#Deception Invitation to Darkness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wonfie · 17 days ago

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NOT YOURS !

‎ ꗃ 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅

𝑓─── fwb!jungwon ㅈ f!rea ✶ smut ⏜ bartender!reader barowner!jungwon rough sex petnames degradation jealousy use of handcuffs, blindfold fwb2??? ✿ 𝐜𝓲𝐞𝓁 ｡

消息 ⦂ finally here.. (i hate it) not worth the wait imo this was a disappointment 💔 8.5k words of pure ASS writing

REBLOG4 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 𓏼 ◜ ᴗ ◝ 𓏼

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 : ACT LIKE MINE

THE MUSIC thrums through the floor, a relentless pulse that shakes the air and sinks into your bones. the club is a living, breathing beast, its veins made of neon, its heartbeat the bassline that drowns out thought. strobe lights cut through the haze like blades, catching sweat-slick skin and glinting off half-empty glasses. your dress—black, tight, barely there—clings to every curve, the hem riding high enough to turn heads, to invite stares. you move through the crowd with purpose, hips swaying to the rhythm, each step a deliberate invitation. you’re not here to blend in. you’re here to be seen, to be wanted, to feel the weight of eyes on you like a second skin.

you sense him before you see him. jungwon. not hovering, not chasing, but there—always there. his presence is a tether, a pull you can’t ignore. from the shadowed booth across the room, his gaze locks onto you, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the chaos of bodies and lights. his arms are crossed, one leg stretched out, his posture deceptively relaxed, like he owns the place. because he does. his lips are pressed thin, his expression unreadable, but those eyes—dark, hungry, burning with a cold fire—tell you everything. he’s watching, waiting, and you know he’s not going to move until you make him.

the dance floor is a crush of bodies, a sea of heat and motion, but you carve out your space in the center, your drink in hand, condensation slick against your fingers. sweat beads on your skin, catching the light as you move, your body swaying in time with the relentless beat. jungwon stays back, leaning against the wall now, talking to someone—a friend, a business associate, it doesn’t matter. his eyes never leave you. you feel them like a touch, like a hand sliding down your spine, and it makes your breath catch, your chest tighten with something you don’t want to name.

you’re playing a game. you both are. he’s the master, the one who sets the rules, but tonight, you’re rewriting them. you lean into the stranger beside you—dark shirt, flashy watch glinting under the lights, the faint scent of sweet liquor clinging to him. you don’t care about his name or his smile, but you let him think you do. you laugh at his half-heard jokes, tilt your head back, let your lips graze the rim of your glass in a way you know jungwon hates. it’s a performance, every movement a silent dare, a challenge thrown across the room. you want him to see. you want him to react.

the stranger’s hand brushes your arm as he hands you another drink, and you let it linger, let his fingers graze your skin just a second too long. you feel jungwon’s gaze sharpen, feel the air shift as his patience frays. you don’t look at him—not yet. you sip your drink, slow and deliberate, letting the cold liquid slide down your throat while your body moves to the music, hips rolling, hair falling over your shoulders. the stranger says something, leans closer, and you smile, all teeth and no warmth, because this isn’t about him. it’s about the man watching you, the one whose control you’re testing, whose limits you’re pushing.

then you feel it—his hand on your wrist, firm but not painful, a quiet command that stops you cold. you turn, meeting jungwon’s eyes, and they’re darker than the club’s shadows, burning with something that makes your pulse race. “we’re leaving,” he says, voice low, clipped, leaving no room for argument.

“but we just—” you start, voice teasing, testing him one last time.

“now.” his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

you glance at the stranger, who’s watching with a mix of amusement and awkwardness, and you flash him a quick, mocking wave. “boyfriend,” you say, your smile sharp and wicked, before letting jungwon pull you through the crowd.

outside, the night air is a shock against your flushed skin, the low cut of your dress leaving you exposed to the bite of the cold. you wrap your arms around yourself, heels clicking against the pavement as you trail a few steps behind him. he’s already on his phone, calling the car, his jaw tight, his movements sharp. when the sleek black sedan pulls up, you slide into the back seat beside him, the leather cool against your thighs. he doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead, knee bouncing, body taut with barely restrained energy.

you watch him from the corner of your eye, the city lights streaking across his face in flashes of neon. you want to say something, to break the silence, but the words feel heavy, trapped in your throat. you’re wet already, and you hate how easily he does this to you—how a look, a touch, a single word can unravel you.

“you’re mad,” you say finally, voice soft, testing the waters.

he turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing, unreadable. “mad?” he echoes, the word sharp enough to cut. “no.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, but his lips twitch into a low, bitter laugh before you can press further. “i’m embarrassed,” he says, and the admission catches you off guard.

“embarrassed?” you repeat, surprise flickering through you.

“you looked pathetic,” he says, voice like a blade, precise and vicious. “pressing up on some guy like you didn’t have anyone. like you were begging for it.”

“he wasn’t touching me—” you start, defensive, but he cuts you off, voice dropping lower, darker.

“you wanted him to.” it’s not a question. “don’t lie to me.”

you open your mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. he’s right. you were playing a game, pushing boundaries, and you both know it. his eyes darken, not with anger but with something fiercer—hunger, control, a need coiled tight beneath his skin.

“you wanna act like that?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his voice a dangerous whisper meant only for you. “don’t fucking complain when i treat you like you don’t know how to behave.”

you say nothing. you don’t need to. because he’s right, and because you want whatever comes next.

the car pulls up to his building, and jungwon is out first, slamming the door without a glance back. you follow, heels unsteady on the pavement, your stomach twisting with anticipation. the elevator ride is a study in silence, the air thick with it, your shoulder brushing his just once. he doesn’t react, doesn’t move, his hands loose at his sides, but you know better. you know the calm is a mask, and beneath it, he’s deadly.

the apartment door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

the space is too quiet after the club’s chaos, the city’s hum a faint drone through the thick glass windows. jungwon doesn’t speak, just watches you, his gaze heavy, predatory. you shift in the tight dress, the fabric warm from the night, your bare legs pressing against the cold floor. your wrist still tingles where he grabbed you, the memory sharp, electric.

he steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to nothing, the air charged with unspoken words. his breath is steady, slow, but you can feel the danger in it, the promise of something raw. his finger traces your jaw, light but deliberate, sliding down your neck, sending a shiver through you that feels like it could break you apart.

“you don’t listen, do you?” he murmurs, voice low, calm in a way that makes your knees weak. his hands are on you now, quick and impatient, dragging the dress up over your hips to reveal the thin lace beneath. “you think just ‘cause they’re out there, i won’t fuck the attitude out of you?”

you gasp, heart pounding as the cold air hits your thighs. “won—wait, i—”

you don’t finish. he’s already bending you over the counter, one hand covering your mouth before you can say another word, the other gripping your hip with bruising force. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease—just pushes in, rough, a sharp stretch that steals your breath. you squirm, but he holds you still, his pace relentless, your legs trembling under the onslaught.

it’s not playful. it’s not angry. it’s possessive, primal, like he’s staking a claim. he fucks you like he’s proving something, each thrust deep and unforgiving, but his voice stays low, lips brushing your ear when he leans forward. “be good for me, baby.”

you moan behind his hand, loud, unfiltered, and he tightens his grip, muffling you instantly. “you want them to hear you getting ruined by me?” he hisses, his breath hot against your skin. “you want them to know who fucks you like this?”

your body shakes, your moan turning to a whimper as he slows just enough to let the pressure build, the stretch becoming unbearable, addictive. his teeth graze your neck, nipping just below your ear, and the heat between your thighs pools, your body betraying you as it clenches around him.

he feels it. groans. “fuck,” he breathes, voice raw. “you’re so wet it’s disgusting.”

he pulls out suddenly, and before you can catch your breath, he flips you around, lifting you onto the counter like you’re weightless. your wrists reach for his shoulders, but he catches them, pinning them to your sides, his gaze hard, unyielding. “don’t touch me unless i tell you to.”

you nod, dizzy, drunk on his voice, his presence, the way he looks at you like you’re his to break. “bed,” he says, and you slide off the counter, legs shaky, walking ahead of him, feeling his eyes on you like a predator stalking prey.

you hear the clink of his belt hitting the floor, the soft thud of his jacket following. slow, methodical, deliberate. he’s not rushing—not when he’s like this. every move is calculated, every step heavy with intent. you reach the bedroom, and your eyes flick to the drawer by the bed, the one with the handcuffs, the blindfold, the small black box you’re forbidden to touch without permission. he follows your gaze, and without a word, he pulls it open, setting out what he needs with the precision of a surgeon—cuffs, blindfold, and something else, something you can’t quite see.

“on your knees,” he says.

you drop to the bed, hair spilling over your shoulders, hands trembling as you kneel, waiting. he takes your wrists, locking the cuffs behind your back with a soft click. the metal is cold, biting into your skin—not painful, but a warning, a promise of what’s to come.

he stands back, his breath heavy, and you can feel his eyes on you, taking you in. “look at you,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. you bite your lip, feeling the weight of his gaze, the way it strips you bare.

“do you feel good about what you did tonight?” he asks.

you nod, hesitant, knowing it’s the wrong answer but unable to lie.

his head tilts, eyes narrowing. “you shouldn’t.”

he grabs the blindfold, slipping it over your eyes without warning. the world goes dark, the fabric tight against your face, and your breath stutters. every sound is sharper now—the creak of the bed, his steady breathing, the rustle of his clothes. you hear him move, feel the mattress dip as he kneels in front of you. his knuckles brush your jaw, then your lips, and you flinch, oversensitive, hyperaware.

“open,” he says, pressing two fingers to your mouth.

you part your lips, letting his fingers slide in, your tongue curling around them instinctively. he exhales sharply, a sound that sends a thrill through you, and you suck, slow and deliberate, pulling a soft grunt from him. then he’s gone, fingers pulling away, leaving you empty, wanting.

you whine, soft and needy, and he laughs—low, mocking. “don’t start.”

the bed shifts again, and you know what he’s doing, even without sight. the faint sound of fabric, the subtle rhythm of his hand moving, stroking himself just inches from your face. your lips part, ready, aching for him, and he mutters, “needy little mouth. didn’t get what you wanted at the bar, so now you’re desperate for mine, huh?”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he brushes the tip of his cock against your lips, barely there, just enough to make you chase it. again, and again, teasing, cruel. “open wider,” he says, and you do, letting him thrust in slow, shallow at first, then deeper, his hands holding your face steady as he rocks forward. you gag slightly, throat flexing, but he doesn’t stop, his pace building, relentless, until your throat burns and your lungs ache. spit drips down your chin, tears prick behind the blindfold, but you don’t pull away. this is what you wanted.

he holds you there, nose pressed to his skin, throat full, until you’re trembling, then pulls out with a wet pop. you gasp, chest heaving, throat sore and pulsing. he’s silent for a moment, letting you catch your breath.

then, soft but stern: “face down.”

you move without thinking, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips raised, the cuffs digging into your wrists as you brace yourself. he fucks you like he’s marking territory, each thrust deep, deliberate, his lips brushing your ear with every movement. “mine,” he says, and you don’t argue, because you are.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 : BOLD ASSUMPTION

three months ago, you didn’t know his name. the city was a maze of glass and steel, neon bleeding into the night, and you were just another shadow passing through. you’d come here after a breakup that left you raw, chasing a fresh start in a place where no one knew your failures. the job was simple—bartending at a dive bar downtown, pouring cheap whiskey for tired men, dodging their hands, their leers. it paid the rent, kept you moving, but it didn’t fill the void.

the first time you saw jungwon, he wasn’t like the others. he didn’t flirt or leer or make crude jokes. he sat at the end of the bar, nursing a bourbon, eyes scanning the room like he was waiting for something—or someone. his face was all sharp angles, shadowed and unreadable, but there was an intensity to him, something that made your pulse quicken when his gaze landed on you.

“another?” you’d asked, holding up the bottle.

he nodded, sliding his glass toward you. “make it quick.”

you poured, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “rough night?”

he didn’t answer, just tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. “you new here?” he asked instead.

“couple weeks,” you said, wiping the counter. “you a regular?”

“something like that.” his lips twitched, not quite a smile. “you don’t belong here.”

you bristled, but his tone wasn’t cruel, just certain. “and where do i belong?”

he leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice low. “somewhere people don’t look at you like meat.”

you laughed, sharp and surprised. “bold of you to assume i don’t like it.”

his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. “you don’t.”

you didn’t know why, but you believed him. he saw through you, saw the armor you wore, the cracks beneath. you poured another shot, slid it to him. “on the house,” you said. “for the unsolicited advice.”

he didn’t touch it, just watched you, unblinking. “careful,” he said finally. “this place chews up girls like you.”

he was gone the next night, and the one after that, but when he came back a week later, he sat in the same spot, ordered the same drink, and watched you with that same unnerving focus. you started to notice things—the steadiness of his hands, the way he never slurred, the way people gave him space without being asked. he wasn’t just a drifter. he carried weight, the kind that came with power.

“you own this place or something?” you asked one night, half-joking, as you refilled his glass.

“or something,” he said, that not-quite-smile back.

you learned his name eventually. jungwon. no last name, no explanation. just jungwon. and you learned he wasn’t just a regular—he was the kind of man who could silence a room with a glance, who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

you started staying late, closing up alone, just to see if he’d show. sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, but when he was there, the air felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. you’d talk, or you wouldn’t. he’d watch you wipe down the bar, and you’d feel his eyes like a physical touch. you started wearing tighter shirts, leaning closer when you poured his drink, letting your fingers brush his when you handed it over. testing. teasing. seeing how far you could push before he pushed back.

one night, he stayed until the last customer stumbled out. you were locking up, the bar empty except for the hum of the neon sign outside. he was still there, sitting at the counter, watching you.

“you’re trouble,” he said, voice low, like he was stating a fact.

you turned, leaning against the bar, arms crossed. “you don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“i know enough.” he stood, slow, deliberate, crossing the space between you. he was close now, close enough you could smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re looking for something. and you think you’ll find it here.”

“and what if i do?” you shot back, chin tilted, defiant.

he stepped closer, crowding you against the bar. his hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, light but possessive. “you won’t. not with them.”

“and who’s them?” your voice was steady, but your pulse wasn’t.

“everyone who’s not me.”

you laughed, shaky. “cocky bastard.”

“you have no idea.” his thumb grazed your lower lip, and your breath hitched. “come with me.”

“where?”

“does it matter?”

it didn’t. you followed him out the back door, into the alley where the city’s pulse felt rawer, louder. he didn’t touch you—not yet—but you felt him, like a current under your skin. the car was waiting, black and sleek, and you slid into the passenger seat like you’d done it a hundred times before.

that was the first night. not the last.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 : FRIEND OR FHOE?

jungwon wasn’t your boyfriend. you didn’t call him that, and he didn’t ask you to. but he was something. something that made your heart race, your skin burn, something that made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in years. he was a drug, and you were hooked.

he owned clubs, you learned—not just the dive bar, but others, sleek upscale places where the city’s elite came to lose themselves in music and liquor and secrets. he moved through them like a shadow, always in control, always untouchable. you saw how people looked at him—fear, respect, desire, all tangled together. you saw how women watched him, how men stepped aside when he passed. and you saw how he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

you started going to his clubs, not as a bartender but as his. you’d show up in dresses he bought you, tight and expensive, the kind that made heads turn. he’d watch from across the room, never hovering, never crowding, but always there, his presence pulling you back. you’d dance, drink, flirt with strangers just to see how long it took for him to cross the floor and claim you. it was a game, and you both played it, knowing who’d win.

tonight wasn’t different—at first. you’d picked the dress yourself, black and barely there, knowing it would drive him up the wall. you’d danced with that guy because you could, because you wanted to see how far you could push before jungwon snapped. you wanted the rush of his anger, the heat of his possession. you wanted to feel him.

and now, here you are, blindfolded and cuffed, kneeling on his bed, his voice cutting through the dark like a blade.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 : ARE YOU, THOUGH?

“you think you’re clever,” he says, voice almost a growl. “you think you can play me.”

you shake your head, lips parted, but no words come out. the blindfold sharpens everything—the creak of the bed, the sound of his breath, the brush of his fingers against your skin. you’re hyperaware, every nerve alive, waiting.

he’s close now, the heat of him radiating, the weight of his presence suffocating in the best way. his hand trails down your spine, slow, deliberate, and you arch into it without thinking. he laughs, soft and mocking.

“so eager,” he mutters. “you act like you don’t want this, but your body says different.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, to hold onto some shred of defiance. but it’s hard when his fingers are on you, tracing patterns that make your skin burn, make your thighs clench. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he always does.

“say it,” he says, voice sharp. “say you want me.”

you hesitate, just for a second, just to push him. but then his hand is in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat. you gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“say it.”

“i want you,” you whisper, and it’s true. it’s always been true.

he hums, satisfied, and releases your hair. you feel the bed shift, feel him move away, and you hate it—the sudden absence, the cold where his body was. you strain against the cuffs, the metal biting into your wrists, but you don’t care. you want to touch him, want to pull him back.

“patience,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “you don’t get to decide what happens next.”

you hear the drawer again, the soft clink of something being picked up. your heart races. you know what’s in there—the tools he keeps, the ones he uses when he wants to take his time, to unravel you slowly. you don’t know what he’s chosen, and the not-knowing makes your pulse throb in your ears.

“spread your legs,” he says.

you do, slow, feeling the mattress dip under your knees. you’re exposed, vulnerable, and the blindfold makes it worse—or better. you can’t decide. every nerve is alive, waiting, anticipating.

you feel it then—the cool, smooth edge of something against your inner thigh. not his fingers, not his mouth. something else. you flinch, but he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“don’t move,” he says, voice calm but edged with warning.

you nod, breath shallow, and he drags the object higher, teasing, letting it linger just close enough to make you squirm. you don’t know what it is—maybe a knife, maybe something else—but you trust him. you shouldn’t, maybe, but you do.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a rush of heat through you, makes your toes curl against the sheets.

he moves the object again, and this time it brushes against you—light, fleeting, but enough to make you gasp. it’s cold, slick, and you realize it’s the handle of something, maybe a knife, maybe a toy. you don’t care. you just want more.

“you like this,” he says, not a question. “you like not knowing.”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he chuckles, low and dark, and then the object is gone, replaced by his fingers, warm and rough, sliding over you, testing your limits. you moan, loud and unashamed, and he doesn’t stop you this time. he lets you make noise, lets you beg with your body, lets you fall apart under his touch.

“you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not possessive now—it’s a fact, like the sky is dark or the city never sleeps. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, and you mean it.

he doesn’t respond with words, but you feel him shift, feel the bed dip as he moves closer. his mouth is on you then, sudden and relentless, and you cry out, back arching, wrists straining against the cuffs. he’s not gentle, not careful, but it’s exactly what you need—exactly what you’ve been chasing all night.

hours later, you’re lying on the bed, blindfold gone, cuffs off, your body heavy and sated. jungwon is next to you, one arm draped over your waist, his breath steady against your neck. the room is quiet now, the city’s hum a distant backdrop. you’re both silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s just… done.

you turn your head, look at him. his eyes are half-closed, but he’s watching you, like always. you wonder what he sees when he looks at you like that. you wonder if he knows how much you need this—need him.

“you’re still trouble,” he says, voice soft, almost fond.

you smile, small and tired. “you like it.”

he doesn’t deny it, just pulls you closer, lips brushing your temple. “go to sleep,” he says.

you do, because for once, you don’t want to fight him.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕 : DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF, IT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO

the morning light is pale, spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of jungwon’s penthouse, softening the sharp edges of the room. you’re in one of his shirts, too big, the hem brushing your thighs as you stand at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee from a sleek machine that probably costs more than your rent. jungwon is at the table, scrolling through his phone, hair still messy from sleep. he looks almost normal like this—human, not the untouchable figure who commands rooms and owns half the city’s nightlife. but even now, there’s an edge to him, a quiet intensity that never quite fades.

“you’re staring,” he says, not looking up.

“am not,” you lie, turning back to the coffee, the rich aroma filling the air.

he snorts, soft, and you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands. he’s behind you before you can react, hands on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder. “you’re a terrible liar,” he says, voice low, teasing, but with that undercurrent that makes your pulse quicken.

you lean back into him, just a little, letting his warmth seep into you. “you like that too,” you murmur, and he doesn’t argue, just tightens his grip on your hips, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“you working tonight?” he asks, his breath warm against your skin.

“yeah,” you say, stirring sugar into your coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the mug. “closing shift.”

he hums, thoughtful, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip. “don’t flirt with the customers.”

you laugh, turning in his arms to face him, one eyebrow raised. “jealous?”

his eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement there, a spark that makes your stomach flip. “you know better,” he says, voice low, and you do. you know exactly how far you can push him, and you know what happens when you go too far. it’s why you keep doing it.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈 : GET REAL !

the club is different in the daytime, hollow and quiet, the neon lights off, the air stale with the ghost of last night’s chaos. you’re behind the bar, restocking bottles, the clink of glass against glass the only sound in the empty space. jungwon walks in, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the daylight. he doesn’t come here during the day often—too busy running his empire, you assume—but when he does, it’s always with purpose.

“you’re early,” you say, not looking up from the crate of vodka you’re unpacking.

“had a meeting nearby,” he says, leaning against the bar, his eyes tracking your movements. “thought i’d check in.”

you glance at him, skeptical. “you don’t check in.”

he smirks, just a little. “maybe i missed you.”

you roll your eyes, but your pulse quickens, betraying you. “sure.”

he watches you work, silent, and you feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and familiar. it’s not just attraction—it’s something deeper, something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and unnerving. you set a bottle down, turn to face him, wiping your hands on a rag. “what do you really want, jungwon?”

he shrugs, but his eyes are serious, searching. “you ever think about quitting?”

you pause, caught off guard. “this job?”

“this life.”

you set the rag down, cross your arms. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he steps closer, voice low, deliberate. “you’re not like the others here. you’re… different.”

“different how?” you ask, chin lifting, challenging him.

he’s closer now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re not just passing through. you’re looking for something. but you won’t find it behind a bar.”

you laugh, sharp and defensive, but it rings hollow. “you don’t know what i’m looking for.”

“don’t i?” his voice is soft, but it cuts deep, and for a moment, you can’t meet his eyes. he’s right—he always is—but you’re not ready to admit it, not to him, not to yourself. you’ve spent too long running from your past to start digging it up now.

“i’m fine,” you say finally, turning back to the bottles. “i like it here.”

he doesn’t believe you. you can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the way his jaw tightens. but he doesn’t push, not this time. “be careful tonight,” he says instead, and then he’s gone, leaving you with the echo of his words and the weight of his absence.

that night, the club is alive again, the same pulsing beast it always is. you’re behind the bar, pouring drinks, dodging hands, flashing smiles at the customers who tip well and ignoring the ones who don’t. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s not alone tonight. there’s a woman with him—tall, sleek, her dress as expensive as the ones he buys you, her hand brushing his arm as she laughs at something he says.

you hate the way it makes you feel. you hate that you care.

you pour a drink too fast, and it spills over the edge of the glass, the customer cursing under his breath. you barely hear him, your eyes flicking to jungwon, to the woman, to the way she leans closer, like she has a right to him. he doesn’t look at you, not once, and it twists something sharp in your chest.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re not exclusive. you’re not anything. but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen, and when your shift ends, you’re out the door before he can say a word, the cool night air hitting you like a slap.

you walk home, the city’s lights blurring into a haze. your apartment is small, cramped, nothing like his sleek penthouse, but it’s yours. you drop your keys on the counter, kick off your heels, and sink onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. you don’t know why you keep doing this, why you keep going back to him, why you let him pull you in again and again when you know it’s a game you’ll never win.

your phone buzzes. a text.

jungwon: where are you?

you don’t answer. not tonight.

he shows up at your door an hour later, and you’re not surprised. he probably bribed the doorman, or maybe he just knows everyone in this city. he’s still in the black shirt from the club, hair slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. he looks at you, standing in your doorway, and there’s no trace of the smirk you’re used to, just a quiet intensity that makes your heart stutter.

“you didn’t answer,” he says, voice flat.

“i was busy,” you lie, leaning against the doorframe, blocking his way in.

he raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “busy hiding?”

“busy living,” you snap, sharper than you meant. “i don’t owe you an explanation.”

he steps closer, and you hate how your body reacts, how your heart speeds up just because he’s near. “you ran out,” he says. “why?”

“i was tired,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“bullshit.” his voice is low, cutting through your defenses like they’re paper.

you glare at him, but he doesn’t back down. he never does. “who was she?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded.

he pauses, and for a moment, you think he’s going to dodge it. but then he smirks, just a little, and you want to slap it off his face. “a business associate,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like it’s nothing, like it shouldn’t matter. “jealous?”

“no,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, sharp and brittle.

he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne. “you don’t get to be jealous,” he says, voice low, almost dangerous. “not when you’re out there playing games with me.”

“i’m not—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“don’t.” his voice is sharp, final. “you know exactly what you’re doing. you always do.”

you want to argue, want to push him away, but he’s right. you’ve been playing this game as long as he has, and you’re both too good at it. “what do you want, jungwon?” you ask, tired suddenly, the fight draining out of you.

he looks at you, really looks, and for a moment, there’s something soft in his eyes, something almost vulnerable. but then it’s gone, replaced by that hard, unreadable mask. “you,” he says simply.

you laugh, bitter. “you have me.”

“do i?” his voice is quiet, but it hits like a punch.

you don’t answer. you don’t know how.

he steps past you, into your apartment, like he owns this place too. you close the door behind him, because what else can you do? he’s here, and you’re here, and the game isn’t over.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈 : ANYTHING BUT UNDERSTANDABLE

the next few weeks are a blur of nights like that—clubs, drinks, his hands on you, his voice in your ear. you tell yourself you’re in control, that you’re choosing this, but every time he looks at you, every time he touches you, you feel yourself slipping, falling deeper into something you can’t name. you start noticing things about him—small things, things you shouldn’t care about. the way his hands shake sometimes, just slightly, when he thinks no one’s looking. the way he avoids questions about his family, his past. the way he never talks about love, or forever, or anything that feels too real.

you ask him one night, after, when you’re both lying in his bed, the city lights spilling through the window. “why do you do this?”

he’s quiet for so long you think he’s not going to answer. but then he says, “because it’s easier.”

“easier than what?” you press, turning to look at him.

“everything else,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so guarded, you almost miss the weight of it.

you don’t push. you don’t know if you want to know.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 : DOES THIS COUNT AS OBJECTIFICATION ?

the club is louder tonight, the crowd wilder, more reckless. you’re not working—you’re here for him, like always. you’re in another dress he picked, red this time, the fabric clinging to you like a second skin. you’re dancing, but it’s not for the crowd—it’s for him. you feel his eyes on you, always, from the corner of the room, and it’s enough to make your blood sing.

you don’t see the fight until it’s happening. a drunk guy, too handsy, too close, and then jungwon’s there, pulling him off you, his fist connecting with the guy’s jaw before anyone can blink. the crowd parts, security swarms, and jungwon’s standing there, knuckles bloody, eyes blazing.

“won—” you start, but he grabs your arm, pulls you through the crowd, out the back door.

the alley is cold, the air sharp against your skin. he’s pacing, hands in his hair, breathing hard. “you okay?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

he laughs, short and harsh. “am i okay? you’re the one who had that asshole all over you.”

“i was handling it,” you say, defensive, arms crossing.

“handling it?” he rounds on you, eyes flashing. “he had his hands on you.”

“so what? you don’t get to punch every guy who looks at me.”

he steps closer, voice dropping, dangerous. “you think i do this for fun?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he grabs your face, not gentle, but not rough either. “you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not a question.

you pull away, heart pounding. “i’m not a thing you own.”

he looks at you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. but then he just nods, slow, and steps back. “fine,” he says. “walk away.”

you don’t. you never do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐗 : JUST MAYBE

the next night, you’re back at his place. you don’t know why you keep coming back, but you do. he’s different tonight, quieter, softer. he doesn’t touch you right away, doesn’t push. he just sits on the couch, watching you as you stand by the window, the city sprawling out below.

“why do you stay?” he asks, and it’s the first time he’s ever asked you that.

you don’t have an answer—not a good one. “because i want to,” you say finally, and it’s the truth, but it’s not enough.

he stands, crosses the room, and this time, when he touches you, it’s gentle. his fingers brush your cheek, your throat, and you lean into it, closing your eyes.

“you’re going to break my heart,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

you open your eyes, look at him. “you don’t have a heart to break.”

he smiles, small and sad. “you’d be surprised.”

the game doesn’t end. it never does. but it shifts, becomes something else. you’re not sure what it is, but you feel it, every time he looks at you, every time he touches you. it’s not love—not yet, maybe not ever—but it’s something. and for now, it’s enough.

you’re back in the club, weeks later, the same pulsing lights, the same pounding music. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. you know you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll both fall into each other, like always.

but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no anger, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗 : OUCH !

you keep going back to the clubs, to the nights that blur into mornings, to the way jungwon’s eyes find you in a crowd, no matter how packed the room is. it’s a rhythm you’ve both perfected—push, pull, tease, surrender. you wear the dresses he buys, each one bolder than the last, each one designed to draw his attention and everyone else’s. you dance with strangers, let their hands linger just long enough to make jungwon’s jaw tighten, to make his fingers flex at his sides. you know what you’re doing, and so does he. it’s a dance, and you’re both leading.

but there are moments—quiet ones, in the spaces between the chaos—where something else creeps in. moments when he’s not the untouchable club owner, not the man who can silence a room with a glance. moments when he’s just jungwon, sitting across from you at his sleek dining table, pouring you coffee, his hair mussed, his eyes soft. moments when you catch him watching you, not with that predatory intensity, but with something warmer, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

one night, after another round of the game—another night of dancing too close to someone else, of feeling his eyes burn into you from across the room—you end up back at his place, sprawled on his couch, the city lights glittering through the windows. he’s sitting beside you, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie long gone. you’re in one of his shirts again, the fabric soft against your skin, your legs tucked beneath you.

“why do you keep doing it?” he asks, voice low, almost curious. he’s not looking at you, just staring at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it slowly.

“doing what?” you ask, though you know exactly what he means.

he glances at you, one eyebrow raised, calling out your feigned ignorance. “pushing me. testing me. you know what happens when you do.”

you shrug, leaning back against the couch, stretching your legs out so your toes brush his thigh. “maybe i like what happens.”

his lips twitch, but it’s not a smile, not quite. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day.”

“haven’t i already?” you shoot back, voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.

he sets the glass down, leans closer, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “you’re different,” he says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it hits harder tonight, in the quiet, with no music to drown it out. “you don’t belong in this world.”

you laugh, but it’s hollow. “and what world do i belong in, jungwon? some quiet little life where i’m not… this?” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at the shirt, at the city beyond the glass.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his hand still on your knee, his thumb still moving in those slow, maddening circles. “i don’t know,” he says finally. “but not here. not with guys like that. not with me.”

you freeze, the words landing like a punch you didn’t see coming. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he leans back, running a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable. “you’re too good for this. for me. you’re gonna figure that out one day, and when you do, you’re gonna leave.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because he’s never said anything like this before, never let the mask slip this far. “and what if i don’t want to leave?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

he looks at you, and for a moment, you see it again—that softness, that vulnerability, buried deep but there. “then you’re dumber than i thought,” he says, but there’s no bite to it, just a quiet resignation that makes your chest ache.

you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. you just slide closer, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. he doesn’t push you away, doesn’t make a move. he just lets you stay, and for now, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈 : YOU KNOW BETTER

the weeks blur together, a cycle of nights and mornings, of clubs and his apartment, of games and quiet moments that feel too real. you start to notice more—the way he clenches his jaw when he gets a call he doesn’t want to take, the way his hands linger on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, the way he never asks about your life before this, like he’s scared of the answers.

you’re not sure when it happens, when the game starts to feel like something else, something heavier. maybe it’s the night he shows up at your apartment unannounced, his tie loose, his eyes tired. you open the door, and he doesn’t say a word, just steps inside, pulls you into his arms, and holds you like he’s trying to keep himself together. you don’t ask what’s wrong, because you know he won’t tell you, but you let him hold you, let him bury his face in your hair, let him pretend for a moment that he’s not the man he is.

or maybe it’s the morning you wake up in his bed, the sunlight soft and golden, and he’s watching you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “stay,” he says, and it’s not a command, not this time. it’s a request, soft and raw, and you nod, because how could you not?

you start to wonder if this is what love feels like—not the burning, all-consuming thing you’d imagined, but something quieter, something that creeps in slowly, like the tide. you don’t say it, though. you don’t dare. because love is a dangerous word in a world like this, and you’re not sure either of you is ready for it.

one night, the club is packed, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the sharp tang of alcohol. you’re behind the bar again, filling in for someone who called out, your hands moving fast, pouring drinks, taking tips, dodging the usual handsy customers. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s distracted tonight, his phone buzzing constantly, his jaw tight. you don’t ask questions—you’ve learned not to—but you feel the shift, the tension radiating off him like heat.

you’re pouring a shot when it happens. a guy—drunk, loud, too close—grabs your wrist, his grip slimy and too tight. you twist away, flashing a smile to defuse it, but he doesn’t let go, his eyes glassy, his words slurring. “come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that.”

you’re about to snap something sharp when jungwon’s there, faster than you’ve ever seen him move. he doesn’t touch the guy, doesn’t need to—just steps between you, his presence enough to make the man shrink back. “walk away,” jungwon says, voice low, deadly, and the guy does, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to disappear.

you exhale, shaking out your wrist, and meet jungwon’s eyes. “i had it under control,” you say, because you always say that, even when it’s not true.

he doesn’t answer, just grabs your hand—not your wrist, not rough, but firm—and pulls you out from behind the bar, through the crowd, to the back office. the door shuts, and it’s just the two of you, the music muffled, the air heavy.

“you didn’t need to do that,” you say, crossing your arms, but your voice lacks conviction.

he steps closer, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying not to touch you. “you think i’m gonna stand there and watch some drunk asshole put his hands on you?”

“it’s part of the job,” you snap, but even you don’t believe it. you’re tired, suddenly, of pretending you’re untouchable, of pretending you don’t need him to step in.

“fuck the job,” he says, and his voice is raw, unguarded, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t. “you’re not theirs to touch.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because this isn’t the game anymore. this is something else, something real, and it scares you as much as it thrills you. “and whose am i?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes dark and searching. then he steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “you know whose,” he says, and then he kisses you, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to prove it.

you kiss him back, because of course you do. you always do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈 : LIKE PUZZLE PIECES

the game doesn’t end, but it changes. it’s not just about pushing and pulling anymore, not just about testing limits. it’s about the quiet moments after, when you’re lying in his bed, his arm around you, the city outside silent for once. it’s about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, like you’re something he’s afraid to lose. it’s about the way you feel when you’re with him, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t know what that means.

you’re back at the club, weeks later, the same lights, the same music, the same pulsing energy. you’re dancing again, and he’s watching, and you know how this will end. you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll end up tangled in each other, like always. but this time, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no edge to it, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

you don’t talk about what this is, not really. you don’t call it love, or a relationship, or anything that feels too permanent. but you feel it, in the way he touches you, in the way he looks at you, in the way he shows up at your apartment unannounced, just to sit with you in the quiet. you feel it in the way you think about him when he’s not there, in the way your body aches for him, in the way you don’t want to imagine a life without him.

one night, you’re at his place, sitting on the balcony, the city sprawling out below like a glittering dream. he’s beside you, a cigarette between his fingers, though he doesn’t smoke it, just lets it burn down to ash. you’re in one of his shirts again, your legs bare, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your skin.

“you ever think about leaving?” you ask, breaking the silence.

he glances at you, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “leaving what?”

“this.” you gesture at the city, the lights, the life. “all of it.”

he’s quiet for a moment, his eyes on the horizon. “sometimes,” he says finally. “but it’s who i am.”

you nod, because you get it. this world—his world—is as much a part of him as you are. maybe more. “and me?” you ask, voice soft, almost afraid of the answer. “where do i fit?”

he looks at you then, really looks, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. “you’re the only thing that makes it bearable,” he says, and it’s the closest he’s ever come to saying something real, something that matters.

you don’t push, don’t ask for more. you just lean your head against his shoulder, and he lets you, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through yours like they were made to fit.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈 : I LIKE U

the nights keep coming, and so do you, back to the clubs, back to him. you dance, you drink, you push, and he pulls, and it’s a rhythm you both know by heart. but now, there’s something else in it—a thread of something deeper, something that makes the game feel less like a game and more like a promise.

you’re not sure when it happened, when the lines blurred, when it stopped being just about the thrill and started being about him. but you know you’re in too deep now, and you know he is too, even if he’ll never say it. you see it in the way he watches you, in the way he touches you, in the way he lets you see the parts of him he keeps hidden from everyone else.

you’re back at the club, the music pounding, the lights flashing, the crowd a living, breathing thing. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, it’s different. it’s not about possession or control or proving a point. it’s just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

#ㅤ ㅤ ✿◞ ◟ ) ❜#enhypen #enhypen jungwon #yang jungwon #jungwon #jungwon smut

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munefille · 9 months ago

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thinking about a yandere!creature who deceptively looks angelic pretending to be your guardian angel after you mistake him for one.

𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎 is an anomaly to his kind due to his unnatural white hair and wings, a disadvantage to night stalkers who aim to hide in the shadows. Ostracization from an already elusive species of winged beasts has led him to grow resentful, a seed of vitriolic bitterness slithering its way through him like a poison. A violent demeanor bestows him, slaughtering mercilessly to find retribution for his ghastly appearance, a trait he sees as his ultimate flaw.

Until he meets you; a human who's never seen such a beautiful creature. There was something hypnotizing about him, cold and blazing like the moon that commands the tides. The first words he whispers towards you, Be not afraid, cements the idea that an angel has truly come upon you.

Instead of disgust at his abnormality, you show him a kindness he has never known from his own. You invite him into your home with veneration, share stories of your life, ask him if he's there to watch over you. When you look up at him with those eyes full of naive faith, trusting him so sincerely, he finds maybe he can play along.

Yes, he'll take care of those townspeople who have been bothering you. Watchful eyes following you in the dark become your new norm.

He'll never admit that he's not from heaven. He won't tell you that he's never met your God. May you never know the blood he has spilled to spite his wretched existence. He'll keep up the lie as long as he gets to be your guardian angel, as long as you see him as the light in your life.

With you his flesh feels less cursed, with you he feels sacred.

After all, what is an angel without a god?

#monster x reader #yandere monster x reader #yandere x reader #yandere male #monster oc #oc x reader #teratophillia #yandere drabble #x reader #yandere oc #lorne the forsaken

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airosuiren · 3 months ago

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Part 2: The Family They Never Were

Part 1

A/N: AHHH thank you all for loving part 1!!! As promised, here’s part 2 where the Bat Family tries to get reader back but she’s THRIVING with Theo and her magical family isn’t about to let the Waynes ruin everything!!! Enjoyyy!!!

Six months had passed since you left Gotham behind. Six GLORIOUS months.

The Italian villa you and Theodore had purchased was nestled in the wizarding community of Verona - a stunning stone structure with creeping vines and a view that made your heart skip every morning. Magical fountains dotted the garden, and the library rivaled Hogwarts’ in beauty if not in size.

“Mrs. Nott?” Theodore’s voice called from the terrace. You still weren’t used to your new name, but it sent shivers down your spine every time you heard it.

Your wedding had been intimate but magical - literally. Held in the gardens of Hogwarts (McGonagall had insisted), with Professor Snape walking you down the aisle, looking profoundly uncomfortable in formal robes but utterly determined to fulfill his role. The Riddle brothers had threatened Theodore with creative hexes if he ever hurt you, while Blaise served as best man, his usual smirk replaced with genuine happiness.

You hadn’t invited the Waynes. They hadn’t noticed your absence anyway.

Until now.

“There’s mail,” Theodore said, handing you your morning coffee and a small stack of envelopes. “Including one with a Gotham postmark.”

Your heart stuttered as you recognized Bruce Wayne’s handwriting. Seven years of barely a word, and NOW he wanted to communicate?

The letter was short:

[Y/N],

We need to speak. The family is not whole without you. We’re coming to Italy next week. Alfred has tracked your address.

- Bruce

You handed it wordlessly to Theodore, who read it and immediately summoned parchment. “I’m contacting everyone,” he said firmly.

By “everyone,” he meant YOUR family - your REAL family.

Draco’s response came first: Already booking a portkey. No one upsets our Hufflepuff.

Then Snape’s terse note: I will arrive Tuesday. Bringing potions that leave no trace.

McGonagall was more diplomatic but no less determined: I believe it’s time for a family meeting. Your REAL family.

The Riddle brothers sent simply: We’re already in Naples. Be there tomorrow.

And so it happened that when the sleek Wayne Enterprises jet landed in Verona a week later, your home was already filled with your chosen family.

The doorbell rang precisely at 2 PM.

“I’ll get it,” Draco drawled, straightening his impeccable suit.

You heard muffled voices, then Draco’s coolly amused tone: “Ah, the famous Waynes. How… ordinary.”

They filed into your grand living room - Bruce leading with his imposing presence, followed by Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Alfred, and of course, Lila - who was openly gawking at the magical photographs moving on your walls and the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the sky outside.

What struck you most was how SMALL they seemed now. Not physically - Bruce was still a towering figure - but their presence felt diminished in your new world.

“[Y/N],” Bruce began, then stopped abruptly as he took in the room full of people. Professor Snape stood by the fireplace, his dark eyes cold. McGonagall sat regally in an armchair. The Riddle brothers lounged against a bookshelf, twirling their wands. Blaise, Pansy, and Astoria formed a protective semicircle around your chair. And Theodore stood directly behind you, hands resting possessively on your shoulders.

“What is this?” Bruce demanded. “We came for a family meeting.”

“This IS my family meeting,” you replied calmly. “Every person who truly cares about me is in this room.”

Lila snorted. “Oh please. These… freaks aren’t your family. WE are.”

Tom Riddle’s wand hand twitched dangerously, but Mattheo placed a restraining hand on his brother’s arm. “Careful,” he murmured. “We promised [Y/N] no unforgivables.”

“You abandoned [Y/N] for seven years,” Theodore said, his voice deceptively soft. “And now you appear demanding her attention?”

“We made mistakes,” Dick admitted, looking genuinely pained. “We didn’t realize-”

“Didn’t realize WHAT?” Pansy interrupted sharply. “That [Y/N] was worth your time? That your own DAUGHTER deserved basic affection?”

Bruce squared his shoulders. “We’ve come to bring you home, [Y/N].”

The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees as everyone stared at Bruce Wayne in disbelief.

“Home?” you repeated, rising slowly from your chair. “HOME? I AM home, Bruce. For the first time in my life, I am surrounded by people who see me. Who CHOSE me.”

“You’re a Wayne,” he insisted. “You belong in Gotham. With your real family.”

Professor McGonagall made a small noise of disgust. “Mr. Wayne, I have watched this young woman grow from a scared, neglected child into a powerful witch. I have dried her tears when your letters never came. I attended parent conferences YOU should have been at.”

“And I,” Professor Snape stepped forward, his black robes billowing, “supervised her advanced potions work while you were busy with your… other daughter. [Y/N] is the most gifted potioneer of her generation.”

“You… you don’t understand,” Bruce tried again.

“No, YOU don’t understand,” you said firmly. “I gave you eighteen years to be my father. You failed. These people picked up the pieces.”

Lila suddenly burst forward. “This isn’t FAIR! You get magic, a hot husband, a villa in Italy, and now you’re trying to steal Dad’s attention too?”

The absurdity of her statement made Blaise laugh out loud. “Merlin’s beard, she really is that delusional.”

“This conversation is over,” Theodore stated, his arm now around your waist. “Mrs. Nott has made her position clear.”

“Mrs… you’re MARRIED?” Tim gaped, speaking for the first time.

You held up your left hand, where a stunning emerald ring sat alongside your wedding band. “For three months now.”

“You didn’t even TELL us!” Bruce roared.

“Why would she?” Tom Riddle asked mildly. “You didn’t tell her when you adopted a new child every other year.”

“Look,” you sighed, suddenly tired of this whole charade. “I don’t hate you. Any of you. I just… don’t need you anymore. I have a husband who loves me, friends who would die for me, mentors who guide me. What could you possibly offer that I don’t already have?”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Come on, Bruce,” Jason finally said, placing a hand on his adoptive father’s shoulder. “We lost this one. Years ago.”

Alfred stepped forward then, his elderly face lined with regret. “Miss [Y/N]… Mrs. Nott. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry. I should have done more.”

“You were the only one who tried, Alfred,” you said softly. “Thank you for that.”

“This isn’t over,” Bruce stated, his Batman voice creeping in.

Draco laughed coldly. “Yes, it is. The wards around this property are now programmed to your magical signatures. You won’t be able to return without an invitation.”

“You can’t just-” Lila began shrilly.

“Actually, they can,” Astoria cut in sweetly. “Magic is wonderful that way.”

As the Waynes were ushered out, you felt Theodore’s arms encircle you from behind. “Are you alright, love?” he murmured against your hair.

“Better than alright,” you answered truthfully. “I feel… free.”

Later that evening, with your chosen family gathered around your dinner table, glasses raised in a toast, Professor Snape offered rare words of approval:

“To [Y/N] Nott. Who proved that family is not determined by blood, but by who stays when the darkness comes.”

“To [Y/N]!” they echoed.

And as Theodore squeezed your hand under the table, you knew with absolute certainty that you had made the right choice. The Bat Family might save Gotham every night, but they had failed to save you.

Fortunately, you had saved yourself.

A/N: AHHHHH that was so satisfying to write!!! I hope you all loved it!!! The idea of the Waynes showing up all entitled only to find reader’s REAL family already there to protect her just made me soooo happy!!! Let me know if you want more stories in this universe!!! Theo and [Y/N] in Italy living their best magical life while the Bat Fam realizes what they lost FOREVERRR!!! Enjoyyy!!!

xzmickeyzx

prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue

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saphiccarma · 2 months ago

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hear me out...hardened mob boss reader who is fucking SOFT for wandanat who are her mob lawyers (TW: slightly dark but not really)

It wasn't hard to get wandanat to be criminal lawyers for you, just the offer of money

You had tried to threaten them, but neither blinked, not even seemingly slightly scared

they didn't bat an eyelash the first time you showed up at their firm, pissed because one of your men got put in jail.

They simply stared at you with a raised eyebrow, entirely unimpressed.

For once in your life, your intimidation factors didn't work on people, the two just didn't care.

When you exploded on them once, after a few months, Wanda grabbed your chin.

"Watch the tone," she growled, pulling you in close, "You pay us, yes. But you are not the one in charge here."

You would be lying (something you did on the regular) if you said you weren't turned on by it

You were used to being in charge, it was part of who you were

But Wanda and Natasha sauntered into your space like they owned it, bossed you around like you couldn't order for them to be killed

You'd killed someone for less

Strangely, you didn't care. You enjoyed it

For once, you weren't in charge, you didn't have to think, you just had to surrender.

The first time the three of you have sex, you were drunk off your ass.

They invited you over for drinks, something you shouldn't have done, but you'd gone anyways.

You'd downed a lot of alcohol that night while the lawyers just sipped on their wine.

By the end of the night you were throwing yourself at them, whining like a "pathetic little slut"

You'd gotten tied up to the bed for being to squirmy, ropes digging into your wrists.

Natasha gripped your hips, pulling them forward before shoving them away as she pounded into you with her strap.

"Do you like that baby?" Wanda cooed, her voice deceptively sweet, "Like being fucked by Daddy's big strap?" When all you manage is a shaky moan and nod, she slaps your face - not gentle but not hard, "Words."

"Y-yeah."

When it's Wanda's turn she edges you until you can't think anymore, playing with a vibrator, pressing it your clit, rubbing it up and down before cruelly pulling away.

It happened a total of five times before she let you come.

Moaning into Natasha's mouth, her hands playing with your nipples, you were an utter mess

but from that point forward you were their mess

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #wandanat x reader #your guys' daily little hc/drabble

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luxcuriousao3 · 7 months ago

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Task Force 141 + Eyes

"You know what they say. Eyes are the windows to the soul..."

Ghost

Ghost with eyes like onyx; hard, cold, soulless gems glaring out of his skull-shaped mask. "Eyes like the grim reaper," his enemies whisper amongst themselves. "Meet them, and he'll drag your soul back to hell with him." Lieutenant Riley with eyes like freshly overturned earth, the same color as the dirt that rained down on him in the grave he was buried in long ago. Eyes that peer at you from over the rim of his pint glass the first time he ever sees you, curiosity stirring in those near-black depths. Simon with eyes like molasses, dark and sticky and languid as they look down at you through dirty blonde lashes. A low, gravelly, “Good morning, love,” rumbles out of his cavernous chest, sleep clinging to every inch of him—from his smoky eyes, to his deep morning voice, to the relaxed splay of his fingers on your belly, round with his child.

Soap

Soap with eyes like chips of ice when he’s in the field, a flaming frost that burns hot and cold. Sergeant John MacTavish with eyes like the lochs of his homeland, bright blue and inviting as he picks you up for your first date, a roguish, cheeky grin on his face and air of near arrogance that you soon learn is well deserved. But lurking beneath the deceptively calm surface, there’s something with sharp teeth and powerful jaws. A predator. Johnny with eyes like the aquamarine of your engagement ring, sparkling and precious and glittering with joy as he reads you his vows—never a poet but having worked harder than on any mission to scribble the words on the paper in front of him. The paper that shakes in his grasp while tears well up in those diamond eyes at the absolute vision you make, his bonnie lamb, his lovely lass, his wife.

Price

Bravo-6 with eyes like stormy seas, the choppy waters of his irises grey-blue and deadly. As vast as the ocean and hiding as many secrets—not a single soul will ever truly know every inch of the abyss. Captain Price with eyes like reflecting pools, still and tranquil and showing you yourself as you gaze into them. Stoic but beautiful blue eyes that give nothing away about the man that they belong to, and yet seem to know everything about you with one glance—a heady feeling. John with eyes that you would happily drown in. The crinkles at the corners mimic the little ripples a rock makes when he teaches you how to skip it across the lake he brings you to on your anniversary every year—the place where he first told you he loved you.

Gaz

Gaz with eyes like an ancient god of war, the pitch-dark irises swirling with a hunger for vengeance, a hunger for justice. They can tell him when, and they can tell him where. But they can’t tell him how. Sergeant Garrick with eyes like a well-aged whiskey, and the same ability to warm you from the inside out and make you trip over your words. You’re trapped in his inky amber gaze like a bug as he smiles at you from across the room—but you don’t want to escape. Kyle with eyes like nutty chocolate and a perfectly brewed cuppa, eyes that feel like home. Eyes the same color as the rosewood of the crib that your precious child sleeps in—always peacefully resting through the night, rocked to sleep in their Papa’s arms as he sings them lullabies in his velvety voice.

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lost-in-thoughts03 · 23 days ago

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FLATLINE || Hwang In-ho

" How could you pull the plug and leave me flatline?"

Summary: A party attended by various wealthy businessmen who are your father's business partners. He invited you because he wanted to introduce you to the son of his business partner. However, there's someone who is envious and dislikes sharing you with others.

Warnings: 🔞, MDNI, smut, au, dad's best friend, soft-dom! In-ho, older man x younger woman (legal), age gap, unprotected sex, PiV, oral (F receiving), erotic, kissing, markings, tension, possessive, slight dark, jealousy, forbidden, piano sex, riding, power dynamics

“ I just came to tell you both about a business party this weekend.”

“ I need you there, sweetheart. It’s time you meet some of the big players.”

You raised an eyebrow. “ You mean...a setup?”

Your father grinned. “ There’s a young man I want you to meet. Smart, well-connected, runs one of the biggest tech groups in the city. I think you’ll get along. Maybe more than that.”

You could feel the shift beside you.

You turned slowly.

In-ho’s expression was different now.

He wasn’t smiling.

His jaw was set.

His eyes were on fire.

You knew that look.

That was the “mine” look.

The one he used when some guy even thought about standing too close to you.

“ I didn’t know matchmaking was part of your business model.” In-ho said, voice deceptively smooth.

Your dad chuckled. “ Oh come on, you know how it is. Business and pleasure, right?”

You nearly choked on your own spit.

You glanced at In-ho.

His stare didn’t move from your father, but that possessive tension vibrated off him like a warning bell in an active warzone.

You leaned in slightly, whispering just loud enough for In-ho to hear, “ Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior...for the tech guy.”

His head snapped toward you.

His eyes raked over your face, unreadable—until you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

Dangerous.

You had just poked the beast.

Good.

...

1 week has passed…

You arrived at the venue gripping your clutch like it was the last thread of your sanity. The ballroom shimmered with chandeliers that looked more expensive than your college tuition, and everything smelled like money and polished ambition.

You hated it.

The crowd.

The flash.

The performance.

So, like a child clinging to a parent on the first day of school, you hid behind your father’s broad back as he navigated through a sea of tailored suits and designer gowns.

" Come on, sweetheart." Your father coaxed, not looking back.

" You’re not five anymore."

“ Mentally, I just regressed.” You muttered, but followed anyway, awkward and tense.

Then you heard it. That voice.

“ Ah! And this must be your lovely daughter.”

You peeked out.

And saw him.

Cho Tae-hyun.

The face card?

Never declined.

He looked like he stepped straight out of a K-drama finale—a tall, crisp black suit hugging his lean frame, eyes that sparkled with easy charm, and a smile that could probably restart your heart if it was flatlined.

You barely managed a smile before he took your hand—gently—and bowed slightly.

“ You look breathtaking. That dress should be illegal.”

Your knees quivered.

What the hell.

He was smooth.

You couldn’t stop the blush creeping up your cheeks.

And when you looked up, your dad and Tae-hyun’s dad were grinning like two middle-aged cupids who were way too proud of themselves.

“ Perfect match, don’t you think?” His father chuckled.

“ We’ve been talking about this for months.” Your dad added, nudging your side like he just handed you a gift-wrapped fiancé.

You wanted to disappear. But Tae-hyun made it bearable—fun, even.

He laughed easily, talked to you like you were the only one in the room, and when he offered his hand to dance, you actually smiled and nodded.

For once, you didn’t feel like an anxious mess in a sea of sharks.

He led you to the dance floor with surprising confidence. You let him hold your waist—too close for polite distance, but not quite scandalous.

His fingers gave you a gentle squeeze.

You blushed harder.

But you didn’t see him.

In-ho.

Across the ballroom, standing with a group of executives, holding a champagne glass that now had a hairline crack from how tight he was gripping it.

His eyes were locked on you.

On Tae-hyun.

He watched the way that bastard smiled at you.

How you laughed.

How his hand dared to explore that dangerous zone at your waist like he had the right.

The champagne glass creaked in In-ho’s grip. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the vein throbbing in his temple.

The charming smirk he usually wore in social settings was gone—replaced by an expression darker, tighter. Possessive.

He couldn't storm over here.

Not here.

Not in front of your father.

Not while the press and potential investors were milling around.

But God, he wanted to.

His eyes narrowed when Tae-hyun spun you, and you giggled—pure, radiant, happy.

You never giggle like that with him.

He took a step forward.

Stopped.

Took another sip of his drink.

Bitter.

He imagined dragging you away by the wrist. Pushing you up against the nearest wall and reminding you who you really belonged to.

He imagined wiping that smug, polite smile off Tae-hyun’s face with one punch to that sharp jawline.

But he didn't.

Because he couldn’t.

Not yet.

So he stood there, burning in silence.

His fingers twitched.

His whole body was on lockdown.

But the fire behind his eyes raged, locked and aimed like a heat-seeking missile.

He was going to let you have your little dance.

But later?

You were going to forget Tae-hyun even existed.

…

The night dragged on, but you didn’t notice the time. Tae-hyun was charming, easy to talk to, and honestly?

A distraction you didn’t know you needed.

He made you laugh.

He complimented you with a kind of sincerity that made your heart flutter.

You danced with him again, maybe twice—okay, three times—and every time his hand lingered on your waist just a little longer.

But eventually, nature—and champagne—called, and you excused yourself from the ballroom. You barely made it to the hallway when a hand closed around your wrist.

You froze.

In-ho.

He didn’t say a word.

Just yanked—gently but firmly—pulling you down the corridor like he owned the building.

You barely had time to register anything before he pushed open a heavy door and dragged you into a private lounge—dimly lit, empty, too lavish for its purpose.

The door slammed shut behind you.

" In-ho—"

“ Don’t…” He snapped, voice low, dark, and shaking with restraint.

You turned to him. “ What the hell is your problem?”

He stalked toward you.

You stepped back instinctively—but he followed, slow, controlled, like a lion circling its prey.

“ You’re my problem.” He growled.

“ Waltzing around in that dress, giggling like a goddamn schoolgirl, letting that bastard put his hands on you.”

You bristled. “ It’s a dance, not a proposal. And Tae-hyun is actually respectful—unlike some people.”

That struck a nerve.

His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed.

He stepped in so close your backs nearly touched the wall.

You could feel the heat rolling off him like a furnace.

“ Respectful?” He whispered, voice like smoke.

“ You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? Like he already had you unwrapped and bent over that dance floor?”

You gasped. “ You’re one to talk. You’ve had plenty of chances to say something, but instead you stand there like some emotionally constipated statue and now you’re what? Jealous?”

He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, his breath hot against your lips.

“ You want me to say it?”

“ Say what?”

“ That you’re mine."

Your breath caught.

“ You’ve always been mine. But you keep pushing, keep running to other men because I don’t hand you a damn declaration on a silver plate.”

You blinked, heart racing.

“ And now? After watching you smile at him like that?” His voice dipped lower.

Rougher.

Hungrier.

“ I’m done being polite.”

His hand slid to your waist, fingers digging in, pulling you against him.

You felt all of him—tension, fury, desire.

It crashed into you like a wave.

“ You’re not leaving this room until I remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Your hands gripped his jacket before you even realized it. “ You think you can just claim me like that?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “ No. I’m going to make you remember.”

You shivered.

There was no more room to speak.

The heat burned too loud.

The jealousy, the hunger, the months of unresolved tension—it all flooded the space between you like oxygen on an open flame.

He kissed you like it was a punishment and a promise.

And God help you, you kissed him back like you’d been starving. His mouth crashed into yours, no hesitation, no room for doubt.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was possessive—hungry, primal, like he’d finally snapped and couldn’t hold back any longer.

You gasped into the kiss, and that was all the invitation In-ho needed. His hands pinned your hips against the wall, grinding against you, forcing you to feel the full weight of what he’d been holding back.

Every restrained glance.

Every unsaid word.

Every jealous thought watching you with Tae-hyun.

You moaned softly, and his grip tightened—like he was afraid you’d disappear again if he didn’t hold you there, completely.

“ You drive me insane.” He growled against your lips.

“ You think I like being the one who waits, who watches while you flutter around some polished puppy with a fake smile and shiny shoes?”

You kissed him back harder, nails digging into his back through his jacket.

“ Maybe if you said something sooner—”

He bit your lower lip gently, making you gasp.

“ I’m saying it now.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. He dipped his head to your neck, his lips and teeth blazing a trail down your skin.

You arched into him, legs weak.

“ In-ho…” You breathed, head lolling back as he mouthed over your collarbone.

His voice was hoarse, breath hot on your skin.

“ You think he can touch you like this?” His hand dragged down the curve of your waist, slipping over the bare skin your dress barely covered.

“ You think he knows how to make you fall apart?” His fingers pressed into your thigh, possessive and slow, trailing up beneath your dress as your breath hitched.

“ Tell me…” He demanded, lips brushing your jaw.

“ Tell me he makes you feel this way.”

Your mouth opened—but no words came.

You were melting.

Because no.

No one made you feel like this.

And you both knew it.

But just as his hand gripped under your thigh and lifted you slightly off the ground, just as his lips were heading south, just as you were about to beg him not to stop—

SLAM.

The door burst open.

You both froze.

You slowly turned your head—

Tae-hyun stood there.

Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

He blinked. Twice. His gaze dropped to where In-ho was still holding you up, your dress pushed up just enough to kill you inside.

“ I…” He cleared his throat, backing up.

“ Sorry. Didn’t mean to—um. You left your phone at the table.”

He dropped it on the small side table and turned around like his soul was trying to escape his body.

The door slammed shut again.

...

“ Dae-ho…” You groaned into your phone as you leaned against the stone railing outside the ballroom, trying to find solace in the slightly cooler night air.

“ You’re not gonna believe what the hell just happened.”

“ You sound wrecked.” Dae-ho said.

“ Is this about the dress? Did someone wear the same thing?”

“ No. Worse. I got dragged into a secret room and kissed within an inch of my life by In-ho.”

Silence.

“ HELLO?!”

Your eardrum exploded.

“ YOU WHAT?!” Dae-ho shrieked.

“ You filthy, lucky—WHORE! TELL ME EVERYTHING—what was he wearing? Did he pin you? Was there tongue? Did he groan? Did you groan?! Wait—WAS HE SWEATY?!”

“ Shut up!” You hissed, giggling.

“ Yes to all of it. And the way he growled when he said ‘you’re mine’? Dae-ho, I swear to God my uterus blinked.”

“ OH MY—”

But you flinched mid-laugh when someone stepped into view from the corner of the balcony.

Tae-hyun.

Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tux jacket nowhere in sight.

He looked effortlessly cool, cheeks slightly flushed, hair tousled like he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine.

You panicked. “ Dae-ho—I’ll call you back.”

“ NO—”

Click.

Tae-hyun smiled as he approached, hands casually in his pockets. “ Sorry to interrupt. Was that a boyfriend?”

You choked on air.

Violently.

“ No! No no no. Just my best friend. He’s loud. And dramatic. Think drag queen energy trapped in a man who runs on Red Bull.”

Tae-hyun laughed—a warm, easy laugh that immediately made you feel lighter. “ Sounds fun.”

You offered him a grin, eyes instinctively trailing down—damn.

The shirt clung to him in all the right places. His arms flexed every time he moved.

You did not mean to stare, but well, God made art for a reason.

He raised a brow. “ Are you checking me out?”

You blushed. “ I plead the fifth.”

He laughed louder. “ Don’t worry. It’s a safe space.”

The two of you leaned over the balcony edge together, the noise of the party fading behind you.

The stars above twinkled like they knew secrets, and for a moment, the world felt less overwhelming.

Until Tae-hyun’s tone dropped.

“ Hey…Can I tell you something?”

You turned to him, surprised at the sudden shift in his energy.

He inhaled deeply. “ I haven’t told anyone this. Not even my closest friends. But…I trust you.”

Your heart skipped.

“ I’m gay.” He said softly.

“ And no one knows. Not my parents. Not my dad. Especially not my dad. If he finds out…I don’t know what he’d do.”

You blinked. “ Tae-hyun…”

“ I know. I’m sorry, I just…you’re easy to talk to. You didn’t come on too strong. You’re funny. And real. And I just—needed to say it out loud.”

You were stunned—but not in the way he feared.

A moment passed.

Then you smiled.

“ Well, shit, now I have competition for best dressed and hottest guy here.”

He looked startled—then cracked up, relief washing over his features. You laughed with him, louder now, the tension breaking like a wave.

“ Seriously, I’m honored you told me. And also a little mad. Because damn it, Tae-hyun, I was this close to falling for you.”

He smirked. “ Same, bestie. That dress nearly cracked my gay defenses.”

You both high-fived like you’d known each other for years. The bond was instant. Something between soul siblings and a newly formed chaos duo.

“ And for the record…” He added, wiggling his eyebrows.

“ That steamy hallway scene you two put on earlier? Hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed in real life. I’m still fanning myself.”

You groaned and smacked his arm, laughing hysterically. “ You saw that?!”

“ I walked in! It’s burned into my brain! You moaned so loud I thought I was watching HBO!”

You were dying. Tears of laughter pricked your eyes. But neither of you noticed the man watching from the ballroom window.

In-ho.

Drink in hand, face like thunder, gaze locked on you and that bastard—laughing again.

He expected the whispers are already circulating around the room about “the hallway” and “the scandal.”

But In-ho didn’t care about the rumors.

He only cared about the way you looked with someone else.

The smile on your face.

The way you leaned into Tae-hyun.

The way you laughed like nothing happened between you and him just minutes ago.

Jealousy still crawled under his skin like a damn disease.

He didn't know Tae-hyun was gay.

He only saw you, glowing in the moonlight, and some other man standing next to you like he deserved to be there.

His grip on the glass tightened again.

He wasn’t going to sit back and watch anymore.

…

The ballroom was thinning out now. Music soft, lights dimmer, the last clinks of champagne glasses like the closing credits of a movie you didn’t ask to be in.

Your heels had officially committed a crime against your feet, your back hurt from posture-pretending, and your face was about to fall off from smiling at people whose names you couldn’t even remember.

Tae-hyun walked beside you, brushing off a mosquito that had boldly tried to become a third wheel in your friendship.

“ Gosh, it’s like those bugs were summoned by Satan himself.” He muttered, scratching his arm.

You laughed and rubbed your own, “ I’m 90% sure I’m patient zero for Dengue.”

Inside again, the air felt heavier—not from heat, but from the tension.

The minute you stepped in, you felt it.

There he was.

In-ho.

Sitting beside your father like he belonged on the cover of a Forbes magazine—one hand resting lazily on the back of the chair, the other holding a glass of amber whiskey.

He looked expensive, bored, and absolutely lethal.

And he was watching you.

Not Tae-hyun.

You.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. His jaw ticked subtly, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were fire and ice and a promise of something you absolutely weren’t ready to handle right now.

Tae-hyun, oblivious, led you over to a group of older guests and cracked some charming jokes.

He placed his hand gently on your waist—innocent, friendly.

But it was like a lit match in a room filled with gasoline. You felt the burn of In-ho’s stare the moment Tae-hyun touched you.

Your chest tightened.

You dared a glance—

Yep.

He was still staring.

That slow drag of his gaze down your body made you feel naked in your dress. Like he could see every thought you’d had tonight—every throb, every pulse, every unspoken moan.

You swallowed hard and turned back to the guests, nodding politely as you tried not to collapse under the pressure of being undressed by a single look.

Your father, finally noticing you, called you over with a warm smile. “ There you are, sweetheart. You did well tonight.”

You smiled. “ Thanks, Dad.”

The remaining guests offered parting nods and compliments, and you bowed respectfully, praying this night would end already.

Then—

“ You may head out.” Your dad said, patting your arm.

“ You must be tired. In-ho will take you home.”

Your soul flatlined.

What.

You slowly turned your head, and sure enough, In-ho stood up smoothly, placing his glass down like he had all the time in the world—and all the satisfaction of a man who just won a game no one else realized they were playing.

He adjusted his cufflink with maddening calm.

“ Shall we?”

Your lips parted, trying to find an excuse, an escape, a parachute, but your father was already waving you off and going back to his whiskey.

You could feel the impending doom pressing against your lungs. Tae-hyun squeezed your hand and whispered,

“ Good luck. He looks like he’s about to ravage a village.”

You hissed through your teeth, “ Don’t say things like that. You’re not helping.”

“ Oh, I know. I’m just living for this drama.”

With a forced smile and knees made of noodles, you followed In-ho out. The moment the doors closed behind the two of you, the air snapped.

Neither of you spoke in the elevator.

You were too busy trying not to combust, and he was standing there like a wolf who had cornered his prey in a glass cage.

His eyes didn’t leave you once.

You almost wished he’d say something—anything.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, inhaling, as if he was trying to remember what you smelled like after dancing too long and laughing with another man.

The elevator dinged.

You barely stepped inside the apartment when In-ho grabbed your wrist and pinned you against the wall, his body caging yours in.

Your breath caught. “ In-ho—”

“ You like him touching you?” He asked, voice low, dark, dangerous.

“ You like giving other men permission to touch what’s mine?”

Your mouth opened, then shut. “ We were just talking—”

“ Really?” He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

“ Because from where I stood, he looked like he wanted to unwrap you like a present.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “ You’re overreacting.”

“ Am I?” His thigh pushed between your legs just enough to make you feel how close he was.

“ Because you moaned for me earlier like you’d let me tear that dress off right there on the ballroom floor.”

“ You’re insane.” You whispered, pulse screaming in your neck.

“ I am, actually.” He growled, dragging his fingers up your thigh.

“ You make me insane. Watching you smile for someone else. Laugh with someone else.”

“ You were the one who didn’t say anything until—”

He cut you off with a kiss—hard, bruising, desperate.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he could break through your bones to claim you from the inside out.

You whimpered, grabbing at his shirt, your legs already buckling. And when he finally pulled away, lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he whispered into your mouth:

“ You can pray all you want. But it’s already too late, sweetheart.”

...

The door clicked shut behind you with a heavy finality. In-ho tipped the driver, barely muttering a thanks, and then followed you in like a shadow soaked in gasoline.

You walked in, still silent, nerves fluttering in your chest like moths trapped in a glass jar. Despite staying here for a while now, you always forgot how huge his apartment really was.

Modern, masculine, expensive as hell—just like him. It smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and something dangerous.

You barely took a step into the living room when—

A large hand wrapped around the back of your neck, firm but not cruel. You gasped, whirling, only to be dragged forward as his lips crashed onto yours.

It was not a kiss. It was an attack.

A claim. A consequence.

His mouth moved with a hunger that had been caged far too long.

His tongue demanded, not asked.

Your lips parted on reflex, and he took.

Took the gasp. Took the fire. Took the control.

You stumbled backward, trying to stay upright, but he was relentless. The heat between your bodies fused like molten glass.

And then—clang—your back hit cold ivory keys.

The piano.

You startled slightly at the sound, a sharp breath escaping your lips, and In-ho used that instant like a wolf who found a weak spot—he groaned, gripped your hips tight, and plundered your mouth again.

Your tongues clashed, wild and reckless.

Each kiss is deeper, wetter, messier.

You felt the low rumble in his chest vibrate through your ribs.

“ You like playing games?” He rasped against your lips, panting, pressing you harder into the piano.

“ You like teasing me, looking at other men while I’m standing right there?”

You gripped his shirt, trying to breathe, trying to think—but he was everywhere. His scent, his body, his voice dropping low like sin itself.

“ I didn’t mean—”

“ You knew exactly what you were doing.” He said, kissing down your jaw, his hands spreading across your waist, fingertips like fire.

“ Wiggling that perfect little ass in that dress. Laughing with him. Touching his arm.”

He gritted his teeth, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His expression was furious…but also wrecked. Like he’d been holding something in for too long, and it finally exploded.

“ I watched you all night.” He growled.

“ Watched you glow for someone else. And I thought—fuck, maybe she really doesn’t care.”

“ In-ho…”

He slid a hand to your thigh, gripping it as he lifted your leg and hooked it around his waist, pulling you flush against his growing hardness.

“ But then you looked at me. Just once. And I knew.” His forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow.

“ You’re mine. Even when you’re being cruel. Even when you’re pretending not to be.”

You gasped when he shifted his hips, dragging delicious friction right where you needed to pulse the hardest. Your head fell back, hitting the piano with a dull thud. He chuckled low.

“ You’re noisy.” He whispered into your neck.

“ And I haven’t even started playing my game yet.”

“ In-ho, please—”

“ Oh no…” He cut you off with a wicked grin.

“ You started this. Teasing me. Eye-fucking me like a brat. So now—” He ghosted his lips down your collarbone, making you shiver.

“ You’re gonna sit back. Be a good girl. And play by my rules.”

You swallowed hard, heart jackhammering in your chest. “ And if I don’t?”

His smile turned feral. “ Then I’ll make sure you scream loud enough to break every damn string on this piano.”

You laughed breathlessly, unable to stop the fire that was curling in your stomach. “ You’re insane.”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear, his voice dark and rich. “ I told you before…I’m insane for you.”

Your breath stuttered in your throat. You felt his words slide into your skin like velvet and fire, seeping into every weak spot you tried so hard to guard.

And the worst part?

You wanted to lose this game.

Your leg still wrapped around his waist, In-ho leaned in and kissed you again—slower this time, but no less intense.

His tongue explored your mouth like he had all night to memorize it. His hands roamed possessively, mapping your body like it already belonged to him.

He moved his lips to your jaw, then to your ear.

“ You think you can drive me crazy and get away with it?” His voice dripped with danger and sin.

Your fingers tangled into his hair. “ What if I do?”

He chuckled—low and feral. “ Then I’ll just have to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.”

He pulled away just enough to look at you, eyes burning with lust and challenge. Then he spun you around in one fluid motion, pressing your stomach against the glossy surface of the piano.

You gasped—half from shock, half from the delicious anticipation that lit up your spine.

“ You think you’re clever.” He murmured against the back of your neck.

“ But you haven’t even seen what I’m capable of.”

He kissed your shoulder slowly, then trailed his lips downward along the line of your spine, lifting your dress with maddening patience.

Every inch of exposed skin felt like it was being branded by the heat of his breath.

“ You looked too good in this…” He muttered.

“ Too fucking good. I should’ve never let you walk out of the room wearing it.”

“ You didn’t let me do anything.” You bit back, breathless.

In-ho smirked. “ Exactly. And that’s your first mistake.”

One hand pinned your wrists gently to the piano lid while the other explored—teasing, deliberate, electric.

He was toying with you, but you knew this wasn’t just lust.

This was punishment.

This was claiming.

This was him saying: you can flirt, tease, laugh with other men—but no one will ever ruin you like I do.

“ You don’t get to tempt me.” He whispered hotly against your skin.

“ Then act like I’m the problem when I finally snap.”

“ And what happens.” You panted.

“ When I don’t want you to stop?”

He froze for half a second—just enough to show you that your words struck bone. Then—

“ You just gave me your consent.” He growled, pulling you back into him, mouth reclaiming yours with renewed hunger.

“ Game over. You’re mine.”

The air between you was heavy—so thick it pulsed.

Your skin flushed, the piano still humming faintly beneath you from the earlier chaos. But none of it compared to the way In-ho looked at you now.

His lips crashed against yours again, mouth hot and greedy, swallowing your moan as if he needed it to breathe.

His hands traveled to your waist with a kind of reverence and desperation all at once, fingers digging in, claiming you like he had something to prove.

You weren’t even sure who pulled away first, but your lungs begged for air.

The moment your lips parted, a thick strand of saliva stretched between you—glinting under the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Neither of you looked away.

“ I wanted to rip him off you.” In-ho growled, his voice wrecked and raw.

“ When I saw his hand on your waist—my fucking place—I nearly lost it.” Your breath hitched, pulse thundering in your ears.

“ I wanted to drag you away. Pin you against the wall. Tell every single person in that room—including your father—that you’re mine.” He confessed, gripping your hips tighter.

“ Only mine. If anyone gets to touch you, it’s going to be me.”

You smirked, heat pooling low in your belly.

“ Sounds possessive.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips across your jaw.

“ It is.”

Your hands moved to his tux jacket, tugging it off his broad shoulders. You dropped it slowly to the floor, your fingers barely grazing the muscles underneath his dress shirt.

He didn’t stop you.

He watched you—hungry, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

You gently pushed him back, and he obeyed, chest rising and falling as you turned your back to him and slowly began loosening the straps of your red dress.

“ Careful.” You murmured over your shoulder, voice like liquid temptation.

“ You might go completely insane tonight.”

His jaw flexed. “ I already have.”

The silk slid down your arms like water. But before it could pool at your feet, In-ho surged forward, catching you in his arms. The dress hung from your hips, forgotten, as his hands swept over your bare back.

“ You’re not just a body to me.” He said, voice quieter now, but no less intense.

“ You’re a goddamn obsession.”

He lifted you effortlessly, placing you back onto the piano bench—right on the black and white keys.

A discordant note rang out beneath you as the instrument cried softly in protest.

But you weren’t paying attention to the music anymore. His hands cradled your face. His eyes devoured you—like you were the most exquisite piece of art he’d ever laid eyes on.

“ If I’m going to make a mistake…” He whispered, brushing his thumbs along your cheekbones.

“ Then I want that mistake to be you.”

And then he kissed you again—not rough this time, but soft.

Devotional.

As if he wanted to memorize the taste of your mouth forever.

You clutched his shirt, pulled him closer, and whispered against his lips, “ Then ruin me properly, In-ho.”

A dangerous gleam lit in his eyes.

“ Oh, darling…” His smile turned slow and sinful as he unbuttoned his shirt, piece by piece.

“ Gladly.”

In-ho shrugged off the last of his white sleeves, letting the fabric fall like silk onto the hardwood floor.

The moonlight carved every sculpted line of his chest and abs into high definition—like a sculpture brought to life just for you.

His skin glistened slightly from the heat between your bodies, the contrast of soft shadows and hard muscle impossible to ignore.

Your breath caught as your fingers—driven by a hunger you no longer tried to hide—slipped across his chest.

The texture of his warm skin, the taut muscles beneath your palm, sent a shiver up your spine.

Your hand traced slowly, reverently, lower…fingertips grazing the ridges of his abs. You gasped at the feel, lips parting slightly as your thoughts turned sinful and your body followed.

He let out a sharp, guttural growl—low and full of warning. The kind of sound that wasn't meant to scare you off…but to devour your restraint.

You moved closer, pressing soft kisses across his chest.

You took your time, tasting him, marking him with your lips. With each kiss, his breath grew heavier—until a rough moan escaped him, reverberating through his ribs beneath your mouth.

You glanced up at him with a smirk, eyes glinting. You knew what you were doing.

And so did he.

But now…it was his turn.

In-ho’s hands moved with sudden purpose, large palms gripping your waist as he turned the tide without effort.

He pressed you against the edge of the piano again, his head dipping low to your neck—his breath hot, his mouth eager. You barely had time to gasp before his lips found your skin.

The first kiss was soft…but the second—God.

His teeth scraped lightly as he dragged them along your throat, then bit gently down, just hard enough to claim.

Then another.

And another.

He wasn’t just kissing you—he was branding you, leaving behind a constellation of hickeys like a secret language only he would understand.

You tilted your head back with a moan, hands gripping his shoulders like he was the only thing tethering you to this earth.

His mouth trailed downward.

Across your collarbone.

Licking. Nibbling.

Each motion deliberate, each moan he pulled from you more desperate than the last. Then, he knelt—slowly, reverently—before you, his gaze dragging up your body like a prayer spoken in the dark.

His hands slid up your thighs with a reverence that sent goosebumps cascading across your skin. When his lips reached your chest, he paused. Looked up at you. His eyes—normally so cool and composed—were glassy now.

Wide. Pleading.

As if asking: May I worship you?

And you…you just nodded.

He leaned forward, kissed your skin softly, then again—his tongue circling with maddening patience.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your bones. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady, holding you here—right where he wanted you.

Right where you wanted to be.

Every touch, every sound, every breath between you was a crescendo building toward something unstoppable.

And through it all, the piano beneath you whispered low notes with every shift of your body—a haunting, accidental symphony to a night neither of you would ever forget.

“ Sit on the keys.” He said, eyes dark with want.

You hesitated, your legs still wrapped around him.

“ But…the piano—”

“ I don’t care.” He interrupted, already lifting you by the waist.

“ Let the whole world hear us.”

The second your bare skin touched the keys, a chaotic melody rang out—discordant, unplanned, but thrilling in its rebellion. You gasped at the sound, the intimacy of the moment heightened by the echo of keys beneath you.

He stepped back for a breath, only to let his hands slide down your thighs and grip them firmly, spreading you open like you were the answer to a question he’d been asking all his life.

The silk of your dress was tugged away in a single fluid motion and discarded without a second glance.

Now, there was nothing left between you but want.

His eyes dragged over you—hunger, awe, worship all tangled in the heat of his stare. You opened your mouth to say something, but the words never came.

He dropped to his knees like you were a deity, and he’d been starved of prayer for too long. Then his mouth was on you.

A cry escaped you—raw and instinctive—as his tongue dragged a long, deliberate stroke across your center.

His hands gripped your thighs harder as he buried himself deeper, tongue working you over with such precise desperation that your spine arched and your fingers flew into his hair, tugging, grounding, begging.

The keys clanged under you again with each jolt of pleasure, a haunting, broken symphony to the chaos of your bodies.

In-ho moaned into you, the sound vibrating through your core. His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and dark, seeking something wordless.

Permission. Trust. Surrender.

You nodded, breath trembling.

His long fingers replaced his tongue for a moment—he slid one between your folds slowly, carefully. You gasped as he entered you, the stretch sudden, and your fingers tightened in his hair.

“ You’re doing so well.” He murmured, voice rough with reverence.

Then he curled his fingers—once, twice—searching, until—

“ Fuck, In-ho!” You cried out, head thrown back as the keys beneath you clattered in violent protest.

He repeated it, again and again, curling, stroking that hidden place inside you that shattered reason. Your body trembled, your breath short and erratic.

You could feel it building—pleasure pulling tight, your whole being strung like a note about to break. And he never looked away from you.

Even as he took you to the edge, even as he licked, kissed, tasted the proof of how you unraveled beneath him—he stared up at you like you were a miracle unfolding in front of him.

You fell apart with a cry that echoed through the room, a sharp, sweet crescendo of pleasure that burst like stars behind your eyes.

The piano keys screamed your release with clashing notes, the room spinning around your breathless, shaking body.

And still, he stayed there. He didn’t stop. He tasted every last drop of you like it was something sacred. Like your pleasure was his purpose.

Only when your legs trembled around him and your fingers slid from his hair did he rise, his mouth glistening, his expression a mix of pride, awe…and something dangerously close to love.

He leaned in close, voice hoarse and reverent.

“ You’re…everything. I’d burn the world just to have this again.”

Your body trembled, legs barely steady as you tried to recover from the high he had just drawn out of you—but In-ho wasn’t done.

Not even close.

You watched as his hand reached down, the soft zip of his pants cutting through the haze in the room.

And then he freed himself.

Your eyes widened, breath catching at the sight of him—thick, flushed, and heavy against his stomach.

It pulsed with need, and the angry red hue of it made you blink, your face heating as intrusive thoughts raced into your mind.

That’s supposed to go inside me?

You stared at it, then at him, then back at it again.

“ Do you see what you’ve done to me?” In-ho growled, his voice rasping like gravel.

“ Come here.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. He caught that flicker of doubt in your eyes.

“ I…I’ve never done this.” You admitted softly, cheeks flushed.

“ No one’s ever touched me like this, In-ho. You’re the first. And you’re…you’re huge.”

A small, wicked smile curved his lips, but it faded into something softer when he saw the tremble in your hands.

“ I’ll guide you.” He whispered, reaching up to cup your face.

“ We don’t have to rush. If it hurts, stop. But if it feels good…take what you want from me.”

He sat on the edge of the piano bench, spreading his legs slightly, motioning you down.

“ Straddle me.”

You climbed down from the keys—making them clatter again—and positioned yourself over his lap, heart thundering.

He reached for your hand and wrapped it around the length of him. You inhaled sharply at the warmth and weight of him in your palm.

“ Now…” He whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek.

“ Take your time.”

You guided him to your entrance, nervousness prickling over your skin like static.

Slowly, achingly slowly, you sank down onto him.

The stretch made you whimper, and you clung to his shoulders, eyes brimming with tears.

“ In-ho…” Your voice cracked.

He kissed your jaw. “ You’re doing so well. You’re perfect. I’ve got you.”

The sensation was overwhelming, but his words kept you grounded. Inch by inch, he filled you—your breath hitching, your body trying to adjust to the fullness.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and he kissed it away.

When you finally took him fully, your bodies pressed flush, you both gasped—him from the feel of your tightness around him, you from the strange, raw sense of completeness.

“ You okay?” He whispered against your neck.

You nodded weakly. “ I…I think I can move.”

“ Then move for me, baby. Show me how you dance.”

With trembling legs, you began to roll your hips, slowly at first, testing.

The pain dulled with each pass, replaced with the warm pulse of pleasure spreading through your body like fire licking up dry leaves.

He groaned beneath you, hands anchoring you to him, guiding your rhythm. And then—he did the most ridiculous, beautiful thing. One of his hands stretched out behind you, fingers finding the piano keys.

You gasped when the notes rang out, soft and melodic—a romantic song building from nothing, while you moved on top of him.

“ You’re insane.” You laughed breathlessly.

He grinned. “ Maybe. But look at you. You’re the most beautiful melody I’ve ever played.”

The sight of him—bare, swollen with desire, playing a gentle piano piece while buried inside you—was so wildly erotic it nearly undid you. The harmony of your breathy moans and the tender melody filled the room like a fevered dream.

Your pace quickened, and he met each motion with a slow, deep thrust upward, refusing to let go of your hips. You gasped, your cries syncing with the keys under his hand.

“ Keep going.” He murmured, lips against your ear.

“ Dance for me. Show the world how good you are.”

You clung to his shoulders, your body moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing that final high.

It hit fast—sharp and blinding—your body tightening, trembling, until the world exploded in heat and noise and chaos.

In-ho growled your name, holding you still as his own climax tore through him, his arms crushing you to his chest as he buried himself deep, spilling every ounce of himself inside you.

Silence followed.

The last note of the piano echoed, then faded.

You collapsed against him, utterly spent, your forehead resting against his damp collarbone.

“ Well…” You gasped between panting breaths.

“ I guess the sun will have to wait. I can’t walk after that.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around you tighter.

“ Good. Let it rise. Let everyone know you’re mine.”

You smiled—exhausted, shaken, deeply full of him in every way. And in that moment, you weren’t just claimed. You were cherished.

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koyagifs · 3 months ago

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𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

pairing: sylus x non mc!reader genre: angst with no comfort word count:1.4k summary: you've always prided yourself with being one of sylus closest informant & casual fuck buddy until little miss hunter came into his life and ruined it.. warning(s):

You were always proud of your place at Sylus’ side.

Not his partner — you never let yourself dream that far. But you were closer to him than anyone else in this tangled web of danger and deception. His trusted informant in the shadows, slipping him intel before anyone else even caught wind of the trail. His companion in dark corners, in silk sheets and stolen moments, where duty blurred into something that felt almost like affection — almost.

You told yourself it was enough. It had to be enough. Until she showed up.

You remember the day you first told Sylus about her. You were so proud of yourself. So eager to impress him with your sharp eyes, your quick thinking. His loyal informant, always two steps ahead of the game. Always bringing him the next puzzle piece, the next target, the next name on a list of shadows.

Her name had been just another one to you. A whisper in a back alley, a sliver of information pried loose with blood and sweat. You delivered it to him with your usual smirk, expecting nothing more than a nod, a mission brief, maybe even a reward between tangled sheets later that night.

You didn’t know then. You didn’t know she would be the one to catch his attention, not just as a useful tool, but as something more.

You hate yourself for it. At first, it was guilt that gnawed at your insides — a sickening, sour taste every time you saw her. You hated that you hated her, this girl you’d never met, who’d done nothing wrong except exist in the place you once stood. You tried to bury it. You tried to be better.

But little by little, the guilt rotted into something colder. Sharper.

You stopped caring if it made you a villain. Because the truth was simple, brutal, undeniable: she took your place. The place you bled for. Fought for. The place you believed was yours — not by right, no, you were never that naïve — but by merit. By loyalty. By the weight of every secret you’d carried for him in silence.

Now, you watch them from the shadows, her at his side, him looking at her the way you always wanted him to look at you — and there’s no guilt left. Only fire. Only hate, burning in the hollow of your chest.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to wonder if you should’ve let her name die in your throat that day.

You used to know his routines by heart. The quiet hours of dawn when Sylus would sit by the window, nursing a cup of bitter coffee as you lazily draped yourself across his couch — his couch, your couch, home. You used to think you belonged there.

But that was before. Before she started leaving her things scattered around his place like little markers of territory. Before Sylus came home late one night, his eyes stormy, his voice clipped and cold as he told you to pack your things.

You didn’t argue. You told yourself you were too proud to beg. But the truth was, you were too heartbroken to speak at all.

Now, your own home feels like a cage. Too quiet, too empty. Your days blur into one long stretch of silence, only broken by the echoes of memories you can't seem to drown out.

You used to run missions by Sylus' side, your reports the first thing he’d read, your voice the one he trusted in the field. Now, it’s Luke and Kieran. You catch glimpses of them in briefings you were never invited to, hear their voices crackling through comms you no longer carry. They don’t look at you anymore. They barely even acknowledge you exist.

And it hurts, gods, it hurts— Because the twins, they were yours too, in a way. Your partners-in-crime, your shadowed companions. You shared more than missions; you shared laughs, sharp and breathless after surviving something that should’ve killed you all. You used to steal moments between chaos, teasing jabs and half-smiles, and nights out where you pretended — just for a little while — that you were normal.

Now those moments belong to her.

The late-night drinks, the quiet dinners, the inside jokes you built from the ground up— They're hers, all hers.

You wonder if they tell her the same stories they once told you. If they laugh the same way. If they even remember you were once the one who stood at their side, a blade drawn in the dark, their equal in every way that mattered.

The stem of the glass is cold between your fingers, condensation trailing down to your skin as you lift it to your lips. The champagne tastes sharp, but you barely register it. For a fleeting moment, it almost feels normal — just you, the twins’ easy banter in the background, a gathering that once would have ended with laughter and familiar touches. You let yourself pretend. Just for a breath. Just long enough to imagine it’s still you at Sylus’ side, still you in their eyes.

Then Sylus’ voice crackles through your earpiece, snapping the illusion clean in two.

"Do you see them?"

His voice is as steady as ever, but you know him too well. There’s tension there, tightly wound beneath the polished exterior. You recognize it instantly. You always have.

Your eyes sweep across the crowd, trained from years of knowing exactly what to look for. And there they are.

Your chest tightens.

"They just arrived," you reply softly, keeping your tone level, professional — even as your throat threatens to close.

Across the room, you spot her.

Sylus had his arm wrapped around her waist, casually bantering with someone.

You force your gaze away. Focus. Focus on the mission.

There’s a beat of silence in your earpiece. Longer than it should be.

Then, his voice again — quieter this time, almost thoughtful. "Good. Keep your distance."

As if you needed the reminder. As if you could ever get close again.

"Copy," you answer, your voice cool, detached. But inside, something is unraveling. A bitter twist in your chest, an ache that never seems to fade.

You drain the rest of your champagne in a single swallow, the bubbles stinging your throat. The gown clings to you like a second skin, beautiful and suffocating all at once. Tonight, you wear the mask well.

You don’t even remember how you ended up outside on the balcony, the cold biting at your skin, the wind tugging at the edges of your gown, the city lights below a blur of indifference. They keep flashing — all those little lives, the people moving on with their mundane little stories. You can’t help but feel disconnected from it all.

The earpiece is sitting on the edge of the balcony, discarded like another useless thing you’ve thrown away. Like everything you’ve lost.

You should be thinking about the mission. About the mess that’s left behind. But you can’t. You’re too tired to care.

Tears streak down your face. You don’t try to stop them. The cold wind makes them sting, but you barely feel it.

Everything that you’ve done, everything that’s happened, it’s all leading to this moment — this suffocating silence. You’ve done your part. You’ve torn it all down, just like they wanted, just like you wanted. But the emptiness? The hollow ache that follows? No one prepared you for this.

The sob that escapes you is quiet, but it feels like it rips through you. Your chest aches, a sharp, guttural pain that echoes with everything you’ve lost — with everything you never really had.

You were never really his, you realize now. Not truly. Not the way you wanted to be. Not the way you used to believe you could be. Sylus was never yours to keep.

You wipe your tears away, but they just keep coming. It’s useless. You’re beyond the point of pretending to be fine. And even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter.

You hiccup, pressing your palm to your mouth to stifle the sound, but it doesn’t help. You don’t care anymore. The tears spill over, a quiet, broken release that echoes into the wind.

You’re not sure how long you stay out there — crying, shivering, fighting the overwhelming pull of despair that threatens to swallow you whole. The wind cuts through your gown like a reminder that you have no one left to offer warmth. No one left to stand beside you.

Sylus is gone. The mission is over. And you are, too.

taglist: @rjreins @ssacredd @gigikubolong29 @juliuscaesarsstabbedback @rena0921 @futurecorpse92 @fox-and-badger

#love and deepspace #lads angst #lads sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x y/n

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the-cosmic-cauldron · 3 months ago

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Astrology: Those That Get Deceived (Victims of The Manipulators, Abusers, and Power Hungry)

The strong, the bold, the courageous—those who step into the light, unafraid to go after what they want. They seize the earth in their hands and pull it close to their hearts. These are the savages. These are the ones who declare, I am here. I deserve to be on this earth. I will take control of what I can.

But life does not exist without duality. Those who step into the light with confidence, courage, and boldness are inevitably met by those who cannot do the same. The ones on the outskirts—hiding in darkness, obscurity, and shadows. The ones afraid to show their faces, speak their names, or reveal their true selves. The ones who are ashamed of their appearance or struggle to understand their own emotions. And they fall right into the hands of the bold.

This post is about those who are deceived—the ones at the bottom, while another stands above, ready to stomp on them. Yet, not all of them are weak. Some are simply gullible, naive, innocent, and driven by a desire for good.

But today, we’re not exploring this from a psychological perspective. Instead, we’re diving into the astrological perspective of those who fall victim to deception.

Pisces Moon: Believer of The Sob Stories 🥺

Pisces Moons are deep empaths, and that’s exactly where their vulnerability lies. Their emotional depth and compassion make them prime targets for manipulation. People prey on their kindness, knowing that all it takes is evoking a strong emotion—especially sadness or guilt—to get them to comply. A well-placed sob story or emotional appeal can turn a Pisces Moon into a puppet, ready to act at the manipulator’s will.

Moon in the 7th House: They’d Rather Lie Next To A Snake Than Be Alone 🥺

These individuals crave harmony so deeply that they can easily be deceived. They don’t want to be alone, and their strong desire for peaceful relationships often blinds them to red flags. Because they struggle to form truly authentic connections, they tend to attract people who keep them around for convenience rather than genuine care. While they provide stability to others, their own emotional stability is often compromised by those who manipulate them. In their search for love and belonging, they inadvertently open the door to people who take advantage of their giving nature.

Libra Rising: Devil Advocates That Fall For The Devil 🥺

Libra Risings struggle to distinguish between good and bad people because they always try to see things from multiple perspectives. While their ability to empathize and play devil’s advocate is admirable, it also makes them highly susceptible to manipulation. If they try too hard to find the “good side” of someone toxic, they may overlook warning signs altogether. Because they value fairness and harmony, they often attract enemies disguised as friends—people who exploit their diplomatic nature to manipulate them. Libra Risings, be careful. The person you call a best friend might just be the one holding the knife behind your back.

Cancer Sun: Too Kind For Their Own Good 🥺

Yes, Cancer, you wear your heart on your sleeve—even if you think you don’t. People can sense your emotional depth, and manipulative individuals will use it against you. If someone appeals to your love for family, home, or sentimental values, you may fall for their words without realizing you’re being deceived. Your emotions are your greatest strength, but they can also be your downfall. It’s easy for others to twist them in their favor, leaving you to walk away feeling scammed and used—only realizing it after the damage has been done.

Mars in the 12th House: The Easy Target 🥺

I’m not saying you’re weak, but let’s be honest—you struggle to stand up for yourself. Asserting your boundaries is difficult, and manipulators see this as an open invitation to take advantage of you. Whether it’s bullies, abusers, or controlling figures, you tend to withdraw rather than confront them. Fear of conflict or negative consequences keeps you trapped, making it easy for others to deceive and control you. Manipulators pick at you effortlessly, knowing you’ll comply just to avoid confrontation. If you don’t learn to assert yourself, you’ll remain an easy target.

#astro notes #astro observations #astroblr #astrology #astro placements #astro community #astro posts

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l-artemisia-del-secolo · 8 months ago

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Death was inevitable.

You knew it, you felt it, you experienced it. All these years your existence as if was borrowed. Changing places, changing people, changing lives.

You didn't age. You didn't feel. You were stuck in the the neverending loop of lies and deception. You forgot who you were and where you came from.

Your jobs were unremarkable, your entourage - dull. No personal belongings, no memorabilia. Even your memories were almost gone.

It was a usual thing. You were spending your evening at work. For the last few months you were working at the restaurant. Blessed time. You could be on your own.

You heard the door open. But you did lock it.

"We're closed."

One look was enough to recognise her. Just a second and your heart almost burst from your chest. It was her. The inevitable, the dark, the devouring.

"Well, I opened the door. I hope you don't mind."

She was weirdly normal. No skull, no greens, no crown. She could fool anyone with this disguise.

"What are you doing here?" You were ready to protect yourself. Your magic was almost palpable.

"That's a weird question." She crossed her arms. "I came to see you."

"How did you find me?" You were hoping tables and chairs could slow her down. Even a second could be valuable.

"What kind of question is that?" Her amused laugh was an insult to the reality itself. "I never lost you."

"No. no. no." You shook your head in disbelief. "I am protected from your sight. Sorcerers..."

"Oh, those idiots..." She was adorable with her barely hidden disgust. "Noone can be hidden from me. And..."

With the wave of her hand all the obstacles disappeared.

"'... we're bound, my love. remember?"

With a flick of a wrist her way to you was covered in flowers. She made the first step.

"Stay where you are."

"Fine, fine." She looked around. "Nice place. You like working here?"

You couldn't believe it was really going on. Rio was almost polite. You were almost broken. What if she was telling the truth? What if you were never really hidden from her?

"Not much of a choice."

"Really? Sourceres lied to you about protection and they made your existence unbearable? And people call me evil."

"You are."

"How?" Rio was offended. Childish reaction to an unpleasant truth.

"You manipulate people into bringing you more souls."

"Oh, I do hope you're not being serious. I'm the guide, not a murderer. People always make their own choice."

Now it was your turn to laugh. Comedy indeed. With Rio having the main role.

"How dare you..." you took a few steps towards her. "When it comes to you, there's no choice at all. Not even an illusion. Not even for the living."

You were boiling with anger. You were shivering with fear. For so long you tried to avoid this.

"You're not being fair..."

"What are you doing here Rio?!"

"I want us to be together." She pointed to your heart. "I want you to come home with me."

Of course. Why even for a second you believed that you could be free. An illusion, your life without her was nothing more than a dream. She could easily shatter it with one word, with one move.

"We never had a home. We never..."

"Of course we did..." Images of your past appeared.

Yes, Rio did create a world for you. Just and simple. You could do whatever you wanted, you could be whoever you wanted. Everything was easy. And you were loved. Your home was with her.

"Rio..." Everything that was sleeping inside of you suddenly was awake. Yes, memories were appearing again. You felt overwhelmed. But then you gasped. No, you wouldn't allow her to trick you again. "... I won't allow you."

"I don't understand." Rio said under her breath. "I gave you the time and you're still angry."

Genuine confusion. A triumph for you.

"Time?"

"Yes, I gave you 100 years and you still don't want me..."

"You gave me?" lamps started flickering "I ran away from you!"

Oh, this was torture. Rio tried to get closer, but you raised your hand. A warning. The air itself started vibrating.

"The important part is..."

You invited the wind, it was silencing Rio.

"You wanted me to be trapped in your pocket dimension. You don't remember this? Veins of your world that were holding my wrists." You rolled up your sleeves. "Your creations always leave scars!"

"I made a mistake. I gave you the time...."

Rio's words were just an echo. You were once again reliving your worst nightmare. You were trapped. You were betrayed by someone you loved.

"What do you know about time?" You were so stupid to believe that you had a chance. You left the world you loved just to be dragged back in by someone who cursed you.

"I can heal them."

In a blink of an eye your scars disappeared. Painful reminder of your dreams, hopes and stupidity. How soothing it was to feel Rio's black power on you. Where the fuck was your survival instinct?

"It doesn't change anything. I left you."

"I wanted only to protect you."

"With a cage?" Now it was your time to show illusion. Shackles appeared around Rio's wrists, pulling her closer to you. "Do you feel protected?"

Where was her confidence? Where were her tricks? Those shackles were the weight of her guilt.

"I didn't want you to leave me like the others. It was the only way."

It was so simple for Rio. She didn't hesitate, she didn't think. It wasn't a game. It was so trivial.

"You broke me." You were choking on your tears. "You took away everything. Why tonight?"

"That day I broke the rules for you." Rio once again pointed to your heart. You remembered how her touch felt.

"I didn't ask you to."

"No." All the restraints disappeared. "You never had to."

One last step.

"You cursed me."

"I gave you the only thing I had." She touched your cheek. "And then I've made the worst mistake I ever could."

You hated her. How she was capable of showing deepest love and greatest disdain. Mistake? You were the one who had to pay for it. And now she was calling you back.

"We are bound." You shared the same black blood. Immortality. Her gift. What was the point of denying it?

You took the last step. It was so easy to find comfort in her embrace. There were tears in her eyes. Clouds of loyalty and promises.

Years of suffering were erased only because she called you. How could this be possible? Her breath on your skin was enough. It was so easy to give in. You shared the same life. It was so easy to convince yourself of her good intentions.

"Rio..."

"Let's go home my love."

Death was indeed inevitable.

#marvel self insert #marvel #agatha all along #rio vidal x reader #rio vidal #rio vidal x you

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mrsfancyferrari · 6 months ago

Text

NY Kisses

Summary: LH44 + New Year Kisses

Song: Starboy · The Weekend

Author’s note: Happy New Years! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 2.7k

MASTERLIST - F1

The bass vibrated through the floor, a steady pulse that mirrored the nervous flutter in your chest. Stepping into the expansive living room, you were immediately engulfed in a cacophony of laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses.

Fairy lights twinkled from every available surface, casting a warm, golden glow over the crowd gathered. You recognized a few faces – some of Lewis’s cousins, a couple of his friends – but mostly, the room was a sea of unfamiliar faces.

You clutched your glass of sparkling cider a little tighter, scanning the room.

And then you saw him.

Lewis.

He stood near the fireplace, leaning against the mantle, his posture relaxed yet somehow commanding. He was talking animatedly to a group of people, his head thrown back in laughter, and the sight of him, in that deceptively casual black tank top that highlighted the lean muscles of his arms and shoulders, stole your breath a little.

It was a simple piece of clothing, but on him, it was devastating. Your cheeks warmed, a flush spreading up your neck.

You'd been harboring this crush on Lewis for what felt like forever. He was everything you found attractive: intelligent, funny, kind, and undeniably gorgeous.

And tonight, in this setting, with the promise of a new year hanging in the air, your feelings felt even more heightened, more precarious.

Taking a deep breath, you navigated through the crowd, your eyes drawn back to Lewis every few seconds. A small smile played on his lips as he caught your gaze, and he excused himself from his conversation, making his way towards you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate somewhere deep within you. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice sounding a little breathless even to your own ears. "Thanks for inviting me.”

He grinned, a flash of white teeth that made your stomach do a little flip. “Wouldn't have been a party without you,” he said, his eyes holding yours for a moment longer than you expected. “How are you doing? Need a refill?”

“I’m good,” you managed, hoping your voice didn't betray the nervous flutter in your chest. “And this is fine, thanks.”

“Come on,” he said, gesturing towards the quieter corner by the windows. “Let’s get you away from the chaos.”

You followed him, feeling ridiculously pleased that he’d singled you out. The corner offered a view of the snowy landscape outside, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pristine white blanket of snow.

“So, how’s your evening been so far?” he asked, leaning back against the window frame, his dark eyes fixed on you.

“It’s great,” you said, honestly. “It’s a really beautiful house. Your family has done a wonderful job decorating.”

He laughed lightly. “My mom is the one responsible for all of this. She gets a little dramatic when it comes to holiday parties.”

“Well, she’s got excellent taste,” you said, feeling more comfortable now, the initial nervousness starting to fade.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice softening. There was a beat of silence, and you found yourself staring at the way the light played on his jawline, the way his dark braids fell across his forehead.

You’d known him for a while, but in this setting, under the soft lights and the buzz of the party, he seemed even more… captivating.

“So,” he started, breaking the silence. “Any big new year’s resolutions?”

You chuckled. "The usual I guess. Trying to exercise a bit more, maybe read a book each month, be a kinder person."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “All admirable. Me? I’m just hoping this year is a little less chaotic than the last.”

“I hear that,” you replied.

You talked for what felt like a few minutes, conversation flowing easily between you like it always did. It was one of the things you loved about being around Lewis – even when your heart was a tangled mess of nerves, he always had a way of making you feel comfortable.

He asked about your job, your friends, your plans for the coming year, and he listened with genuine interest, his eyes never leaving yours.

As the night progressed, you found yourselves gravitating back to the corner by the windows. The party around you became a warm hum, background noise to the quiet space you had carved out together.

You laughed at his jokes, told him about a funny incident that happened to you earlier in the week, and watched as the minutes ticked by, bringing you closer to the midnight countdown.

The energy in the room began to build, a tangible excitement thrumming through the crowd. People started gathering in front of the television, where a live feed of the ball dropping in Times Square was being projected.

Lewis moved closer to you, so close that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of his cologne and something else—something inherently him.

Your stomach tightened.

“Almost there,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

He was close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, and you could feel every nerve ending in your body prickle to attention.

The countdown began, the television screen flashing numbers in bright, bold font. “Ten… nine… eight…” the crowd chanted along. Your heart beat in your throat, a deafening drum against your ribs.

You risked a glance at Lewis, and found him already looking at you, his eyes dark with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“Seven… six… five…” The world seemed to narrow, focusing just on his face, the curve of his lips, the way the light made his eyes sparkle.

“Four… three… two…” Your gaze dropped to his lips, and you couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to feel his mouth on yours.

The thought sent a thrill of anticipation through you, a yearning so intense it was almost painful.

“One!” The room erupted in cheers, champagne corks popped, and a chorus of "Happy New Year" filled the air. The television screen went dark, replaced by the kaleidoscope of fireworks exploding across the New York skyline.

You turned to Lewis, your heart pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. The room was still buzzing, but in that moment, it was like the world had faded away, leaving only the two of you.

He leaned in, his gaze locking with yours. For a moment, time seemed to stop, and all you could hear was the frantic beat of your own heart.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing your skin.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

And then, he kissed you.

It was a soft kiss, tentative at first, like he was testing the waters. But then he deepened it, his lips pressing against yours with a warmth and a tenderness that made your knees go weak. You closed your eyes, your hands instinctively reaching up to cup his face.

It was everything you’d imagined, and so much more. The kiss was a promise, a connection, a silent language spoken between two hearts.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, your forehead touched his. You felt dizzy, like you'd just woken from a dream. You struggled to find the words in a moment so surreal and beautiful.

"That was..." you began, your voice still a little shaky.

He smiled, that gorgeous, heart-stopping smile that always made your breath catch. "It was," he finished for you, his eyes still holding yours, "perfect."

A shy smile stretched across your lips. "Yeah," you whispered. "It really was.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers still lingering on your cheek, and the sound sent a delightful shiver down your spine.

The party raged around you, confetti raining down like colorful snow, but your world was focused on him, on that kiss, and the silent promise of something new, something wonderful, beginning in the first moments of the new year.

"So," you finally said, regaining some of your composure, "does this mean I get a New Year’s kiss every year now?"

His eyes gleamed with mischief and something else that made your heart flutter. “Only if you want one,” he said, his voice husky.

And in that moment, surrounded by the echoes of the party and the promise of a new beginning, you knew exactly what you wanted. You smiled. “I think I do.”

A year later...

The living room was filled with a comfortable hum of chatter and clinking glasses. Fairy lights strung along the mantelpiece cast a warm glow on the faces of your friends huddled on the sofas and armchairs.

The scent of spiced apple cider hung in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of the pine tree standing proudly in the corner. It was New Year’s Eve, and the anticipation of the countdown felt almost palpable.

Lewis, his arm casually draped over your shoulder, leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. “Hang on, babe, I need to get something real quick,” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled against your ear.

His eyes, warm with that familiar mischievous glint, met yours for a brief second before he pulled away and headed towards the hallway.

You watched him go, a small smile playing on your lips. He was always doing that – disappearing for a minute only to reappear with some little surprise, some silly thing he thought you’d like.

It was one of the many things you loved about him. Maybe he was grabbing the ridiculous party hat he’d bought that afternoon, the one with plastic champagne bottles bobbing precariously on springs.

The conversation around you ebbed and flowed. You caught snippets of laughter and friendly banter, but your attention kept drifting towards the hallway, waiting for Lewis’s return.

Your friends, noticing your distracted gaze, started teasing you gently.

“Someone’s pining,” Sarah chuckled, nudging you with her elbow. Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Leave her alone, she’s just excited for her New Year’s kiss again,” Mark added, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

You blushed, feeling a bit silly. “I am not! I just… I’m wondering what Lewis is getting.” You tried to sound nonchalant, but your voice betrayed your true feelings. You were excited for your New Year’s kiss, especially if it was from Lewis.

"He’s probably just getting more beer," David quipped, causing everyone to laugh. You playfully rolled your eyes.

A wave of a low hum filled the air, the TV flashing a countdown timer. It was getting closer. 11:50. You unconsciously started tapping your foot, a nervous energy building within you.

Where was he? You began to feel a tiny pang of disappointment. You wanted to be with him.

“You alright?” It was Emily, her voice soft and concerned. She had seen the brief shift in your expression.

“Yeah, just…wondering when he’ll be back,” you admitted, trying to keep your tone light.

“He’ll be back soon, don’t worry. He’s probably trying to find the perfect champagne,” she replied with a reassuring smile.

11:55. Your heart was starting to beat a little faster. You could practically feel the collective anticipation in the room. People were adjusting their positions, getting ready to raise their glasses. Where was he?

And then, it happened.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, and suddenly, you heard the unmistakable sound of rapid footsteps. A frantic “Shit!” echoed from the hallway. Then, you saw him.

Lewis burst into the living room, his face a mixture of panic and determination. His braids were slightly disheveled, and he was breathing heavily. He looked as though he had run a marathon. He stopped abruptly just in front of you, his eyes wide.

“I… I lost track of time,” he gasped, his chest heaving. “I was sorting through… through that old box of photos and then I heard the countdown! I didn't realize it was almost midnight.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. He’d been looking at old photos? That was completely unexpected.

“You’ve been gone ages,” you said, your tone a mix of relief and amusement.

He ignored your comment, focusing all his attention on you. His eyes were fixed on yours, the same warm, mischievous glint now replaced with something akin to urgency. It was a look you didn’t often see, and it made your stomach flutter.

"It's not.. it's not midnight yet, is it?" he asked, almost panting.

You glanced at the television screen. 11:59:50. The seconds were ticking down rapidly.

"Almost," you answered, your voice a soft whisper.

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your face. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to miss it.”

You could hear the muffled sounds of the countdown, the excited murmurings around you. Your heart was practically thudding against your ribs. You looked up at him, your gaze locking with his.

The room around you seemed to fade away, leaving only him, his breath warm on your skin.

11:59:55… 11:59:56… 11:59:57…

“You okay?” you asked, a smile playing on your lips.

He laughed softly, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Never better," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours.

11:59:58… 11:59:59…

He leaned in, his gaze intense, and you closed the small gap between you two, your hands coming up to rest on his chest.

“Happy New Year,” he breathed against your lips, just as the room erupted in cheers and clinking glasses.

00:00

His lips met yours in a sweet, tender kiss that sent a wave of warmth through your entire body. It was nothing like the stolen pecks you two often shared, or the lingering kisses filled with playful teasing. This felt…different.

It was a kiss that held the weight of our feelings, a silent promise of the year to come. You felt yourself melt into him, completely lost in that shared moment.

The kiss lasted a moment longer than it should have, a moment where it felt as if the rest of the world had faded away. When you finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, the room was filled with the sound of happy chatter and the pop of champagne corks.

“Happy New Year,” you repeated, your voice soft. Your eyes still hadn't left his.

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with happiness. He ran a hand through his already disheveled braids. "I'm sorry, I got caught up... I didn't mean to leave you hanging."

You chuckled, playfully nudging him with your elbow. “It’s alright. It was worth the wait.” you glanced at the TV, which was now displaying a celebratory message.

"What were you doing, anyway? Looking at old photos?"

He nodded, his cheeks gaining a light pink hue. “Yeah, I found this old box in the attic. There were a bunch of photos from us last year, and I… I just got a bit lost in them, I guess.”

A warmth spread through your chest. He’d been looking at old pictures of you two? Your feelings for him felt even more profound than they had before.

“That’s… that’s lovely,” you said, your voice a soft whisper.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah. I realized that… I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend New Year’s with.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. The room around you faded once again, leaving only you and him in this small bubble of intimacy. You felt a surge of happiness so strongly that it almost took your breath away.

"I feel the same way," you admitted, your smile widening.

He leaned in and kissed you again, a quick, playful peck this time. “So, what do you say we ditch this crowd and find a quiet spot to, uh... look at some old photos?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. “I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. As you two walked out of the living room, leaving the celebrating crowd behind, you felt a sense of peace and contentment wash over you.

The New Year had just begun, and you knew that, with Lewis by your side, it was going to be an extraordinary one. The chaos of the near-miss midnight kiss had faded, replaced by a quiet understanding, a shared moment of connection that felt more significant than any grand gesture. It was a perfect start to the year, and it was all you could ever have asked for.

He was all you could ever have asked for. . . .

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juricel · 4 months ago

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OML I got this idea stuck in my damn brain like-

Reader aka us, being the ruler of the cookie kingdom (the kingdom we currently own as the player), and Shadow Milk Cookie begging to be let in the kingdom because he wanted to cause silly danger and more mischief (in his corruption), to only fall in love with us (could potentially become a yandere but up to you) after a few days/weeks of meeting.

Like - reader as very sweet, calm and cool that made SMC fall hard in love for them ? 💙🩵

a/n: don't know about everyone else, but me, personally, if I see shadow milk cookie begging to be let in my kingdom, I'd be more than willing to take him in... need to promote him to 2 stars...

— yandere! jester! shadow milk cookie x ruler! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: yandere themes, psychological and emotional manipulation, gaslighting, coercion, toxic relationships, extreme possessiveness, obsession, mind-breaking, corruption, shadow milk cookie is a cunt, slow-burn destruction, degradation, despair, entrapment, dependency, unhealthy power dynamics, existential horror, and dark romanticization of suffering, its written in shadow milk perspective so it's romanticized, potential ooc.

𖦁 above the high tower—so pristine, so sickeningly pure—a utopia. a kingdom balanced on the trembling fulcrum of equality, on the polished illusion of prosperity, on that laughable dream of heaven. when first he heard of it, he scoffed, a knowing little chuckle curling at the edge of his lips. a kingdom so spotless was a kingdom awaiting its first stain. a place so righteous, so unbearably good, was nothing more than a stage trembling in anticipation of its first act of sin. and if corruption was its fate—oh, the sweet, inexorable pull of ruin—then why not be the hand that guides it? the first dark filament woven into its tapestry, the first exquisite crack in its porcelain? for after all, what greater pleasure was there than watching a kingdom of splendor crumble? to witness the slow unraveling, the first fractures lacing through their golden foundations, the hesitant, horrified realization dawning in their wide, unspoiled eyes? a bliss; the way grandeur rots from within, the way righteousness sours into desperation. It was always such fun, never failing to elicit a laughter from his lips—to watch their heaven buckle under the weight of its own impossible promises, to see their shining citadel collapse into the very ruin they swore could never touch them.

𖦁 at first, that was his sole plan—a swift, merciless tainting, a single decisive stroke to mar their pristine dream. but ah, immediate corruption lacked artistry, lacked finesse, and it was certainly not his modus operandi. no, no, he was not some blunt force of ruin, some crude agent of chaos. his was a subtler touch, a patient, insidious creeping of decay. surely, it wouldn’t hurt to let the rot seep in slowly, to let the kingdom sip its own poison drop by drop? after all, a thing does not truly break unless it first believes itself unbroken. and what was the first step to that, but to endear the ruler? to weave himself into their favor, to become the whispered counsel at their ear, the trusted shadow at their side? a kingdom so pure, so blissfully naïve, would never suspect the serpent if it spoke in honeyed tones, if it coiled itself in silken loyalty. let them trust him, let them open their gates, their hearts, their very souls. corruption was sweetest when it was invited in. and so he did; draped himself in the garb of mirth, painted his deception in bright, foolish colors. a performer, a jester—a harmless thing, a trinket for amusement, a creature of capers and laughter. how naturally it all fell into place, how perfectly the pieces clicked. he acted, he jested, he spun his illusions like golden thread, and just as he had anticipated—just as he had orchestrated—one day, you finally took notice. one day, you plucked him from the streets and placed him at your side: as your personal jester.

𖦁 Calm, composed, tender—a ruler carved from the finest marble, whose very breath seemed to hold the delicate rhythm of a perfect, untroubled reign. An embodiment of a perfect ruler, both to his twisted sense of definition and in the term followers coined; a sovereign that ruled with grace and collection, one who will choose peace of their own kingdom rather than theirs, and most importantly, a sovereign exquisite to break, a monarch to watch crumble apart at the seams. With an oh-so-frail hands, he slowly fed you poison, feeding you sweet lullabies lies with every single time he invited himself to your court, yet with such gentleness, such tender adoration, you hardly noticed the slow, treacherous drip of it into your veins. His touch was light, his voice a soothing lullaby, his eyes a mirror to your own desires, reflecting the very world he had already begun to fracture. You laughed in his presence, you adored him as a child adores the fool who dances for their amusement, never suspecting the subtle malice woven beneath the laughter. You were the imperator, crowned and naive, and he—oh, he was no more than a jester, a trickster, a soft-spoken destroyer. He seeped in, unnoticed, beneath the cloak of love, until the kingdom you ruled had turned to ash. Every moment he spent by your side, every gentle word he whispered, drew you closer to the inevitable end. He was not the harbinger of doom, merely its messenger, and you, sweet sovereign, had already embraced the fall—he wasn't cruel! no, far from it, he was simply speeding up the process of your fate.

𖦁 Piece by piece, the delicate order of your kingdom crumbled, the carefully woven threads of control slipping, unraveling into the quiet chaos that waited with open arms. It was such a quiet delight, watching your face—watching the once-imperious set of your features soften, grow fragile. His sweet darling, his imperator—did you enjoy his performance? His quiet theatrics? The way he danced so close to your frail soul, each movement a deliberate stroke in the masterpiece of your undoing? Your laughter—so exquisite, so heartbreakingly tender—spilled into the air like the final note of a dying melody, trembling before fading into something unrecognizable. No longer the regal, composed mirth of a ruler, but something frayed at the edges, something raw, something slipping through your fingers before you could grasp what had changed. And he watched, oh, how he watched, as each delicate layer of your serenity cracked, one by one. And just as he had foreseen, you sought refuge in him—clinging, desperate, drawn to the very hands that had undone you. You needed him, craved the sweet poisons he fed you, each drop a fleeting reprieve from the reality gnawing at the edges of your soul and who was he but a sweet jester, a silken-tongued fool draped in motley mirth? After all, you were his dearest majesty, sovereign of his affections, and if such a luminous crown sought more of his quaint little revels, if those imperial fingers curled, ever so faintly, in silent demand—ah, how could he deny you? You were his to break, and break you he did—so gently, so tenderly, so exquisitely.

𖦁 And ah, how utterly darling you were like that—weren’t you meant to be the perfect ruler, the unshaken sovereign, the very pillar upon which your kingdom stood? But worry not! For he, your ever-faithful jester, would always be there to lift your spirits, to coo and fawn and wrap you in the silken embrace of his honeyed falsehoods. Sweetly, tenderly, he guided your gaze away from the creeping decay, his fingers featherlight as they covered your eyes, his touch a gentle shroud over the truth he was so lovingly unraveling. He was your jester, your fool, a puppet crafted for your amusement, a plaything meant to make you laugh—yet, oh, how beautifully the strings had tangled. For here you were, trembling beneath him, his sweet little sovereign, his fragile darling, lost and despairing, just as you were always meant to be. He yearned to keep you just like this—to clutch the dying breath of your laughter, to sink his fingers into it and squeeze until nothing remained but the broken echoes of something once bright. But joy was meaningless, a trinket easily shattered; no, the true rapture, the thing that set his soul alight, was your despair, your ruin, the exquisite tremor in your breath as realization crawled through your mind like a slow, cold hand. Oh, how he adored the way your smile faltered, how he savored the flicker of fear in those celestial eyes, the way your very soul seemed to wither beneath his touch. You were his masterpiece, your suffering a symphony, each fragile crack in your spirit a note in the melody he had composed with such tender cruelty. Your radiant smile, your trembling gaze—how divine they were, poised at the very edge of oblivion. And oh, how perfect you would be, entombed in eternity, frozen forever in that exquisite moment of collapse. Never whole again, never beyond his reach, never anything but his—his to twist, his to shatter, his to own. No one else could have you. No one else would understand. No one else deserved to witness the fragile, broken thing he had so carefully sculpted. You were his—his ruin, his darling, his little sovereign—forever and only his.

𖦁 Oh, but do not misunderstand him! He loved you, loved you wholly, the way a flame loves the fragile moth that it lures, the way a poet loves the ink that stains his trembling hands. Your gentleness, your calm, your measured poise—these he cherished, yes, these he cradled in the hollow of his palms like something sacred. But oh, his love, what he adored—no, what he worshipped—was that part of you which most repulsed yourself. The cracks, the stains, the lovely little rot that clung to your soul like mold upon marble. Your cruddy, your ruin, the decay that softened your edges into something closer—ah, so much closer—to his own. It was in that wretchedness that he found divinity; it was in your unbecoming that he saw you, at last, becoming his, a reflection of himself. He wanted you broken, petrified, stripped of all that made you whole. But don’t be so upset, won’t you? This was your fate, after all—etched into the marrow of your bones long before you could protest. You were blinded, drunk on the illusions of heaven and prosperity, stumbling through the gilded halls of your own self-deceit. And being the good little jester that he was, ever so devoted to his craft, he helped you out—by corrupting you, warping you, twisting your kingdom into a grotesque parody of its former glory. A kindness, really. A mercy.

a/n: one thing that you can always trust me to do is that if it is possible to include yandere! shadow milk cookie, i WILL include him but i do feel like its starting to get repetitive. also, just woke up after finishing writing this in the middle of the night and i just realized how far this was from the requester's request but... the damage is already done, somebody kill me NOW.

#cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run x reader #crk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #shadow milk x reader #cookie run kingdom x you #the thing i like whenever i write about the other beast cookies is that i can actually sit down and formulate real proper thoughts #where as with shadow milk cookie i just sigh and my finger just magically does its job without much thought

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corollaservant · 1 year ago

Text

Sweet Delight // Gojo x f!reader (18+)

Synopsis: You are too nice to be serving rude customers for minimum wage. Rest assured that Satoru will take care of it.

Warnings: yandere, obsessive behavior, noncon/very dubious consent, somno, stalking, knives, deception, mind games, murder mentions, violence (not to reader).. that's all.

A/N: Yan!Gojo is Joe Goldberg to me, idk. Beta read by my guy bsf who said the ending sucked (inspired by quote used in this book)

It started on a Friday afternoon.

He was a regular, came to the store every day to get his coffee. No sugar. Iced. The order was unlike him, he seemed sweet, or at least friendly and inviting, he had the type of eyes your friends gushed over when talking about their favorite movie stars, too blue, too inquiring.

At first he smiled and handed you a bill, told you to keep the change and asked you if he could sit outside for a bit. Of course, why wouldn’t he? The store offered it and he knew it, he was just being polite. He would read from a book, whose cover you couldn’t see, seemed too absorbed and you often wondered how he could concentrate with the café’s obnoxiously loud music (owner’s order to attract customers). He’d more than often catch bystanders attention, be it his white hair, his tall physique or his peculiar blindfold, which he wore sometimes instead of sunglasses, the man was attracting people like a magnet. This one time a couple of girls sat down next to him and talked purposefully loud. He lifted his chair and brought it closer to the register, closer to you. Yet, he still didn’t speak.

The first time he spoke to you besides a thanks and can I sit outside for a bit was when a customer harassed you verbally. You got the order wrong and while you offered a second free drink, he started calling you worthless. Your eyes watered and voice broke as he stepped in

“Please do not offend the barista, it was a simple mistake.” He spoke calmly while being twice the size of the customer.

“This is none of your business, sir..” The customer scoffed as he tried standing upright to make himself taller.

“I said.” Satoru sighed “Please get the fuck out the store or it will be..sir.” While there wasn't any physical threat, the tone was convincing enough to have the customer backtrack, hiss and leave the store empty handed.

“I'm sorry for that.” You told him as he looked at you.

“Don't be, this wasn't your fault.”

“I'm Satoru by the way, remember me?”

Of course you did, he was the most loyal customer.

—

It happened on a Friday afternoon.

Your shift started at 1 PM and ended at 9 PM sharp. Satoru had a meticulous routine: 1-3 was for observing. He wouldn't call it stalking, no, that word was degenerate and he wasn't like that. He was just observing you, your hands, as they moved, expressions as you skimmed milk and some of it spilled on the counter, your interactions with customers. He couldn't risk another incident like before. 3-6 was when he usually made an appearance. Black coffee. No sugar, iced and the table just across the bar; close but not too close. He was disappointed today, you hadn't looked at him once—well, in your defense the café was crowded, yet you still looked gorgeous, even with your sleep deprived eyes and disheveled hair, so soft and pure. He loved that. What would it take for him to get your attention? He found himself balancing between proclaiming his feelings and showing you them but decided on the latter. He would—today.

6-9 he had to wait in his car this time, it was raining but he couldn't leave you out of his sight, what if something happened to you? Your stupid manager had you close the store at 9 PM all alone in the dark, what a cheapskate cunt, not hiring a second person on the shift. Should he kill him? No, that’d be too soon. He would make an appearance before nine anyway.

8:40 was when he got out of the car, sloppily wearing a balaclava he’d gotten from Suguru (his seventh grade ninja Halloween costume) and his usual black work uniform. A knife was in his hands as he noticed you from across the road washing some cups. Perfect, you weren't looking but also careless of you, exactly as expected. He barged in the store and tried his hardest to make his voice drop an octave deeper, shit, would you recognize him?

“Give me your money or I'll stab you.” He was laughing internally but had to put on a fake growl, your expression was priceless.

“P—please don't kill me!” was the first thing you said (brokenly mewled) as your poor hands started shaking.

“I said now.” He said as he stabbed the blade in the air. Damn, that was too easy, you were too gullible.

“P–please I will, I–I am all alone.. one moment–'' Poor you, you had already started crying, tears were falling down your face but you didn't seem to notice. Should he stop this now? Probably.

“How incompetent are you? Are you this slow with customers too?” He decided to tease you a little longer, thriving off of your reactions.

Your eyes shot up for a brief second, was it the customer with Satoru a few days ago? He had said something along these lines, but this couldn't be. He was way shorter and had stopped coming ever since Satoru put him in his place. You were thankful for that.

Your hands opened the register as the paper bills you held threatened to soak, you still had one glove on... you looked a bit silly.

“Hey, hey..” Satoru’s voice quickly returned as the mask was removed “It's just me, see?” He whispered, trying to soothe the tone as your eyes widened.

“S–Satoru, what!?” Your voice trembled as the money fell from your hands and you took a step back.

“I wanted to pull a prank on you, I'm sorry if I scared you.” He smiled apologetically but you still couldn't utter a word.

“W-why would you do that? That's sick!” You cried out as he came behind the bar and tried to pull you in an embrace, knife now tucked in his jacket. To get close to you, to teach you a lesson, to make you need me would be his answer. You punched him on the chest, muffled cries fell from your lips. Well... you couldn't land a blow, that was for sure, but you looked cute with your clenched fists taking out your anger on him.

“F–fuck you!” His firm hands stopped your weak, aimless punches and you sobbed on his chest. You smelled divine, even at the end of your shift.

Was this love?

“Hey.. come on now, I said I'm sorry, okay?” He said as he pulled away.

“Came to say I'll stay with you till 9, it's not safe out there.” He promised as you wordlessly returned to the sink. He'd make you love him.

Around 9:10 you closed the store. His prank had slowed you down, exactly as expected, he figured it wasn't often you lost control and he was proud it affected you. It made you susceptible to control. You silently sat with Satoru outside while he insisted on driving you home.

“I don't need a ride. I'm fine.” It wasn't funny to tamper with your feelings like that, he didn't seem like the type and he'd taken you by surprise; actions like these didn't align with the image he painted for himself. He was always so kind, so protective, so—

“Give me the fucking store keys!” was heard before you turned your attention to the voice ahead of you. A man shouted, not too loud to alert anyone but enough to make a point. The street was empty and he was holding what seemed like a paper bag as you turned to Satoru.

This surely had to be another one of his pranks? You were about to laugh when you looked at him. He seemed taken aback, frozen in his spot and his eyes squinted as your heartbeat accelerated.

“What is it with this neighborhood and robberies?” Satoru talks after a while, his tone is confident as he looks at you and the guy growls. Why is he so calm?What is going on?—

“Shut the fuck up and give me the keys or I'll fucking blow your heads off!” The man says moving his hand to your direction, was this guy bluffing? Did he even have anything under the bag? Was your life about to end? It wasn't like people didn't talk about the criminals in the neighborhood—you’d never work there if it wasn't for necessity.

“And if we don't?” Satoru stops you from reaching for the keys as he fights hard to wipe off the grin on his face. Well, that was unexpected, but he isn't scared, he never is, as you interrupt.

“Satoru! P–please! Let me give him the keys!” You cry out, the day straight out of a nightmare the longer it drags on and you honestly can't put up another fight. You'd rather have whoever this was steal an insignificant amount of money from the register than end your life. Sure, there wasn't much to live for, but it was always different when under real threat.

“You’d give him the keys, really?” He scoffs annoyed. He couldn’t believe what a victim you were, couldn't you see he was right there for you? Despite his abilities you still failed to see him. Silly you.

“What c-can we do? He..he– and we–” Was this really the time? Why is he even negotiating this?

“Bitch, stop talking.” The guy spits, tired of your back and forth, as Satoru finally addresses him.

“That’s not very nice.” He is calm.

So calm that you almost don't see his fist obliterating the guy. One punch and he's knocked down, Satoru climbs on top.He pulls his fists down interchangeably but it's fast and you can't count, must be about seven that leave the guy with no time to react, hands to his sides as he yelps. Satoru reaches for his pocket and is about to grab the knife, when he feels two warm hands touch him and he turns around.

“P–please! Let's just go home!” You sob, eyes wide and the pain in your voice breaks his heart. Home, you said? He gets up and kicks the man’s limbs like a soccer ball—blood oozes down his mouth onto the curb and he chokes on some of it. Satoru's knuckles are stained but he gives you his hand as the pulp ahead withers.

Home.

He gave you clothes, a sleep set he had in his closet, you’d never know it was specifically tailored and cut out to your size, how would you know? It’s not like he’d tell you he stole (he called it borrow) articles you discarded at work. Your jacket when too hot, a change of pants as he brought them to the store's bathroom and returned them just as discreetly at 5:30 PM. They smelled like you, but he couldn’t categorize the odor, it was too hard. As for the color.. that he didn't care about. Anything would work really. His mind couldn't stop racing when he heard the shower head start, you'd never agree to his hospitality but that was his home, his rules. You also had a very rough day and it didn't take a lot to convince you.

He offered you his bed, he’d sleep on the couch and despite you objecting, he got you to comply. He could only imagine how much today drained you— physically and mentally. He let you sleep, he wasn't some monster, plus he had work to do. You’d wake up around 9, he calculated, so he had time.

When he finally sat down the couch, he couldn't sleep. Knowing you were there, so close and so vulnerable broke him. He didn't wait for his hair to dry — spot cleaning blood on the sink stole away his energy as he slipped on the bed, you were facing the wall and he placed his arms around you. You made no noise but you didn't seem to be sleeping heavily either, you’d slightly toss and turn. Poor you, was it a nightmare? He smelled your shampoo, it wasn't yours really but a variation of the ones you had at home as his fingers went through strands of your hair. He came closer, wanting to feel your body's heat and moved to your chest. His fingers sought your heart as he felt your pulse. A cock pressed against you—he’d been hard for some time and it wouldn’t go away as his palms searched for your nipples. One pinch and they were already hard, shit, he thought as he moved his dick on you. What if he went lower? Would you be a good girl for him? He moved to your belly as he put one leg softly over you, angling his cock directly at your cunt's entrance from behind while he rubbed against the folds, palms finding you from the front. He loved this embrace, all his to play with. He traced the slit and rubbed some more. You felt so soft and tempting. He’d bet no one could protect you like him and that gave him motivation. Yeah, that was right, he deserved a little thank you for his hard work. He fondles your cunt while his stiff cock annoys him, he’ll deal with it later. He buries a finger inside you, your cunt is wet, he thinks and you're not even conscious. Satoru pumps it slowly, it lubricates you in the process as it coats him halfway—he groans far from your ear and pushes another. You inhale sharply.

He pops them in and out until he fears he's becoming too fast so he removes his palm and uses your slick for his pleasure now. Boxers and sweatpants are removed as he wraps around the shaft, his precum gets smeared on his cockhead and he brings it down his base, it creates a wet mess and he gets off on it. He doesn't need much visually, your back softly breathing is enough to pump faster but— you felt so warm, he reasons, should he? You’d be his soon enough so might as well. He quickly turns to your side and lowers the set you're wearing (you'd think he intentionally sized up so it'd be easier to pull them down) as he pushes your panties to the side. You were a naughty girl, wearing a thong to work. Too dangerous, the world had many perverts. He puts his stiff cock on your entrance as he tries to shove just the head first; he hisses at the contact and you move, it's too late to back down now and he grows desperate. Within a second he tilts his hips into your needy cunt—he doesn't flatter himself, he's big so it's no surprise you groan and he assumes open your eyes. You feel tight and warm and he doesn’t care about your shock—he’s close.

“What.. agh—what are you doing?!” You're cut off in between moans as he ruts into you, you choke on a cry and he picks up his pace. His cock is stuffing you to the brim, it hurts but he can't be considerate. You feel like you can't breathe, dizzy from a nap and a repeated thump down your core. Yet, a primal instinct of pleasure washes away a conscious you telling yourself it's wrong and fuck— you moan out his name. Why do you moan?

“Shit, couldn't help myself, sorry baby.” He breathes out as he bucks his hips up and you feel too full.

“Satoru! S–stop...” But your pleas fall on deaf ears as he continues, hands caressing your chest and his breath on your neck while your hips are brought to clash onto his and nasty sounds come from the contact.

“Fuck, so pretty, baby, hm?” He moans and he’s already close, cock throbs as you prettily squeeze him in. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt like this before, it’s like you’re made perfectly to accommodate him and look at you!—clenching your cunt like some slut.

“N–ugh– Satoru please—” You cry out, scared but with a heat coiling low that makes you unable to protest louder. You think of his kind eyes, heartwarming grin (“Got these bad boys for you”, as he gave you your favorite cookies) but soon they're gone away—

—replaced by his cock rutting in your damp walls. You're unwillingly sucking him in, you can't think straight, he's... good? No. He's disgusting for this. Water blurs your eyesight—it's too much.

A hand is on your clit as he bites your soft neck at the same time. God, how he longed for this. Having you in his arms. He adored you.

“Want to come on my cock, like the helpless slut you are, baby?” He whispers but it's soft—like he's teasing you for missing the bus and you cry.

“I- agh-n-no..please—” You muffle and beg and his hand circling your clit slaps on the nub repeatedly as you jerk; “I can't—I–” He doesn't pay attention, his cock is ripping you apart and you have to let go—riding out an unwarranted orgasm. He loves your mess, no, he loves you and since you're conscious (not that it'd matter), he lifts your leg up as he angles himself so deep, you yell; overstimulated and still scared.

“Satoru, e–enough!” He's bottoming out in between sticky walls and you ache, hoping for an end.

“Don't be selfish baby—fuck!” He groans as large palms squeeze around your neck and then he's cumming — fast and as much as possible, you think. It feels warm and disgusting, his breathy moans are on your ear as you force your eyes shut. What doesn't make it inside, seeps back out but it’s not a lot, since you’re fully stuffed and he takes his sweet time to pull out. You just feel that good. He plants a kiss on your back as he returns with towels and puts you back to sleep. You cry—he estimates 15 minutes before you give up and let sleep take care of you.

One step at a time.

It's your 3 month anniversary. He doesn't tell you that of course, its embarrassing because it's 3 months since he found you, 2 days since he introduced himself. You still work at the café but you don't have to worry, soon you’ll never have to work again, he has big plans. He is proud of himself for finding you, it wasn't often someone intrigued him so much. He liked how genuine you were, naive and a bit dumb of course but that was exactly what made you so pure. He’d bet even at your lowest, you'd never cuss anyone out. Like for example that cunt of a customer the other day but it was fine, he’d do it for you, actually—

A message from Suguru pops up.

“Comin tonight?”

“No, have plans.” He gets bored easily and this time isn't an exception.

“Again? New record?” He can always read Suguru's irony. Funny of him to think he'd stop there.

“I told you I’d take care of it.” Satoru hastily types.

That guy really shouldn't have called you a bitch, it wasn't even in the script. Look where that got him. In Satoru's trunk ready to meet Mr. Worthless. He shuts his phone, he thinks about throwing it away, there's no need for it anyways. Especially when you're here.

He thinks about some quote his dad used to tell him, how did it go? Some are born to sweet delight—

14 minutes till your shift ends. What was it?

—some are born to endless night? It all makes sense now, it rhymes, that's why he still remembers it.

Or maybe you just give the first part a meaning.

#jujutsu kaisen #yandere satoru gojo #jjk fanfic #yandere gojo #gojo x reader #idk how to tag #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #yandere satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #tw somno #tw noncon #tw dubcon

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