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Crimson Sanctuary

Title: “Crimson Sanctuary”: A True Blood fanfiction

Pairing: Eric Northman x Reader Fem

Genre: Gothic Romance | Drama |Suspense

Warnings: Blood, sensuality, manipulation, mild violence, emotional dependency

Summary: When you inherit an old estate outside Shreveport, strange dreams begin to plague your nights—dreams filled with cold hands and glowing eyes. When Eric Northman appears on your doorstep, claiming the house is built on sacred vampire ground, you’re pulled into a seductive, ancient pact that will blur the lines between protection and possession.

You’d never seen the house before your aunt died, but her will left it in your name, along with a strange note written in shaky cursive:

"If you hear knocking after midnight, do not answer. Unless it's him."

At first, you thought it was a joke. Something leftover from a lonely old woman’s imagination. But the dreams started immediately after you moved in.

Fangs. Crimson eyes. Hands on your throat that were gentle, then not. And always, a name whispered through the dark:

Eric.

——

The estate was an old Victorian nightmare nestled in the pine woods outside Shreveport. Overgrown garden, boarded-up greenhouse, stained-glass windows that bled color across the walls every dusk.

And just like clockwork, you started waking up around midnight to the sound of soft, deliberate knocking at the front door.

You never answered. Not until the third night.

And when you did, he was there.

Tall. Pale. Blonde. Beautiful in the most terrifying way.

"You're late," he said.

You stared, heart hammering.

He smiled slowly, as if he'd waited centuries to see your face.

"I'm Eric Northman," he added. "And you’re trespassing on sacred vampire ground."

——

He didn’t come in right away. Vampires couldn’t, not without an invitation.

You didn't give it.

Instead, you stood in the doorway barefoot, in an old sleep shirt, cold wind curling around your ankles.

"Why would my aunt live here if it was dangerous?" you asked.

Eric studied you, eyes half-lidded, voice smooth as sin. "She wasn’t entirely human. Didn’t she tell you?"

You shook your head.

"No," he murmured, more to himself than you. "Of course not. She kept her secrets, right to the end."

——

Over the following weeks, he came often. Never forcing his way in. Never lying—but never telling the whole truth, either.

"You’re special," he said one night, standing beneath the porch light. “That house is a sanctuary for my kind. Built above old ground, where the Veil is thin. You shouldn’t be here alone.”

You should’ve been afraid. Maybe you were. But his voice soothed something in you, something ancient and hollow, like he was speaking to a part of you that had always waited.

He began appearing in your dreams again—but this time, you welcomed him.

——

Eventually, the invitation came without thinking.

You’d been asleep on the velvet settee in the study when you woke with a start—wind screaming through the windows, and the distant echo of glass breaking.

Eric was at the front door in moments.

"Invite me in," he said, voice sharp.

"Come in!" you gasped—and the second you did, he was inside, fast as lightning.

A feral look in his eyes. Blood on his collar.

"Someone’s been watching this house," he said, scanning the windows. "Feeding off its energy. Another vampire, or something worse."

You should’ve asked more questions.

Instead, you touched his wrist, cold and strong beneath your hand. "You're hurt."

He tilted his head, fascinated. "Worried for me?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

——

The house changed after that.

The lights flickered at night. Your dreams grew sharper. You started hearing whispers from behind the walls—Eric’s voice, calling your name in that deep, smooth tone.

He stayed close. Always near, always watching.

He never bit you. But he touched you—your throat, your face, your wrist—with the reverence of someone who had all the time in the world to wait.

"You’re not like the others," he told you one night. “Not just human. There’s something in you—some blood, some memory. I don’t know what she did to you, but your aunt gave you to this place.”

“Gave me to it?”

“To me.”

——

The moment came during a thunderstorm.

You were pacing the hall, heart pounding, cold sweat on your neck. Eric appeared without knocking—sensing your fear before you even called his name.

“There’s something in the basement,” you whispered. “I heard it breathing.”

He nodded. “It’s feeding off your fear. That’s how they cross through. But it can’t have you. I won’t allow it.”

“You keep saying I belong to you,” you said, breath catching. “What does that mean?”

Eric stepped close. Rain dripping from his shoulders. Lightning flashing behind him.

“It means if anything touches you—human or monster or memory—I’ll tear it apart.”

He kissed you then.

And it wasn’t gentle.

——

Afterward, everything changed. The house grew quiet. The whispers faded. Whatever had stalked you through the Veil was gone.

Eric stayed the night for the first time, lying beside you on the antique bed as the sun rose. He didn’t sleep. Vampires couldn’t.

But he watched you.

And when you stirred, his hand curled around your waist like a promise.

“I’ll keep you here,” he said softly. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

And you knew, without fear or doubt, that you’d already made your choice.

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[rdmasevi]

Blood Ties

Title: “Blood Ties”: A True Blood fanfiction

Pairing: Eric Northman x Reader Fem

Genre: Supernatural Romance | Angst | Slow Burn

Warnings: Blood, violence, suggestive content, emotional manipulation, vampire politics, light possessiveness.

Summary: A human woman from Bon Temps finds herself entangled in the dangerous world of Eric Northman, the powerful vampire sheriff of Area 5. What begins as curiosity turns into something deeper—something ancient, primal, and impossible to resist.

The first time you saw him, he was standing on the balcony of Fangtasia, gazing down like a panther sizing up its prey. His blonde hair slicked back, sharp blue eyes glowing faintly under the red lights of the club. You weren't supposed to be there. Not really.

You were human. Just a waitress from Bon Temps. But curiosity had teeth, and yours had sunk into the legend of the vampire sheriff ruling Area 5.

Eric Northman.

You didn’t believe the stories—until that night.

You felt his gaze before you even saw him move. One moment he was upstairs, and the next he was beside you, tall and ancient and impossible.

“You’re not like the others,” he said, voice low, voice dangerous.

You swallowed hard. “I’m just looking.”

He smirked, slow and deliberate. “So am I.”

From that moment, you were marked.

——

You didn’t go back to Fangtasia. Not for a while. But he found you. Of course he did.

He came into Merlotte’s two weeks later, like a storm wrapped in Armani. The bar went quiet, even Lafayette stopped mid-sentence. He didn’t need to say your name. He just tilted his head, and you followed him outside like you didn’t even have a choice.

“I don’t like being ignored,” he said.

“You don’t even know me.”

“But I could.” He stepped closer, cool fingers brushing your jaw. “If I wanted to.”

“And do you?”

Eric paused, then smiled. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

——

The next few weeks were a blur. Nights spent talking in the shadows behind Merlotte’s. Long drives with no destination. He never glamoured you. Never fed from you, though you knew he wanted to. You felt it in the way his voice dipped when he looked at your throat, the way his fangs would threaten to drop when your skin brushed his.

Still, he waited.

Until the night you showed up at Fangtasia with a split lip and blood on your hands.

“You hurt someone,” he said, amused and curious.

“They hurt me first,” you snapped. “I handled it.”

He looked at you like you were made of fire. “You’re not afraid of what I am.”

“I’m not stupid. But no, I’m not afraid.”

He took you to the back room and kissed you like he meant to ruin you. And maybe he did.

——

You never asked what you were to him. You weren’t his pet. You weren’t his meal. You weren’t like the other fangbangers desperate to be bitten. But you were his. That much was clear.

And when the Magister came, sniffing around about vampire loyalty and politics, Eric moved you into the day room beneath Fangtasia without asking.

“You’re not safe in Bon Temps,” he said. “They’ll use you against me.”

You frowned. “I thought vampires didn’t have weaknesses.”

“I don’t,” he said. “But you might be the closest thing I’ve had to one in a thousand years.”

That night, he finally fed from you.

He was gentle. Reverent. Like he was worshipping the taste of you. And when your blood hit his tongue, something in his eyes shifted—something ancient and terrifying and full of longing.

You knew then: this wasn’t just lust or curiosity. It was something far older. A bond deeper than you could understand.

——

You stayed through the chaos. The blood. The politics. You saw him at his worst—merciless, violent, drowning in centuries of cold calculation. But he never lied to you. Never glamoured you. Never pretended to be soft.

Still, in those rare quiet moments, when his head rested on your shoulder just before sunrise, you knew he could love. Even if he didn’t say the words.

“Will you ever turn me?” you asked once.

Eric looked at you for a long time. “Not unless you ask,” he said. “And not until you understand what forever means.”

You didn’t answer then.

But maybe, just maybe, you were starting to.

[rdmasevi]

No One Leaves the Red City

Pairing: Alec and Jane Volturi x Reader Fem

Genre: Gothic Horror | Vampire Fiction | Psychological Horror | Dark Romance

Warnings: Stalking and psychological abuse, Implied sexual trauma (non-explicit), Violence, torture, and gore, Death and bodily harm, Obsessive relationships.

Summary: A broken woman fleeing a violent stalker finds herself in the haunted city of Volterra, where she’s claimed as the true mate of the deadly vampire twins, Jane and Alec. When her stalker follows her into the Volturi's lair, revenge is no longer a wish — it's a sentence.

You didn’t come to Volterra to live.

You came to disappear.

He had followed you for months—across cities, through locked doors, past restraining orders. You stopped trying to tell the police when you realized they never took you seriously. He knew things he shouldn’t. Your passwords. Your dreams. Once, he sent you a photo of yourself asleep. You lived with fear like a second skin, and it never stopped crawling.

One night, you ran. You bought the first ticket out of the country with trembling hands, and landed in Italy with nothing but the clothes on your back and the bruises on your neck. The name 'Volterra' whispered itself into your bones like a curse—or a prayer.

The city greeted you like a tomb. Narrow alleys. Stone walls that wept with centuries. Eyes in windows that never blinked. You stayed in a crumbling hotel, slept with a kitchen knife under your pillow, and jumped every time the floorboards creaked. And still—he found you. Messages etched into the mirror. The scent of your shampoo in the hallway. He was always close, like a ghost with a heartbeat.

Then you found the stairs.

Carved into the side of a forgotten chapel, they spiraled down beneath the city like intestines. You don’t remember why you followed them. Only that something beneath your skin said, 'Go.'

You didn’t expect the underground cathedral. Or the cold-eyed vampires in flowing cloaks. Or the throne.

Or the twins.

Jane and Alec. Pale. Unmoving. Beautiful like corpses posed in eternal art. She looked at you with a cruel, quiet hunger. He looked at you like something he already knew.

They didn’t kill you.

They claimed you.

You were brought into the heart of the Volturi like an offering. Given clean clothes. A guarded room. Silk sheets on your bed and chains on the windows. Not a prisoner—but not free.

You didn’t care.

Because for the first time, the fear was fading. The constant throb of dread in your throat was replaced by stillness. Jane sat beside you in silence. Alec stood guard. Neither smiled, but you felt it—connection. Something older than fate.

Then he came.

Your stalker slipped through the city's ancient defenses. He killed a Volturi guard and painted your name across the marble walls in the guard’s blood. He left the severed finger of a tourist on your windowsill. You didn’t scream. You simply said: “He’s here.”

Jane and Alec handled the rest.

They brought him to the great hall, in chains of bone. You stood at the edge, not hidden, but watching.

“Is this the one?” Jane asked.

You nodded.

He laughed when the bag came off his head. “You still love me. I knew you’d come back.”

Jane crushed a tooth in his mouth with two fingers. “She came back to end you.”

Alec flooded the room with mist—his gift pulling away every sound, every scream, until there was nothing. The man opened his mouth wide and howled, but no one heard him. Not even himself.

Then came the pain.

Jane showed him everything. Every wound he ever gave you, tenfold. Every breath you took in fear, returned as fire. She made him relive your terror until his mind fractured. And still, he lived.

“I don’t want him dead,” you whispered.

Jane’s smile returned. Alec tilted his head.

“I want him hollow.”

So they made it happen.

He lost sight. Hearing. The ability to scream. But his nerves remained—alive and burning. Trapped in a body that could only feel. They hung him in the catacombs where the rats wouldn’t dare go. Where the stone dripped iron and old prayers. And sometimes—you visited. Just to look.

Not because you needed revenge.

But because you wanted to remember what power felt like.

Jane brushed your hair with hands soaked in ash. Alec pressed his lips to your wrist and whispered things in Latin—sacred things, final things.

You were no longer afraid.

You were theirs.

You were home.

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Special on the Menu - Part 2

Title: “Special on the Menu” Part 2: BTS fanfiction

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Male ( Chef )

Genre: Fluff | Humor | Slow Burn | Mutual Pining | Celebrity AU

Warnings: None

Summary: Jungkook returns for a private cooking lesson and flirts his way through chopped garlic, soy sauce accidents, and language barriers — all while learning that he might just want more than your food.

It was a Monday afternoon — officially your day off — but the soft hum of prep equipment and the scent of simmering broth still filled your restaurant kitchen. You’d tidied things up a little too much. Rearranged knives, wiped already-clean counters twice, and even put on your good apron.

The front door chimed softly.

You peeked out from the kitchen.

And there he was.

Jungkook stood in the doorway, hoodie up and oversized sunglasses comically big for his face. In one hand, he held a canvas tote bag that looked suspiciously like it was packed with snacks. In the other, he held a phone with a very visible translation app open.

He peeked up, spotted you, and broke into the most disarming grin. “Chef!” he called, then paused and corrected himself slowly. “Hi. I’m… here for… cooking school?”

You chuckled, stepping out. “Cooking school, huh? That’s what we’re calling it?”

He looked momentarily panicked. “Is… wrong?”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s perfect.”

You waved him inside and led him into the kitchen. He moved with wide-eyed curiosity, touching ingredients and staring in awe at your spice rack like it was a museum exhibit.

“You, uh… cook much?” you asked gently.

Jungkook shook his head. “Only… ramen.” He mimed pouring water and flicking on a stove. “Fast. Sad.”

You laughed. “Then we’ll start simple.”

You handed him a cutting board and a peeled clove of garlic. He stared at it like it might explode.

You stepped beside him, close enough to guide but not crowd, and mimed the rocking motion of chopping.

He tried. Badly.

“No, no — like this,” you said, gently adjusting his grip. Your hand brushed his. Jungkook’s breath hitched loudly, and he stared at your fingers like they were enchanted.

“S-sorry. Hands… cold,” he mumbled.

“They’re fine,” you said, smirking.

He finally managed a few clumsy slices. They weren’t good, but they were garlic-shaped, and you gave him a thumbs up anyway. He beamed like he’d just won MasterChef.

You cooked together for the next hour — a simple chicken stir-fry with a side of seasoned rice. He focused hard, brows furrowed in adorable concentration as he flipped vegetables and measured soy sauce with excessive care.

“Too much?” he asked, holding the bottle.

“Depends. Do you like salty?”

He paused, smiled slowly. “I like… your taste.”

You raised a brow. “My taste in food or…?”

He went completely red. “Food. FOOD.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my God. No. Wait. Yes? I—”

You laughed, your own face heating. “Relax. I knew what you meant. Sort of.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, grinning despite himself. “English… hard.”

You reached over and gently lowered his hands. “You’re doing fine.”

There was a long, quiet beat. His smile softened, and he stared at you — not with nerves this time, but something a little more certain. You could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way he didn’t look away this time.

“I like… come here,” he said. “You. Nice. Fun.”

You bit your lip, heart thudding. “I like you coming here too.”

There was a loud ding from the stove. The rice was ready. Saved by the bell.

You plated the meal together, then sat down at the little table tucked in the kitchen corner. Jungkook took a bite, groaned dramatically, and fell back in his chair.

“Chef,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “I marry this rice.”

You raised a brow. “Just the rice?”

He looked at you. Paused. Then grinned. “Maybe… rice and… chef.”

You laughed, cheeks burning. “Bold.”

He shrugged, but his eyes sparkled. “Learning.”

——

By the end of the afternoon, he'd scribbled a few English phrases into his notebook ("you are cute" appeared three times), taken a selfie of you both — with you looking flustered and him absolutely smug — and asked if he could come back next Monday.

You didn’t hesitate. “Same time?”

He nodded. “Same time. Maybe… kiss next time?”

You almost dropped your coffee.

“Jungkook!”

“Kidding!” he laughed, already halfway to the door.

But as he turned back, he winked.

And maybe — just maybe — he wasn’t.

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Crush à la Carte - Part 2

Title: "Crush à la Carte" Chapter 2: BTS fanfiction

Pairing: Jimin x Reader Male ( Chef )

Genre: Fluff | Comedy | Romance | Mild Chaos | Calebrity AU

Warnings: None

Summary: Jimin and the reader go on a cute Paris date—with RM tagging along to translate. Their awkward but adorable outing sparks dating rumors, and the media hilariously mistakes them for a throuple.

You hadn’t expected Jimin to actually follow through.

You’d assumed that maybe it was a one-time moment—that little spark across the dining room, the scribbled note, the flushed cheeks. A passing crush that would fade by the time they flew back to Korea.

But then RM messaged your restaurant’s business account.

“Hey, this is Namjoon (RM). Jimin really wants to see you again—just for coffee or something chill. He doesn’t speak much English though, so… you cool if I come along to translate?”

And that was how you found yourself sitting at a quiet café near the Seine, nervously wiping your palms on your jeans while two members of the world’s biggest band walked toward you like a Calvin Klein ad come to life.

Jimin wore a fluffy beige sweater that nearly swallowed his hands, a bucket hat, and round glasses that made him look like a soft, romantic daydream. RM, dressed in sleek neutral layers, gave you an apologetic wave.

“Hi,” RM said, offering a firm handshake. “Sorry in advance for what I’m about to become today.”

You laughed. “What’s that?”

“A translator. A babysitter. A third wheel. Possibly the center of a fan conspiracy theory in about 12 hours.”

——

The conversation started clumsy but sweet. Jimin would say something shyly in Korean, and RM would translate between bites of his croissant. You noticed that RM was extremely careful about what he chose to translate versus what he just snorted at and ignored.

“Jimin says he really likes your voice,” RM said casually. “And that your jawline is unfair.”

You blinked. “Uh. Thanks?”

Jimin gave you a look that was half-proud, half-ready-to-run-into-the-Seine.

“And,” RM added, “he says if you ever cook for him again, he might fall in love on the spot.”

You stared at Jimin. Jimin stared at the table.

“Dude,” RM muttered in English to no one in particular, “I’m not getting paid enough to third-wheel this level of flirtation.”

The rest of the "date" unfolded like a chaotic but endearing romcom. You and Jimin tried to talk directly—gestures, Google Translate, sketching little drawings on napkins. RM occasionally stepped in when things got too awkward.

At one point, Jimin tried to ask if you liked dancing, but accidentally asked if you liked “mating.” You choked on your coffee. RM just sighed and leaned back in his chair like a war veteran.

——

You spent the afternoon walking near the water, laughing, pointing out buildings, sharing pastries, and occasionally pausing for Jimin to dramatically gasp at cute dogs. A few fans spotted you and took blurry photos. You didn’t think much of it.

Until the next day.

——

[ TWITTER - @popculturebuzz ]

Spotted in Paris: BTS’s RM and Jimin seen out with a mystery man!

Rumors swirl—are they a couple… or a throuple?

Fans spot “intimate moments” and “cozy body language” between all three.

#BTS #Jimin #RM #ChefBoyfriend #ParisLoveTriangle

——

You stared at your phone in horror.

“OH MY GOD,” you muttered.

Your restaurant’s Instagram DMs had exploded with heart emojis, confused French teens asking if you were married, and one very sweet grandma offering to knit you and “your two lovely Korean husbands” a matching sweater.

Jimin sent you a photo of the article with 47 crying-laughing emojis. RM simply texted:

“I hate you both.”

——

The second date was just the two of you—Jimin showed up with a translator app and a determined smile.

But even when RM wasn’t there in person, the internet had decided you were a unit.

For the next week, every new blurry photo of you and Jimin was somehow cropped to include RM awkwardly sipping coffee in the background, like some confused guardian angel.

——

You and Jimin didn’t mind.

He still sent you weird food photos with badly translated English captions.

You sent him videos of your prep station, showing off your “seductive chopping” while mouthing sexy chef in your best K-drama voice.

He sent a voice note once, late at night: soft, sleepy.

“Your hands,” he said in slow English. “Still beautiful.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

——

A week later, you changed your phone lock screen to a photo Jimin had secretly taken: you laughing, covered in flour, flipping a pancake mid-air.

He’d written over it with messy handwriting:

“Not a throuple. Just mine. 💕”

And that was the sweetest kind of chaos you’d ever known.

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[rdmasevi]

A Dash of You

Title: "A Dash of You": BTS fanfiction

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader Male ( Chef )

Genre: Fluff | Romance | Celebrity AU

Warnings: None

Summary: While visiting Paris for the first time with BTS, Hoseok develops a crush on a charming male chef at a hidden local bistro.

Paris was everything the group had dreamed it would be—gilded architecture, winding cobblestone streets, and that strange magic in the air that made even the most mundane moments feel cinematic.

Jung Hoseok stood at the edge of the Seine, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, wind tousling his caramel brown fringe. He was still buzzing from the performance last night, but the adrenaline had faded into a warm glow, one that paired nicely with the cool spring breeze.

And he was hungry.

Their local guide—a quick-talking French-Korean woman named Minji—had insisted on taking them to a small, tucked-away bistro that wasn’t even on TripAdvisor yet.

“It’s where the locals go,” she had whispered. “And the chef is amazing. Plus, he’s cute.”

Hoseok hadn’t thought much of that comment at the time. He was more focused on getting a decent espresso.

But the moment he stepped through the rustic wooden door of the bistro, that changed.

You stood behind the counter, wiping your hands on a towel and greeting Minji with a bright grin. Your apron was slightly crooked, your sleeves rolled up, and your hair a little mussed from the heat of the kitchen. Hoseok’s brain short-circuited.

You were cute. No—dangerously cute.

“Bonjour!” you called out, your accent charmingly imperfect. Your eyes met Hoseok’s, and he froze. Was the room warmer now?

You blinked, just once, and then turned your attention to the rest of the group. “I’ve got a special lunch menu if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Jin perked up. “Oh, we live for adventurous.”

Yoongi grunted something about wanting to just eat in peace, and Namjoon started peppering you with polite questions about your training and ingredients.

But Hoseok? He just stood there, stuck somewhere between awe and awkwardness. When you turned back to him, lips curled into a smile, he stammered a breathy, “Hi.”

“Hi,” you replied, eyebrows raised just slightly. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah!” he said, voice an octave higher than usual. “I’m just, uh… I like food.”

A moment of silence. Then, you laughed. Not mockingly, but kindly—like you understood he was flustered and thought it was adorable.

“You’re in the right place then, food boy.”

“Food boy,” Jungkook whispered behind him, barely containing his grin.

Hoseok tried to bury his face in the menu. The blush refused to leave his cheeks for the next hour.

——

You served them dish after dish, each plate more stunning than the last—artful, delicious, and clearly crafted with care. Hoseok kept sneaking glances at you, watching the way you moved, the confidence in your touch, the warm way you treated your guests. He was a goner.

After dessert (a lemon tart that nearly made Taehyung cry), the rest of the members slowly trickled out to explore the nearby shops.

But Hobi lingered.

You noticed.

“Didn’t find what you were looking for on the plate?” you asked, wiping down the counter as you approached him.

“I, um…” Hoseok hesitated, fingers nervously drumming the wood. “No, the food was perfect. Like, really. Perfect-perfect.”

Your eyes crinkled at the corners. “You say that like it surprised you.”

“No! No, I mean—yes. I mean—uh, I just… I’m bad at this,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

You leaned in a little. “Bad at… complimenting chefs?”

“No. Well, maybe? But mostly bad at… saying things like ‘I think you're really cute and I’d like to see you again, if you're into nervous Korean guys who sweat too much when they talk to attractive people.’”

There was a long pause.

Then you bit your bottom lip to keep from laughing, and said, “Well, lucky for you, I am into nervous Korean guys who sweat too much when they talk to me.”

Hoseok blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really.” You grabbed a pen, scribbled your number on a napkin, and slid it across the counter. “I’m off tomorrow. There’s a market near the canal. Walk with me?”

His entire face lit up, the way it only did when he was truly happy—eyes crinkled, cheeks glowing, heart on display.

“I’d love that.”

And when he walked out of the bistro clutching that napkin like it was a Grammy, he felt something shift inside him.

Maybe it was just the magic of Paris.

Or maybe—it was the start of something even sweeter than dessert.

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[rdmasevi]

Ink-Stained Hearts

Title: “Ink-Stained Hearts”: BTS fanfiction ( poly )

Pairing: BTS x Reader Male ( poly relationship)

Genre: Romance | Idol AU | Polyamorous

Warnings: None

Summary: An American tattoo artist living in Seoul finds himself in a new, flirty polyamorous relationship with all seven members of BTS, balancing teasing affection, quiet rooftop moments, and the chaos of dating global idols.

Living in Seoul had started out as a dare to yourself.

One year, maybe two — that’s all it was supposed to be. You’d told your friends in New York it was “for the experience,” but you knew better. You needed a reset. Somewhere new, somewhere loud and fast and filled with stories — and Seoul was exactly that. You never expected to find love. Let alone seven of them.

The bell above your tattoo studio door jingled softly. You didn’t have to look up from the sketchpad to know who it was.

“Five minutes late, Namjoon,” you said without missing a beat, your pencil still scratching at the paper. “Tardy boys don’t get kisses.”

“I brought iced Americanos,” Namjoon replied, voice low and amused. “Don’t push your luck.”

You did look up then, grinning. He stood just inside the door in a hoodie and cap like it’d fool anyone. You rose and plucked the coffee from his hand with a dramatic flourish, sipping like it was a gift from the gods.

“Mmm. You’re forgiven. Temporarily.”

Namjoon shook his head with a fond smile and wandered deeper into the studio, eyes roaming over the new flash sheet hanging on the wall. It featured celestial designs, fine lines, and a few hidden lyrics only true fans would recognize. Some of them were his.

“You’re gonna end up tattooing ARMY lyrics on someone’s ass,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the edge of the sheet.

“Already have,” you said with a wink. “Twice.”

He choked, and you smirked.

This was your dynamic with all of them — flirty, teasing, sometimes borderline scandalous. It made them blush, especially Jungkook and Jin, though Yoongi usually just gave you an unimpressed look while clearly fighting off a smile.

The door jingled again, and Hoseok’s bright laugh filled the shop before you saw him. “You flirting with Namjoon again, babe? Save some of that charm for the rest of us.”

“You can’t put a leash on natural charisma,” you said, already walking over for a kiss. He cupped your cheek and kissed you sweet and slow like he hadn’t just danced for five hours straight.

“Hyung, he was flirting with the barista on the way here,” came Taehyung’s amused voice as he entered behind Hobi, eyes gleaming under a wide-brimmed hat.

“Was not,” you said. “I was complimenting his latte art.”

“He made you a heart.”

“It was a good heart.”

They all filed in, casual in caps and shades, and your studio suddenly felt full of heat and energy. Jungkook tackled you into a hug, almost knocking you into your station, clinging like a koala.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into your neck, muffled and boyish.

“You saw me yesterday,” you chuckled, but you hugged him back just as tight. “Did you bring the thing?”

He pulled back with a grin and unzipped his hoodie — revealing his ribs, where the stencil of a small inked compass sat just under his heart.

You whistled. “Brave boy. That’s gonna tickle.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m tough.”

“Sure you are, muscle bunny.”

He scowled adorably, and Jimin swooped in like a shark smelling blood. “Oooh, he called you cute again. You gonna let him get away with that, Kook?”

Jungkook growled and lunged at Jimin, and the two started mock-wrestling in the studio, laughing while Namjoon sighed deeply and Yoongi muttered something about “children.”

“I’m dating seven clowns,” you said aloud, grinning helplessly as you moved to prep the station. “I should’ve gotten into ceramics.”

Jin gave you a mock-offended look. “Excuse you, I’m the face of worldwide handsomeness, not a clown.”

You shot him a sultry look. “Oh, I know what kind of face you are, hyung. It’s the one I dream about when I’m lonely.”

That got you a scandalized yelp from Jin, a laugh from Yoongi, and a flirty wink from Taehyung, who was now lounging across your guest couch like a painting.

Life had been wild since you’d met them. The relationship had started quietly — you’d done a tattoo for Namjoon on the down low, something private and meaningful. You hadn’t known he was the Kim Namjoon until halfway through the session, and when you realized it, you’d only arched a brow and said, “Cool. Wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Apparently, that sealed your fate.

What started as a flirtation turned into a group dinner. Then another. Then late-night texts, group chats, long walks, secret movie nights. When they admitted they shared a relationship already — seven souls tangled together in something deep, soft, and rare — you’d taken a moment to breathe, and then said, “I want in, if you’ll have me.”

And they did.

Now, you had seven very different boyfriends. Jin was dramatic and secretly the softest. Yoongi was blunt and sleepy, but let you nap on him like a pillow. Hoseok kissed you like the world was ending. Namjoon read you poetry when he missed you. Jimin spoiled you with affection. Taehyung sent you cryptic messages at 3 AM. And Jungkook clung like gravity, all soft cheeks and sudden kisses and big, open love.

It was a lot.

But it was yours.

“Alright,” you said, snapping on gloves and giving Jungkook a look. “You ready to suffer for beauty?”

He saluted. “Tattoo me, baby.”

From across the room, Taehyung groaned. “Gross.”

“Jealous,” you teased.

“Always,” he said, eyes dark.

You met them all like this — in the quiet in-between of busy schedules, in secret corners of a city that never slept. They didn’t need you. They were BTS — global stars, legends in the making. But they wanted you. That meant more than anything.

Later, after Jungkook’s session (during which he whined adorably and squeezed your hand the entire time), you all spilled out onto the rooftop of your building. The city lights blinked below, cool breeze tugging at your shirt, and seven boys leaned into you like a second skin.

You had your arm around Yoongi’s waist, Hoseok’s head on your shoulder, Jimin playing with your fingers, Taehyung humming into your neck, Namjoon curled close beside you, Jin feeding you chips, and Jungkook asleep with his legs across everyone’s laps.

It felt absurd and magical all at once.

“You’re dangerous,” Namjoon murmured, tracing your jaw.

“Me?” you said, pretending to look scandalized. “I’m just a humble tattoo artist with seven very clingy boyfriends.”

“You keep flirting like that,” Yoongi said, voice rough with fondness, “and we’re gonna write a whole album about you.”

“I dare you,” you said, grinning.

And honestly? You hoped they did.

Because ink fades eventually — but love like this?

That’s forever.

My Main Masterlis

[rdmasevi]

Wrong Turn, Right Timing

Title: “Wrong Turn, Right Timing”: a Formula 1 x Kpop fanfiction

Pairing: Jake ( ENHYPEN ) x Reader Male ( Formula 1 Driver )

Genre: Accidental Encounter | Slow-Burn Romance | Celebrity AU

Warnings: None

Summary: When Jake accidentally bumps into a blunt, no-nonsense Ferrari F1 driver while out for a run in Monaco, he's surprised—and weirdly intrigued—by someone who couldn’t care less about his fame or charm.

You never got lost.

Not in Monaco. Not with a perfect sense of direction sharpened by years of memorizing race tracks in your sleep.

And yet, here you were—somewhere near the old town, helmet tucked under one arm, walking down a narrow street after your car’s GPS decided to glitch halfway through the return to the paddock. You could’ve called someone. You didn’t. You liked silence. Solitude. No PR handlers. No cameras.

Just cobblestone, sun-warmed stone walls, and the quiet lull of the Mediterranean beyond.

You turned a corner—and collided with someone.

Hard.

“Whoa!” the guy yelped, stumbling back, phone slipping from his hand.

You caught it midair before it could hit the pavement, and handed it back without a word.

“Thanks. That would’ve been embarrassing in front of my—oh.”

You finally looked up.

Jake.

ENHYPEN’s Jake.

Sweaty, out of breath, in a t-shirt and running shorts. Clearly mid-jog, probably lost too.

He stared at you for a moment, then lit up with that kind of grin you didn’t trust. The kind of grin people used on red carpets and magazine shoots. But up close, it looked… more human.

“You’re that Ferrari guy, right?” he asked.

“Mm.”

Jake blinked. “Is that a yes?”

“I guess.”

“Wow. Okay. So this is the part where you say, ‘and you’re Jake from ENHYPEN,’ right?”

You tilted your head. “Do I have to?”

Jake laughed, caught off guard. “You’re not like I expected.”

“That’s what people say before they try to impress me.”

“And does it work?”

“No.”

Jake narrowed his eyes in mock offense. “Rude. I’m very likable.”

You started walking. “Then your fans will find you soon enough.”

He jogged to catch up. “Wait—seriously? That’s it? No photo? No fangirl moment?”

“I’m not a fan.”

“Ouch.”

A few steps in silence. Then Jake muttered, “You could at least pretend I’m interesting.”

You side-eyed him. “I don’t do pretending.”

Jake bit back a smile. “So you’re blunt. Got it.”

You glanced at him again. “You don’t get many people telling you the truth, do you?”

He paused at that. “Honestly? Not really.”

You shrugged. “Must be exhausting.”

Jake laughed, softer this time. “It is.”

Somewhere behind you, the faint sound of a scooter and excited voices echoed. Jake froze.

“Paparazzi,” he muttered. “Please tell me you’re fast.”

“I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

“Perfect,” Jake grinned. “Then you won’t mind ducking into this alley with me?”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s not a kidnapping. It’s just strategic hiding.”

You didn’t resist when he tugged you around the corner. The two of you ducked behind a stone archway as two scooter-riding fans zipped past.

For a moment, it was just you and him, tucked into a pocket of quiet.

Jake peeked around the edge. “Clear.”

“You really live like this?”

“Only when I leave the hotel without my manager,” he said sheepishly.

You looked at him. “Why’d you come out alone?”

Jake hesitated. “Honestly? I needed space. The others were asleep. I didn’t want to sit in another hotel room pretending to be perfect.”

You looked at him again—really looked this time. No cameras. No performance. Just a guy, sweaty and winded, hiding in a side street with someone who didn’t give a damn who he was.

“I get that,” you said quietly.

Jake smiled. “So... does this mean you might like me a little now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Would it help if I bought you a smoothie?”

You sighed. “Depends on the flavor.”

“I knew it,” Jake said, beaming. “You are capable of liking people.”

You started walking again. “We’ll see.”

He followed, still smiling.

[rdmasevi]

Marked

Title: “Marked”: The Conjuring fanfiction

Pairing: Ed and Lorraine Warren x Reader Fem ( Poly )

Genre: Supernatural Horror | Hurt/Comfort | Found Family / Polyamorous Romance

Warnings: Supernatural horror, physical violence, mild blood, child endangerment, emotional distress.

Summary: Left alone with Judy while Ed and Lorraine investigate the Perron haunting, you find yourself the target of a violent spirit—Bathsheba—who follows their connection home. When you're attacked while protecting Judy, Ed and Lorraine must race back and fight to save the woman they love, before it's too late.

The last thing Lorraine said before leaving was, “If anything feels off, call us. No hesitation.”

Ed kissed your cheek, lingering, his hand resting over your heart for a moment longer than usual. “We’ll be back soon, sweetheart.”

They were headed to Rhode Island — the Perron case — something already heavy in Ed’s eyes before they even left the driveway.

You stood in the doorway with Judy curled into your side, waving goodbye. She looked up at you as the car vanished down the road. “Are you okay?”

You smiled for her. “Of course. You and me, kiddo. Movie night?”

“Can we watch Bedknobs and Broomsticks again?”

“Third time’s the charm.”

——

The house was quiet that night — too quiet.

Judy had fallen asleep on the couch halfway through the movie. You tucked a blanket around her and kissed her forehead.

The silence made you uneasy. The kind of silence that felt unnatural. Stagnant.

As you walked toward the kitchen, the lights overhead flickered.

Then came the smell.

Rotten meat. Wet earth. Sulfur.

Your stomach turned.

Something was wrong.

You turned the corner—and froze.

Standing at the end of the hallway was a woman in black. Her face was a cracked, twisted mockery of something once human. Long, rotted fingers dragged against the wallpaper, peeling it back as she moved.

Bathsheba.

You reached for the crucifix on your necklace. Your lips started a prayer out of instinct.

That’s when she screamed.

You felt the impact before you saw it — an invisible force hurling you off your feet. You slammed into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster, pain blooming in your shoulder and ribs.

You fell in a heap to the floor.

Your head spun. You tasted copper.

You tried to get up — but then she was on you.

Claws raked down your forearm, hot blood seeping through your sleeve. You cried out, scrambling back, kicking wildly.

You grabbed a lamp and smashed it into her — or where she was. The lamp shattered, the impact stunning enough to make her waver. The air shifted. She hissed and vanished in a blink.

You dragged yourself to your knees, vision blurred, breathing ragged.

Then—

“MOM!” Judy’s scream tore through the silence.

Your body responded before your brain could catch up. You ran — limping, staggering — into the living room.

Judy was backed into the corner, clutching a small cross from the hallway wall.

Bathsheba loomed over her, whispering in some ancient tongue, a thread of darkness curling in the air.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!” you screamed, throwing yourself between them.

She struck again.

This time you flew across the room and smashed into the bookshelf. Wood splintered. Books toppled. You hit the floor, hard.

You didn’t move.

Your vision dimmed. Everything sounded underwater.

But you heard the door burst open. The sound of Ed shouting. Lorraine’s voice, sharp and fierce, cutting through the dark like a blade.

“Leave her, Bathsheba! I see you. In the name of the Father, the Son—”

Light. Heat. A sound like shattering glass and thunder.

And then nothing.

——

You woke to warmth.

Ed’s coat wrapped around you. His arms tight around your shoulders.

Lorraine was kneeling in front of you, her hands glowing faintly with the last remnants of something divine, tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Ed whispered, voice cracking. “You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Your arm throbbed. You looked down and saw the long, jagged scratches. Your ribs ached with every breath. “She was here. She wanted Judy.”

“I know,” Lorraine whispered. “She followed our connection. She used it to get close to you.”

You turned your head toward Judy, who sat huddled beside you, clutching your hand.

“I’m okay,” she said bravely. “You saved me. Like always.”

You blinked back tears. “I couldn’t let her take you.”

Lorraine leaned in, her forehead pressed to yours. “You’re one of us. She made a mistake touching you.”

Ed’s hand moved over yours, squeezing tight. “We should’ve never left you alone.”

“But you came back,” you said, voice raspy. “And that’s what matters.”

Later that night, wrapped in fresh clothes and safe in your bed, you lay between the two people who meant the most to you. Lorraine gently traced the bandage on your arm. Ed rested his head on your shoulder, his hand clasped in yours.

Judy curled on the edge of the bed, eyes finally closing.

And you, bruised but alive, whispered to the darkness, “You don’t win. Not here.”

The house remained quiet.

But now — it felt protected again.

Because the three of you were together.

And that was sacred.

My main masterlist

[rdmasevi]

His Favorite Fear

Title: “His Favorite Fear”: It fanfiction

Pairing: Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård) x Reader Fem

Genre: Psychological Horror | Dark Romance | Slow-Burn Supernatural

Warnings: Obsession & stalking, obsession & stalking, monster/human dynamic, sexual tension.

Summary: You were the only child in Derry who didn’t scream—and Pennywise never forgot you. Twenty years later, you return. Now you're all grown up, and he's starving—for your fear, your body, your soul. And this time, you're not running.

You never should’ve looked back.

But you did—when you were eight, standing at the edge of the Barrens with blood on your shoes and fog clinging to your clothes like breath.

You didn’t run. You turned.

And Pennywise saw you.

Not your face. Not your fear.

You.

Something about you made him hesitate. A tiny crack in his hunger. A pause where there should’ve been teeth.

Then you were gone—spirited away by distant relatives, another ghost ripped from Derry’s cursed streets.

But he never forgot you.

Not in twenty-seven years.

Not in his sleep, if that’s what you could call the yawning blackness between his cycles.

Not once.

——

You return to Derry at twenty-eight.

You tell yourself it’s for closure.

That’s a lie.

You’ve had dreams of him for years. Too vivid. Too intimate. They leave you breathless, sweating, flushed with something you hate to name. You can’t tell if it’s terror… or longing.

You don’t know what you came back for.

But he does.

——

He doesn't come for you all at once.

First, it's the red balloons outside your motel window.

Then, laughter behind closed doors—your door.

Then a whisper on the phone:

"You remember me."

You lie awake each night, blankets clenched between your thighs, your body tense from something you can’t shake. He’s in the corners of your dreams. On the tip of your breath.

And one night, he appears.

Not in the drain. Not in the woods.

In your mirror.

——

You meet his eyes. Golden. Burning. Curious.

“You came back,” he purrs, tilting his head. “Just for me?”

You stare him down, breath shallow. “Maybe I was curious.”

His grin is slow, like a knife slipping into warm skin.

“Curious… about what, little girl?”

You swallow hard. “Why you didn’t kill me.”

That makes him pause.

“You weren’t ready,” he says. “Not ripe. Not soft. Not afraid.”

He leans in through the glass, fingers pressing against the inside of the mirror.

“But now... you smell different.”

You approach the mirror. Something about his presence lures you. Sickening. Beautiful. Like standing too close to a fire you know will burn you—but it’s warm, and you’re so cold.

His voice drops to a low growl.

“Let me out.”

Your skin prickles. “What happens if I do?”

“I’ll taste you.” A pause. “Properly, this time.”

You should run. You don’t.

Instead, your fingers brush the surface of the glass. Heat blooms behind your navel as you speak, almost daring:

“What if I want you to?”

He snarls, and the mirror cracks.

You step back, heart pounding, thighs clenching at the wave of adrenaline.

He disappears. But you know—he’s coming.

——

You wake the next night to find him at the foot of your bed.

Solid. Real.

His body is massive, hulking in the dark, pale as bone in moonlight. He watches you with a hunger that isn’t just for meat. It’s for the tremble in your voice. The way your breath hitches when he shifts closer.

“Still not afraid,” he whispers.

“Still not dead,” you counter.

That earns you a deep, rumbling chuckle.

“You like this, don’t you?” he growls, voice thick with heat. “Being hunted. Touched by something wrong.”

You don’t deny it. Your body speaks for you—back arched slightly, breath hot, thighs pressed together.

He leans over you, fingers ghosting down your arm, then stopping just shy of your chest.

“I could tear you apart,” he whispers. “But not yet. You’re still unfolding.”

You meet his eyes, heartbeat drumming against your ribs. “Then keep unfolding me.”

That smile. That monstrous, impossible grin.

“I knew you were mine.”

My main masterlist

[rdmasevi]

Only You Taste Right

Title: Only You Taste Right: It fanfiction

Pairing: Pennywise (Bill Skarsgård) x Reader Fem

Genre: Dark Romance | Horror | Psychological Thriller | Monster x Reader

Warnings: Obsession/possessive behavior, psychological manipulation, monster/inhuman romance, mild sensual themes, creepy/stalking behavior.

Summary: You're the only person in Derry who doesn't fear Pennywise—and that makes you irresistible. Instead of feeding on you, he becomes obsessed.

You moved to Derry to disappear.

Small towns have a way of swallowing people whole—especially people like you, who don’t want to be seen. You rented a crumbling house on the edge of the Barrens, where trees whispered too much, and silence pressed in thick like syrup.

It was supposed to be quiet. Uneventful. Safe.

Then children started going missing.

You saw the flyers go up at the store, watched the parents cry on TV, and felt the town tremble with a fear it didn’t want to name. But you didn’t tremble.

And he noticed.

It started with laughter in the drain. Guttural, echoing. Like the world itself had a mouth and was amused by you.

You didn’t run.

You crouched beside the sewer grate and whispered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

Silence.

Then: “You will be.”

He didn’t come out that night. Or the next. But something changed in the air—like a predator circling something unfamiliar. Testing. Tasting.

The dreams started soon after.

You’d wake with your skin tingling, the memory of golden eyes and teeth like needles burned into your mind. A voice like velvet and blood whispered to you in your sleep:

“You’re different…”

“You don’t scream right.”

“But you smell so good…”

He watched you. You could feel it. In mirrors. In shadows. In the stillness between heartbeats.

Then one night, you called to him.

“Come out already,” you muttered into the darkness, standing alone beneath the streetlight at the edge of the Barrens. “If you want me, come and get me.”

The laughter came again—closer this time.

And then, there he was.

He didn’t sneak. Didn’t creep. He emerged, rising from the ground like a puppet with invisible strings, tall and otherworldly, his head cocked, eyes glowing.

“You want me to eat you?” he asked, voice lilting with amusement and hunger. “So eager…”

You raised your chin. “Maybe I just want to see if you can.”

His smile faltered—just slightly. Enough to show surprise.

“Not scared,” he murmured, circling you. “Not screaming. Not running. Why?”

You smirked. “Because you don’t scare me. You fascinate me.”

He stopped behind you, so close you could feel the cold pulse of his body—or whatever he was. A clawed hand brushed your throat, so light it could have been a breeze.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, little morsel.”

“So eat me already.”

He hissed—not from anger, but pleasure. A low, rumbling growl that curled around your spine.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not yet. You’re not ripe. Not ready. I want to taste you when the fear finally blooms.”

You turned to face him, daring.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep teasing you until it does.”

That was the moment you broke him.

Or maybe freed something.

The grin that spread across his face wasn’t for feeding—it was for you. Something possessive glinted behind his eyes. Something ancient and starving.

From that night on, he became a constant.

He’d visit you in your dreams, pinning you beneath him with a body colder than death, whispering promises of what he’d do if you ever did scream for him. He’d haunt your waking hours, flickering into reality in the corners of your eye—watching, waiting.

And you?

You kept tempting him. Kept walking alone. Kept whispering his name when you were supposed to be asleep.

Until one night, he didn’t wait anymore.

You woke to him in your bed. Not an illusion. Not a dream. Real. Solid. Here.

He leaned over you, straddling your hips, golden eyes burning into yours.

“I tried to wait,” he whispered, voice trembling with restraint. “But I can’t. You taste like lightning. Like starlight. Like madness. I need—”

You silenced him with a kiss.

His mouth was wrong. Too wide. Too sharp. But you didn’t care. You craved him, too. His claws dug into your sheets, resisting the urge to rip you open—but barely.

“You’re mine now,” he growled. “You’ll scream for me someday. And when you do…”

“What?” you whispered.

His lips curled, and his teeth gleamed.

“I’ll never let you go.”

And deep down… you didn’t want him to.

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[rdmasevi]

Not Left Behind

Title: “Not Left Behind”: Shameless fanfiction

Pairing: Mickey and Ian x Reader Male

Genre: Hurt/Comfort | Angst with Fluff

Warnings: Mentions of emotional trauma, abandonment, past poly relationship failure.

Summary: Haunted by past heartbreak, the reader fears being left out—until Ian and Mickey remind him he's truly part of their love.

You heard them laughing from the other room earlier. The kind of laugh that’s inside-jokey and full of old history you weren’t there for. The kind that tightens your chest, even though you know better.

You’re not mad at them. Not really. Just… afraid.

"Hey."

You flinch. You didn’t hear Ian come in. He steps quietly sometimes—something left over from the old Gallagher house.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You give the same answer you always do.

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

He walks over, leans against the counter, watching you scrub the already-clean glass. His voice is gentle. “You think a lot when you’re scared.”

You freeze.

Ian doesn’t mean it cruelly. He never does. But it still feels like he read a line you hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“I’m not scared,” you mutter, too defensively.

“Babe…” Ian sighs and takes the glass from your hands, setting it down. His fingers linger around yours. “You are. And it’s okay.”

The words unlock something, and suddenly, you feel it—this twisting in your stomach, this tightness in your throat.

You step back. “I shouldn’t have moved in.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insist, trying not to choke on it. “You and Mickey—you’ve been through hell together. You have all this history. You make sense. And I’m just… extra.”

“You’re not.”

You scoff. “I was, before. In my last relationship, I was the filler. We were three, then two, then one. Me. Left. And I told myself I wouldn’t do this again—wouldn’t be the third wheel on a tricycle built for two.”

Ian doesn’t try to interrupt. He just lets you spill.

“I love you both. I want this. But I can’t keep wondering if I’ll be the one who gets dropped again when things get hard.”

Suddenly, there’s a voice behind you.

“That’s not how we work.”

You spin to see Mickey in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable but eyes soft. He walks in, slower than usual. Deliberate.

“You think I’d let anyone in here if I didn’t mean it?” Mickey asks. “If we didn’t talk about it? Fight about it? Figure out what the hell it meant?”

You say nothing, afraid if you open your mouth again, you’ll just fall apart.

Mickey steps in close and grips your shoulder, grounding. “I don’t do this shit half-assed. Ian neither. You’re not a guest. You’re not a maybe. You’re part of this.”

Ian puts a hand on your other shoulder, his presence anchoring you like gravity. “You think we don’t see how hard you’re trying? You think we don’t notice the way you hold your breath every time we kiss in front of you, like you’re waiting to be forgotten?”

You swallow hard.

Mickey speaks again, quiet but steady. “We chose you. We keep choosing you. Every day.”

And just like that, your knees buckle a little.

Ian’s arms catch you before you fall, and Mickey’s right there, wrapping his arms around you tight, like you’re something worth protecting. They hold you like they’re not afraid of your pain—like they’ve got room for it.

You bury your face in Ian’s shoulder and let yourself cry—really cry—for the first time in months.

No one tells you it’s okay. They don’t need to.

You’re safe here.

And maybe, for the first time, you believe it.

My main masterlist

[rdmasevi]

Glass Hearts and Whiskey Truths

Title: “Glass Hearts and Whiskey Truths”: Shameless fanfiction

Pairing: Mickey and Ian x Reader Male

Genre: Angst | Drama | Romance (Polyamory)

Warnings: Emotional heartbreak, unrequited love, crying, emotional suppression, mild language, implied polyamory tension.

Summary: In the dim light of a South Side bar, Ian delivers joyful news—he and Mickey are getting married. For their boyfriend, it’s a shattering revelation he hides behind a smile, only breaking once the door closes. Love doesn’t always end with goodbye—it sometimes ends with silence.

The lights above the bar were dimmed to a warm honey-glow, casting long shadows over scratched wood and glass half-full with forgotten drinks. The jukebox in the corner crooned an old Sam Cooke tune, just loud enough to soften the clink of ice and the hum of too-late conversations. It was a Wednesday night, the kind that dragged like smoke—slow and bitter.

You were wiping down the counter with a cloth that had long given up hope of being clean, leaning into the quiet rhythm of a place that had nothing new to say. Your shirt clung to your back with the sweat of small burdens. The world didn’t end in fire; it ended in repetition.

Then the door creaked open.

You didn’t look up at first—not until you heard that familiar cadence, the confident shuffle of boots that walked like they had nothing to prove but everything to hide. Ian Gallagher, in a denim jacket with a stain on the collar and that goddamn smirk that could crack you open just by existing.

“Hey,” he said, sliding into his usual stool with the ease of someone who belonged to the furniture.

You offered a tired smile, half warmth, half ache. “You’re early. Didn’t expect you till last call.”

He shrugged, fingers dancing over the edge of the counter like they were chasing a nervous thought. “Mickey’s at home. We had some… talking to do.”

You stilled, the cloth in your hand freezing mid-circle.

There it was—something in the air. A pressure drop before the storm.

“Oh?” you managed, pouring him a whiskey without asking. You always knew his drink. You knew everything—how his breath hitched when he lied, how his hands shook on good days and steadied only when he was touching something real. Like Mickey. Like you.

Ian stared at the amber in his glass, then met your eyes with something too heavy to carry and too tender to ignore.

“We’re getting married.”

Just like that.

Four words.

Like bullets wrapped in lace.

You nodded slowly, your face a perfect stillness—no cracks, no tremors. “That’s… great,” you said, your voice silk-smooth and miles wide.

Ian smiled, sheepish and golden. “Yeah. It’s crazy, right? I mean, we talked about it for months, but it never felt real. Not until today.”

You laughed, a soft exhale that tasted like iron. “You two are the definition of crazy.”

He grinned, and God, that grin could gut you.

“I wanted you to hear it from me. You mean a lot to us. To me.” His eyes softened, and you hated how sincere he looked. “This doesn’t change anything.”

But it did.

It changed everything.

Because love, real love, wasn’t divisible. It was whole or it wasn’t. And they had chosen wholeness—with each other.

You forced a chuckle, reaching for another glass, anything to keep your hands from betraying you. “Well, I expect an invite. Open bar, right?”

“Of course,” Ian said, getting to his feet. He hesitated, then reached across the counter, fingers brushing yours. “I hope you’re happy for us.”

“I am,” you lied.

And then he was gone, leaving the air behind him fractured and thin.

The door closed.

The silence fell.

You stood there for a moment, watching the dust spin in the light. Then, without a word, you turned and walked to the back room—the one with the broken jukebox and the crates of cheap beer and the ghosts that didn’t talk back.

You leaned against the wall, breath hitching in your throat. The first tear came slow, trailing a quiet path down your cheek. The second broke the dam.

You sank to the floor, knees folding like paper, hands in your hair, mouth open in a silent scream. Your ribs clenched around the weight of it—the grief of being second, of being left, of not being enough.

You loved them both. Fiercely. Quietly. In ways that didn’t fit into sentences. You loved them in takeout dinners and bruised kisses and the nights when Mickey fell asleep on your chest, safe for once. You loved Ian when he laughed so hard he cried, and when he cried so hard you didn’t know if he’d ever laugh again.

But love wasn’t a life raft.

Not when it wasn’t returned with both hands.

You punched the wall, not hard, but enough. Enough to feel something. Enough to remind yourself you were still here.

The light buzzed overhead, flickering like a bad memory.

You stayed there for what felt like forever, knees to your chest, heart in pieces around you. The world outside moved on—orders placed, drinks poured, a new song on the jukebox.

And you?

You picked yourself up.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand.

You walked back into the bar and poured another drink—this one for yourself.

Because sometimes love didn’t end with goodbye.

Sometimes it ended with a wedding invitation.

And a smile you had to wear like armor.

Even as your heart broke in beautiful, deafening silence.

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Waxed in Silence

Title: "Waxed in Silence": House of Wax fanfiction

Pairing: Bo Sinclair x Reader Fem

Genre: Dark Romance | Psychological Thriller | Horror

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, Captivity themes, Mild violence, Suggestive content, Dark romance.

Summary: A lost traveler stumbles into the eerie town of Ambrose and into the clutches of Bo Sinclair, a dangerous man torn between obsession and longing—trapping her in a twisted game of survival, seduction, and secrets where love might be the deadliest thing of all.

 You should have turned around the moment your GPS flickered out. But the lure of a shortcut—and the creeping unease of the highway’s silence—drove you deeper into the Louisiana backroads until the forest swallowed your cell signal, your nerves, and finally, your freedom.

Ambrose didn’t appear on any map. Yet there it was, nestled like a secret, its still streets and antique charm strangely preserved. Too preserved.

The wax museum caught your eye first. Gilded signage. Artful window displays. But something about the statues—it was in their eyes. They stared too hard, smiled too wide. As though they had once been real.

You were walking backwards, trying to shake the unease, when your shoulder struck a broad chest.

“Easy there, sweetheart.”

You spun around, your hand flying to your mouth in a half-formed apology. He was tall, lean, oil-stained hands wiping themselves on a red rag. A smirk played on his lips—but his eyes didn’t smile.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, southern drawl smooth as molasses. “You lost?”

“Yeah, actually. My GPS cut out and I…” You gestured weakly down the empty street. “Is there anyone around who could help?”

“I could. Name’s Bo. I run the garage down the road.”

That was how it started. With a smile that hid the truth.

He fixed your car—or pretended to. Told you the part wouldn’t be in until tomorrow. Offered you a place to stay. And when you tried to decline, you felt it: the shift. The unspoken rule of Ambrose.

No one leaves.

——

The house was colder than you expected, for a man like Bo. But then again, he was colder than he looked. Charming one minute. Quietly furious the next. You noticed the scars around his wrist when he poured you a drink. You noticed how he never let you out of his sight.

That night, you lay on the bed he’d prepared and listened. The silence screamed louder than any noise. You swore you heard footsteps. Scraping. Breathing that wasn’t yours.

The next morning, you found the museum doors open.

You shouldn’t have gone inside.

The figures were more lifelike than ever. There was something behind the wax. Something that felt like pain.

“Pretty, ain’t it?”

You turned—again, that voice behind you. Bo leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like he knew a secret you hadn’t yet earned.

“You made these?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Just watched you. Like a predator watches prey right before the pounce.

“I should leave,” you murmured.

He stepped closer.

“I don’t think you should.”

His hand lifted—gentle, even reverent—as he brushed a strand of hair from your face. The gesture should’ve been tender. But it made your heart pound with something between fear and something far darker.

“I could keep you safe here,” he whispered. “People don’t understand what we do. But you could.”

“What you do?” you asked, voice hoarse.

His expression flickered. For a moment, you saw the man beneath the mask—the one shaped by blood and silence and brotherhood.

“Maybe I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Your throat dried. You should’ve run. But you didn’t. Something in his eyes pulled you in—a promise of danger, yes. But also of something raw and aching. Of someone who'd never known softness and didn’t know what to do with it now.

“I’m not like the others,” you said.

He smiled—small, broken, real.

“I know.”

——

You never did leave Ambrose.

Some nights, you wondered if Bo ever would’ve let you. Other nights, you didn’t care. You had learned the rules. Learned how to navigate his moods. Learned to read the tremor in his hands when he touched you like he might break you—or worse, break himself.

Vincent never spoke, but you felt his approval—or at least, his curiosity.

You were the only living girl in a town of wax. A strange, silent queen in a kingdom of secrets.

And Bo? Bo was your keeper. Your captor.

Your something else.

You didn’t know what to call it. But it was real. And that was more than you’d had before.

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Salt and Smoke

Title: “Salt and Smoke”: A Sinners fanfiction

Pairing: Smoke and Stack x Reader Fem

Genre: Supernatural Romance | Psychological Drama | Love Triangle

Warnings: Strong language, Implied sexual content, Violence / gun use, Religious trauma, Emotional manipulation.

Summary: In 1930s Mississippi, you take refuge in Clarksdale, where the Moore twins—charismatic Stack and stoic Smoke—run a juke joint with a haunted past. As supernatural forces stir beneath the Delta soil, you’re drawn into a dangerous love triangle—and a war between salvation and damnation.

You showed up in Clarksdale two weeks before the storm hit.

You weren’t looking for salvation—you were running from it. From church doors that closed too late and whispers that followed you like your shadow. The South had a way of remembering, even when you begged it to forget. But in Clarksdale, nobody asked questions, not when everyone’s got blood on their hands and blues in their bones.

You took a job sweeping up the juke joint the Moore twins had just opened on the edge of town. It was an old sawmill, turned holy ground. The night it opened, it was baptized in bourbon and sweat, and you saw Smoke and Stack for the first time.

Stack walked like a devil who knew you’d already sinned.

Smoke watched you like he was counting the weight of your soul.

You tried to ignore them both.

——

Smoke found you behind the bar two nights later, binding your hand after a broken bottle got too personal. He was quiet—always was—but he took your wrist gently in his palm, wrapping it with a clean handkerchief like a prayer.

"You know what people say about this place?" he asked without looking at you.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

"They say blood runs under the floorboards. From the war. From what came after."

"And you reopened it anyway?"

Smoke shrugged, one corner of his mouth twitching up. "The Devil already knew our names. We just figured it was time we met him properly."

——

Stack was different.

He didn’t ask questions. He smoked cloves and talked about dreams like they owed him something. Some nights, you'd find him sitting at the piano long after the crowd disappeared, fingers dragging melodies out of the keys like confessions.

"You ever make a deal?" he asked you once, his eyes lit like the reflection of hellfire in whiskey.

You told him no. But the truth was—maybe you had. Maybe you did every time you looked at him.

Because Stack was danger. He kissed like a man trying to forget the things he’d seen. And you let him. Over and over.

Until Smoke caught you one night in the back hallway, hair a mess and breath still sweet from Stack’s mouth. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t break anything.

"I thought you were smarter than this," he said low, turning away before you could say anything.

You hated how it hurt.

——

Then Remmick came. And everything changed.

Sammie stopped singing. The dogs howled every night before dawn. And Stack—Stack started talking to shadows.

He kissed you harder after that. Asked you to leave with him. Said, “There’s something under this town and it’s waking up. I don’t know what it wants, but it ain’t good.”

You went to Smoke that night instead. Sat beside him on the porch while he cleaned his revolver.

“Something’s coming,” you said.

“I know.”

“We should go.”

“I can’t,” he said. “Stack’s my brother. You… you're something else.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“If I stay,” you whispered, “it’s not because I’m brave.”

Smoke turned his face toward you, hand resting heavy on your thigh. “No. It’s because you belong here. Just like us.”

——

The night the sky cracked open, music poured from the mill like it was being torn from another world. Stack stood on the roof, blood on his chest, fire behind his eyes. Smoke was already below, aiming his gun at something you couldn’t see.

You were at the center.

Between the man you loved like a sin and the one who loved you like a prayer.

Stack offered you his hand, voice shaking.

“Come with me. Leave all this behind.”

Smoke’s voice cut through the thunder: “Stay. Help me stop this. You know this place needs saving.”

Your name was on both their tongues.

And somewhere between heaven and hell, you had to decide what kind of sinner you were.

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The Devil in Her Room

Title: “The Devil in Her Room”: The Conjuring saga fanfiction

Pairing: Lorraine Warren x Fem!Succubus Reader | NSFW (18+) |

Genre: Supernatural Erotica | Horror | Dark Romance

Warnings: NSFW, supernatural kink, bondage, corruption, religious guilt, dom/sub dynamic, mind play, Ed is unaware but present (non-participatory voyeurism), blasphemy.

Summary: When a dominant succubus slips into Lorraine Warren’s bedroom while her husband sleeps nearby, the devout paranormal investigator finds herself bound, corrupted, and seduced into sinful surrender—her prayers turning to moans as she falls into the arms of the very demon she was trained to banish.

She prayed every night.

That was how you found her.

Bathed in candlelight at her bedside, fingers tight around her rosary, lips murmuring desperate pleas to a God who hadn’t answered in years. You watched from the threshold — invisible, intangible — feeding on her fear, her faith, and something deeper.

Something forbidden.

You didn’t need to open the door to enter Lorraine Warren’s bedroom. You bled through the walls like shadow. Your form took shape in the flickering candlelight — curves coalescing, horns forming, your body clothed in smoke and lust.

She didn’t notice you at first. Not until the candle flared violently, then died.

Then she saw you. And froze.

You stepped into the dark, heels silent on the hardwood. Lorraine clutched her rosary tighter, her voice trembling.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy—”

“Shhh,” you purred, appearing beside the bed in a blink. “You’ll wake him.”

Her eyes darted toward the closed door. Ed was sleeping just down the hall. But her gaze returned to you — wide, terrified, and just a little curious.

“I know what you dream about,” you whispered, fingers grazing the edge of her nightgown. “The things you crave when no one’s watching. The ones He would condemn you for.”

Her breath hitched. “I am married.”

You smiled darkly. “He can’t hear you scream.”

And you kissed her.

At first, she resisted — barely. Her lips pressed shut, body stiff. But her arms trembled. Her thighs clenched beneath the covers. And when your hand slipped under the blanket, stroking the heat between her legs, she gasped and melted into you like she’d been waiting for it all her life.

“Such a good wife,” you whispered mockingly, your palm cupping her through soaked cotton. “So holy. So devout. But your body worships me, doesn’t it?”

She whimpered when you pressed harder, slow, grinding circles that made her hips twitch. Her nightgown rode up. Her rosary slipped from her fingers.

You took it.

“Let’s put this to better use.”

She stared in shock as you looped the rosary around her wrists, binding them tight, dragging her arms above her head against the headboard. With a wave of your hand, the shadows themselves came alive — dark tendrils curling around her ankles, spreading her open for you.

“Blasphemous little whore,” you cooed. “Moaning with God’s beads between your wrists, knowing your husband sleeps just feet away.”

Her only answer was a low moan as your mouth descended between her thighs.

You licked like a starving thing — slow, thorough, your tongue demonic and skillful, curling inside her as your thumb circled her clit in teasing spirals. Her legs trembled. Her heels dug into the mattress. She tried to stay silent, but you let your power drift, just enough to make the air heavy with your name.

When she moaned it — "please”-

You climbed up her body, straddling her chest, grabbing a fistful of her hair.

“Again,” you hissed. “Louder.”

She stared up at you, eyes wild and soaked with guilt and need.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“You will.”

You fed her more — fingers again, then your dripping core — riding her face until she took you like communion, like sacrilege, eyes closed and tears streaking down her cheeks. You forced her to taste you, to submit fully, to let go of everything sacred.

And she did.

When you finally released her, she collapsed — breathless, ruined, hair mussed and thighs slick with sin.

You knelt over her, brushing sweat from her brow.

“You’re mine now,” you whispered, licking a stripe up her neck. “Body and soul.”

Her only answer was a broken moan — a hand twitching toward you, craving more.

Behind the door, Ed stirred in his sleep.

But Lorraine didn’t notice.

She only saw you.

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Special on the Menu

Title: “Special on the Menu”: BTS fanfiction

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Male ( Chef )

Genre: Fluff | Humor | Slow Burn | Mutual Pining | Celebrity AU

Warnings: None

Summary: When BTS visits your restaurant during their first trip to America, shy Jungkook falls hard for the charming male chef — despite his broken English and the teasing from the rest of the group.

You wiped your hands on your apron, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors of your modest but busy downtown L.A. restaurant. The dinner rush had just died down, leaving the place bathed in warm lights and buzzing low conversation. That’s when your server, Mia, skidded in from the floor, eyes wide.

“Table six. You’re not gonna believe this,” she whispered, practically bouncing. “It’s them. BTS. The BTS. Like... K-pop royalty level.”

You blinked. “That the group you’re always blasting in the prep room?”

She nodded frantically. “Yes! And Jungkook is even hotter in person.”

With a skeptical laugh, you peeked out from the kitchen doorway. Sure enough, seven young men had just been seated at a corner booth. They were dressed casually, hats and hoodies up, but the playful energy they carried was unmistakable. One of them — the youngest-looking — had wide, curious eyes and kept leaning over the menu like it was a foreign artifact. Which, technically, it probably was.

You didn’t usually make appearances, but something about this moment made you curious. So, you took a deep breath and approached.

“Hi there, welcome to Lila’s,” you said, addressing the table. “I’m the chef-owner. Just wanted to say thanks for coming in.”

The one with dimples and a warm smile — RM, if you remembered right — lit up. “Oh! Thank you for having us. We’re big food fans. Heard great things.”

You smiled. “Anything I can recommend for you guys?”

Jungkook looked up then. He made eye contact — and didn’t break it. His gaze was intense, almost childlike in its curiosity. And then he spoke.

“Hi,” he said, a bit slowly, carefully. “Uh… I… want eat… special food?” He winced slightly, as if unsure of himself. His cheeks were already tinting pink.

RM grinned and jumped in. “He means, uh, he wants a recommendation. Something… special.”

Jungkook nodded quickly. “Yes. Special. What… you make?”

You stifled a grin. “I can make a custom dish, if you like. Spicy? Mild? Meat? Veg?”

Jungkook blinked. Then turned helplessly to RM.

RM translated your options in Korean, and Jungkook listened, then nodded and pointed toward you — directly. “You choose,” he said. “Chef choice.”

The table snickered softly, and the others began whispering to each other in Korean. Jungkook ignored them — or tried to — but his ears were definitely red.

“Alright,” you said, raising an eyebrow with a playful smile. “Chef’s choice it is.”

You headed back into the kitchen, heart unexpectedly fluttering. That guy was something. He didn’t say much, but the way he looked at you, like you were the most fascinating part of the room — it was hard to ignore.

Fifteen minutes later, you returned with a custom plate: bulgogi-style short ribs on a bed of garlic butter rice, kimchi slaw, and a soft egg on top — comfort food with flair. You set it down in front of Jungkook.

“Special for you,” you said.

He beamed. “Wow. Looks… good. Very good.” He gave a little thumbs up, then leaned in and inhaled the scent. “Smell… mmm. Thank you… chef.”

RM translated again, and Jungkook listened, then said in Korean, “Tell him I want to marry this food.”

RM choked on his water, laughing. “He says he loves it. Like, a lot.”

You chuckled. “Glad to hear it.”

As the meal went on, you caught Jungkook sneaking glances at you from the booth. Each time your eyes met, he looked away — only to peek again seconds later. Once, you raised a brow at him, and he ducked behind his glass with a shy giggle, cheeks now fully pink.

The guys were absolutely living for it. J-Hope nudged him and teased in Korean. Jin wiggled his eyebrows. Even Suga smirked knowingly.

At the end of the night, RM approached the counter while the others were taking group photos near the window.

“Hey,” he said. “Uh, Jungkook wants to say something. But he’s being… shy.”

You looked up to see Jungkook hiding behind Jimin, who was not helping, whispering something with a grin.

“Oh?” you said, smirking. “Should I come over?”

RM laughed. “He said, if you ever… have time, maybe… hang out? He wants to learn better English. And maybe… cooking.”

Your eyes flicked to Jungkook again. He was looking down now, nervously picking at the hem of his hoodie, but he glanced up once — and gave you a hopeful, almost bashful smile.

You grabbed a napkin and scribbled your number on it, then handed it to RM. “Tell him I’m free Mondays.”

RM handed it off, and Jungkook took it like it was the crown jewels, carefully folding it and slipping it into his pocket.

“Bye, chef!” he called as they left, waving enthusiastically. “Thank you! Very, very delicious!”

You waved back, heart full. “Anytime.”

And just like that, your quiet little kitchen suddenly felt like the start of something sweet.

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