ash || 29 || they/he || fic writer || requests OPEN main: @gothspacedyke substack: @spacedykewrites if you want to speak on cate dunlap or shauna shipman you actually have to venmo me $5 first
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didn’t grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like “bro what is this 😭.” why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
“college is absolutely nothing like this” “why are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one game” “so tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!”
if you don’t like a fic, and if you can’t suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you don’t have to read it. you don’t have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you don’t have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. it’s not giving baby’s first fandom anymore, it’s giving entitled asshole and it isn’t as cute as you think it is.
a living profile for original character SYDNEY STARK from the GEN V universe. this file includes dossier metrics, incident history, allied contacts, and media attachments.
AUTHOR'S NOTE : this database is actively updating and functions better on desktop. some links you may find are currently placeholders until their respective tumblr posts go live!
claus and effect
aka a covert christmas stakeout, small hands giving big gifts, and parents trading vows without words.
tw: mostly fluff! some smut at the end, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, creampie, soft and tender lovemaking, aftercare, etc.
7.2k+ words
author's note: guess who got caught up in the christmas spirit and got a little carried away…ahem, anyways! i guess this is my first real series addition! i hope you all enjoy it, and thank you so much for being endlessly supportive of all my writing endeavors. it genuinely means more to me than i can put into words <3 for the record, i’ll be posting these both here and on ao3—no one should be forced into a redirect just to read if they don’t want to!
also…please be kind about the (very poorly made) manip😭 this will absolutely not be the standard going forward. i just hate reusing pics and had a little extra time on my hands lol but don't they look cute together?🥺
the weight of being loved masterlist | ao3 fic | sydney stark character profile
The house settled into Christmas Eve hush like it was exhaling with the girls. Presents waited under the tree in polite piles. The living room smelled like yesterday’s cinnamon and tonight’s pine, lights winking slow and sleepy. Upstairs, Ellie’s humidifier purred and Riley’s white-noise machine sighed ocean sounds through the cracked door. Cate could hear both, a faint duet under the floorboards.
Sydney, meanwhile, was in the bedroom wrestling with a red suit.
“Whose genius idea was it to make velvet the official fabric of Christmas?” she muttered, hopping to yank the pants up over boxer briefs. The fake belly strap creaked. “This is a sweatbox. I’m going to pass out delivering my own children’s presents.”
Cate, already biting her lip at the sight, leaned against the doorframe to admire the unfolding disaster: red suit, boots that squeaked on hardwood, a belt that could moor a ship, hat listing to one side. The beard was the clincher—white curls that transformed Sydney’s freckles into something ludicrously adorable. “Ho-ho-ho, Daddy.”
Sydney gave her a wounded look that crinkled at the edges. “Don’t ‘Daddy’ me when I’m in a beard. That’s a health violation.”
Cate crossed in, slid her hands under the coat to adjust the belly, because if they were going to do this, they were going to do it with a correct silhouette. She pressed a quick kiss to Sydney’s lips, then another because the beard tickled and made her giggle. “North Pole safety check passed.”
“You’re not going to be able to behave,” Sydney said, a pleased accusation, then tugged the beard down to cover her mouth and did a test “ho-ho-ho” that sounded pretty convincing. “Terrifying. Let’s do it.”
They tiptoed out, Sydney with a sack over her shoulder—the one Cate had hot-glued snowflakes onto back in November while claiming she wasn’t going to be “extra” about it. They arranged the last of the gifts. Cate swapped the plate of cookies for one with one missing (“evidence”) and dribbled a little milk down the side of the glass (“realism”). Sydney posed by the tree for exactly two photos because Cate demanded it, then they drifted close, the way they always did: a little gravity well of habit and love, pulled together by the quiet.
“The Stark household appreciates your service,” Cate whispered, eyes dancing.
“Santa is overcome by your generosity, ma’am,” Sydney murmured through the beard, and leaned down to kiss her. The beard made it soft and silly. Cate laughed into her mouth, one hand on the ridiculous red lapel, the other cupping her jaw beneath fake snow-white curls.
The floorboard by the hall did a gentle, guilty creak.
They froze.
Cate turned her head slowly and found two shadows at the edge of the hall: one tall and narrow behind a doorframe (Riley, in her reindeer pajamas, hair everywhere), and one rounder, wobblier just in front (Ellie, in footies with candy canes, clutching her blanket like it contained state secrets).
“Abort,” Sydney breathed, barely moving her lips, which was hard to manage with a beard.
Cate blinked like an innocent deer in Christmas headlights. Sydney straightened and huffed a last, panicked “ho-ho-ho,” which came out strangled—and the girls came squeaking down the hall in synchronized stealth that wasn’t stealth at all.
Riley stopped short in the living room doorway and slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes enormous. Ellie, who had been meticulously dragged into this conspiracy an hour earlier with whispers and a flashlight under the blanket (“We stay very quiet, okay? Santa is shy.” “Shy,” Ellie had whispered, delighted), saw the red suit and forgot every plan in favor of announcing, “Sanna!”
Sydney—Santa—put one hand to her vast fake belly. “Well,” she boomed, pitching her voice low and jolly, “look who’s up past bedtime!”
Riley’s shock melted into triumph. She grabbed Ellie’s hand and hauled her forward like a backup detective. “We caught you,” she breathed, and then she saw Cate—standing a whisper too close to Santa—and the scandal morphed her face into drama. “You were kissing Santa.”
Cate flicked her eyes heavenward for help. Santa was busy trying not to laugh into his beard.
“I—” Cate cleared her throat and her voice went smooth, maternal. “Santa was thanking me for the cookies.”
“On the mouth?” Riley asked, suspicious.
Ellie bobbed her head solemnly. “Mouff.”
Sydney coughed in a way that sounded alarmingly like “help.” Cate put a hand on Santa’s arm and patted, hoping to communicate a stand down. “Just a quick—um—North Pole thank-you peck. For the bakers.”
Riley narrowed her eyes. Cate could see all the gears, loved each one. “But—Santa is married to Mrs. Claus,” she said, with the innate moral authority of a girl who had memorized a library book.
“Mrs. Claus is very understanding,” Santa rumbled, finding footing. “She knows that sometimes, on the busiest night of the year, you have to thank the head of cookie operations.”
“Is she?” Riley asked, still suspicious but equally as riveted to be conversing with Santa Claus.
“Mm,” Santa said, nodding gravely. “Besides, kisses can mean a lot of things. Like ‘thank you for extra sprinkles’ or ‘that was the best macaroni star I ever saw.’”
Ellie pointed enthusiastically at the tree. “Mac’oni!”
“Exactly,” Santa said, eyes kind over the beard. “And now…I must go.” She made a show of checking an invisible watch. “Big schedule.”
Riley stood straighter, losing the thread a little to wonder. “You—have to go to the other houses,” she whispered, because at five you could merge skepticism and awe with no trouble. “Okay. Okay.” She nodded—a soldier accepting orders. Then she looked at Cate, cheeks pink with the sting of morals. “No more mouth kisses.”
“No more mouth kisses,” Cate agreed with a solemn nod. She bent to Riley’s level and brushed hair away from eyes. “Back to bed, mission accomplished. You found proof he’s real, didn’t you, baby?”
Riley glowed. Ellie clapped enthusiastically. Cate guided them down the hall, casting one last look over her shoulder—at Santa in their living room, at the tree’s glow catching in fake fur, at her ridiculous, wonderful co-conspirator. Sydney gave a tiny, sheepish salute with one gloved hand.
In the morning, the house woke like it had dreamed of snow. Paper shredded, bows flew, Ellie hoarded crinkly things like a dragon, Riley curated a row of her gifts and then rearranged them three more times in ascending order of importance. Cate poured coffee and enjoyed the remarkably steady thrum of joy in her chest. Sydney, post-exertion, folded herself into the corner of the couch in sweatpants and a tee, hair all smashed from the Santa hat, and let the girls pile at her knees with loot for display.
By ten o’clock, the sugar crash began its gentle tug. Sydney slumped with the kind of satisfied exhaustion reserved for people who had both ho-ho-ho’d and assembled a dollhouse at two a.m. Her eyes went half-lidded. She was almost, almost asleep.
Riley climbed onto the couch like a woman on a mission and threw herself across Sydney’s chest.
“Oof,” Sydney said, air whooshing, arms automatically catching her.
“Daddy,” Riley whispered, inches from her face, grave and urgent, “I have bad news.”
Sydney blinked awake. “We lost a present behind the couch? I can get it. Give me thirty seconds and a crowbar.”
“Worse.” Riley leaned in, the whisper-urgency intensifying. “Mommy fell in love with Santa.”
Across the room, Cate almost dropped her coffee. Ellie, who was coloring intensively with two markers in one hand, looked up and nodded like a queen confirming a decree. “Saw,” she affirmed. “Mouff.”
Sydney stared at Riley. Then at Ellie. Then at Cate, who widened her eyes helpfully like, well? Fix it, North Pole.
“Ah,” Sydney said, buying time with a sip of coffee that was no longer there. She set the empty mug down. “Okay. This is very serious.”
Riley’s little chin set. “What do we do?”
Sydney pulled her onto her lap properly and propped her with dignity, like a second-in-command. “There’s something you should know about Santa,” she said slowly. Cate watched her build the bridge as she walked it. “He has…a lot of helpers.”
Riley’s eyes narrowed again, but not in a you’re lying way—in the way that said she was cataloguing the world freshly. “Like elves?”
“Like elves,” Sydney agreed. “But also like…parents. And other grownups who have earned their North Pole Helper License.” She gestured to herself with a tiny flourish, voice dropping to conspiratorial. “Some of us are deputized to help deliver when the Big Guy can’t be everywhere at once.”
Riley gasped. “You’re a helper? For real?”
“For real-real,” Sydney said, deadpan. “I passed the cookie-handling exam with flying colors.”
Cate coughed to cover a laugh. “Barely.”
“And sometimes,” Sydney continued before she got heckled, “the real Santa swings by to check our work. Last night, he popped in to inspect the cookie plate and the tree and he was very impressed.” She glanced at Cate, something playful in the look that only adults could read. “He thanked your mom for keeping everything running smoothly.”
“On the mouth,” Riley said, still testing the edges of truth for cracks.
Sydney lifted a shoulder, sincere and soft. “He’s very European.”
Cate choked. Ellie, delighted to have a new word to repeat, announced, “You-peein’!”
Riley pondered this with the face of a youth philosopher. Cate could see the belief bending but not breaking, elastic and bright. “So…Santa kissed Mom because she did a good Christmas. And you’re a helper. And Mrs. Claus knows.”
“Mrs. Claus is head of HR,” Sydney said gravely. “She signed off on the whole thing.”
Cate nodded. “I have the paperwork.”
Riley chewed on that, then leaned in, suddenly businesslike. “Can I be a helper?”
Sydney tucked a stray curl behind Riley’s ear, tender. “When you’re bigger. Helpers have to stay up very late and know how to read complicated instructions. But you can train.” She tapped the little girl’s chest. “And you’re already very brave.”
Riley warmed under it, belief arranged satisfactorily around the facts. “Okay. I’ll train.”
“And,” Sydney added, “you helped already. You caught Santa in the act. That’s big.”
Ellie slid off her playmat and toddled over to the couch to press a sticker onto Sydney’s knee. “Santa,” she said, half to the sticker, half to the universe. “Daddy.”
Sydney kissed the top of her head. “Exactly.”
Crisis defused, Riley wriggled down and trotted off to show a plastic dinosaur her stocking treasures. Ellie followed, chanting “you-peein’” under her breath like a spell. Cate, who had remained prudently at the kitchen island during the interrogation, brought a fresh mug to the couch and passed it over.
“You’re welcome,” Sydney murmured when Cate sat beside her, smug through the exhaustion.
“For what?” Cate asked, playing innocent.
“For saving Christmas.” Sydney tilted her head to bump Cate’s shoulder, eyes flicking to the tree where the crooked star glowed like it had always meant to be that way. “Also thank you for not laughing when I panicked and said ‘European’...and for being the hottest HR-approved kiss Santa got all night.”
“Mm.” Cate smiled into her mug.
“Here’s to never speaking of it again,” Sydney groaned, grinning as she lifted hers.
“Good luck with that,” Cate said dryly, clinking her mug to Sydney’s. “Our girls don’t forget anything. Riley still brings up the park incident from three years ago…”
They sat with the sound of markers squeaking and paper tearing faintly in the background. Snow thickened outside, making the world smaller and safer. Cate watched Riley cross-check a list in her head and Ellie try to put stickers on the tree and felt that tensile, stretchy love again—the kind that could handle misunderstandings and late-night beard kisses, the kind that could invent a Helper License on the fly and make it feel like tradition.
Riley paused at the edge of the room like she’d remembered something vital. “Mama,” she called, “no more kissing Santa on the mouth next year, okay?”
“Copy that,” Cate said, smiling.
“We’ll keep it strictly European,” Sydney added.
Riley seemed satisfied by that compromise and went back to her very important dinosaur briefing.
Cate leaned into Sydney’s side, the couch warm, the day unspooling in easy loops. “North Pole Helper License, huh?”
Sydney shrugged, pleased with herself. “I do look good in red.”
Cate slid her hand under the throw to squeeze her thigh. “You look good in everything,” she said, then tipped her head toward the tree and the girls and the mess and the whole, ridiculous, perfect morning. “But you look best here.”
Sydney turned, eyes bright, and kissed her—quick, non-European, kid-safe. “Merry Christmas, pretty girl.”
“Merry Christmas, Santa.”
They lingered in that kiss and then let the afternoon rush around them—more gifts opened, coffee refilled, the star winking on like it knew a secret. When the living room finally exhaled and the tree stood smug with proof of joy, a different kind of energy sparked at Riley’s feet.
Their five-year-old had been vibrating with the kind of secret that squeaks out of your socks.
Cate clocked it the second the last gift ribbon hit the floor: the relentless whispering to Ellie (“remember the PLAN”), the serious trips back and forth to her bedroom carrying contraband that was obviously a shoebox, the way she kept glancing at Sydney like she was hoping she’d remain blissfully unaware. Ellie, bless her obedient little heart, nodded along to everything with a solemn “mm,” gripping her blanket and occasionally saluting no one in particular.
Sydney, half-dozing with the coffee she kept forgetting to drink, cracked one eye. “Why do I feel like the talent portion of the program is about to begin?”
Riley popped up in front of the tree and clapped once, sharp. “Everybody sit nice. There’s… there’s a presentation.”
Cate traded a look with Sydney that said do not laugh, I’m going to cry, and tucked her feet under her on the couch. “We’re ready.”
Riley hauled the shoebox into the living room. She set it on the rug, very gently, and flipped the lid with ceremony. “Okay, Ellie. Step one.”
Ellie stepped forward on cue. “Mama,” she announced to Cate. “No cry.”
Cate’s hand flew to her mouth. Sydney made a noise that might have been a snort disguised as a cough.
Riley hissed, “No, El, that’s the reminder for later,” then beamed at Cate. “Mama, please pretend you didn’t hear that. This is a surprise.”
“Of course,” Cate said, eyes already hot.
“Daddy, you get to go first because you’re very tired,” Riley continued, mercifully honest. She rifled in the box and produced something laminated with packing tape: a badge on a string of yarn, glitter attempting to escape its prison. At the top, in block letters that leaned like they’d been asked to stand at attention for too long, it read: OFISHUL NORTH POL HELPUR LYSINS. Ellie had contributed a comet-tail of stickers along the bottom and a sideways smiley face with a Santa hat.
Riley slipped the lanyard over Sydney’s head with great dignity. “This is so you don’t forget you’re allowed to help Santa legally. And so other grownups know you have permission.” She folded her hands, very proper. “There was a situation last night, but we resolved it.”
Sydney’s eyes shone. “I will wear this to every staff meeting,” she said, voice thick with the kind of happiness that makes jokes sound like vows. She lifted the badge and read each word again like it was a poem. “Security clearance five stars? That’s…wow that’s elite.”
“Daddy good shhh,” Ellie added, tiny voice sincere.
“I do,” Sydney agreed, scooping her onto the couch for a squeeze. “Best team in the game.”
“Next,” Riley announced, pulling out a little wrapped blob and thrusting it at Sydney. “This too.”
Sydney peeled back paper to reveal a mildly lumpy clay bowl shaped like a star, painted gold and sealed with what had to be half a bottle of Mod Podge. Tiny fingerprints dimpled every point. Across the middle, someone had painstakingly sharpied CAPN DADDY.
“It’s a thing for your guitar picks,” Riley explained, suddenly shy. “So they don’t get lost.”
Sydney covered her mouth with her hand and then, because she couldn’t contain it, bent forward until her forehead touched Riley’s. “I love it,” she said into the space between them. “I love it so much I might cry and you didn’t even warn me.”
“You’re okay,” Riley said briskly, patting Sydney's shoulder. Then she pivoted, mission not quite over. “Okay. Mama, next.”
Ellie’s head whipped around like a weather vane. “Mama cry now!”
“Not yet, El,” Riley whispered, and fished out gift number one: a folded apron, suspiciously heavy. She shook it out. In the middle, someone had written HED OF COOKIE OPRAYSHUNS and then, beneath, two handprints—one small, one smaller—pressed in red and green. Glitter had happened to the edges. The hem wore a constellation of star stickers. In the pocket, a wooden spoon gleamed, its handle painted with a candy cane stripe.
Cate bit her lip hard. She could feel the exact burn in the back of her eyes that meant she was no longer in control of her face. “Oh,” she said, little and honest, and held it against her chest. “Oh, girls.”
Riley’s chin wobbled, mirroring her without knowing it. “There’s more,” she rushed, because she was five and when love got too big, you filled it with tasks. She thrust a stapled mini-book into Cate’s hands, the kind made from printer paper and ambition. On the cover, in marker: MAMA’S COOK BOOK. Inside, scribbles resolved into dictated recipes:
COOKIEZ (FROM RILEY’S BRAYN)
Flower (soft), eggs (no shell), sugar, sinnamin, lots of love, bake
Underneath, a second recipe that Riley had clearly transcribed for her sister:
PANCAKES (ELLIE):mix mix mix, flip, butter, sirp, eat. all.
A drop of actual syrup had been memorialized in the margin and sealed with a sticker that said GREAT JOB!
Cate laughed and cried simultaneously, which felt exactly like being a mother. She pulled Riley in and then reached for Ellie, who clambered, content, into the pile. “This is my favorite book,” she said into their hair. “And my favorite apron. I’m going to wear it every time we make anything. Even scrambled eggs.”
Riley wiggled free, remembering the run-of-show. “Finale!” She shoved the last thing into Sydney’s hands with a little grunt of effort. It wasn’t wrapped, just bundled in more yarn: a photo frame made from popsicle sticks, painted in candy colors. Inside, a drawing—family, composed by Riley: a tall stick figure with short hair and a guitar (label: DADDY), a blonde figure in a dress with a triangle of a scarf (MAMA), a small purple figure (RILEY) and a smaller round pink one (ELLIE). Above them, a yellow crooked star, and next to it, a house with warm windows.
Sydney traced the star with her thumb. “This is our house,” she said softly, like she was telling the picture a secret about itself.
Riley nodded. “And the star is on purpose crooked, because that’s how it’s ‘posed to be,” she said, firm.
Cate watched Sydney’s mouth go soft, watched her breathe like she’d been running toward this all her life. She reached over and hooked a finger in the yarn loop at the top of the frame. “We’re hanging it right now,” she decided, and stood, apron still draped over one arm like a sash.
Riley practically galloped to pick a spot. “Here,” she decreed, pointing to the side of the bookshelf across from the tree, where morning light would catch it. Sydney hammered in a tiny tack with the heel of the wooden spoon (Ellie clapped—tools!) and hung the frame with a flourish that made Riley giggle and made Cate’s heart flip.
“Okay,” Riley said, hands on her hips, very satisfied. “Dad, you have your license. Mama, you have your apron. We have done a good job. Any questions?”
Sydney, who had slipped the badge around to the front and tucked the clay star into her palm, shook her head slowly. “Just one,” she said, standing to scoop Ellie into her arms, then reaching a hand for Riley until they were a single, wiggly stack. “Can I pay you for these with, like…twenty-seven kisses and three snowball rematches?”
Riley pretended to consider. “Twenty-seven kisses,” she bargained, “and you have to wear the license at dinner.”
Sydney stuck out her hand to shake on it. “Deal.”
Ellie tugged on the badge as if she needed to secure it further. “Keep,” she observed.
Cate pulled the apron over her head, tied it at her waist, and felt ridiculous and exactly right. She went to them, to the stack, and Sydney widened the space instinctively so she could slot in. They fit together, as always, like they’d been practicing all year for this moment. The tree glowed. The crooked star did what it did—caught the light like it had been built to.
“Any more surprises in that shoebox?” Cate asked.
Riley turned so her cheek pressed to Sydney’s stomach and her gaze traveled to Cate’s mouth like she remembered last night’s case file. “No more mouth surprises,” she warned.
“Copy,” Cate said, smiling.
“European only,” Sydney added, deadpan, and got a scandalized gasp from Riley and a triumphant “you-peein’!” from Ellie that set the room laughing all over again.
When it settled, when laughter ebbed into that warm, humming quiet, Cate looked at the drawing on the wall and then back at the live version of it in her arms. She thought of all the ways love arrived—lumpy clay and glitter badges and paint handprints—and how every way fit. She kissed the top of Riley’s head, then Ellie’s, then reached to nudge Sydney’s chin with her nose.
“Thank you for my promotion,” she told the girls, fingertips brushing the words on her apron. “Head of Cookie Operations feels important.”
Riley nodded, solemn again. “You keep Christmas good,” she said, and there was a whole world of five-year-old faith in it, bright and heavy. “We had to make it official.”
Sydney’s arm tightened around them all. “Then I guess we better keep the operation running,” she murmured. “Badge on. Apron on. Girls in charge.”
Ellie patted Sydney’s chest, finalizing the contract. “Charge.”
They moved, then—into snacks and batteries and the day’s small tumbling joys—Cate catching sight of the popsicle-stick frame each time she turned, that crooked star making a promise that felt both brand-new and already-forever. And every few minutes, Sydney would glance down at her badge like she needed to confirm it was still there, grin to herself, and whisper, mostly for Cate: "Clearance five.”
By nine, the house had the lazy hush of a holiday that spent itself well. Wrapping paper had been corralled, the last of the coffee rinsed from mugs, the girls surrendered to sleep so completely that even Riley’s white-noise ocean sounded like a real tide rolling in and out of the hall. The tree clicked and hummed in its own soft language. The crooked star held.
Sydney disappeared into the on-suite bathroom with a yawn and a promise—“fifteen minutes, pretty girl, then I’m collapsing like a puppet whose strings got cut”—and the fan came on, a distant hush behind the door.
Cate exhaled, all nerves and glee.
She’d hidden the ribbons behind her sweaters like contraband. Now she slid the drawer open and pulled them out: a spill of satin the color of cranberries and a narrower white one that gleamed like snow under lamplight. She stripped with a grin she couldn’t smother and looped, knotted, threaded, the mirror catching flashes of pale skin, the slope of her shoulder, the tremble of anticipation in her hands. She tied the first bow high and neat, then another lower, softer, not symmetrical on purpose. A thin band circled her waist, two long tails lay glossy at her hips. A final bow settled at the center of her sternum, its loops rounding like a heart.
Ridiculous. Intentional. Perfect.
She clicked the bedside lamp off and let the moon spill from the window to paint the room in gold. Then she crossed to the locked bedroom door and leaned her shoulder against the frame, arms at her sides so the ribbons showed, chin tipped down in invitation like a secret she was ready to speak.
The bathroom fan stuttered off. Water ran, the handle creaked. Sydney’s voice floated out, familiar and fond. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the badge ceremony. There’s a clause I may have missed re: bedtime—”
The door opened.
Sydney stepped into the doorway toweling her hair, oversized sleep tee clinging to damp places Cate liked to take her time with, freckles brighter after heat. The towel fell from her hand.
Silence did a sweet, electric thing between them.
“Ho—” Sydney started, then laughed breathlessly, shaking her head at herself, eyes roaming like a hand. “Nope. Wrong holiday sound. Cate.”
Cate swallowed. The name opened her, the way it always did when Sydney said it like a vow she would always renew. “Hi.”
Sydney took one step, then another, towel forgotten, exhaustion burned clean away. Up close, those eyes were green in the low light, ringed faintly with the day’s good kind of tired. “Are you—” Her voice rasped, all careful reverence under the teasing line. “—my present?”
Cate held her ground and felt it, that delicious skim of power and vulnerability both. “I checked the list twice.”
“Oh, then I have to unwrap you very responsibly,” Sydney murmured. “For compliance reasons. HR would kill me if I rushed.”
Cate’s mouth curved. “Mrs. Claus is head of HR.”
“Exactly.” Sydney’s knuckles ghosted the bow at Cate’s sternum, not tugging, just learning the shape. “What are the rules?”
“Rule one,” Cate said, finding steadiness in the ritual of naming, in deciding together. “You can touch as much as you like.”
Sydney’s breath caught. “Copy.”
“Rule two.” Cate tipped her head, letting a ribbon tail slide along her collarbone. “You can’t open every bow at once. You have to take your time.”
“Cruel,” Sydney said, warm and ready to worship. “Noted.”
“Rule three…” Cate reached for the hem of Sydney’s tee, just to feel the soft cotton, the heat under it. “If Daddy says ‘please,’ ribbons might come off faster.”
A helpless laugh slipped out of Sydney. She stepped closer until their chests just brushed, heat aligning with heat. “You are going to be the end of me.”
“That’s the goal.”
Sydney bent and kissed her—the kind that starts with a smile and ends with a sigh. Cate opened, ribboned and greedy, the low hum in her chest turning bright. Sydney tasted like mint and something warm from the day, and when her hand slid to the small of Cate’s back, Cate let her spine meet it like a key in a lock.
“Okay,” Sydney whispered against her mouth, steadier now, a gentle joke to catch their breath. “Unwrapping ribbon one.”
She touched the center bow again and tugged the tiniest bit. The knot gave with a whisper. The loops fell loose against Cate’s skin. Cate felt the air find the place it had covered and shivered, shameless, watching the way Sydney watched her.
The second bow at her waist went next—no haste, thumbs smoothing the satin before they coaxed it free. Sydney’s mouth followed the loosened line like she’d been assigned to memorize it, kisses thoughtful and unhurried. Cate’s fingers found their way to Sydney’s hair and stayed.
“God, you’re—” Sydney sighed into her skin and didn’t finish, maybe because the words would be too small for the true weight of her love.
“Yours,” Cate offered, plain and necessary.
The small, wrecked sound Sydney made at that was better than prayer.
Another ribbon slid off. Sydney’s hands bracketed her hips, warm and sure, and she kissed lower, then laughed quietly when Cate shivered again. “Cold?” she murmured, though her hands said she knew it wasn’t that.
“Impatient,” Cate corrected, breathless.
“We’re aligned on objectives.” Sydney straightened and, with all the gentleness she saved for the big moments (and somehow always remembered to spend on the little ones), walked Cate backward to the bed. The mattress kissed the backs of her knees. She sat, the ribbons settling around her like a ceremony.
Sydney stood between her knees and just looked for a heartbeat—really looked, the way she did when she was committing a riff to muscle memory. Cate watched it land in her face, that quiet awe that made the world tilt right.
“Say when,” Sydney said softly.
Cate touched her wrist and guided her hand to the last neat bow. “Now.”
Sydney’s fingers worked the knot loose, careful, almost devout. The satin slid, streaming through her hands, and pooled against the sheets. Cate exhaled through a smile she couldn’t help, chest blooming warm with being seen, being wanted, being chosen in this bright, silly, holy way.
“Hi,” she said again, because somehow it mattered to greet the moment from here too.
“Hi,” Sydney echoed, and climbed onto the bed with her, hips aligning, all their warmth folding in. She kissed Cate like she had all the time in the world, like there was nothing else to do tonight but map her, thank her, unwrap her a dozen different ways that had nothing to do with satin.
The house held its breath and then relaxed around them. From down the hall came a soft, contented sigh that might’ve been the humidifier or might’ve been the universe remarking on its own luck.
“Best gift,” Sydney whispered, mouth at Cate’s jaw, hands reverent everywhere they touched.
Cate laughed, then broke on another kiss, fingers sliding under the hem of Sydney’s tee. “Come here,” she said, and there was no Christmas clause for the way Sydney obeyed—eager, tender, completely hers.
Cate lay back into the feeling, into the sure weight of Sydney’s body and the unhurried way she moved, like every inch of Cate deserved its own minute. The room held their quiet: the tree’s sleepy glow down the hall, the hush of a house that had been loved hard all day. Sydney’s palm cupped Cate’s jaw, thumb skimming the arc of her cheek as if memorizing it again. When Cate opened her mouth, Sydney met her there, patient and sweet, slipping tongue to tongue until Cate’s breath hitched and the ache behind it uncurled.
Sydney kissed down—throat, the notch at Cate’s collarbone where one ribbon had rested, the slope of a breast. Sydney’s mouth closed around her nipple, tongue slow and deliberate, the wet heat of it pulling a sound from Cate that made both of them smile. Fingers splayed along Cate’s ribcage, grounding. Cate threaded her hands into Sydney’s hair again and felt the little shiver when her nails scratched lightly at the nape. She arched, offering more. Sydney took her time, switching sides with a press of kisses that were always reverent.
“You always smell like home,” Sydney said into her skin, and moved lower.
Cate made a helpless noise, thighs already easing apart to invite her. Sydney’s hands slid—one to Cate’s hip, the other to the inside of her knee, thumb stroking a slow line that sent sparks up her spine. She kissed a path down Cate’s belly, then nuzzled the soft skin at the top of her thigh until Cate had to breathe through it.
“Daddy,” Cate sighed, the word as much gratitude as want.
“Yeah,” Sydney answered, the warmth in it a promise. “I’ve got you, baby.”
She eased closer, breath hot where Cate was already slick. The first touch of Sydney’s tongue was gentle, more greeting than demand, a slow taste that had Cate’s hips tipping without her permission. Sydney smiled against her, then settled in and licked her like she loved doing it—which she did—long, unhurried strokes that edged to the left until her mouth found Cate’s clit. Cate’s fingers tightened in hair, her knees opening wider. Sydney hummed, pleased, and closed her lips around that aching bundle of nerves, suckling lazy and precise until Cate stuttered a curse and a yes in the same breath.
“Good?” Sydney asked, voice gone low, and immediately returned to work, tongue circling, teasing, the rhythm just inconsistent enough to keep Cate hovering in that golden place. Two slick fingers slid lower, stroking along Cate’s entrance without pushing in yet, letting her feel the promise of it. Cate rocked down to meet them.
“Please,” she said again, need warming every edge of her voice.
Sydney kissed her clit once, a soft seal, and eased one finger inside, then another, slow and careful, watching Cate’s face. Cate’s breath hitched, her body closing around Sydney’s knuckles with a greedy, grateful clutch that made Sydney groan. She held still just long enough for Cate to adjust and then began to move—steady, lazy pumps that curled on the upstroke to drag along that place inside that always, always made Cate’s vision spark.
Cate’s thighs trembled. “God—just like that.”
“Copy,” Sydney said, and did it exactly like that, over and over, mouth back at Cate’s clit, tongue and lips keeping time with her fingers. Cate felt the heat coil and climb, the kind that spread from her belly outward until even the soft skin under her breasts felt too tight for her heartbeat. She rolled her hips into it, chasing, and Sydney met her every push, one hand tightening around Cate’s thigh when she tried to slip away from the intensity.
“Look at me,” Sydney murmured, lifting her eyes without stopping.
Cate met her gaze and the bottom dropped out. The force of being seen, loved this deliberately—it undid her. She broke with a gasp that tipped into a moan, hips jerking, hands gripping at the sheets. Sydney coaxed her through it, mouth going gentle, fingers slowing their curl but not leaving until Cate was a soft mess around them and tugging weakly at Sydney’s hair in sated protest.
“Too much?” Sydney whispered, kissing the inside of her knee.
“Perfect,” Cate breathed, dazed. She reached down, coaxed Sydney up to kiss her, tasting herself on that mouth and shivering when Sydney made the soft, needy sound she always did at that. The kiss melted them together again, all warm edges and open mouths and gratitude threaded through want.
“Your turn,” Cate said, rolling Sydney onto her back with affectionate determination. She pushed the sleep shirt up and off, kissing every inch of skin she uncovered: the freckles like a constellation across Sydney’s chest, the curve of her breasts, the sharp dip at her waist where Cate always wanted to fit her hand. She slid her palm down, lower, closed it around the heavy heat between Sydney’s legs, and laughed when Sydney swore softly against her shoulder.
“Glad to be of service,” Sydney managed, already blushing, the kind of blush that had nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with how much she let Cate affect her.
Cate stroked slowly, teasing the leakage at the tip with her thumb, just to watch Sydney’s eyes flutter. Then she moved her hand lower to cup Sydney’s balls, tender, massaging just enough to make Sydney’s hips lift into her palm. She kissed her again, swallowing the small sounds, and guided Sydney’s cock along the slick of her thigh until they both groaned at the drag.
“Inside,” Sydney asked, gentle as a question she already knew the answer to. “Can I?”
Cate braced on Sydney’s chest and nodded, breath fluttering. “Please.”
They always paused here, every time—just long enough to line up and look at each other. Sydney slid her hand between them, nudged the head of her cock to Cate’s entrance, and pushed in barely an inch, waited, breath mixing with Cate’s. Cate’s mouth parted. She rocked her hips forward, taking her, the stretch exquisite, familiar, somehow new again in this quiet.
“God,” Sydney said, eyes going glossy. “You feel—”
“—like home,” Cate finished, because it was true in every sense of the word.
Sydney pressed the rest of the way in, slow enough to savor, Cate’s slick heat enveloping her until their hips touched. They both exhaled a laugh. Then Sydney began to move, long, even strokes that kept them pressed together chest to chest, thigh to thigh, breath syncing without effort. Cate hooked a leg around Sydney’s waist and took her deeper. Sydney’s hand found Cate’s, fingers lacing, the squeeze a pulse in time with her thrusts.
They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Cate kissed Sydney’s mouth, her jaw, the hollow under her ear. Sydney murmured into her hair—soft nothings, a few praises that made Cate shiver, and a quiet, shameless “good girl” when Cate rolled her hips just so. Cate’s answering noise was a half-whimper, half-laugh as she tightened around Sydney in a way that made Sydney choke on a curse.
“Hi,” Cate said again, silly and tender, and Sydney laughed helplessly, the kind of laugh that meant she might cry if she thought too hard about it.
“Hi,” Sydney echoed, and changed the angle a fraction. Cate’s breath broke, the pleasure flashed brighter, an ache-turned-sweet. Sydney kept it there, precise, and let Cate climb.
“Touch me,” Cate whispered, and Sydney’s hand slipped between them, two fingers finding Cate’s clit with the kind of muscle memory that felt like fate. Cate’s back arched. The world narrowed to the slide and the press, the slick heat, the creak of the bed, the little sounds that existed only in this room.
“Cum for me,” Sydney said softly, and Cate did, falling open with a cry that tipped quickly into Sydney’s name. The wave took her completely, pulling her under and then setting her down gently. Sydney kept moving through it, careful, as if she knew exactly where the edge was. Cate blinked up at her, loose and liquid with love, and cupped Sydney’s face. “Your turn,” she said again, thumb tracing the curve of a cheekbone.
Sydney’s mouth went soft. She pressed deep, held there, then started a smaller motion—short, needy thrusts that rubbed exactly where she needed it. Cate held her, anchored her, kissing her through each breath until Sydney broke too, breath catching, hips stuttering. She whispered Cate’s name like it was permission, and Cate said yes into her mouth until she spilled with a shiver and a low, grateful sound. Cate felt the heat of it and went warm with it, holding while Sydney eased to a stop.
Stillness. Soft breath.
Sydney eased out, careful, and fetched a warm cloth without leaving Cate’s orbit for long. Tenderness was its own pace: the wiping clean, the kiss to a knee just because it was there, the way she tucked the blanket up when Cate shivered. Cate caught Sydney’s wrist and pressed a kiss to the inside of it, right to the quickening pulse.
“You always take such good care of me,” Cate murmured.
“You make it easy,” Sydney said, climbing back into the bed and pulling Cate onto her chest. They laid like that, stacked neatly, the way they fit. Sydney’s hand found its lazy path—up and down Cate’s spine, light circles at the base where she always got tight. Cate’s body made its small animal noises of contentment: a hum, a sigh, that half-laugh when Sydney’s fingers found a ticklish spot at her waist.
They drifted in the sweetness for a while, the kind of quiet that comes only after every question has been answered with yes. When Sydney eventually spoke, her voice was soft, sleepy, and a little mischievous.
“You didn’t think I forgot a Christmas gift for you, did you?”
Cate lifted her head, eyes narrowing fondly. “Sometimes sex is enough of a gift.”
“You deserve more than just that,” Sydney said with a soft smile that echoed the softness in her eyes. “This one’s for you.”
She reached to the nightstand and pulled out a small box—flat, velvet, the kind that made Cate’s heart do that skip that lived halfway between vanity and yearning. Sydney’s mouth twitched at Cate’s face and then she set the box in Cate’s palms.
“Open it.”
Cate did, fingers suddenly clumsy with anticipation. Inside: a delicate chain bracelet, bright silver against black velvet, with tiny charms spaced like punctuation along its length. Cate’s breath left her in a soft oh.
Sydney took it gently, letting it spill into her palm so Cate could see. “Okay,” she said, a little shy now, “so—this is…us.” She nudged the first charm, a crooked star, edges slightly uneven by design. “For the topper that’s always a little off and always perfect.”
Cate laughed, the sound breaking wet at the end. “You menace.”
Next, a miniature guitar pick, shaved thin and etched with a tiny lightning bolt. “For me—and music, because you let me be obnoxious about it.”
A little house outline, window squares cut out so light would touch skin beneath. “Home.”
Two small birthstone dots tucked together—one sapphire, one amethyst—each stamped on the back with an initial: R and E. Cate made a noise at those, biting her lip, blinking fast.
“Riley and Ellie,” Sydney said softly, thumb touching each gem. “The best things we ever did.”
A little macaroni noodle—yes, a macaroni noodle—curved and smug. “Art,” Sydney said solemnly. “From Riley’s brain.”
Cate gasped-laughed. “You didn’t.”
“I absolutely did.”
And finally, a tiny comet charm, a tail etched to look like motion. “For the jumps,” Sydney said, softer still. “For every time you let me do the impossible and still expect me to be home for dinner.”
Cate’s throat closed. The bracelet looked impossibly simple in Sydney’s hand and yet it held their whole last few years inside it, a story in metal and gems and a little ridiculousness. She held out her wrist without trusting herself to speak. Sydney fastened it carefully, fingertips brushing the underside of Cate’s wrist, where her pulse beat quick and sure.
“It fits,” Sydney said, almost to herself.
Cate turned her hand. The charms slid and chimed, catching the warm light. The crooked star settled against her skin like it had found where it was always meant to rest. She pressed her wrist to her mouth and kissed the metal, tasting the faint tang against her lips. When she looked up, Sydney was watching her with that bright, unabashed tenderness that always undid her.
“I love you,” Cate said, voice low and ferocious.
Sydney’s eyes went softer still. “I know.” She touched the bracelet, then Cate’s cheek. “I love you more.”
Cate rolled her eyes, because they kept score with jokes, and then gave up and kissed her hard for saying it anyway. When they parted, she tucked herself back into Sydney’s side, the bracelet cool for a second and then warm, becoming her. Down the hall, the humidifier sighed. The house smelled faintly of pine and sugar and clean skin.
“Wear your badge tomorrow,” Cate murmured, eyes already heavy.
Sydney huffed a laugh into her hair. “Copy. Wear your bracelet forever.”
Cate lifted her wrist, letting the charms clink. “That’s the plan.”
They drifted, bodies loose and satisfied, breath syncing again. And when sleep took them, it did it gently, with a bracelet catching silver and two steady heartbeats under one blanket, warm as their home.
things i wish someone told me before i started writing (and also things i ignored anyway)
okay. writers of tumblr. i’ve compiled a list of things i desperately wish someone had sat me down and said before i started writing, not that i would’ve listened, because i was 14 and powered entirely by hubris, iced coffee, and my wattpad era.
anyway. here we go:
1. stop rewriting chapter one.
i know you think it’ll fix everything. it won’t. it’s a hydra. you cut one head off, two Google Docs appear.
2. your first draft is not a treaty with god.
it can be messy. it can be unhinged. it can have 47 placeholders named “idk something happens.” it’s fine.
3. perfectionism is just fear wearing a blazer.
write badly on purpose. humiliate your draft. it builds character (yours).
4. word count culture is a scam.
you are allowed to write 200 words and call it a day. you are allowed to write 5k and then disappear into the void for three business weeks.
5. google docs autosave WILL betray you.
download backups. then back up your backups. then sacrifice a pen to the writing gods idk.
6. description is not pretty synonyms.
it’s specificity. the torn movie ticket in their pocket. the buzzing light in the hallway. the chipped nail polish on their thumb. write the thing not the aesthetics around the thing.
7. dialogue isn’t two Shakespeare ghosts monologuing at each other.
interruptions. trailing off. people lying. people avoiding the truth. people saying “whatever man.” let it get messy.
8. you don’t need a whole map before you start.
sometimes you just need one character with one problem and the stupidest idea imaginable.
9. reading your old writing will make you cringe but also cry a little because wow you cared so much.
keep that version of you alive.
10. don’t wait to ‘be good.’
you get good by writing the stuff you think is embarrassing.
11. also: nine out of ten times, your “bad” idea is actually the one that goes feral and grows teeth and becomes your WIP.
12. hydrate.
no further explanation.
ok that’s it because if i keep going i’ll start confessing things about the time i wrote a whole novel in 2017 that will never see daylight again.
reply if u relate or if u too have 87 abandoned document fragments in your google drive.
i also have been trying to boost up my close friends gofundme, as she's in serious need of help with some money for her rent, she's at risk of being homeless with her mom, little sister and baby sibling on the way. if you can donate at all or even reblog this, it'll mean the world to me and Ana, thank you so much!
My name is Ana, and I’m reaching out for help for myself, my pregnant mom, my five-year-old sister, and… Ana Cook needs your support for Hel
"I’m telling you," Cate tries to maintain focus. The touch, the atmosphere — Petra's very distracting. "I could’ve been the next Jennifer Lopez, and I’m a better dancer than you."
She’s cocky as hell. Her hands slide upward, fingers fanning on Petra's neck as her thumbs caress her jawline. Cate's body aligns with Petra's, their shapes interlocking without rhyme or reason.
"Oh, you are, huh?" Petra's brows lift, a teasing tone in her voice. "The next J.Lo?" A light laugh of amusement bubbles up in her throat, something far too fond lingering in her eyes. "Next you’re gonna tell me you could out dance Shakira."
Kinktober 2025 day six — outdoor sex, intoxication
Fuck.
Okay, so maybe it is about Petra.
But Cate doesn't want to think about that. She doesn't want to think about the way she finds herself staring at Petra when she thinks no one else is looking. She doesn't want to think about the flutter that wracks its way through her chest when Petra wraps her arms around her from behind. When Petra's chin hooks over her shoulder as she complains about something as mundane as whatever the fuck her professor made her do under the guise of a TA task.
Cate's never listening, in truth. She's too busy trying to keep her breathing under control, keep her heart from pounding out of her chest, in hopes that Petra just doesn't notice.
It's afternoons like this, with an empty dorm and a head full of thoughts she shouldn't be having, that gets Cate in trouble.
As there wasn’t an official Kinktober prompt list last year, we’ve put together an unofficial one for 2025, along with an AO3 collection. The graphics were all made by @latte-cucumber, and she's also made a banner that you’re welcome to use for your Tumblr Kinktober posts:
More information
Kinktober is an October prompt challenge that’s been running in one form or another since 2016. There are three prompts for each day in October, and the challenge is to use one (or more!) of the prompts to create something for that day. If you don’t want to use any of the three daily prompts, you can swap them out for the bonus prompts at the bottom of the prompt list.
If you have any questions, check our FAQs. Our askbox is open for further questions about how the challenge works or what the prompts mean.
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
