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Bonus points if she's the more successful of the two and she keeps him like a little trophy.
She's calls his missions and work "enrichment" to help get the "masculinity" out of him so when he comes home he has no issue putting on thigh highs and a pink apron and nothing else.
I know women in their 60s who like like they just hit late 40's.
Like imagine John Price being this woman's sub? He's a smart guy but his wife is The Woman of the Hour wherever she goes. Top expert in her field, and she brings him along to fancy parties to show him off.
He actually kinda likes it. Kinda likes being the fittest man in the room, other women gwak at him openly, and compliment him on how handsome he is, and oh he's in the service? He's so selfless, he is so strong, it really strokes his ego to be seen with his wife.
And whole time he has a cock cage on and the lock and key is in her bag that he carries for her.
Lets u loose in some private land, maybe an abandoned mall idfk, gives you a head start. He's got his full gear on while ur in some of ur pajamas, a pocket knife and small flashlight ur only tools. He hunts you down, slow and sure in his steps, like he knows he'll catch you no matter what you choose.
And he does. Ur catching ur breathe between one dash and the next and suddenly ur slammed against the wall. Then the fun really starts, the struggle. Ur not weak or helpless by any means, john made sure of that. So getting you down and hands zip-tied takes a good bit of effort, hes panting slightly by the end.
But now he gets to enjoy his reward, thick palm slipping beneath ur waistband to grope at u, chuckling at the wet patch he finds. He's merciless, head between ur thighs until ur crying and twisting away with overstimulation, only then does he finally relent.
Drives u back home and runs you a bath, reminds u how to improve for next time. After all, if u can survive long enough its u that gets to use john, good incentive.
WHAT ABOUT LEON CRYING DURING SEX idk what it is but I love the desperate fucked out raw emotion that it emits, just being so in the moment and so into it and just purely nothing but feeling loved and giving love. Don't know if you'd be comfortable writing this absolutely feel free to just delete!! Love u
you cry during sex w/ leon
warnings. MINORS DONT INTERACT OR YOURE BLOCKED / fem!reader, rough sex, doggy style, crying, reader says the word ‘stop’ but doesn’t mean it (consensual), kissing, unprotected sex, cumming inside.
author’s note. i misread this and thought i was supposed to write reader crying during sex … im so sorry. i’ll do an unofficial pt 2 w/ leon as the crier at some point. also that claire fic is taking longer than i thought to write so here’s an (albeit incorrect) appetizer.
you’d cry during sex when you’re face-down in the mattress, pillow gripped tight, screaming into it with every harsh thrust of his hips.
he’d come home pent up, frustrated, and tired, and would turn that into some form of rough love for you.
the backs of your thighs would be bruised with the force of his hips.
“leon,” you mewl, threads tearing at your fingernails. “stop.”
which was code for keep going. he knew this. there’d be no stopping unless you safe-worded.
“you can take it,” that rough timbre comes from behind you, rolling his hips in a way that angles himself deeper, making you cry out.
“no—“ you shudder, grittily, biting the pillow beneath your hands, eyes screwed shut.
the first sob comes, tears streaking down your cheeks, and you clench around him. “oh god!”
that motivates him to rut inside you quicker, thrusts strong and unrelenting despite getting close. “that’s it,” he groans. “that’s my girl.”
another sob, louder this time, rips from your throat, echoing off the walls as you shake around him, cumming hard in convulsions, tears staining your pillow.
leon’s not far behind you, painting your insides white with one final, deep push into your tight channel.
you’re still quietly sobbing when he pulls out, lies next to you, and pulls you in close, caging you in safely against his bare chest.
“you okay?” a soft kiss to your forehead, clear concern on his features. the high of the orgasm had dissipated, now he was worried about the cause of your tears.
“i’m fine,” you reassure with a shake of your head, sniffling. he strokes a thumb against your cheek.
“nothing hurts?” his brows lift, just barely, stress lines forming on his forehead. “be honest.”
“i’m okay,” you chuckle, soft and tired. blissful. as you rest against his chest, that post-orgasm fatigue washing over you. “promise.”
all you feel is a kiss to the top of your head and a hand dragging up and down your back as you drift off.
- he is a very particular man and he doesn’t mess around when it comes to poor posture. you’re an extension of him, after all. he’ll press a hand up against the base of your spine and trail the other up to your chest, straightening your back out. it doesn’t physically matter where you are. he’s formed a habit and he doesn’t intend to break out of it anytime soon.
“sit properly. that’s it.”
- he’s not overly keen on grand displays of intimacy. hugs are rare, holding his hand seems almost impossible some days yet he has his own ways of displaying affection. a little jut of his chin when he’s pleased with something. a quick brush of his fingers against yours when you look anxious. sometimes his hand will come to grapple at your wrist and tug you alongside him. they’re fleeting but they mean something in their own way.
- wesker doesn’t take to you doing things for yourself very kindly. he simply won’t allow it. wesker makes a point of opening doors for you, begrudgingly giving you his jacket when it’s cold, buying you fresh flowers every few days (it feels pointless to him. it’s a custom he’s leaned into.) and helps you stay up-right against him when you’ve had just a touch too much to drink.
“ah, ah, no. stay put. i’m opening the door for you.”
- wesker has no patience when it comes to petty arguments. he’ll shut it down quickly, often times by simply walking out of the room and never speaking of it again. on the odd occasion that wesker riles himself up, he’ll do his absolute best to remain composed. he’ll give you tight, sharp responses. no room for agreement or disagreement. arguments never really seem to stick with wesker. he has better things to do than dwell on a lovers quarrel.
nsfw !
- wesker is the victim of a major size kink. he loves seeing you down there, below his chin. maybe its the blatant imbalance of power but he throbs at the thought of it alone. physically having you in-front of him and looking up at you all doe-eyed really sends him over the edge.
- as much as he seems like he’d be harsh with his words in bed, he’s surprisingly very mindful. he’ll coo at you, spouting out nicknames in the heat of his pleasure. the cooing often times borders on mockery. a sly smirk tugs at his lips, glaring down at you beneath him.
“look at you. that’s it, dear. take what you need. mm, that’s it.”
- wesker is abnormally vocal. he moans because he wants you to hear him. they’re boyish, drawn-out moans. the kind that just keep spilling from his mouth, puffing out bated breaths alongside them as he beats his cock into you.
- wesker adores the feeling of your hair bundled into his fist. he loves the way you whine out when he tugs just a little bit too hard. he’ll give you a gentle slap if you’ll let him and dear god, does he love doing that.
- spit. weskers a clean man but he insists on spit. whether he spits on you or you spit on him. he loves the feeling of his cock being spit on and equally loves seeing your face glisten as he spreads the saliva across the cute little expanse of your face.
- wesker’s non-negotiable kink is fucking in-front of a mirror. he loves watching you watch yourself crumble as he fucks you into oblivion. something so satisfying about watching the shame wash over you than wesker can’t deny makes him fuck you even harder.
“look at yourself. mm, no. don’t get all shy now. look at yourself while I fuck you.”
I think I saw similar animal crossing fanart to this one time of Leon catching Del Lago in animal crossing, but I could be mistaken. If anyone knows who that is, tag them below!! But thought this would be a cute idea! Enjoy!
Now Playing: Devil in Disguise by Marino {S.T.A.R.S!Wesker x Fem!Reader}
What rotten luck you had…
Being late on your first day as the receptionist of the Raccoon City Police Department was not a good look. Maybe they would be lenient… Hopefully they would be lenient…
As you stepped off the train, you hauled ass, despite your poor choice of shoes—Oatmeal coloured kitten heels with a small rubber bow on top. In your defense, they’re cute! The heels matched with the rest of your outfit and completed your ensemble perfectly!! It had you doing little twirls in your mirror last night, when you had tried it on for the forty-thousandth time. But, back to the present!
The single earbud in your ear played your playlist of choice, adding a lovely soundtrack that fit your circumstance—Sprinting through the busy streets of Raccoon city, and recalling the route to the RPD.
As you round the corner to scramble up the steep carved steps, you slam into the opening, oversized, mahogany doors and go flying to the ground. Your purse and its contents fall to the stairs while your earbud is dislodged—Right as you hear the beginning notes of the next song…
“You think the devil has horns? Well, so did I…”
With a groan and a gentle hand pressed to your temple, you look up at the man who swung the door into you and your breath leaves your lungs…
He’s fucking gorgeous!!
Tall with platinum blond hair and blue eyes that look like they’re a sky caught between a storm and a clear forecast (which just so happen to be reflecting concern). He wears a uniform you don’t recognize to be the standard RPD dress. However, in his shoulders he carries the same amount of authority of an officer.
“God- I am soooo sorry!” You quickly scramble to grab your discarded earbud and shuffle to your knees to start collecting your things. The man chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that makes you want to- Focus!!
Ah, right.
You shake the thoughts from your head while he crouches to your height and begins to help you collect your things. A discarded lipgloss, chapstick, your coin purse and train pass.
“It’s quite alright. Are you ok? Bruised anywhere? Bleeding?” He asks and hands you your purse back as you both stand. He towers over you. Maybe… 6 foot 4? No, definitely 6 foot 6.
“A-ah, y-yes, I am… Thank you for asking… That’s so embarrassing. Thank you for your help Mr…?” You trail off, asking for his name without voicing the question verbatim.
“Captain.” He corrects and stoops down to pick up your phone.
“Captain Albert Wesker of the S.T.A.R.S Alpha Team.” He twirls the device and holds it out to you. Before you collect it from him, those striking blue eyes flit down and he smirks.
“Great song choice.” He remarks before turning back to the steps and jogging down them.
“See you around, Angel.” The blond captain calls over his shoulder before disappearing into one of the cruisers.
You blink, just watching him go, utterly entranced by his sheer presence… Before it dawns on you that you are still late! With a panicked squeak, you yank open the station’s door and disappear into the building.
~~~
The later half of your first week at the RPD went remarkably better than your initial day. It being a Friday evening, a handful of officers had invited you out to celebrate surviving your first few days. Rita Phillips–who made a point to ensure you felt welcome–had recommended a couple of bars to crawl between in a strip of downtown, which is where you find yourself now…
Marvin was playing impromptu babysitter/wrangler to a very drunken Rita and David, who were insisting on queuing for karaoke. At the same time, Kevin was strutting (read: stumbling) down the sidewalk (and street) with enough confidence to convince Aaron that he knew where he was going. He did not have a clue where he was headed. Tony had called it a night after the 3rd bar and was back at his apartment… Hopefully...
As for yourself, the bar got crowded quickly and you had to excuse yourself to step outside for some fresh air. Reminiscing on the hazy past couple of hours left you feeling a sense of warmth in your chest. Warmth from the bonds you had already formed with your coworkers.
Nothing could ruin this…
~~~
Wesker’s lip curled slightly with disdain as he strode through the growing crowds of bar patrons as they ducked from building to building in the downtown strip of Raccoon City. At the sight of him, many averted their gaze and scrambled to get the hell out of his way as the blonde approached.
Hidden behind his dark lenses, stormy blue eyes honed in on the lone figure leaning against the stone brick wall of Clocktower, his personal bar of choice. He recognized her, of course he did. The new receptionist, after Irons scared away the old one… This one seemed… Unremarkable. Quaint. Susceptible. He could work with this. The scowl twists into a smirk. With a deft, gloved hand, he brushed his perfect hair back and flashed a perfect, pearly white smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
~~~
People-watching was a favored pastime for drunk you.
Observing as college students and friend groups dragged each other to the next line, laughing as they chattered on, reciting inside jokes made earlier in the night. Or salary men trip over themselves on their way out of their preferred taverns, hazy smiles on their lips and off-key songs warbled out into the air. You chuckle and shake your head before a bitter chill has you covering your shoulders and shivering.
A pair of black shined men’s dress shoes come into view, a few inches from your own… The same scuffed oatmeal heels you wore on your first day.
A thick, cotton, overcoat-like layer is draped over your shoulders. The generous soul who granted you an additional barrier from the cold air speaks, a low, familiar tone…
“Careful, Angel… I’d hate to hear you caught a cold after fraternizing with my officers...” The smooth, velvety voice of Captain Albert Wesker muses, his teasing words are low and silky when they reach your ear. The smirk in his tone is evident even without you glancing up at him.
You blink rapidly and lookup, cheeks already pink from the cold, now red from just… being in his presence. Power and control and an awe inspiring cool radiate off him, rendering you speechless for a moment.
Wesker just offers you a hand, covered in a smooth, black leather glove.
“A pretty girl like you can’t be alone. It isn’t safe. Allow me to walk you home.” There’s no room to argue when he speaks. “As you already know, the city hasn't been the safest as of late… Too many….” He pauses and clicks his tongue in thought. “Devils.” The man concludes with a suave chuckle. Like he was laughing at a joke that had been made out of your earshot.
His fingers twitch, drawing your attention once more, and silently insisting on your own.
“Come on now, Angel… You’ll get sick if you stay out any longer. The temperature is going to drop soon.” Wesker purrs.
“A-ah! Right! Thank you!” You scramble to readjust the outer later he gave you, and follow. As the weight of your hand rests in his, his smile sharpens as he guides you away from the bar and the bustling streets of downtown.
~~~
The walk back home should have been sobering.
And maybe it was, in the sense that your buzz had dulled beneath the low hum of nerves and the warmth spreading through your limbs that had little to do with the coat on your shoulders. Every step echoed in your ears—his pace steady, deliberate. Not fast, not slow. Just measured. Like he didn’t need to rush.
You talked, but it wasn’t small talk. It was… polite. Too polite. He asked about your first impressions of the department. About your dreams. Your background. How long you’d lived in the city. If anyone was waiting for you at home. You tried to ask questions back—but he had a way of deflecting them. Not rudely, smoothly. Casually. A subtle redirection so clean you barely noticed the sleight of hand until you were already talking about yourself again. And all the while, those lenses glinted under the streetlights. Watching. Listening.
When you reached your building, he stopped with you at the stairs.
“Here we are,” you said, offering a grateful smile.
Wesker returned it. That same blinding, photo-op smile. His eyes invisible behind the glasses. His expression unreadable beneath the glow of the flickering overhead bulb.
“A pretty girl like you can’t be alone,” he murmured again, echoing himself from earlier. “Not in a city like this. Not with the way it’s changing…” You nodded, unsure what else to say. Something about him had shifted. Gone quieter. He reached out, and for a second, you tensed—only for him to brush his knuckles against your cheek and play off the action by tugging gently at the coat around your shoulders.
Pure white. Crisp. Just barely smelling like chemicals and ozone. Like a la-
“Because the devils of this city…” he continued aloud, almost wistfully, “would be eager to take all that you own. And strip you to the bone...”
You shivered. Not from fear. Not from cold. Just from something ancient in your gut whispering warnings.
Swallowing thickly, you speak shakily. “Th-thank you, Captain. Really. For the coat. And walking me home. Good night.”
“Good night, Angel,” he said, with the kind of smile you didn’t know whether to run from or lean into.
Giving him one more nod of farewell, you slide your key in and push the door open, reveling in the warmth and safety of your home.
As you maneuver about, grabbing a glass of water and discarding your keys onto the counter, you hum the catchy little tune from the song you were listening earlier in the week.
“But I was wrong, his hair is combed and he wears a suit and tie. He's nice, polite, he'll catch you by surprise. A smile so bright, he’s the devil in disguise…”
~~~
Outside your home, still on the paved path leading up to the porch, Wesker stood. All else the same, save for the tilt of his head and the narrowing of his eyes.
A breeze blows by and disturbs that perfect blond hair… Flicking two styled strands up and out of place…
Hi everyone!! I want to thank you ALL for 200 followers on here!!! I’ve been so honored to be apart of the RE fandom, specially Leon. I love drawing for you, and want to keep doing it moving forward! Thank you all again!!
Under Oath, Under Me {S.T.A.R.S. Wesker x RPD Detective! Reader} 2/2
Content Warning: Smut. Minors DNI. Manipulation, Reveal during Sex.
As always, Reader discretion is advised.
Previous Part
Y/N’s shoulders twitch—whether in restraint or resignation, she doesn’t even know anymore. The rain outside drums louder, as if it, too, is waiting to see what the Senior Detective will do.
After a beat, "You’re unbelievable…" She mutters, but her voice cracks. Not from anger—no, something else entirely.
Fatigue.
Confusion?
A sinking dread that maybe he’s right. Maybe she is seeing ghosts in the evidence, spinning theories from the maelstrom of grief, insomnia, and stress.
“You think I’d risk everything,” he says, voice quiet now and body too close, “for what? Some… half baked villainous plot?” He lets out a dry laugh and leans in closer.
“Y/N. Look at me, Sweetheart…” She can’t stop herself from obeying. Not when it’s him.
“You know me,” he whispers, a breath of velvet, wrapping around the raw edge of her nerves. He stops leaning in and lets his lips linger next to her ear.
“You know me… Better than anyone...”
~~~
Her heart’s beating too loud.
Carnal desire and licks of shame run rampant in her head, fighting to determine her next decisions. It’s such a volatile back and forth that her mind is foggy, causing her to miss anything besides the grunts and soft panting of the blond man above her.
All of him surrounds consumes her. His cologne, his breathy murmurs, the girth of his cock stretching her deliciously.
“You were right, you know…” He pants against her neck as he thrusts slow and deep into her wet, clenching heat.
That makes her pause…
Wesker seems to recognize the instant rigidity in her body. He speaks up again, a breathy chuckle in his chest, and a grin weaving through his words.
“Every. Damn. Piece of it.”
Realization dawns on her as her inhaled breath is forced from her lips and her nails dig into his ivory flesh. The Detective’s body’s already drowning in the sensation of him.
She attempts to choke out a “Why?!” only for him to shut her up with his lips; pink, kiss-swollen and pulled into that smug, perfect grin.
“The witness statements? Wrote them myself. Two of those men never existed–Ah, fuck!” he moans, and licks a stripe up her throat.
“Hhhhhaaaaah–The lab samples? Removed before dawn. You missed the camera facing the south hallway,” he chuckles darkly, and drives his cock into her with sharp precision, hitting all the right spots and making her sing out for him.
The woman’s nails drag down his back, leaving rivulets of red irritated skin in their wake. Part of her screams to pull away—but her back hits the wall harder as he picks up the pace.
“The footage? I deleted the original audio before you ever opened the file.” He pants and grins–A dark, aggressive baring of teeth.
“You’ve been dancing to a script I wrote!”
He kisses her hard this time, unforgiving. She writhes but finds her lips parting to accept his tongue.
“You sick bastard!” Y/N breathes.
“Mmhm,” he hums, smirking, “but the sex has been divine, hasn’t it?”
He slows again, digging his thumbs into the divots of her pelvis. Riiiiight on top of that perfect spot, just to feel her squirm. Wesker rolls his hips so deep and so slow that she feels like she’s going insane. It makes her moan in spite of herself.
“I am the villain in your case file, Sweetheart. Just not one you’ll ever put away.” He presses his forehead to hers, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“And would you like to know why?”
“Because…” He pulls his thick, throbbing shaft almost all the way out of Y/N’s crying pussy… Before slamming it back in, eliciting a gasp from the Detective.
“I own the RPD.”
Another thrust. Hard. Deep. A strangled, wanton sound from her.
“I own Irons.”
The headboard dents the wall. Neither of them seem to care. She’s shaking, cries out in ecstasy, and clings to him.
“I own this fucking city!” He snarls and bites into her, sucking enough to leave a nasty, purple bruise.
“And to top it aaaaall off… After the song and dance we’ve been doing for so long—I’ll own you, too.”
Her climax hits like a bullet to the ribs. It steals her breath and leaves her trembling–Trapped in the cage of his sculpted arms. He watches her fall apart with a predatory sort of reverence, a slow smile spreading across his lips.
“Buuuuut… I’m sure you wouldn’t mind that… Sweetheart~”
Fin.
Masterlist Previous Part
Thank you to @shymoob and @writingwisterias for Proofreading this!! Love my moots <3
Burden of Proof {S.T.A.R.S. Wesker x RPD Detective! Reader} 1/2
Content Warning:
This piece contains themes of manipulation, deception and gaslighting. Readers sensitive to manipulative dynamics or morally ambiguous behavior may wish to proceed with caution.
As always, Reader discretion is advised.
Coupled with the pelting rain on the precinct windows, the ticking clock on Wesker’s office wall served as the perfect ambiance for the man behind the desk to work.
He’s held a number of titles through the years–Captain of Stars Alpha Team, Senior Researcher of the t-virus project at Umbrella, Engineering Officer in the United States Army, An officer of Raccoon City’s Police Department… The list of masks and assumed titles could go on, but ultimately he was still Albert Wesker… And right now, he wore the mask of Captain.
He was the picture of perfection–Sitting in his office with his spine straight, gloved hands steady, and his sharp focus drawn to the file that lay scattered with an organized chaos around the mahogany desk. The file on the Arklay disappearances was cracked open like the torso of a cadaver, telling a story of its own as the blond picked through the reports, sightings, and submitted evidence.
It was comical to him–the fact that officers of the Raccoon City Police Department believed they could solve a mystery as intricate as this one… One he had a hand in organizing with meticulous scrutiny.
“Laughable.” He murmured under a breath, voice smooth and cool–Truly, the picture of perfection…
…Until one of the department’s more seasoned detectives threw the door to his office open. Senior Detective Y/N stalked into his office, face stone cold and a large manila folder tucked under her arm.
“Senior Detective, to what do I owe this-”
“Drop the fucking nicities, Wesker.” She spat venomously and tossed the folder down onto his desk, disregarding his neatly arranged spread of his dirty little secret.
His ice blue gaze flits down to the spilled pages.
A muscle in his jaw clenches.
“What the fuck is this all about??” The leering Detective sneers low and dangerously. She gestures to a copy of a ballistics report, a printed screenshot of footage from an ‘interrogation’ with a corporate looking man, activity logs with times of access granted after hours highlighted, and scanned duplicates of witness statements with bold red ink leaving dissecting comments on parts of the testimonies, and that’s just a handful of what spilled from the folder.
All of the documents have a similarity–In addition to Wesker recognising them, they’ve all been signed off by him…
Wesker glances back up at the Detective, eyebrows barely pinched with concern.
“Y/N… And here I thought we were getting along so well…” He muses smoothly. The Detective just shakes her head and pulls the cover open to display the remainder of the folder.
“Do not even start that with me, Wesker!” She snaps, in response to his utterance of her first name.
“This is a crime! This is how corruption starts!” The woman barks and paces before his desk. He had to bite back a cruel laugh.
‘Play it cool, we can work with this…’ He muses mentally and steeples his hands, elbows resting atop the printed evidence against him.
“I know how this looks, Detective… But I assure you, there is a logical explanation for everything.” He purrs. She knows that tone. It’s the one she had heard a number of times; On nights it’s just them, when he’s exhausted from a debrief and talking to her privately, when they’re wrapping up late nights in the diner on 67 and South. That’s the tone he uses right before bedroom doors close and the masks of Detective L/N and Captain Wesker disappear for a couple of hours, leaving only Y/N and Albert. It’s low, smooth, and downright sinful.
The senior Detective just huffs and rubs her eyes, a tactic to distract from the shiver that runs up her spine.
“Albert,” She begins, but he’s quick to cut her off.
“You’ve been working too hard.” His words are accompanied by the twitch of his thin lips. A sight that isn’t a smile, but isn’t a scowl either.
“I knew something was wrong last time we… Spoke.” He says simply, eyes cutting to meet hers over his dark frames. A thinly veiled allusion to the shared late night trysts.
He gestures lazily toward the spilled papers, as if they’re a child’s crayon drawings.
“Ballistic inconsistencies happen all the time. You know that. Jenkins in Forensics is practically held together with coffee and duct tape. And the chain-of-custody mess?” He tilts his head slightly. “That started long before I took over Alpha Team. If anything, I’ve reduced the chaos.”
His tone remains even, just the slightest lilt of poor you in it.
“And those witness statements?” He chuckles softly, shaking his head.
“Y/N… those were old cases. Cold cases. You think I fabricated people out of thin air? You think I have time to invent whole identities while leading a unit full of egos with guns?”
He leans forward just slightly now, eyes narrowing in something close to concern. Almost tender.
“I think what’s really happening here is you’re still sore about the last change in command. You respected Sergeant Holloway—hell, we both did. But he cut corners too. You know that. Maybe… maybe you’re projecting some of that betrayal onto me. Misplacing your scrutiny.”
He folds his hands again. Patient. Gentle. But firm.
“You’re smart. Sharp. That’s what I’ve always liked about you. But even the best detectives—especially the best ones—can fall victim to tunnel vision. You start wanting something to be wrong, and suddenly everything is suspicious.”
His voice drops lower—familiar, warm, velvet wrapped around a vice grip.
“We’ve had our moments, haven’t we? Late nights. Long talks. You trusted me enough to see you off duty. Trusted me enough to let the badge drop, if only for a few hours. And now you’re standing here… looking at me like I’m the villain in your case file.” He stands slowly, eyes never leaving hers. Not challenging. Not yet. But close.
“Don’t let paranoia make you reckless. You’re better than that. And you know me. Don't you?” He circles the desk, steps slow but deliberate, stopping just within her space. The air hums between them.
“Y/N, you’re tired. And… alone in this, I’d wager. No one else has come forward, have they? No whistleblower. No smoking gun. Just… You and your gut. Which, yes, is usually right. But… not this time.”
He touches the edge of the folder, gently, like it might crumble beneath his fingers.
“You bring this to Internal Affairs, and they’ll eat you alive. Especially Irons… You know how he loves a mess—especially when it's someone else bleeding for it.” And then, so softly it almost doesn’t register:
“I’d hate to see your career—your reputation—burn over a misunderstanding… Over me.”
Masterlist Part 2
Thank you to @shymoob and @writingwisterias for Proofreading this!! Love my moots <3
As some of you may have already noticed (and dramatically fanned yourselves about), the air conditioning in the S.T.A.R.S. office is currently on the fritz. Our maintenance team is already on it and working hard to restore that sweet, blessed Arctic breeze as soon as humanly possible.
In the meantime, hydrate, dress down within reason (Chris, this isn’t an excuse to go shirtless again), and try not to melt into your desk chairs.
Thanks for your patience—and sweat—during this brief tropical interlude.
𓆩 ♱ 𓆪 beware of primal play, cnc, degredation, rough sex, hair pulling, breeding, creampie, and unprotected sex.
the forest is thick, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine. you’re panting, bare feet sinking into the mud as you sprint between the trees, twigs snapping underfoot. your heart hammers in your chest, adrenaline burning through your veins. you shouldn’t have run. you definitely shouldn’t have taunted him. but the second those dark eyes locked onto you, predator to prey, you couldn’t help it—you had to make him chase you.
a low growl rumbles through the trees behind you, sending a shiver down your spine. "thought you could get away, little slut?" simon’s voice is rough, dripping with menace. you whimper, stumbling over a root, but you don’t stop. can’t stop. you know what happens when he catches you.
a hand snags your wrist, yanking you back hard. you crash into him with a gasp, his body all hard muscle and heat. his grip is iron, fingers digging into your flesh as he spins you around and slams you into the dirt. the impact knocks the air from your lungs, leaves and mud sticking to your skin.
"fuck, look at you," he snarls, looming over you. his mask is off, those sharp eyes burning with hunger. "all dirty and desperate. knew you wanted this. knew you’d let me hunt you down like some fucking animal."
you whine, squirming beneath him, but he pins your wrists above your head with one hand. the other grips your thigh, hiking it up around his hip. you can feel how hard he is already, the thick outline of his cock pressing against you through his pants.
"s’that why you ran?" he growls, grinding against you, making you moan. "wanted me to fuck you in the dirt like the filthy little thing you are?"
"yes," you gasp, arching against him. "yes, simon, please—"
he doesn’t make you beg for long. a rough hand tears your clothes aside, and then he’s pushing inside you with a brutal thrust, stretching you open. you cry out, nails scraping at the ground as he fills you, hot and thick and perfect.
"fuck," he groans, hips snapping forward. "knew you’d take it like this. fucking made for me, ain’t you?" his hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. "love it when you play hard to get. love it even more when i ruin you for it."
you’re so wet it’s obscene, the slick sound of him fucking into you mixing with your choked moans. every thrust drives you deeper into the mud, dirt caking your skin, but you don’t care. you’re too busy unraveling, too lost in the way he’s using you, owning you.
"s’that it?" he taunts, voice rough. "gonna come just from this? from being used like a cheap little fucktoy?"
you nod frantically, tears pricking your eyes. "yes, yes, simon, i’m—"
he slams into you harder, cutting you off with a gasp. "say it. say how fucking sick you are for this."
"i’m sick," you sob, clinging to him. "i love it, love being yours, love—"
your orgasm crashes over you, violent and overwhelming. simon groans, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. "gonna fill you up," he growls. "mark you up so fucking good. then i’m gonna make you walk back home just like this—dripping with me."
the thought sends another pulse of pleasure through you, and you tighten around him, milking his cock as he spills inside you with a ragged groan.
for a moment, all you hear is the sound of your ragged breathing. then simon leans down, lips brushing your ear.
"next time you run," he murmurs, "i’ll make it even harder for you."
