your thighs to find your clit.

There’s no room for teasing as her fingers press and circle it with merciless speed, each motion exquisitely calibrated to make you clench greedily around her fingers buried deep inside you. 

You bite down hard on your lip, the sharp sting an attempt to ground yourself, but it’s no use. The dual assault of her thrusts and the devastating rhythm against your clit is too much, too perfect, her control over your body absolute.

You’re barely holding on by a thread, fighting desperately to keep the orgasm at bay. 

Your knuckles turn white as your grip tightens on the edge of the table, searching for any semblance of stability while your hips twitch erratically. Your whole body is trembling, helplessly teetering on the edge of blissful oblivion, every muscle locking tight as the inevitable surges closer.

Agatha knows. She feels it—the way your walls flutter around her fingers, the way your thighs quake with each jolt of pleasure, the way your cries are pitched higher and higher. Her voice cuts through the haze, a final push into the abyss.

“Come for me, baby. Now.” she commands, and the finality in her voice does it.

The words hit you with thundering force, igniting every nerve in your body as the orgasm crashes through you—it’s blinding, a white-hot explosion that obliterates everything else, consuming you entirely.

You’re breathless, helpless as she continues to thrust into you, wringing every last drop of ecstasy, guiding you through the aftershocks as your body twitches with lingering tremors.

“Yes, just like that.” she murmurs, her voice soft and brimming with pride. “Such a good girl for me.”

The hand on your clit withdraws, only for her arm to slip between your body and the table, wrapping securely around your waist as she gently pulls you upright. 

A few seconds later, her other hand stills, and her fingers slip out of your core, leaving a hollow ache that draws a soft whine from your lips. But the tenderness in her touch as she turns you around and envelops you into her arms quiets your mind completely.

You collapse against her, your legs barely able to hold you up as you rest your head on her shoulder, her lips brushing your temple in a soothing kiss.

“You did so well, baby.” she praises, her voice like velvet wrapping around your senses as her hands trace slow, idle patterns along your back. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You nod weakly, too spent to speak, your body still trembling in her arms. The world feels distant and blurred, but the warmth of her embrace grounds you, pulling you back piece by piece. 

“You’re everything I imagined.” she murmurs, her voice carrying that playful edge you’ve come to crave. 

“And trust me, I imagined this—” her lips curl into a smirk that you can feel against your temple. “—a lot.”

Your head tilts back just enough to meet her gaze, and the glint in her eyes makes your stomach flip.

“Oh?” you ask, a hint of a laugh in your voice. “Care to elaborate?”

“I’ve pictured bending you over this table more times than I care to admit.” she says, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. “And now that I finally have…”

Her words trail off, unfinished but loaded with meaning. 

Her eyes roam your face, taking in every detail as if she’s trying to commit you to memory. You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and a new warmth stirs low in your belly, reigniting the fire you thought had been temporarily quenched.

“Well…” you murmur, your voice soft but full of intent “you’re not the only one who’s been fantasizing about this table.”

Her brow arches, the flicker of intrigue and surprise in her expression sparking a surge of confidence in you. Before she can respond, you move.

Your hands find her waist, gripping her firmly as you spin her around and guide her back toward the table. She lets you, her movements uncharacteristically yielding as she stumbles slightly, her smirk faltering into something curious, fascinated.

“Sweetheart, what are you—”

You don’t let her finish. Your lips crash into hers with all the passion you’ve been holding back. The kiss is deep, slow, a manifestation of everything you’ve been feeling—the pent-up longing, the intensity of what just happened, the desire that refuses to fade.

She responds immediately, her hands gripping your waist as the back of her thighs hits the edge of the table.

One of your hands slides up her side, your palm grazing the curve of her breast before cupping it fully. Your thumb circles her nipple, the taut peak hardening under your touch as she moans into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips and spurring you on.

Your lips trail away from hers, leaving a path of open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, slowly working your way down.

Once you reach her chest you take your time there, lavishing her with attention. Your hands knead her breasts while your tongue teases one peak, flicking and swirling before closing your lips around it and sucking hard.

Agatha’s head falls back and her body arches into your touch, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her nails bite into your waist.

You switch sides, your mouth now focused on her other breast while your hand continues to play with the first, pinching and rolling her nipple between your fingers.

You can hear her uneven breathing, her chest rising and falling rapidly as you worship her, but it’s not enough. 

Your hand trails lower, your fingers finding the waistband of her sweatpants. You glance up at her, and the impatience in her eyes makes your lips twitch into a smirk.

You hook your fingers into both her sweatpants and underwear, yanking them down in one swift, decisive motion. For a fleeting moment, the field seems leveled—Agatha now as bare as you, her body exposed to your gaze. It’s almost enough to fool you into thinking she’s relinquished some of her control.

But you know better. No missing layer will strip her of the commanding presence she effortlessly exudes. If anything, her confidence seems to grow sharper, like she knows exactly how her body affects you, how completely entranced you are by every inch of her now on display.

Agatha carelessly kicks the discarded fabric to the side and leans back against the table, hands gripping the edge with an ease that feels almost like a challenge—an unspoken dare for you to come forward.

The morning light streaming through the kitchen windows catches on her skin, as if the sun itself is conspiring to exalt her, highlighting every sharp line and soft curve of her body.

You scoff quietly at yourself, almost amused by the thought that you ever believed, even for a second, that you could resist her. As if morality, self-doubt, or even the frailest shred of common sense could have won against her. Against this.

Not that you wanted to resist—not really. And now, with her standing there like this, completely bare and unapologetically commanding, the only thing you can think about is how badly you want her, how you can’t wait a second longer to taste her.

You drop to your knees slowly, the cool floor biting into your skin but only serving to heighten your anticipation. Your hands glide down her thighs and her stance shifts, her legs parting instinctively to make room for you.

Agatha’s breath catches almost imperceptibly as she looks down at you, her expression a mix of dominance and barely restrained need.

From this angle, she looks even more imperious, and the thought that you’ve put her in this position, that you’ve brought her to this point, sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your own thighs.

“Oh, baby…” she purrs, her tone dark and laced with sin. “How many times have you thought about this, hmm? About getting on your knees for me like a good little girl. Every time you walked into my kitchen?”

Your cheeks burn at her words, but the heat only fuels your resolve. Instead of responding right away, you lean forward, your lips brushing her inner thigh. She’s dripping, and the glistening evidence of her arousal makes your mouth water and your lips curve into a smug grin. 

You look up at her from beneath your lashes, your breath ghosting over her slick heat. She tenses, a sharp inhale escaping her as you trail soft kisses upward, closer and closer to where she wants you most.

“You talk too much… mommy.” you murmur sultrily against her skin, the emphasis on that last word a bold, blatant act of defiance.

Then, without warning, you dive in, tasting her for the first time.

The first glide of your tongue through her folds draws a strangled moan from her lips, her body jerking involuntarily as her fingers tighten against the edge of the table.

The taste of her—rich, and utterly addictive—sends a rush of heat straight through you. It’s overwhelming in the best way, every nerve in your body coming alive as you bury your face between her legs, your tongue moving with purpose.

Her slickness coats your tongue with every stroke, and you can’t stop the soft whimper that escapes you at the sheer decadence of it. Her hips buck against your mouth, seeking more, and you eagerly give it to her, your tongue circling her clit before dipping into her entrance, savoring the way she clenches around you.

“Fuck.” Agatha hisses, her composure beginning to crack. “That’s it- deeper.”

You press your tongue further, sliding it in and out of her languidly, curling it just right and relishing the way her walls flutter in response. The husky sound that escapes her throat makes your thighs clamp instinctively, the rawness of it fueling your determination.

You feast on her, losing yourself in the act of pleasing her, in how her body arches slightly as if trying to take more of you, in the way her scent and taste consume you entirely.

As you bask in the illusion of control, one of her hands leaves the table, drifting to the back of your head. Her fingers weave into your hair, tightening their hold—not enough to hurt, but firmly enough to remind you exactly who’s in charge.

“Stay still now, baby.” she growls, her voice edged with impatience and laced with unyielding authority. “Let me take what I want.”

Her words make your core clench so hard it aches, slickness dripping shamelessly down your thighs as you eagerly offer your tongue, sticking it out for her to use as she pleases.

Her rhythm starts slow, her hips grinding lazily against your mouth, each movement steeped in self-satisfaction. The wet, decadent sounds of her arousal fill the room, blending with the throaty cries spilling from her lips, each one more unrestrained than the last.

You realize that despite every fantasy you’ve ever had, nothing could have prepared you for this. For her. 

You’ve dreamed about this for months—what she’d taste like, how she’d sound, how she’d react to your touch—but the reality is so much more intense, it’s almost too much to bear. Every flick of her hips, every whimper, every broken curse escaping her throat makes your head spin, your body aching with the need to please her. Her dominance is inebriating, her pleasure a reward you’d gladly chase forever, and all you can do is hold on as she uses you, as she takes what she wants, what she needs.

She starts grinding faster on your mouth, her pace growing relentless, chasing her release with increasing desperation.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” she groans, her voice hitching as your lips close around her clit to suck softly. “Always knew you’d be perfect on your knees.”

Her words set your cheeks ablaze, but the heat only emboldens you. Your fingers dig into the pale flesh of her thighs, steadying her as you redouble your efforts—your tongue circling her clit before flicking over it in quick, precise strokes.

“Right there- fuck, don’t stop.” she gasps, her head falling back as she cries out.

You can tell she is close and you obey without hesitation, your tongue pressing harder against her clit, driving her higher and higher.

You glance up at her through your lashes, and the sight—her head thrown back, lips parted in ecstasy, chest heaving, her entire body trembling with pleasure—almost makes you come on the spot.

This is all you’ve ever wanted. Her. Like this. Falling apart under your touch. And God, you’ll do whatever it takes to make her come undone completely.

Suddenly, her grip in your hair tightens, almost painfully, and she pulls you impossibly closer, her thighs tightening around your head. Her hips grind against your mouth with wild abandon, and you realize she’s taking over completely, using you to push herself over the edge.

“Fuck, yes- take it, baby.” she snarls, her voice cracking as she rides your face with frantic movements, her nails digging into your scalp with each snap of her hips.

The mix of sensations makes you moan loudly against her, and it’s the vibrations reverberating through her that ultimately tip her over the edge.

Her hips stutter and her release hits with devastating force, her body shuddering violently as her pants and groans grow into sharp cries. 

Her juices flood your mouth as she comes undone, and you don’t stop, your tongue working her through every wave of her orgasm, lapping up every last drop and savoring each second of her shaking, gasping form.

When her movements finally slow, her grip on your hair loosens, and she slumps back against the table, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to catch her breath.

Her hand slides from the back of your head to cradle your cheek, her thumb brushing gently over your flushed skin. The tender touch makes your eyes flutter closed, but the moment shifts as she smears her arousal deliberately across your lips, the gesture both possessive and searingly intimate.

When your eyes open and your gaze lifts to meet hers, the sight of her staring down at you leaves you breathless. Passion smolders in her darkened eyes, with a glimmer of admiration flickering in the depths of her blown-wide pupils, making it impossible to look away.

“Good girl.” she murmurs, her voice rough yet rich with praise. “You’ve outdone yourself, baby.”

Agatha’s hand glides down your arm, steadying you as she helps you stand. Once you’re upright, her fingers trail back up, brushing over your skin until they reach your jaw, gently tilting your face toward hers.

Her lips capture yours in a kiss that’s slow and indulgent, her tongue brushing against yours as she moans softly, tasting herself on you.

You let out a quiet whimper as her tongue flicks over your lower lip, savoring the evidence of her own release. 

The kiss deepens, and time seems to dissolve, the world narrowing to just the two of you, the warmth of her mouth, the press of her body, the way her hands skim possessively over your waist.

When you finally pull back, breathless and dazed, you let out a faint chuckle, shaking your head. 

“If we keep going like this, we’ll end up spending the entire Sunday fucking.” you joke, your tone light and playful despite the lingering breathlessness in your voice.

Agatha snorts, a short, genuine laugh spilling from her lips as she rests her forehead against yours. 

“Tempting as that sounds…” she murmurs, her eyes glinting with amusement “I was actually thinking about taking a shower, care to join me?”

You nod, your voice caught in your throat, as she takes your hand and leads you out of the kitchen. The gesture catches you off guard, and you can’t help but glance down at her fingers intertwined with yours—her grip firm yet tender, guiding you into this uncharted territory with quiet confidence.

You follow her up the stairs, your eyes drawn to the sway of her hips and the cascade of her wild hair tumbling down her bare back. Even in this quieter moment, her confidence radiates effortlessly, pulling your attention with every step.

You thought you were just going to take a simple shower. Adorable. Truly, the height of naivety.

The moment your back meets the cold tiles, Agatha’s hands are on you. One grips your thigh firmly before sliding down to hook under your knee, lifting it effortlessly and wrapping your leg around her waist. The hot water beats down, soaking you both, but all you can feel is the heat of her mouth tracing over your skin and the relentless thrust of her fingers inside you.

Her body presses yours firmly against the wall, her wet hair sticking to her face in chaotic strands that only make her look more feral, more untamed. You can’t even focus on the steam blurring your vision or the water rushing over you—just her teeth grazing your collarbone, her nails digging into your thigh, and the delicious stretch of her fingers curling just right. It’s messy, slippery, and you can’t stop the breathless laugh that escapes your lips between gasps of pleasure.

By the time you step out of the shower, your legs are unsteady, and your chest heaves with exhaustion. Agatha wraps a towel around you, her touch uncharacteristically caring as she gently pats you dry before tending to herself.

In her bedroom, she hands you another oversized shirt and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. You dress in comfortable silence, but as the two of you change, a strange, heavy realization settles over you.

This changes everything.

Your gaze flits to Agatha as she adjusts the waistband of her pants, and an unexpected pang of uncertainty grips you—not about her, or even about everything that just happened, but about what it means for everything beyond this moment. For you, for her, and for Nicholas.

You’re not sure how to voice it, but the weight of it presses on your chest, and Agatha seems to notice. She steps closer, her brows furrowing slightly as she tilts her head, studying your expression.

“Hey…” she murmurs, her usual teasing edge replaced by something softer, almost disarming. “What’s rattling around in that pretty little head of yours, hmm?”

Her hand comes to rest lightly on your arm, and the way she looks at you—steady, calculating, yet undeniably understanding—makes your heart skip a beat. She’s not demanding, but offering, giving you room to decide whether to speak or retreat.

You’re not sure what to say, or even where to start, but the warmth of her hand on your arm tell you it’s okay. That whatever you need to say, she’ll listen.

[sweeterthanficstion]

— twelve dates 'til christmas || l.s.k ⋆⁺₊❅.

christmas party / fake relationship / re2r leon! ❆ for @leonsecretsanta event! ❆ gift for @calbloodypigeon ! <3

tags: no outbreak au, rookie leon, journalist reader, gn reader but if i've accidentally missed something please let me know so i can fix it up! --- lots of stupid hallmark christmas cliches, heavily inspired by how to lose a guy in 10 days.

summary: when the leads you're chasing for your feature article for the local paper have gone ice cold, and you've just about given up hope, the rpd's newest rookie shows up like a christmas miracle and proposes a deal that might just save you. or blow up in your face.

word count: 6.1k --- i know i went over the word count IM SO SORRY 😭

a/n: CAL! HI! i'm SO beyond sorry this is late, i fucked up the timings so bad and stupidly miscalculated how much time i had left to finalise this and then i got roped into my own christmas fiasco so i was RACING against the clock to try get this out asap. BUT i hope you like it regardless!! i saw re2r leon as your wild card and my eyes LIT UP!! this was such a pleasure to write, i absolutely love writing rookie leon! (also yes i know the twelve days of christmas technically come after christmas day but shhhh) anyway, hope you have a wonderful christmas!! lots of love, amber xx

masterlist⭑AO3

It starts with a faulty office printer and a burnt cup of coffee.

You stare pitifully at the cup of coffee in your hand—if you can even call it that anymore. Half empty and completely unsalvageable, the acrid smell lingers in the break room like some unwelcome ghost of Christmas caffeine. If only you hadn’t slept through your alarm this morning, you could’ve avoided the morning rush (since it seems that nobody in Raccoon City knows how to drive through snow), and made a good cup of coffee to accompany you for the day instead of having to fight the shitty office coffee machine instead.

With a half-hearted sigh you turn the mug over and dump its contents into the bin, watching forlornly as the liquid soaks through shredded paper and old protein bar wrappers instead.

“Bad morning?” One of your coworkers, Claire, quips from across the way. A perfectly fine cup of coffee sits on her desk in a mug that reads Journalists do It With Integrity! 

You shoot her a withering glare, but before you can deliver any sort of witty remark, the printer across the room coughs out a single sheet of crumpled paper, and promptly dies. 

“Bad week,” you mutter, running a hand down your face before stalking towards the offending machine. 

The office, already buzzing with the chaos of holiday deadlines, feels like it’s working entirely against you. The case you’ve been chasing—a string of thefts tied to the Raccoon City holiday markets—has gone ice cold. Your editor is breathing down your neck for a feature piece that you can’t write without new leads. You’ve got twelve days left, twelve days until your editor wants that final copy on her desk.

And now the printer has decided to stage a mutiny. Just your luck.

You try to print out the documents again, but when the printer does nothing but splutter, and kicking it doesn’t seem to work, you decide maybe it just needs new ink.

You’re about halfway through jamming your hand into its guts when a voice, sweet yet awkward, startles you. You hit your head on the way up, only to find yourself staring into a pair of warm blue eyes beneath a mop of golden hair. 

He’s wearing a leather jacket over a navy button-down, his badge clipped to his belt. He looks familiar, like someone you might’ve run into at the bullpen when you’re down at the RPD.

“Uh, need a hand?” he tilts his head, same awkward smile unfaltering.

“I’ve got it,” you say, though you clearly don’t. The printer lets out a final, pathetic whine before dying completely. Well, now you just look stupid.

He grins, the kind of lopsided, sheepish smile that makes him look younger than he probably is. “Guess that’s a no.”

You sigh, looking over your shoulder to catch Claire hiding a smile behind her mug. You fold your arms. “Sorry, can I help you?”

“Names Leon,” He introduces himself, and it all clicks into place for you. This is the RPD’s newest rookie. The guy Claire’s been yapping your ear off about Chris yapping her ear off about. “I’m just dropping off some paperwork. But, uh… I overheard you talking to your editor earlier. You’re working on the market thefts, right?”

Your eyes narrow. “And what’s it to you?”

Leon raises his hands in mock surrender at your scathing tone, the picture of good-natured defensiveness. “Nothing! Just thought you might want some… unofficial insight. Off the record, of course.”

Your skepticism doesn’t waver. “Why would a rookie like you have anything I can’t get from public records?”

Leon hesitates for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. “I’ve been helping out on the case. They’ve got me running reports, talking to market vendors, stuff like that. Not exactly glamorous work, but I’ve been hearing things that don’t make it into the official write-ups.”

Now you’re interested. RPD isn’t exactly known for transparency, you know that much. You also know better than most that a lot can slip through the cracks of “official” documentation.

“What’s the catch?” you ask, suspicious.

Leon shifts, “Well, uh… There’s this Christmas party at the precinct. And I might have mentioned to my coworkers that I was bringing a date.”

You blink. “You’re blackmailing me with case information to play your fake-datw at a cop Christmas party?”

“It’s not blackmail!” Leon protests, his ears turning red. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. You get your story, and I… avoid being the precinct punchline for another year.”

You’re still sceptical, but the desperation in his voice softens your resolve. Saying no to him right now would be like kicking a poor puppy.

You stare at him for a moment, weighing your options. It’s ridiculous, sure, but then again, so is everything else in your life right now.

“Fine,” you say finally, sticking out your hand. “Twelve days. You give me what I need, and I’ll be the best fake date you’ve ever had.”

Leon shakes your hand with a grin, relief written all over his face. “Deal.”

And just like that, the countdown begins.

On the second day of Christmas, Leon sends you flowers.

Big ones. Loud ones. The kind of bouquet you’d expect to see at a wedding reception or an apology press conference. They’re wrapped in glittering gold paper—Poinsettias, as Claire so graciously points out.

“Looks like someone’s got an admirer,” she singsongs, loud enough for half the floor to hear.

Your stomach drops. There, sitting right in the middle of your disaster zone of a desk, is the offending bouquet. It’s massive, covered in festive bells and ribbon, and the card sticking out of it reads:

“To my Christmas angel. – L.”

You mutter a silent prayer to whatever God might be listening, snatching the card up like it might explode before anyone else might see. Your coworkers are already murmuring around you, though, so that seems like a bit of a lost cause.

Claire leans back in her chair, still grinning. “So when were you gonna tell me you’re dating someone?”

“Firstly, that is none of your business,” you snap, grabbing the entire bouquet in a desperate attempt to get it out of sight. The glitter gets everywhere, including your coat, your desk, and, somehow, your coffee. “And secondly—” You start, but backtrack when you remember that the deal you struck with Leon may require some confidentiality. Damn you for not figuring out boundaries sooner. “—that is also none of your business.”

You turn on your heel and you don’t stop moving until you’re outside the building, your fingers already dialing a number you swore to yourself you wouldn’t use unless absolutely necessary.

Leon picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?”

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me,” you hiss, pacing in the cold December air. “What the hell were you thinking sending me flowers? To my office?”

Leon hesitates for a second, and you can almost hear him cringing through the phone. “Uh, I thought it’d make things more… believable?”

You stop in your tracks. “Believable?”

“Yeah! You know, if people saw that you’re, like, dating someone, it might help sell the whole… thing.” His voice trails off, and there’s a pause before he adds, quieter, “Was it too much?”

“Too much?” you echo, your own voice rising in disbelief. “It’s not even lunchtime and I’ve already been asked twice if I’m engaged. At least take me to dinner first!”

There’s a beat of silence on his end before he says, “Okay. Let’s do it.”

You stop in your tracks. “Do what?”

“Dinner,” Leon says, like it’s obvious. “Tomorrow. You said I should take you to dinner, so… I’ll take you to dinner.”

You blink, your annoyance faltering for a second, only to give way to mild confusion. “Are you asking me out, or are you making this part of the deal?”

“Can’t it be both?” 

You’re not sure if it’s the cold or the sheer absurdity of the situation that makes you smile, but you sigh and say, “Fine. Dinner. But you’re picking the place, and it better not be one of those sad 24-hour diners cops hang out in.”

Leon laughs, the sound warm enough to cut through the winter chill. “Deal.”

On the third day of Christmas, Leon takes you to dinner.

And yes, it is a sad diner.

It’s the kind of place that looks like it hasn’t updated its decor since the 70s, with faded garlands drooping from the light fixtures and a suspiciously sticky Rudolph figurine parked on the counter. Which is fine, in honesty. It’s perfect for this not-date, because that’s what this is. Not a date. Absolutely nothing about this screams romance.

Well, except maybe the crooked twig of mistletoe hanging over the entrance, but even that you’d pointedly avoided much to Leon’s amusement.

“So, remind me what I’m doing here,” you hum, pushing around your leftover pancakes on your plate. Leave it to Leon to convince you pancakes for dinner is an entirely acceptable meal choice.

“Well, we’re on a date,” Leon states matter-of-factly.

Across from you, he looks all too comfortable. You, on the other hand, feel like you’ve just agreed to help pull Santa’s sleigh blindfolded.

“Yeah, well, a date’s pushing it, rookie,” You all but scoff, setting your fork down before meeting his gaze properly. “Look, if we’re gonna do this, we probably need to set some ground rules.”

Leon raises a brow, lips curving into a half-smile, “You’re serious? This isn’t Fight Club.”

“Can’t believe you just broke the first rule of Fight Club,” you shoot back, matching his half-smile with your own self-satisfied one. “Okay, first off, who gets to know?”

“That this is fake? No one,” Leon says all too firmly, “I don’t need this blowing up in my face.”

“Likewise,” you hum. “Okay, next, how often are we gonna see each other outside of office hours? Are we really trying to sell this?”

“Well a coffee or two wouldn’t hurt,” Leon suggest. “And, uh… Physical stuff?” He asks, a generous blush dusting his cheeks.

You can’t hide your smile. “Afraid to hold my hand or something?”

“No! No— just… Don’t want to make this any more awkward than it has to be.”

“Alright, so no kissing unless absolutely necessary. And I’m talking someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary.”

He lets out a laugh, soft and boyish, and you can’t help but feel the corners of your mouth tug upwards.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas Leon takes you ice-skating. Well… Sort of.

You’d come to pick up some paperwork about the Christmas Market case Leon had promised you—an errand you figured would be quick and painless. No mingling, no unnecessary chit-chat, and absolutely no run-ins with anyone who might make this fake-dating charade any harder than it has to be.

The first hiccup comes the second you step into the precinct. You immediately spot him, leaning against the reception desk with an easy grin, chatting with some colleagues. You only recognise one of them, from the photo sitting on Claire’s desk no-less. Chris Redfield. The woman beside him, who’s donning a festive antler headband, looks oddly familiar as well, though you can’t quite place it.

Fantastic. Just what you needed.

“Leon!” you call, keeping your tone as casual as possible. You walk briskly, plastering on a tight-lipped smile, trying your best not to look like a deer caught in the headlights and to very pointedly avoid any eye-contact with Chris.

Leon turns at the sound of your voice, his expression brightening instantly. “Oh, hey! What’re you doing here?”

“Paperwork,” you reply, holding up the empty manila folder in your hand like it’s your golden ticket out of this situation. “You said you’d have it ready for me?”

Before Leon can answer, the woman next to Chris perks up—it’s then you recognise her as none other than Jill Valentine. You chalk it up to the antlers making it hard to recognise her.

“Paperwork? Wait, is this who you were talking about?” She elbows Leon in the ribs, earning a flustered yelp from him.

“What?” you echo, narrowing your eyes. Great, so he's already started mentioning you to colleagues.

Chris leans forward, “Wait, you’re Leon’s partner?”

You feel your stomach drop, the word partner ricocheting around your brain like a pinball. 

Leon is already mid-spiral, his cheeks flushed red as he stammers out a reply. “Well, I didn’t say that— I mean, I said some of that, but not like that!”

Jill crosses her arms, smirking. “Well, now we have to meet you! What are you two doing tonight?”

“Nothing!” you and Leon blurt at the same time, a little too loudly.

Chris raises an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Jill before grinning even wider. “Perfect. You guys should come ice skating with us tonight, most of the Precinct will be there.”

Your mouth opens, ready to reject the idea outright, but Leon beats you to it.

“That sounds great!” he says, his voice breaking slightly on the last word. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If you could hit him over the head with this manilla folder right now, you would.

“Great,” Jill says, clapping her hands together. “Meet us at the rink at around seven tonight.”

“What the hell was that?” you hiss once both Chris and Jill have had enough teasing and they’re out of earshot.

“I panicked!” Leon whispers back, looking genuinely apologetic.

“You just signed us up for the least romantic fake date activity imaginable.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You owe me so much for this, rookie.”

“I’ll buy you hot chocolate?” Leon tries, sweet boyish smile and all. You hate how you feel your resolve begin to soften already.

 “You better make it with extra marshmallows.”

He nods, his expression softening as his smile melts into something tentative yet determined. “Deal.”

You’ve decided you don’t like ice skating. Chalk that up to the fact you haven’t been to the rink since you were eight and using a push-along penguin to keep you upright.

“This is fine,” you mutter under your breath, wobbling precariously as you step onto the ice. “Totally fine. Nothing humiliating about face-planting on ice.”

“You’ve got this!” Leon cheers from a few feet away, his enthusiasm wildly misplaced considering he’s not doing much better. He looks like a newborn deer, legs flailing every time he tries to take a step.

“Don’t patronize me,” you hiss back, gripping the railing like your life depends on it.

Behind you, Jill glides past with all the effortless grace of an Olympic figure skater, followed closely by Chris—who despite a few wobbles—isn’t much worse. They’re laughing at something—probably you and Leon—but you’re too busy trying to avoid an embarrassing collision with the ice to care.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Leon says, inching toward you with the kind of determination usually reserved for hostage negotiations. “You let go of the rail, and I’ll catch you if you fall.”

He looks just about as stupid as he sounds, you decide. “That’s assuming you don’t fall first.”

He grins, cheeks ruddy from the cold. “Have a little faith, would you?”

Against your better judgment, you release your grip on the rail, immediately flailing as your skates slide out from under you.

Leon lunges to catch you—a valiant effort, truly—which would be heroic if it didn’t result in both of you landing in a tangled heap on the ice.

“Well, that could’ve gone better.” Leon groans, pushing himself to his knees and wincing.

“You think?” you say, trying—and failing—to suppress a laugh as you roll onto your side. Your knees are sore, your pride is bruised, but when you look over at Leon—cheeks flushed, smile sheepish— it all feels a little less mortifying.

“Here,” he says, extending a hand to help you up, and there’s something strangely endearing about the gesture. You hesitate for a moment before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn’t let go right away, steadying you as you find your balance.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you reply, surprised to find that you actually mean it.

And somewhere between all of this chaos a group of kids barrels past, laughing as they race each other in a blur of neon jackets and mis-matched scarves. You and Leon instinctively jump out of their way, your skates sliding in all the wrong directions. You nearly crash into him again, grabbing his arm for balance as he steadies both of you.

And suddenly, you’re close. Closer than you’ve been all night.

His face is just inches from yours, his breath visible in soft clouds in the frigid air. His cheeks are bitten by the cold, his boyish grin tugging at his lips, and his eyes—God, his eyes—are the kind of blue that could rival a frosted winter’s lake.

You swallow hard, heart giving a little flutter you’d rather not think about. Brushing it off with a laugh, you take a step back, releasing his arm. “Okay, new rule: avoid the speed demons at all costs.”

“Agreed,” Leon says, but his voice a little softer now, his gaze a little firmer.

The rest of the night is chaos, as expected, and by the time you stumble off the ice, breathless and pink-cheeked, you’re smiling so wide and genuine that your cheeks hurt from it all.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Leon comes over for a very professional movie night. 

The plan was simple enough: a low-key night to sort through leads and discuss the finer details of the article. Nothing more than that. Just two friends (are you even really friends?) mocking bad Hallmark movie tropes and terrible one-liners. But—as fate would have it—somewhere between the half-hearted scribbles in your notebook and the opening credits of the first movie, the evening takes a sharp left turn.

Popcorn crumbs litter the coffee table, and the air hums with laughter as you and Leon pick apart every ridiculous trope on the screen.

“New rule,” you declare, pointing at the screen with a handful of popcorn. “No more movies where the leads magically fall in love because of forced proximity. It's lazy writing.”

Leon raises a brow, smiling at you over his mug of cocoa. “Do you just... make up rules for everything?”

You shoot him a look, though your lips twitch in betrayal. “Rules are important. They keep things from going off the rails.”

“Sure they do,” he says, grinning. “But I think you might have a thing for them. Maybe it’s your love language”

You toss a kernel of popcorn at him, which he catches with an annoyingly quick reflex. The movie continues, but your attention drifts, his sweet smile lingering in your thoughts longer than you’d care to admit, and all at once you want to suffocate yourself with a pillow.

By the time the credits have rolled, the conversation has veered wildly away from work and movies. You find yourself talking about everything and nothing between here and there, the space separating you both narrowing in a way that feels very not-professional. Your leg brushes against his and his hand brushes against yours.

You didn’t make a new rule about that. Maybe you should have.

On the eighth day of Christmas, you finally chase down some of those leads for your article. 

Or at least, you try to.

The holiday market is bustling with lights, laughter, and the scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts. It’s picturesque enough to be a postcard: striped tents draped in garlands, vendors bundled in scarves, and the faint hum of Christmas carols floating through the crisp evening air.

You’re here for work. This is professional business. Totally, totally.

“Professional” is exactly why you’re letting Leon lead you to a vendor handing out roasted chestnuts in steaming paper cones.

You raise a brow at him. “Seriously?”

“You’ve gotta try them. It’s tradition.” He says as if it’d be crazy to deny him.

And before you can even think about protesting, he’s already handing you a cone, the warmth seeping through your gloves as you eye the chestnuts—then him—warily. You pop a few in your mouth, only to find yourself pleasantly surprised.

“Good, right?” he asks, smug as anything. You scrunch your nose in response.

Next is funnel cake. Leon orders one to share, dusting himself in powdered sugar as he pulls off a piece and offers it to you.

“I could’ve got my own,” you reason, but take what he offers you anyway.

“Well that wouldn’t make me a very good date.”

“Fake-date,” you correct.

“Uhuh,” Leon hums, but he’s not even looking at you when you glance back up at him, already dragging you towards the next stall, and the next. 

“I’m serious!” You call after him, trying to keep up as he weaves through the crowd like he’s trained to do this. Well, he probably is.

You don’t even realise how long it’s been until you're walking past empty market stalls, every other vendor packing up for the night. Leon leads you out into the street, strings of warm white lights swaying gently in the winter breeze.

Leon’s hands are stuffed into his coat pockets as the two of you walk side by side, your boots crunching softly against the thin dusting of snow on the pavement.

The streets are mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers heading home, but Leon leads you straight into the middle of the road without a second thought. You hesitate for half a second, glancing both ways like a habit.

“There’s no one out here,” he says over his shoulder, that lazy grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not scared of breaking the rules, are you?”

“Isn’t it your job to enforce rules?” You argue, but follow after him anyway.

When you tilt your head up, you feel the breath escape your lungs all at once. “You can actually see the stars tonight,” you murmur softly in awe, your breath clouding in the cold.

Leon doesn’t say anything right away, but when you glance over, you catch him watching you instead of the sky, his gaze softer than you’re used to. He quickly looks up, clearing his throat as if he hadn’t just been caught.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way his cheeks flush from something other than the cold or the fact that your stomach flutters in response.

And you don’t know what to do with the quiet that stretches between you, either, the sound of your steps filling it up like placeholders. You hadn’t meant for the day to linger this long—hadn’t meant to still be here, walking home with him.

Leon breaks the silence first. “You know, I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

You glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I am.”

He laughs then, genuine and bright. “Oh thank God, I’d hate for this to actually be enjoyable for either of us.” Sarcasm laces his words in a way that makes you laugh in kind.

He’s grinning like he’s got all the time in the world as he turns to walk backward in front of you, and suddenly all at once this feels like something out of one of those Hallmark Christmas movies you swore to yourself you’d never recreate. 

“You still haven’t thanked me for helping you today.” He says.

“Helping me?” you snort. “All you did was get funnel cake powder on my coat and in my cocoa.”

“Hey,  I got you a quote from the candy vendor, didn’t I?” he defends, arms spreading wide.

“You mean the guy who told us about his grandma’s cookie recipe?”

“Hard-hitting stuff,” he shrugs.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling, and you hate that he notices. He spins back around to face the road ahead, walking a little slower now, like he’s dragging his feet.

“So,” you say after a moment, picking up your pace to fall back into step with him. “Why do you care so much about this Christmas party, anyway?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. You glance over, and the grin that’s usually on his face has faded into something smaller, quieter.

“Guess I just… don’t want to look like a total loser,” he says eventually, his voice low but even. “It’s been a long first year. People talk.”

You frown at that. “They don’t have anything better to do at the RPD?”

“Apparently not.” He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell it does, at least a little.

The two of you walk in silence for another block, and when you speak again, your tone is softer. “You know, you could’ve asked someone who actually likes you to be your date.”

Leon glances over, and for some reason, his answer catches you off guard. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “but then it wouldn’t have been you.”

You look away too quickly, your chest tightening in a way you can’t explain. He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push him for more.

Instead, you both keep walking, the street stretching out ahead of you, the night colder and clearer than it’s been in weeks. The faint glow of your building comes into view up ahead, and for a moment, you wish it was just a little farther away.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Leon does something so absurd you briefly consider chucking him—and his ridiculous ideas—into a snowbank.

Leon shows up at your door, determined and annoyingly cheerful, with a Christmas tree strapped to the roof of his car and a twinkle in his eye that should’ve been your first warning. You don’t have the heart to turn him away or give him a lecture about how this is breaking at least three of your fake-dating rules.

Dragging the tree up the stairs is a disaster, his optimism only barely keeping the whole endeavor from collapsing. Decorating it? Worse. Leon’s enthusiasm for tinsel is unmatched, his ornament selection downright offensive. A plastic Rudolph here, a lopsided snowman there—it’s a full-scale disaster in red, green, and glitter.

By the end of the night, the tree looks more like a festive crime scene, fairy lights as police-tape and all, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The two of you collapse as you both watch the twinkling lights. A ribbon is tangled in your hair; Leon has tinsel stuck to his sleeve. The quiet settles in like freshly fallen snow, and for a moment, you forget this isn’t supposed to feel real.

You spent the eleventh night at Leon’s place. It was his idea to go over the finalities of this agreement, set your story straight in case anybody at the party asks too many questions. Make sure you're both on the same page.

But when you rocked up at his little studio apartment, it felt like he’d compensated for much more than a quick flashcard night.

Cinnamon scented candles burned and flicker, accompanied by a plate of cookies on the counter. Your half-crumpled notes quickly joined, as well as two cups of cocoa that have long-since gone cold.

“Alright, one more time, how’d we meet?”

Leon props his head up on his palm, looking like he’s had more than enough of your pointless flashcard game. “Coffee shop. You spilled hot chocolate on me, laughed, then walked away.”

“I offered to buy you a replacement!” You shoot back, hitting him atop the head with your stack of cards.

He winces dramatically, swatting our hand away. “Well I think it’s more believable if I pretend you didn’t and you bicker back. Y’know, like an old married couple or something.”

You reach for your cold cocoa to hide the way you splutter. “Woah, rookie, I only signed up for a fake-date, not a fake-wedding too.”

Leon grins, but something about him still looks oddly distant.

He kicks his feet off the barstool, takes your cup of cocoa and his to clean them away. “Have you finished your article at least?”

“Nearly,” You hum, but you’re more lying through your teeth. You’ve barely worked on it despite all the extra input Leon’s given you. Something, something, a very distracting Christmas fiasco got in your way. “I should be done by the end of the week.”

“And what happens once it’s done?” He asks, and you know in your right mind he means what happens to you. Promotion? New story? Next assignment? But instead your mind stupidly jumps to the idea that he’s asking about the both of you. What happens to us? written between the lines in invisible ink.

“Well, I suppose I find a new story to chase.” You clear your throat, “and you?”

“Go back to handing out speeding tickets,” Leon smiles through a sigh, “and I guess we drop this whole fake-dating thing, huh?” He asks, and you refuse to let yourself believe there’s any hope in his voice.

“Don’t see a reason to keep it going,” you shrug, to which Leon simply nods.

“Anyway, don’t try changing the subject on me,” you clear your throat, shuffling back through your pile of cards. “Next question: what’s my favourite holiday tradition?”

Leon shelves the now clean and dried mugs, “stealing Christmas cookies when no one’s looking.” He hums smugly over his shoulder.

You blink, “I never told you that.”

“Don’t need to, I pay attention.” He grins, pointedly flicking his gaze to the now empty plate of cookies. But you’re still hung on his words, the casual admission throws you entirely off kilter, and it seems by the twelfth day he still has you feeling that way.

You feel entirely out of place standing in the RPD. The precinct is sparkling with every Hallmark Christmas cliche imaginable—oversized tinsel, plastic mistletoe (that you’re still doing your best to avoid), and a garishly large tree that stands off to the side, completed by a shining white angel on top. 

Leon, of course, has dressed the part. And damn him for looking so good in a navy suit and deep red tie to match your own attire. His presence is steady when you feel out of depth—it’s funny how he does that, despite usually being the one who requires an anchor.

“Are you alright?” He asks, leaning closer to be heard over the obnoxiously loud Christmas music. His voice is low, warm, entirely too distracting. 

“Fine,” you lie with a sickly sweet smile, downing the last of your punch, “totally fine.”

Leon doesn’t buy it, and you’re starting to think he’s getting too good at reading you (which is your job, not his), but before he can press any further, your worst nightmare seems to come to fruition.

You're pulled then pushed, and before you can register what’s even happened you're colliding with Leon’s chest.

“Mistletoe,” he mutters, and when you finally lift your gaze you catch the offending sprig. Jesus Christ.

Honestly, this is your fault. You should’ve accounted for something like this. Nothing like a good bit of rookie hazing at a work party, right? Dammit. The rest of the precinct seems to cheer and chant, and you’d foolishly thought you’d left this behaviour behind in high school. 

God, you wish the ground would part beneath your feet and swallow you whole right now—

“Well, this doesn’t break any of your rules, does it?” Leon asks then, and you can hear the smile in his voice, something about the way he says it makes it sound like he knows the answer.

And he does. Because if Leon’s good at one thing it’s remembering the finer details. No kissing unless absolutely necessary, you’d said. Like someone-shoves-us-under-mistletoe-and-starts-chanting levels of necessary, you’d said.

Okay, now you really want the ground to swallow you up.

Leon seems to pick up on your unease, and ever the gentleman drowns out the obnoxious chanting of his colleagues to focus on you.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he offers.

You shake your head. “It’s part of the deal.” You say firmly. You’re not going to back down now, you’re a stickler for rules, deals, and contracts. Totally not because you’ve been wondering what Leon’s lips might taste like for the past five minutes. Totally.

He counts you down, which feels stupid, but does actually help quell your nerves. What doesn’t help, though, is the way his hand slides to your jaw and his lips slot against yours so effortlessly. You forget the world exists, heart beating out of your chest before you let yourself melt into it, your own arms looping around his neck just before he pulls away.

He’s got blush on his cheeks, his eyes bright, smiling widely like he’s just one the powerball. And suddenly, all at once, your brain catches up to your heart and you realise how none of this seems to feel fake anymore.

Three days later, and your article had gone live that morning. Your editor had been quick to praise it, Claire more than proud when she’d shown up with a mini Christmas gift basket for you. But still, as the day wore on, the victory felt hollow. The article might have just been your best work, but now that the dust—or snow, rather—has settled, all you can think about is Leon and the strange ache left in his absence.

You glance out the window of your tiny office, the skyline glittering with holiday lights. It’s quiet, save for the distant hum of the city and the rhythmic tapping of your pen against your desk.

“You know, I expected a little more Christmas cheer from the person who just saved Christmas,” a familiar voice says.

You jump, spinning around in your squeaky office chair to find Leon leaning casually in your doorway. He’s dressed down from the last time you saw him after the party, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, but the sight of him is enough to send your heart racing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, your voice caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugs, pushing himself off the cubicle wall and stepping inside.

You raise a brow. “The precinct is five blocks away.”

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “Neighborhood.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. He steps closer still, and you feel the air shift.

“Look,” he starrs, running a hand through his hair like he’s still trying to work up the courage. “The other night, you said that after this was over, we wouldn’t have to see each other again.”

You swallow hard, your heart already knowing where this is going but your mind refusing to believe it. You remember how casually you’d thrown that out there, as if the thought hadn’t stung more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Well, I don’t want that,” he says simply.

Your breath hitches, but he keeps on going.

“I don’t want to go back to pretending this was all fake,” he continues, his voice steady but his eyes searching yours. “Because it might’ve started that way, but it didn’t end that way—not for me.”

The words hang in the air like softly drifting snowflakes, fragile and perfect, waiting for you to catch them.

“Leon…” you try, but your voice falters.

“I know,” he cuts in quickly. “I know this wasn’t the plan. But plans change, right? Rules get broken—and I know you hate that but hear me out—if there’s one thing I’ve learned these past twelve days, it’s that maybe breaking a rule or two isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

You laugh softly then despite yourself, a mix of nerves and something lighter. “You do realize you’re ruining my perfectly crafted narrative, right? Fake dating, falling in love…” you click your tongue, “this is all so cliché.”

He grins, stepping closer until there is almost no space left between you. “Then let’s give it a good ending.”

Before you can even give what he’s said a minute of thought, his hand is on your jaw again, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that’s unhurried and undeniably real.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, his forehead resting against yours. “So,” he hums, his voice soft and teasing, “how’s that for a rewrite?”

You can’t help but laugh, your chest light for the first time in days. “It’s a start.”

The city sparkles outside as you stand there, snowflakes fall, the faint hum of Christmas carols from the office speakers bleed with the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Whatever comes next, you know one thing is for sure: this story isn’t over yet.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[dreamlandbarnes]

f1 fic recs

a compilation of all the fics i've been reading in the f1 rpf tag on ao3! please leave comments and kudos for the authors, and check the tags before reading. sorted by pairing, and summary and word count are provided. none of these fics are mine.

if your fic is on here and you want it removed, please let me know!

charles leclerc / max verstappen

bloodsport by 140445 | 37,711 words | M

“I don’t care about then, you are here now,” Charles says. “You are on my side now.” Max is on his side. It’ll feel like that, too, at some point. Surely. Or: Max and Charles as teammates for the 24 hours of Le Mans.

such murderous and vengeful desire by foggystars | 20,676 words | E

Where Carlos’ girlfriend has her fingers crossed, keeps covering her eyes as if she can’t bear to watch, Max is focused, mouth set in a hard line. He’s leaning in, balancing on the edge of his seat. To anybody else he looks intent, focused on the screen. To Charles, he looks like a bird, poised to take wing. Like he’s about to fly right through the screen and take the steering wheel from Charles’ clumsy hands, get in there and drive the car himself. When Max Verstappen suffers a career ending injury, he pours all his effort into turning his old rival, Charles Leclerc, into a worthy champion. Five years and two world championships later, they finally decide to talk about it.

like in love with me by linearity | 7,800 words | T

Austria 2019, a two-person house party, Abu Dhabi 2021, a silly lover’s quarrel, and a stove-side morning proposal.

Anonym by additiv | 13,971 words | E

The truth is, Max finds Charles unbelievably annoying. He’s chaotic and unpredictable. He’s staring at Max across the room one moment, and in the next, seems to have forgotten he exists. He swaps clothes with people at random, whipping off his faded Gucci t-shirt in the middle of the dance floor, to trade it for some girl’s crop top, laughing and crowding close to block the view of her body while they make the exchange. When he disappears to the bathroom, Max never knows whether he’ll reappear with glitter on his eyelids, or white powder on his nose. He flirts with every person in the room, and probably sleeps with them too. He ignores Max completely, then goes home with him. He’s always gone when Max wakes up; nothing left behind, nothing missing. He refuses to stay the night, but refuses to let Max get over him. And, he refuses to let Max know anything about him.

when you cut me open by triangularity (linearity) | 44,900 words | E

Well, Charles concedes, miserably. He did die last night. A few days staying with his vampire ex-boyfriend probably isn’t the worst thing he’ll have gone through in January.

a life in your shape by weiwuxian (BreathOfDream) | 29,431 words | E

“Oh god, not you,” Charles groans, crossing his arms on his chest. The Batman visibly rolls his eyes (blue, of course, because all men that messed with Charles’ life had that in common apparently) at his reaction, but another look at Charles makes him step closer. “Yes, always a pleasure. Are you ok?” or: 5 times both Max and the Batman makes Charles' life a lot more complicated than needed + 1 time he doesn't

Frecheit by additiv | 208,723 words | E

The first time that Max heard the name Charles Leclerc was in 2022, just after winning his first WDC. Maybe it only stuck because he heard it twice in one night; first as Leclerc was announced as the 2022 F3 champion. Second, as Helmut lamented not signing him to the Red Bull driver development program. Now, Max is ready to put the newly-promoted Ferrari driver in his place. The problem is, Leclerc seems to think his place is on the top step of the podium. And he is not playing by the rules. An age-difference fic, where they never got to work out their differences as kids. 3-time WDC Max's experience of being personally victimised by baby-Charles.

in dream by 140445 | 81,025 words | E

Charles tried to figure out the dream on his own. In the morning he sat down with a cup of coffee, trying to make sense of what he had seen—he even googled it. Surely, Charles couldn't be the first or only person to dream about someone he shouldn't. But there were no search results for my professional rival is suddenly also my soulmate or soulmate dream of someone i'm not supposed to want???.  (In a world where soulmates identified each other by sharing a dream, Charles dreamt of the last person he expected.)

heart of the wind by pipitass | 13,830 words | M

There’s a slip of paper taped next to one of the doorbells — third floor, second door. It should, in theory, be the one directly across from his own. Max V. “Yes?” “Uh— hi.” He clears his throat. “It’s your neighbor. From across the street. Your, your clothes…” He doesn’t really know what to say after that. Hi, I got into a street fight with your bedsheets yesterday. Welcome to the neighborhood.

charles_leclerc ✔️ posted: 😘 by ninetqs | 11,500 words | M

Charles posts a photo with a mystery man and casually breaks the Internet in the process.

cameras in the traffic lights by c_e_1 | 9,958 words | M

Pop Crave @PopCrave • Aug 13 2023 Popstar Charles Leclerc has put his instagram on private after fans spotted Formula 1 driver Max Verstappen in the background of his vacation photos 303 comments | 1.6K retweets | 10K likes

(don't read) the last page by mintchocolatechip97 | 7,475 words | E

Max feels a light tap on his arm, and turns to see the beautiful door-opener, chestnut brown curls fluffed up on his head like he’s been running his hands through his hair. “I have been on a set a time or two,” the man says, trying and failing to wink, “but this is my first time in a writers room, so you are not the only rookie here.” He clearly speaks English fluently, but has a smidge of a European accent, which Max thinks might be French. “I’m sorry,” Max says, a little annoyed that this stranger is speaking to him as if they know each other, “I didn’t catch your name?” Several emotions flit over the man’s face, in such quick succession that Max can’t quite catch them all. In the end, he looks mortified. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he says, “This is going to sound terrible, like I am the worst kind of person, but I thought you would know who I was.” Dr. Max Verstappen gets hired as the expert medical consultant for a new Netflix show. Charles Leclerc, former teen heartthrob, stars.

all i know of love is hunger by 140445 | 28,509 words | E

Anger flares in Charles’ chest. Not the kind that he feels in the car, when he’s on Max’s tail, when they are braking late and later. The one that’s been looming over his head ever since Max announced his retirement. The one he hasn’t been able to tame until now, until he can give it a name. Betrayal.

hollywood and highland by japrufrocks | 26,730 words | E

Max had left New York a week before Charles had, seven days exactly. Max had gone to Hollywood; Charles had gone to a hospital. Now they're starring in the same film. Hollywood gives its darlings everything. It takes everything too.

straight lines (that unwind you) by 140445 | 16,330 words | E

“Do you know him?” Arthur asks. “No,” Charles decides. Because he does not. He knows Max is a mathematics major, and that he plays chess. And that he hits the gym. And what he looks like when he comes. Details.

all to play for by linearity | 49,300 words | E

Charles Leclerc is not at Red Bull to win races. He is here to win championships.

my thoughts will echo your name by witchee_writer | 38,826 words | M

“Do you think you’ll ever want to do Le Mans one day?” asked Max, glancing sideways at the man sitting next to him. Charles’ eyes lit up, a grin spreading across his face. “I think I want to win Le Mans one day.”

heart on your sleeve by nyoomfruits | 4,812 words | T

The thing about having a racing helmet that constantly displays your emotions for the whole world to see, is that you kind of get used to it after a while. These days Charles almost forgets it’s even a thing. Almost. But then he goes and falls in love.

ghost of you by nyoomfruits | 3,436 words | T

“All right, are you now finally ready to explain why four time world driver champion Charles Leclerc is currently in my living room?” Max says, as Charles towels off his hair. Charles pauses, lets the towel fall into his lap, stares at Max with wide eyes. “I’m sorry, did you say four time?”

The HR Situation by thearchercore | 3,027 words | Gen

Jacob found out many things during his first month in the new HR role - Mary and Connor from Aero Engineering were dating. Thomas and Nick from Comms got recently divorced and it's a sensitive subject. Eddie from Legal had to go to an Anger Management class but hasn't had any issues since his return. Oh, and also - Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc were fucking weird about each other. or: Charles and Max go to Mercedes and the HR Department is in shambles.

Sawtooth by nottonyharrison | 40,305 words | E

In another universe, Max rejected karting at the age of fifteen, no longer prepared to be a proxy for his father’s dream. He moved back to Belgium to live with his mum and sister, excelled at school, and eventually went on to complete a Masters of Mechanical Engineering. Now 27, after four years working for Alfa Romeo and Sauber, first as a junior performance engineer and then on the pit wall for Zhou Guanyu, he’s put forward for a job with Ferrari when Carlos Sainz is left without a race engineer thanks to the increasingly hectic F1 schedule. The problem is, Max has a crush on Carlos’ teammate. A huge, obvious, embarrassing crush that leaves him stumbling for words, face burning every time he’s within six feet of the guy. What makes it even worse is that sometimes he’s sure that Charles is looking right back.

leminiscate by weiwuxian (BreathofDream) | 27,799 words | E

Charles tries to imagine Max, on the opposite side of the kitchen. Eating bread too, like he did that first morning of the After—gross and charming. Tries to think about the way he would hold him, maybe. Of the softness of his lips, glossed by butter; and how he would laugh and push him away. His phone dings and he blinks himself awake once again.

achilles comes down by sincerelylancelot | 21,068 words | M

The World Championship trophy rests in his trembling hands, his name etched in fine gold. It isn't until he's staring down at it—his name nestled close to Max’s—that he realises his dreams have always been carved out of someone else’s pain. Jules. Max. And now, maybe even himself.

charles leclerc / carlos sainz jr

a bad recompense for your love by steviethenarwhal | 65,162 words | M

“I do not want to date you,” Charles says. Carlos’s eyes slide warily over to him. He tries to explain. “I do not date men. It would be… not smart.” “I don’t want to date you either,” Carlos says. “I do not date racecar drivers.”

translation theory by linearity | 9,500 words | E

Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s golden boy, their Il Predestinato. He likes it up the ass and likes getting fucked by rockstars who have more tattoos than thoughts in their brains. What a fucking joke.

semiotic study by linearity | 8,600 words | E

Carlos knows. He knows what this is and what this is not. This is not romance, this is not love, but Charles makes it so easy to slip into that illusion. Charles makes it so hard, and Carlos cannot be without.

last night by venerat | 24,259 words | E

Rule #1: When you go to America, don't lose your virginity to your best friend's roommate. Charles fails Rule #1.

Good Boy by chiliconcarlos | 8,445 words | E

Really, it’s all Alex’s fault. ~~ Or: the one where Charles and Carlos want to settle the question of who's better in bed.

at the dinner table with god and my father by Cloudcollector | 4,599 words | M

There is a table in his house that knows more about him than his father. Or, Carlos and his father. And the family dinner table through the years.

win or lose (it's how you play the game) by chiliconcarlos | 18,321 words | E

It all starts because of a stupid bet.   Or: Carlos suggests a hickey bet for their '23 season, and it goes about how you'd expect.

darling by magnificentbirb | words | T

The pet names begin as a joke.

carlos sainz jr / oscar piastri

take it or leave it by venerat | 6,771 words | E

r/relationships: My (22M) coworker (29M) keeps irritating me at work

he just turned in like i didn't exist by linearity | 36,500 words | E

Oscar doesn’t have a problem with his soulmate. It’s his soulmate who has the fucking problem.

Happy Death Race by powerfulowl (playmyace) | 28,390k words | E

Carlos gazes up at the fake blue sky. Dopey grin, contrapposto pose, head as empty as the cottony clouds above. “Look, look. Look, Piastri. It is always daylight.” Oscar imagines pushing him into the piss water canal. "Yeah, cool. Stop dying!" (Oscar is in a time loop and Carlos won't stop dying.)

when both our cars collide by buildyourfences | 8,483 words | M

It’s race day, which means his phone shouldn’t be ringing. And yet, it is. “Carlos, why are you not at the track yet? We are waiting for you.” “But–” “I sent you the updated schedule last night, please get here as soon as possible.” The call ends. He blinks down at the phone in his hand. Friday, March 1. Well, that’s not right. Carlos is trapped in a time loop. He can't stop crashing with Oscar.

at a constant speed by wisteriagoesvroom (bobaheadshark) | 11,676 words | E

“Are you close?” Oscar asks. “What does it look like?” “I wasn’t expecting it to be, uh, so…” What? Oscar wants to add. Hot? Desperate? Pathetic? All of the above? --- Or, carcar get themselves into a situationship, and it just keeps situating.

left a calling card so they would know that it was me by xxxdeerlordxxx | 6,139 words | E

Carlos continues to sit there, in the cockpit with his back to the wall, pieces of the torn advertisements raining down on him. He can see a big screen from where he’s at, the replays they show over and over, of Carlos spinning out, of Oscar driving away from the incident like nothing happened. Because of course no one believes him. But Carlos knows that Oscar’s to blame. Just not in the way people might think.

hatred cradles you by foggystars | 6,829 words | E

“You see?” Carlos asks, hanging up the phone. “He does not pick up.” Oscar shrugs, unsure why Carlos seems to think this is his problem. Just because Oscar’s his teammate doesn’t mean he knows where Lando is at all times, like some sort of twink-seeking missile. Then Carlos says, “I wait for him in here,” and nods to himself. He’s walking into Oscar’s hotel room before he can stop him, and all Oscar can do is blink stupidly at the empty stretch of hallway where Carlos once stood.

in midnight’s jaws by Springsteen | 30,806 words | E

Werewolves are fiction, the stuff of books and movies just like witches and zombies. Men do not turn into wolves, or fly on broomsticks, or raise the dead. There must be a logical explanation for the restlessness in Carlos's blood, for the waves of pain so sudden and intense it feels as though his bones are trying to break free of his body. Surely there is a perfectly good reason for Carlos to have woken in the dirt the morning after a full moon, with no idea where he is or how he got there. And surely there was a reason he turned to Oscar Piastri, of all people, for help.

pulling teeth by arboretics | 9,030 words | Not Rated

Oscar is very private, very in control. Carlos pretends he is both of those things, too. But after a late night collision in Baku 2024, things spiral between them into something straddling a game and an uncomfortable intimacy. A year on, Oscar and Lando are battling for the championship, Carlos is fighting for low points finishes, and Oscar loses his grip on the whole situation.

the better half of a good time by antimonyandthyme | 4,413 words | E

“Most guys, they look at the date.” He manages to make it sound both admiring and chiding. Oscar is very quickly losing control of this conversation. “Do you make a habit of just giving your license out? To every stranger you meet?” “Only those I really like.”

reckless attention by crescenteluce | 4,290 words | E

It’s probably on Oscar to be the bigger person here, to tell Carlos if he can’t do it sober, he shouldn’t be doing it at all. But that’s the thing about Carlos – he doesn’t exactly inspire Oscar to be the best version of himself.

george russell / max verstappen

winning mentality by linearity | 18,500 words | E

It’s not, like, a thing. It’s only happened twice, if you don’t count the time during the pre-season when Max shoved a thigh against George’s crotch, and George, touched-deprived and broken-hearted, let out a sharp gasp and came instantly. Max, looking shocked and frightened, stormed away.

cut your teeth by 140445 | 9,224 words | E

And that is the thing that brought George here. Eat or be eaten. It’ll happen either way. Maybe here, he will like the taste.

full throttle by calenmirel | 3,397 words | E

Later, Max will turn to him, meeting his gaze head on, and ask if George truly hadn’t seen him in his mirrors at turn eight, like George had claimed. He'll rub his hands on his racesuit as he says it, like he'll be rid of the phantom feeling of George's hair from between his fingers if he wipes them hard enough. George will look back at him, licking the taste of Max from the back of his teeth like he can savour it, and will reply, “of course I didn’t,” lying through his smile.

alexander albon / george russell

a feeling all brand new by ginnydear | 16,481 words | M

Alex is halfway through his sandwich when he starts to feel talkative, so he takes a sip of his tea and waits for Logan to finish chewing before he says what’s running through his mind at full speed. “I think I’m homophobic.”

nothing but teeth by crescenteluce | 25,057 words | E

“Oh, come on.” Alex says, poking George in the thigh again with his foot. “Don’t tell me you’ve never done a little-” Alex makes a complicated hand-wavy gesture that has the contents of his glass nearly sloshing over the sides. “At your fancy boy schools, a little stiff upper-lipped make-out amongst the chaps? In between rounds of cricket and fox hunting?”

carlos sainz jr / max verstappen

ease the madness by magnificentbirb | 12,231 words | M

Max signed away his soul on his sixteenth birthday.

pierre gasly / charles leclerc

a long time (maybe forever) by strongestavenger | 10,021 words | T

AITA: homophobic but only to my roommate/best friend? First of all, I swear I have never been a discriminatory person – I have lots of gay friends and my little brother is bisexual. I know that sounds stupid as hell but it’s my only defense right now. My problem is that I (Marc, 26M, straight) have a roommate (Jacques, 28M, gay), who has also been my best friend since we were kids, and I think I’ve started to feel homophobic towards him? (or: Charles needs some outside help to figure things out.)

miscellaneous / general / multi

One thousand laps of jeddah by in_in_in_in_in_in_in | 68,585 words | Gen

George feels sick for the whole ride to the track. He has no idea how he got from breakfast to the car, let alone how he shook off Alex. He knows that he said ‘for god’s sake, Alex, I’m not on drugs’ about a hundred times, even though he’s not at all sure that it’s the truth. What else could have happened to him? Did he dream the race last night?

eat them alive by linearity | 57,000 words | E

Oscar lost Lando a championship and left McLaren. There was still a year in between.

the condominium community committee by jusst_you_wait | 36,452 words | T

the condominium community - 2:36pm Oscar and Logan have been added to the chat George Hello, welcome to a group chat we have for the Formula apartment building! There are only 18 (20 now) of us so we like to keep in contact about the building maintenance and other neighbourly orders of business. I’m George, and I liaise with the building manager on behalf of all of us when there is a building specific issue rather than an apartment issue. Welcome to the building! Lando do u copy and paste that from ur notes every time Alex I bet he has it memorised ~ or, the ridiculous chat fic where the f1 grid all live in the same apartment building

temperature get to you by minieggs11 | 9,339 words | E

It’s Logan’s last ride of the night, it’s clearly two drunk tourists going back to their hotel. As long as they give him a five star rating, he doesn’t care what happens.

sugar and spice by pipitass | 10,785 words | E

“Do you know already? Who you’ll pick?” Oscar frowns. Eyes still closed, scrunched now. Sharp brows downturned, meeting in the middle of his face. “When you win.” The frown deepens for a second. Then his face releases, and he shrugs. Shuffles as he goes to lay down, kicking his shoes off before he brings them up so his toes are poking at Max’s thigh, settling in. “Someone nice.”

triple header by 140445 | 7,890 words | E

Because Oscar isn’t here with Charles. And he’s not here with Max. He doesn’t get it, this thing between Max and Charles. They look like they’re here together, share glances that make Oscar feel like an intruder—but Max brought Oscar back to the booth to sit with them. For Charles to flirt with him. As if it’s some kind of game, where Max brings back prey for Charles to take.

somebody else by piastrism | 31,252 words | E

Oscar misses the color lilac — the color of the twilight sky behind Charles as they drank wine on Sedici, and the long-faded color left behind on his hips by Max’s fingertips.

we'll take the shadows (since the limelight isn't ours) by magnificentbirb | 2,177 words | T

Lando hears the screech of tires on asphalt behind him, the distant crunch of carbon fiber colliding with a wall. He glimpses only the aftermath of the carnage—the dust and smoke, the flashing lights, the unmistakable gleam of bright red—and then he’s clear. And that’s when the seconds slow down.

possessed by light by Anonymous | 6,885 words | Gen

It is a lesson you learn alone. Or that you are supposed to learn alone. At some point you will look at yourself in the mirror and see not just flesh and blood. You will see the capabilities beyond that. You will see your body as a ladder to forever ascend, to always want more. You will see just what you’re made of—and you will realise it has to be used. You will learn not to waste it. Charles did not learn that on his own.

[megwritesriddles]

Caught Inbetween ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Sebastian (Stardew Valley) x Fem! Reader / You x Sam (Stardew Valley)

Summary: Kinktober 2024 Day 3 - Threesome. Abigail goes home early from game night, leaving Reader alone with the two boys for the night, only, Sam is acting a little too friendly.

Tags: Threesome F/M/M, P in V, Unprotected sex, Fingering, Oral sex (f and m receiving), Praise kink, Handjob, Pet names, Overstimulation, Multiple orgasms, Munch! Sam AND Seb, Friends to lovers, No action between Sam and Sebastian, PWP, No plot, Mentions of smoking.

Word count: 3.1k

Read it on ao3! | Masterlist

Authors note: Considered making it a Challengers vibe and having Sam and Seb be a bit gay, but opted to have them focus on the reader!! Also I hope it's not too painfully obvious that I've never had a threesome lol!! Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

“Do you really have to go?” You pouted in the doorway as Abigail pulled her shoes on. She gave you an exasperated smile, deftly tying her laces. “Don’t leave me alone with two boys!” you whine playfully. She stands and nudges you with her elbow.

“It’s Sam and Seb, how bad can it be? I used to hang with them alone all the time before you moved here,” she reaches behind you for her coat on the hook, and you continue pouting.

“Oh come on… you’re sure your dad won’t let you off of opening duty?” you give her your best puppy dog eyes. She just scoffs and playfully slaps your arm.

“Yes, I’m sure, now I– Oh! Hey Seb,” you follow her eyeline to where Sebastian ascends the final stairs from his basement, shaking a box of cigarettes.

“Going for a smoke, I’ll walk you out Abi,” he grunts, slipping on his shoes and yanking his black jacket off of the hook. You step aside as he heads past you to the door. “I’ll be back in ten,” he glances at you over his shoulder before shoving open the door and heading out into the dark misty evening. You wonder if you imagined how his eyes had flicked down your body just then, shaking off the thought. You wave poutily to Abigail as she heads out behind him, she sticks her tongue out and waves back at you. The cool air pushes its way in forcefully through the door making you shiver, you yank it shut with a loud thud, before turning and hopping down the stairs back to Sebastian’s basement room. Sam is lounging on the small couch when you reappear, flicking uninterestedly through one of Sebastian’s computer magazines, the game of Solarion Chronicles from earlier discarded on the table now that Abigail has gone home.

“Oh thank God, I was beginning to think everyone had abandoned me,” Sam jokes, sitting up straight and tossing the magazine to the ground. You chuckle, walking over to sit beside him at his patted invitation. “I can always count on you,” he comments with a grin. You rest your head on the back of the couch, smiling up at him. “You look a little tired,” he frowns. You glare at him for that comment but sigh in defeat.

“Farming isn’t for the weak,” you grumble, rubbing your forehead for a moment. “It’s nice to get away from it for a little while,”

“I bet it is,” he coos, you give him a suspicious glance at his sickly sweet tone. He places a hand on your shoulder and draws you closer. “Here, let me rub your shoulders,” he suggests gently. As suspicious as you are of his actions, you can’t deny that you need a massage. You figure he’s just going to ask you to bake him some maple bars or something, and you don’t mind, considering you’re planning to bake tomorrow anyway. So, you turn around and relax your body as he pushes your hair aside and starts to gently work the muscles of your neck. His hands cup your shoulders, his thumbs digging into your neck, rubbing at the sore stiff muscles. It feels good, so good that you can’t stop your eyes from closing and a few little groans from escaping your lips, which only seem to egg him on. He rubs harder and hums softly. “God, you’re stiff,” he whispers against your ear. His tone gives you pause, your eyes fluttering back open. Had you imagined it or had he said that sort of… seductively? You turn your head slightly, trying to meet his eye, he just smiles lazily at you. “Stay still,” he chastises playfully, turning your head back around with care. He resumes his work, his thumbs slipping under the collar of your sweater to rub your shoulders. You groan again despite yourself, you really were stiff…

The door opening gets your attention, and you flush like you’ve been caught doing something inappropriate, even though nothing untoward is happening. Sebastian raises a brow at the two of you as he walks in. He walks over and sits down in front of you on the couch, smirking at you slightly. He glances behind you to meet Sam’s eye, looking like he knows something you don’t. As if in response to this look, Sam rubs his thumbs into your muscles a little harder, making you choke out a small sound. You feel embarrassed, but the boys just smile knowingly at one another, making you even more flustered.

“Our poor little farmer is all stiff and tired,” Sam coos gently from behind you. Sebastian pouts at you in response, you want to ask questions but the attractiveness of his pout keeps you quiet. Sebastian moves closer to you and you feel your breathing speed up as both boys crowd into your space. Sebastian’s hand comes up, pushing some hair away from your cheek, letting his fingertips linger. Your face twists in confusion for a moment before you break into a disbelieving smirk. They were trying to seduce you, together. This was certainly a change of pace. Sebastian smiles back at you almost shyly as Sam massages you, sensing you’ve figured them out.

“So, what’s all this really about?” you ask accusingly, glancing between them, but they can hear you’re not really angry. Sam chuckles in your ear.

“You’re too perceptive,” he sighs, gently removing his hands from your shoulders. You turn so you can look between the two of them, they both look a little bashful now. “We never usually get a chance to get you alone without Abi,” he comments.

“And you look so beautiful,” Sebastian adds breathlessly. “We’ve always thought so,” you blush gently.

“Let us help you… destress…” Sam purrs. “We’ll make it so good for you,” he promises, placing his hand on your thigh gently.

“Both of you?” you confirm. When they nod in response, you feel yourself shiver at the thought. You’ve never really considered a threesome before, but now that the opportunity was in front of you, you felt yourself growing wetter by the second. You’d fantasised about both of them separately throughout your time as their friend, but now your brain was supplying you with an enticing mashup of these thoughts. Sebastian carefully wraps his arm around you, pulling you to lean against his chest, sitting between his legs. He nuzzles his nose against your neck, the scent of his cologne and the surprisingly enticing scent of cigarettes engulfing you completely, leaving you almost lightheaded.

“Will you let us?” he asks you quietly, his voice strained like it’s taking him a horrible effort to hold back from you. You breathe heavily as Sam places his hands on your knees, rubbing gently. Your eyes meet his and you see the lust there, the lust you feel mirrored in the pit of your stomach.

“Yeah, yeah I’ll… let you,” you pant slightly. You immediately feel Sebastian's lithe fingers caressing your jaw, turning your head towards his own. He glances over your features for a moment before capturing your lips with his own. You whine softly as he kisses you desperately, his hands sliding up and down your sides. Your eyes shut, leaning back into Sebastian to get closer. His lips taste like mint, suggesting he had some gum after smoking in preparation to kiss you. It makes you smile softly. You feel fingers on your jaw, turning your head again and Sam is suddenly right in front of you, his eyes wide, pupils swallowing his irises. His lips are on yours swiftly, kissing with less control than Sebastian had, one hand cupping your cheek. You wonder in the back of your mind if he can taste the mint from Sebastian’s spit. You hear Sebastian breathing heavily by your ear, watching as Sam kisses you feverishly. His hand sneaks down your body while you’re distracted, sliding into the waistband of your pants and your panties. You gasp shakily as his fingertip trails up and down your wet folds, getting a feel for you. He groans softly as he gathers up some wetness and brings it up so he can more easily tease your sensitive bundle of nerves. You moan into your kiss with Sam at his barely there stimulation.

“She’s so wet Sam,” he exhales. You whine in embarrassment, Sebastian just kisses your neck soothingly in response. Sam withdraws from your lips, taking in how they’re pink and glossy from his kisses.

“Gotta see,” he grunts, leaning back to tug at your pants. You can’t believe what’s happening as you lift your hips, allowing him to bare your most intimate parts. His eyes flutter and he practically chokes at the sight of you as he gently spreads your legs, watching Sebastian’s finger swirl over you, making you twitch. “She’s soaked,” he whimpers. “You must really want us, eh pretty girl? He chuckles slightly, eyes fixed between your legs.

“Shut up,” you mumble weakly, moaning softly as Sebastian applies a little more pressure. Both boys chuckle at you and you find yourself laughing too, or at least trying to through the soothing pleasure.

“Didn’t you say you’d always wanted to eat her out?” Sebastian muses to Sam. You file away the realisation that they’ve talked about this seemingly extensively for later. Sam nods eagerly.

“Good call,” he mumbles, lowering himself so his head is between your legs. You gasp as his breath washes over your core, making you clench around nothing. Sebastian removes his finger, shuffling you back and tighter against his chest so Sam can settle more comfortably between your thighs. Sam begins to pepper kisses on your inner thighs, eyes glued to the glistening prize between your legs. “Please say I can taste you,” he groans. You just whine needily, but he seems to understand it fine, leaning in and licking a thick stripe over you, just to taste you. You both moan in unison as he does it. “Fuck… so perfect,” he dives in, bringing his hand up to spread you open, gently swirling his tongue over you. Sebastian is tugging your sweater over your head, but you barely register it over the sensations between your legs. There’s a soft thud as your sweater hits the floor, quickly followed by your bra, leaving you completely naked. Sebastian's hands roam all over your torso as Sam laps up at you relentlessly, moaning periodically at the taste of you. He holds your thighs open as they keep threatening to close around his head as you writhe and tense from his ministrations. Sebastian’s lips are on yours again, greedily swallowing up your moans and whines as Sam flicks his tongue quickly back and forth over your clit. Sebastian cups your breasts roughly as you arch up into his touch.

“Gorgeous,” he mumbles against your lips. “You look and sound gorgeous baby,” Sam grunts in agreement against you, making you shiver. The room fills with obscene slurping noises as Sam begins to suckle at your clit. You cry out, your whole body tensing and your thighs fighting to close again. “Just let it happen, baby,” Sebastian coaxes, softly circling his thumbs over your hardened nipples. The mixture of sensations is proving a lot to fight off, the rhythmic pattern of sucks and licks Sam is giving you making you feel lightheaded and tightening the knot in your stomach until it finally snaps and you scream. Whatever comes out of your mouth is some sort of odd mix of both of their names, but they seem to thoroughly enjoy it anyway. Sam moans in response, lapping at your release feverishly, savouring every single drop even as you start to shake for slight overstimulation. He finally withdraws, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, standing up. Sebastian shuffles behind you, gently laying you down on the couch as he wordlessly moves to where Sam just was. You look down at him, dazed. “Hope you saved some for me, pretty girl,” he teases, wrapping his arms under your body to hold you in place, placing a few feather-light kisses onto your swollen bud, making you whine and buck. He smiles and chuckles. “You did a good job down here, Sam,”

“Of course, anything for our pretty girl,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your forehead as Sebastian begins teasing you ever so gently with his tongue. Your entire body is flushed and glistening with perspiration by this point, but both boys admire you like you’re some sort of treasure. You kiss Sam slowly for a while, tasting your release on his tongue as Sebastian lavishes you with gentle attention, careful not to overwhelm you, but to still bring you more and more pleasure. One of your hands moves down into Sebastian's hair, gripping gently, you feel him smile against you and the feeling is oddly erotic. Sam takes the wrist of your other hand, kissing your palm a few times as he undoes his jeans and frees himself from his boxers before lowering your hand onto him. You’re momentarily surprised but quickly regain yourself, softly wrapping your hand around his length, and starting to pump gently. He groans erotically, twitching in your hand, already sticky with pre-cum. “You have no idea how much we’ve fantasised about this,” Sam grunts, thrusting up into your hand a little. You just whimper in response, tightening your grip slightly. Sebastian is watching the two of you closely, his tongue still drawing slow patterns against you.

“Every night for weeks,” Sebastian adds, his voice vibrating against you. “Sam was right, you taste heavenly,” he groans. You laugh breathlessly, concentration on your hand movements becoming harder as Sebastian starts to lick more intently now. Sam caresses your hair as your head falls to the side, becoming overwhelmed by the sensations once more. Your hand speeds up on Sam’s cock to make up for what you know is coming. Copying what Sam had done to drive you mad, Sebastian starts to suckle against you, albeit more gently. It has the same effect anyway due to the previous orgasm. You tug at Sam harder and he chokes out a guttural noise, fucking into your fist as you falter, your second orgasm of the night overtaking you. You throw your head back into the couch in a silent scream, your hips stuttering wildly up against Sebastian’s mouth. He pulls away abruptly once you’ve ridden it out, and you think you’re getting a break, but no such luck, not that you’re really complaining. Sebastian sits up on his knees between your legs, gripping your hips and pulling them up. You squeak in surprise as his tip prods against your entrance, sliding inside with minimal resistance, due to the lubrication provided by your orgasm. He meets a little more resistance deeper inside, carefully pushing through it, bottoming out. He takes a deep shaky breath, looking utterly blissful.

“Tell me how she feels,” Sam begs, still softly fucking your hand like a dog in heat. His words remind you of your motionless hand and you start to move it again, twisting gently. Sam whines loudly and you feel Sebastian twitch inside you.

“Oh… she’s perfect… warm and wet and heavenly,” Sebastian gasps. “Everything we ever dreamed,” both you and Sam keen at these words. Sebastian grips your hips and starts to move gently. You’re already over-sensitive from two orgasms, so he’s being careful with you, despite his clear need for more. He grunts and whines as he fucks into you and you’re happy to realise he’s close to falling apart already, not feeling so bad that your third orgasm is already approaching. You focus on Sam for a little while, keeping up the twisting motion he seems to enjoy so much, he stares down at you looking desperate and lost in pleasure. You use one of your hands to shakily prop yourself up, letting yourself reach to gently kitten lick at his tip. He curses breathlessly at this, and Sebastian seems to like the display too, his pace picking up without even meaning to. You moan, your whole body shaking as Sebastian fucks you, trying your best to keep up your licks. His pre-cum coats your tongue and you like the taste more than you ever expected to, moaning softly. Suddenly, he’s pulling away from you hurriedly and you’re momentarily confused until he groans and spills all over your chest. You laugh breathlessly as his cock twitches above you without even being touched. Sebastian's dark eyes lock onto your cum-covered chest and he growls, fucking you faster and deeper. You whine loudly, grabbing at the couch for purchase as he seemingly goes a little feral. Panting, Sam kneels beside you, taking your hands into his own. You squeeze them hard, your eyes rolling back.

“You’re doing perfect pretty girl,” he coos soothingly as your face scrunches up in pleasure. He kisses you, seemingly unphased by his hands being crushed in yours. You kiss back desperately, feeling Sebastian slamming into you more forcefully as he gets closer. “Want my touch on your clit?” Sam asks gently, you nod frantically and he lowers his hand to rub at your swollen clit. You immediately clench around Sebastian's cock and with a few more sloppy thrusts, Sebastian pulls out and spills his seed all over your abdomen with a loud whimper. Sam coaxes you to the finish line again and you sob violently with the sensation, burying your head in his shoulder. Finally, once you’ve all calmed down a little and caught your breath, Sebastian gets up on shaky legs to fetch a rag. Sam embraces you as you wait, kissing all over your face, and whispering various praises. You melt into his arms, nodding along to his sweet words. “You were perfect for us, you must be so tired baby, sweet girl,”

Sebastian reappears, sitting down beside you and gently wiping you clean of both of their releases with the damp warm cloth. He presses a couple of reverential kisses to your stomach once it’s clean, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to your lips as Sam embraces you. Sebastian wraps you in a blanket to keep out the winter chill that is sneaking in now that you’re not so overheated with arousal. You feel incredibly tired and unsure how things will progress from here, what will this do to your friendship? What kind of relationship will this be? But one thought stands out as they settle themselves on the couch with you between them, both holding you close.

“I’m actually glad that Abi went home,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

xoxoxo

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱

Mike Schmidt x male reader

A request that I received from a friend on tumblr. ‘The reader has to leave for a week roughly, when he comes back Abby is obviously excited and wanting to play with the reader the rest of the day. But all Mike wants to do is have you under him writhing in ecstasy. Basically it's Mike having blue balls for most of the fic until the end when it's night and he *politely* hugs the reader while they frantically make love’

Tags: Part 10 of this miniseries of Mike Schmidt x male reader. No use of Y/N. Age-gap (5 years) between you and Mike. Male reader. He/him pronouns used towards the reader. Mike is missing you deeply. A tiny bit of jealousy. Mentions of phone sex. Smut. Top Mike. Bottom reader. Anal sex.

Words count: 3000 words

Part 1-Part 2-Part 3-Part 4-Part 5-Part 6-Part 7-Part 8-Part 9-Part 11

Can also be found on wattpad and ao3

The moment you stepped through the door, Abby's squeal echoed through the house. You barely had time to set your bag down before she came bounding toward you, her little arms outstretched. She wrapped herself around your waist in an enthusiastic hug, nearly knocking you off balance.

"You're back! You're back!" she cried, hopping on her toes as if to emphasize the sheer force of her excitement.

You laughed, ruffling her hair affectionately. "Missed me that much?"

She pulled back, her face a mixture of indignation and joy. "Of course I missed you! You've been gone forever!" She tugged at your hand insistently, her small fingers gripping tightly. "You have to see what I did while you were gone. I drew a lot! And I made one for you and you have to see it."

"Abby, take it easy, you're going to knock him over," Mike's voice came from the kitchen, casual but unmistakably warm. "He has been gone a week and you've got him chained to you already?"

"I missed you too," you said with a grin before kneeling down to meet Abby’s eye level. "Have you been good while I was gone? Not driving your brother too crazy, I hope?"

Abby giggled, then held out her pinky. "Promise I've been super good. Except maybe when I made Mike drop the spaghetti last night because I tried to do a cartwheel in the kitchen."

You glanced up at Mike, your smile widening. “Sounds like I missed quite a week.”

Mike rolled his eyes, though the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Sorry about her," his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "She's been talking about you all week. You'd think you were gone for months." His voice sent a pleasant shiver through you, low and steady but edged with amusement.

"She's fine," you said, smiling. "Honestly, it's nice to be missed."

He leaned against the doorframe, the dim lighting catching the tired creases under his eyes. Black hair messy t-shirt that clung to his lean but sturdy frame. His gaze lingered on you and only now did you realize how much you had missed him.

Abby, oblivious to the silent tension, kept tugging at your hand. "Come on! I need to show you something!" Her excitement bubbled over, her small hands pulling you toward her room with surprising strength. "I drew so many things while you were gone and you have to see them all!".

You glanced over at Mike, offering him a half-apologetic smile as his sister guided you by her room. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his lips twitching between amusement and thinly veiled frustration.

Mike's brow arched slightly as though to say, ‘Really? After a week away, you're prioritizing her?’ But he didn't speak his protest aloud. Instead, he pushed off the doorway with a grunt, muttering, "Guess I'll just... wait my turn."

The room was a kaleidoscope of colors, with crayon drawings taped to the walls, scattered across the floor and piled on her tiny desk. Abby flopped onto the carpet, pulling out a stack of drawings with the urgency of someone sharing top-secret information. "Okay, okay! Look at this one first. It's Chica but I made her of a different color."

You chuckled, sitting cross-legged beside her as she thrust the drawing into your hands. “A total masterpiece."

Her eyes sparkled at your praise. "You think so? Look at this one!" She shuffled through the pile, pulling out another one that she eagerly handed to you.

"This one is us at the park," she explained, holding up a crayon drawing of the three of you surrounded by flowers and trees. "Those two are you and Mike holding hands! I drew it because you're always together."

You couldn't help but laugh softly, feeling a tinge of embarrassment but also a deep sense of affection. "You're quite the artist, Abby. I look amazing here. You're going to be famous one day."

Her eyes lit up at the compliment, and she beamed with pride. "Really?"

"Absolutely," you assured her, glancing at Mike. "Right, Mike?"

From the bed, where Mike had sprawled out with all the ease of a man trying to keep his patience in check, a low sound of approval erupted. He smirked at the question, his gaze flickering between you and Abby. "Yeah, kid. You've got some real talent. Be careful, though. Keep going like this and his ego's going to get too big." His dark eyes watched you intently, softening ever so slightly every time Abby smiled at you.

Abby's grin widened and she immediately dove into her stack of drawings to find more to show you. Mike's smirk softened into a fond smile as he watched her animatedly interact with you. He loved seeing you and Abby bond, though his gaze kept drifting to you, lingering on the curve of your back as you leaned forward, the way your lips quivered when you laughed and the soft glow in your eyes as you encouraged Abby.

A part of him felt guilty for how often his mind wandered, but he couldn't stop the flood of thoughts. He knew he should focus on the moment, but his body's reaction to having you so close after a week apart was impossible to ignore

He clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the mundane but his gaze kept wandering back to you. Your fingers brushed hers as you helped her shuffle through the pile of pictures, your laughter soft and genuine as you let her talk about her latest dream.

‘God, those hands...’ his eyes lingering on the way your fingertips moved. He didn't mean to stare, but the memory of those same hands clutching his shoulders, clawing at his back, sent a flash of heat straight to his core.

He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, feigning disinterest as his thoughts betrayed him. The view of the way you leaned slightly forward, the curve of your spine visible through your shirt made it ten times worse. He wondered, for the briefest of moments, what it would feel like to have you there on the floor, pinned beneath him, the softness of your moans muffled against his lips.

Abby leaned against your shoulder, holding up another picture. This one was clearly meant to be Mike, his hair a chaotic swirl of black scribbles. "This one's you, Mike! I made his hair messy because it's always like that." she exclaimed, holding up a surprisingly decent rendition of his perpetual frown.

"It's not always messy," he protested half-heartedly. He was leaning against the bed frame, one leg propped up, his head tilted lazily against the wall. You turned toward him with a grin. "She's not wrong, though."

Mike shot you a glare, though there was no real malice behind it. "I see you've both decided to team up on me. Great. Just what I needed after a long week." he muttered.

Abby giggled, unfazed by his grumbling as she kept eagerly pulling out new drawings she made

His eyes softened at the sight of you and Abby together. She was sitting so close to you, practically in your lap, her small hand tugging at your sleeve as she babbled on about her next masterpiece. It was enough to make his heart ache, both from the warmth of seeing you bond with her and the sharp sting of jealousy that you weren't paying attention to him.

He let his head fall back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as he tried to shake the frustration bubbling in his chest. He shouldn't feel like this. Abby was a kid and she deserved every bit of your attention. But damn it, he'd missed you. A week without you had felt like an eternity and now that you were here, he had to sit back and wait?

His fingers twitched at the memory of the previous night at work. Alone in the security office, watching the flickering monitors, the silence stretching endlessly. It had been another slow, uneventful shift, the kind that made every second feel like an hour.

One second he was leaning against the chair, the next he got up and grabbed the nearby phone and dialed the number of the structure you were in.

He'd called you on impulse, not even sure you'd pick up so late.

"Mike?" Your voice had been groggy but laced with concern. "It's, like, two in the morning. Are you okay?"

The sound of your voice had been a balm to his frayed nerves. “Yeah," he'd said, leaning back in the chair, the phone pressed tightly to his ear. "I'm fine. Just... bored. Wanted to hear your voice." His tone had shifted, growing rougher, more deliberate.

There'd been a pause, and then a soft chuckle. "You miss me that much, huh?"

He hadn't denied it. He couldn't. Instead, he'd let the words tumble out, his voice dropping to a husky murmur as he told you how much he'd been thinking about you. And God, the way you'd responded, your voice growing softer, breathier, as the conversation took a turn he hadn't dared hope for.

By the end of it, he'd been a mess, stroking himself as your whispered moans filled his ear. He'd closed his eyes, picturing you on his lap, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body rocking against his as he thrust up into you over and over. He could still hear your voice, the way you'd gasped his name when you came. It had been enough to leave him breathless, slumped in his chair with his hand still wrapped around himself.

The memory of your voice, the way you'd whimpered his name through the phone, sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through him even now.

"Mike, you're not even looking!" Abby's voice snapped him back to the present. She was holding up another drawing, her brow furrowed in mock frustration.

He adjusted his position on the bed, praying Abby wouldn't notice the tension in his body, forcing a smile. "Sorry, kiddo. Let me see."

The hours dragged on, but for Mike, every second felt like an eternity. He loved how natural you were with her, how effortlessly you fit into their little world. But the selfish part of him, the one that had spent countless sleepless nights imagining your body pressed against his, was losing the fragile grip it had on its patience.

Night had finally fallen and Abby, despite her earlier determination to stay awake and keep playing, had succumbed to exhaustion. She lay nestled inside the fort she had spent the better part of the evening constructing, pillows stacked precariously, blankets draped over chairs and furniture, her breathing slow and steady. Mike had taken care to tuck another blanket securely around her, brushing her hair back gently before stepping away.

You stood near the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a fond smile. There was something endlessly endearing about seeing Mike in dad mode, his gruff exterior softening as he ensured Abby was warm and comfortable.

"She's out cold," he murmured as he joined you at the door, his voice low to avoid waking her. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he gently shut the door behind him.

When he turned back to you, there was a shift in his expression. Without a word, he reached out, wrapping his arms around your waist in a firm but measured embrace. His face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his stubble brushing against your skin as his breath came hot and steady.

"Finally," he murmured, his voice husky. "My turn."

You chuckled softly, though your breath hitched at the weight of his tone. "What, you missed me that much?" You tried to keep your voice light, teasing, though your heart raced as he held you.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his dark gaze smoldering. "You have no idea." His fingers pressed into your lower back, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush. "No more interruptions. You're mine now."

Mike's hand never left your waist as he guided you down the hall toward the bedroom. His grip was firm but not rushed, his thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of your shirt. Once inside, he kicked the door shut with a soft thud, the sound sending a thrill down your spine.

He turned to you, his eyes tracing over your face before sliding lower, drinking in the sight of you like a man starved. "I've been waiting all day for this," he said quietly, voice low and rough. "All week, really."

He leaned in and captured your lips with his own. The kiss was deep and consuming, tongue brushing yours, coaxing a soft moan from your throat.

He broke the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. "God, I missed you," he muttered, his hands sliding under your shirt to touch the bare skin of your back. "Every damn second you were gone, I was thinking about you."

Mike eased you onto the bed, his weight settling between your legs as he kissed you again. His hands worked your shirt over your head, tossing it aside before his lips moved lower, trailing down your neck, your chest, each kiss deliberate and hungry.

His fingers skimmed the waistband of your pants, pausing for a moment to look up at you. "Let me take care of you," he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

He leaned down, his lips pressing against your collarbone, your chest, the soft skin of your stomach. Each kiss was hot and deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His stubble grazed your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth.

When he reached your waistband, he paused, glancing up at you through his lashes. "Can I?" he asked, his voice rough but laced with tenderness.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his hands worked your pants and boxers down in one smooth motion. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but that sensation was quickly replaced by the warmth of his hands as they smoothed over your thighs.

He took his time, his gaze never leaving you as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, his stubble brushing against the sensitive skin.

"So perfect," he whispered, his voice barely audible, his breath hot against you. "I've missed this so much."

His hands spread your legs wider as he continued his exploration, his lips and tongue teasing you until you were trembling beneath him.

When he finally pulled back, his pupils blown with desire, he reached into the nightstand for the small bottle of lube you both kept there. The sound of the cap clicking open sent a shiver of anticipation through you.

He poured a generous amount onto his fingers before setting it aside. His eyes met yours as he coated his fingers, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch in your throat.

Your body was trembling with anticipation as you felt his hand slide between your legs, his fingers gently parting your thighs. The first touch of his slick fingers against you made you gasp, your hips instinctively arching off the bed as he began to prepare you. His movements were slow and careful, his fingers working you open with a patience that made your heart swell with affection.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-growl as he worked you open. "God, I've missed feeling like this."

He took his time, making sure you were comfortable, that you were ready, before he added a second finger, then a third, each one stretching you further, preparing you for what was to come.

You could feel every nerve in your body alight with pleasure, every touch sending sparks of electricity through you.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, you couldn't help the whimper that escaped your lips, your body aching for more.

He reached down to unbutton his own pants, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes until he was just as bare as you were.

He settled between your legs, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the hard length of him pressing against your thigh.

His words sent a flush of heat through you, your hips moving involuntarily as you chased the feeling of his touch. His free hand gripped your thigh, holding you steady as he added another finger, his movements deliberate.

"You're doing so good for me," he said, his voice softening for a moment. "So good."

The first stretch was intense, a mix of pressure and pleasure as Mike slowly pushed inside. He let out a low, guttural sound as he buried himself to the hilt, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "Fuck," he muttered, his head falling forward against your shoulder. "So tight. Feels even better than I remembered."

He paused for a moment, letting you adjust, his breathing ragged as he fought to hold himself still. "Tell me if it's too much," he said, his voice low but tender.

"It's good," you whispered, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. "Go on."

You clenched around him, drawing a sharp groan from his lips. His movements started slow, his hips rocking gently as he let you adjust. But as your hands found their way to his back, your nails digging in slightly, he couldn't hold back any longer.

Mike's pace quickened, each thrust deep and deliberate, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel so good," he rasped, his voice raw. "God, I've missed this. Missed you."

Your moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of his ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. Every movement, every touch, felt electric, the built-up tension of the past week spilling over in waves of pleasure.

Mike leaned down, his lips brushing against your jaw as he murmured, "You’re taking me so well... so perfect."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he drove into you with a newfound urgency. His hands roamed your body, touching, gripping, as if he couldn't get enough.

By the time you both reached your peak, you were a mess of tangled limbs and breathless moans. Mike collapsed beside you, his hips stuttered, grip on you tightening as he buried himself to the hilt. His groan was deep and guttural, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled into you, pulling you close against his chest as you both tried to catch your breath.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips brushing against your temple. "Don't ever leave me for that long again," he said quietly, his voice still rough from exertion as he tightened his arms around you, his breath evening out as he held you close.

Note: If you liked this story please leave a comment, I love reading them <3. Up next i’ll post another Mike Munroe fic ;)

[fireya-x]

they say don't open old wounds

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

The mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.

[3,7k words]

cw: angst, smut, piv sex

they say don't open old wounds

but this is still brand new

and I've got nothing left to lose besides you

and I've already lost you once

what more could you do?

they say don't open old wounds

but I want to

PVRIS - old wounds

It had been months since you joined the 141, months of missions that pushed you to the edge, missions that forged an unexpected bond with your team. A sense of mutual respect and care for each other, a blend of professionalism and camaraderie that softened the harsh realities of the work you did. Soap was always ready with a joke, Gaz offered tactical insights and support, Price kept a watchful eye on your well-being — but Ghost… Ghost remained an enigma. Shrouded in mystery. He rarely spoke more than a grunt or a clipped command, the complete opposite to the warmth of the others.

He was the same hidden figure, strict and cold, like he had been a few years ago when you had the honour of being trained by him and Captain Price. He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a cipher you hadn't even intended to attempt to crack, yet the easy familiarity with which the others interacted with him, offering their vulnerabilities to someone who resembled Death himself without a second thought, left you constantly bewildered. You needed to know more. How could they trust someone implicitly who was hidden behind a mask, someone whose past remained a blank slate?

He could be anyone, a traitor in their midst, and no one would know. You shook your head, catching yourself staring yet again, your gaze tracing the lines of the thick skull sewn to his balaclava, desperately trying to find a flicker of the man beneath.

Missions blurred into weeks, then months, and the uneasy feeling just didn’t let go. You had an eye of him always, your gut telling you to, but you found something different than you were hoping for.

It began with small, almost imperceptible observations that chipped away at the carefully constructed wall of Ghost’s persona. Subtle movements, like the precise, almost ritualistic way he adjusted his gloves like he had always done; a subtle tilt of his head as he listened, mirroring his thoughtful pose from years ago. The way he favoured the knife in the strap on his left, like he had always shown off his favourite weapon to you, shown you how to use it to defend yourself if you ever had to grab it from him. The subtle shift in his breathing when under stress, something he tried to conceal but you recognized it with an unnerving familiarity.

You’d catch yourself staring, again and again, searching for something, anything, beneath that mask to prove your mind wrong — or right.

You scoffed at yourself, pushing the thoughts away. Wishful thinking. Ridiculous. Simon was gone. He is and always will be.

It was your mind playing tricks on you, you reasoned, grasping for closure. You were back in the field, surrounded by danger, by ghosts of your past. Of course, you’d see him in every shadow, hear his voice in every whisper of the wind. Your heart, starved for the his presence, filled the void with illusions.

But you couldn’t help it. The mask. A blank canvas that taunted you, allowed your mind to paint his face onto it a million times over, feeding your impossible, unrealistic hopes with the absurdity of ever seeing him again.

Then, a mission had gone sideways. A sudden ambush, a chaotic scramble for cover. Shots were exchanged, but the target was hit, the job done. But in the chaos, you’d gotten separated from the team, wandering some endless fields, unsuccessfully trying to contact anyone through the deafening static of your radio.

Suddenly, you saw him — Ghost, slumped against the rough-hewn timbers of an abandoned barn, a gash bleeding freely on his forearm beneath the torn fabric of his jacket.

Adrenaline surging, you raced towards him, your medic instincts taking over. 

Inside the barn, the air was thick with the scent of dust and hay. Ghost leaned against the bales and exhaled loudly, avoiding looking at you.

You carefully set down your rifle in the hay. “We have to wait here and hope we can contact the others. Comms are down.”

No response.

“Let me look at the wound, Lieutenant.” Not a question, but a command, softened by the implicit understanding that he couldn’t afford to ignore the wound, not now, not while still being out in the field.

You knelt beside him, your hands already moving to assess the damage. “Fuck,” he swore, the word muffled by the mask. You assumed it was the pain, but later you would understand the true reason behind the swearing.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.” You pressed an alcohol-soaked cotton against the wound, retrieved form your medkit, your touch surprisingly steady despite the frantic beating of your heart. Even through the layers of his tactical gear, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Something about the feel of him, the solid weight of his body against yours as you leaned in to examine the wound, sparked a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. Stop it, you berated yourself. This is not the time.

All those times he'd been around you, he’d kept his distance, interactions brief, clipped, professional. But now, trapped with you in the suffocating silence of the barn, with nowhere to run, no excuses to offer, no escape from your touch, his carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble, inch by agonizing inch. With your hands on him, gentle and caring as they had been countless times before —

You heard the thud of his helmet hitting the ground, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted, loosening your hold on his arm. “You need to hold still, sir.”

And then you heard it. Your name. Not your call sign, not the impersonal formality of military protocol, but your name. Whispered with the same cadence like it had been in your dreams, and you were sure fatigue had finally driven you beyond sanity. 

Your blood ran cold. No. It couldn't be. He’s gone. It was impossible. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. He is not here.

But when you turned, you froze. You looked at a ghost. Not the Ghost, but that ghost from your past that had haunted your every single waking moment, your dreams, your nightmares. It had been stalking you, mocking you, reminding you of a love lost and irrevocably buried. The ghost with its dirty blond hair and scarred face and hazel brown eyes.

Simon.

The man who had stolen your heart, then shattered it with his sudden, unexplained disappearance. 

A strangled sob tore through you, the sound raw with disbelief, with years of suppressed grief.

A torrent of emotions washed over you – shock, denial, a resurgence of a love you thought long buried, a burning anger at his deception, at the years of silence, of unanswered questions. “Why?” you choked out, the word laced with accusation. “Why, Simon? All this time… we were here. Together. You knew.”

He winced, his gaze dropping to his injured arm, unable to meet the intensity of your gaze.  “I… I couldn't risk it,” he murmured, the words a strained whisper. “Risk you.” 

A wave of nausea washed over you. He knew. All those stolen glances, the way you always gravitated towards him—he'd known. The realization struck you, and fury warred with the irrational surge of joy. Alive. But he chose this. Chose to hide, to let you grieve.

“The things I've done…” His voice cracked, the weight of his secrets heavy in the air. “…The things I had to do…” He met your gaze, bracing himself for the storm of your anger. “I couldn't risk you getting hurt.” A weak excuse, a pathetic justification, but the only truth he could offer. 

Shame burned in his gaze, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he’d lost you, before you even had the chance to find each other again. The anger, the hurt, the unanswered questions — he saw it all swirling within you.

“Hurt?” The word was hollow, edged with bitterness. “You left me to rot in hell for seven years, wondering if you were even alive, and you talk about hurt? You were here, Simon. You even trained me!” He flinched at the pain in your voice, a pain he inflicted. Something he deserved, not you.

You felt a flash of anger towards Price, who had kept this from you, knowing how much Simon’s disappearance wrecked you. But you also knew that Price, above all else, was loyal to his men. 

“I know what you're thinking,” he whispered. “I asked them to keep it from you. I asked them not to say my name around you… I thought… it would be easier.” He knew now how wrong he'd been. How could he not know? How selfish and misguided this attempt at keeping you safe had been. He was supposed to protect you, not hurt you. “If you’re angry, be angry at me.” He was the only one to blame. It was never up to his comrades to take this weight off his shoulders. 

Then suddenly, he closed the distance between you, and his hand, trembling, cupped your cheek. A jolt, a spark, in the desolate wasteland of his guilt. Your skin, soft and warm beneath his fingertips. A reminder of everything he’d lost. Everything he risked losing again by revealing himself.

No. Your mind screamed in protest, wanting to pull away from the unwelcome tenderness. Don't you dare forgive him. But the words remained unspoken. His thumb gently stroked your skin, a familiar caress, and a sob escaped your lips. This is wrong. He hurt you. But the voice of reason was a faint whisper against the roaring tide of longing. Your hands trembled, wanting to push him away, to distance yourself, anything but this aching tenderness. But at the same time, you wanted nothing more to feel him.

“I don’t want to be angry,” your hand found its place above his on your cheek. “Just… tell me why, Simon? Why?”

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, his lips found yours, a kiss that was both a question and an answer, a desperate, hungry reconnection of two souls separated by time and circumstance. 

He knew you’d push him away, he expected it, he deserved it. But he needed this, this moment of contact, the fleeting taste of a past he had thought was lost forever. He had been dreaming of this moment for too long, torturing himself with imagined reunions, each encounter an agonizing exercise in self-control. Every time you were near, he’d shackled himself mentally, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach for you, to touch you, to scream at you that he is alive and yours, and to beg for your forgiveness.

Your lips on his were like watering a withered flower that his heart had turned into, dry and shrivelled, unable to let love close if it wasn’t yours. He’d sworn never to love again when he left, believing it was that easy, believing it was the only way to protect you.

He had hoped that each mission and kill helped to bury his heart and his emotions until there was nothing left but death. Bury the part of himself that yearned for you, that ached for your touch, and leave only the Ghost behind.

But then you were there. On his team. You stood before him, more beautiful than he remembered, your long hair braided back, your uniform hugging your curves, a vision that made his breath catch in his throat. He could have died then and there, content to simply exist in the same space as you, to breathe the same air.

And with your return, so was he, whether he wanted to or not. He was powerless against you. Simon Riley, the man who loved you, resurfaced from beneath the mask, shattering the carefully constructed illusion he'd built around himself. 

The moment he dreaded haunted his work now, and he considered running, again. Leave the team, like a dog with its tail between its legs, give up and run from his past.

But Price had promised him that he wouldn’t tell you, if he stayed. He had almost begged him not to run again, knowing his past and his pain, and somewhere, he knew Price was right. He needed them. And he realized he needed you.

From then, he cherished every moment with you together, and it pained him to be so harsh to you. But he had to be, afraid the mask would slip, literally. Conversations cut short, orders barked, the subtle flinch in your eyes when his voice cut through the air — each interaction was a battle, a constant war against the overwhelming urge to reach out, to soothe the hurt he knew he was inflicting, to pull you close and beg you to forgive him.

And now, with your hands on him, so gentle and caring, the dam had finally broken. He couldn’t bear it any longer, this agonizing distance from you.

And your lips, so sweet and so soft, like no time had passed at all, they were his salvation, his damnation, his only hope of redemption.

A sigh left your body, distorted from the sobs, and he pressed your face closer to him. He never wanted to let go anymore. Never again.

He still expected you to push him away, to be angry, to unleash your wrath upon him for abandoning you — but you didn’t. Your hands touched every single inch of skin that was exposed, and he didn’t stop you.

He was ashamed of the relief that flooded through him, ashamed of the way his body responded to your touch, ashamed that he dared to enjoy this moment, a moment that should never have existed, a moment born of his lies and his carefully constructed deceptions. Then your hands cupped his length through his jeans, and an unexpected groan escaped his lips. 

He should stop you. You should be furious. You shouldn’t be rewarding him for the years of silence, for the agonizing absence that had left a gaping wound in your life. But the moment your hand touched him through the fabric, every carefully constructed defense crumbled to dust. He was lost.

“Show me you’re real, Si,” you whispered against his jaw, your lips leaving a hot, wet trail along his stubble, your hips pressing against his thighs, the friction igniting a fire in his blood. “Show me… I need… I need to know this is real.”

How could he deny you? How could he deny himself this one moment of reckless abandon, this one chance to reclaim a piece of the past he had so carelessly thrown away?

“Are you sure?” 

He felt the zip of his jeans slide down, heard the quiet clink of his discarded weapons against the hay. He felt you nudging his thighs open, a sense of anticipation coursing through his blood like pure, electric adrenaline.

“I don’t know.” You whispered, looking up at him. Your sight was blurry from the tears, but you saw real concern in his eyes. Mixed with confusion. He had expected you to react differently, you were sure of that. 

If this was just a fever dream, a hallucination conjured by a mind desperate for solace, then so be it. You would savor every moment, every touch, every stolen kiss, before the inevitable awakening, before the cruel return to reality.

You kissed him again, your hand now firmly stroking him, the familiar texture of his skin, the throb of his arousal beneath your palm, sending a wave of heat through you. His hands found their way beneath your uniform, slowly pushing your pants down as far as your position allowed, and the catch in your breath when his touch found your centre was his undoing. The small, shuddering breath that passed through your body, an unconscious reaction to his finger as it played against your sweet spot. And he felt the blood rush to his cock, hardening it, causing it to ache with a need he hadn't felt in years.

You crawled closer onto his thighs and slowly eased yourself onto his waiting length, and that puzzle that was Ghost, the unsolvable mystery, finally clicked into place, a puzzle piece finding its perfect fit, making you both whole.

The world around you ceased to exist. It was just you and him and nothing else. The wound and blood were long forgotten. If there were enemies outside, you didn’t care. You could die right then and there, if it meant you were in your lovers arms for all eternity and beyond.

The stretch of his cock inside your sensetive walls was pure bliss, and you sighed into his neck. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Just you. Always you.” You whispered in confession, and you earned a groan in return.

“I swore to never love again,” he murmured against your hair, as he began to move inside you, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. “And then,” a hard thrust, a gasp escaping your lips, “you were right there again. Fuck.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his uniform as he moved within you. The rhythm was both familiar and achingly new, years of longing poured into every thrust. The feel of him, solid and real, chased away the ghosts of the past, the years of wondering, of imagining, of hoping. This was real. He was here.

You sobbed, a mixture of relief and the lingering sting of betrayal, and he responded with a guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath, hot and ragged against your skin, mingled with incoherent apologies whispered against your ear.

“Si…” you breathed, his name a prayer, a plea, a reaffirmation of a love that had endured despite the years of silence and pain.

His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your rhythm to match his, the friction building and building. It wasn't just the physical pleasure, though it was like a white-hot fire spreading through you; it was the reconnection, the desperate need to erase the years of separation, to meld back into the person you were before he disappeared. 

“I missed you,” he groaned. “So fucking much.”

“Me too,” you whispered back, the tears you thought you'd cried out returning.

The world narrowed, shrinking down to the feel of his clothed body against yours, the heat of his breath, the relentless rhythm that was driving you both toward the edge. 

There was no pretense, no holding back. Just the raw need to be close, to reconnect, to find solace in each other's arms after so long apart, even with the limitations imposed by the circumstances.

You arched into him, the friction of clothing against skin a delicious torment, and a wave of pleasure ripped through you. His grip tightened, and his name tore from your throat as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you, shattered you, dragging you under.

He followed close behind, his release a shuddering groan against your ear, his length pulsing inside you. For a long moment, you just held each other, hearts pounding, breaths ragged, the silence broken only by the occasional shuddering sigh. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t poetic. It was messy, desperate, and utterly perfect.

Even as the aftershocks subsided, you kept your eyes closed, clinging to the warmth of his embrace, afraid to break the spell, terrified that opening them would erase him again, that this precious moment would dissolve into the cruel, cold reality of his absence. You felt a kiss on your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a pang of fear through you. Was he going to leave again? 

But he didn't move.

“I’m so sorry, love” he whispered, his voice ragged, breath warm against your skin. “Please… look at me.”

You opened your eyes, your gaze locking with his. Scarred skin, hazel eyes filled with remorse, but also with an unmistakable love.

He was still there.

He hadn’t disappeared.

He didn’t walk away.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, “I won't ever leave you again.”

You clung to his words, your heart swelling with a cautious hope. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his eyes held yours. Watching you these past months, your strength, your resilience in the face of unimaginable danger, revealed a simple truth that would strip him of any excuses not to tell you. You were stronger than he’d given you credit for, stronger than even he had believed. You deserved the truth, no matter how dark, no matter how painful. And he would give it to you. He swore it to himself.

 “I will.”

“Bravo Six… in the blind… you… copy?” The radio crackled, a jarring intrusion into the fragile intimacy of the moment. He reached for it immediately. 

“Bravo Six, this is Ghost. We're in the blind. What's your status?” 

His voice, when he responded to Price, was still tinged with the softness you’d heard only moments before, a subtle reassurance that despite the return of the impersonal detachment, despite the mask he wore for the world, for his team, he was still there, somewhere beneath the surface.

“When we go back,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the static of the radio, laced with a vulnerability you hadn’t intended to reveal, “…when Ghost comes back,” you corrected yourself, the words catching in your throat, “will I still have… Simon?” 

He paused, his hand hovering over the radio, his gaze locking with yours. “You, always,” he said, without any hesitation. “And I promise,” he added, his voice softening, the warmth of him breaking through, “I'll help you understand… Ghost.”

He would reveal the darkness, the secrets, the pain that had driven him to become the masked soldier. He would trust you with the broken pieces of himself, the fragments he’d kept hidden for so long. He owed you that much, if not more. 

He’d give you every little piece of him he could offer.