#mr. reca x you

[venusandsaturnsrings]

you sighed heavily, zoning out on some of the elaborate wallpaper in front of you as your friend chattered on enthusiastically at your side.

last week, they had burst into your workplace with an expression so anxious you had thought something was seriously wrong. they went on to elaborate that famous director mr. reca was on penacony and having a surprise casting call and, as a member of the iris family, they just needed to go and audition but the idea of standing in front of such a well known face in the cinema world had them more panicked than they’d ever been before. whining endlessly about how they were so very nervous but couldn’t possibly miss such an opportunity, you easily picked up what exactly they wanted; you to go with them. sighing you offered your companionship partially as a good friend and partially to make the other workers stop glaring daggers, you finally chased them out the door as they promised to meet you at the studio on the weekend.

now in a long line of other actors and actresses hoping to finally get a breakthrough part, the number pinned hastily to your chest was starting to irritate you on top of not wanting to be here in the first place. agreeing so quickly was looking more like a mistake as you were realizing you had no experience or anything prepared and you’d soon be standing in front of a man who’d scrutinize your every move; a real nightmare in the dream.

it took a surprisingly short amount of time for your friend to be whisked away into the audition room with its heavy soundproof doors and you had to stand alone coming to terms with how much of a fool you’d look like. a brief thought of running flitted through your brain as you nervously tapped your foot but before any commitment to bolting could arise, you were ushered in.

the room was elegant but felt unbelievably sterile with the marble floors and delicate chandelier. behind a large wooden table stacked with folders, notes, and expensive looking pens was the man you dreaded explaining this predicament to. with piercing eyes and a predatory smile, mr. reca seemed unnervingly interested in what you’d go on to show him; nothing, unfortunately. you took your place in the centre of the room and awkwardly cleared your throat before dumping a word vomit of an apology and explanation filled with ‘i can’t act for shit,’ and ‘i’m sorry for wasting your time.’ he nodded with a low hum and seemed almost sympathetic as he tapped a finger against his lips while thinking.

“you’re here now and your… appearance… seemed perfectly suited to a personal project of mine i can’t seem to get out of my head,” his smile was unnerving in a way, “humour me and try out a couple poses at the least. such a role would come with magnificent compensation.” not the response you expected but you figured he was owed something for such a fumble. upon your agreement he had you shift into numerous positions that made your face flush with embarrassment but mr. reca seemed beyond pleased if his praise meant anything.

“magnificent. please, i’d love to have you star in a this minor film of mine. such a project will only take a few afternoons and i’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

it’s the next week when you’re at his home. he welcomes you with a neat suffocating hug and offers numerous snacks and drinks as a show of good will. it’s quite charming until he takes you to where he’s set up for the first scenes.

the room is dim, lit by ambient lighting only and silk ribbons drape across the room. in the middle is a bed covered in luxurious sheets and soft blankets with a table on each side holding a variety of lewd toys; your face is warm. mr. reca cheerfully points to every object explaining the purpose and how it’ll be used after fiddling with all the different locks on the door to successfully trap you in. suddenly you feel sweaty and your chest is tight as you shiver uncontrollably. his personal film was an adult film. he dangles the previously signed contract over your head with a promise to publicly humiliate you if you don’t, “strip and put on these pieces,” a lacy pair of panties and a bra that hides nothing. he’s throwing a pair of stockings at your chest as well before making some adjustments on his camera. with no choice, you change and pray that this will be over soon but the sinking feeling in your gut says otherwise when you see he’s undressing as well.

[kazucee]

TO CAUSE A SCENE !

PAIRINGS: gn! Reader x Mr Reca (from the hit game HSR!) Modern AU where Reca is a hotshot director and reader is a rising super star.

SYNOPSIS: Not so secret dating AU (they become public in the end) + tooth rotting fluff + SMAU (if you squint, like heavily squint. No there's only one so you can't even consider it as so but hey it's there TT) + not proofread (apologies for the mistakes) WC: 1.6k

BREAKING NEWS: Famous play director Mr. Reca caught in arms with his latest acquisition?

JUST IN: Who is this Mystery Person? Hearsays and gossip are bubbling to the surface as the newest photos of award winning Mr. Reca and his newest prize leaked online.

RUMORED TO BE: The Famous rising star—?!

“This is madness.” Your agent mutters for the nth time in a row clearly panicking. It was quite comical to see him pacing back and forth looking like he's about to have a heart attack right then and there.

What was even more comical was the fact that across from his frantic state was you, hands properly poised on your lap, an easy smile drawn, and chin tilted upwards as the make-up artist busied themselves with your face.

“It is a misunderstanding” You replied, glancing at the multiple tabloids placed on the quaint mahogany coffee table, your voice taking a light tone as your lips curl into a smile that could be plastered on every billboard in this damned city.

“It is reckless. You both were reckless. You told me you both were going somewhere private- oh this is a disaster.” A huffed laugh escaped your lips.

“You. How are you so calm about this entire ordeal?” As the make-up artist finishes up the final touches she grins back at you to which you return. As she tidies up the different shades of rogues and eyeshadow palettes you finally turn to meet your worrywart of an agent.

“Because these are measly tabloids and those are all just rumors” a shrug as you stare at the blurry photos of you and your ‘assumed’ lover.

“The photos-”

“-Don't even look like me. Firstly whoever took it chose such an unflattering angle—” The photos were clearly taken by some amateur, it was all blurred lines and unfocused blotches of colors and the lighting was horrid. “If they were going to expose something, could they not have taken it somewhere with more light? I look—”

“Your entire career is hanging by a loose thread and you're worrying about the tabloid photos and the lighting?!” Your agent thinks back to the times where he wasn't assigned to you, the times where the most stress he's ever had was a wrong coffee order.

Sure he loves you to death but the reason for all his headaches came in a conveniently wrapped you-shaped package and now it apparently comes with a buy one take one deal.

“My career is fine. The photos are terrible. And it's precisely why we can just deny I have anything to do with this entire conundrum” You say pointing to the blurry blob that is supposed to represent ‘you’.

“just keep denying it, say it was photoshopped by some fan, you know scandals come and go quickly” But the truth is. A part of you didn't want to deny it, the small selfish part of you wanted to just confirm all the rumors and gossip by clicking on the simple heart-react to any one of the endless tabloids on social media.

“And knowing Mr. Reca he'll probably get another rumored lover in a span of a couple days—” your words tasted bitter as they left your tongue even if it came off as a joke to ease up your agents anxiety.

“Is that really what you think of me, my darling star?” A new voice joined in the fray and you jumped when you felt two arms circle easily around your waist and the smell of old parchment paper and leather surrounded your senses.

“Mr. Reca.” Your agent lets out an exhausted sigh at his presence, as if the director being here added an additional load on his shoulders. The newest load that was currently taking solace in nuzzling his face against the crook of your neck.

“Dearest?” Your voice came next—pleasantly surprised, shouldn't he be at his filming site right now?—and you can almost physically feel how the other melted against your figure, arms tightening gently and bringing you into a back hug.

“What's this about me getting a new lover in a few days?” He mumbles softly, lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout and you can feel it touch the thin skin of your neck making your heartbeat pick up its pace ever so slightly.

“Well…” you drawl out as you try to detach yourself from him but that only results in him squeezing you tighter against him, his face still against your neck (which was now growing hot at the constant contact)

“You aren't Penacony’s most eligible bachelor for no reason” a small jab disguised as a tease. You can't help it, the small pinch of jealousy that seeds itself in your very very patient heart.

He was a celebrity, he was stupidly handsome, stupidly charming, and that meant that he had everybody fawning and bending over backwards for him. Not that he paid attention to any of those frivolities always rudely turning the other cheek. It still didn't help the rumor mill from cooking up another theory about him dating some random celebrity figure and it didn't help that sour feeling you get whenever you read about it online.

Although It did help that you were dating the real thing, Penacony's darling director. Wrapped tightly around your fingertips.

It helped very much to know that most of his films were love letters directed at you. Directed for you. In which his films would always start off with a cursive ‘for my darling muse’—it was his signature tell and something that was known by almost everyone in Penacony.

There were endless theories that surrounded those four sudden words that appeared in his recent best selling films.

You spent hours sifting through all the comments with a small knowing smile. You were there throughout the entire process (saved for the parts that required you to actually be seen with him) so you knew the genius that was him, how he somehow managed to turn the films into an allegory about the two of you. Delivered with flowery words, plot twists, and breathtaking cinematography.

“I'm the most eligible bachelor?” He mused with a faint smirk before pressing a soft chaste kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, pulling away slightly to allow your heart to return back to its normal rhythm. His carmine eyes full of mirth and arrogance at the title. You are sure he's seen those words and his name written in tandem to each other multiple times, to him it's just words written by some amateurs but hearing it from you turned them into ammunition he can use.

“The most annoying one too” a small huff leaves your lips making him let out a chuckle, the rumble of his chest felt against your back. You see your agent suppress an eyeroll, gathering the tabloids before making up some random excuse to allow the two of you some allotted alone time.

“I take it you saw the news?” His tone was lofty as if he was enthralled by the whole prospect of getting found out by the public. With his hands positioned on either side of your waist he turns you around so that he's able to scrutinize your facial expressions, holding you close to him as sways you both to an imaginary beat. The action softens your heart and you follow along with him.

A scoff. “I'd hardly call it news. Just the usual chatter amongst the tabloids” His eyes search your own sincerely as if trying to gouge out every individual thought you have conjured up in that complicated brain of yours.

“I wouldn't call it chatter if it's true.” He says with a small smug grin and your eyes roll back, both of you are smiling fondly at each other, swaying in each other's arms.

‘I wouldn't call it true if we're hiding it.’ the sentence that hung with the few pin pricks of silence.

“I'm sure it'll blow over soon” and he hums in acknowledgement at your statement, the small furrow of his brow an indication of his disapproval. He holds your hand in his bringing it up to press a kiss against your knuckles.

“I don't want it too” he mumbles against your skin, pressing another fleeting kiss. Your brow raised curiously at his words, carefully mulling it over before asking-

“You're implying-”

“We go public about it. About us.” and boy did his eyes light up at the idea, similar to a fuse sparking before escalating and eventually causing a dramatic explosion. You always have admired that look of his, a sort of crazed expression that made every fibre of your being tingle like a thousand firecrackers and soon you found himself sharing his excitement at the prospect.

He smiles, presses one last kiss against your knuckles and moves to twirl you around, a small laugh bubbles out of you as you adhere to the director's movements. You could see him grinning again before finally ending this silent waltz of his with a stolen kiss from you.

“We'll cause quite the scene” his tender lips pull away from yours with that telltale smirk.

“A scene? Why not a whole blockbuster while we're at it?”

BREAKING NEWS: From Secret Rendezvous to Sharing Clothing? What does this entail?

JUST IN: Our Rising star spotted wearing a shirt a size big for them? A shirt that we've seen the famous director wear multiple times?!

HOT TOPIC: “it's not that we actively wanted people to know about us, we just stopped trying to hide it” — Mr. Reca [his latest interview]

AN: HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE !! STARTING OFF STRONG WITH A RECA KISSER FIC WOOPIEE + He's been on my mind (koue can confirm) + it's actually shocking how I'm posting left and right, watch this disappear when school comes back ⚰️+ cooking up another Reca fic as we speak + HAVING A CONSISTENT WRITING STYL IS HARD GRGRGRG+ I'm still tryna figure out this writing bit (I hope this wasn't too all over the place ?) but I hope y'all enjoyed it^^ reblogs, comments and likes are much appreciated 𐙚

[azes-ocean]

Illusion in shattered glass 

An: I promise I’m working on reqs but this was already in my drafts so 💙 I need more Mr. Reca content so I decided to make some! He’s a character with alot of potential 🫶🏼

A dream is just a nightmare you do not want to wake up from.

Inspiration: I can’t find the post anymore but there was a post about someone talking about Mr. Reca erasing his darling’s memories every time he confesses that to try to achieve perfection, if you find it plz tell me and I can add the link 💙 

An: I didn’t reread or review it so it might suck, but I did add effort. First few chapter are skip-able ish if your impatient. 

Summary: A picture perfect love story directed by Penacony’s greatest director.

Except it isn’t perfect.

You don’t remember any bit of this so-called ‘story’.

Because you-

—CUT!—

TAKE ONE 

“I love you, y/n.”

     “!?-Mr. Reca-I-do too…”

    Directors notes: Disapproved! Adding a title in the acceptance just makes there seem to be a distance or unfamiliarity!

TAKE TWO

“Ah. Y/n. I do adore you.”

         “-Reca…? In a platonic or a romantical way…?”

Director’s notes: Disapproved! The way in which y/n still must ask the intent of those words making them seem dense whilst they have much more intelligence then most actors.

TAKE THREE

“Y/n. Will you marry me?”

       “Gasp. I-ofcourse, Reca…!”

Directors notes: Mhmm…getting better! But it should be perfect! Therefore disapproved!

TAKE FOUR

Disapproved!

TAKE FIVE

Disapproved!

TAKE SIX

Disapproved!

TAKE SEVEN

——

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED AND EIGHTY EIGHT

————1—————

Mr. Reca slammed his fist on the table as he re-watched the records for the nth time. “Ugh. Disapproved…disapproved…Y/n deserves only perfection, not this dogwash!” He cried, cupping his face between his hands in frustration, mumbling under his breath. “No…no…no….” He murmured, why was this so hard? He was the greatest director in the world! Why couldn’t he properly direct his own love story,..?

Yes, yes, he had tried all the cliché proposals and confessions, flowers, letters, even using a cat to carry on his letter. So what was missing in his grand vision of this ‘perfect confession’!?

———2———

{{This chapter is to give depth to the reader and extra interactions. Skip it you want though somethings may be a bit confusing 💕}}

“What I think of Mr. Reca…?” You echoed, tilting your head in confusion. This was…not what you had expected your friends to ask you during your truth or dare game. “Yeah! I heard you rejected him before!” They gasped excitedly, one of them bumping your shoulder and giggling, covering their mouth. “No. I never did that. He’s just my boss. Those are just rumors.” You clarify, shaking you head with a shy smile. You’d never reject him. Well, you’d never reject him if he asked! But that was just most likely your brain too full of those telenova romance movies you binge watched over the weekend. You looked down to your hands and shook your head lightly, trying to wipe those thoughts from your brain. “Anytyywwwaaayy…. y/n!” Your friend called, pointing at you, already seemingly forgetting their previous question, “You didn’t answer the last question, so you better answer this one!” They chirped in their usual bubbly manner, happily shaking your shoulder like a needy child. Oh no. They had a mischevious glimmer in their eyes. “Tell the truth…why do you only hang out with us in the dreamscape!?” They demanded, huffing while crossing their arms dramatically. Your pulse unknowingly quickened, but your expression was still positive. “I just am too busy outside of the dreamscape. Nothing secretive. Now….F/N!” You smile and point at your other friend in the same matter as the latter, grinning, “Truth or dare?”

———3———

Mr. Reca sat on his desk, Assistant Director across his lap as he went through script after script after proposal after proposal. How boring. It would be a hundred times more interesting to be spending these wasted hours with you. But oh well. Duty called, much to his chagrin. What an artistic block. Almost all of the scripts these days lacked individuality and creativity.

All but lacking stories with a totally predictable ending, boring characters and poorly suggested visuals. The director eventually ran his patience through, crumpling the paper in his hands and throwing it across the room in absolute irritation.

“Mr. Reca…? Are you alright?” You called, knocking on the door after you had heard his exasperated grunts. “Oh, y/n! Please, please, come in if you wish! of course I am alright!” He called, his mood already being lifted by your prescence and concern. As soon as you opened the door he ushered you in and had you seated on the couch in the far corner of the messy room in a matter of seconds. You glanced across at him akwardly, only given a few moments to settle where you sat before Mr. Reca began talking endlessly about the films he was working on, the potential-less stories and manuscripts he was forced to read and a lot of his day. In truth, most of it went over your head, merely keeping up your part of the conversation with the bare minimum occasionally nodding and throwing out “Mhmm”’s “Er-yes…” and “Totally.”

———4———

“Y/n. How do you feel today?” Mr. Reca smiled, drapping his jacket across your shoulders. Even though the weather in the dreamscape was hardly cold, today felt a bit different. “A bit…cold…” You offer, snuggling into his warm jacket and hunching slightly. You looked up to see Mr. Reca with a sad smile, which surprised you. “Is…something wrong?” You asked, looking at him with a concerned look. Mr. Reca never usually showed sadness, but now his expression also held something you never thought was possible for him.

He looked…in grief?

Before you could open your mouth to ask him again, Mr. Reca looked you straight in the eye, his hands clasping together nervously, “Y/n…I love you.”

Your brain could hardly comprehend that. You stared at him for a while, wide eyed and your mouth half open when you finally remembered to swallow. You looked down and turned to him with a joyful smile, “I do too, Reca.” Mr. Reca returned your smile, though it still seemed like he was thinking of something else. You put a hand carefully on his shoulder and hesitantly kissed his forehead. “Is there…something wrong?” 

You were met with some silence, which seemed incredibly heavy, not something you would expect the atmosphere of a confession to be like. You knew what was wrong. You did. 

But you didn’t remember. 

And you can’t remember why.

“Wrong? No. We are actually following the ‘right’” Mr. Reca finally replied, shaking his head whilst forcing a smile. He pulled you into an unexpected embrace, burying his head into the crook of your neck as his shoulders seemed to sag. “And in the will of fate we can never be together.” 

You stared at him, though you weren’t confused. Yes, because this happened before.

Eight hundred and eighty eight times, to be exact.

This was what the aeons had written in both your destinies.

“Yes…yes…”

“Because you never existed in the first place.”

———5———

Mr. Reca was now hugging his empty jacket, devoid of the warmth it used to hold. 

And he cried.

It had never gotten easier to accept every time that you were a mere memory zone meme.

A fragment of his consciousness and the embodiment of his wish.

Salty tears fell one after the other in a bitter waterfall as Mr. Reca bit his lip, trying to regain his composure as his breath hitched and more tears spilled.

It was an ironic, almost funny thing

The missing piece in his ‘perfect confession’ had always been you.

———

TAKE EIGHT HUNDRED EIGHTY NINE

———

[aventurineswife]

mr reca fluff?

“You're the real star”

Summary: In a rare moment of vulnerability, Mr. Reca invites you into his creative process, seeking your genuine presence to help him craft a film that truly matters. The normally cynical director reveals a softer side, showing his admiration for your authenticity and inspiring a heartfelt connection that blurs the lines between his harsh critiques and personal affection.

Tags: Mr. Reca x Reader, Fluff, Slow Burn, Mutual Admiration, Vulnerable, Creative Collaboration, Tender Moments.

You find yourself sitting on the worn leather couch in Mr. Reca's private studio, the hum of old film equipment filling the room. The walls are lined with posters from his past works—each one telling a story, each one a glimpse into his mind. His mechanical frog assistant clicks away in the corner, adjusting the camera's angle for some unknown shot.

Mr. Reca himself sits at the desk, scribbling notes in a leather-bound journal. His expression is one of deep concentration, his furrowed brow betraying the subtle frustrations he often feels. Despite his usually biting nature, there's a warmth to the silence between you, a comfortable understanding that transcends words.

After a few moments, he glances up at you, his sharp eyes softening. "You know," he begins, his voice carrying that familiar cynical edge, "you're the only one who seems to get it. Everyone else is just following some scripted performance, but you... you're real." He sets his pen down, the glint of genuine respect hidden behind his usual jaded demeanor.

You smile, a little taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. "I don't know about that," you reply softly. "I just try to be myself."

A rare, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "That's what I like about you. You don’t play the game. You don’t pretend."

His eyes flicker to the frog assistant, as if considering something, then he stands up and walks over to you. The camera frog dutifully follows, its mechanical movements almost comical.

"Come on," he says, offering you his hand. "I’ve been working on something, and I need a partner in crime. You in?"

You take his hand, standing up with him, feeling the warmth of his touch despite the icy air of the studio. "What are we working on?" you ask, intrigued.

Mr. Reca lets out a low, almost nostalgic sigh. "A film. One that matters. One that captures the truth. No commercial fluff. No sponsors. Just raw, unfiltered emotion." His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable in its sincerity.

"You really think we can pull it off?" you ask, your heart racing with excitement.

He turns his gaze toward you, and for a moment, it's as if time itself slows. "With you? I know we can. After all, you're the real star here."

Your heart skips a beat. Mr. Reca, the brilliant but harsh director, the man who had so often criticized others for their lack of depth, is looking at you like you're the one thing that matters in his world. And for once, it feels like the script has changed. Maybe, just maybe, this time, the story is about you.

"You think so?" you whisper, barely able to hide the warmth creeping into your voice.

He nods, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. "I know so."

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

˚.🌺⋆ － RIDEEE THAT C★CK LIKE ITS A PONY !

୨ৎ paring : Sunday, Mydei, Mr Reca, Anaxa, Phainon x fem!reader.

୨ৎ warnings : nsfw/smut, creampie (vaginal), pussy slapping, cow girl, t!t fucking (mydei & Sunday), daddy kink (mr reca), nipple sucking, fingering, sub-ish Anaxa, thigh gripping, biting & others!

୨ৎ note : banner art is a doujinshi and you can find it on X from : sakuranotomoru !! also this is not proof read & dunno if it’s ooc.

𖤐 SUNDAY

The flickering candlelight cast an alluring glow over the room, where the scent of incense intertwined with the heavy atmosphere of desire. You found yourself on your knees before Sunday, his presence both intoxicating and commanding. His eyes, sharp and focused, glimmered with a mix of mischief and hunger as he watched you, the anticipation thickening the air around you.

“Look at you, so eager to please,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why don’t you show me just how devoted you are?”

You shivered at his words, feeling your heart race. Slowly, you climbed onto his lap, positioning yourself above his waiting cock. The moment you sank down, a gasp escaped your lips as you felt him stretch you wide, filling you completely. The delicious pressure made your breath hitch, your body trembling in response to the heat radiating between you.

“God, your pussy feels amazing,” he groaned, hands gripping your waist as he guided you to ride him. You began to move, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. The sensation of his cock sliding in and out, combined with the way your walls clung to him, had you moaning softly.

Sunday leaned forward, his wings fluttering, his hands sliding up to your tits, squeezing them as he watched you bounce on his cock. “Your tits are perfect,” he groaned, pulling your soft flesh together around his shaft. The sight of his cock disappearing between your breasts drove him wild. He thrust forward, using your tits to pleasure himself, and you let out a breathy moan, the feeling of his cock gliding against your soft skin sending sparks of pleasure through you.

“Just like that, baby,” he encouraged, his voice low and gravelly. “I love how your body responds to me.” He thrust harder, each movement eliciting desperate sounds from you as you felt the heat build within.

As he continued to thrust, you could feel the sweat glistening on your skin, the intensity of the moment heightening with each passing second. You looked up at him, your doe eyes filled with lust, and he met your gaze with a predatory glint. “You have the cutest fucked—up face,” he chuckled, driving his cock deeper into the warm embrace of your tits.

The pleasure was overwhelming, and you could feel the wetness pooling between your legs, your pussy cream and pink with desire. “Please,” you whimpered, desperate for more.

“More, huh?” Sunday teased, pulling back and releasing your breasts with a wet sound that echoed in the room. “I think you need to earn it.”

Without hesitation, he shifted you onto your back, positioning himself between your legs. He didn’t waste any time; in one swift movement, he buried his cock deep inside your pussy, filling you to the brim. The stretch was exquisite, and you gasped, the intensity of his thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

“You take me so well,” he praised, his voice thick with lust. “Look at you, so full of me.” Each thrust was rough, almost punishing, but the thrill of being dominated by him only heightened your desire.

You could feel the pressure building in your core as he thrust deeper, your body responding eagerly to his every move. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, a testament to the raw energy between you.

“Do you like that?” Sunday taunted, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in closer, his movements relentless. “Tell me how much you love it.”

“I love it! I—I love your cock,” you gasped, your words spilling from your lips as you surrendered to the pleasure. “Please don’t stop!”

He grinned, a wicked smile that sent a thrill down your spine. “I won’t, not until you’re completely wrecked.” His pace quickened, and you could feel the heat building within you, your body tightening around him as you approached the edge.

With each thrust, he pushed you closer to ecstasy, the sensations blurring into a heady mix of pleasure and pain. You felt your own climax building, desperate and wild, and you could hardly breathe as you got lost in the moment.

“Look at you,” he panted, his voice low and gravelly. “So fucked out and needy. I’m going to make you cum all over my cock.”

And just like that, with a few more powerful thrusts, you shattered around him, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you cried out his name. The sensation of your walls tightening around him pushed him over the edge, and with a final thrust, he filled you with his cum, the heat spilling deep inside you.

As you both came down from the high, Sunday looked at you, breathless and satisfied. “You were incredible,” he said, a smirk still playing on his lips as he pulled out, the slickness between your legs evidence of your wild encounter.

You lay there, completely spent, feeling the remnants of pleasure coursing through your body, knowing this was just the beginning of your divine desires with Sunday.

As the pleasure subsided and the heat of the moment began to settle, you remained sprawled on the floor, your body still tingling with the aftereffects of his powerful thrusts. Sunday, still looming over you, was far from finished. He grinned down at you, his eyes glinting with mischief, and the sight sent a thrill through your core once more.

“Not done yet, sweet girl,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He grabbed your waist and pulled you back against him, his hands finding your skirt and tugging it up, exposing your bare thighs. “You’re so beautiful like this, all flustered and fucked out.”

Your doe eyes were wide and teary, reflecting the intensity of the pleasure you’d just experienced. “Please, Sunday,” you whimpered, your voice soft and desperate. “I need more.”

“Good,” he smiled, his grip tightening around your waist as he positioned you back on your knees. “I want to see those perfect tits wrapped around my cock again.”

With that, he guided you back down, placing your breasts together as he lined himself up. The heat of his cock against your skin made your heart race. “Wrap them around me,” he instructed, and you obeyed, squeezing your soft flesh together.

Sunday thrust forward, sliding his cock between your breasts, the friction sending electric jolts of pleasure through you. You moaned, your eyes rolling back as he picked up a steady rhythm, his cock gliding between your tits with a lewd, squelching sound. “Just like that,” he encouraged, his voice thick with lust. “You’re so fuckin’ good at this.”

You could feel the slickness of his pre-cum coating your skin, mixing with the heat radiating from your body. The sensation of his cock sliding between your tits made your cheeks flush, and you could hardly keep your eyes open as he pounded into you. Each thrust made your body jolt, and you felt the pressure building again, your body aching for release.

“Look at you, all teary-eyed and desperate,” Sunday said with a smirk, his gaze locked on your face. “You love this, don’t you?”

“Y—yes,” you stammered, your breath hitching as you felt your arousal pooling between your legs again. “I love it!”

“Such a good little slut,” he praised, and the words made you clench around nothing, desperate for more. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

You complied, your eyes wide and glistening as you watched him use your tits. The way he dominated you, the sight of his cock slipping between your soft flesh, and the sound of skin meeting skin sent you spiraling. You could feel the heat radiating from your body, and every thrust brought you closer to the edge once again.

“Let’s make a mess, shall we?” he said with a wicked grin, and you nodded, your heart racing at the promise in his words.

With a few more powerful thrusts, he pulled back just enough to watch the sight of his cock glistening with your essence. “Now, I want you to lick it off,” he commanded, his voice dripping with authority.

As he slid out, you leaned forward, your tongue darting out to catch every drop of his cum. The salty taste mixed with the sweetness of your own arousal, and you savored it, feeling utterly debased but completely satisfied.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, watching you intently as you cleaned his cock. “Now, let’s finish this.”

He positioned himself behind you once more, his hands gripping your hips as he lined up for another round. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the anticipation making your heart race. “This time, I want to feel you all around me,” he growled.

You squeezed your eyes shut, plump lips parting as another weak moan left you. Sunday’s fingers curled around your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His grip was firm—possessive. “Open your eyes.”

You did. Big, glossy, tear-streaked eyes met sharp yellow eyes. His smirk widened.

With that, he plunged back inside your aching pussy, the sensation causing your breath to hitch once again. The raw intensity of his thrusts had you gasping, your body responding eagerly to the dominance he exerted over you.

“Just like that,” he encouraged, thrusting deep and hard, every stroke hitting your sweet spot. You were lost in the haze of pleasure, your body trembling as you neared the edge once again.

“Look at those pretty eyes tearing up,” he taunted, his voice filled with lust. “You love this, don’t you? Being completely at my mercy?”

“Y—Yes! Please, don’t stop!” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper as your walls tightened around him, urging him deeper.

“Then cum for me,” he commanded, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more desperate. The sound of your bodies colliding filled the air, and you could feel the pleasure building higher and higher until you felt completely overwhelmed.

With a final, deep thrust, he filled you once more, and you let go, your body shaking as you came around him. The world around you faded, leaving only the sensation of your release and the heat of his body against yours.

You collapsed against the floor, utterly spent, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through you as he finally pulled out. There was no aftercare, no gentle words or soothing touches—just the rawness of your encounter hanging in the air.

Sunday looked down at you, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “You’re incredible,” he said, the lust still evident in his gaze. “Let’s do that again sometime.”

𖤐 MYDEI

Mydei’s golden gauntlets are already discarded, rough hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he spreads you open before him. His eyes burn, sharp and hungry, tracing over your flushed skin, the way your tits rise and fall with each breath.

“You know what to do,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding, his cock already hard, thick, and leaking against his stomach.

You sink to your knees between his legs, pressing your plush tits together, letting his cock rest heavy between them. His sharp breath makes you smirk, but before you can tease him, he takes control—strong hands pressing your breasts tighter around him as he begins to thrust.

The slick heat of his cock glides between your tits, each slow roll of his hips making the veins along his shaft stand out. Precum smears against your skin, and you flick your tongue out, catching the salty taste when he thrusts high enough. His grip tightens.

“Fuck—” he growls, head tilting back for just a second before his eyes snap down to yours again, molten and unforgiving. “You always look so damn pretty like this.”

You let out a little moan, eyes peering up at him through heavy lashes. He looks like a beast barely restrained, his sharp teeth gritted, his yellow mixed with red hair disheveled. But it’s the way he’s staring at you—like he’s ready to ruin you—that makes your creamy pussy ache, clit pulsing with need.

One of his hands slides down, grips your thigh, his fingers pressing into the softness as he yanks you upward. A gasp leaves you as he pulls you into his lap, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Then—his teeth sink in, sharp and claiming.

“Mydei—”

He soothes the bite with his tongue before moving up, kissing over your hips, your stomach, your tits. Then his mouth finds your nipple, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak until you’re whining, squirming in his grasp. His other hand slides down between your legs, fingers parting your slick folds, pressing against your clit.

“Dripping already,” he murmurs against your skin, teasing. “Needy little thing.”

You don’t get a chance to argue before he’s gripping your hips and guiding you down onto his cock. The stretch steals your breath, the thickness of him pushing deep into your pussy, filling you up inch by inch. Your thighs tremble as he bottoms out, your creamy slick coating his length as he pulls you down hard against him.

“Look at you,” he growls, watching the way your tits bounce as you move. “Taking my cock so fucking well.”

You try to control the pace, rolling your hips in slow circles, but he’s not patient. His hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you still as he thrusts up, filling you to the hilt, making your head tip back with a breathless moan.

“So deep—” you whimper, fingers clawing at his shoulders.

He grins, sharp and wolfish. “Then take it.”

His pace turns brutal, cock driving into your pussy over and over, each thrust hitting deep, sending pleasure pulsing through your core. His hands roam, gripping, kneading, pulling—possessive in every touch. He reaches between you, rubbing messy, desperate circles over your clit, forcing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Mydei—”

He cuts you off with a harsh kiss, swallowing your moans as he fucks you harder, deeper, until you’re trembling, walls clenching tight around him.

“That’s it,” he groans, feeling you flutter around his cock, chasing your release. “Cum for me—soak my cock, you filthy thing.”

And you do—legs shaking, body arching, pleasure crashing through you in thick, dizzying waves. Mydei isn’t far behind, his grip tightening as he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a rough growl, his breath hot against your skin.

The air is thick with heat, your bodies still tangled together, his cock still buried deep inside your soaked, creamy pussy. His hands, still gripping your thighs, loosen slightly, smoothing over the marks he’s left behind.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice softer now, though the hunger never truly fades from his eyes. “You were made to take me.”

And you know, from the way his fingers trail lower again, that he’s not nearly finished with you yet.

Your breath comes in shallow pants, body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mydei’s hands are warm on your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he steadies you on his lap. His cock twitches inside your creamy pussy, still thick, still hard, the heat of him a constant reminder that he’s far from done with you.

He lifts the hem of your skirt, fingers sliding over the fabric with a dark chuckle. “So short,” he murmurs, dragging the material up higher until it’s fully bunched around your waist. “You really came to me dressed like this? With your tits spilling out, your little skirt barely covering your ass?” His voice is teasing, but there’s an edge to it—something possessive, something dangerous.

You whimper as he tugs you forward, pressing your chest to his face, his mouth latching onto your nipple again. His tongue flicks, sharp teeth grazing sensitive skin before he sucks hard, leaving another mark. His hands slide down, gripping the backs of your thighs, pressing you flush against him.

“N—No not like that,” Your voice is barely more than a gasp as he shifts beneath you, hips rolling up, his cock stretching you all over again.

He pulls back, breath hot against your skin. “What?” he taunts, voice rough. “Too much?”

You shake your head, doe eyes wide, already lost in the feel of him. His grip tightens, fingers bruising as he drags you down again, forcing you to take him even deeper. The stretch is overwhelming, his cock grinding against your sweet spot, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

“Good,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist before gripping the sides of your skirt, using it to yank you down harder. “Because I’m not fucking done with you.”

His movements are rough, unforgiving. Your tits bounce with each thrust, his gaze locked onto them, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. His fingers trail down between your legs, rubbing your clit in tight circles, making you jerk against him.

“Still so fucking wet,” he groans. “You love this, don’t you? Letting me fuck you stupid in this little skirt?”

You can only nod, your head tilting back, moans spilling from your lips as pleasure coils deep in your belly. He keeps up his relentless pace, driving his cock into your soaked pussy, his fingers working your clit until you’re shaking, thighs trembling against his sides.

“Cum for me again,” he demands, voice rough, his free hand gripping your thigh hard enough to leave marks. “Make a fuckin’ mess.”

The pleasure snaps, your walls clenching around his cock as another orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your nails dig into his shoulders, body jerking as the pleasure pulses through you.

Mydei groans, thrusting up once, twice more before burying himself deep, spilling inside you with a sharp growl. His grip on your thighs tightens, keeping you in place as he fills you to the brim, heat pooling deep inside you.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex heavy in the air. His hands smooth over your thighs now, more reverent than before, thumbs tracing over the marks he’s left behind.

His lips find your jaw, pressing a lazy, lingering kiss there. “Next time,” he murmurs, voice still thick with hunger, “I’m ripping this skirt off.”

𖤐 MR RECA

You straddled Reca’s lap, your thighs burning from how long you'd been riding him, but the pleasure made it impossible to stop. His hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding your movements as you bounced on his cock, feeling every inch stretch you open again and again.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Reca groaned, his voice thick with arousal. “Taking me so well—like you were made for this.”

The praise sent heat rushing through your body, making your walls squeeze around him. He hissed, his grip tightening, nails digging into your soft flesh as he forced you down harder. The way he filled you was intoxicating, the deep, slow drag of his cock hitting all the right spots inside you. Every thrust sent pleasure sparking up your spine, leaving you dizzy and desperate for more.

You braced yourself against his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. “Daddy—feels so good,” you whimpered, grinding down against him, chasing that coil of heat tightening in your stomach.

Reca let out a low, satisfied chuckle, his golden eyes locked onto your flushed face. “Yeah? You love being stuffed full of Daddy’s cock?” His voice was rough, dripping with possession. One of his hands slid up to cup your breast, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple, making you whine. “Look at you—so greedy for me.”

You nodded frantically, lost in the pleasure, your hips moving faster. The lewd sounds of your bodies meeting filled the air, slick and messy. Every bounce had his cock rubbing against that sweet, sensitive spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure crashing over you.

“Fuck—gonna cum,” you gasped, your nails dragging down his chest.

Reca groaned, his hands flying to your waist, holding you in place as he thrust up into you, hard and deep. The sudden force sent you over the edge, pleasure exploding through you as your walls clenched down around him. Your cries filled the room, your body trembling as you came undone in his arms.

“Good girl,” Reca growled, his movements growing erratic. He buried himself deep inside you with a final thrust, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you, filling you with his warmth. He held you there, pressed flush against him, as his cum dripped from where you were still stretched around him.

You shuddered, feeling completely wrecked, your body weak and pliant in his grasp. Reca exhaled, his lips ghosting over your temple before pulling you close, his hands stroking over your sweat—slicked skin.

“You’re staying like this for a while,” he murmured, his voice still thick with lust. “Can’t waste a drop, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to complain. Not when being full of him felt this good.

Your body trembled as you remained seated on Reca’s lap, his cock still buried deep inside you, keeping his cum right where he wanted it. Your breath was uneven, your skin slick with sweat, but the need pooling low in your stomach refused to fade.

You shifted slightly, feeling the stretch of him still inside you, the warmth of his release leaking out around his cock. A soft whimper slipped from your lips, and Reca’s hands, still resting on your waist, tensed. His golden eyes flicked up to yours, amusement curling at the edges of his gaze.

“Already getting needy again?” he murmured, his voice rough but undeniably smug. His fingers traced slow, teasing circles along your hips before gripping them tighter. “Didn’t get fucked hard enough, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, a shiver running through you at his tone. “I just—” Your voice came out breathy, wrecked. You squirmed against him, chasing any friction you could get, feeling your overstimulated body spark back to life. “Daddy, I still want more…”

Reca exhaled sharply, his grip tightening, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you down, forcing you to take his cock deeper. The sensation made you whine, your body jolting at the sudden pressure inside you.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, his lips ghosting over your ear before he nipped at the skin. “So desperate for me to fill you up again?” His hands trailed down to your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he forced you to grind against him.

The slow, torturous roll of your hips had you gasping, your body clenching around him, desperate for more. “Please,” you whimpered, your voice small, needy. “Want you to fuck me again, Daddy. Please.”

Reca groaned, his self-control snapping as he suddenly flipped you onto your back, keeping your legs spread wide around his waist. He loomed over you, red eyes dark with desire, his cock still deep inside you.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he growled, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, the force making you arch off the bed. “Since my needy little thing can’t go a second without being stuffed full.”

A sharp cry left your lips as he set a brutal pace, each thrust hitting so deep it left you gasping for air. The slick sounds of your bodies meeting, the mess between your legs, and the low, possessive groans spilling from Reca’s lips filled the room.

Your nails clawed at his shoulders, tears pricking at your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. “F-Fuck—Daddy—”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he cooed mockingly, his pace never slowing. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Begging me like a desperate little thing—now take it.”

Your body was on fire, every nerve lit up, the coil in your stomach twisting tighter with every thrust. You felt yourself teetering on the edge, your walls squeezing around him desperately.

Reca groaned, his thrusts growing rougher, more erratic. “Gonna cum for me again?” His voice was all dark amusement, knowing you were already falling apart beneath him.

You could only sob in response, nodding frantically as the pleasure became too much to bear. Your orgasm slammed into you, your entire body tensing as your walls clenched around his cock, milking him for everything he had.

“Fuck—” Reca cursed, burying himself deep one last time as he came, his warmth spilling inside you again. His grip on you was bruising, his cock pulsing as he filled you to the brim.

For a moment, all you could do was lay there, panting, your body trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure. Your skin was hot, slick with sweat, and your thighs ached from how hard he’d fucked you—but the dull, lingering throb of need refused to fade.

You could still feel him inside you, still thick, still warm, keeping his cum right where he wanted it. The way he filled you, the way his cock twitched ever so slightly, sent another wave of heat pooling low in your belly. Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching against his shoulders as the ache inside you pulsed back to life.

Reca noticed. He always noticed.

Red eyes flicked down to you, sharp, knowing. His lips curled in amusement, his hands still possessively gripping your waist. “You’re not satisfied yet, are you?” His voice was low, smug, but laced with something darker—something hungry.

You squirmed beneath him, feeling the mess between your thighs, feeling how his cock, still buried deep, made you feel so full. You whined softly, a little embarrassed by how much you still wanted him, but you couldn't stop the way your hips rolled against him, your body chasing friction.

Reca groaned, his grip tightening, his patience slipping. “Greedy little thing,” he muttered, leaning in, his breath warm against your lips. “You were just wrecked on my cock, and you’re still squirming like a needy little slut?”

A shiver ran through you at his words, and you whimpered, your nails dragging over his arms. “I c-can’t help it,” you whispered, your voice wrecked, desperate. “I need more, Daddy.”

His eyes darkened, and before you could blink, he had you pinned completely beneath him, his chest pressing against yours, his cock sliding just a little deeper. The stretch, the fullness, made you gasp, your body arching up into him.

“You’re insatiable,” he growled, his hand sliding down to your swollen clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that made your thighs tremble. “So fucking desperate to be used again, aren’t you?”

You moaned, nodding frantically, every nerve alight with overstimulation and raw need. “Please, Daddy,” you begged, your voice breathy, pleading. “I can take it. Want you to use me—want you to fill me again.”

Reca let out a low, dangerous chuckle, his fingers tightening around your throat just enough to make your breath hitch. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, rolling his hips, grinding his cock deeper, making you whine. “I’m not stopping until you break.”

And then he started fucking you again.

Brutal. Relentless. Giving you exactly what you begged for.

𖤐 ANAXA

The air was thick with anticipation as you found yourself straddling Anaxa, your heart racing with excitement. His hands gripped your waist firmly, fingers digging into your soft skin as you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock. The heat radiating from him sent shivers down your spine, and you could feel every inch of him as you sank down, gasping at the fullness.

“You feel amazing,” he breathed, his voice a mix of awe and desire, as you began to move, rolling your hips in a slow rhythm. The way his eyes darkened with pleasure urged you to pick up the pace. You loved seeing that vulnerable side of him, the way he bit his lip, fighting to maintain his composure.

With each thrust, you felt the delicious pressure building within you, your clit brushing against him just right, heightening the pleasure. You leaned forward, pressing your tits against his chest, the sensation sending sparks through your body. Anaxa’s hands roamed over your curves, squeezing your breasts, each tug eliciting soft moans from your lips.

“Ride me harder,” he commanded, the edge of dominance creeping into his tone, igniting a fire deep within you. You complied, your body instinctively responding to his words as you quickened your pace, each movement drawing you closer to ecstasy.

Anaxa’s breath hitched, and his grip tightened as he matched your rhythm, thrusting upward to meet you. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your shared moans, creating a symphony of pleasure that echoed around you.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with both need and a hint of submission. You reveled in the sight of him lost in the moment, completely at your mercy. The power shifted between you, and you loved every second of it.

As the tension reached its peak, you could feel your orgasm approaching, an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing over you. “I’m close,” you gasped, your movements becoming frantic as you chased your release. Anaxa’s response was immediate, urging you on with breathy encouragement, his desire fueling your own.

With one final thrust, the world around you blurred, and you fell over the edge, pleasure washing through you like a tidal wave. Anaxa followed closely behind, his own moan reverberating in your ears as he filled you, the heat of him spilling over into you.

You collapsed against him, panting heavily, the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through you. The heat of Anaxa’s body enveloped you, but you weren’t done yet. You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze, your eyes filled with mischief.

“Did you really think I was done?” you teased, your voice sultry and playful. You began to lift yourself again, your walls clenching around him as you prepared to ride him harder.

Anaxa chuckled, a mixture of surprise and arousal flashing across his face. “You’re insatiable,” he replied, his hands moving to your hips, guiding you.

“Maybe I just like seeing you like this,” you shot back, smirking as you slammed back down onto him, relishing the deep growl that escaped his lips. The way he filled you sent your senses reeling, igniting an even greater hunger within you.

“God, you feel incredible,” he gasped, his eyes darkening with desire. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good,” you replied breathlessly, “I want you to lose control.” You began to move faster, riding him with abandon, your body responding to every thrust, every shift of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room, and you could feel your clit throbbing as you chased another high.

Anaxa’s hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in as he pushed you down harder, thrusting up into you with fervor. “You’re such a good little rider,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Take it all. Show me how much you want it.”

“I want it all, Anaxa,” you breathed, throwing your head back, lost in the rhythm. “I want you to feel me. I want you to remember this.”

With every movement, you could feel the tension building again, your body coiling tighter as you pushed closer to the edge. You leaned forward, your lips brushing against his ear. “I want to feel you cum inside me. Don’t hold back,” you whispered, your words igniting a primal fire in him.

“Fuck, yes,” he growled, his grip tightening as he thrust up hard, desperation in his movements. You rode him with everything you had, the sound of your moans mixing with his, the room filled with the rawness of your desire.

“I can feel you getting close,” you teased, your breath quickening. “Don’t you dare hold back. I want to feel every drop.”

“Then let’s finish together,” he urged, his voice low and commanding. You nodded, your body moving faster, urgency taking over as you both raced toward that precipice.

“Come for me, Anaxa,” you urged, your voice breathy. “I want to feel you.”

With one final thrust, he shattered, his body tensing as he spilled into you, the warmth washing over you as you cried out, your own orgasm crashing over you in waves. You both rode out the high together, lost in the bliss of the moment, every sound and sensation intensified.

𖤐 PHAINON

The dim light of the room wrapped around you like a silken sheet, casting soft shadows that danced on the walls. You could feel the electric tension in the air, a palpable heat that made your skin tingle. Phainon sat back against the edge of the bed, his intense gaze locked onto you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. The sight of him, with his strong build and confident demeanor, sent a rush of desire through you, igniting a fire deep within.

With a sultry smile, you slowly approached him, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Each step accentuated your curves, drawing his eyes to your legs, which were showcased perfectly by the strappy heels. As you positioned yourself above him, the hard length of his cock pressed against your thighs, sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

“Please,” you breathed, your voice trembling with need. You could feel the ache pooling in your core, a desperate yearning for more. Phainon’s hands found your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you of his strength, a promise of the pleasure to come.

“Look at you, all needy,” he teased, his voice low and dripping with desire. The way he said it sent shivers down your spine, making you crave him even more.

Ignoring his taunt, you slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, a gasp escaping your lips as he filled you completely. The sensation was overwhelming; your clit brushed against his base, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. You felt so full, so alive, the connection between you two electrifying.

You began to ride him, starting slow to savor every moment as you adjusted to his size. Your hips moved with a deliberate rhythm, relishing the way he filled you, the sensation of his cock stretching you perfectly. Each movement ignited your senses, pushing you closer to the edge.

The sound of your bodies meeting filled the air, the soft thud of skin against skin mingling with your breathy moans. You could feel your tits bouncing with each thrust, the sight making Phainon’s eyes darken with lust. The sight of him watching you, completely entranced, only fueled your desire, making you more needy.

“P—Phainon,” you moaned, your voice breathless as you ground down harder, feeling the weight of your heels adding to the intoxicating mix of sensations. The pressure was building in your core, your body demanding more of him, more of this exquisite pleasure. You craved him, the way he filled you, the way his hands guided you deeper into ecstasy.

“Such a good girl for me,” he growled, his grip on your waist tightening, guiding your movements as he pushed you to ride him even harder. You could feel the heat pooling at the base of your spine, ready to explode as you lost yourself in the rhythm of your bodies. Your clit throbbing, while your pussy clenched around his cock. With every thrust, the tension inside you wound tighter, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable.

“Just like that,” he urged, his voice low and commanding. “Don’t hold back. Let go for me.”

You felt your heart racing, every nerve ending alive as you surrendered to the wave of pleasure crashing over you. The heat built to a fever pitch, your body screaming for release. You clung to him, the heels digging into his thighs as you rode him with wild abandon, desperate to reach that sweet release. You bit down your plump bottom lip, tears began to swell in your eyes while you looked at his eyes.

The sound of your moans filled the room, mixing with the slick sounds of your bodies moving together. You were lost in the moment, consumed by the ecstasy of being filled by him, of feeling every inch of him deep inside. You could feel the familiar tightening in your core, the way your body responded to his every thrust.

As you reached the edge, your moans grew louder, spilling out as you felt the rush of pleasure wash over you. “Phainon! I’m—” Your words were cut off by a cry of bliss as the wave crashed over you, sending you spiraling into euphoria. You cum milking his cock, as he moaned and whimpered, filling you up to bliss.

“Fuck, baby, we’re not done yet,” Phainon smirked, his hands gripping your ass as he gave it a rough squeeze. You whimpered, body trembling from the way his cock still throbbed inside your soaked pussy, thick cum dripping down your inner thighs.

Your legs burned from how long you’d been riding him, heels still strapped to your feet, the sheer stockings clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. Every movement had your sensitive clit brushing against his pelvis, sending sharp sparks of pleasure up your spine.

Phainon chuckled, watching the way your tits bounced with each shuddering breath. “Look at you, baby. So fucked-out, but I know you can take more,” he murmured, fingers dragging up your waist before he cupped your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

“You’re gonna ride me until I’m satisfied,”he growled, hips thrusting up sharply, making you cry out as his cock pressed deep inside your overstimulated pussy. “So be a good girl and keep going.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,326

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[angelltheninth]

Humbly asking you, my favorite writer for your headcanons for how do you think Mydei, Phainon, Mr. Reca and Anaxa are with clit stimulation.

You got me right when my period started. Why do these asks always find me in these times?

Pairing: Anaxa, Phainon, Mydei, Mr. Reca x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, clit stimulation, teasing, overstimulation, licking, pussyworship, hair-pulling

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters

A/N: Gonna write a few smutty things in a row cause that's the current mood I'm in lol.

Anaxa keeps you still while his tongue circles your clit. Makes sure that he's doing it right, always a full little circle around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Won't do it any other way no matter how much you beg him to, he is a man set in his ways. But if you don't want to lay back and let him make you cum then he might stop entirely, so think carefully before you ask again.

Phainon is quick to flick your clit back and forth with his tongue and he will never hold you down while he does it. He wants your hips rolling against him, your legs bent, back arched and throat sore from moaning. As you near your peak he moves his tongue faster, almost too fast. His hands seek out yours, the only way to keep you grounded as you come against his tongue.

Mydei always insists on licking your clit for a bit before any kind of penetration happens. Depending on how much he wants to make you come he might give you a few orgasms just from that before he shoves his cock into you. It's much more fun when you're really sensitive and all but begging for him mouth, his tongue. By the end of it he's got your pussy juice all over his face and he is proud of it.

Mr. Reca holds you down while he's sucking on your clit mercilessly. He lets you pull his hair all you want but he pins your legs open so he can keep eye contact while he gets sloppier and sloppier with his mouth. Like he could ever get enough of you, your taste, your noises. Nothing could make him pull away from you now, not until he sees your eyes roll back and your body go boneless on the bed.

[baeshijima]

— stardust

the world is a vast place. in the grand scheme of things, humans are but a speck of dust; much like how you are sure you are nothing but a meagre speck of dust in the world he lives in, forever to be remained unseen. (if only you knew how you are the brightest star he'd ever laid his eyes upon.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.5k wc, royalty!au, contract marriage/marriage of convenience, fluff, smitten reca bc what would he be other than smitten, a little hint of bittersweet at the end if read between the lines aha...

A/N : ....i have a paper due monday. i havent started it. why do i do this to myself. (reca i love u can u not hear my cries and wails as fic after fic appears in my brain for u...)

Duke Reca of the northern territory; to many he is a well-accomplished noble, a young genius set for greater things, and the owner-slash-founder of the top theatre company. He is an idol — a role model to those who aspire to be more involved in the artistic side of the world.

To you, however, he is an absolute lunatic, the bane of your existence, and your contractual husband.

It's not like you had much choice. It was either: a) remain as a hollow puppet whose strings danced at your family's fingertips, or b) find some way to escape with outside power.

You, of course, chose the second option. Unfortunately, that somehow led to you meeting the young duke when out in the shopping district, trying to escape the suffocating presence of your family's knights accompanying you by running into a secluded alleyway, even if it was for but a momentary breather.

It was a whirlwind of a meeting... quite literally. Bodies flew; clothing tousled; breaths stolen. Well, at least for you it was like this. He, on the other hand, looked right as rain. (Lucky bastard.) You hadn't realised it was him at first, too absorbed in hasty apologies and the numbing bloom spreading across your backside like a wildfire (really, they ought to incorporate more padding in these flimsy clothes!), but when he uttered an apology of his own for not paying attention to his surroundings with an arm outstretched to help you stand, your mind all but blanked. What was someone of his status doing in a dingy alley? Didn't the newspapers report word of his self-confinement, having not stepped foot outside his manor in fervent preparation of his upcoming performance?

No, never mind all that; wasn't this a blatant opportunity being presented to you? An outside power that could help you escape the clutches of your family...

With gritted teeth, all sense of self-dignity was cast aside as you grasped his outstretched hand with both of your own, gazing into his widened eyes with your own narrowed ones.

"Your Grace, I know this is hardly the appropriate time nor place, but please... marry me!" Your words echoed within the enclosed space. Duke Reca blinked slowly down at you, and it was then you realised you never elaborated. "In... in a contractual marriage of convenience, of course."

"Oh?" he grinned, amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. "And what is it you can offer me?"

"I..." Truthfully, there was nothing you could offer which would be beneficial to someone like him who had everything at the tips of his fingers. You were but a speck of dust in his world, merely floating and remaining unseen within his view. But even so, here you kneeled before him, his gaze wholly fixated on a speck of dust such as yourself. If nothing else, you at least had your desperation — a desperation to be your own person. "My lineage may be from that of a baron's, but I am confident I can be of use to you if you would permit it. So long as you accept my offer, I will do anything to aid you, whether that be through practical means or a performance you wish to see."

A beat of silence.

"Ha... haha... ahahaha!!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worse than a sore rear and disgruntled self, you were pulled out of your daze by a pair of gleaming carmine eyes, a maniacal grin, and his body, now kneeled just like you were, so very close to your own.

"That determination... how brilliantly you burn with such an expression!" The sheer glee which bled through his tone sent shivers down your spine, having never realised someone so esteemed had such a side to him. The duke breathed a breathy laugh and slightly backed up, his hands still holding your arms. "Alright, I look forward to seeing how brightly you will shine in your performance, my dear leading actor."

...Was it too late to back out and find an alternative solution?

Admittedly so, for the next thing you knew vows were declared and you were moved into the duke's residence. You could still remember your family's aghast expressions the moment you declared you were marrying Duke Reca and thus cutting ties with them. It was oddly freeing to see their contorted faces reveal their true nature.

Life as the duke's spouse was... something, to say the least. His servants and attendants almost seemed to have shed tears of joy at the revelation of their ever so lonely duke (their words, not yours) finally settling down and getting married, asking you questions such as how you both met, what drew you to their duke, who popped the question first, why you chose him of all people, so on so forth. It was... cosy. Something you admittedly weren't very accustomed to, but found yourself welcoming nonetheless.

One thing you never expected was for the duke to have a little pet of his own; a little toad dressed in a miniature beret and matching suit, at that. Assistant Director is what Reca had called her, and you think for someone so obsessed with the arts he ought to up his naming sense. She was also quite susceptible to compliments, something you discovered when commenting on the little toad's cute attire, with the duke's baffling translation of her bashfulness and her own compliment on your own looks. Apparently. You're not really sure, but you're inclined to believe it ever since she claimed a spot on your shoulder.

As the days-turned-weeks-turned-months bled into each other, you found yourself oddly lost at how well-adapted you have become of your new life and the duke's personality. From impromptu displays of affection both in and outside the manor to sporadic radio silence on his end when wholly consumed by his fervent passion for a project, you sometimes wonder just how you're still alive with the amount of heart attacks the man has given you.

But despite his... eccentricities, to put it lightly, there are times where you can't quite put a finger on certain expressions he would make when he thinks you're not looking. They're unlike his (once again, to put it very lightly) passionate eyes when rambling to you during mealtimes about an upcoming performance the troupe has; unlike the sheer mania he can exude when something truly sparks his inspiration; unlike the playfully smug grin he would give you when swooping down in dramatic flair to press a long kiss to the back of your palm; unlike the rare darkening of his expression that you cannot help but stiffen at when something or someone in the troupe doesn't quite match his expectations.

No. These ones are... soft. A kind of tenderness and unprecedented longing able to be identified if scrutinised close enough. It was evident in the ghost-like touches he would trail along your skin, as though afraid just a little more force would do irreparable damage. It was evident in the attention to even the most minute details, having everything from clothing to food to the decor suited to preferences you yourself never realised you had. It was evident in the way unadulterated fondness leaked through his tone when his unique terms of affection for you slipped through his lips when all was silent and you were supposed to be asleep.

"My dearest star..."

...Much like now, it would seem.

The bed dips by where your knees slightly bend, hidden under the beige covers. A familiar musky scent surrounds you not long after, and you find yourself involuntarily relaxing at the comfort it brings as your head further burrows into the pillow.

You want to stay awake, even if it's just for a second longer, to hear what he has to say to your less than conscious state. But, oh, his fingers threading through your hair and softly massaging your scalp and the gentle touch of his forehead against yours and the subtle comforting warmth that rolls off his body in waves does little to help you fight the sleep which easily takes over.

Oh, whatever! You'll just try and catch what he has to say next time.

Eventually your breathing evens out, only soft snores now heard within the large shared bedroom. Upon noticing this, Reca cannot stop the fond smile which lifts the corners of his lips, nor can he prevent the softening of his eyes as he continues to gaze at your sleeping form.

"My dearest [Name]," he whispers into the dead of night. Even now, several months later, he still cannot believe his luck to have run into you in that alleyway. It must have been fate which made him heed its call, urging him he would discover something sure to escape that terrible slump plaguing him for weeks on end.

Sure enough, it brought him to something irreplaceable; something he has been searching desperately for.

You.

And, with the tenderest of kisses pressed to your forehead that would put even the most sickening romantics to shame, he murmurs words of promise against your skin, an oath he swears to uphold no matter the obstacles which stand before him.

"In this life, I will ensure you have only the best of endings."

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[ryuucam]

SWEET BROWN SUGAR (VOL 2)

˓𓄹 ࣪˖ more kink drabbles :3 including jing yuan, gallagher, mr reca, phainon (vol 1 here)

contains a bit darker than vol 1 .. meanie jing yuan :(, gallagher is gross (i need him so bad)!!!! actress!reader in reca’s hehe, phainon is lowk insane

notes cant wait for mydei’s banner (i barely saved up a 10 pull)

JING YUAN — cockwarming + breeding

lazy sex with the laziest general on the xianzhou isn’t a surprise to anyone. but alas, despite being older, bigger and wiser now, he was still raised as a cloud knight, trained to build up as much stamina as he could. maybe, you wonder, that’s why he never seems to get too tired, never seems to get his stupid fat cock to soften. however, he just can’t be bothered to thrust into you, breaking out a sweat to pound in his sweet lover, no, he’ll just stuff it right into your cunt, keeping it warm as he finishes all the paperwork diviner fu sent him. too lazy to think about what the cloud knights who barge into the seat of divine foresight will think, jing yuan figures it’s best to keep you plopped into his lap all day. but of course his princess is bound to get bored, and he’s never been an evil man. so his honeyed words fill up the room, encouraging you to fuck yourself using him, hands rubbing your tits above your shirt. lunch breaks are his favorite part of the day, since you typically work up the courage to ride him then. he won’t help you, no, he’ll save his actions for later tonight, but he still keeps you plugged with his cum, filling your tummy and keeping it warm.

GALLAGHER — daddy + corruption

gallagher gets disgusted with himself sometimes. he knows he shouldn’t hang around you so much, but you make it so easy when you stumble into his bar for the nth time this month, short skirt hanging low on your hips. but, he also knows you really don’t know any better. he’s always so nice to you, maybe a little teasing here and there, giving you time and space to ramble about whatever fad you’re into nowadays. he just nods, eyes focused on the way your lips play with the straw of your drink. gallagher’s mind is filled with you, having spent countless off duty nights tugging at his cock wishing it was your hand instead. he doesn’t hesitate when he notices how you’ve been squirming on the bar stool, back arching and your nipples showing beneath your tight shirt. of course he doesn’t hesitate when you murmur something about feeling hot and wanting his help — maybe he should’ve. now you’re pressed into his small mattress, clothing long lost on the floor of his room, too busy squealing as he rubs and pinches your clit and tits. you really don’t know any better, relying on an older man to take care of you .. gallagher thinks you’re so cute, cheeks all red as you stammer out some daddy, please while he rubs his cock over your cunny. don’t worry, daddy’ll take really good care of you, ruining you for everyone else. gallagher’s gross, really, but you don’t seem to mind.

MR RECA — filming + lingerie

does this even surprise anyone? he’s penacony’s best filmmaker, known for his versatility and ability to make every genre feel appealing to the audience. of course, he can’t stick to traditional movies forever, especially since finding out how much he loves filming you. after begging you to star in a few of his movies (action, romance, whatever!), reca started feeling insatiable, completely head over heels for you. sure, he loves taking you out on cute dates and fucking you silly after, but there’s an itch he just can’t seem to scratch… until he gets the genius (his words) idea to dress you up in lewd, skimpy clothes, a stage costume of some sorts if you will, and film you getting ruined right after. he can’t pick a favorite, and thankfully he has no issues in buying you intricate lace bras or lewd latex thongs — you look great regardless, especially since he seems to have endless recording techniques up his sleeve, always managing to picture you in the best way possible. you don’t even notice, really, as reca plows his cock into you and moves the camera to capture your breasts bouncing in your flimsy bra. but of course, your little movies stay private, between you and him. the public is not deserving of such high quality erotica! (reca just doesn’t want to share you with anyone. you’ll stick to starring in slice of life movies for now.)

PHAINON — cunningulus + dacryphilia

phainon is almost the textbook definition of knight in shining armor, always tending to each and every one of your needs. even in bed, he only cares about your pleasure, spending hours and hours on foreplay, sucking your tits and bruising your neck with endless hickeys, before burying his face in your crotch. you can try to tell him to stop, to just fuck you already, but he doesn’t listen, drunk on your cunny! he sucks agonizingly slow on your poor, swollen clit, then presses wet kisses on your puffy lips before plunging his tongue in your hole. phainon is selfish, however, and despite making you cum countless times more than he does, he still wishes to leave his mark on you, so that everyone can see that you belong to phainon of the crysos heirs. his hands grip on your plush thighs, bruising your flesh, and he’s so much stronger than you — you can’t get him to leave your poor cunt alone even if you tried. when phainon stops, only because you cried a bit too much, he admires the tear stains on your cheeks. there’s a sick thought in his brain, plaguing his mind, of how innocent you look, all fucked out on his bed. the more you cry, the more he feels his cock harden again. but when you call out his name, he goes back to being the same sweet boy you know. he can’t let you know how he truly feels, who he truly is.

[angelfishe]

𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 ( 𝐇𝐒𝐑 )

>> hsr men x reader

Character : Dr ratio, Gallagher, Sunday, aventurine, argenti, blade, Dan heng, Mr reca, Jing yuan, gepard, luocha, welt and boothill.

May contain NSFW content

⚠️ Minors do not interact please ⚠️

Edit 1 : due to some grammar error I make, I change some of the words for my mistake

Dr ratio switch in my heart, there's always two outcomes when it comes into smashing, one of you guys are gonna lose and drain while the other one basks in light and happiness, and after smashing he will return back into his studies or he will teach you about his new theories while you just lay their exhausted. Or the other outcome where you win, his face would be covered in red and you would occasionally tease him while he muffled a shut up with his exhausted voice.

Gallagher immediately made your favorite drink for you after the deed was done, and sometimes when the bar is empty and no one would be seen. You and him would sneak into the back to have your break time together. He would compliment how amazing you were and how he wants to do it again but both of you have shifts in the bar so you guys have to continue it later on.

Sunday would be a blushing mess, even before him joining the astral express he would have some knowledge about intercourse but have never experienced it, but when you came along you have open his eyes into a new world of pleasure, during a session you would occasionally kiss the piercing on his wings and that would cause him to blush and cover his with his wings. And right now he's very much wishes to learn more about this new world.

Aventurine, very much love to tease you. He would put unnecessary bets so you and him would do it, every time he wins a game he would say you are his grand price after a big game. He would be smirking the entire time after finishing. Originally I like the idea of him actually being nervous of initiating intimacy due to his past but you made him feel secure and complete he completely learned how to open up. And when you kiss his mark he would immediately ingulp you in a big hug seeking your comfort.

Argenti, would praise you non stop about how beautiful you were and everything about you. He would start to worship you similar to how he worships idrila one time during a climax, he thought he saw the light and fully convinced you were the reincarnation of idrila. The bed would be covered with rose petals and both of you are lying there, he with a satisfied smile while you with a tired look .

Blade, he pretty much doesn't know how to initiate aftercare with you but he tried his best. He would wipe you with a warm cloth around your body making sure you're comfortable in any position although cannot say the same thing about your body after being twisted and moved into different positions during the entire duration of the time. He would also bring your favorite food. Pretty much sure he can go for more than another round but doesn't want to exhaust you. Even worse when his mara struck is awake you won't be walking anytime soon.

Dan heng, would brew tea for both of you making sure you are comfortable. Making sure your comfortable and warm by using the pillows of the astral express and when he's in heat you and him would stay in his room for a week with food being delivered into your rooms the best part of the archives that it sound proof making sure no one knows your business and during intimacy he would let his vividyahara self out because his comfortable with you in his true form.

Mr reca would praise you about your performance and immediately start clapping after the deed was done. Would make love scenes inspired by you guys or record to watch over and over again. He said it's a masterpiece on how both of you guys move in sync as well how angelic your voice is. Would write about a Script describing how perfect you were during intimacy. As well as talking about his new movie ideas with you during finishing or aftercare.

Jing yuan, would immediately fall asleep and give you a death grip hug. His hair is disheveled and sleep with a satisfied look as if he just finish having the best time in his and when you wake up he would be admiring you as if he had been admiring you for hours and if there's ever work the day after, he would arrive a little late due not wanting to leave you or would go to work not without leaving a note and a goodbye kiss on your fore head there's food and tea ready for you to wake up. He's very clingy post intimacy.

Gepard, a blushing mess, even tho his the captain of the silver man guards he is a total puppy in the sheets very much and you treat him with so much love and caress his body with so much love he would explode any second if not, would be very red in the face and shy. He so cute, he would not initiate intimacy in public but you would usually visit him to drop his lunch and it will always end up him a blushing mess and tired.

Luocha, a Disney princess, his hair spread along the sheets with his hand over his head and breathing heavily. Even in this state he would still be very beautiful like a flower, would initiate after care by healing your bruises if he ever went overboard. Would bring you hot water for your throat after being exhausted and stretched. Would leave kisses around your body.

Welt, this old man. Very clingy after intimacy would hug you 24/7 as well sometimes being awkward sense he doesn't know how to react. He would be very disheveled after intimacy and would initiate cuddling. He doesn't want to let you go after you guys came together this is perfect for him. A perfect scenario and perfect dream.

Boothill, right back at ya partner, you guys know the song saves a horse ride a cow boy well that's him. Every time if he wants Intimacy he would put his cowboy hat on your head and that's to give you the idea of what he wants. You are his reward and sun for him. After intimacy his hard drive would be overstimulated and you would be wearing his cowboy hat.

[impactedfates]

Yapper Boyfriend - Various HSR Boys x GN!Reader

★ Summary: Your boyfriend loves to talk and you love to listen, though sometimes it puts a stop to what you're doing or you can tell it's getting him worked up. So what better why to make sure he's happy then stopping him with a kiss? (TLDR: Shutting your boyfriend up w/ a kiss)

☆ Characters Included (Separate): Argenti , Boothill, Mr Reca, Dr Ratio, Dan Heng + Sunday

★ Genre/Trope: Established Relationship + Romantic + Fluff

☆ Warnings: None

★ Extra: Mr Reca may be OOC (Getting used to his character still) // Sunday may be OOC // Slightly Proof Read // Writing kiss scenes are awkward...

Your beautiful boyfriend Argenti, he was the greenest flag you've ever met. You never minded his yapping and praises for Idrila, that's just how he was. And honestly, seeing him hold a long dead god with such high regard after all this time was admirable.

Though at times, it can interrupt your dates. And that's what was happening now. You were both visiting a planet and stumbled upon a shrine for the very goddess he worships. Immediately, he lets go of your hand and kneels in front of it, he sings his praises to it.

You could only sigh and smile softly as he did so. Though that wasn't the end of the praises you heard, even after walking away. The conversation you were having with your boyfriend slowly turned into him praising Idrila again. You knew why, it was rare to find any followers of Beauty these days let alone find a shrine dedicated to her.

Though, you'd much prefer singing praises to him and how great he was. You didn't mind too much listening. You knew he was passionate about his goddess and who were you to stop him. You couldn't help but admire him. You also couldn't mind just...

"It's just fantastic isn't it my love? Seeing a shrine so well kept for goddess Idrila. It's just-"

You quickly leaned up, kissing him softly on the lips. He was quick to reciprocate, leaning into your touch before you two pulled away.

"I...aha, sorry. Was I going on again my dear?"

"Don't worry, continue. You just looked so passionate about this, I couldn't help myself"

"Those forking, son of a nice ladies!!"

Your lover huffed. Boothill crossed his arms as he grumbled, letting you mess with his hair as he continued to complain. It was understandable, the IPC was incredibly annoying this time around. He wanted to get a drink at the nearby bar but some of the IPC subordinates were there and quickly tried to pick a fight with him.

Causing all of them to be kicked out. He grumbled more as he kept muttering things under his breath. A 'mother forking' here, a few 'shirt bags' there and of course 'fudge heads'

Your hands worked to braid his hair slowly, hoping it would calm him down like the previous times but it seems as though you'd have to use a different tactic.

You leaned his head towards you before quickly planting a kiss on his lips, effectively stopping his next words from coming out. He sat there in surprise, even after you pulled away, he just looked at you before quickly turning away with a chuckle.

"Well I'll be damned...got me there sweetheart"

"Reca-"

"And the camera movement! Why focus on the trees when the drama is happening with the characters!?"

"Rec-"

"Oh and don't get me STARTED on the lighting, like really? That kind of lighting for that kind of scene?"

"...Re-"

"OH AND DID I MENTION-"

You sighed, your attempts at even just soothing your partner's emotions coming to a fail. How could you do anything if he's going to criticize the movie you had just watched. Or was this just spite because you complimented one of the characters? You could only listen as Mr Reca continued his onslaught on the film's cinematography.

God you knew yourself the film was bad. This was meant to be a fun date night as you two cringed at the movies but your boyfriend was getting rather into it. Eventually after 5 minutes of this thorough review, you reach over, putting your hands gently on either side of his face, cupping his cheek. You quickly lean in to kiss him before he could utter another word.

When you pulled away he looked at you stunned for a second before grinning like an idiot. That god damn smile you fell in love with.

"Perfect! Brilliant! You see, THAT is what the lead should've done during that confession scene!"

You couldn't help but let out a laugh as he took your hands into his, as he praised your action, comparing it to the film. You will say though, your plan of stopping his review on the film was a success, even if now he was ranting about how great the "scene" was when you kissed him.

Aeons you only asked one question, you figured your boyfriend would know and now you're stuck listening to Dr Ratio yap about something, that you can't even tell has any correlation to your original question.

It's not that you minded, you loved learning new facts but the problem was...checking the time, if he didn't notice soon Dr Ratio would be late to his next lesson...and while that could be interesting and funny to see.

The oh so strict Dr Ratio late to his lesson. You didn't want that for him. But you didn't know how to stop him, when he gets into a lecture he really gets into it. So how could you...

Ah! You got it.

You stood up and walked towards him, tugging on his shirt so he'd turn his head towards you, you leaned up and kissed him. It was quick and simple before you pulled away.

"I-...what was that for?"

Oho, a blushing and flustered Dr Ratio is so much better then a late Dr Ratio.

"You have a class to attend remember?"

"...[Name], I don't go to school anymore"

"...Darling...you're a teacher"

When those words left your mouth you could see him mentally face palm as he quickly grabbed his items. He muttered out a thank you as he kissed your cheek, checking his phone to see how much more time he had left before rushing to his class.

Now Dan Heng wasn't really a yapper. He often listened to you yapping instead. And on the occasion he would shut you up with a kiss. It always made you flustered, and it wasn't even to really shut you up to be quiet. He just couldn't help himself, you looked so passionate in your topic he couldn't help but lean in to give you some affection before gesturing you to continue.

For once, you wanted to do it to him. To kiss him when he was rambling about something, make him flustered and just motion him to continue. But he wasn't one to easily ramble about something.

You eventually came up with an idea though, it wasn't exactly the best and it didn't exactly involve him rambling but...y'know if it works it works.

You asked him to read out the some of the texts to the databank, like a story book. He blinked at you confused but agreed. He read one, two and another until you finally put your plan into motion, you leaned up to kiss him. He was stunned for a moment as you pulled away.

"...was that your plan all along? To shut me up with a kiss?"

"...maybe"

He let out a small chuckle. Shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're unbelievable, to ask me to read out the data banks just so you could shut me up with a kiss"

You stayed silent for a bit with a blush, realising how silly the plan sounded now.

"...please continue with the databank talk..."

“I’m sorry”

Those words were the first thing uttered out of his mouth when you saw him again. When you opened the door and saw your boyfriend again.

“I’m…so…so sorry”

He repeats, holding your hand as he brings it up to his face. He looks at you, you can tell he’s holding back tears. Aeons you haven’t seen him since…well, the incident with the Charmony festive. You haven’t seen him since he was imprisoned, how he managed to get out?

You didn’t care, your boyfriend was back but…he didn’t look well.

“I-I didn’t…I thought…”

He struggled to get the words out, holding your hand as if you were a delicate doll and one wrong move would break you apart and he’d be alone again.

“…I just wanted the best for everyone…I-I promise…I…I didn’t think…about…all the details…I-I thought what I was doing was right but it wasn’t…aeons…I’ve hurt so many people haven’t I…”

You listened, hearing his apologies just spill out as tears threatened to follow suit. He couldn’t even look you in the eye anymore, he felt too ashamed too. How could he after all that he’s done?

Yet another apology was about to leave his lips until he felt soft ones fall on top of his. He froze, eyes widening in surprise as you kissed him.

How…

How could you…still give him affection? When he finally looked at you, you looked at him so gently, so kindly.

How

How did he deserve that? No he doesn’t deserve that, he doesn’t deserve the way you gently lead him into your house, sit him down and hug him…you’re…happy he’s okay?

He watched you carefully as you went to brew a cup of tea for the both of you…Aeons, he’s so lucky to have you.

Sorry for not uploading in while. Schools hectic and I’m a year away before I have to plan on colleges.

Anyways, I hope you all liked this one ^^

I tried to make sure the “kisses” were done at an appropriate time/scenario if that makes sense

I have another draft in the works so hopefully I’ll get it done eventually

[argentimybeloved]

If Mr Reca can remove people’s memories imagine him constantly removing the memory of him confessing over and over again to you until he’s satisfied with how it turned out.

Like it’s his own “take 2, take 3” ect but his own love life. He can’t half ass his confession it NEEDS to be perfect because YOU deserve perfection.

So he just…constantly removes your memories of his confession until he’s satisfied with how he’s done it and your reaction to it

[aventurineswife]

Mr. Reca/any of the memokeepers with an s/o who has memory loss? maybe?? 🤔

“I just want you to remember me…”

Summary: In a quiet moment on a film set, Mr. Reca confronts his partner's memory loss. As they navigate the fragile space between forgetting and remembering, Reca reflects on the burden of his own unshakeable memories and the pain of witnessing his partner's fading recollections. Their bond is tested, yet deepened, as Reca realizes that even amidst the fleeting nature of memory, love and connection can persist.

Tags: Mr. Reca x Reader, Memory Loss, Angst, Bittersweet Romance, Emotional Vulnerability, Self-Reflection, Tender Moments.

Warnings: Themes of memory loss and forgetfulness, Mild angst, Emotional heavy content.

The warm glow of the film set flickered softly in the dim light, shadows dancing across the walls as Reca stood by the camera, his mechanical frog assistant whirring softly beside him. He didn’t glance over at you, not yet. He knew you'd be here soon. You always were.

But today, something was different.

"Your memory..." he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly as you approached. "It’s slipping again, isn’t it?"

You blinked at him, trying to place the weight in his voice, the faint tremor of impatience beneath his usually unshakable exterior. It wasn’t unusual for him to be blunt, even to the point of being cold, but there was a rawness today, a vulnerability he seldom showed.

“I'm sorry... what do you mean?” you asked, the words feeling oddly distant on your tongue, as though they belonged to someone else. He turned his head sharply, meeting your gaze for the first time that day.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” he repeated, a sigh escaping him as he stepped toward you, his mechanical frog giving a quiet beep of recognition. You couldn’t quite understand what he meant. The gaps in your memory had always been there, but they were more pronounced today.

“Did we talk about something earlier?” you ventured cautiously, wondering if perhaps the missing fragments were just one more puzzle piece in a life that never quite felt whole.

Reca’s expression softened, the sharp edges of his usual cynicism momentarily muted. “We talked about a film project. About how... nothing ever feels real anymore,” he replied, eyes flicking down to his hands, the subtle tremor of frustration barely hidden beneath his calm exterior. “And about you. And me. But that part… That part doesn’t matter, does it?” He muttered the last part more to himself than to you, almost as though testing his own patience with the concept.

A faint smile tugged at your lips, though it was laced with uncertainty. You didn’t know how you could comfort him when you could barely remember the last conversation you’d had with him, let alone the last few days. He could sense the strain in your expression, the way your eyes darted away, the way you pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to sort out the fragments of your mind.

“You’re always so distant,” you said softly, your voice almost a whisper, as if afraid to shatter the delicate silence between you. "Why don’t you tell me how it feels for you, Mr. Reca? What’s it like to be the one who remembers?"

His lips curled into a wry, almost sad smile as he regarded you. His eyes — dark and contemplative — flickered briefly toward the distant stars beyond the film set windows. “To be the one who remembers...?” he repeated the words with a touch of sarcasm. “It’s a burden.”

You tilted your head, feeling the tension between the words. “What do you mean?”

The air grew heavier, thick with the weight of his response. He stood silently for a moment before responding, his voice tinged with an emotion you couldn’t place. “Memories don’t fade for me. They cling, like cobwebs in an old room. Everything I’ve seen... everything I’ve created... It stays with me, etched into my mind. But you?” He paused, then shook his head. “You get to forget. You get to wipe the slate clean each time. It’s easy, isn’t it? To start fresh.”

You looked at him, still unsure, your heart a little heavier from the layers he’d just revealed. He often held his cards so close to his chest, but today, something in his demeanor — a crack in the armor — made you wonder if there was more beneath that cynical exterior than he was willing to admit.

"Sometimes..." he continued, his voice quieter now, almost regretful, "I wish I could forget. I wish I could escape the weight of everything I’ve seen. But instead, I’m stuck with it — the pain, the regret, the knowledge of what people can be capable of. But you, you... you forget. And maybe that’s a blessing."

There was a long pause, and you could feel his eyes on you, studying you with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. But instead of the harsh judgment you had come to expect, you saw something else—something softer. A fleeting tenderness in his gaze.

“I don’t want you to forget,” he said after a moment, his voice steady again but with a deeper layer to it. "I just want you to remember me." He stepped closer, his mechanical frog clicking softly as if approving of his words. "I want you to remember how we came to be in this place. Even if it means you forget everything else."

The words stung, in a way that wasn’t painful but rather bittersweet, like a film reel winding its way through your mind. You didn’t know what you’d forgotten, or why you couldn’t remember the last conversation you shared, but you knew what it meant to be here with him now.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, as his cold hands reached out, almost tentative, to touch your face, you felt a flicker of recognition — not of the events or words or actions, but of something deeper. A bond that defied the fragility of memory.

The memory of him, of you both, was fading—but maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a tragedy after all.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered, offering him a small smile as you gently pressed your hand to his chest. “I’ll remember, even if it’s just this moment. Even if it’s all we ever have.”

And as the scene around you both blurred into nothingness, you knew, for the first time in a long time, that perhaps Mr. Reca didn’t need you to remember everything. Perhaps he just needed you to remember him.

[fangdokja]

🔞Every glance you give someone is a dagger in his heart, and he's ready to make you bleed.

❤︎ Synopsis. In the shadows of his love, your every breath becomes a betrayal. His jealousy is a silent poison, and you are its only cure—or its next victim.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. Falling Into Darkness - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 8,106

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, rape, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome, name calling, slight degradation, humiliation, choking, slapping, fingering, forced oral, forced penetration, orgasm control, orgasm denial

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ Mr. Reca.

"You’re mine, every piece of you—don’t you dare forget it. If anyone else dares to claim even a fraction of you, I’ll tear them apart with the same hands that make you scream my name."

The film reels of jealousy and desire—that’s how he would describe it. It’s never just rage that ignites Mr. Reca’s blood when someone else dares to linger too long in your shadow or lets their voice settle too comfortably in your ears. No, his jealousy is something far more visceral, more layered, more artful. He doesn’t just feel it; he directs it, letting it curl around his mind like the smoke of an old projector, every scene carefully composed to bring him closer to you. And when his jealousy crescendos into action, it is a masterpiece of possessive control and agonizing intimacy.

He sees you standing there—your figure illuminated by a faint and indifferent light, a half-smile on your lips as someone else dares to reach into his frame, contaminating the edges of his perfect shot. You don’t notice it at first, the way his dark eyes narrow, calculating and predatory, as though you are a wayward actress forgetting her role. You’re too distracted, too naïve, too willing to let your attention stray.

But not for long.

"You’re quite the little performer, aren’t you?" His voice is warm, teasing, as if you’re still unaware of the undertow beneath his words. The others in the room may laugh at his seemingly harmless tone, but you feel the subtle coil tightening around you. There’s always that edge of danger, of barely concealed madness, in the way he speaks. And as he takes measured steps toward you, his towering frame eclipsing everything else, you begin to realize you’re already in his trap.

Later, when it’s just the two of you, his true colors bleed through. His hands—so deft, so controlled when holding a camera or framing a shot—grip your wrists with precision that borders on clinical, pinning you against the cold, unforgiving wall of his studio. There’s no escape here. The room smells faintly of old film and chemicals, a suffocating aroma that mixes with the heat of his breath on your neck.

"Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t see you handing out smiles to someone else like a whore handing out free tickets? Let me tell you something, darling…" His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his teeth grazing the delicate shell of your ear. You flinch, and he chuckles low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "I notice everything. Every flicker of your eyes, every shift in your tone, every breath you take that isn’t meant for me."

His jealousy isn’t just anger; it’s possession laced with hunger, a ravenous need to mark and claim every inch of you. He doesn’t just want to punish you for daring to let someone else see your light; he wants to remind you of what you belong to—who you belong to. His hands trail down your body, slow and deliberate, as though you’re something to be dismantled piece by piece. He doesn’t ask for permission. Why would he? In his eyes, you’re already his—have always been his.

"Do you think they could touch you like this?" he growls, his fingers digging into your skin just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound sends a shiver of satisfaction through him, his smirk widening. "Do you think they could make you feel this...helpless? This raw? No one else will ever get this close to you, not while I’m alive."

And he means it. He would burn entire galaxies to ensure it.

The intimacy is suffocating, a blend of terror and thrill that leaves you trembling. He drinks in your fear as if it’s the finest wine, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic pleasure that borders on reverence. His lips find yours—not to kiss, but to devour, his teeth biting down just enough to remind you of the power he holds. His touch is everywhere, overwhelming, pulling you deeper into the dark labyrinth of his control.

"You don’t get to look at anyone else, talk to anyone else, breathe for anyone else," he murmurs against your lips, his voice honeyed with venom. His hands tighten their hold, leaving imprints that feel more like brands, as if his touch alone could etch his ownership into your very bones. "And if you try, darling, I’ll make sure you remember why that’s the last mistake you’ll ever make."

His jealousy doesn’t fade when the moment is over; it lingers, a constant shadow that follows you wherever you go. He watches you like a hawk, always poised to swoop in the moment you step out of line. And yet, beneath the suffocating weight of his obsession, there’s something almost tender in the way he looks at you—as if you’re the one thing keeping him tethered to the madness spiraling inside him.

But even that tenderness is sharp-edged, dangerous, a reminder that his love is not something you can escape. It is a cage, beautiful and gilded, with bars made of his unyielding devotion and walls built from his insatiable need. And as you stand there, trembling beneath him, you know there’s no way out.

———

The air between you is thick—charged with something that crackles like the flickering reels of a forbidden film, a masterpiece only the two of you will ever see. You can feel him, the heat of his body pressing close, his fingers tracing idle patterns down your arms before gripping your wrists once more, this time with something more than just control. There’s want in the way his thumbs press into your pulse points, a quiet thrill in the way he feels your blood racing beneath his touch.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice dark with amusement. "So easy to rile up. So easy to break."

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not when his mouth trails lower, ghosting over your jawline, the rough scrape of his teeth barely grazing your skin. Your breath hitches as he tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing your gaze into his. Those dark eyes burn with something predatory, something deeper than mere jealousy—it’s hunger, raw and insatiable, and it’s all for you.

"You like this, don’t you?" he breathes, his lips brushing yours, not kissing—teasing, taunting, waiting for the moment you finally shatter beneath him. "The way I claim you. The way I remind you who you belong to."

His hands move—one curling possessively around your throat, not tight enough to hurt, but just enough to make you aware of his dominance, of the power he holds over you. The other drags down, fingertips ghosting over your collarbone before slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt. His touch is deliberate, a slow descent that makes you ache with the anticipation of what’s coming.

"You can pretend all you want," he continues, his breath hot against your ear, "but your body knows. It always does."

And then, suddenly, he presses you harder against the wall, his knee slotting between your thighs, his touch turning demanding. The moment you let out that quiet, breathless gasp, his smirk widens.

"That’s it," he purrs. "There’s my good girl."

He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He never does. Because you are his—his to own, his to ruin, his to worship in the way only he knows how. His fingers move lower, slipping beneath fabric, finding the heat of you, the evidence of just how much his jealousy has already claimed you.

"You’re dripping," he chuckles darkly, his fingers tracing over your slickness with agonizing leisure. "And all because I reminded you that you belong to me. Should I make you say it, sweetheart?"

He pushes one finger inside, slow and unrelenting, watching the way your body responds to him, watching the way your lips part in a strangled sound you barely contain. It’s intoxicating—the way you tremble, the way you fight against the pleasure even as he coaxes it out of you.

"Say it," he commands, his voice dropping into something lethal, something that leaves no room for disobedience. His grip tightens around your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to send another wave of heat pooling low in your stomach.

You swallow, your body betraying you, your mind spiraling as his fingers work you open, slow and devastating.

"I…"

He doesn’t let up. Another finger joins the first, stretching you, teasing you, driving you closer to the edge you both know you won’t be able to resist for long.

"Say it," he growls, his lips brushing against your ear as his pace quickens, as he forces you closer to that delicious, agonizing release.

And when you finally break, when you finally let the words slip past your lips in a desperate, breathless plea, he only smirks, pressing a possessive kiss against your throat.

"That’s right," he whispers, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Mine."

And he’s nowhere near done with you yet.

His smirk is razor-sharp, dark amusement curling at the corners of his lips as he watches you shatter beneath his touch. But he isn’t satisfied—not yet. No, this is just the prelude, the first scene in a long, unrelenting performance of control and desire.

"You think that’s enough?" His voice is low, velvety, curling around your spine like smoke. "That just saying it once will make me believe you?"

His fingers don’t stop—if anything, they move with more purpose now, curling, pressing against the spot that has you twitching, trembling, your knees weak beneath his relentless grip. You try to catch your breath, try to steady yourself against the wall, but he won’t let you. His free hand snakes around your waist, yanking you closer, crushing you against the solid heat of his body.

"You don’t get to come just because I let you," he murmurs, nipping at the sensitive skin of your throat, leaving marks that bloom under his teeth. "You come when I say. And right now? I don’t think you’ve earned it."

You whimper, a frustrated, desperate sound, and his grin deepens.

"That’s adorable," he chuckles, withdrawing his fingers suddenly—leaving you empty, aching. You make a sound of protest, but he silences you with a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding past your lips, claiming every inch of your mouth with the same ruthless possessiveness he exerts over the rest of you.

"Turn around," he orders against your lips, voice rough with unspoken hunger.

There’s hesitation in the way you move, in the way you glance at him with wide, hazy eyes. He sees it, and it makes something primal flare in his chest. His hand grips your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Now."

A command, sharp as a blade.

You obey. Of course you do. Because no matter how much you fight, no matter how much you resist, your body already knows who it belongs to.

He presses you against the cold wall, his body flush against yours, his arousal hot and demanding against the small of your back. His hands make quick work of your clothing, pulling, tearing, stripping you of anything that separates him from what’s his.

"You wanted their attention," he growls, one hand fisting in your hair, tugging your head back as his other hand drags down your spine, nails raking over sensitive skin. "Letting them linger too close, letting them think they had a chance."

He laughs, a sound laced with dark amusement.

"They never did. And I’ll make sure they know it."

And then—he’s pressing inside you, slow, unyielding, filling you in a way that has you gasping, clawing at the wall, struggling to take all of him. He groans against your ear, his breath ragged, his control hanging by a thread as your body adjusts around him, gripping him like you were made for him.

"Fuck—" He barely gets the word out before his teeth sink into your shoulder, a possessive, unrelenting mark. "That’s it. Take it. Take what’s mine."

He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t ease you into it. He sets a brutal pace from the start, dragging you back onto his cock with every thrust, forcing you to feel every inch of him. His grip on your hips is bruising, his fingers digging into your flesh with the kind of desperation that borders on madness.

"Let them hear you," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Let them hear who you belong to."

You try to muffle your moans, but he won’t allow it. His hand slides up, wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin, to remind you that every breath you take belongs to him.

"You love this," he hisses against your ear, his pace unrelenting. "Being fucked like this. Being ruined like this. Tell me."

You can barely think, barely speak, but he doesn’t let up until you do—until you gasp out the words he’s been waiting for, until you beg him not to stop, until you tell him, over and over again, that you are his. Only his.

And when you finally break again—when pleasure slams into you so violently that your vision whites out—he follows with a groan, spilling inside you, burying himself to the hilt, making sure that even your body remembers who owns it.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. No, he stays there, still inside you, pressing lazy, possessive kisses along the curve of your neck, savoring the way you tremble, the way you sag against the wall, completely wrecked.

"You’re never running from this," he whispers, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. "Not now. Not ever."

And you believe him.

Because you know, deep down, there is no escape.

You belong to him.

Now, always, forever.

♡ Mydei.

“Every time they look at you like that, I can’t help but wonder how much I’ll enjoy ripping their eyes out, watching them beg for forgiveness... while you scream my name, knowing you’re already mine.”

He’s watching you again.

Not the casual glance of someone observing from a distance, but the dissecting, scalpel-sharp gaze of a man who intends to understand you down to your barest threads. Mydei’s eyes, an unholy mix of apathy and predation, track your every movement as if cataloging the way your lips part, the delicate tremor of your fingers as you shift uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

He doesn’t look away, and why would he? You’re the one trespasser in the chaotic web of his mind—an anomaly, a puzzle he has no desire to solve but every intent to shatter and claim as his own.

Jealousy is not a storm with him. It’s a silent poison that seeps through his veins and curdles his usually indifferent demeanor into something sharper. He thrives on control, a man who can reduce enemies to pulp with efficiency and precision, but with you? Oh, with you, the control unravels. It burns like acid behind his ribcage when someone dares to stand too close, when they look at you like you might just save them from the abyss.

They don’t realize you’re already lost. That he has taken you, even if your body hasn’t yet realized it.

There’s something raw about the way he prowls toward you in moments like these—jealousy coiling tightly around his chest. The man you know, or thought you knew, is eclipsed by the darker urges buried beneath his skin. Mydei doesn’t explode, doesn’t shout or rage when the green-eyed beast rears its head. No, he moves with purpose, with silence, with the kind of quiet horror that lets you feel the heavy weight of his presence before you see him appear at your side.

“Who was that?” His voice is low, deceptively calm, a rich baritone that makes your stomach knot. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, and yet it terrifies you more than any outburst.

The words catch in your throat. You don’t know what to say. What could you possibly say to a man who looks at you like he’s starving?

But his hand comes next—cold, rough, and unrelenting. He grips your chin, forcing your face up toward him. “Do you think I don’t see the way you smile at them? That coy little glance? Or are you too naive to understand how that feels? I’ve seen men kill for less, you know.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s something almost clinical about the way he looks at you, as though debating which piece of you to dismantle first.

His thumb strokes your cheek, a grotesque parody of tenderness. You flinch, but his grip only tightens, the faint sting a warning more than a punishment. “Do you know what they’ll see when they look at you tomorrow?” he whispers, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Nothing. Because they won’t have eyes left to look with.”

Your heart lurches, a mixture of fear and... something darker curling low in your stomach. The way he speaks, the way his words weave between violence and possession—it’s intoxicating, horrifying. You should run. You should scream. But the world feels so much smaller in his presence, like you’ve already been swallowed whole.

And oh, he knows it. He can see the way your breath hitches, the shudder that runs through you despite your better instincts. It’s written all over his face—the way he revels in the power he has over you. It’s not enough to take your body, no. Mydei isn’t so simple. He wants to unravel your mind, wants to break you open and piece you back together in the image he’s chosen. He doesn’t just want you; he wants every piece of you to bear his mark.

Later, when the world narrows to just the two of you, his jealousy becomes something more primal. He doesn’t bother hiding the raw need in his movements, the desperation that seeps into the way his fingers trace every inch of your skin. It’s not love. Mydei doesn’t love in the way most men do. His affection is a devouring, brutal force—a hunger that will never be sated, no matter how much of you he consumes.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and thick with possession as his hands tighten around your wrists, pinning you beneath him. His weight is suffocating, his touch both cruel and worshipful as though he can’t decide whether to crush you or praise you. “Say it.”

You don’t respond fast enough, and his lips crash against yours, bruising, punishing, and claiming all at once. He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged against your trembling lips. “Say it, or I’ll make you scream it.”

And you do. Because resistance feels pointless, futile against the tidal wave of his dominance. But deep down, there’s a part of you that knows—knows that no amount of pleading will ever be enough to free you from him.

Mydei isn’t the kind of man you escape from. He’s the kind you survive. Or don’t.

———

You never understood how thin the line between love and annihilation could be until he had you beneath him, caged by muscle and rage, his hands branding your wrists against the sheets like iron shackles. Mydei’s jealousy when you're alone with him was not a flickering ember—it was a consuming wildfire, roaring through every synapse of his body, and you were the oxygen feeding it.

“I should kill them,” he muses, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. “Gut them like the useless insects they are. Then, maybe you’d understand.” His grip tightens. “You are mine.”

He didn't just want to own you—he needed to. The thought of another so much as looking at you with hunger, breathing the same air you exhaled, sent a sickness crawling through his veins.

"Say it," his voice was molten, dripping with something darker than fury. A command, not a request. "Who do you belong to?"

Your lips were swollen, bruised from his kiss—if it could even be called that. It had been an assault, a declaration of war, his teeth claiming the softest parts of you as if biting down hard enough would tattoo his name inside your skin. He loomed over you, sweat slicking his broad frame, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, a mixture of shame and something primal, something ugly and needy that he had forced out of you.

"Say it," he growled again, fingers tightening around your throat, not enough to cut off air completely—no, Mydei was far too controlled for that—but enough to remind you that every breath you took was his to grant.

The moment your lips parted, even before you could surrender, he was inside you—stretching, splitting, ruining. There was no preparation, no patience. He wasn’t making love to you—he was destroying you, fucking you into something unrecognizable, something only he would ever be able to piece back together. The sharp sting of pain melted into something else, something worse, something addictive. He could see it in your eyes, the betrayal of your own body, how it welcomed him, clenched around him.

"This," he hissed against your ear, his teeth scraping the sensitive shell, "this is what you were made for. No one else will ever—ever—have you like this."

His thrusts were merciless, punishing. Every snap of his hips drove his point deeper than words ever could, carved his jealousy into your bones. There would be no part of you left untouched, unclaimed, unstained by him. You whimpered, and that sound—it sent him into something beyond madness, something feral.

He pressed your knees higher, forcing you open, spreading you wider beneath him, like a sacrificial offering on an altar built for him alone. The wet, obscene noises of skin against skin, the slick heat binding you together—it was filthy, primal, irreversible. His fingers dug into your flesh, nails biting, bruising, marking. Tomorrow, you wouldn’t be able to walk without remembering this moment. You wouldn’t be able to breathe without feeling him still inside you, stretching you, filling you, consuming you.

"You think anyone else could handle this?" His voice was raw, guttural, an animal barely clinging to reason. "You think anyone else could fuck you like this? Break you like this?"

His hand found your throat again, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur, to make the pleasure spiral into something terrifyingly exquisite.

"Answer me."

But there was no answer, not really, because Mydei already knew. He already knew there was no escaping him. Not from this. Not from him. Not when your body had already given him the only answer he would ever accept.

"Do you even know what you do to me?" he grits out, teeth catching your lower lip in a punishing bite before his tongue soothes the wound. "How fucking insane you make me?"

He moves like he wants to break you—wants to ruin you for anyone else, to carve himself so deeply inside you that no one would ever dare lay claim. Each thrust is punishing, deep, deliberate, meant to tear you apart and mold you into something that belongs only to him. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, hunger and fury tangled in his gaze, devouring every twitch, every helpless gasp, every slick, messy sound that escapes your lips.

"That's right," he murmurs, voice dangerously soft as he fucks into you, pace unrelenting, cruel. "Take it. Take everything I give you. There won’t be anything left of you when I’m done—nothing but me."

Your body is his altar, his obsession, his sickness, and he worships you in the only way he knows how—with destruction, with unrelenting, all-consuming filth, with the kind of love that tastes like blood and ruin. His jealousy isn't just a fire—it’s an inferno, and you are helpless in the blaze.

His grip tightens until your bones creak, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he forces you deeper into the mattress. The weight of him is unbearable, a punishment, a claim—his body branding you as his. The jealousy seethes in his every touch, his nails dragging down your thighs, leaving behind angry welts that throb in time with your pulse.

"You think you can look at him and still walk away from this unscathed?" His voice is pure venom, thick with something far darker than anger, something primal, something sick. "Let me remind you, little thing—there’s nowhere to run when I’m inside you."

Your thighs tremble, spread wide by his knee, a cruel display of submission forced upon you. He drags his tongue down your spine, slow, methodical, savoring the way you shudder beneath him. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow—this isn’t about pleasure, not yours anyway. It’s about obliteration, about making sure that no part of you remains untouched, unstained by him. His hips snap forward, ruthless and unforgiving, forcing desperate, broken noises from your throat.

"Louder," he commands, yanking your head back by your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze in the dim, suffocating heat. "If you’re going to let someone else’s eyes linger on you, then they might as well know exactly who you belong to."

The stretch of him is unbearable, a brutal ache that borders on pleasure only because he wills it to be. He leans in, his lips ghosting over your cheek, deceptively soft. "Mine," he rasps, voice molten, dangerous. "Say it."

You barely choke out the word before his pace grows merciless again, dragging you deeper into the abyss of his obsession, into the space where only he exists. There is no escape. There never was. And as his fingers dig deeper into your flesh, forcing you to take him, to bear the full brunt of his possessive hunger, you realize—you don’t want to be saved.

♡ Anaxa.

"Every breath you take around them, every laugh, feels like a knife twisting deeper into me—do you think I won't make you regret it when it's just us, alone in the dark?"

His jealousy was not loud. It was not the kind of tempest that raged in obvious storms or shattered glass in fits of fury. No, Anaxa’s jealousy was the chilling silence that lingered long after the frost had claimed the earth, the quiet certainty of death’s encroaching grip. It was the moment before the blade fell, the breathless tension that promised violence not out of impulse but design.

You didn’t notice at first, not in the way he stared a second too long at the stranger who dared to speak to you with too much familiarity. Nor in the way his hand ghosted over your lower back in public, as though staking a claim in a language no one else could hear. His touch was subtle, his movements measured, but there was an unmistakable weight to them—a promise of ownership, a warning to anyone who thought they could take what belonged to him.

“You think they see you,” he said one evening, his voice soft, almost conversational. You were in the library, the two of you surrounded by tomes that reeked of knowledge and decay. His tone was calm, but his words sliced through the air with surgical precision. “But they don’t. They see an idea, a shadow of who you are. You…you are so much more than that. And they could never comprehend it.”

You didn’t realize he’d moved closer until the chill of his presence seeped into your skin, and when you turned to face him, his expression was unreadable, a mask of control that barely concealed the chaos beneath. His single visible eye gleamed with something darker than anger—something more insidious.

“They don’t deserve your time,” he continued, his gloved hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The gesture was intimate, almost tender, but the slight tremor in his fingertips betrayed him. “They don’t deserve your mind. Or your body.” The last word lingered on his tongue like a forbidden prayer, dripping with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine.

His jealousy festered in the quiet moments, growing like a parasite that fed on every glance you shared with someone else, every smile that wasn’t meant for him. He never confronted you outright, never demanded explanations. Instead, he made himself a shadow, watching, waiting, calculating. The conversations you had with others became ammunition for his obsession, every laugh, every fleeting touch another thread in the intricate web he wove around you.

And then came the night he snapped—not in an outburst of rage, but in the kind of madness that only someone like Anaxa could embody. It was after a gathering, one where you’d spoken too freely, laughed too brightly, and lingered too long near someone else. You returned to your quarters to find him waiting, his silhouette a dark smear against the dim glow of the room.

“You looked…happy tonight,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. His eye locked onto yours, unblinking, as he stepped closer. “It’s rare to see you like that. I wonder…was it them? Did they make you smile like that?”

Before you could answer, he was on you, his hand curling around your wrist with a force that bordered on painful. His touch was cold, his grip unrelenting, and yet there was an eerie calm to him, as though every movement had been rehearsed in his mind a thousand times.

“I’ve been patient,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over your ear as he pulled you closer. “I’ve given you freedom. Space. And yet…you still stray.” His lips brushed against your neck, a featherlight touch that sent a jolt of fear and something darker coursing through you. “Do you know what that does to me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he pressed you against the wall, his body a cage that left no room for escape. His hands roamed over you with a desperation that felt like possession, each touch a claim, each kiss a brand. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your skin, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and longing. “You’ve always been mine. And if I have to remind you, I will.”

His jealousy was not an explosion—it was a slow, suffocating burn, a fire that consumed everything in its path until there was nothing left but ash. He didn’t just want your love; he wanted your submission, your surrender. He wanted every piece of you, mind and body, stripped bare and laid at his feet. And in the moments where his control slipped, where his hunger overpowered his reason, you saw the depth of his madness—the lengths he would go to keep you, to ensure that no one else could ever take you from him.

“You don’t understand,” he said once, his voice breaking as his hands framed your face, forcing you to look at him. “You can’t understand. I’ve seen the end, the void that waits for all of us. And you…you’re the only thing that keeps me tethered to this world.” His lips found yours then, harsh and unyielding, a clash of desperation and desire that left you gasping for air.

And as the night stretched on, as his jealousy consumed you both, you realized that there was no escaping him. Not because he wouldn’t let you—but because a part of you, the part he had meticulously broken and rebuilt in his image, didn’t want to leave.

———

"You can run, but you won’t get far."

Anaxa’s voice is a razor against your skin, soft, deliberate, laced with the kind of quiet promise that sends a shiver straight through you.

You should have known better.

You should have never let that stranger’s hand linger too long on your wrist, should have never let their voice settle too comfortably in your ears. Because he saw. He always sees.

And now, you’re here—pinned, bound, trapped—back arched against the cold surface of his desk, the scent of parchment and candle wax thick in the air, nearly drowned out by the heat radiating from him.

"You really don’t understand what you’ve done, do you?" His single visible eye gleams in the dim light, hunger and fury warring beneath the surface as his gloved fingers trail down your throat, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. "You give your attention so freely—laughing, touching, tempting—as if you aren’t already mine."

His hands are cruel, teasing, gliding lower, parting your thighs without hesitation, without permission—because you have no permission to give. You belong to him. Your body, your pleasure, your very breath—it’s all his.

And he’s going to remind you.

A sharp, punishing slap lands between your legs, sending a jolt of pleasure-laced pain through your entire body. You whimper, your back arching instinctively, but it only makes him laugh—a dark, mocking sound that vibrates against your throat as he presses his lips there, kissing, biting, branding you with his teeth.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice rough with barely restrained lust. "Falling apart already. And I haven’t even begun."

His fingers plunge into you, spreading, stretching, as his other hand tightens its grip on your throat. Slow, merciless, unrelenting.

"You don’t deserve my patience," he breathes, lips dragging down your chest, teeth scraping, biting, marking. "You deserve to be ruined."

And he does.

He takes everything—drags his gloved fingers through your slickness, spreading it, smearing it across your thighs like proof of your surrender. When he replaces them with his tongue, his mouth is just as vicious, lips and teeth working in perfect cruelty, leaving you writhing beneath him, desperate, needy.

But Anaxa doesn’t let you fall so easily.

No, he stops—pulls back just enough to make you feel the loss, to leave you shaking and ruined, right at the edge of oblivion.

"You want to come?" he taunts, voice like silk, wicked and knowing. His gloved fingers ghost over your soaked heat, but never give you what you need. "Then beg."

Your pride wants to resist—but you can’t.

Not when he’s watching you like this, eyes dark with amusement and pure, unfiltered ownership. Not when his knee is pressing between your legs, forcing you open, forcing you to want.

So you break. Of course you break.

"Please," you whisper, voice barely above a breath. "Please—please, I need—"

The sharpest, filthiest grin spreads across his lips.

"Oh, sweetheart," he coos, dragging his fingers achingly slow over your sensitive, desperate heat. "You need? Be more specific, my dear."

His hands move suddenly—gripping your thighs, flipping you over, pressing your chest against the desk.

"Then take it."

There’s no more patience. No more teasing.

Anaxa buries himself inside you, one sharp, punishing thrust that sends your breath shattering into a cry. Stretching you, filling you, claiming you.

"You feel that?" he growls, his gloved hand fisting in your hair, yanking your head back as his hips snap against you, relentless, ruthless, unforgiving. "That’s me. That’s mine. Every inch of you—mine."

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you gasp his name, not when you clench around him so tightly he groans, not even when your body trembles beneath him, overwhelmed and wrecked beyond recognition.

He pounds into you with a fury that is both punishment and devotion, his gloved fingers finding your throat again, his other hand slipping lower, rubbing circles against your swollen, aching clit, forcing you into pleasure so unbearable it borders on pain.

"You think anyone else could take you like this?" His voice is breathless, hungry, filled with something dark and twistedly reverent. "You think they could break you like I do? Make you scream for them like this?"

The coil inside you snaps so violently that your legs nearly give out. But he doesn’t let you fall—he holds you, forces you through it, fucking you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until you’re nothing but a shaking, ruined mess beneath him.

And still—still—he doesn’t let go.

His lips find your ear, whispering the last thing you’ll ever need to know.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

He smirks when you don’t answer—when you can’t answer.

And then, with a slow, devastating thrust that makes your entire body shudder, he growls—

"Say it."

After all, that was all you were trained to do, lest he punish you once more.

♡ Phainon.

"Every time you smile at someone else, I feel the urge to ruin you—piece by piece—until you understand that no one else can make you feel what I do, not even close."

Phainon had always been the portrait of refinement. His words, smooth and calculated, dripped with an almost divine grace that made those around him lean in just to catch every syllable. He carried himself like a savior—a self-anointed guardian of the universe, an eternal being who bore the weight of countless lives with a smile as serene as the still surface of a poisoned lake.

But beneath the godlike composure lurked something darker, something jagged and unyielding. He had perfected the art of patience, of wearing his charisma like armor, yet when it came to you, his façade cracked, if only slightly. The thought of you—his delicate, radiant, fragile little mortal—turning your attention to anyone else was an aberration he couldn’t tolerate. It made his carefully constructed calm unravel, one golden thread at a time. And for someone like Phainon, unraveling wasn’t a descent into chaos. No, it was a meticulous, deliberate destruction of anything—or anyone—that dared to take you from him.

Today, it had been a smile. A brief, fleeting smile you had offered to another—an insignificant flicker of kindness you likely thought nothing of. But to Phainon, that smile was a betrayal. His, his, his. It was supposed to be his privilege, his right, to see that softness, that vulnerability. And now, someone else had stolen what was his by design.

He didn’t confront you immediately. That would have been too simple, too crude. No, Phainon preferred to let his fury simmer, curling and twisting inside him until it became something potent enough to wield. You didn’t even notice the subtle shift in his demeanor when he approached you later that evening. His smile was as warm as ever, his blue eyes alight with something you mistook for affection.

But then the door clicked shut, and the lock twisted into place. The sound echoed in the room, sharp and deliberate, and when you turned to face him, the air between you was heavy, suffocating. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“You’ve been very... lively today,” he began, his voice smooth and measured, each word carefully chosen. His tall frame cast a long shadow over you as he stepped closer, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. “That sparkle in your eyes—it’s lovely. Was it him who put it there?”

Your stomach dropped, and you took a cautious step back, but the corner of the table stopped you. His gaze pinned you in place, unwavering, and there was no mistaking the steel behind his gentle tone.

“I wonder what you said to him,” he mused, his head tilting slightly as if he were genuinely curious. “What could possibly have made you smile like that? Did he compliment you? Make you laugh? Or perhaps... did he touch you?” The last question came out softer, but it hit you like a slap, the weight of it heavy with accusation.

“I didn’t—” you started, but the words faltered under his piercing stare.

“Did I ask for excuses?” he interrupted, his voice still maddeningly calm. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your face upward so you couldn’t avoid his gaze. His touch was gentle, almost tender, but the intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re avoiding the question, my dear. And you know how much I hate being ignored.”

The grip on your chin tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the strength behind it, the strength he could so easily unleash if he wanted to. “You think I don’t see it? The way you invite attention without even realizing it. You make it so easy for them to believe they have a chance with you, don’t you?” His tone was still calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it now, a simmering anger barely contained beneath the surface.

When you tried to pull away, he let you, only to catch your wrist in a vice-like grip a moment later. His smile returned, but it was sharp and humorless, his blue eyes glowing faintly as the room seemed to grow colder. “Ah, there it is,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the pulse point in your wrist, feeling the frantic beat of your heart. “That fear. That delicious, exquisite fear. You know, I envy it—because it means you still have something left to lose. But don’t worry, my darling. I’ll take it all away soon enough.”

He pulled you closer, his breath warm against your ear as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t understand, do you? You’re mine. Every thought, every breath, every inch of your soul—it all belongs to me. And I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

Before you could respond, his lips descended on yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t soft or tender—it was a claim, a punishment, a reminder of his dominance. His hands roamed your body with a possessiveness that left no room for argument, as if he were mapping every inch of you, ensuring there was no part of you he hadn’t claimed.

When he pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes dark with an unholy mixture of desire and madness. “You’ll stay with me,” he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. “Not because you want to, but because you have no other choice. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll shatter every door, burn every bridge, destroy every hope you have of escaping me. And when there’s nothing left, you’ll see that you were always meant to be mine.”

———

The weight of his body pressed you down, his breath hot against your ear, the shuddering exhale betraying restraint he was seconds from shattering. His fingers, calloused from years of wielding his claymore, dragged down your spine with aching deliberation, savoring the way you trembled beneath him. "Mine," he whispered, the syllable drawn out like a prayer, or a curse.

His breath is ragged, hot, his lips ghosting over your jaw, your throat, your parted lips—but never quite kissing you, never giving you what you want. His control is slipping, unraveling, but still, he wants to hear you beg.

"Say it again."

His voice is a growl, deep, guttural, animalistic in its need. His fingers tighten around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his other hand crushing your thigh apart, forcing you open, making sure there is nowhere for you to run.

"Tell me who you belong to."

Your breath shudders, your mind blank, drowning in the heat, the pressure, the pure ownership of his touch.

"You," you gasp, barely able to form the word. But it’s not enough.

"Not like that." His teeth scrape against your throat, biting down, sucking bruises into your skin, a mark of possession so deep it will never fade. "Say it like you mean it. Say it like you understand what I’m about to do to you."

You whimper, writhe, your thighs trembling as he grinds against you, slow, devastating, teasing you with the thickness of his cock, with the unbearable pressure that makes you ache, makes you burn, makes you lose every last ounce of shame.

"Phainon," you plead, desperate, mindless, completely ruined.

And that’s when he snaps.

His fingers thread into your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat to his teeth as he slams into you, all at once, stretching you, forcing you to take him, forcing your body to mold around him.

The force of it steals the air from your lungs.

A strangled, broken cry escapes you, but he doesn’t slow, doesn’t give you a moment to adjust. No, he drives himself into you, deeper, harder, merciless, relentless, so fucking big it feels like he’s splitting you apart, ruining you, reshaping you into something that can only ever belong to him.

"Mine," he growls, his voice shaking with need, with pure possession. His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just feeling the way your pulse races beneath his fingers. "Do you feel that?" His hips snap forward, forcing you to take every inch, burying himself inside you so deep it makes your toes curl.

You can’t speak. You can’t breathe.

"You were made for this," he whispers, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "Made for me."

There was nothing gentle in the way he claimed you. His grip on your wrists was bruising, pinned tightly above your head as his mouth descended upon you, ravenous, unyielding. He bit down on your throat, leaving marks that would never truly fade, his tongue following in their wake, soothing, as if apologizing for the possessive violence of his touch. But you knew better. There was no regret in him—only hunger, only the furious need to carve himself into your very being, to make you feel him in the marrow of your bones.

Each thrust was punishing, measured, tearing gasps from your throat as your body burned beneath his. The air between you was thick with heat, with the scent of sweat and something darker—something raw and desperate. His name spilled from your lips, but that wasn’t enough for him. His fingers found your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze, eyes dark with obsession. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough, shaking with the effort of holding himself together. "Tell me who you belong to."

You barely had the breath to respond, but the moment you did, he rewarded you with something deeper, something harsher, his pace quickening until the world around you blurred into nothing but him. His teeth raked across your skin, his hand slipping between your thighs, drawing out cries he swallowed with his mouth, feeding off the way you unraveled beneath him.

His hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding that sensitive, swollen place, rubbing in slow, teasing circles. The contrast is unbearable—his brutal pace, the gentleness of his touch.

His grip tightens as his pace picks up, brutal, overwhelming, devastating. Every thrust pushes you higher, higher, spiraling toward ruin, your body completely at his mercy, his cock dragging against the deepest parts of you, pushing you into a haze of pleasure so sharp it borders on pain.

"You like this, don’t you?" he taunts, breathless, wrecked, but still in control. "Being fucked like this—pinned down, stretched open, completely owned. Tell me."

"Yes," you sob, your body trembling, clenching around him, dragging a low, broken groan from his lips.

That’s all he needs.

With a harsh, guttural curse, his pace turns punishing, primal, fucking you like he wants to break you, like he wants to carve himself so deep inside you that no one else will ever reach you again.

"Say my name," he demands, his voice a low snarl, his hand slipping down, rubbing you faster, harder, forcing you closer to the edge.

You scream it.

And then you shatter.

Your entire body locks up, pleasure slamming into you so hard it steals the air from your lungs, dragging you under, drowning you in a release so intense it borders on agony.

But he doesn’t stop.

No—he rides you through it, chasing his own pleasure, his rhythm stuttering as he loses himself, burying himself as deep as he can go, groaning your name like a prayer as he spills inside you, claiming you in the filthiest, most undeniable way possible.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would never be enough.

Your world is reduced to the weight of him, the sheer power caging you against the bed, against the force of his body, against the raw, overwhelming intensity of Phainon’s hunger.

His grip tightened as he drove himself deeper, chasing that place inside you where pleasure curled dangerously close to pain. "No one else will ever touch you like this," he murmured, a promise, a warning, punctuated by another thrust that left you gasping. "No one else will ever have you the way I do."

The weight of him collapses over you, his breath hot, ragged, his lips pressing against your sweat-damp skin, murmuring something—something possessive, something final.

"You’ll never leave me."

A promise.

A threat.

A fucking vow.

♡ A/N. I'm so mindblocked lol. Horror content is not cooperating with me this week. Genuinely tweaking rn. So, time for some long-awaited vanilla yandere content, before I ruin these characters dead-dove style. haha jk jk maybe. This is mostly a prequel to my actual dead dove style. Also, I did not mean to make this spicy... it just happened when I was experimenting, but oh well. Don't expect anything intense though, just generic vanilla sex. Tch, boring vanilla rape. But I can't put intense sex yet, because I'll go overboard with the word count. It's why I'm separating each character with their own unique dead dove AHD sex style for the SNAPPED Jealousy headcanons.

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[yandere-romanticaa]

I've been thinking about Mr Reca as of late and I just keep coming back to the idea that he would literally just act like Gomez Addams around his lover.

I simply refuse to believe that this melodramatic man simply would not kiss the ground his darling walks on, constantly showering them in praises and whenever he wins an award for his movies, everyone is either holding themselves back from facepalming from annoyance or they're busting out the tissue box because here comes Mr Reca's famously long speeches about his precious lover.

And in a yandere context, I'm just imagining a darling who is constantly fed up with his antics but is too hooked on the attention to really leave. There's a bit of a toxic power dynamic here as Reca knows that he is doing too much, that he is being far too intense which makes you uncomfortable, which may or may not prompt you to leave him for a little while.

But oh, how you miss your dear director, how you miss the way he'd shower you in kisses and praise, making you feel like the brightest star in the whole galaxy.

The mere thought of him makes your chest heave. It's so unfair but you want him so badly.

And Reca, he would find you and would just crawl back to you like the lovesick man that he is, begging you to please take him back, he can't live without you, he needs you.

And you let him, you let him find you, you allow him to come crawling back to you like a slobbering dog, clinging onto you like a bear. You inhale his intoxicating scent and it overpowers you completely, much to Reca's delight.

He's so awful but you're no better either.

[baeshijima]

mr reca fic where he’s suffering a creative slump due to the lack of good scripts (by his standards) from various screenwriters. he feels himself going positively insane with every script he’s given.

it’s too dull. it’s too predictable. this one has no creative flair whatsoever!! that one just doesn’t spark enough imagination!!!

it’s troublesome, really. some think he’s really going through it, while others believe the scripts he’s been given won’t bring him enough money. but really, who cares about monetary value when it is he who cannot even begin to picture himself enjoying the process that comes with each script?

and so that is how he finds himself wandering around aimlessly. sometimes the outdoors is necessary for the mind, and who knows? perhaps he really will find something that will give him a spark. hmm, those trees are looking a little dull. the sky overhead is too cloudy. hm? did he just hear thunder—

something collides into his chest, a choked “oof!” following soon after. he stumbles backwards a little, papers flying through the air around him. he blinks once, twice, at the sight of you on the ground, muttering something under your breath before a sharp gasp escapes you, hastily scrambling to gather the papers fluttering and strewn around.

one such paper falls into his hands. he glances over its contents, skimming through it as he goes to pass it over to you with an apology at the tip of his tongue, only to freeze.

this… this is genius! this is absolutely the pinnacle of writing!! while a little rough around the edges (as drafts usually tend to be), his once clouded mind is now clear, giving way to a blank canvas which slowly depicts the imagery your writing induces. idea after idea pours into his brain as he can visualise exactly what he wants, his body trembling and heart pounding as he insantly fixates on your panicked form still collecting all the fallen papers.

“yes… yes! this is what i was looking for! everything about this is pure artistry! the possibilities are endless, the sky is the limit!!”

this is possibly the happiest and freest he has felt in what seems like eons! seriously, compared to those other mind-numbing scripts this truly is the pinnacle of writing itself.

a laugh full of pure, unadulterated glee escapes him, careful not to crinkle the god-sent paper cradled in his palms. “you! you’re a genius!”

“i’m a wha…?”

he whirls in the direction of the source of the voice, further praises and a proposal for a collaboration on the tip of his tongue, only for his breath to catch in his throat.

you… you’re so radiant! even with that disheveled appearance and absolutely adorable confused expression you’re giving him, he never realised such beauty existed! not only does your writing fill him with endless creativity, but his pounding heart, parched throat and warming skin tells him you’re definitely the main character!

but wait! if you were to be the main character, then would that make him the main character’s love interest? surely he wouldn’t have had such a cliché meet-cute like bumping into each other if he wasn’t the love interest! but what if there is a second love interest? no, no, he can oust them…

you, on the other hand, believe you’re about to get whiplash instead of the man, baffled at how he instantly switched from a maniac to stark silence to muttering senselessly with a dreamy expression.

well, each to their own. you have more pressing matters, and that’s to quickly return home and continue fantasising before you forget the idea! but first, you have to get the last piece of paper back…

“um… sir? can i have my paper back, please?”

in an instant, he kneels in front of you. now that you’re at eye level, he certainly is very handsome. if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought this was some movie or drama plot with him as the main lead! oh, but why is he holding your hands—

“yes, i will spend the rest of my life with you.”

“…what?”

tldr; you’re just a silly writer who daydreams far too much for their own good, and somehow managed to bag top-tier director mr reca with the power of said daydreams. (his ever-growing obsession with you is concerning to say the least but, hey! what genius isn’t at least a little insane?)