#yandere!dream x reader

[meo-eiru]

Saw a yandere in my dream (a summery under the cut)

Saw a dream where I got isekaid into this semi modern semi victorian like world and, to my luck, appeared right in front of a noble I shouldn’t have.

He was someone who hated other people, would just murder them if he could, he found them dirty. So when I, someone who doesn’t know anyone or anything about this world other than him, suddenly appeared in front of him he decided to take me in and manipulate me into only leaning on him and loving him.

In this world certain people had powers and his was he was able to command and control people who drank his blood so he’d make me drink it and force me to act the way he wants me to act.

He wouldn’t let me leave his mansion or let other people know of my existence but later in the dream it was revealed that I wasn’t the only one who got isekaid. There were some other people and the other nobles of the world were trying to gather all of them to keep them safe, but ofc the yandere was preventing them from getting to me.

So there was a whole fight where they raided his house and he pretty much wiped the floor with them.

Through the dream he made me super dependant on him. At the start I was like “wow I’m so lucky to come across this nice and handsome man right after getting isekaid into this strange world” but fast forward I’m scared to leave his house when people actually try to rescue me.

Anyway it's not rare for me to see a yandere in my dream like this but this time I actually found the time and energy to draw it so here you go

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[madthetruemad]

self aware!gojo x fem!reader

Is she getting bored of me?

Gojo watched with worry as you had changed just about everything. Your username no longer had a semblance of his name. Your profile pictures were changed. Your general phone theme was switched, too.

And he rarely saw you pick up one of your JJK manga or turn on some random episode of the series like you used to (he still remembers how many times you watched season one while you waited for season two).

Then there was the fact that you stopped reading fanfics of him and slowed down your writing of him. (You still wrote little fics here and there of him, but you started to blatantly ignoring your bigger fics, which haven't been updated for months now.)

But now?

It was as if you were avoiding him.

Did you get a new favorite character?

Gojo crinkled his nose at that. Absolutely not! He refused to let you go so easily! He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but he had to act fast.

But the problem was... what was he even supposed to do?! He didn't want you to slip away. Not now, not ever.

[myfavoritesstuff]

Visual Novels & Webtoons

Note: Please do not read if you are not okay with yandere tendencies or violence!

Discord!!!! Please join if you like reading and/or writing or just want to talk (text). It will be my way of talking or obsessing over these characters.

Note: The Discord Link is now updated! Feel free to join!

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Dreaming Freedom

Nothing yet

The Kid at the Back

Through the Illustrated Veil

The Coffin of Andy and Leyley

“Your Andy”

Possession from Within

“Yes, We Really Do” (smut)

Through the Illustrated Veil

14 Days with you

Through the Illustrated Veil

Mushroom Oasis

Nothing yet

A Date with Death

Nothing yet

Favor

Embrace of Shadows (smut)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

[luceafarul-de-dimineata]

You know what, yandere Lucifer being a horrified medical professional at MC's condition. Very little NSFW but still enough to make me put a below the cut just in case

Yandere Lucifer brainrot (NSFWish)

Lucifer was called to look after the sick Solomon decendent

While he didn't exactly appreciate being interupted from his pleasant chat with Gamigin, if it was for you he could make an exception.

The voice on the phone talked some nonsense about a Christmas cold, but it was common for the less than enlightened in the field of medicine to make up strange names for already known deseases

He got up and brought Marbas along just to be sure, but what he found was simply pitiful

You were on the bed, exhausted, shivering, simply pathetic... I mean, more than usual...

Lucifer stared with pity and concern... yet he has had to deal with much worse. What really shocked him was one he did some questioning to the kings and they admited they knew the cure to your issue yet refused to administer it to you.

Under Lucifer's terrifying glare, the other kings' pride disipated as fast as it formed. The fallen angel only whispered and the crowd left the room.

He was aware of the other devils' incompetance, but this was something else. Were they that wrapped up in their grandious fantasies of fairytale romance that they didn't realise just how much pain they were forcing onto you?

While the others, under Lucifer's command, ran to get that cure, he had a patient to take care of him.

You were barely awake, fever overtaking your fragile, useless body, Lucifer gently pet your head, stroking your hair gently. The same pity he felt for Gamigin so many years ago, he started getting overcomed by once more.

"Child of Adam... stay with me. You shall not suffer in my pressence. Rest well for I am here to help you. Shh..."

His voice lulls you into a relaxing rest. You don't even have any other unholy thoughts your head empty, only rest in your mind.

You awaken to the feeling of a syringe being injected into you with surgical precission, the liquid inside calming your feverish impulses.

Before you could make sense of your situation, Lucifer was holding you like a baby and petting your back, humming a sweet song.

He sits down, placing you on his lap, licking the fresh tears from your cheeks, leaving butterfly kisses wherever he dragged his tongue. He felt particularly loving right now, your tears... those damn tears...

Salty tears dragging down your face, leaving wet trails for him to follow up to your shiny eyes. Even when at your filthiest, those tears cleaned the dirt and purified your soul, showing Lucifer what he always loved most, your innocence. You were but a newborn in his ancient eyes, a new born that was clearly being handled poorly by the six kings.

You were so weak! And the kings clearly didn't have your better interest at mind. He decided that the only thing he can do is take you under his wing and protect you from the dangers outside.

Maybe you would try to escape his grasp, maybe you'll just accept your fate, it doesn't really matter what you want, Lucifer can rewrite the laws of nature, your will is no match for his devine powers

He would constantly do check-ups on you, make sure that your body functioned properly, though you're starting to question some of his methods.

Sure, him holding you by the throat while you sit on his lap, your back to his chest, is totally to check your pulse and nothing else

The ways he orders you to bend are just to test your flexibility, his gropping is to check your skin for lumps, he only makes you cockwarm him so he can get a proper feel of your internal temperature, the tears that cascade down your visage are just a plus in his books, your way of thanking him for the care

Don't you dare complain about him. You remeber getting sick? How all the other kings so selfishly witheld the medicine from you in your time of need. You don't want that again, do you?

In all honestly, he is the best doctor ever, so at least you get free unlimited health care

[bloodyboi]

for your "what do you hate about smut fics" post. When authors make a character speak aave and act ghetto.

omg yes. As a black person, please stop. Act like a real writer and write.

[ddarker-dreams]

yan blade is susceptible to manipulation.

making the most of this involves the unenviable task of initiating contact. no one can fault you for your hesitation. gravity itself feels intensified in his vicinity. the lives he's taken, the shadowy madness that recedes when you approach and proliferates in your absence; it screams do not approach. blade himself doesn't do much to dispel your concerns either. he towers over you in height, maintains a stony countenance, and speaks in this sonorous voice that adds to his imposing image. every step you take to close the gap makes you feel impossibly small.

inhospitality aside, it's not so bad once you overcome the initial hurdle. blade regards you with the same curiosity you direct toward him. had it not been for your purple-haired co-kidnapper's intervention, you never would've amassed the courage to come this far. her words spurred you on.

"you've yet to understand the unique position you're in," she began, whilst painting your nails a bloody red. "bladie's nothing but a big ol' softie for you. why whimper and tremble like a wounded pooch when you could make him your attack dog instead?"

this proposition piqued your interest. you're not so foolish as to believe kafka offered this insight out of the goodness of her heart — whatever came of it would surely be for her entertainment — but it still left an impression. considered from this angle, it'd reframe your entire dynamic with blade. his wretched affection is yours. a commodity that, if leveraged properly, could be monopolized.

when standing before him, every iota of his attention orbits around you. harnessing this celestial power takes but a few flirtations. coil your trembling arms around his neck, draw him down toward you, speak his name like it's a blessing or curse. he's enthralled and intensely focused on what might happen next. your future splits into infinite paths instead of congealing into one, unhappy ending.

whether he knows your true intentions or not is inconsequential. weave your lie prettily enough and he'll remain willingly ensnared.

[l0vergirls]

(i picture everyone in this scenario to be 19 and over!!!!)

imagine the yandere!batfam with a (gn) spider-man!reader who's got their own black cat, their own felicia hardy, who always seems to come running back to the reader no matter how many times they both agreed to end their dalliances.

your relationship with felicia started out as nothing more than something fun, a distraction from the constant fighting you both had to deal with. somewhere along the way, it had become a meaningful connection, dangerously treading on the line of romantic.

neither of you were ready for such a serious commitment— not with each other. and so, you're stuck dancing around your feelings, letting your bodies convey what words can't.

the first time the family of vigilantes witnessed your interaction with the cat burglar, they felt a weird sense of familiarity. masked eyes had quickly glanced at bruce, while the man squinted at your faraway figures (which were too close together for his taste).

he's done this song and dance before, and bruce knew they had to distance you from the white haired thief before she steals your heart entirely.

as felicia raised a clawed finger to your chin, your masked face moved the tiniest bit closer to hers. you felt your heart beat just slightly faster, and heard hers do the same. restraint barely had its hold on you as you whisked her away into the night.

the bats had watched as you two swung away, the gnawing feeling in their chests made way for a spider sized hole in their hearts that they needed to fill.

[averycutesalamander]

pls write yan!boothill OMG WHO SAID THAT

ohoho....!! i must confess that im quite picky when it comes to yandere content, bc i don't particularly like the extreme end of the spectrum. physical violence and straight noncon in particular don't click for me (absolutely no shade to people who like that tho, you do you!!) buuuuuuut ..... i mean, im the one writing?? so i can do whatever i want??? so alright here you go :) also check my reblog for.. a lot of rambling lmao

may i present to you: my interpretation of boothill in love, but he has a few too many screws loose. warning for relatively vague descriptions of violence and, uh... yandere stuff. you know how it goes.

In all honesty, Boothill is not a "love at first sight" type. His attraction to you is a gradual, budding thing, built over many repeated encounters. He's emotionally isolated himself, after all - built a wall thick enough to muffle the whispers of his past, smothering it in a slurry of rage and sorrow. It'll take time for him to let down his guard for long enough to even register the feelings you conjure in him - a flutter in his chest every time you smile at him, a spark of joy every time he makes you laugh, a strike of fondness every time he looks at your pretty face when you aren't paying attention.

And beneath it all, a low, simmering greed, a hunger, a yearning; the urge to bite and devour and never let go.

The pressure builds with time, as the two of you grow closer. He visits often, though not so often that it would catch the IPC's attention. You laugh and joke and tease, playfully flirting with him yet keeping a healthy, platonic distance. (He very pointedly and stubbornly ignores the way his heart soars when you look at him like that - like you want to pull him into your bed and let him take you apart, piece by ruinous piece. It's just harmless fun, after all.)

(Right?)

Despite the yawning fractures in the wall he's created, despite the increasing complexity of his feelings for about you, he still hasn't untangled whatever complicated web of feelings that's arisen around you, content to leave himself oblivious for the time being - until you make a joke about him marrying you and sweeping you away on some bizarre galactic adventure, and he damn-near bluescreens.

(He hates, hates, hates that the first thing he feels is something adjacent to the feeling a cat gets when it finally corners a particularly unruly mouse, akin to the thrill he gets whenever an enemy exposes a weakness. A sick, twisted kind of satisfaction.)

His mind churns as the wall cracks, wavers-

...and crumbles.

He panics. He makes a flimsy excuse about getting a notification through his neurochip, about needing to help out a fellow ranger - and he feels even better worse when you believe him unhesitatingly, sending him off with a sweet little "Be safe!" just as you always do.

It's only after he leaves the planet that he thinks about how much you've grown to trust him, about how damn gullible you are, about how often you give him the benefit of the doubt, about how kindly you've always treated him in spite of (or perhaps because of) his dozens of strange quirks. Everything unravels, threads spilling from his fraying mind and spilling between his fingers, and when the tattered fabric settles-

He simply can't deny it. He's in love with you.

It takes some time for him to piece himself back together - weeks of complete silence from him, your texts going unanswered. Every time he sees a fresh notification from you, his heart twists with guilt - but he's not ready to face the music. Not yet.

He comes crawling back to you, sooner or later. He knocks on your door with the most sheepish, guilt-ridden look on his face that you've ever seen, a rich bouquet laden with yellow roses and purple hyacinths tucked timidly in his arms. He lies about why he left - says it was all because of a mission that got more complicated than it should have, and it wasn't safe to reply to your messages - but when he tells you that he's sorry, he means it genuinely.

He's a bit disturbed by the sensation in his gut - that foul, wicked satisfaction when you accept his apology with barely a slap on the wrist, cheerily inviting him inside to catch up. You tuck the flowers neatly into a vase, chatting easily with him as you carefully arrange them.

"It's alright!" you say, waving dismissively at him when he murmurs another apology. "I know you're busy. I can't be your biggest priority, obviously. You've got more important things going on."

(You don't have a clue how wrong you are.)

He integrates back into your life like he never left. When he has the time, he sneaks his way back onto your planet, knocking on your door or searching for you in your usual spots. You get impossibly closer; your playful flirting goes from blatantly humorous to something foggier, something more ambiguous, teasing the line between platonic and something heavier. He matches you step by step, returning your advances with just a little extra spice, his eyes a bit darker and his smile a bit wider.

He tries to be patient - god, does he try - but there's an itch that's bloomed beneath his metal, impossible to scratch, impossible to sate, made worse by every little joke you make about kissing him or touching him or marrying him or letting him spirit you away. The pressure builds further and further, the tension winding tighter and tighter, the anticipation bubbling higher and higher.

(He will never, ever admit that he truly contemplates stealing you away, crowding you onto a ship and carting you off so he can always keep an eye on you, can always guarantee your safety. His paranoia has been building since he recognized his feelings for you; it's taken every ounce of restraint in his body to stop himself from giving into the urge, from crowding you, from suffocating you, from locking you away like a fragile songbird in a cage.)

(He's torn between his protectiveness and his understanding that you deserve freedom. You deserve independence and a life that isn't tied directly to him. He doesn't even know if you return his feelings. But...)

(But there's that nagging feeling in the back of his head, that pestering little voice that grows louder by the day. You'll be safer with me, it says, dark and tempting, bursting behind his teeth. I can make you happy. I can keep you safe. I can show you pieces of the universe that you've never seen before. I can love you like no one else ever could. I can hold you and cherish you and consume you and-)

(He takes that little voice and wraps his hands tight around its throat, frantically trying to suffocate the noise, terrified by its allure. But it's always there, lingering, lurking - because the call is coming from inside the house.)

Something gives, eventually.

When he inevitably breaks, his lips crashing heatedly and messily into yours, there are two paths ahead - but the difference is ultimately moot, because they collide not long after.

Perhaps you reciprocate. Perhaps you melt against his lips, your arms coiling around his shoulders and drawing him further into you. Perhaps you whimper when his hands trail downward, squeezing at your hips. Perhaps you pull away with a gasp, your pupils blown wide, your heart pounding when you see the look in his eye - dark and hot and desperate and hungry. Perhaps you accept his quiet declaration of affection with open arms, returning it in full, your eyes sparkling with joy.

Or perhaps you reject him. Perhaps you freeze like a startled deer before pushing him away, your face slack with shock. Perhaps you apologize, stumbling over your words, your heart thundering in your chest when you see the look in his eye - dark and cold and empty and hungry. Perhaps you gently tell him that you don't feel that way about him - that you only see him as a friend.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because Boothill - careful, meticulous Boothill - has slipped up, and the IPC finds you.

After he leaves next, whether that be with a broken heart or a giddy one, a trio of IPC employees pluck you up from the street in broad daylight, shoving you into a dark transport ship for "questioning." And once they bring you to an IPC space station, they do indeed question you - though it feels more like an interrogation, considering that you've been tied ankle-and-wrist to a chair like you're a dangerous serial killer and not a regular civilian.

"Suspected colluding with the criminal known as Boothill," your "interviewer" tells you flatly, idly thumbing at the knife in their hand. "Camera footage, reports from neighbors, records from his Synesthesia Beacon... All clearly show that he has made repeated visits to your planet and your home. We're in the business of knowing why."

Perhaps you keep your mouth shut and refuse to divulge anything, no matter how close that knife gets to your bare skin. Perhaps you break when it begins to slice into your flesh, drawing blood from your body and tears from your eyes and stuttered words from your lips. Perhaps you grit your teeth and bear it, unwilling to betray the man you've grown so fond of.

Or perhaps you cave immediately. Perhaps you sell him down the river the first chance you get, frantic explanations spilling from your lips. Perhaps you tell them that you had no idea he had such a massive bounty on his head. Perhaps you panic when they find the information insufficient and draw the knife on you anyway, deaf to your begging and pleading as they wet your skin with blood.

Ultimately, it doesn't matter.

...Because a distant explosion rocks the entire space station, and the flashing lights from the silent alarms interrupt your interrogation.

You're left alone when the IPC agent flees, locking the door behind them with a heavy clunk. Minutes pass as you fumble desperately with your restraints, your body pulsing with pain; a cacophony of gunshots and screaming penetrates the thick walls, growing louder and louder, your heart pounding faster and faster.

There's a noise just outside the door - a horrifically wet noise, like raw flesh on tile. You freeze like a rabbit that's just heard the panting of a starving wolf, far too close for comfort.

Silence. Your head aches from the flashing red lights.

Suddenly, steel fingers wedge into the gap between the locked door and the wall, single-handedly tearing it open and breaking the hydraulic lock with inhuman ease. Metal crunches and squeals, piercing the quiet - and there he stands, right in the doorway, a silhouette of black and red.

Never in your life have you seen him this manic.

His white hair drips with scarlet and his teeth are bared; his eyes are alight with rage, a shock of bright crimson among the dark smears of blood and viscera that coat him head to toe. In the light of the alarms, he looks like the perfect picture of a killer from a horror movie; violence and slaughter, just waiting to be unleashed. When his gaze locks onto you, there is a long moment of utter stillness; instinctual terror floods your entire body in a cold flash, because there isn't so much as a glimmer of humanity in those eyes - only pure, boiling, ravenous, frantic anger.

For a heartbeat, you're convinced he's going to rip you apart with his teeth.

Then, as if he finally registers who you are, the madness evaporates, replaced by a nearly manic sort of relief. He rushes to your side, looking you over; you don't miss the flash in his eyes - seething, smoking fire - when he spots your injuries. In the same breath, he snuffs it out, focusing instead on breaking your binds with his bare hands.

You're already crying when he takes you up into his arms, cradling you close to his chest and unwittingly smearing IPC blood onto you. "It's alright, sweetheart," he murmurs, soft and reassuring, a beacon of comfort in a sea of terror. "I'm right here. I've got ya. No one's ever gonna take ya from me again, okay?"

(Maybe if you weren't in shock, you'd be startled by his words. As it stands, though, they're like music to your ears, like a warm blanket settled over your shoulders, like a tight hug from someone you trust with your life.)

He encourages you to press your face into his shoulder - mercifully free of blood - as he carries you through the carnage he's left in his wake, the jangle of his spurs and your muffled sobs echoing through the silent halls. Your entire body shivers at the noise of him stepping into some unidentifiable slurry of viscera, and he thumbs at your back in an effort to soothe you, speaking quietly into your ear about everything and nothing.

Time passes in a blur of tears. He takes you to the ship he, uh... commandeered to get here, ducking into the bathroom and settling you gently - so very gently - onto the floor. Or, rather, he tries to - because your fingers are frozen stiff in his jacket, your grip unrelenting.

"You just wait here for a sec, alright?" he whispers softly, the chill of his hand settling lightly against your wrist; the blood there still feels warm to your delirious mind. "Gotta get the autopilot started, okay? I'll be right back."

You're both surprised when you shake your head insistently, your eyes wet and pleading. In an instant, he softens, his heart aching in his chest.

"Alright, sweetpea," he breathes, carefully picking you up again. "I've got ya."

He keeps you cradled to his chest as he walks to the cockpit, holding you easily with one arm as he gets the ship moving. Reinforcements are on the way, no doubt - but you'll both be long gone by the time they get here.

(Maybe the IPC will get the message when they find the scene he's left behind - when they view the camera footage and see the rampage he went on. Decapitation and disembowelment is a new one, even for him...)

(...but he needed to make it clear that no one, no one, touches what's his and gets away with it.)

When the engine is purring beneath his feet and the rumble of FTL travel is humming in the walls, he brings you back to the washroom and settles you to the tile again, gently untangling your grip from his jacket. You're in shock, he's sure, so he's careful to continue talking to you as he wets a towel with warm water, murmuring soft reassurances as he wipes the blood from your skin, handling you like you're glass.

Once you're clean, he messily towels himself off to get the worst of the mess off, then brings you to the captain's quarters, digging around in the closet to find something comfortable for you. Your shaking fingers cause you trouble, so he gently eases your ruined clothes off, his eyes respectfully averted as he helps you redress. He takes one look at the messy, used bedding and promptly decides to change the sheets. (Something within him stirs and snarls at the thought of you smelling like anyone else.)

Finally, when all is said and done, he eases you beneath the covers, brushing away the last remnants of your tears. His heart is torn between singing with joy and aching with pain when you reach up and take his hand in yours, your fingers wrapping tight around his.

"Gotta go wash up, honey," he murmurs, watching you closely as you sink into the protective huddle of the blankets, exhaustion painting your features. "That alright? I'll be fast."

(He tries very hard to ignore the flutter in his chest from the look in your eye - like you're genuinely considering whether or not you need to stay near him, like you aren't sure if you can bear the distance.)

(He also tries very hard to ignore the little pang of disappointment when you slowly nod, releasing his hand.)

He cleans himself up with record efficiency, resigning himself to wearing clothes that are a size or two too small until he can wash his usual outfit. The clothes are for your sake, really; it's not like he has any, uh... equipment to expose - not yet - but he's relatively sure that it would make you uncomfortable anyway.

By the time he steps lightly into the room again, you're asleep.

For a long, long moment, he's struck stupid by the sight of you, by the softness of your face in rest.

Fuck, you're beautiful. He knows it in his heart, feels it in his core, senses it in his chest - you're the prettiest little thing he's ever seen.

(And you're all his, now.)

His fists clench, and he swallows down the thought like bitter poison. (You deserve better than this - better than him. He's a broken man, he knows - a messy reconfiguration of a thousand corpses, glued together by hatred and grief. He could never love you the way you deserve. He could never-)

He's broken from his rapidly spiraling thoughts when you twitch, a tiny furrow appearing in your brow. A surge of emotion nearly bursts in his chest - the urge to comfort, to protect, to soothe - and he slowly circles to the other side of the bed, climbing into the empty space and settling beneath the blankets. Hesitantly, he wraps one arm lightly around your waist, drawing you against him with your back pressed tight to his chest.

His heart soars when he feels you instantly relax, the tension fleeing your body.

(It's fine. This is fine. He'll make everything better. No matter what he has to do, who he has to kill, he'll make everything better.)

A handful of days pass like that. When he stops by a market to get supplies for you, he gently tells you that it's best for you to stay in the ship for now; odds are that you actually have a bounty on your head as well, now.

(He's not wrong - but he also doesn't need to disable the button on the inside of the ship that opens the exit hatch. You don't need to know that; he doesn't need to acknowledge that.)

As time passes, he tries not to suffocate you, tries not to hover, wary of putting you under any more stress - but it's ultimately a useless task.

When you finally, tentatively ask him about going home, his brain goes numb, the world snapping into sharp focus. He turns his gaze to you, disturbingly absent of emotion.

"It ain't safe for ya there, now that those IPC dogs know to look for ya," he says, his voice far too even.

When tears begin to bud in your eyes, it finally sweeps up some sympathy in his chest, his entire face softening. He takes your shaking hands in his, tenderly grazing your knuckles with his thumbs.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps, reaching up to wipe away your tears.

(He's barely sorry.)

"I don't like it either, but..."

(Yes, he does.)

"It's safest for ya to stick with me, alright?"

(Wishful thinking. He could find somewhere for you to stay - some quiet planet outside of the IPC's reach, where you could live without worry. He could send you credits regularly. He could make sure you were happy and secure, independent of him.)

(He could. He should.)

(He won't.)

[lofious]

I had this school au dream where Sawyer was a popular kid mostly because of his accomplishments that he’d done. He’s known to be dismissive and would only communicate with others if he needs to, like school staff and his small group of ‘friends.’ Who are mostly the higher-ups in Poppy playtime like Leith sticking by his side cause of Sawyer’s accomplishments and with how much they’ve seething towards each other’s presence, it’s bound for them to be some type of frenemies.

Reader wasn’t popular like Harley but they’re good friends with Stella (love her ❤️). And they’re known to be nicknamed, “Angel.” Since they’re aware that Sawyer is one of those popular guys who doesn’t get along with anyone, it’s obvious that the two wouldn’t interact a lot. They’ve seen in each other and had a one or two conversations with school projects and what not, but overall they’re not really friends, at least that’s what the reader thinks.

They’re not sure when this incident occurred but they’ve been getting a lot of sticky notes from an anonymous person. Who uses the notes as their way of communicating with Reader. Of course, they tried to find out who’s the individual that’s been interacting with them through those notes, only to find no leads as asking other students didn’t give them any clue on who could be the anonymous person. Thankfully, their interactions were harmless and the anonymous individual sounded like they just wanted to talk to the Reader.

Thinking that the person behind these sticky notes is a shy person, Reader tries to reassure and encourage the anonymous person to reveal their identity but with how persistent and persuasive they are about not wanting to reveal themselves, Reader eventually leaves that thought alone. Unaware that it was Harley all along, who’s terrible at communicating properly without sounding rude or dismissive. Unbeknownst to the reader, Harley would make sure that any other individuals who has interest in them would be dealt with. I love when he blackmails and doxx somebody for being too close to me by a inch 😍

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ TOO SWEET ꒱ OKKOTSU YUUTA X READER

cw: mdni. yandere yuuta. yutamaki poly hinted at. vague discussion of death. implied suicidal ideation (yuuta). canonverse. reader is a civilian and probably (most definitely) has stockholm syndrome. a/n: this was supposed to be a normal hurt/comfort drabble, but then i remembered how strange and off-putting yuuta is…it spiraled from there.

“Do you ever think about dying?”

The evening air lulls, hushed in anticipation. Tucked in the safety of your bedroom, you both lounge atop wrinkled cotton sheets, silhouettes washed a dusky blue. His voice is soft when he speaks, chin resting in the hollow of your rib cage—an uncomfortable pressure.

(It feels claustrophobic: like each inhale will yield less and less oxygen, like the world will close in on you, like you will be trapped inside your skeleton, beneath him forever.

But you would do anything for Yuuta, you think. And you’re certain he would withstand any pain to comfort you—quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.)

His hair messily frames his face, partially obscuring his vision; you comb your fingers through the silken strands and push them back. His irises—midnight, wide and unflinching as the velvet sky—drink you in.

You’ve long grown used to his disquieting stare.

Knifelike, it slits and peels back your skin, lancing muscle and cracking bone to expose your inner self: all your emotions, secrets, and fears. Through trial and error, you’ve discovered that it’s safest to answer his questions truthfully; whether you like it or not, he always gets at the marrow of your being.

“Sometimes,” you finally reply.

Blinking slowly, he hums. “That makes sense.”

Before you can untangle the threads of his thoughts, he adds, “I used to think about death all the time, especially before I understood what happened to Rika.” He draws invisible shapes on the ridges of your ribs, lithe fingers leaving rippling gooseflesh in their wake. “Even after—when I realized I had unwittingly turned her into a curse��I wondered if I would be better off dead.”

(It’s easy to forget that Yuuta is a special-grade sorcerer—though you have no conception of what his position entails. “Jujutsu,” “sorcery,” and “curses” are just a few of the words that are strictly prohibited in the sanctuary of your one-bedroom apartment. You only know of Rika because she saved your life alongside Yuuta and Maki.

While you can’t parse why he’s confiding in you, you stay quiet. You shudder as you imagine how Maki would react to such talk at home.)

“I’m sorry,” you finally murmur, unsure of what else you can say.

He chuckles, lips curling into a smile, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You’re too sweet for your own good—you know that?”

Shaking your head, you admit, “No one has ever called me sweet.”

Lifting himself to his hands, the crushing weight on your sternum instantly melts away; he crawls up your body and drops to his elbows, forehead pressed to yours. His hair curtains your face: all that you can see, hear, smell, feel, and taste is Yuuta.

“Well I have,” he pouts before dotting openmouthed kisses across your neck, breath molten—cloying—as he reaches the familiar curve of your jaw. “That’s why you’re here with us. Your soul is too precious for the ugly world outside.”

Yuuta pulls back to contentedly admire your expression, now flustered from his praise and caresses. “For many years, I didn’t value my life. But after meeting Maki-san, then you…I found my purpose.”

A cool palm cups your cheek, skilled digits splaying out, sensing the life thrumming beneath your flesh. He resumes: “I don’t fear death, and I don’t long for it—not anymore. However,” his thumb smooths across the plush vermilion of your lips, teasing tenderness as his gaze darkens, “if anyone tries to hurt you, they shouldn’t fear death. They should fear me.”

[meo-eiru]

Seeing the best dreams with my beloved by my side

[angelyuji]

dear diary

bruce wayne x reader (kinktober week 4)

tw // stalking, kidnapping, voyeurism, masturbation, pattinson!bruce is silly and a cutiepie

18+! minors dni!

november 1 : riddler’s floor has left the city a mess. i can barely hold on, helping the people affected and trying to understand what’s going on with penguin. i can’t focus.

november 5: you’re pretty. you were getting mugged when i came. you looked pretty as you cried, arms wrapped around my neck. i asked if you wanted me to escort you home and you nodded so cutely. you’re apartment was as cute as you, every decoration was an extension of you. you’re so pretty, (y/n).

november 8: i broke into your home when you were at work. i wanted to be closer to you, i want to know things about you no one else does. your apartment smells like you, the shampoo, the detergent, your perfume. i felt myself get overwhelmed as blood rushed down there. it’s hard to keep myself contained. for now, i’ll keep an eye on you. just in case.

november 15: you leave your windows wide open; you always do. you drop your bag on the couch and start your routine. crossing the date off on your calendar with a purple sharpie, you turn on your oven for a store-bought pizza and head to your room. you slowly undress in your bedroom, standing in front of the mirror and checking your face. i can see every curve, every mark on your body. you’re so beautiful. a car horn surprised the both of us, bringing me back to patrol and you start to pull on pajamas. i wish i could touch you, show you how beautiful you are. i’ll come visit tomorrow, to make sure you’re safe.

november 20: the city was restless as thanksgiving neared. i guess even the darkness in the city would panic as the holiday approached. i watched you restlessly flit through the apartment, setting up couches and beds. one moment you were in the living room, setting up coaches, and the next you were in the kitchen, mixing things in pots. i wish i was there with you, helping you, meeting your family… i need to keep my focus on gotham.

november 28: i told myself to leave you alone, but i managed to end up in front of your apartment once again. i’m sure alfred will laugh at me. i watch you with your family, smiling and laughing. i need to feel you. fuck, i need to clear my head.

december 13: i caught myself watching old recordings of you. just one glance at your bare skin and i can feel my resolve crumbling. i wish i could bring you here, so i could just stop thinking of you all the time.

december 20: i dreamt about you. it felt so real. i could feel your soft arms wrapped tightly around my neck as i plow into you, desperate and aching. i woke up hearing your moans in my head and my thighs sticky with my own cum. i felt like i was 13 again, cleaning the sheets while alfred slept. look at what you’re doing to me, (y/n).

december 24: i got careless. i thought i saw you and i got careless, stabbed in the side by a scared kid stealing from an atm. in the haze of blood-loss, i hadn’t realized where i ended up until i saw your eyes peering down at me. “shit.” i heard myself talk without realizing. your warm hands helped me up, and i felt a laugh bubbling out of me as you shoved me through the open window into your apartment. every noise you make is so cute, i barely registered the pain. i felt myself hit the floor when it all went dark.

december 25: the first words you said when i opened my eyes: “merry christmas!” you smile sheepishly, i could feel your hands fixing my bandages. i felt the cowl on my head, untouched, but somehow you had taken off my suit. “sorry, google told me to change them every couple hours, so i bought a bunch of supplies while you were… asleep.” you look away. i try to sit up and you help me settle in.

“why did you help me?” my voice sounded rough and you bring a cup of water to my lips. i drink from the cup, water spills down my chin and you use a hand to wipe it away. i feel my heart skip a beat at the loving touch.

you shrug, “you saved my life before. how could i leave gotham’s knight dying at my fire escape?” i feel a smile pull at my lips. every glance, every involuntary movement, every word, everything about you made my heart swell.

i couldn’t trust my words, so i hum. night comes quickly and you put on a movie, feeding me slowly. it was nice, it was everything i had dreamt of. you are everything i imagined and more… you’re perfect.

december 26: you woke up, confused and scared, screaming at me. i’m sure it’ll be hard at first, but with time, you’ll get used to your new home. alfred had disapproved at first, but he knows how happy you make me, how much more careful i’ll be. i won’t have to worry about you anymore, knowing you’re home with me forever.

[neowonderland]

Suffocating || n.jm

First part of: The Friends of Lee Jeno Summary: Jaemin is the prized student in the university, everyone adores him. But, behind closed doors he's a bit different. Pairings: Univeristy! Jaemin x reader Warnings: 18+, smut, noncon to dubcon, dark content, bullying, coercion(?), university au Wc: 1.5k

Dark Content, Minor please DNI

Disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. I do not condone the actions of any characters in this story and the actions do not reflect the idols in any way.

Everyone knows about Na Jaemin. 

Jaemin’s sweet. He’s all smiles and sugar coated words as he charms his way into the hearts of everyone on campus. It’s no wonder that his pretty face, paired with his honeyed tongue has turned him into a campus celebrity. It’s common to see people join the organizations, clubs and classes Jaemin is in just because he’s in them. When he shows up to club events, especially volunteering, it’s common to see spectators unaffiliated with the club come just to watch Jaemin.

Jaemin isn’t just a pretty face and it shows with his 4.0 GPA and his awards at dance competitions. He excels at everything he does and isn’t afraid to put in the effort to achieve what he wants. When asked about how he excels so much, he thanks all his adoring fans. Stating that he owes everything to them, he’s thankful for the support and opportunities he’s been given.

And it’s somewhat true that he’s sweet, at least Jaemin is like that with other people. It’s just that behind closed doors when he’s with Lee Jeno, he’s different. He’s less syrupy sweet, more blunt, more serious, sometimes even more quiet, but he’s always sure to revert back to his persona whenever he needs something from others in the group. Jaemin’s doe eyes, wide smile and words always guarantees him what he wants.

You’re wary of him, scared of Jaemin and how easily he’s able to get the things he wants, so you try to avoid him, hiding in your room, whenever he comes over to you and your roommate Jeno’s shared apartment. But Jaemin never seems to take the hint that you want some space from him and it shows in the way he treats you.

Jaemin isn’t shy about showing his affection for you in front of his and Jeno’s friends. It’s not uncommon for you to be seated between Jaemin’s thighs on the couch when ‘the Dreamies’ are over. Jaemin’s arms wrapped tight around your body, groping at flesh as he bends down to nuzzle his head in your neck, pecking your neck and the top of your head. It’s uncomfortable when he does this, you can feel stares, especially Haechan, burning holes into you as Jaemin dotes on you. You always avoid eye contact with 'the Dreamies' and try to fight the red creeping onto your cheeks, sometimes squirming in Jaemin’s hold, whispering quietly for him to let you go, only for him to whine and tighten his hold on you.

Ignoring him is futile though, always hearing Jaemin whine through your door when he doesn’t see you in the apartment when he visits Jeno, demanding to see you, even threatening to drag you out himself if you don’t come out yourself. Jeno can only sigh as he relents, knocking against your door or sending you a text to come out for Jaemin. 

Jaemin is no stranger to forcing you into his arms when he doesn't want to, hand wrapped tightly around your wrist as he pulls you out of your room and into his lap. You fight the discomfort as you feel his warm hands roaming under your shirt, squeezing and prodding at your flesh and skin, squishing your cheeks, cooing at your full cheeks and calling you so "sweet and cute". Gushing over how “nice you feel”, how “soft” you are. 

You’ve never been the best at setting boundaries, too used to being walked on and treated as a doormat, and Jaemin is no exception.

Jaemin is suffocating, crushing you in his affection and hold, uncaring for your protests and boundaries. You dread whenever he comes over, but there's nothing you can do. You've tried your best to prevent Jaemin from coming, begging Jeno to talk to Jaemin. Jeno only responds with a shake of a head, stating that that’s just how Jaemin is, how stubborn he is and that you’re better off just complying with him.

You're feeling especially sensitive today after you hadn’t scored as high on a midterm as you wanted to, words floating in the back of your mind about how useless and stupid you are.

You’re seated between Jaemin’s thighs again on the couch as ‘the Dreamies’ converse around you. It’s become a normal occurrence now, but it never stops the stares from ‘the Dreamies’, at least not from Haechan. Haechan, the one with the body count triple his age. Haechan, the only one who actively shames you and makes rude, out of pocket comments regarding you. Haechan, the only one who acted like you were inconveniencing him by just existing.

That’s why it hurts especially when Haechan makes a regularly scheduled comment about your appearance, calling you “Jaemin’s useless lap toy” among other things. You can’t take it anymore as you begin silently, breaking free from Jaemin’s unnaturally gentle grip as you excuse yourself in a shaky tone. You miss the stares at you and Jaemin as you rush to your room, Jaemin rushing to get up from his spot on the couch and follow you into your room.

You’re overwhelmed, tears blurring your vision, as you blubber in the safety of your room to Jaemin about just how mean Haechan is. How awful he is when he sees you. How you wish you weren’t ever roommates with Jeno because that meant you had to deal with Haechan and his comments everytime he comes over. Jaemin can only pretend that he’s listening to you while nodding, mind telling him to just take what he wants.

“Shhh, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay.” Jaemin shushes you, running his thumb across your cheek to wipe away your tears. “Let me help you. Let me make you feel better.”

You miss the way his eyes gleam, the way he licks his lips and his expression of pure hunger as he stares at you, eyes focused on the tears rolling down your face and your puffy, red eyes. 

You shakily nod your head, confused at what Jaemin means and thinking that he only means to comfort you with his words. But that idea of comfort fades when Jaemin drags you back into his lap and kisses you, one hand coming to the back of your head to hold you there while the one on your face forcing you to pout your lips to receive him. You immediately recoil, fighting against his hold until Jaemin’s hand on the back of your head slides down to the back of your neck, giving it a firm warning squeeze, before going back up. It doesn’t take much to understand his warning as you stop resisting, more of your tears slipping down Jaemin’s fingers. 

You feel gross as Jaemin works you open on his experienced fingers in his lap, your cheeks tinged red in embarrassment and guilt as you bite your lips to muffle the noises Jaemin is able to pull out of you from his fingers alone. Jaemin’s arm is wrapped tightly against your waist, pulling you flush against his chest while his mouth latches onto your neck, alternating between harsh sucks onto your skin and gentle kisses to soothe the red splotches starting to form. 

You’re not sure when it starts to feel good, the burning stretching turning into pleasure as Jaemin skillfully hits that pleasurable spot within you again and again, your brain slowly turning hazy as Jaemin gives you orgasm over orgasm. It doesn’t seem to care when you begin to fall slack in his arms, watery eyes now glazed over as you forget about Haechan and focus on the pleasure Jaemin gives to you instead. 

“You’re so soft, so cute and so inexperienced. You’re too sweet, way too nice.” Jaemin mumbles into your neck. “You’re all mine, right? You can only be mine.”

You can only nod dumbly at Jaemin’s question, words not fully processing in your mind. What Jaemin says now becomes background ambiance to your soft moans and pants as you become pliant in Jaemin’s arms. 

It’s not until you hit your 4th orgasm that Jaemin lays you down on your bed on your back, head propped up on your own pillows. Jaemin quickly tugs down his pants and frees his length as he sits himself on his knees between your legs. You look towards the ceiling as you hear Jaemin moan as he tugs at himself, not taking long for him to coat your stomach with his cum. You don’t fully feel him run his fingers over your stomach, collecting his cum.

“Say ah,” Jaemin says playfully, tapping your lips with his cum covered fingers. “Open-wide.”

You blink at him, confused before opening your mouth and attempting to wrap your lips around his fingers, your tongue lapping sloppily at his fingers as drool begins to leak from the corner of your mouth. You can hear Jaemin sharply inhale as you begin to drool on his fingers, hearing him mumble a “next time” before wiping his fingers on your cheek. 

Jaemin smooths back his hair and crawls next to your side, using your blanket to cover the two of you. He lets out a satisfied hum as he wraps his body around you, clinging to you and placing a kiss on your cheek. It’s comfortable, almost intimate like this, and Jaemin thanks Haechan in his mind for finally giving you the push to be his.

Next part: Mean || l.hc

[qingxin-dream]

“The Afterparty”

summary | lyney is the face of fontaine’s entertainment industry, stealing hearts with every flourish of his magic. however, in the night, lyney tends to entertain a different kind of crowd.

warnings | written pre-4.0, ooc lyney, light yandere themes (stalking/manipulation/obsession), a sprinkle of smut (creampie/implied dubcon) [18+, MDNI], brief mention of drugs/alcohol, reader is neutral but wears a dress, lyney uses a little french

genre | yandere, slight smut

word count | 1.6k

pairing | lyney x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It’s no mystery that the Great Magician of Fontaine is a man of many talents. His shows are famous across Teyvat for their grandeur and flare. Beautiful venues draped in red curtains frame the scene before a sea of velvety theater seats, skilled acrobats maneuver themselves among rings suspended in the air. Blazes of fire erupt from the stage dramatically. A master of misdirection, the audience falls for his tricks every time as he effortlessly makes the impossible possible.

Lyney is incredibly perceptive. He knows how to read people, as a showman can read his audience, a small smug smile crinkling the corner of his eyes if you’re paying attention. It’s an art form—the way he flips through the pages of your soul, licking his fingers to reveal the next juicy detail with ease. Rarely ever does anyone truly surprise someone as cynical as him, who has been personally privy to the vile nature of the Fatui.

A life of fame is never kind to anyone. The planning and training for shows is incredibly rigorous. Executing the stunts in front of a live audience is equally thrilling and terrifying. Without fail, the crowd is mesmerized and the show ends in a shower of roses and marriage proposals. Rinse and repeat. Though, this is only what Lyney allows the public to know of him.

It’s after hours, when the theater is empty and the stage is dim, when the mask begins to slip.

Lyney is the lead, the star, and as such he maintains his appearance by rubbing elbows with the elite of Fontaine. You’d never catch him amid the nightlife of the city, no. You wouldn’t believe the sheer grandeur of the dazzling, flamboyant parties thrown every night at the country’s largest mansions.

It was Arlecchino who insisted that he attends these lavish parties, rampant with the city’s darkest vices between drugs, alcohol, and sex. But Lyney is a cynical man, so this much is to be expected of wealthy aristocrats.

It was all a façade, couldn’t they see? It sickened him, how gullible people were and how obsessed they were with status. Not to mention the inevitable hordes of women who threw themselves at him.

Nevertheless, Lyney played the game well and with a bewitching, handsome smile. Eventually he had learned to take pleasure in this little game.

As fate would have it, you let your friend convince you to crash one of these extravagant parties with them. You had heard whispers of what takes place at night behind the golden gates of Fontaine’s richest residences. Why wouldn’t you want to have a taste of the finest wine, dressed in designer, getting lost in the magnificent corridors of a packed mansion of partygoers?

It’s something straight from the movies.

You emerged from the bushes to sneak inside, which wasn’t that difficult surprisingly. You wore your best dress, not knowing what to expect. It was a floor length, silky black dress with a sexy slit that traveled all the way up to your mid-thigh. You had a lovely string of pearls dangling from your pretty neck. A classic choice.

Unfortunately for you, Lyney is a man who is extremely attentive to his surroundings. After all, an illusionist must be a master of his environment as well. The moment he spots you, a mere reflection of something new and fascinating for him to discover, he gravitates to you smoothly.

“Mm, I don’t believe we’ve met,” his voice is an alluring, a well-practiced approach. Before you could even answer, Lyney had already taken note of your little mannerisms and nuances just in these few passing moments. He had already adjusted the figurative mirrors of misdirection in this little trick, assuring your undivided attention.

You glance to your friend, who isn’t there. Oh. You had been cornered without even the opportunity to explore the party.

More of a wallflower type, you found yourself struggling to conjure up a confident answer. You were acutely aware of who this gentleman is, and his egotistical demeanor was already a huge turn off.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am,” he chuckled lightheartedly, yet there was a peculiar undertone hidden beneath. It was hard to place. He kisses your hand. “Lyney, the Great Magician.”

You withdrew your hand, unable to hide the way your eyebrows crinkled together with disinterest. Perhaps you should’ve been more prepared for these guests to be more brazen and unapologetic when they see something—or someone—they want.

Taking no for an answer is not even in the realm of possibility for these people.

The party continued on, gorgeous partygoers dancing and drinking to their heart’s content. All the while, Lyney kept his eyes trained on you. It wasn’t necessarily out of admiration; rather, it was curiosity. Why didn’t you bat your eyelashes at him like a good girl? Bite your lip when he kissed your hand?

He followed you like a ghost, slinking through the crowd tactfully to observe you. You were a rare creature indeed. None of the other women could hold a candle to you. Archons, he felt this unsettling churning in his stomach everyone your glimmering irises met his. His heart would tense instantaneously, threatening to explode within his chest.

You saw through Lyney from the moment he kissed your hand, and he hated it.

Through the night, you both danced this delicate tango around the massive mansion, a palpable tension tethering him to you. He was equally appalled and fascinated by you, never wasting any opportunity to slip in an innocent question or two to learn about you.

“A beautiful lady like you in a place like this… Do you feel lost in Wonderland yet, Alice?” Lyney had persuaded you to follow him to an unoccupied balcony, closing the French doors behind him.

He stalks toward you, his soft lavender irises cool and calculated. In an ashy flourish of embers, a deck of onyx cards materialized in his gloved hands. It had taken all evening, but just enough wine had passed beyond your lips to give Lyney the opportunity to disarm you.

“Not scared of a little fire, are you, love?” His voice was warm and inviting as a hearth, though it held a hint of mischief like that of a crackling inferno. Each mysterious card in his hand is shuffled with a distinct flick.

You were much more susceptible to his charm now more than ever, allowing him to weave glittering silk strands of harmless sweet nothings to entice you. Had you taken a step back, you would’ve seen the web for what it is. The grand reveal was imminent.

“Now, now, don’t fret. I won’t let anything harm you, chérie,” Lyney chuckles lightheartedly, as if he hadn’t been playing and pawing at you like a cat ready to pounce all night.

Your poor little breath hitched at every whisper and touch he gifted you. It started by fatefully picking the Queen of Hearts from his custom deck of cards. You should’ve known better. Maybe you should’ve picked the one next to it. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

Lyney’s lilac eyes spark with intrigue at your choice. How fitting. Had you paid any attention to the magician’s sneaky maneuvers, you would have seen that every card in the deck was from the suite of Hearts.

The illusion of choice.

He takes this as an opportunity to step closer, his hands reaching forward. Your chest is beating wildly, begging for relief from how he intoxicates you with just a flutter of his long lashes.

Lyney rests his hands on the marble railing on either side of your hips, drinking in your anticipation, your fear, and your desire. A small, smug smirk pulls at the corner of his pretty lips. He takes the liberty of helping you meet his gaze by bringing his wrist to his mouth, white teeth tugging to remove his glove. Your body feels weightless when he lifts your chin with his bare index finger and thumb.

The Great Magician would argue that he took extreme precautions to ensure the success of this escapade. It was all carefully calculated and orchestrated according to his whim. He had you exactly where he wanted you, blissfully unaware of how deep these exhilarating feelings for you had rooted themselves into his guarded heart.

“Do you feel the magic in my fingertips? Hehe, tonight’s show will be a private event for only for you, mon trésor.”

The night was a blur. Fading in and out of consciousness, one moment you were dancing with him in empty halls and the next you were enveloped in his embrace against a wall. Lyney would pin your hands above your head before pushing you onto the bed, catapulting you into his next breathtaking trick like one of the acrobats in his show.

The silhouettes of your frames were shadowed in the moonlight that bathed the sheets in silver. Lyney skillfully unzipped your dress. Clothes fell to the wayside, vanishing in a flourish of passion. There was no denying it. He had to have you, and you were such a willing participant in his performance.

Of course, the wealthy partygoers were none the wiser, the echoes of pleasure the Great Magician was able to rip from your lungs were easily deafened by the music of their own opulent fantasies.

What is a magician if not an artist who must mark what is rightfully his—painting your womb with a decadent display, a growl escaping his throat.

However, Lyney is a perfectionist. When he catches a glimpse of his seed spilling out of you, he is quick to stuff his slender fingers into your overstimulated hole and seal the masterpiece with a final kiss on your bruised lips.

“Magnifique…” ❤️

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

[bloodyboi]

What was the most embarrassing things reader/YN has ever done in a smut you’ve seen?