#the thrill of the hunt (musings)

[necroticmusings]

❝ We can't hide from the whole world up here. There are kindred spirits out there for us, but we've gotta look for them, and we've gotta give them a chance, or else we'll always be alone. ❞

— Lexington, Gargoyles

[doc-ratchet]

Tag Drop

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[bloodthrrsty]

tags. :) fancy tags even. woah... i'll add to it later perhaps.

kero kero!! / ooc

look! how his hands drip with blood! / about

and so the hunt begins again. / in character

so it seems; or end is always self made. / musings

a bottomless curse; a bottomless sea. / aesthetic

ignorance is truly bliss. / asks

i know how the secrets beckon you so sweetly. / prompts

the rhythm of the hunt; the thrill of the chase. / music

a hunter is a hunter. even in a dream. / bloodborne

from silver and gold; to blood and bone. / honkai

[carnalcrows]

SWEET AS SIN - THE SALESMAN

pairing: the salesman x ftm reader

synopsis: A humble baker’s life takes a dark turn when a mysterious customer becomes dangerously obsessed—until one night, he wakes up bound and trapped.

content warnings: 18+, dubcon (borderline noncon), reader has a vagina, gun play, squirting, drugging, kidnapping, dead dove do not eat.

word count: 1.0k

The first time you saw him, he was just another customer.

It had been a slow morning at your bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread filling the air as you wiped down the counter. The bell above the door jingled, and in walked a man in a crisp suit, his slicked-back hair perfectly in place. There was something oddly magnetic about him—the way he carried himself, the confidence in his steps, the way his piercing eyes scanned the shelves like he was hunting for something more than just bread.

“Morning,” you greeted, forcing yourself to break the silence. “What can I get you?”

He smiled—a sharp, calculated thing. “Something simple. A loaf, maybe.”

You nodded, wrapping up a warm loaf and placing it on the counter. He paid in cash, his fingers brushing against yours as he handed over the bills. His touch was cold, yet his grip lingered a second too long.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he mused, glancing around as if memorizing every inch of the shop.

You shrugged. “Pays the bills.”

His eyes flickered back to you, something unreadable in them. “I’ll be seeing you again.”

It wasn’t a question.

And true to his word, he kept coming back.

Days turned into weeks, and the suited man became a regular.

He never gave his name. Never asked for anything specific. But each visit followed the same routine: a loaf of bread, a polite exchange, a lingering look that made your skin prickle with unease. He never overstayed his welcome, but his presence stayed with you long after he left.

There was something off about him. Something… unsettling.

And yet, you couldn’t deny the thrill that crept up your spine whenever he walked through your door.

One night, you closed up late. The streets were empty, the moon casting long shadows over the pavement as you locked the door behind you. You barely made it a few steps before a sharp prick stung your neck.

Your vision blurred. The world tilted.

And then—darkness.

When you woke up, the scent of flour and something metallic filled your nostrils. Your head throbbed, and as you tried to move, the unmistakable bite of rope burned against your wrists.

Panic shot through you. You were tied to a chair. The dim glow of candlelight flickered around the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

And then you saw him.

The salesman sat across from you, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He was watching you, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

“Finally awake,” he murmured, tilting his head.

Your heart pounded. “What the fuck is this?”

He sighed, standing up and pacing toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “You must know by now. I’ve been watching you for weeks, admiring you… wanting you.”

Your breath hitched. The air was thick, suffocating.

“You kidnapped me.”

He hummed. “I prefer to think of it as… securing what’s mine.”

Your pulse roared in your ears as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up. His touch was almost gentle—almost.

“You belong with me,” he murmured. “You just don’t see it yet.”

Your lips parted to curse him, to fight back, but then—click.

The cold press of metal pressed against the side of your temple.

A gun.

Your entire body went rigid.

“Shh,” he whispered, his other hand sliding to your throat, his grip firm but not tight. “No need to be scared.”

Scared? You were terrified.

But there was something worse—something worse than the fear, something you hated yourself for. The way his breath ghosted over your lips. The way his fingers pressed into your skin, possessive, demanding. The way the heat between you was suffocating, intoxicating.

And then—he kissed you.

It was slow at first, teasing, testing, his lips moving against yours with a dangerous kind of patience. The gun stayed at your temple, a silent warning, a reminder that he controlled everything. You wanted to recoil, to push him away, but your traitorous body betrayed you.

The kiss grew hungrier, his grip tightening as he deepened it. His teeth scraped against your lower lip, drawing a gasp from you.

He chuckled, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “See? You fit so perfectly against me.”

Your breath was ragged, your mind a whirlwind of fear and something worse.

He roughly tugged down your pants and boxers, leaving your lower half exposed– making you shudder.

“Hm? What’s this?” he questions while his glance moves to your puffy cunt– leaking and gleaming with the dim light of the room. This certainly wasn’t something that he had expected.

Before you could answer– you took a sharp intake of breath. He had slid the gun from the side of your temple all the way to your pelvis– resting near the clit. Your heartbeat thundered in your ear drums, the fear and tension muddling up your brain.

He dragged the gun to your cunt at a painstakingly slow pace, before pushing the tip in. You moaned, your head falling back against the chair. God you hoped the gun wasn’t loaded.

Without waiting for you to take in a breath, the man pushed the gun almost all the way up your hole, making your thighs involuntarily cave inwards. He used his other hand to push your thighs back apart, as he watched with fascination as the dark metal worked its way in and out of your sopping wet cunt.

This was so, so, wrong– but then why did it feel so good?

The hand that was holding your thighs apart made its way to your clit– rubbing circles around the overstimulated bud. You writhed in the rope’s grasp– the pleasure being way too much

Soon– you felt your orgasm (whether you wanted it to happen or not), wash over you like a raging stream. You screamed as you practically squirted your release all over the man’s hand and his gun.

The man adjusted his posture before sliding the gun out of your cunt and pressing it back to your forehead, before bringing his other hand back to your face– pulling you in for another kiss.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, trailing his lips down your jaw. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

The gun pressed just a little harder.

And deep down, you knew—there was no escaping him.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[solxamber]

Ruler of My Heart - Rook Hunt x Reader

Rook has always pursued beauty, and he sees everything. But has he ever been seen?

Guys I think this is my magnum opus

Rook Hunt knows.

He’s always known. It isn’t a mystery or a slow realization—it’s been as plain to him as the sky above. People find him weird. Unsettling, even. He sees it in their sidelong glances, in the stiffening of their shoulders when his shadow stretches a little too close, in the hesitation before they answer his questions.

Rook has always been acutely aware that his form of admiration—raw, poetic, unfiltered—is too intense for most people. A word too many, an observation too sharp, and suddenly what he sees as praise becomes a warning in their minds.

He’s eccentric, people say. Too much, too strange, too loud in a way that whispers louder than the wind. But these opinions have never truly bothered him. Why should they? He enjoys the strange edges of the world. Where others see cracks, he finds beauty. Where others dismiss a thing as mundane or odd, Rook sees brilliance that demands appreciation.

And he will appreciate it. He refuses to live a life silenced by the fear of judgment. No, non! He will not reduce himself to palatable fragments. C’est ridicule! His every expression of admiration is a song, a soliloquy. Why should he hold back when he finds someone magnifique? Why water down compliments to a tasteless gruel when he could present a banquet of adoration?

Still, it has its costs. He knows that, too.

It’s not easy to be the odd one out—the boy in the feathered hat, lurking in the shadows not out of shame but with fascination. He sees beauty in everything, but beauty rarely returns the favor.

The people he admires most often keep their distance. His enthusiasm makes them uncomfortable, and he can feel the subtle shift in their tone when they speak to him—half polite, half wary, as if they don’t know what to make of him.

He is strange, and strange things are lonely.

That’s not to say Rook isn’t happy in his own way. He is. He has his hunts, his bows, his poetic musings. He can walk under the moon and call it his lover. He finds joy in solitude, and he has long since made peace with the thought that his admiration will rarely be returned.

Ah, but to live an unloved life is still a life worth living, non?

Yes, it is. But.

But then you come along.

The moment Rook Hunt sees you sitting in the courtyard, casually munching on your snack, he stops dead in his tracks. Something inside him shifts—no, sings—as he observes you, unguarded and at ease beneath the afternoon sun.

You aren’t conventionally beautiful. Non, pas du tout. Your features don’t fit the polished ideal found in portraits or poems, the kind that makes others stop and marvel. But beauty, true beauty, has never been so simple for Rook. No, no, no. To him, beauty lies in life’s overlooked moments—the glint of amusement in an eye, the curve of a real smile, the way a person occupies space without apology or artifice. And you… oh, mon dieu, you are fascinating. You exist not like a spark that demands attention but like a warm hearth: quiet, inviting, and so terribly rare.

He lingers at a distance, watching you offer your snack to anyone who passes, a gesture of care so unassuming it feels like magic. With each kind word, each cheerful smile you give to your friends, his admiration grows—uncontainable, overwhelming.

It grips him, this compulsion to speak, to sing your praises aloud. Of course, he knows how people react to him—how they find his earnestness unsettling, how his florid language is often met with discomfort. But he doesn’t care. How could he care when there’s someone like you in the world?

He must tell you. If he doesn’t, it will feel like sacrilege.

And so, he strides toward you, heart pounding with the thrill of imminent expression, knowing—knowing—he’ll scare you off, that you’ll recoil like so many others before. But this is who he is. He cannot suppress it.

“Ah! Such generosity! Such radiance!” he exclaims, sweeping one hand over his heart in a grand flourish as he appears before you. “To sit here so calmly, offering your bounty to others—mon dieu, it is a marvel! A light in the mundane! I find myself utterly spellbound.”

He expects the usual—perhaps an awkward laugh, maybe a hasty excuse to leave, or that look people give him, the one that says: Ah. It’s you. But he cannot stop now. Even if you flee, his admiration demands to be shown.

“Such grace in the way you greet the world! Such warmth, such beauty!” He leans in, voice softening into something more reverent. “Do you realize the gift you give, simply by being?”

And yet… you do not flinch. You don’t stammer, or shift uncomfortably, or glance around for a way out. Instead, you meet his gaze with a smile—soft, genuine, unbothered.

"Thanks,” you say, as if he’s merely complimented the weather. “That’s really sweet of you.”

Sweet of me? Rook’s breath catches. Sweet? You think him sweet? It’s such an innocent word, so lacking in judgment or wariness, that it nearly undoes him.

And then—mon dieu, mon coeur!—you tilt your head slightly and add, “I like your hat. It suits you.”

His heart trips over itself, fumbling in surprise. Compliments toward him are rare things, and certainly not ones so… easy. So natural. There’s no mockery in your voice, no edge of caution. Just honesty. Genuine admiration, directed at him.

He can feel his pulse thrumming through his entire body, a strange, heady mix of disbelief and joy. His carefully curated poise—years of presenting himself as unflappable—teeters precariously. For the first time in a long while, he doesn’t know what to say.

Then, as if the universe hasn’t gifted him enough miracles for one day, you pat the bench beside you. “Wanna sit?”

He stares, stunned. This isn’t just an offer of company. It’s an invitation. A quiet gesture that says: You are welcome here. Stay if you want.

Rook lowers himself onto the bench, the movement careful, as though the spell of the moment might break if he’s too sudden. And before he can even catch his breath, you offer him a piece of your snack with that same warm, open smile.

“I’ve got extra,” you say casually.

Mon dieu. He accepts the food, holding it like a precious gift. "Merci, mon ami," he murmurs, a rare softness in his voice. His usual theatrics fade, replaced by something quieter, something more real. In this moment, he is not the Hunter, not the ever-watching observer of beauty—he is simply a person, grateful to have been seen.

The world shifts around him, as it always does in the presence of beauty. But today, it feels different. Today, for the first time in what feels like forever, he is the one invited to stay.

Rook watches you from the treeline, hidden in the shadows as only a hunter can be. The forest is quiet, save for the soft brush of the wind through the leaves and the faint hum of your voice—gentle, carefree, a song without words. You sit cross-legged at the edge of the forest, paintbrush in hand, completely absorbed in your work.

He’s seen many artists in his time. Some work with grand, sweeping gestures, others with sharp, frantic strokes, chasing perfection like it might slip away. But you? Ah, mon ange, you are different. There’s no urgency in your movements, only presence—fully immersed in each moment, yet untroubled by mistakes.

He notices the way your brow furrows slightly when a brushstroke goes astray, how your lips twitch in a smile when the colors blend just right. Each flick of your wrist, each dip into the palette, feels like a dance, and Rook finds himself swaying in time with it, captivated.

Then, as if the universe conspires to charm him further, a small rabbit hops from the underbrush, drawn to the quiet kindness that seems to radiate from you. You pause your work, placing the brush aside to gently stroke its fur, whispering something soft and sweet before letting it bound away.

The sight strikes him with the force of an arrow straight to the heart. Enchanted. Captivated. Irrevocably lost.

And just like before, the itch in his chest grows unbearable—this need to express, to convey in words what blooms inside him. Rook Hunt has never been shy about his passions, and the urge to approach you, to spill his admiration at your feet, is nearly overwhelming.

But before he can speak, you look up—and you smile at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just... warm, like he’s an old friend who belongs there, beside you. As though his presence is neither strange nor inconvenient. It catches him off guard, this unassuming acceptance. That simple smile undoes him in a way that even the grandest spectacle never could.

In that moment, Rook knows—ah, oui, mon coeur!—he is smitten. Not just with your quiet artistry or your kindness to creatures, but with the way you see the world. The way you seem to see him without judgment.

You gesture to the space beside you on the grass, an open invitation. He accepts with a rare, uncharacteristic quietness, folding himself gracefully into place next to you.

There are no flourishes now, no grand pronouncements. He is content, for once, to simply sit in silence, to be in the presence of something beautiful without the need to name it aloud. He listens to the soft scratching of your brush on canvas, the hum of your tune under your breath. It’s a kind of peace he rarely allows himself—the peace of simply being.

Time flows differently here, in this small, private world the two of you occupy. He forgets the need to perform, to chase beauty through words and declarations. He simply is.

And then, as if to grant him yet another gift, you turn the canvas around.

It takes him a moment to understand what he’s seeing. His own face stares back at him—not a mirror reflection, but something far more intimate. There’s no exaggeration, no caricature, only the version of himself as you see him. There’s warmth in the eyes, a softness in the lines. It is not the hunter, not the performer. It is simply Rook.

For a moment, he can’t speak. The brushstrokes, the colors, the subtle details—they all tell him, I see you.

And for the first time in a very long while, Rook Hunt feels truly seen.

"Magnifique," he breathes at last, voice soft with awe. But this time, it’s not for the art. It’s for you.

You smile, a quiet laugh in your throat, and offer him the brush. "Your turn, if you want."

He takes it carefully, fingers brushing yours as he does. There’s no need to speak further. Not now. Not when this moment, this quiet understanding between you, is more eloquent than any words he could conjure.

And as the sun dips lower in the sky, Rook Hunt paints. And for once, he paints not to capture beauty, but simply to share a moment with someone who finally sees him.

Rook finds beauty in everything.

In the brightness of joy, in the trembling flicker of fear, in the raw depths of misery. Even in tears, he sees something resplendent, something worthy of admiration. But today—ah, mon dieu—something is different.

You sit alone in the classroom, tears streaking silently down your face, your body slumped in defeat. And for the first time, Rook's heart trembles in a way he cannot define. You are still beautiful—he can see that clearly—but the sight of your sorrow grips him, not in awe, but in a peculiar pain he isn't used to. A pang in his chest that tightens with each tear you shed.

He has long accepted that people do not seek him for comfort. His presence, so often strange and unsettling to others, is rarely the balm that soothes wounds. Yet he cannot stand by and watch this—cannot let your sorrow unfold without trying, at least, to offer something. Even if it’s only the quiet company of someone who understands the ache of heartbreak too well.

So he steps forward, his usual poetic flourish tempered by a softness, a quiet yearning to help. You startle at his approach, wide-eyed and surprised, but instead of shrinking away, instead of masking your pain with false pleasantries, you do something Rook never expected.

You ask him for a hug.

It’s simple, so simple, and yet it undoes him. There’s no hesitation, no wary glances or awkward excuses. Just you, with tear-stained cheeks and trembling hands, reaching out for him.

“Please,” you say, voice small but steady.

Rook's breath catches. He moves without thinking, his arms wrapping around you with a gentleness that surprises even him. He holds you close, feeling your warmth, the quiet sobs you try to stifle against his chest. He says nothing, for once letting the silence speak for itself.

And in that moment, as your tears soak into his uniform and your fingers clutch at his coat, Rook knows. Ah, oui—he knows now with a clarity that leaves no room for doubt.

His heart, so often in pursuit of beauty, has found its ruler.

You're perceptive. You’ve always been the type to notice things, the small details, the subtle shifts in people’s behavior, the things they try to hide. But for all your awareness, Rook Hunt remains an enigma.

He is too much. Too loud in his praise, too sharp in his observations, too intense in everything he does. People shy away from him, unsettled by his fervor, his dangerous precision. But where others find discomfort, you find yourself intrigued. There’s something more behind that mask of boundless admiration, behind those poetic words and that sharp, unblinking gaze.

So when he approaches you, as he often does with his bold energy and unwavering smile, you welcome it. You wait for the moment you can unravel the mystery that is Rook Hunt, to understand what lies beneath that overwhelming exterior. But somewhere along the way, in the midst of trying to see through him, something changes. He has become something precious, something irreplaceable to you.

And one day, when life has hit harder than usual—when the weight of it all pushes you down, and tears fall freely—you don’t have the energy to hide. You sit alone, breaking quietly, unaware of the world around you. But Rook notices. Of course he does.

He approaches, his usual dramatic flair muted by something softer, more careful. This time, he doesn’t wait for an invitation. He kneels beside you, a steady presence, and before you know it, his arms are around you. There’s no hesitation, no need for words, just the warmth of him, holding you close when you need it most.

And in that moment, through the haze of your grief, it becomes clear. You can feel it in the way your heart stirs at his touch, in the safety you find in his embrace.

Your heart has chosen him, declared him its ruler, and there is no going back.

You’re standing on the balcony, admiring the stars, lost in their distant glow when—thud. A shadow drops from above, landing lightly beside you on the second-floor balcony as if gravity is nothing more than a mild suggestion.

Your heart races despite yourself, but you know exactly who it is before even looking. You turn to see Rook grinning at you like he hadn’t just jumped from the roof in a completely casual manner.

“Bonsoir, mon trésor!” Rook exclaims, adjusting his hat dramatically, as if he didn’t just cause your heart to leap out of your chest.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smile. “You know, Rook, most people take the stairs. It’s, you know, safer?”

He gasps, hand over his heart in mock offense. “Ah, but where would be the beauty in safety, mon cher? The thrill of the unknown, the leap of faith, it’s magnifique!”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “One of these days, you’re going to miscalculate and break something.”

“Ah! If it were to happen in your presence, then it would be a wound most worthy,” he declares, placing a hand on his chest as if preparing for some grand tragedy.

“Is this where I’m supposed to be flattered?” you tease, giving him a playful nudge.

Rook sighs, then suddenly—unexpectedly—he drops to one knee before you, taking your hand in his as he gazes up at you, his eyes shimmering in the starlight. The playfulness fades into something more sincere, more intense.

“My heart,” he begins, his voice soft yet filled with fervor, “it yearns for you. Every beat, every breath is consumed by thoughts of you, mon amour. You have become the keeper of my soul, and I—” he presses your hand to his chest—“am forever yours.”

You blink, caught between amusement and warmth, your smile softening. “Rook, you know, you could’ve just asked me out like a normal person.”

“Mon trésor,” he says dramatically, “there is nothing ‘normal’ about love! It is wild, untamed, and as vast as the stars above.”

You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, and you find yourself leaning in. “Alright, Rook. Under the stars then,” you whisper, brushing your lips softly against his.

For once, Rook is silent—save for the way his breath hitches—before he kisses you back, tender and sweet beneath the endless sky. When you pull away, you smile down at him, your hand still in his.

“I guess that makes me your keeper now, huh?” you say with a grin.

“And I am honored,” Rook replies, standing up to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with nothing but adoration. “For my heart could not have chosen a better ruler.”

this is a little character study on rook and I just like him a normal amount I swear

Masterlist

[ateezscupid]

─── 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝒀𝑶𝑼.. ꕮ 001 ─ Fiesty Girl.

SUMMARY / Your friend has been begging you to join her on a night out in the club. Club's aren't really your scene, but you decided to go anyway, not knowing you had become Yunho's next target.

WARNINGS ✩ Sensitive Topics!! (death, murder, stalking), alcohol and drug use, Yunho stalks reader during and after the club, heavy language, sexual harassment (some guy harasses reader at the club)

WORD COUNT ✩ 4.8k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @lezleeferguson-120 @hwallazia @hoe4yunho @prettylilack @lustfxq @shownumiss @hwxbibi @nneteyamss @joonhasjiminsjams @herpoetryprincess @napipope-ta @wyrated @leeseokiwi @trinityobsessesovatings @kittykat-25

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST / REQUEST ─── Next Chapter ౨ৎ 

NOTE !! I should let all of you know, before any smut or things like that, Yunho is a YEARNER. Meaning in the chapters with smut, he's either going to be a switch or full-sub.

Yunho doesn't like to call himself a killer.

It's not like he enjoys it, really. Yunho isn't a sadist, not in the traditional sense. He just sees it as a means to an end. A way to eliminate the noise, to restore order to his otherwise chaotic world. The irony isn't lost on him that he finds refuge in the quiet solitude that follows a life extinguished.

Yunho's day job is simple: he owns a small art studio in the heart of Seoul, where he spends his hours lost in the tranquil dance of paint on canvas or the meditative molding of clay. His hands, those same hands that had painted such grisly scenes, now coaxed life from lifeless materials. The studio is a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he can be himself, free from the judgmental eyes that seem to follow him everywhere. The smell of turpentine and wet paint is comforting, a stark contrast to the sterile scent of a crime scene.

He's meticulous, a trait that serves him well in both his art and his other hobby. Each stroke is calculated, each color chosen with purpose. His mind is a canvas of chaos, but on these walls, he is the master, orchestrating a symphony of order. Yunho enjoys the quietude, the gentle taps of his brush or the scrape of a sculpting tool. It's in these moments that he feels most alive, most in control.

But then there's the thrill of the hunt. The rush of finding the perfect muse, someone who doesn't quite fit the mold, someone who intrigues him enough to pursue. It's a game, really. A dance of deception and manipulation that ends in a crescendo of fear and silence. Yet, it's a dance he's tired of leading. The faces of his victims blur together in a macabre mosaic, each one a puzzle piece to the picture he's trying to escape.

It would be wrong to say he gets off on seeing them cry and tremble in fear. He doesn't, not really. Jeong Yunho is more of a…connoisseur of moments. The way the light hits their face when they realize their fate, the sudden stillness of their body when the life leaves their eyes, it's like capturing a perfect photograph. But the thrill is wearing thin, the excitement fading like the vibrant colors of a forgotten painting.

While staring at his half finished painting, Yunho's phone buzzes. He gets excited, thinking it's someone on the dating app he's been using for a while, but it was instead his friend, Mingi. He sighs heavily, tossing aside the brush and wiping his hands on a cloth before swiping the screen.

Minki: "me and the guys r gonna go to the club tonight. ik it's not ur typa thing but like, do u wanna go?"

He stared at the text, contemplating his response. Jeong Yunho wasn't a club person; the loud music, the crush of bodies, it all felt so…ordinary. But lately, he's been feeling a strange emptiness, a yearning for something new. He thought of the faces on the dating app, each one a potential muse for his twisted art. Yet none had sparked that usual thrill of the chase. Maybe a change of scene would help?

"Why not?" He typed back, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

After agreeing this begged the question, what should he wear? Jeong Yunho's wardrobe was a collection of dark, tailored suits and casual wear that blended him into the shadows. He chose a black t-shirt and a leather jacket, something that wouldn't scream 'serial killer' but still maintained his enigmatic vibe. He didn't bother with a tie, tucking the shirt into his dark-washed jeans instead. A quick glance in the mirror and he was satisfied. He looked like every other guy going to a club, not a monster lurking in the shadows.

The club was a cacophony of sound and light, a stark contrast to his serene studio. The bass thumped through his chest, the strobe lights casting erratic shadows across the gyrating bodies. He felt like a predator in an alien environment, searching for prey that didn't quite fit the pattern of his usual victims. He took a sip of his drink, the sharp taste of whiskey burning a path down his throat. He didn't drink often, but tonight he needed something to ease the tension coiled in his gut.

It smelt like alcohol, cigarettes, and a hint of cheap cologne—a scent that was all too familiar to Yunho from his rare forays into the social scene. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the face that would spark that elusive thrill, the one that could potentially break the mundane cycle of his life. The flashing lights reflected off the sequins and glitter that adorned the female attendees, creating a disco ball effect on his retina that was mildly nauseating.

How could anyone like places like this? Yunho thought to himself, his eyes scanning the crowded dance floor of the nightclub. The thumping bass of the music was a constant, irritating hum in his ears, and the smells of sweat and cheap perfume made his nose wrinkle. Yet here he was, in a desperate attempt to find something—anything—that would shake him out of his mundane life.

He saw his friends sitting in a nearby booth, flirting with random girls, and he felt a pang of jealousy. They were free to live their lives without the burden of their dark secrets. He wished he could be like them, carefree and untainted by the shadows that lurked in his mind.

They probably think they're so much better than him. That they've got the world figured out. But Yunho knows the truth. He knows that everyone's got their own demons to face, even if his are a little… more hands-on. He takes a deep breath, trying to push those thoughts aside as he makes his way over to the bar, the neon lights playing tricks on his vision.

As he scoots into a booth, the sounds of two girls laughing and giggling fills the space around him. They're young, probably college students letting loose for the weekend. Yunho can't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for a time when he could enjoy simple moments like these without the weight of his compulsion. He nods to his friends, who are already halfway through their drinks, and orders another whiskey. The bartender, a young man with a studded earring, slides it over with a smile, and Yunho takes a moment to appreciate the smooth burn as it slides down his throat.

He was starting to think that he should leave when he saw you. You were standing by the edge of the dance floor, your eyes scanning the room as if you were looking for someone. There was something about you, something different from the usual prey he stalked. You weren't dressed to impress, no revealing dress or sky-high heels. Instead, you wore a simple black dress that hugged your curves, and your hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders. You looked lost in thought, a stark contrast to the carefree smiles of those around you.

You bit your lip nervously as you shifted through the crowd, trying to make your way to the front door. Your friend said she'd be out in five, but that was twenty minutes ago. The club was a chaotic blur of lights and bodies, and you were already feeling claustrophobic.

And finally, she walked through the doors, a cheesy smile on her face. "Y/N! I knew you'd come!"

Yunho examined the outfit your friend had on. It was flashy and revealing, not quite your style. You rolled your eyes at her over-the-top enthusiasm, a gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the artist in him.

"What the hell took so long? You said you'd be out in five and it's been twenty fucking minutes. I almost left." You scolded your friend as you approached her, your voice barely heard over the thunderous bass.

"Sssorryyy! I pre-gamed!" Your friend giggled, her cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glazed. Yunho couldn't help but smile at the mundane interaction, the authenticity of your annoyance with your friend's typical behavior. You grabbed her by the elbow and steered her through the sea of bodies, back to the safety of the less crowded bar area.

Yunho watched you from afar, your movements deliberate and controlled amidst the chaos. You didn't belong here, not in the way the other girls did. You were a painting in a room full of stick figures, a masterpiece in a kindergarten class. The way you held your drink, the tilt of your head when you talked—it was all so… real. So unrehearsed.

You glanced around the club. There were a handful of attractive men, but none of them seemed to be looking for anything more than a one-night stand. The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and the air was thick with the scent of desperation. It was like everyone here was trying too hard to be seen, to be felt. And there you were, the girl who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else, sipping on a drink that was probably as watered down as your patience.

"He's cute," your friend accidentally yelled in your ear, jolting you out of your introspection. You followed her gaze to see who she was referring to and found yourself looking into the eyes of a man who seemed…different. Different in the sense that he was coked out.

"Absolutely not. He's literally snorting coke as we speak." You reply with a deadpan expression, watching as your friend's eyes widen in excitement.

"Seriously?!" Your friend shouts back, her voice competing with the thunderous bass, "You've got to lighten up, Y/N! Cmon! He's totally checking you out!"

"He was also checking that coke out." You deadpanned, sipping on your watered-down vodka soda.

"Okay, but like, he might actually like you and then like, he'll probably stop doing drugs to change for you and stuff. It's like a K-Drama plot," your friend insists, her voice still too loud despite her proximity.

"Fine! Fine. But you're coming with me." You relented, raising your voice slightly to be heard over the din. Your friend's eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store as you pushed through the crowd together.

The man you approached was tall, with a lean build and a sharp jawline, dressed in a compression shirt and sweats. Kind of out of place for a club, but you couldn't deny that he was super fit. You look up at him, his eyes staring at you and your friend with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"We saw you staring at us," you shouted over the music, your voice filled with playful accusation.

"Nope. I was staring at you," he steps closer, his voice cutting through the music with surprising clarity. "Your friend is…enthusiastic." He says with a nod towards your overeager companion.

He had a nice smile, he smelled really good, but…it was something about him that felt off. Meanwhile, Yunho was sitting at the bar, slowly sipping his drink as he watched the interaction unfold. The man, with the cocky grin and the body that screamed 'I work out', didn't seem to be making much headway with you. You were polite but guarded, your eyes flicking back and forth between him and your friend as if you were contemplating an escape plan.

"You're cute." the man stepped even closer, his hand brushing yours. You couldn't help but feel a shiver run down your spine, not from his touch, but from the coldness in his eyes that didn't match his warm smile. You glanced over at your friend for support, but she was already dancing with a group of guys, leaving you to fend for yourself.

"Thanks…" you giggle nervously. "Um, I should go check on my friend. She gets ditzy when drunk and-"

"Forget about her. I wanna take you home." The man's voice was smooth, but his intent was anything but casual. You could see the hunger in his eyes, a hunger that didn't make your heart race in the good way.

"N-No, no, I'm fine, really!" You protested, taking a step back, but the man's hand was already on your waist, his grip surprisingly firm. Panic began to set in, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead.

"Stop being a stubborn bitch and come home with me. Not like you got anything better to do." The man's smile never wavered, but his grip tightened, his eyes gleaming with something darker than lust.

"Get off of me-" you start to protest, your voice getting lost in the throb of the music. Your heart races as you try to pull away, but the man's grip is like a vice, his smile turning predatory.

Yunho only stared, his grip tightening around the glass. The man's audacity was like a slap in the face, jolting him out of his detached observation of the club scene. His mind, usually a whirlwind of thoughts and plans, suddenly snapped into focus. This wasn't the first time he'd seen someone treat a woman with such disregard, but for some reason, this was different. This was personal.

Getting up thinking he'd have to defend you, he was surprised when you slapped the man across his cheek with surprising strength. The sound was like a crack of thunder in the chaos of the club, drawing the attention of the surrounding crowd when he yelled. The man's smile dropped, replaced by a snarl of anger, his hand rising to strike back.

But before he could make contact, Yunho was there. He grabbed the man's wrist with a firm grip, his eyes burning with a rage that was all too familiar to him. "I don't think she wants to go anywhere with you," he said calmly, his voice a stark contrast to the chaos around them.

"…Who the fuck are you?!" The man snarled, his hand still in Yunho's iron grip.

"Does it matter?" Yunho replied, his voice as smooth as silk, his grip tightening slightly.

The man looked from Yunho to you, his eyes narrowing. He was bigger than Yunho, more obviously muscular, but there was something about the way the artist held himself that made him pause. The confidence in his stance, the coolness in his gaze—it was intimidating, to say the least.

"You should listen to her," Yunho said, his voice low and measured, his grip on the man's wrist unyielding. "She's had enough."

The man looked from Yunho's hand to his face, the rage in his eyes slowly giving way to fear. He could feel the power in Yunho's grip, the promise of pain if he didn't let go. With a growl of frustration, he yanked his hand back and took a step away, rubbing his wrist. "You're both fucking crazy," he spat, before stumbling off into the crowd.

You fixed your hair and looked at Yunho, a mix of surprise and gratitude in your eyes. "Thanks," you murmured, the sound of the music making it hard to hear anything beyond the bass.

"It's nothing," he replied, his gaze never leaving yours. There was something in his eyes that made your heart flutter. It wasn't fear or attraction, it was something more…complex. Something you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"Are you the type of guy to ask for sex just because you "saved my life" or whatever?" You quipped, trying to ease the tension with a bit of humor.

Yunho chuckled, the sound sending a warm feeling through you. "No, I'm not. I just don't like to see people treat others like that."

You studied him, the way he talked, the way he moved—then examined his outfit. He definitely didn't belong here. "What's a guy like… you doing at a place like this?" You asked, your voice barely a murmur over the music.

"Here for my friends. They dragged me out." Yunho shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "It's not really my scene."

"Well, do you wanna leave? I can grab my friend and we can go do something else! It's starting to smell like vomit in here." You say, trying to keep the conversation going.

Yunho smiles slightly, amused by your directness. "I'm not much for the club scene, but I can handle it for a bit longer if you'd like to stay."

"You sure?" You ask, noticing his eyes straying to the dance floor. He nodded, his gaze returning to yours with a hint of amusement. "Ohh, you wanna dance?"

He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips tilting up slightly. "If it'll keep you from leaving."

You laugh, taking his challenge. You grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor, the music swallowing you both in a sea of flashing lights and bodies moving in sync. The bass vibrates through your chest, the strobe lights playing with your vision. But it's his touch, the feel of his hand in yours, that sends a thrill through you, something you didn't expect.

Yunho follows your lead, his movements surprisingly fluid and confident. He's not a show-off, not like the other guys here. He dances with an ease that's almost mesmerizing, his eyes never leaving yours. The chaos around you fades into the background, and it's just the two of you, lost in the rhythm of the music.

You can't help but feel a strange connection to him, despite the oddity of your first meeting. He's nothing like the typical guys you've encountered at the club—no leering gazes or sleazy compliments. There's something genuine about the way he looks at you, like he's actually seeing you, not just a body to satisfy his needs.

Yunho, on the other hand, is a storm of thoughts and emotions. He's not used to this kind of interaction—the carefree banter, the simple touch of skin on skin that doesn't end in a scream. He's drawn to you, not just as a potential muse, but as a person. It's confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.

He still couldn't shake the idea of his hands around your neck, feeling the pulse beneath his fingertips as the life drained from your body. God, he could only imagine the screams that would fill the room, the panic in your eyes as you realized your fate was sealed. But something stopped him, something in the way you laughed at his jokes, something in the way your hand felt in his. It was like a strange, twisted game of cat and mouse, but with the roles reversed.

"So, what's your name?" You shouted over the music, your eyes never leaving his.

"Why do you wanna know my name?" Yunho yells back, a playful smirk playing on his lips.

You laugh, the sound a delightful melody amidst the chaos. "Because I can't just call you 'mysterious stranger' all night!"

"You don't have to," Yunho says, his voice a smooth bass that reaches through the thumping beat. "Just enjoy right now. Don't worry about names."

You cock your head to the side, studying him with curiosity. "You're an interesting one, aren't you?" You shout over the music, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Yunho can't help but laugh at your bluntness. It's refreshing, a cool breeze on a hot summer's day. "Maybe," he shouts back, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile. "What about you?"

You lean in closer, your breath hot against his ear. "Call me Y/N." You whisper, and the way your voice caresses his skin sends a shiver down his spine. It's a simple exchange of names, but for Yunho, it feels like a secret handshake, a bond formed in the throes of a battle he wasn't expecting to fight.

The two of you continue to dance, your bodies moving together as if you've been doing it for years. You're not the best dancer, but you don't care. There's something about the way Yunho moves with you, guiding you through the steps, that makes you feel safe. It's a strange sensation, considering the dark secrets you know he harbors. But in this moment, under the strobe lights, you're just two people lost in the music.

"Y/N!" you heard your friend yell your name from across the crowded dance floor. She was stumbling over, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glassy from the alcohol. "That guy over there wants to, um, take me home and stuff."

"You sure about that?" You shouted back, eyeing your friend with a mix of concern and amusement. She nodded emphatically, a sloppy grin on her face. Yunho couldn't help but feel a little protective over you, the way your eyes searched the crowd for the friend you'd been worried about all night. It was clear she didn't need saving from the guy she'd found, but he knew better than anyone that the night could still take a turn for the worse.

"Mhm! He called me pretty 'n stuff. I like him," your friend slurred, her eyes glossy with a mix of liquor and infatuation. Yunho's grip on your hand tightened imperceptibly as he scanned the crowd, his eyes narrowing on the group of rowdy men your friend was gesturing towards.

"Yeah… I don't think you should go with them." you say firmly, your voice cutting through the cacophony of the club. You had seen the way they had been eyeing her all night, and your protective instincts were kicking in.

"But whyyyy?" your friend whined, her eyes pleading as she swayed on her feet. "He's soo cute and he said he'd take care of me!"

Yunho's gaze flickered over to the group of men, his expression unreadable. He knew better than anyone the darkness that lurked beneath a charming exterior. "Trust me," he said, his voice firm. "You don't want to go with them."

Your friend pouted, her lower lip jutting out. "But I do!" she insisted, her voice a mix of whine and slur.

Yunho stepped closer to you, his hand sliding around your waist as he leaned in to speak in your ear. "Let's get her out of here. She's had too much to drink."

"Way ahead of you." you slipped from his grasp and grabbed her arm. "You're way too drunk to go with them, okay?"

Yunho nodded, his eyes never leaving the group of men. They were watching you both with hungry eyes, like predators waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. He knew the type all too well. "Let's get some fresh air," he suggested, his voice firm but gentle.

You looked at him, a mix of surprise and gratitude in your gaze. "Okay, let's do that." You helped your friend stumble through the crowded dance floor, Yunho's hand resting protectively on the small of your back as you navigated the throngs of people.

Once outside, the cool air hit you like a slap in the face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the club. Your friend leaned heavily against the wall, gasping for air. "Oh my god, I think I'm gonna be sick," she mumbled, her eyes watering.

Yunho's eyes darted around the empty alley, his instincts on high alert. The night was eerily quiet, the distant sound of the club's bass echoing off the brick walls like a heartbeat. He felt a strange sense of déjà vu, his mind flashing to the many nights he'd spent here, but with a much darker purpose. He then stared at you, watching you help your friend sit down on the cold pavement, her head in her hands as she tried to keep her stomach from revolting.

You were so…nice. It was something Yunho wasn't used to. In his world, people were either tools for his art or obstacles to be removed. But you, you were different. You didn't fawn over him or throw yourself at him like the others. You had a strength, a resilience that he hadn't seen in his usual targets. It was intriguing.

He was conflicted. On one hand, he wanted to dare for you, shower you with gifts and compliments, to consume you in a whirlwind romance. But on the other hand, he wanted to see how pretty your blood looked on the pavement. It was a twisted kind of love, one that didn’t fit into the neat little boxes society had constructed for relationships. You were the perfect muse, a puzzle waiting to be solved, a canvas yearning for his art.

"Earth to mystery guy!" You snapped your fingers in front of Yunho's face, bringing him out of his thoughts. He blinked, looking at you with a start before his expression smoothed back into a smile.

"Sorry, zoned out. What's up?" Jeong Yunho said, his eyes refocusing on you.

You laughed, waving off the awkwardness. "I called her roommate. She's gonna come down and pick her up so… all we have to do is wait for her."

Yunho nodded, his eyes still scanning the alleyway. It was strange how comfortable you felt with him, despite his intense gaze. There was something about him that was both unsettling and comforting, like a storm cloud that offered shade on a hot day.

"You keep looking at that alleyway." You observed, your voice a gentle tease as you leaned against the club's wall, your arm supporting your wobbly friend.

"Just making sure we're safe," Yunho replied, his gaze flickering back to you. His voice was like velvet, easy on the ears, and his words were as casual as a Sunday afternoon. But behind those eyes, you could see the gears turning, the mind of a man who had seen more than he cared to admit.

"So you heard about it too? The murders?" You ask casually, the words slipping out as if it were just any other topic. But the way your heart races, the way your eyes dart around the alley, betrays the fear that lurks beneath the surface.

"Oh. Yeah, I heard some rumors," Yunho said casually, his eyes never leaving the shadowy alleyway. "Shame what happened to those people."

"Yeah…" you mumble, your gaze following his to the alley. "Wasn't one of the girl's bodies found in this alley?"

"Yeah." he smirked a bit just thinking about it. He remembered that girl, she was one of the first ones he had picked up from this club. She had been so full of life, so… oblivious to the danger lurking right beside her. He had felt a strange fondness for her, almost like she was a character in a story he was writing. But in the end, she had to go.

He was at least hoping to get her to his apartment, but the streets were empty and the club was loud enough to drown out her screams. The thought made him smirk, but he quickly schooled his features as you looked up at him with those big, doe eyes. You had no idea what he was really thinking.

"You good?" You asked, noticing the slight change in his demeanor. The air grew thick with tension, but he shrugged it off with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Just keeping an eye out," he replied, his gaze never wavering from the shadows. You nodded, the unease settling in your stomach as you waited for your friend's roommate. The conversation stumbled along, mostly about the club and how much you both hated it, until the sound of footsteps echoed down the alley.

Yunho tensed, his eyes narrowing as a figure emerged from the darkness. You held your breath, ready to scream if needed, but as the person stepped into the dim light of the streetlamp, you recognized her. "Thank god," you murmured, relief flooding through you as your friend's roommate rushed over, a look of concern etched on her face.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice filled with worry as she took in your friend's state. You quickly explained the situation, leaving out the part about the creepy guy inside, not wanting to cause a scene. She nodded, her gaze flicking to Yunho before nodding in thanks.

"Thank you so much," she said, turning to Yunho with a grateful smile.

You waved your friend and her roommate goodbye, watching as they disappeared into the night, the sound of their footsteps fading into the distance. You turned to Yunho, feeling a mix of relief and sadness that your night together was coming to an end. "I guess I should get going too," you said, your voice a little shakier than you intended.

Yunho studied you, his eyes searching yours for any lingering fear or hesitation. "Do you need a ride?" he offered, his voice still that smooth bass that seemed to resonate through the night.

You nodded, a small smile ghosting your lips. "That'd be great."

[heliosunny]

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Phainon x reader

The rumors were true.

You stood in front of the large, polished machine, its sleek metallic surface reflecting the soft neon glow of the surrounding marketplace. The “Lucky Egg Dispenser” as it was called, had become something of a sensation overnight. A single pull of the trigger, and you’d receive an egg—an unhatched mystery promising the perfect partner. Most people spoke of rare creatures, companion animals with unique abilities, and even a few who whispered about something… stranger.

“Lucky egg?” you mused aloud, shifting the weight of the gun-like trigger in your grip. You’d always been one to try new things. It didn’t hurt to take a chance.

With a decisive motion, you squeezed the trigger.

A soft whirring sound filled the air before a pristine white egg gently rolled out, stopping perfectly at your feet. You crouched down, picking it up. Warm. Alive.

A small smile tugged at your lips. Taking care of it would be simple, you were no stranger to nurturing things. Three days. That was all it would take for it to hatch.

You weren’t worried in the slightest.

What you didn’t expect, however, was for your “partner” to be a human.

The egg hatched in the dead of night. A soft crackling sound stirred you from your sleep, but by the time you were fully awake, the shell had already split apart.

And there, sitting on your bed, was a boy.

No, not a boy, a young man, probably around your age.

Pale skin, silver-white hair that shimmered in the moonlight, and brilliant, otherworldly eyes. His clothes were odd, somewhere between regal and alien, but the most alarming thing was the wide, almost manic grin stretching across his face.

Before you could react, he lunged at you, arms wrapping around your torso in a crushing embrace.

“My name is Phainon!” he chirped, his voice filled with unfiltered joy. “I’m your partner now!”

Oh no...Your stomach dropped as realization set in.

Baby duck syndrome.

You knew the term well. When a newborn creature imprints on the first living being they see and attaches to them completely. You were that first living being.

And judging by the way Phainon’s grip tightened, as if he’d never let go, you had a feeling this wasn’t going to be as simple as you thought.

Phainon clung to you like a vice, his grip almost bruising as he buried his face into your neck. His breath was warm, uneven with excitement, and his entire body trembled, not with fear, but something far more intense.

“You’re mine” he whispered, his voice filled with unshakable certainty. “I belong to you… and you belong to me.”

This was bad. You tried to gently pry him off, but the moment you moved, his arms locked around you tighter, his fingers digging into your back as if he were afraid you’d disappear. His blue eyes, impossibly bright and alight with something unsettling, gazed up at you with an overwhelming adoration.

“Don’t push me away” Phainon begged “I just hatched… I need you.”

You swallowed, carefully adjusting your expression. “I-I’m not pushing you away. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

His gaze flickered with doubt before softening, though his grip didn’t loosen.

“I won’t let you leave me” he promised, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I was born for you.”

You had really gotten yourself into trouble this time.

With Phainon practically glued to your side, you dragged him along to the dungeon. You needed supplies, and in this world, the only way to survive was by hunting monsters and trading points for food and goods. At the very least, you thought you could shake off some of his energy by keeping him occupied. What you didn’t expect was just how powerful he was.

The first monster barely had a chance to move before Phainon lunged, his bare hands tearing through it like paper. Blue eyes shimmered with an eerie thrill as he made quick work of the beasts around you. No hesitation. No struggle. Just raw, overwhelming strength. You stared, a mix of awe and unease settling in your gut.

“Phainon…” You hesitated as he turned to you, still grinning. “How do you know how to fight?”

He tilted his head, as if the question itself was strange. “I was born to protect you” he answered simply. “If anything dares to harm you, I’ll rip it apart.”

His words were spoken with such sincerity that it made your skin crawl. Still, you couldn’t deny the convenience. With him by your side, earning points was absurdly easy.

So you took him to the marketplace, trading in your earnings and buying him new clothes, something normal, something that would help him blend in.

But as you held up a shirt for him to try, he only stared at you with an unsettling softness.

“You take such good care of me…” He exhaled, stepping closer. “You really do love me.”

Your grip on the fabric tightened.

This was going to be a problem.

Even as you weaved through the marketplace, his fingers curled around your wrist, grip firm and unwavering. His blue eyes scanned the crowd with silent intensity, watching every passerby with something between wariness and irritation, as if anyone who so much as looked at you was a potential threat.

You sighed, trying to ignore it.

That was until someone called your name.

“Y/N!”

You turned, spotting an old friend making their way toward you, smiling. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Before you could respond, their gaze flickered to Phainon, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

“…Oh? Who’s this?” they asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your boyfriend?”

You couldn’t exactly say he came from an egg. That would sound insane. So, against your better judgment, you went along with it. “Uh, yeah. Something like that.”

Your friend chuckled. “I figured. He looks like he’d kill someone if they so much as breathed in your direction.”

You let out an awkward laugh, hoping they were joking.

Phainon, however, only smiled, resting his chin on your shoulder. “I would” he murmured, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your friend’s laughter faltered.

Before the situation could get any worse, you quickly made your exit, dragging Phainon away.

When you finally got home, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “You can’t just say things like that, you know.”

Phainon tilted his head. “But it’s true.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, you busied yourself in the kitchen, preparing a meal. The sound of chopping and sizzling filled the space, and for a moment, things felt… normal.

But you could still feel Phainon’s admiring gaze on you.

When you finally placed a plate in front of him, his eyes softened.

“You take such good care of me” he murmured.

You forced a small smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just eat.”

But as you turned away, his voice reached you again, quiet, almost innocent.

“You really do love me, don’t you?”

This was getting worse by the second.

The next morning, Phainon was already awake before you, sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you with silent fascination. You ignored the unsettling feeling that came with knowing he had likely been staring at you for a while.

“We’re going out!” you said, stretching. “I need to figure out what you’re actually capable of.”

His expression brightened. “You’re thinking about me first thing in the morning?” His voice was honeyed, pleased. “That makes me happy.”

You sighed. “Just get ready.”

Despite his odd behavior, you needed to assess his skills properly. Yesterday’s display of strength was impressive, but you weren’t sure if he had magic abilities as well. If he was going to fight alongside you, he needed the right weapon.

So, you took him to a well-known weapon shop in the city.

The place was stocked with everything—swords, spears, enchanted items, and magic-infused equipment. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow at Phainon as he trailed closely behind you, practically glued to your side.

“A new recruit?” they asked.

You hesitated before nodding. “Something like that. I need to test his capabilities and get him a sword.”

Phainon didn’t seem too interested in the conversation. Instead, his attention remained locked onto you, his fingers subtly brushing against your arm as if to remind himself that you were still there.

The shopkeeper guided you both to the testing grounds in the back.

Phainon barely glanced at the weapons lined up for testing. Instead, he turned to you, expectant.

“Choose one for me” he said.

You blinked. “Why? You should pick what feels right.”

He smiled “I want your choice. Something that reminds you of me.”

You hesitated, but eventually, you picked a sword. When you handed it to him, he held it as if it were sacred, his fingers running over the hilt with reverence. Then, he turned toward the practice dummy and swung. The air itself seemed to hum as the blade sliced cleanly through, the force of his strike strong enough to split the dummy in two. You barely had time to react before the lingering energy from his swing crackled, a faint shimmer of magic lacing through the air.

So he did have magic.

The shopkeeper let out a low whistle. “That’s some terrifying raw talent.”

Phainon ignored them, stepping closer to you, lifting the sword slightly.

“Do you like it?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “It suits you.”

His eyes softened, a quiet sort of delight settling in his expression. “Then I’ll treasure it forever.”

It wasn’t about the sword. It was about the fact that you were the one who gave it to him.

Going into the dungeon with Phainon was like having a high-level DPS at your side. You barely had to lift a finger.

With every swing of his sword, monsters fell instantly, torn apart before they could even react. His raw strength was unmatched, his movements precise and brutal, and his magic crackled through the air with every strike. All you had to do was keep him healed.

Whenever he took a hit, rare as it was, you were there, casting healing spells or applying potions before he could even flinch. It was almost effortless, and the way he looked at you every time you healed him sent a strange chill down your spine.

“You always take care of me” he murmured, after you placed a hand on his arm to patch up a small wound. His blue eyes burned with something unreadable. “It makes me love you even more.”

You pretended not to hear him.

By the end of the run, you had racked up an absurd amount of points. It was more than you’d ever earned in a single trip. But as you left the dungeon, your path was blocked. A group of men stood in front of you, their expressions dark with anger.

“You!” one of them spat, eyes locked on you. “That was our dungeon route. You took our points.”

You stiffened. You had heard of people like this before, territorial dungeon crawlers who claimed certain areas as their own, even though the dungeons were free for all. Phainon, however, only tilted his head, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“Move” he said simply.

The men sneered. “Or what?”

Phainon smiled. And then, in the blink of an eye, he moved.

You barely saw it happen. One second, the men were standing tall, and the next, they were on the ground, groaning, writhing, clutching broken limbs. Phainon hadn’t even drawn his sword. He had simply crushed them with his bare hands. You felt the blood drain from your face as he turned back to you, expression calm, as if nothing had happened.

“You don’t need to worry about them” he stepped close to you, his voice almost soothing. “I’ll always protect you.”

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your skin.

“You’ll never need anyone else.”

You weren’t the only one who noticed Phainon’s strength.

Word spread fast in the city. A newcomer, practically fresh out of nowhere, tearing through dungeons with monstrous efficiency? It was bound to catch attention.

When you returned to the marketplace, a group of uniformed individuals was waiting for you. Their armor bore the insignia of the Adventurer’s Guild, the organization that oversaw dungeon crawlers and regulated combat prowess.

One of them, a woman with sharp eyes, stepped forward. “We’ve received reports about you” she said, looking Phainon up and down. “Your combat abilities are… unusual.”

Phainon didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink.

The woman continued, unfazed. “We’d like to evaluate your rank. If you’re as strong as people claim, you should be registered with the guild.”

You hesitated, then glanced at Phainon. “It’s up to you” you said casually. “You can decide for yourself.”

His reaction was immediate. His blue eyes snapped to yours, wide with something unreadable. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if suppressing an impulse.

For the first time since you met him, Phainon looked… lost.

“You’re letting me decide?” he murmured, almost as if the concept itself was foreign to him. His voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of something dangerous beneath it.

The guild members watched the exchange, waiting for an answer.

Then, without warning, Phainon grabbed your wrist. His grip was firm but not painful—more like an anchor, something grounding him.

“I don’t need them!” he said, his eyes darkening. “I don’t need a rank. I don’t need recognition. I only need you.”

You swallowed, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Phainon...”

But he wasn’t listening. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still his.

“I’ll prove it” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ll see… I don’t need anything else.”

The woman from the guild frowned. “Refusing to register might cause problems later. If you change your mind, come to the guild hall.” She gave you a lingering look before turning away, leading her team elsewhere.

Once they were gone, you exhaled, glancing down at your guild-issued device. You hadn’t checked Phainon’s stats since he hatched. Opening the interface, your breath caught in your throat. His level had skyrocketed. It wasn’t just growth, it was unnatural. No one leveled up this fast. Slowly, you looked up at him, finding him already staring at you.

His lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. “You’re looking at me differently” he murmured. “Are you finally realizing it?”

Realizing what?

Phainon wasn’t just strong. He was something else.

You couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Phainon’s level growth wasn’t just unnatural, it was impossible. Even the most elite adventurers took years to reach his current strength, yet he had done it in mere days. And his reaction when you let him decide for himself… the way he clung to you, as if the very idea of autonomy was foreign to him… Something wasn’t right.

That night, while Phainon sat contentedly by the fireplace, watching you with that ever-present devotion, you busied yourself with research.

You poured through old adventurer logs, ancient texts, and anything that might explain the anomaly that was him. But no record of a “lucky egg” spawning a human existed. Every instance of the machine had resulted in creatures—beasts, familiars, magical companions. Never a person. Then, deep within an old archive, you found something.

A passage detailing an experiment.

“In pursuit of the perfect companion, scholars once sought to craft an entity bound by absolute devotion. A being that would imprint upon the first soul it encountered, instinctively prioritizing their happiness and survival above all else. However, these creations proved unstable—obsessive, possessive, and far too powerful. The project was ultimately abandoned, all records sealed away.”

Your gaze flickered toward Phainon.

His blue eyes gleamed in the firelight, calm and unreadable as he met your stare.

“You’re looking at me like that again”

“Phainon…” You swallowed. “What are you?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Then, slowly, he rose from his seat, walking toward you with measured steps. When he reached you, he knelt—his head resting against your lap, his arms wrapping around you in a loose embrace.

“I don’t know” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But does it matter?”

He tilted his head, pressing closer, his warmth seeping into you.

“All I know is that I belong to you” he murmured, smiling softly. “And that’s the only truth I need.”

Your fingers trembled against the pages of the book.

This was worse than you thought.

Phainon wasn’t just obsessed.

He was made to be.

[houndofllove]

Once Johnny sinks his teeth into you, he has no intention of letting go.

He's always been bold—annoying at worst and charming at best. His presence is unmistakable; in the Mess it's his laughter that rings the loudest and in the corridors it's his shoulders which take up the expanse of it. So, yeah, it was no doubt that soon enough he'd get around to playing with you.

One glimmer of his shinning, pointy teeth and the starving glint in his eyes had you falling into his bed like a lamb caught in the foxes trap.

You haven't been the first, and most certainly won't be the last.

But there's something different about him this time. You try to call it quits, try to tell him it was fun, tell him goodbye. Yet he's trailing behind you at every moment he can spare. Weeks spent knowing he's two feet behind you in the canteen queue; watching as he moves to a different squat rack, the closer one, as soon as you get to the gym.

Leaning against the wall as you walk out from a briefing.

"Yer ignorin' me."

"Just going about my day, Johnny." You're already halfway down the corridor with your folder of paperwork, a headache forming at your temples.

"Won't ye just wait a minute."

He's not too far behind you, chasing like a desperate puppy. It's not hard to realise the thrill he gets out of this: following you around, pestering just enough until you'll give in to him. That animalistic hunt that men crave like vampires do blood.

"My god," you snap, steps halting so sharply you can sense the way his shirt brushes against your back before you turn, waving the folder in the air. "Don't you have a life? Something better to do than harass-"

The sudden way he grips your arm is enough to startle you into silence, submission as he pulls you into the closet a few steps away.

"What are you doing?" You scowl, but it doesn't stop him from putting his paws on your shoulders, turning you until your back is firm against the door and his knee is inching dangerously close to the swell between your legs.

"What did ye think was gonna happen?"

Heat simmers in your cheeks, unyielding as you take on to staring at his chest. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of looking up, knowing you're beneath him, that no matter what he does you can't fight him.

Huffing, you try plant your feet firmly into the ground, angling your hips backward to try evade the way he somehow presses himself even closer to you without touching you quite yet.

"What did ye think?"

It comes out sterner but with a rasp in it which you know is full of desire; one that comes when a man is thirsty for water after days without it. He pinches your chin before you can stop or recognise it, and then he's craning your head back.

Staring back at you isn't the 141 sweetheart, nor the playful Sergeant that everyone knows, but a wolf.

The lump in your throat stops any words from escaping, lip wobbling as you struggle to come up with anything. No cunning retort, no quick escape.

"Ah know, ah know," he shushes but he's laughing all the same, the pearls between his lips on display. "Fun isn't it? Runnin' away from me, pretendin' I'm not there?"

Your exhale is sharp, the wind brushing against the top of your lip, cool. You try to shake your head but his fingers hold you still.

"Pretty lamb," he muses, "didn't think I'd let ye go, did ye?"

"Fuck you–"

"Ahhh," he sighs dreamily, leaning forward so his lips sit just a fraction away from yours. You try to shrink your lips, try to shake your head out of his grip again, move your legs so he's not overwhelmingly near. Efforts that are futile as his thigh finally slides right against your core.

He's disgustingly pleased when your eyes go wide.

"Always liked the ones that bite back best."

[thatnightlamp]

I saw you requests are open and I have a request I'd like to make.

I'd love to see a contuation of the courting gifts Cryptid Wedding Konrad Cruze x Reader. Or if that storyline is finished I'd love to see one set in the same AU. Something about one of the two Nightlords who brought wedding gifts and their courting (mis)adventures.

Thank you so much

Yahooo Night Lords courting.

In the aftermath of your unholy marriage to Konrad Curze, your apartment-turned-Night Lord club house had become ground zero for increasingly bizarre social calls. Sevatar had taken a particular liking to “dropping by” unannounced.

It was during one such visit, while he was critiquing your toaster for its “inefficient intimidation factor,” that he made an offhand remark.

“I should get myself one of these,” he mused, gesturing to you with his servo-claw, as though you were a particularly curious houseplant. “A spouse. Good for morale. Might spruce up my quarters, too.”

You blinked, halfway through sipping a cup of tea Konrad had brewed for you. “You mean, like a pet?”

Sevatar grinned, a wicked, lopsided thing. “No, no. A companion. A partner. A… snuggle-meat.”

You choked.

Konrad, without looking up from his whittling (he was carving a likeness of your head out of bone), murmured, “Do not steal my spouse.”

Sevatar held up both hands. “Perish the thought, boss. Plenty of terrified, emotionally compromised mortals. I’ll find my own.”

Which is how you found yourself, unfortunately, roped into helping Sevatar learn about “modern mortal courting practices.”

He refused to use dating apps. “Coward’s hunting ground,” he scoffed. “I believe in the thrill of pursuit.”

You tried to explain that chasing someone through a public park with a chainblade wasn’t considered “romantic” by most contemporary standards, but Sevatar was a traditionalist.

His first attempt involved showing up outside a bookshop with a box full of dismembered servo-skulls, offering them to the manager with a flourish.

“For you, fair maiden,” he said, voice like silk soaked in blood. “A token of my esteem.”

She maced him.

He thought it went well.

The next attempt was somehow worse. He crashed a wedding (a normal one, for normal people) and tried to woo the bride by challenging her groom to single combat. When the terrified man refused, Sevatar loudly declared himself the superior suitor by default and attempted to carry the bride off.

The groomsmen dogpiled him.

You spent most of the evening bailing him out and explaining to horrified police officers that he was “a very committed cosplayer with poor impulse control.”

It didn’t stop him. If anything, it encouraged him.

“It’s the chase,” Sevatar told you one night, leaning against your porch railing as Konrad brooded silently in the shadows. “The mortal fear. The thrill of pursuit. Tradition.”

You sighed, sipping your tea. “I think you might need to tweak your approach a little. Maybe start with, I don’t know… flowers?”

“Flowers,” he repeated, looking deeply offended. “Do I look like a fool? What sort of weakling offers botanical specimens when there are perfectly good bones to harvest?”

Konrad, to your surprise, spoke up then. “She liked the flower.”

Sevatar blinked. “You gave a flower?”

“Yes,” Konrad said. “From a memorial.”

“That’s different. That’s symbolic.”

You facepalmed.

Eventually, by sheer dumb cosmic luck, Sevatar did meet someone. A goth barista who didn’t flinch when he made eye contact. She complimented his armor, and Sevatar, flustered beyond measure, bought fifty cups of black coffee and left without a word.

He talked about her for weeks.

The next time you saw her, she was riding on the back of his jetbike, shrieking with glee while Sevatar gleefully razed a parking lot full of weird cultists.

“See?” he shouted over the din of plasma fire. “I told you mortals love a good adrenaline rush!”

You couldn’t argue with the results.

By the end of it, the Night Lords warband had unofficially designated your home as the “Courting Grounds,” a place of strange, blood-soaked romance and even stranger attempts at domesticity. And somewhere in the middle of all of it, you and Konrad sat on the porch, watching the chaos with a mix of horror and weird, resigned affection.

[cxpperhead]

The rain continues unabated, the city remaining dauntless even as a fresh peal of thunder ricochets above. It's Gotham after all, a little thunder and lightning is hardly the worst thing to have happened in her. Murders are every bit as commonplace as raindrops lashing the streets below but no matter how much it rains, it will never cleanse the city of all it's wrongdoings. It won't clean Copperhead of his either, the metahuman watching impassively as rain washes the blood from his claws. Mr. Bell's date had not gone as smoothly as he'd have liked. He'd returned to his apartment in a daze, shoulders slumped in the way that only disappointment could tell. Copperhead never asked him what happened; it might never have been a real thing, merely a ruse to get him out of his apartment long enough for his would-be killer to slip inside, ready and waiting for him. Sometimes his kills bring no satisfaction. This was one of them, Mr. Bell asking if he was going to kill him. "Yes," Copperhead had replied without a moment's hesitation, and despite his urge to strike, to snap the man's neck, to plunge his fangs into that vulnerable throat and watch him die from a lethal dose of venom, the man just... accepted his time had come. He never said another word to Mr. Bell, only that he made it quick. He never asked anything about the man's life, what had brought him to this city, if he'd also been born elsewhere like Copperhead had been. He never asked what he might have done to incur his employer's wrath, to pay somebody a hefty fee to ensure his life would end that very night. The last drops of blood wash away freely and finally Copperhead feels at ease. No longer can he feel the white-hot urge pulsing through his veins, unable to think of anything else but killing the closest living thing standing next to him. He feels.. well, he wouldn't say he feels happy, quite the opposite really. Copperhead feels nothing at all, no joy at what he'd done or satisfying this relentless instinct to slay. He's killed plenty of people, and he remembers each and every one, how it happened, whether they begged or valiantly tried to fight off the bitter end. Complete and utter surrender was rare, and Mr. Bell just so happened to have joined their numbers. Another crack of thunder echoes above, sending a fresh deluge of rain pouring down. Copperhead lets the water trickle over his glossy scales before leaving without a sound, to let his employer know the deed had been done and that their contract was finished. Sometimes his work brings him no pleasure, only the brief respite of a dark appetite satiated. Relieving it was only temporary, a small offering of just one life in order to keep another going. Before long he'd be right back in this position again looking for his next kill, and not all of them would go as willingly as Mr. Bell.

[necroticmusings]

❝ We can't hide from the world, we must live in it. We must search for allies, kindred spirits, and sometimes we must take chances, like we did tonight. To do so otherwise is to remain forever alone. ❞

— Goliath, Gargoyles

[acapelladitty]

The Ghoul x Knife Kink

Hotter Than A Match Head

Pairing: The Ghoul (Cooper Howard) x Female Reader

Summary: A late night fuck turns into something more when Cooper decides to bring his knife into the fray. (1.1k words)

(tw for: knife play, rough sex, nipple play, dirty talk, threats of violence, mild blood, dom/sub dynamics)

Link to AO3

Fic Masterlist

Fucking Cooper was like being trapped in a hurricane; a constant flurry of movement, of your body being manipulated, shaped, and generally thrown around with minimal care. The ferality which he so closely monitored and kept at bay only ever appeared to slip through as he ravaged your body without mercy - by hand, by teeth and by cock.

He was relentless in what he wanted and reckless in his pursuits.

But not tonight.

Tonight he was much more careful in his considerations as he pinned you to the dirty floorboards of the abandoned house you had agreed to spend the night hiding out in. The floor was cold and gritty against your back but you hardly notice it, so engrossed by both the cock which was spearing your cunt and the wicked ghoul attached to it. A man who had pinned you to the floor many minutes before and was currently rolling the edge of his hunting knife across your chest like he were mapping out an assault.

You had watched that same knife sink into countless bodies, living and dead, and the graze of the serrated edge against your collarbone was electric. It was a blade which had seen more violence than most, but the dexterity with which he wielded it was stunning to see. A skill which had led to more than one heated fantasy that Cooper had finally seen fit to make a reality.

"Don't move." Cooper threatened, his eyes ablaze with unfettered arousal as they loomed free of his sunken face. "Don't wanna accidentally slice off something that I might miss."

At the warning, he rolls the flat of the knife across your right nipple - the nub peaked and already reddened by his teeth as he had 'perked' them up earlier in your little game. Shuddering at the sensation of the cool metal, your hand grips even tighter at his forearm and the leathery skin there has very little give beneath your clawing fingers.

His knife glints in the meagre lighting, a single, shitty lamp providing illumination against the dark room, and you tighten around him; your cunt as wet and willing as ever as the thrill of his knife adds an extra layer of danger that makes you dumb as all fuck and desperate to see it used.

Writhing and groaning as he trails the edge of the blade across your skin, not deep enough to cut but with enough harshness to threaten, a cruel smile splits his ragged lips as his bright eyes refuse to leave your expression.

"It really makes you this willing, eh? Haven't seen a bitch in this kinda heat for a long time, sweetie. Maybe I'll even throw ya a bone."

Swiping the knife free of your chest, he continues to lazily thrust within your cunt - his thick cock making every rut of his hips feel like your walls were being hollowed out and punished - as he taps the knife against your stomach in a slowly descending pattern.

Your knees spreading even further, heels determined to gouge out a section of his lower back as they push into him roughly, a keening moan slips free of you as he teasingly grinds the butt of the knife against your engorged and somewhat neglected clit.

It's a fresh hell; sparking pleasure mixing with overstimulating discomfort as your most sensitive nerves are subjected to the cool leather and cruel pressure of the knife. It's a rough texture, every ridge making you flinch and whine, as the sudden onslaught has you stuttering out a slew of utterly incomprehensible pleas which simultaneously beg him for more while demanding he stop.

"It would be so easy." Cooper muses, pulling the knife away and letting it hang between his fingers as he presses his hand to the ground. "You're far too soft for this kinda life. Cut me and it don't make a difference. Hell, I'm not sure I'll even bleed. But you-" He trails off, his groin never ceasing in its movements as he continues to deliver shallow, punishing thrusts to your cunt.

"You should do it." You pant, meeting his aggression by rolling your hips against his groin to stimulate every pulsing nerve in your sex. "Cut me. Mark me as yours."

"Can't be doing that, darling." His breathing very quickly grows ragged, his cock noticeably jerking within your cunt at the lustful demand. "Cause I might never stop. By the time I was finished, you'd be painted even redder than I am."

"Cooper." A keening whimper as his hand abandoned the knife to wrap around your throat, squeezing and testing the skin there as he enjoyed the sensation of you swallowing around his fingers. "Please. Just one. Just a-an intital. You can choose where."

Punctuating each sentence with a thrust of your hips as you remained pinned beneath him, the ridges which sat along the hollow of his nose appeared to flare for a moment as he considered his options - interest alighting behind his darkened eyes.

"You're a tricky one, sweetheart. I've known seasoned whores that're less convincing than you."

It's almost a purr, his accented syllables glossing over the backhanded compliment like an old blanket, but he complies anyway as he releases your neck and snatches his knife back up, the point coming to rest on your hip.

Stilling your movements for just a moment, the feeling of his cock as it stretches you out with its unrelenting heat growing more and more intoxicating. Every passing second is a constant discomfort which makes the pleasure all the sweeter as you warm his cock for him as he works.

"Be ready." Is all the warning you get before he digs the tip of his knife forward into your unprotected hip, the sharpness of the blade splitting the skin like it were little more than butter.

As aroused as you were, it still hurt like fuck, and a stuttered cry is buried into his shoulder as you push your head up - the pain flaring with a wicked intensity before dissolving just as quickly into a dull ache. In the same instance, a tickle of dripping liquid rolls down your skin and you lie back on the floor as he discards the knife to the side with a noisy clatter.

Instantly his hand is pressing over the wound and the pain of the pressure adds to the adrenaline which is making your fingers tremble and your cunt clench, the latter making him grunt as he presses his groin as tightly against your sex as he can to fill you with every inch.

"S'only a superficial cut." Cooper groans, enjoying the determined way in your cunt was milking him with every inviting spasm. "For a scar we'll need to keep poking at you 'til the tissue is so damaged, you'll need to skin it off to get rid of me."

Pulling his blood-tinged fingers to your face, you nip at the pads of his fingers - the leathery skin rough against your lips - as you wrap your free arm around his back. Using him as leverage, you begin to roll your hips once more as you chase the release your body is now desperate for, every inch of your skin feeling sensitive and raw.

"That's the best- ah, the best fucking news I've heard all day."

Unleashing a low chuckle at the enthusiam, Cooper meets your determination with some of his own as he resumes his merciless fucking - all the while, his hand refusing to let up its pressure on the crimson 'C' which lay, freshly carved into your willing skin.

[velvetdolor]

𝔞𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢♡

𝔧𝔬𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔣𝔦𝔠 𝔬𝔯 𝔪𝔶 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔷, 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝓀𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰:

updated june 9th, 2025. [ i literally started writing on this platform three months ago, i’m panicking LMAO still can’t believe i’m writing publicly.] [aka using fanfiction as writing practice lol a girl can only dream about someday getting published (*´Д｀*) ] I have no clue how i’ve written so much in such a small amount of time. (previously known as sirenscradle)

𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 (𝐬𝐟𝐰!) 𝐢 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬—𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬! 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞!

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 ‘☆’ 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤/𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐲!

fatal attraction (m): angst, smut, two-part series. (18+!) (1.5 month hiatus/final chapter release time.)

artapprentice!seonghwa x muse!reader x famouspainter!yeosang

p t.i, pt.ii (final)

⋆.˚✮synopsis: park seonghwa is a newly appointed art apprentice studying under kang yeosang, a prolific painter who’s infamous for his intensely controversial and erotic oil paintings. when he meets y/n, yeosang’s one and only muse and object of obsession—seonghwa is seduced into a decade long affair of yearning for another man’s muse he cannot touch.

for the thrill of the hunt (m): smut, comedy, angst, fantasy/supernatural, fluff (18+) ‘☆’ (1.5 month hiatus until the next chapter releases)

ancientvampire!reader x ancientvampire!seonghwa x prey!wooyoung/ pokerplayer!wooyoung

chapter i. chapter ii.

synopsis: being an ancient vampire sucks, sometimes—both literally and figuratively.

when seonghwa refuses to feed and forces himself into a deep slumber after declaring that he’s unwilling to face the painful boredom of everyday life, you’re forced to devise a delicious plan that’s heinous enough to awaken your very mopey husband. this is why jung wooyoung— a world star poker player with not only a great mug to pair with his skills, but the world’s rarest blood type, golden blood— gets a big red x on his photo that you shoddily pin onto the wall of your dining room when your frustrated efforts at getting your husband to stop moping grow frantic. your villainous husband— not one to opt out of a well crafted game, rises to join you on this particular excursion.

the mission?

play an all stakes game of cat and mouse with jung wooyoung’s life

for the thrill of the hunt.

♰𖣐♰ devil’s catch (m): religious horror, suggestive, supernatural-fantasy, SMUT, series. (18+) ‘☆’

pairings: exorcist!hongjoong x psychic!racially and bodily diverse reader (some ot8 x reader but heavily focused on hongjoong. however, everyone will still be intertwined.)

synopsis: “the order” is a secret organization of exorcists blessed with special abilities dedicated to expelling higher class demons—located in a ancient crypt hidden beneath the vatican. when an exceptionally gifted child is followed by prophetic omens and falls into possession of an unclassified s-class demon—kim hongjoong, considered the greatest exorcist of the 21st century, is dispatched under the mysterious order of convincing an enigmatic psychic hiding away in a metropolis to accompany he and his team in what might be their most daunting exorcism yet.

gods of the old and forgotten world.: a special series centered around different world mythologies. The masterlist will be regularly updated as I write intuitively.

behold the eyes of old gods as they watch you, dear reader.

: ͙͘͡★ a faint signal: Cosmic nostalgia, fantasy, fluff, cosmic deities, 1980's Hong Kong, episodical (part of my special series, gods of the old and forgotten world.) (SFW!)

.͙͘͡★Pairings: Cosmic spirit/ Star child! San x Weary soul! childhood friend reader ͙͙͘͡★WC: 3.4k

͙͘͡★Synopsis: It’s the year 1982–Hong Kong’s once awe-inspiring neon lights are now a dull visage of what it once was for you in your youth. Drained and dreamless, you find yourself bawling in a telephone booth after every unanswered call, until an old imaginary friend visits you. You’re then thrusted into a strange and cosmic reality where the dreams of your youth weren’t so imaginary at all

𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔲𝔟’𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔱𝔷 ⛧⃝ : one-shot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, pwp, BDSM 18+

⃝ Pairing: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.

first look at cherub’s waltz, preview.

𝔢𝔫𝔥𝔶𝔭𝔢𝔫, 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝓀𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔰....

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔞𝔥𝔩𝔦𝔞 𝔖𝔱𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔱: victorian era london/edo period japan, mystery, thriller, slow burn, suggestive, oneshot. (SFW!)

Pairing: detective! niki x bath house attendant! reader

Summary: In the year 1848, the youngest son of the immensely affluent Nishimura Clan is disowned when he leaves to investigate the disappearance of his eldest sister five years later. He arrives at the Port of London to track his only lead—a series of letters sent to his sister infrequently from a bathhouse on 1508 Dahlia Street. No name is signed off on the letters and only a stamp of a Dahlia flower signals the ending of each message—the mystery eventually linking you both as you search for your beloved friend and his long-lost sister.

𝙅𝘼𝙂𝙂𝙀𝘿: 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧-𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙥-𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧, 𝙨𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙙𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙮, 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘫𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘹 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘯𝘩𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘯

—𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴—𝘫𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘯—𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘰𝘧𝘧 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭.

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬/𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

i give my first love to you: short letter entry, hurt, right person wrong timing, drabble. part i. of the drabble series. (completed!) ‘☆’ (SFW!)

pairings: first love! wooyoung x first love! reader

synopsis: A mini drabble series beginning with an unsent love letter. I crafted two endings for the first drabble and to provide some vague insight for the character relationships— but one of the endings is based in an alternate universe. You, dearest reader, are free to choose who to love and what universe is entirely yours—and what love almost was.

pt.ii extended drabble, san’s ending. [green light] new boyfriend! san x reader x first love! wooyoung (SFW!)

͙͘͡★ synopsis: wooyoung may have given him his first love, but san’s never going to give her back to him.

pt.iii extended drabble, one shot—wooyoung’s ending [the last time] first love ex! wooyoung x first love ex!reader (SFW!)

͙͘͡★ synopsis: this was the last time wooyoung was halfway to loving you.

scotty doesn’t know: drabble series. ‘☆’

🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships. this chapter starts with woo’s pov and shifts to readers pov.

🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa

🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: seonghwa doesn’t know wooyoung screws you in the van whenever he fucks up and wooyoung doesn’t mind cleaning up after his messes so long as you end the night with him. inspired by the song “scotty doesn’t know” by lustra.

pt ii. be quiet and drive

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships, angst. this chapter starts with hwa’s pov and shifts to readers pov.

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. pairings: vocalist! seonghwa x guitarist! reader

🎤✩♬ ₊˚. synopsis: seonghwa wants bigger things but he can’t bring himself to let you go just yet. (based on the song be quiet and drive by the deftones.)

pt.iii ˚✮ cherry boy—boy toy! ˚✮

🎸⋆⭒˚ genre: cheating, drabble series, smut, toxic relationships, angst, light fluff. (part iii. of the scotty doesn’t know drabble series)

🎸⋆⭒˚ pairings: drummer!wooyoung x guitarist! reader x vocalist! seonghwa

🎸⋆⭒˚ synopsis: after a stunt you pulled onstage, wooyoung needs you tonight—even if all hell breaks loose in the process.

the world we knew: smut, angst, age gap, drabble. completed!

pairing: aged up! yeosang x naive! reader

ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི— synopsis: you find yourself falling into the same man’s bed, five years after you had the bravery to leave him.

𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳: 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘯𝘦𝘰-𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘭, 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘤𝘺𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘶, 18+!

pairing: rebel member! mingi x stripper ex! reader

—synopsis: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙, 𝙎𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙞'𝙨 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚: 𝙂𝙤 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙 𝙗𝙖𝙧, 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙢𝙗, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙚𝙭—𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨.

melt: 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰??? 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘯𝘰𝘯-𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 (18+!)

pairing: next door neighbor! seonghwa x reader

—synopsis: 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢—𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳. 𝘼𝙆𝘼 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘮 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

ｆｏｘｇｌｏｖｅ: suspense, angst, drabble/oneshot, fluff, tragedy.

pairing: deceased husband! seonghwa x reader

—synopsis: after the sudden passing of your husband due to a fatal car accident, your memory of him is slowly deteriorating at the wake of your grief. however, as more hair raising coincidences progressively get strange, you realize you’re not only haunted by your husbands memory.

[𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚝] 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜: 𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙴𝚉 𝙴𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜: 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚑/𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢. 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚜.

Siren’s fic recs

On supporting bloggers

siren’s ateez fic recs: first edition

To be released:

sonder: oneshot, strangers in passing, memoir, fluff, alluded soulmates, angst, story is based in the early 1960’s, bittersweet.

jeong yunho x reader

summary: when you meet a stranger on a midnight train to berlin, you don’t expect to find comfort in learning about your strangely intertwined tragedies.

siren’s cinema, now playing:

a series of oneshot’s so i could crossover my love of film and fanfiction. including the craft, chungking express, the mummy, and more!

series masterlist: pt i, pt ii

About me:

hi, my name’s siren— i’m 24 years old and write primarily about ATEEZ, but i’ll branch out from time to time. i write fanfiction in hopes that it’ll make me brave enough to write and submit an actual manuscript someday after lots of practice. i’ll probably share some random blips and writings (journal entries, poetry, confessions) ambient sounds i record, and non-fanfiction based content on here as well. i think my existence is a fair balance between a chaotic, depraved, and primordial evil— and silent melancholia. some random facts about me, down below. (MDNI, this is an 18+ page.)

•i write A LOT. on the rougher weeks for my insomnia, i tend to write more to get the time going. it’s my comfort hobby.

•my favorite genres to write are suspense, horror, or supernatural-fantasy. oh! and especially tragedies.

•i like beautiful things.

•i’m a “somewhat” polyglot— a rather lame one. i have commitment issues, and i can’t seem to care enough about anything to finish it sometimes—but i’m at an intermediate level in several languages. (korean, japanese, mongolian, spanish, etc.)

•i’m filipino, spanish, and native (central) american.

•i write a list of inanimate objects and concepts i relate to on a daily basis. i also enjoy recording ambient sounds of places i frequent.

•my current read is a fiction novel called “the ten loves of mr. nishino” by hiromi kawakami. i’ve been doing lots of reading, as of late. i can get through three (albeit, 12 point large font) books in a day.

•i go by any pronouns— literally here to exist.

•i like fancy canned fish and cold tomatoes—but i hate marinara and cooked tomatoes. unsure why, really.

•my go-to cigarette brand is capris and i stick to the indigo 120’s. i hate non-menthols because they taste like kissing an ugly man, and menthols remind me of the time i kissed a girl and she spat her gum in my mouth. i liked that. therefore, i only smoke menthols. haha

•i flirt as one would breathe air. (i am my fathers daughter)

•i write fanfiction as writing practice, and since i love ateez—character building comes easily, because it feels like i already have a template. eventually, i’d like to write my own stories, once i get comfortable developing my own characters from scratch.

•erotica’s cool and i like the human body— from the perspective of an artist.

MBTI: ENTP

enneagram: 8w7

As these are many of my own ideas, a multitude of what I post may become personal manuscripts after I work on my own original characters. (Non-fanfiction based storylines.) Due to this, I’m providing a disclaimer just in case. 💗 all the love.

All rights reserved. These stories, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced or copied for posting on any other platform in any form without permission. These are works of fiction.

© velvetdolor 2025. All rights reserved.

[kiame-sama]

Not gonna lie, Drider!Rook made me think about the story ‘The Most Dangerous Game’ and I can just picture him wanting to hunt Reader since he’s never encountered such an exotic and unique prey like a Human, as he’s vibrating from excitement about how his newest ‘Prey’ shall fair against him

He probably read stories about Humans in his youth and wondered before they went extinct, how they were able to survive without gills, scales, claws, wings, poison, etc or even without magic

Because Reader uses hidden traps and misleading tracks, Rook calls her ‘Mademoiselle Trickster’ (Mademoiselle is a title for an Unmarried Women in French) and felt his heart skip a beat seeing Reader use her intelligence, cunning and trickery to get the upper hand over him

Only he’s not going to eat or kill her, rather he just wants to feel the thrill of the hunt by chasing an endangered species (He has no intention to harm her)

But here’s a twist, the hunt is actually a common mating practice for his species of Drider (Or just his family) when it comes to finding a mate

There’s not really a lot of information about Rook’s family as he’s quite secretive about himself (Which I find ironic because he wants to know everything when it comes to his ‘Muses’)

(I know the shadows over his eyes don't make sense given the pose and the angle of the lighting, but I liked the way they looked all darkened and menacing, so I kept the eye shadows for my own aesthetic.)

(Rook waiting in his web on the Pomefiore ballroom ceiling. He does this to observe the other students and document their habits and will even do this web building around campus in heavy traffic areas/popular gathering spots to stalk others more effectively. Vil will often throw things at Rook if he sees the Drider has built yet another web on the Pomefiore ceiling. His dorm robes aren't well suited for the upsidedown life, but he makes due and uses magic to keep his favorite hat in place on his head.)

- Rook would absolutely love hunting the little Human Trickster if only to experience the thrill of The Hunt. He wouldn't dare harm a hair on his sweet Human's head, but he would absolutely love a back and forth of Hunter and Hunted with them just for fun. He may not tell the little Human it is just for fun, seeing as he wants an authentic experience and a good hunt. Once he eventually catches his Human- and he will catch them at some point- he will be practically bouncing from the thrill of it all and only then will he inform the terrified Human that this was a game and not an actual hunt. Were it an actual hunt, they would not have seen a single hair of the Drider before he struck.

- There is little as exhilarating to Rook than a hunt for prey that knows how to fight back and evade him. Any traps his Human sets, no matter how flimsy or obvious, will only thrill Rook becuase he loves the idea of being hunted by his own prey. To flip the tables on such a skilled Huntsman only makes the game more fun. There is nothing quite like the thrill of chasing down dangerous game and it certainly gets Rook's blood burning hot and pumping.

- As Rook is a Golden Huntsman Drider, he doesn't often participate in web-building in regards to hunting his prey. He will build webs for many reasons in many places, but rarely ever will he build a web to be used in an actual hunt. Huntsman are a spider species known for wandering, tracking down prey, and foraging when needed, Rook is no different and is a voracious predator when it comes to the true hunting and gathering of prey. Naturally, this does mean all of his family shares this drive to hunt. Hunting is ingrained in a Huntsman's DNA so naturally they will also hunt prospective mates.

- Like their spider counterparts, male Huntsman Driders- upon locating a suitable mate- have a tendency to lay their legs in substrate and shuffle them back and forth to make a rustling or rattling sound depending on the substrate. Usually a hunter would not be keen to reveal themselves, but this sound can draw in curious prey and curious mates who are seeking the Drider making the sound. Part of this mating display is hunting their mates down and drawing them in with the sound before springing. Naturally, when they have their mates in their grasp, they don't let go easily as Huntsman Spiders are known to cling tightly to prey and even predators to stop themselves from being shaken off or dislodged from their quarry.

[solxamber]

I really love your writing. If it is possible could you write about an ignihyde reader that has a crush on Rook, and leaves him flowers, poetry, and stuffed animals. As Rook is an excellent hunter, it shouldn’t take him long to find out who the reader is, but there’s a catch. The readers UM is shape shifting. They can change everything about their appearance. Thus, puzzling Rook to no end. How long till he figure it out, and what does he do when he finally catches the reader?

Rook x Shape-shifter! reader

Ahh it's my first request!! I hope you like this!

Your love life has always been like an unfinished video game: full of potential but perpetually stuck on “pause” because talking to people is hard and you have a knack for turning invisible (literally) whenever you get nervous. But lately, you’ve found yourself in a completely different sort of situation—one that involves Rook Hunt, the most poetic hunter of Night Raven College and the object of your not-so-secret, shape-shifty affections.

And when you say not-so-secret, it means you’ve been leaving a trail of gifts that practically scream, “NOTICE ME, YOU HANDSOME WEIRDO.”

It all started innocently enough. A flower here, a cute stuffed animal there, and, of course, the occasional badly rhymed poem you stayed up way too late crafting. You know, typical middle-of-the-night crush behavior. The thing is, you didn’t sign your name. Nope. You decided to go full stealth mode, and using your Unique Magic to shapeshift every time you left a gift. One day you’re a tall, mysterious student from Pomefiore; the next, a shy sophomore from Savanaclaw. It’s the perfect plan!

Except… this is Rook Hunt we’re talking about. He’s a hunter, a tracker. He could probably find a needle in a haystack with his eyes closed, blindfolded, and reciting French poetry. So it didn’t take long before Rook realized someone was very much into him—and that someone was playing hard to get (catch?).

But here’s the twist. You’ve made yourself the ultimate puzzle. Every time Rook thinks he’s close to figuring you out, you shapeshift into a completely new person. One day he follows the scent of roses, thinking it will lead him to his admirer, only to find an Ignihyde student carrying around a bouquet of tulips. The next, he tracks down a trail of tiny stuffed animals, only to spot you as an unsuspecting Idia lookalike casually sipping tea in the courtyard. (You panicked, okay?)

“Ah, mon amour, you are like the wind—impossible to catch, yet always present,” Rook muses one day as he stands in the middle of the school courtyard, staring wistfully at a lone stuffed squirrel you’d left behind. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind a hedge, shapeshifted into a first-year Octavinelle student, silently praying he doesn’t sniff you out like some kind of love detective.

But you can’t help yourself. Every time he gets close, your heart pounds, your magic flares up, and—poof!—you’re someone else again. It’s been weeks of this now, and Rook is officially stumped. He knows it’s you, but at the same time, he doesn’t know it’s you. It’s both thrilling and terrifying.

One day, you think you’ve outdone yourself. You leave Rook a stuffed owl—because, you know, symbolism—and a particularly sappy poem about how his eyes are like “two radiant moons lighting the darkness of your soul.” (Cringe-worthy, but heartfelt.) You shapeshift into an Ignihyde student again and casually start making your exit, congratulating yourself on a job well done.

But then, as you’re about to sneak back to your dorm, you hear it: “Ah, I see you at last, my elusive muse.”

Oh no. OH NO.

You freeze, half-transformed between yourself and the random character you picked that morning. Slowly, you turn around, and there he is. Rook. Smiling. Not just any smile, but that knowing smile, the one that says, “I’ve been onto you this whole time.”

You’re caught. And not in the cool, romantic way. More like the “rabbit caught in a snare” kind of way.

“I must say, you’ve been quite the challenge, mon cher,” Rook says, walking toward you with the confidence of someone who’s won every game he’s ever played. “But even the most skilled of hunters can’t resist a mystery. And what a mystery you’ve been!”

You try to play it cool, but your brain is currently doing the equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death. Do you transform again? Disappear? Fake your own death?

Nope. You’re paralyzed.

Rook stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly as if sizing you up. “I’ll admit, it took me longer than expected. Every time I thought I was close, you slipped away… like a wisp of smoke.” He steps closer, and you feel your heart about to explode. “But now that I’ve found you, I must ask—why all the hiding, my chérie?”

He knows. He knows.

With a nervous laugh, you finally drop the act—literally. Your transformation fades, leaving you standing there, fully you, cheeks burning. “Uh… surprise?” you manage weakly.

Rook’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Ah! Magnifique! I knew it! My instincts were correct, but what a splendid revelation!” He takes your hand dramatically, and you swear he’s about to launch into a sonnet. “All this time, it was you—you—my mysterious admirer! The one who leaves me such lovely tokens of affection! And yet, you kept me in the dark, playing this delightful game of cat and mouse…”

You’re still trying to process the fact that Rook actually figured it out, while he’s over here going full monologue.

“I must say,” Rook continues, still holding your hand, “your talents are impressive. To evade me for so long—c’est incroyable! But why, mon cher? Why not reveal yourself sooner?”

“Well, uh…” You scratch the back of your neck, completely flustered. “I thought you’d think it was weird?”

“Weird?” Rook blinks at you, clearly baffled. “Why would I think that? You have done nothing but shower me with affection in the most creative ways! Why, I am honored by your attentions!” His grin widens. “And now that I’ve found you, I can return the favor, oui?”

“Return the—wait, what?” You blink at him, your brain short-circuiting again.

Rook leans in closer, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Did you think the hunter would not also become the prey? My dear, you’ve caught my attention as well… and I must say, I’m quite taken with you.”

Your heart skips approximately fifty beats. “You… what?”

“Ah,” Rook sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “You truly are a marvel. But now that I’ve caught you, I won’t let you slip away so easily.”

You’re still standing there, trying to process the fact that Rook Hunt, Rook Hunt, the walking poetry machine, is flirting with you. And not just in a casual way.

Wait why is holding his bow like that? Is he trying to serenade you with just his bow as his accompaniment?

“So,” Rook says, his smile widening, “shall we continue this game of ours? Or perhaps… a new adventure, together?”

You stare at him, your face about to combust from sheer embarrassment and disbelief. “Uh… sure?”

And just like that, Rook laughs, a joyous, carefree sound, and pulls you into a hug. “Magnifique! The hunt is over, but the journey has just begun, my chérie.”

As for you? You’re pretty sure this whole situation is a fever dream.

But hey, at least you finally got your guy. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll survive his endless poetic declarations.

Maybe.

Masterlist

[honeygrahambitch]

"Tell me I'm the worst. Tell me I'm guilty of all your crimes."

Hannibal grinned intrigued.

"Interesting. In fact," he said as something in his gaze changed, "Shall we dive more into that?"

"Hearing the confirmation of what you keep telling yourself is a relief as much as it is a final sentence."

"It had been a sentence, hadn't it? You have been imprisoned especially for the accusation that you wish to hear from me."

"I heard it from so many people. Jack, Alana, Chilton. They wouldn't say it the same way you would."

"I wouldn't say it derogatorily," Hannibal reflected, "Regarding what I said before you voiced your request, I would like to correct myself. I no longer believe you have urges to be degraded."

"What do you believe then? And for your own knowledge, I'm having this conversation only because you insisted."

"I insisted yet that request of yours followed shortly. I wonder which of us was more eager to hear it aloud," Hannibal said before answering Will's question. "I believe degradation arouses you only when it's said as praise. You were right, many people called you names and accused you. It had been your prison guard who had praised you for it for the first time. You might have discovered something about yourself in that very moment, hadn't you been so driven to have me killed."

"Continue, doctor, call it praise straightforwardly."

"I wouldn't. You don't get off to praise like other people do."

"Like you do," Will interrupted him.

"If it comes from you, yes. And the reason why you haven't been that impressed by Matthew Brown is that you weren't looking for his appreciation. And not only that." Hannibal paused… "Although I was not in the room with the two of you, I imagine his appreciation had outweighed your need for degradation."

"So it's because he told me I'm the best boy and not the worst? Say it the way I would like it," Will challenged him as he shifted in his seat.

"You didn't commit the crimes I did, I will not give you any credit for that. Not for my own work, Will," Hannibal started, "however that doesn't mean that you haven't been on my mind during every single one of them. The sole thought of the way you would look at it the next day had been like a muse to me. You see me, you see the worst because you are capable of the worst. When the time comes you will see that with your own eyes." Hannibal said.

When Will wanted to reply, Hannibal gestured to him to remain silent for just a bit more. "You are unforgiving, your resentment is sharp like a hunting knife. You crave violence and blood. You find nourishment in my tableaus. They scratch areas in your brain that long to be stimulated. You thrive on anguish and fear. Your pulse quickens just as my crimes remind you of how much beauty there is in the ugliest things in the world. People appreciate you for saving lives. I appreciate you for taking lives and for feeling a certain thrill. Matthew was a mere fan of my works, not yours. Straightforward praise does nothing to you because of your inherent belief that you don't deserve it. But being praised through having your violence and cunningness acknowledged, that's something else. You're bloodthirsty and you find delight in that. You find delight in the way I appreciate that."

Will looked at his watch. He might just have been forced to face an intimate truth. He wondered if words had any point. Hannibal didn't need him to confirm that he was right.

"There is nothing more thrilling than being seen and being appreciated for what we are" Will finally said.

"We crave what we have been denied. I don't want to deny you anything, Will."

"In that case, I suggest we go home."