#white office envelopes

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[suguann]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

[madammidnightsblog]

Yandere Mailman X Sleepy Darling

Yandere Mailman fell in love with you the first time he was sent to work in your neighborhood and caught you sluggishly walking out of your house to get the mail. He watched you walk out onto the wooden porch with your blanket wrapped around you and your hair a mess for napping, it was your day off from a busy week at the office so that was a very much needed nap. Yandere Mailman was taken away by how cute you looked with drool stains down your chin and the sleepy look on your adorable face as he watched you from across the street. He just wanted to scoop you right up and pull you into his mail truck and take you home. Yandere Mailman who memorized your address and the white painted fence with what looked like fake plants decorating your front porch as they looked too green for someone who never was home. It was burned into the back of his head and how couldn't? The owner was just so cute! Yandere Mailman gets so jealous when he sees all the envelops that were filled out in such pretty handwriting of yours, addressing to a man at a military base- he didn't care that it was your brother that you were writing too (he didn't open them and read them, what kind of person would invade such privacy? their seals just happened to be broken- okay?) You shouldn't be writing to any man! Yandere Mailman just can't help but take those letters you send to your brother and his letters; you shouldn't talk to him- he left you after all, right? If he cared, he wouldn't be away and stayed by your side. That's what you do for those you love and no, he totally didn't jerk off to your letters because you went into detail about how excited you were to go to the beach with your friends and how you bought at new swimsuit for it- okay! Yandere Mailman who sits outside in his mail truck he parked across the street with his dick in his hand, jerking off as he watched you once again sluggishly walked outside to get the mail. The adorable, tired expression of yours and how you're wearing such small night shorts and that big loose t-shirt, it just has him throbbing every time. Yandere Mailman who cums once you noticed the unmarked envelope he left for you, watching the once sleepy expression turn into a confused one. It was just so damn cute, and he couldn't help it, knowing you're opening it and reading the little love letter he made with your chubby cheeks turning red. His balls were squeezed in his free hand while the other moved in a fast and sloppy pattern until he makes a mess all over his hand. Yandere Mailman makes sure you memorize the days you're home in the mornings and leaves little love letters that are totally are normal! They might talk about how much he loves your adorable little face and how your hair is just so damn pretty that he wants to play with it and how he wants to see your little sleepy face sucking him off while you're barely awake, drooling and sleepily blink up at him as he helps you since you're just so tired.

[pucksandpower]

Pollinated

Day 11 → Sex Pollen 💋 Max Verstappen

Warnings: 18+ content and dubious consent

Kinktober Masterlist

“You’ve got a stack waiting for you.” Alan leans on the edge of your desk, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He’s holding a bundle of envelopes, some thick with scribbled messages, some thin and printed with clean, crisp fonts.

Your PR officer’s eyebrows raise in mock exasperation as he shakes them at you. “How do you even have time to race with all these fans wanting a piece of you?”

You grin, setting down your coffee and wiping your hands on your pants. “That’s the problem of being so popular, Alan. It’s a curse, really.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a real burden. Everyone loving you.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.”

He drops the stack in front of you with a soft thud. “Take your time. I’ll be back in a bit.” His tone is teasing, but you catch the flicker of something more serious underneath, like he’s reminding you there’s more work to be done after this.

You roll your eyes as he walks off. You love this part of your day — the letters, the drawings, the fan art from kids who see something in you that makes them believe they can be here too. They’re always so personal, full of energy, like they’re rooting for you from their living rooms or school desks.

You flick through the pile, reading the familiar opening lines. Dear Y/N, you’re such an inspiration or I love watching you race! Your heart lifts as you come across a brightly colored drawing from a girl named Chloe, of you standing on a podium, arms raised in victory. It makes you smile so wide your cheeks hurt a little. You can practically hear the little girl’s voice, excitedly telling her parents, “That’s gonna be me one day.”

“This is what it’s about,” you mutter under your breath, running your fingers over the crayon marks.

More letters. More words of encouragement. A scribbled note from a group of university students who drove twelve hours just to see you race last season. A letter from an older woman who says she’s been watching F1 since her husband introduced her to it in the ‘70s and how proud she is to see a woman making waves. You pause at that one, your chest swelling. You’ll have to write her back.

You reach for the next envelope, a bit plainer than the others. No stickers, no hand-drawn doodles in the margins. It’s simple, just your name written on the front in neat black ink. Your gut tugs slightly, but you brush it off. Not every fan is an artist.

You open it, pulling out a card with a printed picture of a car on the front. Your car. You smile, flipping it open to read the message inside.

But your smile fades as you start to read.

You don’t belong here.

The words are bold, black, and stark against the white paper. They stand out like a punch to the gut, each line colder and more hateful than the last. The handwriting is meticulous, like whoever wrote it wanted to be sure you’d understand every word.

Women like you are ruining the sport.

Your throat tightens. Your fingers grip the edges of the card a little harder than before, the edges bending under the pressure.

Go back to doing what you’re good at: nothing.

You try to swallow, but it feels like there’s a knot lodged in your throat. It’s not the first time you’ve seen something like this. Hell, it’s not even the worst thing anyone’s said. But right now, it’s too sharp, too specific, too venomous.

You reach up to close the card, your hand trembling slightly. But before you can fully shut it, something catches your eye — a tiny puff of fine yellow powder shoots from the fold, drifting into the air in front of you.

“What the-” You blink, confused for a split second.

Then, it hits.

A burning sensation spreads through your throat and nose. Your skin tingles, a wave of heat rushing over your face. You gasp, trying to catch your breath, but it feels like you’re inhaling fire. Panic spikes as your vision blurs.

“Alan!” The name barely makes it past your lips before you feel your legs give way beneath you.

“Alan!” You try again, but it comes out weaker this time. Your limbs feel heavy, your chest tight, and the room starts to spin in slow, nauseating circles.

Footsteps pound across the floor. Alan’s voice sounds far away, muffled, like he’s underwater. You catch a glimpse of him sprinting toward you, his face pale, eyes wide. “Y/N?”

Your body jerks uncontrollably, a violent shudder running through you. The room twists, everything turning hazy as you hit the floor hard, your fingers twitching against the cool tile.

“What the hell — Y/N!” Alan’s panic is sharp now, cutting through the fog. You can barely see him through the haze clouding your vision, but you feel him grab your shoulders, shaking you gently.

“Stay with me. Just stay with me, okay?” His voice cracks, fear bleeding through the edges.

Your entire body seizes again, every muscle clamping down painfully. A sharp cry escapes your throat as the convulsions take over, uncontrollable now.

“Help! Somebody, help!” Alan’s voice is frantic, desperate, echoing through the room as the world starts to fade. His hands are on your face now, trying to keep you conscious. You feel his fingers trembling against your skin, hear the panic rising in his voice as he keeps shouting for help.

But you’re slipping, sinking deeper into the darkness as the convulsions wrack your body. You can’t speak. You can’t move.

Alan’s voice is the last thing you hear before everything goes black.

***

The world returns slowly, like surfacing from a deep dive. There’s a ringing in your ears, muffled voices blending into the constant hum of machinery. Your body feels like it’s on fire — each nerve sizzling under your skin, radiating heat. You try to move, but it’s as if you’re bound by weights. The sheets beneath you cling to your body, too warm, too tight, too much.

Someone’s talking nearby, but it’s distant, warped. You can’t make out the words yet. Everything feels heavy — your eyelids, your chest, even your breathing. Your mouth is dry, your tongue like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth.

Slowly, the fog begins to clear, and you catch fragments of conversation.

“… highly illegal substance …” A voice, crisp and professional, filters through. The doctor. “… extreme toxicity … very few cases on record …”

You try to focus, but the burning sensation inside you only intensifies. It’s everywhere — your limbs, your core, your mind. Like you’re being torn apart from the inside out.

You manage a groan, the sound barely escaping your lips.

“She’s waking up,” someone says, closer now. Alan? It sounds like him, but there’s a hitch in his usually confident voice. Panic.

Your eyelids flutter open, and the room comes into blurry focus. Harsh fluorescent lights. Sterile white walls. The sterile smell of antiseptic clogs your senses, a sharp contrast to the heat still coursing through you. You blink slowly, your vision sharpening enough to see Alan standing by your bedside, pale and jittery, his hand running through his hair in nervous strokes.

Across from him is the doctor, his white coat stiff and immaculate. He’s holding a clipboard, and his face is a mask of concern. When he speaks, it feels like each word takes a lifetime to process.

“… the substance she was exposed to … it’s not just any powder,” the doctor is saying, his voice measured but grim. “It’s a synthetic pollen derivative, known as Lust Dust on the black market.”

Lust Dust. The words sink into you, but you don’t recognize them. Your throat feels too tight to ask for clarification. Alan, however, doesn’t hesitate.

“What does that mean? What the hell is that?” Alan’s voice is raw, frayed at the edges.

The doctor sighs, flipping through the notes on his clipboard before answering. “It’s an extremely illegal bio-weapon, developed underground. It was used in several isolated attacks a few years ago, mostly in war zones. The symptoms … well, they’re brutal.”

You don’t like the sound of this. Brutal. Illegal. Bio-weapon. The words swirl around in your head, each one setting off alarm bells, but you can barely move enough to react. You just lie there, heat pulsing through you, your body screaming in agony.

“The pollen attacks the body’s nervous system,” the doctor continues, his tone clinical. “It acts as a stimulant, targeting primal instincts, heightening … certain responses. The most dangerous part is that, if untreated, the body will burn out within hours.”

“Burn out?” Alan echoes, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What does that mean? You mean … she’ll die?”

“Yes,” the doctor replies, his tone darkening. “In most cases, without intervention, the victim’s body will shut down. It’s a highly sexualized toxin. The only way to counteract the effects is through physical release.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence. The words hover in the air, sinking into the room with a weight you can almost feel. Your heart races, your mind struggling to comprehend what’s being said. Physical release? The burning sensation in your body intensifies, like it’s reacting to the very idea of what the doctor’s suggesting.

Alan’s face pales further, his hand gripping the back of his neck in horror. “Wait, are you — are you saying she has to-”

“Sex,” the doctor says bluntly, not sugar-coating anything. “Yes. If she doesn’t have sex soon, she will die. The sooner, the better, to mitigate the damage the pollen’s already caused.”

A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, despite the unbearable heat raging inside you. The fire in your veins is consuming everything, twisting the doctor’s words into cruel irony. This can’t be happening. Not this.

“I … I …“ Alan stammers, clearly at a loss, his eyes flicking to you, desperate and terrified. “There’s got to be another way. Medicine? A procedure? Something?”

The doctor shakes his head. “There’s no antidote. The only option is the one I’ve given you.”

You want to scream. You want to cry. But you can’t do anything except lie there, burning from the inside out, unable to stop the panic surging through you as the realization sinks in.

Alan takes a shaky breath. “What … what do we do now?”

The doctor straightens, his voice calm but commanding. “The most important thing is finding someone who’s willing to … assist.”

Alan’s eyes widen in horror, but before he can say anything, the door bursts open and several members of your team file into the room — engineers, mechanics, staff. Their faces are tight with concern, and they crowd into the small space, murmuring amongst themselves.

“What happened?” Someone asks, their voice tense.

Alan quickly explains, his voice shaking as he goes over the details. The pollen. The bio-weapon. The need for “intervention.” Every word makes your heart pound harder, and you can feel the collective shock ripple through the room as the reality of the situation sets in.

“She needs someone,” Alan says, his voice thick with emotion. “She needs someone to …”

He can’t even finish the sentence.

The room falls into stunned silence. You can hear the soft hum of the machines around you, the ragged breathing of the people in the room. It feels like time has stopped, the weight of the situation pressing down on everyone.

Then, the whispers start.

“I’ll do it,” someone mutters.

“No, I will,” another voice pipes up. You recognize it as one of the engineers, his voice shaky but sincere.

“I mean, she’s our driver, right? We have to help.”

More voices chime in, each one offering, each one willing. The panic in the room turns to a frantic eagerness, as though everyone suddenly realizes what’s at stake. You can barely comprehend it — the idea that your team, your colleagues, are discussing this as though it’s just another task, something to be done to save your life.

Your mind is spinning, your body trembling with the heat still coursing through you. You want to shout at them, tell them to stop, that this isn’t how things should be. But you can’t move, can’t speak. All you can do is listen as the conversation grows more chaotic, more desperate.

Then, the door opens again, and a new voice cuts through the noise.

“Everyone out.”

It’s Max.

The room falls silent instantly, every head turning toward him. He stands in the doorway, his face hard and set, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity you’ve never seen before. He looks around the room, his gaze sharp, taking in the faces of your teammates, the panic, the confusion.

“I said out,” Max repeats, his voice calm but firm.

No one moves at first, too shocked to respond. But then one by one, they start to file out, murmuring to each other in hushed tones as they leave the room. You hear Alan hesitate for a moment, but even he doesn’t argue. The door shuts softly behind them, leaving you alone with Max.

You’re too weak to turn your head, but you can hear him walk closer, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He doesn’t speak right away, and the silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the soft beeping of the machines monitoring your condition.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Max’s voice fills the room. “It’s going to be me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“No one else is touching you,” he says, his tone low, steady. “I’m your teammate. I’m the one who’s going to help you. Not them.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear the resolve in his voice, the determination. He’s not offering. He’s deciding. There’s no question, no hesitation. It’s going to be him, and no one else.

And as the burning inside you flares again, you realize that part of you is grateful.

***

The air between you and Max is thick with tension, the kind that crackles in the silence, heavy with unspoken words. You lie there, your body still ablaze, the fire under your skin pulsing in waves, but something about his presence — steady, resolute — grounds you, if only just. You can’t move, can barely speak, but your mind races, half-paralyzed with the agony of the pollen and half with the strange anticipation of what’s to come.

Max stands beside the bed, his face framed by the fluorescent lights above, casting shadows that sharpen his features. He doesn’t look afraid, though you can tell there’s something behind his eyes — something that trembles just beneath the surface. His gaze locks onto yours, and it feels like he’s looking past the pain, past the situation, to something deeper.

“This isn’t how I imagined …“ His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, as though the words aren’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. He reaches for your hand, his fingers brushing yours, tentative at first, like he’s asking permission for what’s about to happen.

You want to respond, to say something, but your throat is too tight, too raw, the burning heat still tearing through you. You manage the faintest of nods, your hand twitching against his, and that’s all he needs.

Max leans over, his face close to yours now, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand trails gently down your arm, his touch soft, careful. “I’m here, okay?” He murmurs, his voice low, soothing. “We’ll get through this.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, in that same quiet, tender voice, he adds, “Schatje … you’re so strong.”

The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey, and despite everything — despite the fire tearing you apart from the inside out — it brings a strange, aching warmth to your chest. Max has never called you that before. The intimacy of it catches you off guard, though you don’t have the strength to dwell on it for long.

His hands move lower now, brushing across your skin with reverence, as though you might break under his touch. You shiver, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“You don’t deserve this,” Max whispers, his forehead nearly touching yours. His voice cracks ever so slightly, betraying the calm façade he’s trying to maintain. “I’ve … I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he admits softly, his words a confession, raw and vulnerable. “But not like this. Never like this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the feel of his hands on your body, the way he’s handling you with such care, as though he’s afraid of hurting you. And somehow, through the pain, you manage to relax just enough to let him in. Just enough to let him take some of the weight from you.

He presses his lips to your temple, a soft, lingering kiss, and you can feel the tremble in his breath. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, the burning inside you dims, replaced by something else. Something warm, and tender, and utterly consuming. Max moves with purpose now, his touch becoming more sure, more confident, but never losing that careful tenderness. He’s cooing to you, whispering soft praises in Dutch, his voice like a balm against the fire raging inside you.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Max admits again, his words spilling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “For so long. I just … I didn’t know how to tell you.”

His hands continue their journey, and despite the circumstances, despite the fire still licking at your insides, your body responds. Every touch feels magnified, every brush of his skin against yours sending a jolt of something deeper through you, something primal and desperate and… needed.

“You’re so strong,” he says again, his voice reverent, almost in awe. “So perfect. I don’t know how you do it.”

Your body trembles beneath him, not just from the fire that’s still coursing through you, but from the way he’s touching you, the way his words wrap around you like a soft embrace. It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, the vulnerability of the moment stripping away any pretense, any barriers you might have once had.

“I’m here, liefje,” Max whispers, his lips brushing against your ear now. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You don’t know how he manages it, how he makes something so painful feel like this, but he does. His hands are everywhere, soothing the burn, coaxing your body to relax, to give in to what you need. And with every touch, every whispered endearment, the fire inside you dims, just a little, just enough to let you breathe.

“I wish it was different,” Max murmurs, his voice thick with emotion now. “I wish this was … just us. Not because of this. Not because of …“ His words trail off, but you understand. You understand perfectly.

He presses his forehead against yours again, his breathing ragged, his body tense with the effort of keeping himself composed. “But I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says, his voice fierce with determination. “I’ll do anything for you.”

Your body reacts to him instinctively now, every nerve ending lighting up in response to his touch, the fire inside you blazing hotter but in a way that feels … different. Less painful. More like an ache, a deep, desperate need that only he can fill.

“Max …“ you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse, barely audible. It’s the first word you’ve spoken since waking up, and it feels like a release, like a crack in the wall you’ve built around yourself. He hears it, though, and his gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently across your cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice full of emotion. “I’ve always got you.”

His movements quicken, and you can feel yourself spiraling, the fire inside you building to a crescendo, but this time it’s not just pain. It’s something more, something overwhelming and all-consuming. You can feel him with you, guiding you, coaxing you toward the edge.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers again, his voice breathless now, his own control slipping. “I’ve wanted you for so long …“

His words send you tumbling over the edge, your body convulsing in a wave of pleasure so intense it nearly takes your breath away. The fire beneath your skin peaks, then suddenly, blessedly, begins to recede. It’s like the flames are being extinguished, one by one, leaving only warmth in their wake.

And Max is there, holding you through it, his arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing is ragged, his body trembling with the effort of holding himself together, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move.

As the last of the fire dies down, as your body finally begins to relax, you hear him whisper, so softly you almost miss it.

“I love you.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, unguarded and raw, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The room, the pain, the circumstances that brought you here — it all disappears, leaving only the two of you, tangled together, vulnerable and exposed.

You’re too weak to respond, too exhausted from everything that’s just happened, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. He holds you close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your hair, your forehead, anywhere he can reach.

“I love you,” he whispers again, like he’s afraid you didn’t hear him the first time. “I’ve always loved you.”

His confession hangs in the air, delicate and fragile, but it feels right. Like it’s been waiting to be said all along.

As the fire beneath your skin finally dies out completely, as your body settles into a state of calm for the first time in hours, you let yourself fall into the safety of his arms, his warmth the only thing keeping the remnants of the fire at bay.

Max doesn’t let go. Not for a long time. And you don’t want him to.

***

Max holds you close, his body pressed against yours, his breath still coming in shallow bursts as the two of you lie in a tangled heap on the bed. The burning fire that had been searing through your body has finally been extinguished, leaving only a lingering warmth that feels manageable now.

But even though the pain is gone, even though your body has found relief, there’s still something… unfinished. A strange, restless feeling that hums beneath your skin, an ache that begs for more.

Max is quiet beside you, his hand brushing gently through your hair as he watches your face, his expression soft but intent, like he’s still worried, still waiting for some sign that you’re okay. But you can see it in his eyes — he knows. He knows it’s not over yet.

You shift beneath him, the subtle movement sending a ripple of sensation through you, and your breath hitches involuntarily. The fire is gone, but that need, that craving — it’s still there, simmering just below the surface. It’s not the urgent, desperate heat of the pollen, but it’s undeniable.

Max’s gaze sharpens, reading the subtle cues in your body. His hand stills in your hair, and you feel him shift beside you, his body tensing slightly as he watches you, waiting for you to say something, to ask for what you need.

You don’t have to.

“Oh liefje,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “You still need more, don’t you?”

Your throat tightens, and you nod, unable to form the words. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes — understanding, maybe, or something deeper. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He already knows.

Max’s hand trails down your body, his touch feather-light, and it sends a shiver through you, your body responding to him instantly. He presses a kiss to your temple, then to your jaw, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “I’m here,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Whatever you need.”

His lips travel lower, grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, and you arch into him, your body aching for more. He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each touch, each kiss, as if he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

You can’t help the small gasp that escapes your lips when he moves lower still, his mouth brushing against your collarbone. He’s taking his time, drawing this out, making sure every second is filled with pleasure, with tenderness. There’s no urgency now, no frantic need to cure the fire. This is something else — something deliberate, something intimate.

Max’s hands slide down your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs as he lowers himself down the bed. His mouth follows the path his hands have carved, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You feel his breath against your skin, warm and teasing, as he moves lower, kissing across your stomach with slow, deliberate care.

Every nerve in your body is on high alert, each touch sending sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your fingers tangle in the sheets, gripping them tightly as you fight to keep your composure, but Max makes it impossible. His lips are everywhere, soft and warm and completely unrelenting.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “I don’t think you even realize …”

His words send a thrill through you, and your breath catches as his hands slide lower, his fingers brushing the curve of your hips. He presses a kiss to your navel, and you feel the heat pooling deep inside you, the need building again, stronger this time, more insistent.

“Max …” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears you. He always hears you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers back, his voice soft, reassuring. “Just relax.”

You try, but it’s impossible with the way he’s touching you, the way he’s kissing you, like every part of you deserves his undivided attention. He’s worshiping you with every movement, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Max’s hands slide up your thighs, and your breath stutters as he spreads your legs wider, his eyes dark with want as he looks up at you. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he presses a kiss just below the dip of your waist, teasing you, making you wait.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin. “Do you know that?”

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but arch into him, desperate for more. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s giving it to you slowly, carefully, savoring every moment.

Max’s hands grasp your thighs, and he pulls them apart slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something in his gaze — something raw, something vulnerable. He’s giving himself to you completely, just as much as you’re giving yourself to him.

His lips trail lower, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, and your entire body shudders in response. Every nerve is on fire again, but this time it’s not the cruel burn of the pollen.

This is different. This is Max.

He pauses for a moment, his lips hovering just above where you need him most, and he looks up at you, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me what you want,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a breath.

You can’t form the words. All you can do is nod, your body trembling beneath him.

Max smiles, a small, almost shy smile, and then he lowers his head, his mouth finally, blessedly, on you. The sensation is immediate, intense, and you cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as he works you with a precision that only he seems to know. His tongue moves slowly at first, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the rhythm that makes your entire body sing.

He’s relentless, his mouth and hands working in perfect harmony, driving you higher and higher until you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel. The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter and tighter inside you until you’re sure you’re going to break.

“Max!” You gasp, your body arching off the bed. “Please …”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. If anything, he goes faster, his tongue working you with an intensity that leaves you trembling. You’re so close, so impossibly close, and he knows it.

“That’s it,” he whispers against you, his voice thick with need. “Let go, schatje. I’ve got you.”

And then, with one last flick of his tongue, you’re gone, tumbling over the edge into a wave of pleasure so intense it almost hurts. Your entire body convulses, your vision going white as you fall apart beneath him, your fingers gripping the sheets so tightly they burn.

Max doesn’t let up, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until you’re nothing but a trembling, panting mess. When he finally pulls away, you’re left gasping for breath, your body slick with sweat, your heart racing in your chest.

He crawls back up the bed, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he goes, his hands soothing over your trembling limbs. When he finally reaches your face, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his fingers brushing your hair back from your face.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice soft, reassuring. “You’re okay.”

You can barely nod, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your release. Max pulls you into his arms, holding you close, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your back as you come down from the high. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours.

For a moment, everything is still. Quiet. Perfect.

And then, just as your breathing begins to slow, the door creaks open.

The doctor walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable as he takes in the sight of you and Max — sweaty, tangled together, your bodies still humming with the afterglow. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at his clipboard, then back at you.

“Well,” he says after a moment, his tone entirely too clinical for the situation. “It appears the cure has been administered.”

Max stiffens beside you, but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice — or care. He simply jots down a few notes on his clipboard, his pen scratching loudly in the silence.

“Residual effects of heightened libido may persist,” the doctor adds, almost as an afterthought. He glances up from his notes, his gaze flicking between you and Max, then nods, satisfied. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

And with that, he turns and walks out of the room, leaving you and Max in stunned silence.

Max lets out a breath, a low, incredulous laugh bubbling up from his chest. “Did he seriously just …”

You nod, still too dazed to form a coherent response.

Max shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips as he pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively. “Well, I guess we’re not done yet.”

And with the way your body still hums with need, you know he’s right.

[blood-smiles]

𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ୭˚. ᵎᵎ

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐋𝐀𝐖𝐘𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐆𝐍! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 TW MDNI . slight nsfw . yandere content . stalking . submissive yandere . creepy thoughts . highly unprofessional behavior from yandere . if reader is a simp and Alejandro is a bigger one .

You organized various assortments of products on shelves, placing each product perfectly, the name of the item fully on display,

While stepping back to admire your work you heard the squeaky shoes of a little kid, suddenly a small body crashed into your side and landed on the floor with a sickening crack,

“Jimmy! Jimmy! Oh my god! JIMMY!” The frantic voice of a woman called out, you instantly turned around, seeing the little boy wailing on the ground, his arm twisted in an uncomfortable direction,

You crouched down next to the child, trying to get him to calm down as you inspected his arm,

The same woman ran in your direction and pushed you off her child with a rough shove, tears welling up in her eyes,

“YOU! YOU DID THIS TO MY CHILD!” She shrieked, holding the kid in her arms,

“I-I ma’am! I swear it’s not that, your child was running and crashed into—“ 

“I DONT WANT TO HEAR IT! I AM GOING TO SUE YOU FOR THIS!” She screamed at you, her spit landing on your face as you stepped back,

A burning pain splattered all over your face, the woman’s purse making a harsh contact with your nose bridge, 

Small red droplets dirtied your white uniform polo shirt, 

She scooped up the injured boy in her arms and ran outside the store, yelling profanities and curses at you,

Suddenly a loud crash was heard as the woman kicked the large shelves, causing the tall shelves to come down on you, one by one alike to dominos,

You can’t remember what happened next, as you woke up in a hospital.

So. You have a huge law suit over your head now, a metaphorical guillotine over your neck, just waiting to be brought down on you, decapitating you and your clean record,

You stood in the waiting room, the fresh smell of floor cleaner wafting into your nostrils, helping you distract yourself momentarily,

“Mx (Y/N)?” A deep voice rings out, pulling you back into reality,

You glance up at the source of the voice, your (e/c) meeting with scarlet red hues, sharp eyes encased behind glasses,

You slowly got up, using your crutches to stabilize your footing, the man waited for you, his eyes inspecting your form as if calculating your every move, he stared at you for longer than needed but you ignored his eyes and kept acting as if nothing was happening,

He politely opened the door for you, giving you enough room to limp inside the office, after you successfully sat down, the man stood in front of his desk,

His ruby eyes were drilling into your own, as if memorizing every single detail of your iris, you looked into his eyes too, trying to seem confident,

If you looked close enough you could see the slight color difference under his eyes, you recognized that gaze— of exhaustion and pulling all nighters, but he did do a good job minimizing the eye bags!

You didn’t get to look at him properly but he was very well dressed.. the classic black vest along with black dress pants and a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms,

Pretty purple hair gathered at the back of his head in a ponytail, two tresses framed the sides of his face, bringing more attention to his sharp features, he was attractive.. Very attractive.

After another round of continuous staring the male finally cleared his throat, breaking the suffocating tension in the room,

“I am Alejandro Ortega, your defense in the court.” He stated clearly, sticking his hand out, asking for a hand shake,

“Oh. I’m (Y/N), thank you for your time sir.” You politely stretched out your arm and gently shook his hand,

His larger one enveloped your own hand, giving you a steady and firm handshake, slightly squeezing your hand in his,

His touch lingered, hand still tightly held around yours, he stared into your eyes, unwilling to let go,

You half smiled, trying to pull your hand away from his, slightly becoming unsettled when he didn’t let go,

He coughed, letting go of your hand and sitting down on his own chair,

He crossed his legs under the desk, taking out a paper and a pen, tapping the opposite side of the tip on the paper sheet, he discussed with you the phases of how he was planning to defend you in this case, giving you a bit of a background check on him,

“Well then, please tell me how everything happened, miss (Y/N).” 

You started retelling the events of the store, your hands coming in play and moving around to emphasize your actions and feelings,

A soft smile bloomed on the man’s face, sometimes even chuckling quietly at your exaggerated gestures,

Alejandro liked—No, adored your company, you were so charismatic and lively, your energy was so contagious that even his hard exterior had began to show cracks,

The buzzing in his chest wouldn’t stop, his hands were sweaty and his face felt warm, just what was this feeling? He is supposed to maintain a poker face and not show any favoritism with his clients.. Oh but you.. he couldn’t help but show contentment around you,

Unfortunately you soon had to go home and rest, he felt truly pity for you, being all bruised up and injured— on top of that you were in the process of being sued, 

Such a sweet soul you have, he would make sure that you would be well protected under him, he would hate to see you in harms way,

Alejandro finished helping the janitors cleaning up, he waved everyone off as they left, with suitcase in hand he leaned against the wall,

Ever since your appointment with him he couldn’t stop thinking of your face and voice, perhaps he could use your files for some.. private research.

He opened the doors of his home, his wife, Ume, peeked into the hallway as if already knowing it was him who entered the manor,

Her long white hair flowed behind her as she sped walked towards him, she brushed her bangs out of her beautiful face as she approached him,

“Honey! Did you get off work early?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving him a loving peck on his lips,

Alejandro grunted in response, peeling her arms off his shoulders and neck, he despised physical contact from Ume, he hated her voice, to him it sounded like nails scratching against a chalkboard, it irritated him, greatly so.

Ume was not at fault, for she had done no wrong to him, she was what any man would wish for, she was obedient, beautiful, loving and skilled in every aspect,

He just hated the intent behind his marriage with her, ever since he had slipped out of his mothers womb and brought into this world he had no control over his life, for it had been decided for him,

What he was going to be, who he was going to marry, where he was going to study, who his relationships were and even how he should feel,

He had no control over his life, he had never had any control over his own livelihood, his parents had controlled him even beyond the grave,

He hated his life. He hated Ume. He hated his parents. He cherishes you. He hated everything but you.

You had brought excitement to his life somehow, you came into his office and sparked something in him with your attitude and personality,

Maybe his life wasn’t so bad.

He stared at the knives in his kitchen, his hand itching to find something— someone to slice into ribbons with the sheening blade of the knife,

When did he become so violent? Was he this savage all along?

He shook his head lightly, taking off his glasses momentarily as he cooked dinner for his self and Ume,

He flipped the chicken and rice in two plates, as he brought the food and placed it down on the long hall table,

Ume awed at the perfectly cooked food, she dug in immediately, complimenting him and his cooking skills every time she spooned food into her mouth,

Alejandro subconsciously clutched a napkin in his hand, his knuckles turning a ghost white from sheer force,

“..Thank you” he muttered, his hand shakily cutting off some chicken and inserting it into his mouth,

His mind wandered off to your beautiful eyes, those beautiful (e/c) gems twinkling under light enamored him so much..

Alejandro noticed how your eyes would wander off sometimes, looking at him intently, as if you were listening to the most interesting thing in the world, it just made him feel so bashful..

How long had it been since he had seen you? 5 hours? 5 days? 5 years? God, he can’t remember anymore, just being away from you felt like an eternity, it was driving him insane..

Maybe next time the both of you meet you can go out for a drink together.. he smiled a little at that, perhaps he could invite you to a garden and talk to each other and learn more about you..

“Dear? What are you smiling at?” The gratingly annoying voice of his wife chimed in, anger rose inside him, taking most of his willpower to keep a calm mind and most importantly of all not to lash out at her,

“It’s none of your concern, Ume.” He answered coldly, glaring at her, a small vein sprawling across his temple in irritation,

She looked taken aback by her husband snapping at her, her smooth caramel tinted skin draining of color, her wonder turning into a fear in a flash,

Just as she was going to open her mouth to apologize Alejandro cut her off, 

“—I’m going to go take a shower, I’m finished with my diner, wash the dishes please.” He instructed as he left but not before giving her a pointed look,

Alejandro shut the bedroom door behind him, huffing as he sat on his and Ume’s shared bed

Ume wouldn’t understand, she would break down if she ever found out he had developed romantic feelings for someone else,

As soon as he makes developments in yours and his relationship he will make sure to get divorce papers signed immediately,

He wouldn’t want you to think he was unfaithful, because he isn’t.

His marriage never worked out anyway, he can only imagine the beautiful domestic life you would have with him,

He wouldn’t have to come into office, he could be your stay at home husband! He knows how to cook, clean and overall good spouse.. He spent most of his childhood honing these skills by taking care of his little sister,

He simply goes into work to avoid having to see his insufferable wife, even a minute away from her made his life expectancy slightly increase,

He opened the water, staring at his reflection before stepping into the shower,

Cold water ran from the shower head, landing refreshingly on the tall males’ back and body,

He sighed, relaxation seeping into his body slowly and steadily, he leaned his body weight onto his forearms,

His forehead rested on the cool shower walls, cleansing his thoughts for just a moment, his long hair stuck to his forehead and shoulders as water slipped off in small droplets,

 as hard as he tried he couldn’t fend away certain thoughts, all of them being of You. You. You. Ý̵̯͙̰̾Ô̸̱͉̖̣̾͝Ú̷͎͍.

Look at what you have reduced him to.. A lovesick fool.. craving nothing more than you— It has only been five days, yet you live in his brain and heart like maggots, digging deeper and deeper into him..

Yet he didn’t care, he would allow you to do so because he knew that he secretly liked it, he liked having someone to obsess over and follow like a lovesick puppy,

he had been saving his love for too long, and now it seems that you pulled the trigger on his heart, for this dangerous love ridden russian roulette has just started.

He now understands why he suffered for so many years, he sees now that it was all for you, it seems that god has gotten tired of torturing him and sent you, as his savior— his light.

If he knew things would come to this he would have chosen to suffer again and again, continuing what appeared to be an endless cycle just to be able to meet you and reach zenith.

He is holding his heart in his hands for you, it was you awakened feelings he never thought were real, now assume the consequences of your actions, won’t you, love?

Ume stalked the halls of the huge mansion, her heart feeling heavy after she upset her beloved husband,

She smoothened down her dress as she shakily opened the bedroom door, seeing that the room was empty she sat down on the bed,

Staring at the bedroom door longingly she decided to slightly peek through a crack in the doorway,

The water landed against the shower floor, helping muffle out the small whimpers and moans that were heard from Alejandro,

His hand fisted his cock rapidly, his hips bucking into his soft hand to feel some kind of friction, the sound of his hand clapping against his skin being audible even with the drizzling water ambients,

Ume’s eyes widened, never had she though her husband could ever make such.. Sinful sounds, it seemed he was saying something between the strangled sounds of pleasure..

“—N).. (Y/N).. Mmph! (Y/N), please..” 

(Y/N)? Who was this (Y/N)? Why was her husband saying that name? Was he cheating on her?

Her green eyes zeroed in on his body, watching as his back would arch and tremble whenever he would get close to climax,

Ume had tried a handful of times to get some kind of intimacy going on with Alejandro, going as far as getting some.. Aphrodisiac products, however it seemed that even under the influence of such hard core drugs he would rather deal with it himself than come close to her,

His free hand roamed his body, soon reaching up against his chest and starting to play with the soft muscle, 

Delivering soft and hard squeezes, soft groans muddled with mutters of “I love you”s slipped out of his lips,

Dampened hair fell over his eyes as he pressed his cheek against his shoulder, gentle sobs mixed with the sound of water running,

His thrusts slowed down as his thighs pressed together, with a final cry of your name the knot in his stomach came undone,

Loads and loads of white semen painted a section of the tiled shower walls, he kept thrusting into the air, riding out his high.

Ume closed the door quietly, sitting on the bed she placed her hands over her face, her well manicured nails digging into the sides of her soft face,

Whoever this.. (Y/N) was she was going to speak to, and it’s not going to be pretty.

Alejandro was her husband, hers only, and she was willing to fight tooth and nail for him,

The bathroom door opened, showing the ruby eyed man walking out with a towel wrapped around his waist, delicate beads of water dripping off his hair and rolling down his skin abdomen,

“Is there something wrong?” He asked with a raise of his eyebrow, eyeing her down menacingly,

The pretty woman but her lips while smiling, kicking off her shoes and spreading her legs open, an idea popping into her head

“Well.. perhaps, I’m feeling awfully.. Hot down there, help me will you?”

It had been 3 months precisely, it was your court date, you dressed up as best as you could afford, brushing your hair neatly and ironing your clothes to perfection,

You arrived early, looking at the huge court with furrowed brows and crudely covered dark circles, you weren’t able to get a wink of sleep last night,

Your mind couldn’t stop thinking of all the worst possible scenarios— What If you lost and went to jail? What if you were forced to sleep with a crazy cell mate? Sentenced to death? Having to use forks as hair brushes for the end of your days?!

A hand gently fell on your head, softly caressing your hair, you met scarlet eyes, beautiful eyes, the same shade as blood,

“Everything is going to be alright, I can assure you that, so please don’t worry your pretty little head over whatever you are thinking, will you promise me that?” You knew that voice, that was your lawyers voice, it was always so soothing to you, never was his voice rough or hoarse, it was always so warm and gentle..

You nodded, your worries calming down slightly, you weren’t expecting it but it sure was meaningful to you, you knew he was very.. Stoic most of the time, you liked to think he might have a soft spot for you, although the probability of that is probably non existent, oh how you were so so wrong.

The both of you entered the court, you were sweating buckets of sweat, pulling at your collar once in a while to try and freshen yourself up,

“Defendants please rise.” The judge called out, her voice strong and authoritative,

The both of you stood up, you were so nervous in the moment that you totally ignored Alejandro’s hand clasped around yours, his fingers intertwined tightly in between yours,

Alejandro was right, he was good, good was a massive understatement, he got evidence from places you didn’t even recognize, you had no idea if some of the documents had been falsified or not due to how legit they looked,

By the end of court you weren’t the one in cuffs, but the mother of the little boy, who had been taken into custody,

She yelled profanities at you, kicking and screaming at the police men to let her go,

Alejandro stood in front of you protectively, eyes narrowed into a glare, gaze as sharp as knives and glass shards,

You were so happy and relieved, weight had been lifted off your shoulders, you felt as if you were going to cry or happiness,

Your chest felt light as you hugged Alejandro, thanking him a million times over and over,

Had you overstepped boundaries? Maybe, Would Alejandro normally flip out and do something unseemly? If you were someone else, yes.

But it’s you, how could he deny you of something he had been wanting to do for a long time? How? So he wasn’t.

He deserved this too, he had gone through so much trouble to fake so much evidence to get that dirty bitch in jail, and you were willingly giving him his reward,

He basically threw himself on you, his arms over your head, he adjusted your arms on his waist, letting you hug him as close as you desired,

His face was close to your hair— so so close to you, he just had to smell you, just one second, please please please please please please.

He breathed in your scent, his eyes threatening to roll back into his head, you smelled so good, he knew his wife was in the audience but he couldn’t give less of a fuck,

Let her watch, let her see how he loved you so much more, he didn’t care anymore, he wasn’t going to hide it anymore, because it was true he had become so intimately infatuated with you he couldn’t even stand being a moment without you,

He had all he ever wanted right in his arms, and he didn’t care what he had to do to make you his, 

He didn’t care if he had to frame innocent people over and over again, he didn’t care if he had to make shady deals with hackers or mafia men, he will do crazy shit and get away with it!

If he had to let the world burn for you he would turn the world ablaze until only ash and cinder was left, only to light it on fire again over and over just to prove how much he loved you.

His eyes met his “wife”’s emerald like gaze, her eyes shining under light with jealousy, he knew she wanted to tear the both of you apart,

But he wouldn’t let her, as he would be the one ripping her to shreds this time around,

He will do anything and he means everything for you. 

He would do it all in your name. ♡

[ithebookhoarder]

Never Let You Go (Aaron Hotchner x F!Reader)

Description: Being married to Aaron (A.K.A. your boss and the love of your life) has both it advantages and disadvantages - and being reprimanded by him for risking your neck in the field is definitely one of the latter... 💔

A/N: Hi everyone. I'm alive! Sorry that this is so short but it sort of just wrote itself and was a nice way to help try and ease me back into writing again as it's been a hot minute here 😅

Warnings: Angsty Hotch, arguing, mentions of threat, mentions of weapons, implied murder, references to abduction, sexual references, implied cases / unsubs. (Let me know if I missed any)

Masterlist

You knew when Aaron was angry. You knew the signs very well this far into your relationship, not only as a fellow member of the BAU but also as his wife. He didn’t even need to voice it for you to notice it, rolling off of him in waves… and unfortunately for you, you knew exactly what had caused it. 

You hadn’t meant to throw yourself into the proverbial frying pan, but when the Unsub you had been tracking had grabbed an innocent girl as a hostage you had simply acted without thinking. You had offered yourself instead, knowing your value meant he would not dispose of you as quickly as the others he had taken - and that your team would have to let him leave the parking lot you had chased him to. He knew it too, which was why he had quickly accepted, resulting in you being hauled into a van with a gun pressed against your head. 

Of course, the team had done exactly what you’d expected and located you within an hour. They had mounted a rescue and you had been safely back, unharmed, within mere minutes of the team arriving outside of the cabin. 

All in all, it was a win in your book… but not in your husband / boss’s.  

He had been the first through the door, intent on getting to you whilst Morgan tackled the Unsub into handcuffs. He had quickly cut you free, checked you weren’t seriously hurt, and escorted you back outside, tucked securely under his arm. However, the second you had made it back to the cars, Aaron had pulled away and hidden behind a mask of white hot fury. 

His silent temper had only got worse since you’d all got off the plane, with a thick and suffocating silence filling the car on the drive back. Everyone looked at one another anxiously, knowing better than to risk being the one to say anything and accidentally cause him to erupt in their direction. In fact, a minor miracle had occurred with Spencer not saying a single word until the whole team had spilled out of the elevator, even if it looked like it had caused him physical pain to do so. 

Hell, even Penelope had taken one look at everyone’s faces and done an immediate u-turn back to her lair, muttering she would ‘come back later’.

Unfortunately, you didn’t really have that option when Aaron was your husband and you both shared a car and a house… which was why you had watched as the others grabbed their belongings and finished debriefing, leaving their case files on Hotch’s desk for him to review on Monday. You’d followed along, the last to enter his office and leave your own on the top of the pile. 

However, your fingers had barely let go of the manilla envelope when you heard Hotch clear his throat, turning his attention squarely to the last two agents stood next to you. 

“Good work, everyone. Morgan, Prentiss, you can go. Have a good weekend - Y/N, stay where you are. We need to talk.” 

Shit. 

Your husband’s tone was calm but icy, telling you that this wasn’t up for debate; it was an order and god help anyone who went against him. It was why Emily and Derek made for the door without another word, although Emily shot you a final look over her shoulder, as if checking you were alright. 

You nodded subtly, trying to reassure her as she and Derek made their way out the door, closing it behind them. You knew without asking that the rest of the team would be watching from down in the bullpen, trying and failing to work out what was being said as Hotch ripped you a new one.  

Taking a deep breath, you crossed your arms over your chest and turned to face him. 

You hated seeing his beautiful face so hard and devoid of feeling. It was like a whole different man to the one who slept beside you every night, and greeted you first thing every morning. 

You gulped.

A cold sweat had formed on the back of your neck as he stepped closer slowly, deliberately dragging out the tension. You had to fight the urge to break off the staring contest between you, refusing to surrender to him just yet. It was probably why you opened your mouth first, desperate to beat him to the punch in case you lost your nerve. 

“Before you say anything, I know what you’re going to say, and I know what I did was dangerous and went against your orders,” you rambled, “I’m also well aware of the consequences and I won’t apologise for what I did, not when the option was risking that young girl and the rest of the team-“ 

“I am your superior here, Y/N. What I say goes. That is not up for debate, ever. You do not give me orders,” Aaron seethed, making you fall silent without even raising his voice - which somehow made it worse. It was as if your guilt was swallowing you whole. “What happened today will not happen again, am I understood? You do not ignore my orders whenever you feel like it, nor do you get to lecture me about why you did what you did. And above all? You never tell me to let you go, unarmed and alone, ever again. Is that clear?” 

Your eyes were glued to the floor, wishing silently for it to swallow you up.

“You know I was doing what anyone else on this team would’ve done. He had an innocent girl, Aaron, and he was cornered,” you countered. “He would have killed her the second he left the parking lot, or opened fire then and there. It was the only way to get him out of there, without risking the team and everyone in that area-“

“As the head of this team, I did what I would’ve done if anyone else had been in that position - which is tell you not to risk yourself - but as your husband,” he choked, “I cannot even begin to describe what I felt when he had that gun pointed at your head and that van door closed.” 

You gulped. You felt his pain drawing you in like a gravitational pull, making you desperate to reach out and soothe it from his brow.

“Aaron… You know I didn’t do this to hurt you,” you cooed. To your relief, he nodded, wrapping an arm around your waist and curling you into his chest as if needing to feel you were actually stood there in front of him.  

“It might surprise you to realise that I do know that. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make any of this easier.” You could feel the tension physically radiating off of him as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I… I thought I’d lost you. I... I can't lose you... I won't lose you or someone I love. Not again.”

“I know. I’m so sorry… I’m right here, my love. I’m right here… Always.”

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted? 

[corollaservant]

18+ mdni sugu drabble

Suguru loved picking you up from work on his motorcycle but he would never admit why. He drove an old Suzuki and all your colleagues (not just the girls!) would stare at him, he looked really pretty; waiting for you outside the office, with the helmet around his hands and a cigarette on his lips, killing time on the phone. Once he spotted you, he’d give you a wide smile and put his phone in his pockets. You gave him a peck on the lips and climbed on the back. Even though he did this for a year straight and he always drove very carefully, you had this habit of clinging onto him, enveloping his strong body with your hands and resting your face on his back, smelling his shampoo and leather jacket. You were squeezing him so tightly at times that your chest was pressing directly on his back making him hard while driving. He hated himself for being so desperate but just your body pressed on him drove him insane to the point of his knuckles turning white from his grip on the handles. You had never realized this though you’d notice that almost every time you got home, he’d throw your bag on the floor, push you against the wall and groan like a wounded animal against your neck, kissing you and fumbling with your clothes. His hands would caress your face while his mouth desperately searched yours, he was flushed and needy. ‘’Mhmm baby.. I haven’t even showered yet.. p-please’’ you’d mewl but he’d shut you up with an even hungrier kiss. ‘’I don’t mind princess, need you now.’’ he’d respond, pushing his achingly hard cock on your clothed entrance, rubbing up and down seductively, his tormented voice making you forget everything else (like the question why he was so hard already). He would lift you up against the wall, slide your soaked panties to the side, all that making out with him had you embarrassingly wet as he'd shove himself deep in your pussy, filling you up so good, you’d let a soft moan ‘’S..suguru p..please’’ you’d blurt, not even knowing what you were pleading for, trying to stabilize yourself in his embrace, you were slightly hitting against the wall with each needy thrust, gripping on his tousled hair for support, it turned him on so much ‘’fuck..baby ..don’t do that’’ he’d warn exhaling heavily, your hands on his hair made his cock twitch. You never listened anyway—not until he had your head banging against the wall and neighbors were knocking to ask if everything was alright afterwards.

[aftgphoenix]

Hehe have a short Jean, Cat, and Jeremy story!

Neil: Back at the airport. Flight lands at 3pm

Andrew: k

Kevin: How is Jean?

Neil: Alive. Talk later.

...

Andrew and Kevin were waiting for him at the airport when Neil landed. He was exhausted. After he'd dropped Jean off back at his house, Neil had gone to meet Stuart at a hotel room where they had talked strategy late into the night. He'd verified that his hit on Grayson had reached the right people and would be taken care of in the next day or two. And he asked Uncle Stuart for one extra favor. He went to the airport after that and slept on the plane.

He gave them a brief rundown of what had happened, omitting the parts about Grayson and Elodie. He wasn't sure Jean would want him sharing about that with Kevin. He'd fill Andrew in on the rest later, when they were in private. 

A week later, a package was delivered to his school mailbox with no return address. Neil ignored all of Kevin's questions about it. The next day, he dragged Andrew down with him to the school post office and mailed off the package to Jean.

...

Cat grabbed the mail from the mailbox before she went inside the house after practice. It was more of the same, junk mail, a bill for electricity, some catalogues, but at the bottom is a large white envelope. There was a Palmetto return address but no name and it was addressed to Jean. Curious, she beelined for the boys' room.

They were both in there. Jeremy was afraid to leave Jean alone after what had happened with Grayson. That was only further complicated by Grayson's second suicide attempt. This time he'd succeeded and it had sent Lucas into a spiral. Jean had barely reacted, which only served to concern herself, Laila, and Jeremy even more. 

"You got a package, Jean. Looks like it's from Palmetto," she said, handing the package to Jean. He took it tentatively, like he was scared to find what was inside it. Cat hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should stay or let him open it in peace. She decided that if he wanted to open it alone, he could set it aside. Instead, he carefully lifted the tape that was sealing the envelope closed.

He waited a moment before he slid the contents out on the bed. It was a pile of photographs.

"Wait, is that you?" she asked as she caught sight of a familiar scowling boy about ten years old. It was strange seeing him without his 3 tattoo. Jean didn't answer but instead gently reached his finger out to touch the little girl next to him in the photo.

"She was so young," he whispered. Jeremy had moved over to Jean's bed as well.

"Do you want to look at them alone?" he asked.

Jean hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

"Stay," he said, almost too quiet to hear. Jeremy sat down next to him and Cat sat on the other side.

"Who is the girl?" Jeremy asked. 

"Elodie," Jean said. "She was my little sister."

Cat felt her blood run cold as she realized what Jean was saying. Neither she nor Jeremy said anything as Jean slowly flipped through the small pile of photographs. Each one was of him and Elodie. In some, he was holding her hand or playing with her. In one, he was glaring at the camera and holding her protectively against himself. In the last one, Elodie was crying and Jean looked angry. He was hugging the girl. It was the oldest he looked out of all the photos. Cat didn't say anything when she saw a tear slip off of Jean's nose and splash onto his arm. She leaned her head against him comfortingly.

As Jean set the last photo aside, Cat saw there was a note underneath it. In messy handwriting was scrawled a short message:

You're worth just as much as she was -N

ao3 link if you want to save it

[fastandcarlos]

Home For The Summer : ̗̀➛ Max Verstappen

summary: travelling around the world with max is one of your favourite things to do, however none of it compares to home. even though you can't afford to make it there, someone else might just

Your eyes were sceptical as soon as Max walked into your office, a smile of mischief on his face that captured your attention. He loitered around the room, with his hands behind his back, very obviously letting you know that he was hiding something from you behind your back. 

Max took a seat just beside you, looking over your desk to see what it was that you were doing, with your books open once again swatting up on some last-minute revision before Max’s summer break started. 

He was struggling to contain himself beside you, he was beyond excited as his hands came from behind his back, resting in his lap with a white envelope being held tightly in his hands. 

“I’ve got something for you,” Max proudly informed you. 

Your eyes narrowed down on his hands, “what’s going on?” You questioned, becoming increasingly concerned about what mayhem Max was causing. 

Max’s smile grew wider and wider, bouncing on his toes. “If there was one place in the world you could go during the summer break, where do you think you’d go?” Max asked you, only making you more intrigued as to what was going on. 

“That’s an easy question,” you chuckled in reply to him, “the only place that I’d ever want to go is home, it’s been ages since I last got to visit.” 

Despite all the travelling that you did, home was a destination you very rarely visited. With your studies still ongoing you were scraping the bottom of the barrel for any money that you could find, refusing any of Max’s help whenever he offered it to you. Unfortunately for you though, flights were expensive, and you were going to have to work a lot harder in order to raise the funds to get yourself there. 

“I mean, I’d be happy anywhere if it meant time with you,” you corrected. 

“But home is the spot,” Max replied, knowing exactly what you wanted, despite how nice you wanted to sound with your second response. 

Your head slowly nodded as Max held his hand out to you, encouraging you to take the envelope from his hold. It was sealed tightly shut, leaving you incredibly interested as to what Max had up his sleeve. 

“I got you a little something, a little treat for the summer,” Max told you as your finger slid underneath the tear of the envelope, ripping it open so that you could reach inside. 

You pulled out a piece of folded paper, unfolding it and watching a ticket fall into your lap. You picked it up and twirled it around, looking straight at Max with furrowed brows as you tried to work out what exactly he was giving you a ticket for. 

“Read it,” Max whispered, watching as your eyes scanned it over to try and figure things out for yourself. 

“Where are we flying too?” 

Max chuckled as you continued to scan it, letting go of a gasp as you finally read the details of the ticket. “I thought that might be a destination that you’d be interested in visiting.” 

“Is this for real? You’re not playing a joke on me, right?” 

“No, I’d never do anything like that to you love.” 

Your fingertips brushed over the departure and arrival, struggling to let it sink in. You were off out of Nice in a couple of days, arriving in your favourite place in the world just a few hours later. Max’s smile was wide as he watched the realisation hit you, Max had given you the chance to finally get yourself home. 

You carefully placed the ticket down before glancing across at Max in disbelief. “You’ve supported me so much after the past four months, I wanted to do something to say thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” 

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, “this is huge Max, the flights to get home aren’t cheap.” 

The money didn’t matter to him, he’d would’ve paid everything that he had and it would have been worth it for the smile on your face. There was no price Max could put on the amount of comfort he felt from having you there cheering him on time and time again. 

“It’s yours, and there’s another one too, so you can pick someone to take with you,” he teased. 

Your eyes rolled as he innocently shrugged back at you. “Obviously I’m going to take you with me, there’s no one else I want to take home other than you.” 

“I didn’t want to assume,” Max grinned as you shuffled across and sat yourself down in Max’s lap. “These are a thank you from me, because without you I wouldn’t be having such a successful season.” 

“I do all that because I love you,” you reminded him, “not because I expect any of this from you.” 

“I know you do.” 

Your head was still shaking in disbelief, finding yourself getting excited every time you thought about home. The people you could see, the places you could go, all the things that you had missed for so long. 

“Does everyone back at home know that we’re visiting?” You asked Max, squealing loudly when his head shook, keen to surprise them like he had done you. 

He’d seen enough videos online of reunions that he wanted you to have one of your own. He’d listened to many of your phone calls with your family and heard just how much they missed you time and time again, desperate to do something about it. 

“I take it that as surprises go, this is a pretty good one then?” 

Your head nodded back at Max straight away. “It’s beyond good, I could never have imagined that I’d receive such an amazing surprise.” 

“I should probably leave you to study as you won’t be able to take all of that back home with you.” 

You remained still as Max tried to stand, deciding that studying could wait for another day. All you wanted to do was shower Max and show him how thankful you were, with as much excitement as you had, you knew that you would never be able to concentrate anymore anyway. 

Max had a feeling you’d stay in his lap anyway, savouring the feeling of your hold around him and the sensation of your lips pressing several kisses against his cheek to let Max know just how thankful you were. 

“I can’t wait to show you my home,” you whispered against his cheek. 

Max hummed in response, “I can’t wait to see all of the amazing places you grew up, all those stories you’ve told me and I’ll finally get to see those spots.” 

“I’m finally going home.” 

“Yes you are,” Max grinned, the disbelief still clear in your voice. “And I promise that I’m going to make sure that you have the best time at home too.” 

Your smile was wide back at Max, “the fact that I’m getting to go home with you already makes it the best trip ever.” 

“I’m glad you’re excited,” Max mused, “I love you, you know that right?” 

“I do, and I love you too.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

[hoshifighting]

seungcheol as a sugar baby!

— WARNINGS: sugar mommy x sugar baby relationship, smut, semi-public sex, elevator sex, fingering while driving (don't do it), office sex, hesitant cheol. — (Seventeen as Sugar Baby's Series)

it started with a laughable idea—a ceo and a sugar baby. who would’ve thought? but you saw something in seungcheol, beyond that stubborn pride of his, beyond the way his jaw clenched every time you handed over those thick stacks of cash. he hated it, you knew. it burned him inside to take your money, but he needed it, and more importantly, he wanted to succeed on his own.

“i don’t need you to do this, y/n,” he’d grumble, fingers brushing yours as you slid the envelope across the table. his voice was always a blend of annoyance and gratitude, as if saying thank you would taste like sand in his mouth.

“shut up and take it,” you’d say, rolling your eyes, hiding the way your heart picked up speed whenever his fingers lingered on yours just a little too long. “it’s an investment, remember? you’re gonna make it big, and then you’ll pay me back with interest.”

he never knew that you were already invested, not just in his company but in him. you’d been silently funding those little bursts of success he’d had—the ones he’d been so damn proud of. “i got another client today,” he’d say with that boyish grin, chest puffed out like he was on top of the world. it made you happy to see him so excited, even if the real reason for his sudden growth was because of you.

he wasn’t stupid, though. he’d show up at your place, dressed in clothes that you knew cost him a small fortune, and bring you gifts that screamed of desperation to impress. “i got you something,” he’d say, almost shyly, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d like it or not. and of course, you’d always smile and take whatever it was—a designer bag, an expensive watch, anything to make him feel better about taking your money.

“you know you don’t have to do this, cheol,” you’d tell him, pulling him close, your fingers trailing down his chest. “i just need you.”

he’d laugh, shaking his head like you were talking nonsense. “can’t let you spoil me without giving something back,” he’d mutter, lips brushing against your neck, making you shiver.

the day he showed up with a fluffy white puppy, though, that was when you knew it had all gone to hell. you took one look at that tiny, trembling thing in his arms, and your heart fucking melted.

“you serious?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, even as the puppy wiggled its way into your arms.

“you like it?” he asked, and there was something in his eyes, something soft and vulnerable that you hadn’t seen before. “thought you could use some company when i’m not around.”

you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face, couldn’t stop the way your chest tightened with something warm and dangerous. “it’s perfect, cheol,” you whispered, your eyes locking with his.

that was it. you were gone. totally fucking in love with him. and the crazy part? he felt the same way.

“you know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you, “this thing between us…it’s not just about the money anymore.”

“no shit,” you shot back, your tone teasing, but your heart was pounding. “you think i’m in this just to throw cash at you?”

he laughed, the sound rich and deep, and it made you weak. “nah, i know you better than that.”

seungcheol wasn’t just playing the part anymore; he really knew you. it showed in the way he’d show up at your office whenever you were in one of those moods—pissed off and ready to tear someone a new one. you’d barely have time to close your laptop before he’d be there, locking the door behind him with that smirk on his face.

“you know what you need?” he’d say, already undoing the buttons of your blouse as he walked over to your desk, that swagger in his step making your breath hitch.

“cheol, i’ve got work—” you’d start, but it was a weak protest, and you both knew it. the moment his hands were on you, all coherent thoughts went out the window. he’d push you against your glass table, cool surface pressing into your bare tits as he yanked up your skirt.

“let me handle this,” he’d whisper in your ear, and that was it. you were done for. his fingers would find your core, already slick and ready, and the way he’d fuck you right there, leaving imprints of your heated body on the cold glass, would make you forget why you were angry in the first place.

and of course, he’d clean up after. every trace of your reckless encounter wiped away like it never happened, leaving you to pull yourself together and face the world like the unshakeable ceo everyone believed you to be.

but it didn’t stop there. the way he took care of you was relentless, even when you were driving home. he’d slip his hand between your thighs, fingers finding their way under your skirt, teasing you, pushing you to the edge. the car would swerve slightly as he played with you, and he’d chuckle, leaning over to take the wheel when your body shuddered with release. “focus on driving,” he’d tease, but the way his fingers stayed inside you, lazy and possessive, told you he loved watching you lose control.

and then there were the nights he’d show up at your place unannounced. he’d wait until you were on a call, talking business, before pulling you into his lap, lifting your hips just enough to slide his cock inside you, slow and deliberate. he loved testing your resolve, seeing how long you could keep a straight face while he fucked you slowly, making you squirm on top of him, trying to keep your voice steady.

sometimes, he’d wake you up in the middle of the night, slipping into bed beside you, his hands already working you open, kissing your neck, your back, until you were moaning into the pillow. “needed you,” he’d whisper, voice husky and laced with sleep, but you knew that wasn’t the whole truth. he needed you, yes, but you needed him just as much.

he even had a habit of pulling you into the private elevator in your building, pressing the emergency stop button just to have you to himself for a few more minutes. you’d be pinned against the mirrored walls, his hands all over you, mouth on yours, devouring every moan that slipped out. the ride would resume as if nothing had happened, but the way your clothes were a little more rumpled, the way your lips were a little more swollen, would always be a reminder of just how far gone you both were.

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[natalievoncatte]

It wasn’t Kara that destroyed her.

In her secret heart, Lena craved that. She wanted Kara to give back everything Lena had thrown at her. Defeat her. Crush her. Cast her down and treat her like a villain. After all, why had Kara lied? Conspired? Tricked her and manipulated her? Why do all that if she wasn’t a villain?

In her quietest moments with Myriad in her hands or staring at the twisted visage of an alien murderer, a quiet voice from deep within her whispered the truth she could never let herself feel:

This is what you are. It’s in the blood.

If Kara would just treat her like a villain, it would all make sense. There would be no more nagging doubts, no more questions, no more hateful longing. Lena has done everything she could to carve it out of her chest, but it gave her no relief, only the raw throbbing pain of a ragged wound that wouldn’t close.

Then she had been at L-Corp when Jess ran into her office in a blind panic, shouting that she had to turn the television on now, that something terrible had happened.

Lena stared at her dumbly because she already knew. She could feel it somehow, a wash of graveyard chill that enveloped her from nowhere and froze the rotten lump where her heart had been. Her hand shook as she lifted the remote and turned on the screen.

The news chyron stuck her like a hammer blow to the chest and her pathetic excuse for a last meal -a cold half of a Big Belly burger she’d eaten the night before- leapt into her throat, trying to escape.

Supergirl Dead?

They hadn’t called her, and why would they? Why seek her help after all she’d done?

Lena pushed to her feet, almost tumbling to the floor in the process. The news was repeating a ten-second clip, showing a red-white beam slicing through the midday air, so bright that it distorted the image as it struck a tiny blue and red blur and knocked her out of the sky as if a giant hand had swatted her to the ground.

She was moving before she realized she’d taken a step.

“Cancel all my meetings,” Lena snapped.

“But the Japanese investors,” Jess said, lamely.

“Fuck the Japanese investors, cancel all my meetings!”

She pushed past Jess and stormed to her private elevator, twisting the key so hard it nearly snapped. She paced the full two minutes it took to to descend to the garage. There would be no summoning a driver. She ran barefoot across the parking garage floor to the Bugatti and threw herself inside.

When she arrived at the DEO, there was chaos. It took a moment before anyone noticed a barefoot, red-eyed Lena Luthor running into the lobby in a blind panic. When they did notice, she was immediately tackled by two of their goons and handcuffs slammed on her wrists.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “I’m here to help!”

“Shut up,” the agent growled.

They sent jolts of pain up her arms as they took her in. She thought they were going to take the handcuffs off, but instead they cuffed one hand to a chain locked to a ring in the middle of a concrete table in an interrogation room.

“What the hell?” Lena screamed. “I’m here to help her!”

The door slammed heavily shit and Lena raged, yanking at the handcuffs in a futile gesture that only left her wrist raw. She thought about trying to pick them, but at this rate they might shoot her if she looked to escape. Her stomach sank and she began to spiral.

She’s dead. She’s dead and they’re going to blame me.

Hot tears burned in her eyes and she willed them not to fall, holding them back with all her might, but it was inevitable.

Finally, after what felt like half a day, Alex walked in. Lena knew at once that something terrible had happened. Kara’s sister looked like hell, with dark circles under her eyes and a pained look. She regarded Lena as if she were some ugly thing that crawled out of a crack in the foundations.

“What are you doing here?” said Alex.

“I told your thugs, I’m here to help. You’re wasting time, I need to see her now.”

“Why,” Alex said, “why on God’s green earth would I let you anywhere near her?”

Lena blinked. “At least tell me what’s wrong. I might be able to…”

“You locked her in a kryptonite cage. You talked her into breaching her morals to carry out your sick schemes. You aimed a kryptonite cannon at her face.”

“I…”

“You what? You didn’t mean it?”

“Alex,” Lena began.

“Shut up. You had me fooled, Luthor. Kara always believed in you. I didn’t. I tried to convince her to be as afraid of her as I was. I just want to know, why now? She left you alone like you wanted. You’ve been quiet. Kara insisted we give you a chance and let you be, a choice I now deeply regret. So why now? What did she do to deserve this?”

The cold fury radiating from Alex choked Lena up for a moment. Her mouth worked silently.

“You think I did this?”

“Why not? You’ve hurt her twice already.”

“I didn’t. I would never. I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted to…”

“To what?”

Lena swallowed hard, speaking before thinking.

“I wanted her to feel what I was feeling.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed and her expression went dark and hard, something vicious twisting her lips. Her hand twitched towards the bulky alien gun on her hip.

With her other hand, she pulled out a phone and turned it to Lena.

Lena’s stomach flipped when she saw Lex’s grinning face.

“I hope you enjoy your new present,” he said into the camera. “A Kryptonite particle beam enhanced with a high-powered laser tuned to a wavelength that will instantly negate her powers.”

Lex’s grin widened.

“Lena sends her regards.”

Lena blinked a few times. She wanted to thrash, yank her chain, accuse, scream.

“That’s impossible.”

“Why, because you wouldn’t?”

“I killed him,” Lena breathed.

“What?”

“Lex. Lex is dead. I killed him. I killed him!” she was almost hysterical. “I put two shots in his chest and one in his head like he taught me himself. After he escaped last time I killed him.”

Alex’s expression faltered.

“You think I’ll believe that?” she said, but sounded unsure.

“When I was twelve and Lex was away at school, Lillian got drunk and threatened me. I was scared to death she meant it. Lex gave me our father’s gun and taught me to shoot.” A brief, weak smile cursed her lips. “I didn’t realize until a lot later how fucked up that is, but it’s one of my favorite memories of him.”

“You’re telling me you killed him,” said Alex. “After you went behind our backs and used the Hardin-El to heal his ‘cancer.’”

“He was my brother.”

“And you say you killed him.”

Lena looked down, away from her. Tears fell on the table with a soft patter and she choked back a hitching sob.

“She became his new fixation. He was never going to stop. I did what I had to do.”

Alex went silent. Her hand hung by her hip and part of Lena hoped she’d make it fast, the same part that flinched when Alex moved.

The key twisted in the lock and the cuffs ratcheted open. Alex gave her arm a sharp tug. “Get up.”

Lena wobbled to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up and walk.”

Alex led her to the elevator, and down a corridor. Kara’s frail form lay behind a layer of plastic curtains, bathed in brilliant light from sunlamps.

“If she comes around,” Alex said, her voice flat. “You can never tell her. She’ll blame herself.”

Alex parted the curtains and led Lena inside. Kara lay n a stretcher with a layer of bandages wound around her bare torso, looking pale and drawn. Her skin shone with a cold sweat and there were dark circles around her eyes. She lay in a nest of wires and was on oxygen.

“My God,” Lena whispered.

“It was like he said. Some kind of particle beam combined with the laser. It’s like she was impaled through the chest with superheated Kryptonite. If Jon hadn’t caught her, the impact would have been fatal.”

Alex rattled it all off with a cold, medical detachment, except for the tension creaking in around the edges of her voice and the way her shoulder hitched.

“You’ve hurt her so much,” Alex whispered. “I don’t think I’m ever going to fully trust you again. But for the love of God, if you can fix her then fix her.”

“I will,” Lena said, the CEO creeping back into her voice. “I’ll need materials from my lab. I’ll give a Brainy a list. I’m not leaving her.”

Lena did not sleep for another thirty-six hours. She worked tirelessly alongside Brainy, who regarded her curiously as she hunched over lab benches and uploaded instructions to nanites.

Finally she said, “what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He turned back to his own task without answering her.

An hour later, Alex stormed in.

“She’s getting worse. Whatever you’re doing, you have to hurry.”

Brainy turned from his lab bench and took Alex’s arm. He led her into the hall and they had a clipped, quiet conversation that Lena could not hear, except for Alex’s startled cry of “WHAT?”

It didn’t matter, she was finished. She took the devil in her hands and rushed through the door.

“Let’s go, we can’t waste anymore time.”

Alex openly gaped at her, then looked at Brainy. The expression of utter shock on her face arrested Lena in her tracks.

“What?”

“I,” Alex began, but Brainy grabbed her arm and squeezed hard.

“Let’s go,” said Alex.

Lena swept into the lab carrying the module in her hands as if it were made of precious gold.

“Turn off the sunlamps,” Lena ordered the technicians. “If the poisoning progresses, they’ll kill her faster than they heal her.”

Once they were off, Lena placed the device on Kara’s chest and stepped back.

Its sensors detected the Kryptonite and the system deployed. The pod unfolded like a delicate composite flower, and a wave of nanobots poured over Kara’s skin, instantly devouring and reprogramming the nanites in the wreckage of her suit while consuming the linens and bandages to grant the system more mass.

The entire process unfolded in seconds. It ensconced her in a protective layer and expanded, rapidly building an entire protective pod around her body. Dozens of tiny needles inserted dozens of cannulas into her arms and legs and began pumping her full of nanites, sending them storming through her bloodstream.

Lena bit her lip: there was nothing to do now except watch as the system’s AI administered rapid pulses of red and yellow light to balance the speed of her healing as the nanites in her bloodstream identified irradiated particles and consumed them, using them to make more of themselves.

She sat down. She knew this would take hours.

It ended up taking three days.

Lena slept in the side chair by the bed until someone brought her an uncomfortable recliner. Alex came in and out, as did Brainy and Nia, all of them looking at her oddly.

Finally the pod made a pleasant tone and unfolded. Kara lay on her side within, the nanites having formed a new suit top around her to preserve her modesty. She still wasn’t awake, but she was breathing normally and looked for all the world like her usual beautiful self. Lena was alone with her when it happened, and was glad of it. No one saw her brush the loose strands of gold from her face, and no one saw her rest her palm on Kara’s warm cheek.

They all piled on eventually.

Kara did not wake up.

“Why isn’t she coming around?” Alex demanded. “Why doesn’t she wake up?”

“She’s in a Kryptonian healing trance,” said Brainy. “It’s part of the healing process. She will wake when she is ready.”

“When the hell will that be?”

“We should give Lena the room.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me,” Brainy said firmly.

Lean was as bewildered as Alex. What was she supposed to do?

When they were gone, she caught herself reflected in the monitors around the bed. She looked like shit, with barely one day’s sleep in four. As haggard as she looked, she didn’t care.

What the hell? It couldn’t hurt.

Lena bent over the bed, leaning on one hand, and took Kara’s in the other.

“I don’t know if you’re in there, but if you can hear me, it’s safe now. You can wake up. We’re all here for you. I’m here.”

It might have been the exhaustion, or the desperation, or the sorrow that filled her to bursting like a molten pain, but something happened and Lena let slip something that she’d held so tight she was sure her heart had long since crushed it.

“I love you, Kara. You don’t have to love me back. You don’t even have to like me. But I need you in the world. I need you. I need you, not Supergirl. I need Kara. I need my Kara. Please, if you’re in there at all,”

Kara’s eyes fluttered open. “Lena?”

“I’m here.”

Kara blinked a few times, and her hand closed gently around Lena’s.

“I had a bad dream,” she said. “It hurt so much, it felt like my heart was ripped out and I was in a dark place, and then I heard your voice leading me home.”

Lena grinned in spite of herself, tears stinging her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Kara. For everything.”

“Hush,” Kara whispered, her angelic voice full of quiet wisdom. “We can do that later. You’re tired. Lay down.”

Lena hesitated for a bare moment and then kicked off her shoes before climbing on next to her. Once she was lying down, sleep came crashing down on her like an avalanche as Kara threw an arm over her and tucked in close.

As she drifted off, Lena heard Alex, somewhere in the hall, snap, “Brainy, you knew this entire time?!”

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[lovelucilfer]

"Would you look at that..." Soshiro snickers from above, his tongue darting from between his lips to wet them as he gazes down at you, his pupils blown wide, "You're a natural, aren't ya?"

You whimper at his praise, humiliating as it is, and he feels the muffled sound of it send a vibration up the length of his cock that's deep in your throat. His hand cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking along the column of sensitive skin as you sputter and drool with your lips wrapped around him. While the other gently cradles the back of your head as Soshiro stuffs himself further into your mouth — the very thing that had landed you here on your knees in the first place.

"Imagine what your fellow officers would think if they could see you right now, huh?" he rasps, his breathing slightly ragged, "Taking me like such a good girl after all that talkin' back..."

A low hum of approval follows the teasing emphasis of his words, causing your cheeks to blaze with embarrassment at how much you like it. There's mirth in Soshiro's eyes. But the way that he grins at you, so unabashedly, as he watches you flush only makes even more heat pervade throughout your body. Though this time it comes in the form of arousal pooling hotly between your thighs as he continues to thrust forward lazily. You try to squeeze them together discreetly, a feeble attempt to suppress the growing need with even a little bit of friction, but he's too perceptive. He catches the movement immediately.

"You love this, don't ya? Letting your vice-captain use your pretty mouth like this?" Soshiro provokes, smiling wickedly as he pants, his fingers curling into your hair with a soft tug to tilt your head to force your gaze on him, "Say it."

You nearly choke in response to his compliment, spit bubbling out and dripping down his shaft and your chin as his question leaves your aching pussy clenching around nothing. Soshiro chuckles breathily at the sight, amusement sparking in his eyes. Needing air, your inhale causes you to slurp lewdly before he's pulling his hips back with a hiss and a hand gripped firmly at the base of his length. He taps the sticky tip of his cock against your tongue, smearing the mess of your saliva and his precum along your bottom lip, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as he waits expectantly.

"S-Sir... Soshiro—" you gasp softly, quick to correct yourself as you blink up at him, hoping for some respite as you nod imperceptibly, "You know I do..." comes your flustered admission after a pause, shame mixing with the desire that simmers white-hot in your gut.

Soshiro grins, satisfied by your compliance and the way that your cheeks redden under his attention. He gives his cock a few languid pumps with his fist, his grip tightening slightly in your hair before guiding it back into your mouth. Your eyes well up as he works it in again, a needy whine escaping your throat as he pushes until the head nudges against the back of it, making him groan in pleasure as the wet heat envelopes him once more. But Soshiro only takes delight in it.

"Oh, don't cry, sweetheart," he taunts with a click of his tongue, smirking as he uses his thumb to brush a stray tear from rolling down your cheek, "This is nothin'. Much better than a couple hundred push-ups, don't ya think?"

[animasola86]

🎃 A NIGHT TO REMEMBER

misc!monsters x f!reader 🔥 words: 1.5k

You are invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, promising a night full of surprises. Are you ready for this adventure?

GENERAL WARNINGS/SPOILERS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Sex with strangers! Knife kink! Slimes and tentacles! Werewolves! Vampires! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: Welcome to this CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! Please enjoy this "prologue" that will lead you into a night you won't forget! After setting the scene, you will have three choices as to what happens next! (You can also read these chapters in succession, whatever you like best!)

Staring up at the large house, you realize you have no idea where you are. You've lived here your whole life and yet you've never seen this particular house. You'd clearly remember it. It's too fancy not to notice. Old. Dark woods and black metal elements. Gothic almost. Definitely not your typical house, not around these parts.

You'd figured it might just be a themed hotel that had its grand opening only recently, hence why you've never heard of it before. The invitation came a few days ago, and quite frankly, at the best time possible. You didn't have plans for Halloween, and you were not in the mood to open your door to random kids that evening either, so being called away onto the countryside, to this fancy place even, and all of it for free? Hell yeah.

Your Uber driver had been a little confused by the address, but somehow still found the hidden place. And now you look upon the large entrance doors, and despite being alone, you are intrigued. This is an adventure, a step away from your boring day-to-day life. Sure it was all a little ominous, with this mysterious invitation and all, but you figured you've been randomly selected maybe, perhaps won something for the first time in your life? You should probably be more suspicious, but then again, why not?

You are young, this is Halloween, why not live a little, right?

Fumbling the sturdy envelope out of your purse and the thick paper out of its sheath, you take another glance at the printed words:

Welcome to a night you'll never forget! Come and enjoy an evening full of surprises! You are invited to party, drink and eat like you've never had before! Your adventure awaits! Stay till the morning breaks, if you can. Come in costume. Stay for free. Happy Halloween!

You chose to dress like Little Red Riding Hood, mainly because you had the short skirt, the blouse and the red cape from your last costume party, and you couldn't be bothered to buy a new one. Putting your hair into braided pigtails added to the innocence you tried to portray, and who knows, maybe you'll find a nice guy in a wolf costume to match your freak? You don't expect much, but that's usually the best thing to do anyway. It can only get better then.

Yet when you enter the house, its windows lit up by bright colorful lights, the low bass of the music making the floorboards vibrate, you realize this might just be your typical Halloween party. From the lobby you can take a look into the adjacent rooms, fancy sitting rooms with fireplaces, already filled to the brim with people in costumes.

You see a group of masked serial killers, from Ghostface to Michael Myers, there's even Freddy Krueger and the guy in the hockey mask whose name you always forget. The sight of them would normally scare you, but these guys stand around a beer pong table, and whenever they throw the ball into a cup, they lift their masks and expose their rather normal looking faces to drink it, acting like the frat boys they probably are.

In another corner you see a bunch of girls, cheerleaders, you'd say, all dressed very skimpy, but you are indoors (and you are dressed a little similar also, so you shouldn't judge), but seeing a sexy ladybug next to a sexy office lady, laughing with a sexy cow girl (as in cow girl, literally, with black and white spots and very distinctive udders), it does look a little ridiculous. Well, at least they all found their crowd.

As you turn your head to look around more, walking up to the large staircase leading to the upper floors, you are suddenly startled by a waitress carrying a tray with little shot glasses filled with a green liquid. “Oh,” you make, as you take a step back to not walk into her.

She smiles at you, her eyes sparkling under the light of the large chandelier above you, holding out the tray. “Welcome to the mansion!” she tells you. “Please, have a complimentary drink!”

You look at the shots and hesitate. Looks like jello shots. Vodka and gelatin never sounded appealing to you, but you told yourself to enjoy the night, let loose for once, so you grab one small glass and give the waitress a nod. She quickly hurries off again, focusing on another group of people filtering into the house. Looking around, you try not to dwell too much on the drink you slowly put to your lips. There's a strangely earthy smell to it. Ugh, probably some herbal liqueur to add to the green coloring of it.

Inhaling deeply, you tilt your head back and gulp down the shot in one go, feeling it slide down your throat, as slimy and unpleasant as you would have expected. But it does give you a little buzz, and that's a start, isn't it? Clearing your throat, you look around for the waitress or a place to discard your empty shot glass, and suddenly she's back, picking the glass out of your hand, gently nudging you further into the house.

As you enter one of the sitting rooms, you find yourself among more groups of people, laughing and chatting and having fun, their costumes ranging from vastly unimaginative (one guy just wears a white T-shirt that says This is my costume) to extremely elaborate and fancy. Leave it to the Goths to really celebrate this day. You admire their beautiful gowns and make-up a little longer as you feel your stomach churning slightly. You should have eaten more before you came here, you realize, but luckily you then come across a large banquet table filled with food and drinks.

There's a big bowl of chips, but there are also a couple of three-tiered platters filled with little canapés, and you decide to try the more fancy stuff first. As you put various things on your napkin (things you've never seen before and couldn't possibly name), you look around the nicely decorated rooms. They do look old and out of a different time period, even the furniture looks as vintage as it can get. There's a lot of dark woods and wallpapers with intricate designs, also countless ancient looking paintings of landscapes and people in period clothing, and to make it look really halloweeny the whole space is plastered in fake-looking cobwebs, with plastic spiders and bats hanging from the ceiling and walls.

The lighting is different in each room, from bright green to dark red, flowery pink and icy blue. You admire the work that went into decorating the place like this. You've certainly never been to a party like this before. It looks perfect. The food is good, the music isn't too loud or obnoxious and fits the vibe pretty good (you recognize a few horror film soundtracks), it seems like a good Halloween party. You don't regret coming here at all, though the social aspect still feels a little daunting. All these people stand in groups, laughing together, and you seem to be the only one who came alone.

You don't normally mind it that much, being alone, most of your friends had other plans or were too busy to indulge in some childish little party. It sucks to be in that age group where half of your acquaintances try to be the adults they supposedly are now, while the other half can't let go of their youth, but even those thought this party seemed lame, and as you are right in the middle, unsure where you fit, you decided to just go alone, hoping you'd meet someone here.

Maybe a bit more alcohol will help you get closer to the other guests. Shoving something baked into your mouth, you turn to the drinks. A bowl of fruit punch calls your name, but then you see the beer cans and grab one of those instead. You already drank that ominous jello shot, you shouldn't risk whatever was swimming inside that punch bowl. Cracking open the can, you take a swig, feeling the refreshing beverage rush down your esophagus, but as soon as it fills your stomach, another churn goes through you. Then a cramp.

Oh dear. Leave it to your sensitive guts to ruin a good night out. Putting down the drink and food, you press a hand to your belly and turn back, looking around for the bathroom you clearly need now. You push past people dancing to the music or standing in clusters, laughing and chatting, you even pass the occasional love or horn dog unable to hide their desires as they make out right there in the middle of the room, until you find a long hallway. You'd expect a long line in front of the bathroom as is usually the case at these parties, but you are the only one in the hallway.

It's lined with intricate wooden doors, left and right, and one at the end. No sign or anything to indicate what's behind them. Feeling another cramp, you let out a groan and stare from door to door.

Where to go?

You now have these choices:

Do you...

...reach for the door closest to you?

...go through the door a few feet on your right?

...walk all the way to the last door that seems to lead outside?

ALL PARTS: 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

End notes: By the way, justice for our boy Jason Voorhees, of course I remember his name, poor reader just isn't focused on serial killers that much. Or is she? :3

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