yandere prince! who you forgot could be as terrifying as he was right now.
"open the door [Name].." he whispered from the other side, and you nearly did.
god he was soo sweet right now, so ever lovingly gentle. and you knew. you knew that if you opened the door he would be nothing short of beautiful and sweet and everything you'd ever want him to be.
"i can hear you seeetheart, don't be scared, this isnt my blood anyway."
what a sickening thing to say. his blood or not you wouldn't be able to unsee the choked gurgling from the man your prince decided to partially decapitate.
"[Name], baby..don't fight with me please? I love you so fucking much, I would never hurt you and you know that.."
"I...you promise?"
Hook, line amd sinker.
"Just open the door i'll show you..."
You creaked the wooden board open by a sliver, Anoul immediately pulled you into his arms, uncaring that the blood from his clothes was melded into your chest now.
He didn't waste another second, pulling up your face into his lips and covering you in kisses. Rather bloody ones.
"My prince I–"
"My princess? Come." He cut you off by lifting you up and into the room you were just hiding in.
"[Name], you know you can never leave me, not even in death right?" His face was nose to nose with yours.
You didn't answer. Maybe because you didn't want to believe it, or maybe because you did.
Okay, genuine question, because I feel like I’m losing my mind here… why is there basically NO Vincenzo smut on Tumblr? 😭
Not even specifically Vincenzo Cassano, just the series in general.
Like, am I searching the wrong tags? Does everyone just collectively thirst in silence?
Because you cannot look at Jang Jun-woo and Jang Han-seo and tell me nobody has written anything insane about them???
My mind immediately goes to Jun-woo having a girl and deliberately letting Han-seo fuck her while he watches, just because he can. Like??? You cannot tell me that dynamic wouldn’t be absolutely unhinged.
I don't know what it's like in other countries, but in my country (The Netherlands) alot of holocaust memorials are being defaced and destroyed. Some people claim they do it because they want to show their support to Palestine, apparently some others find that understandable or say it's a nuanced situation.
It's not "understandable" and it's not a "nuanced situation". It's antisemitic. Those who say anything along the lines of "it's nuanced" are making the world less safe for Jewish people.
Defacing holocaust memorials is antisemitic. This shouldn't be this difficult.
some people are really looking so hard for some morally correct excuses to harass other people and be bullies, and then they wonder why fandom becomes toxic and no one wants to post their fics or art anymore. it's just pathetic.
fanfic writers and fan artists do not owe anybody anything
yk, when u do a fic where there's a fucking reader on it, u can't say that they have a skin color like white or black or fucking blue (unless you're a na'vi), when someone put "her soft and white skin" like wtf?? or vice versa, its so creepy and unrespectful its so easy to just not write that
i like to write and read fluff, angst, suggestive/nsfw, hurt/comfort, yandere, dubcon/noncon, fauxcest and etcs. what i write is fictional and i do not condone any of it in reality.
this blog is a safe place for dark content.
the media you consume is your responsibility. read the warning/tags before reading my content. if you’re not comfortable reading my content or don’t like me, block me and move on.
Do not interact.
racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, trump supporter, supporter of iran dictatorship or any dictatorship, slut shame, antisemitics, generative ai user and if you don’t like me, block me. i don’t control your phone and you don’t control my phone, so move on. 
request criteria.
i’m a slow and lazy writer. i have dyslexia so it takes some time for me to complete your requests.
i typically write fanfics with female readers in my mind but you can request male or any other type of reader.
i adore all of u who write for bloodhounds ♡ you’re all so so soooo talented & beautiful !! please never stop being great writers (and never stop writing for bloodhounds pls)
“If you’d just kept quiet,” he said with a smile, “this poor girl wouldn’t have to die tonight.” He looked at you then. “Run, little rabbit. I’ll give you a head start.”
Content Warnings: Do-Shik (comes with a hazard label of his own) , explicit adult content, hostage games, stalking with a smile, blood play, knife kink (yes, that kind) , noncon, oral, unhinged behavior, and one charmingly deranged serial killer.
wc: 4.4K
“Hey guys, I think I’m gonna call it a night?” you shouted over the club’s pounding music, but you didn’t wait for a response. You were already peeling away, pushing through sweat-slick bodies and seizure-inducing strobe lights, the claustrophobia clawing up your throat. By the time you stumbled into the cool night air, it felt like shedding a second skin. You exhaled like it might actually help. Reflexively, you reached for your phone to call a ride. Dead. Of course it was.
“Ah, fuck,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and slipping it back into your bag like it had betrayed you on purpose. The night had already been spiraling, and this was just the cherry. Now you were stuck walking home at 11 p.m., in heels that had seemed like a good idea five hours and three drinks ago.
You turned down the shortcut you always took, a narrow cut-through between blocks that was harmless by day. Familiar, even. But at night, it changed. It looked different. Like a film set left to rot, something from a forgotten Wes Craven movie. The redevelopment in the neighborhood didn’t help. Empty construction lots, half-gutted houses with window frames like missing teeth, streets that felt abandoned on purpose. And the quiet. God, the quiet.
Like the night had frozen mid-scream. You were already on edge when you heard it that quick, fluttery sound, like something flying too close to your ear. It came from a side street swallowed in shadow, and it made you stop. You took a few steps back, brow furrowed, staring into the dark. Nothing. Just the thick black shape of the street, unmoving. Still. Like something was staring back at you.
You stood there longer than you meant to, dumb curiosity pinning your feet in place. Then you shook your head and started walking again. That’s when you heard it again. The same sound. Only this time, something landed by your feet with a soft, unnatural thump. You looked down. A white high heel. Just one. Scuffed. The heel cracked.
You took a cautious step back, your eyes still fixed on the darkness it had come from. Nothing moved. The street remained blank, black, and still. “Hello?” you called, your voice barely holding together. No answer. Against every instinct honed by every horror movie you’d ever mocked, you stepped forward. Just a few feet. “Hello?” you said again, louder this time. Still nothing.
You stopped halfway down the allyway, unsure whether you were being brave or catastrophically reckless, when another shoe dropped at your feet. This one wasn’t white. It was red. Your legs moved before your brain gave permission. They carried you toward the alley like something magnetic had taken hold of your spine. And that’s when you saw her. She was huddled behind a dumpster, half-curled in on herself, clutching her stomach. Her hands were slick with blood, and so was the ground beneath her.
You dropped to your knees beside her, your breath caught in your throat. “Oh my God—hey, hey, are you okay?” you asked, voice shaking, reaching out to steady her. She shook her head, murmuring something over and over. The words were too fast, too soft, too foreign to grasp. You couldn’t even tell what language it was. Just the sound of panic and pain and something that had already gone horribly wrong.
You didn’t hear him coming. Not until his knee cracked into your face with a sickening snap. The impact sent you reeling onto your back, vision fracturing into static. Pain exploded—hot, wet. Your hands flew to your cheek. Your nose was already bleeding. You blinked hard, trying to focus.
Above you, a voice. Low and exasperated. “Fuck. You just had to be curious.” You looked up, dazed, and saw him. He was wearing a mask. Not a cheap Halloween thing. Not a ski mask. Just a plain surgical mask featureless except for two hollow eyeholes that caught the streetlight wrong and reflected nothing. He stood like he had all the time in the world. His posture wasn’t tense. It was patient. Comfortable. Like this was routine. In one gloved hand, he held a knife.
Not jagged. Not rusted. But bloody. Fresh. The crimson clung to the blade in glistening threads. He held it the way most people hold their phones just casually, like it belonged there. He didn’t lunge. He didn’t shout. You started crawling backward, your palms slipping on the ground, your heart pounding like a trapped thing. He just laughed. Then he turned to the girl. Still crumpled behind the dumpster. Barely breathing. Her blood spreading across the ground in slow, creeping halos.
“If you’d just kept quiet,” he said, “this poor girl wouldn’t have to die tonight.” He looked at you then. And smiled. “Run, little rabbit. I’ll give you a head start.” His voice was sing-song, soft. Like a parent coaxing a child into a game that wasn’t a game. Your pulse tripped. You didn’t wait to see if he meant it. You ran.
The city’s silence felt wrong. The streets were wrapped in velvet hush, your footsteps the only sound. Slap. Slap. Slap. Against pavement still damp from rain hours ago. Neon signs flickered at the edges of your vision like dying nerves. A liquor store. A shuttered pharmacy. Dark windows. Drawn curtains. The world was asleep. But he wasn’t. You could hear him laughing. Not out of humor. Something deeper. It echoed off the alley walls like a predator’s purr.
“Faster, little rabbit,” he called. Voice lilting, teasing. But something sharp beneath it. You turned hard down a side street so narrow your shoulders scraped brick. The air smelled like rot. The darkness pressed in heavier here. Your breath came in wet gasps. Your chest heaving. Eyes wide. Hands dragging against the walls like they might find a door, a window, anything to help you.
Behind you, the soft whisper of shoes. Slow and steady. He wasn’t running. He didn’t need to. He was the kind who liked the chase. The kind who fed on the slow build. Who knew fear got worse the longer you had to carry it. His laugh again louder this time. Wilder. He was enjoying this. You cut through another alley. Slipped. Caught yourself on a dumpster. Kept going. Your palms scraped raw. Knees trembling.
“You smell like fear,” he said. Voice closer. “I love it.” You didn’t scream. That would’ve been a gift to him. He didn’t need help finding you. He never lost you. You were never ahead. He was always just behind. Just out of reach. You turned a corner. Dead end. Bricks.
You backed up, hands searching, your mind a static scream. You turned and he was there. His mask was gone. He was smiling. Panting slightly. His silhouette jagged against the streetlamp behind him. Hair tousled. Shirt stuck to his chest. Eyes gleaming with a boyish joy that didn’t match the heat of the hunt.
He cocked his head. That grin still wide. “Tag,” he whispered. “You're it.” And then he lunged. Your body hit the ground hard. Concrete tore skin from your palms and knees. A hot flash of pain climbed your limbs, but it didn’t stop you. You twisted. Scrambled back. Kicking up gravel. Hands shaking. Breath shattering the silence.
He stood above you. Standing tall, gleaming with sweat like something carved from bone and rage. He looked at you like an artist admiring his work. “This was fun,” he said, voice syrupy, slow. “But time to end this.” He moved. No time to think. Only the instinct to survive. You reached for the ground, your hand plunging into the loose grit. Dirt. Glass. Whatever the alley gave you and threw it at his face.
He howled. “You fucking bitch—!” It wasn’t pain. It was fury. Offended, like you'd ruined the game. You didn’t wait. You ran. Shoes slapping pavement. Lungs tearing. Your body a storm of motion. And behind you, his chaos. You could feel it, a pressure building like lightning in the air. His rage had found new legs.
He would be faster now. Reckless. Somewhere, you heard a car passed. Headlights. Music. A pulse of life. You veered toward it like a moth starving for heat. Toward a main road. People. Witnesses. Maybe even safety. You burst onto a wider street, lined with closed storefronts. A single convenience store glowed at the corner like a lifeline.
You sprinted. Across the asphalt. Heart stuttering. Muscles burning. You didn’t feel the pain anymore. Just momentum. Behind you, footfalls. He’s closer. “You think they’ll help you?” he roared. His voice cracked and splintered. “You think they can stop me?” You didn’t answer. You ran faster than you ever did. The store. Fluorescent lights humming like a promise. A man inside, bored, counting change.
You opened your mouth to scream and then he was there. A shadow tearing from the dark. He hit you from behind, slamming you into the pavement. Your breath left you in a single violent rush. The world spun. Concrete burned your cheek. You tried to crawl. Hands clawing.
He grabbed your hair. Fisted it. Yanked your head back so hard your vision burst into white. “You can’t get away from me,” he hissed, his breath hot, foul against your ear. “You fucking can’t.” You kicked. Fought. Screamed. It didn’t matter. He dragged you back. Inch by inch. Your heels scraping the ground. Your legs twisting like broken wire. The glow of the streetlamp faded. The alley opened ahead like a throat. Your scream came then. But it was small. No one turned. No one heard.
The city devoured sound as easily as light. He laughed again. The way he dragged you was deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel every inch of your failure. His grip in your hair burned. “You thought if you ran into the light, you’d be safe,” he snarled, throwing you behind a dumpster, slick with rot and garbage. He leaned down. His eyes gleamed with something electric. His chest rose and fell like he’d just danced with the devil and won. “Now,” he whispered, “let’s finish what you started.”
He crouched in front of you, close enough for you to smell him. The metal and sweat and something too clean, like disinfectant. His fingers brushed your cheek almost tenderly, like he was checking for damage he hadn’t caused yet. He brought the blade up. He held it between you like a shared secret, tilting it gently, letting the dull city light shimmer across the bloodstained steel.
“Shhh,” he whispered, like he was soothing a child. “You're shaking. That’s good. Means you’re still alive.” The tip of the knife touched your collarbone. Light. Barely there. He trailed it down, slow as syrup between your ribs, the center of your stomach, stopping just above your dress hemline. “You know,” he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, “most people scream by now. Or beg. But you’re still trying to figure out how this ends.”
He smiled, amused by your silence. You weren’t strong. You were frozen. And he knew it. The knife slid lower. Not cutting at least not yet. Just dancing over skin, parting the thin fabric of your dress. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in like you were something precious. Something fragile.
He leaned in. “I like that,” he whispered. “I like when they don’t know if it’s going to hurt yet. That edge. That pause. That breath before the scream.” The tip of the blade pressed just enough to sting. You gasped. He grinned. “There it is.” He pulled back, rocking on the balls of his feet, still crouched like a predator deciding whether to play with its food or eat it.
His fingers twitched like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear. “You should’ve stayed with your friends,” he said conversationally, turning the knife slowly in his hand. “Danced a little longer. Had one more drink. Maybe flirted with someone.”
He chuckled and stood up suddenly, towering over you. The knife dragged lightly along your leg as he rose, leaving a line of shallow red where the tip kissed skin. You flinched. He noticed. “Oh no, don’t look at me like that,” he crooned. “This is your story now. I’m just the plot twist.”
You tried to crawl, but your limbs were slow, heavy, traitorous. He stepped closer to you. “Do you want to die fast,” he asked, “or beautifully?” You didn’t answer you didn’t even breathe. The knife hovered under your chin, tilting your face toward his. His eyes were so dark they barely reflected light. Just hunger.
“I can be gentle,” he whispered. “But it’s not as fun.” Then, with a sudden bark of laughter, he backed away, giving you space. His arms wide, inviting. Mocking. “Run again,” he said. “I want to hear your feet echo.” His smile sharpened. “I’ll close my eyes this time. Count to ten.” And he did. He closed them. Started to count. “One…” You didn’t wait.
Your body jolted into motion before he reached two, lungs tearing at the air, adrenaline overriding the pain in your legs. But you didn’t make it two steps. His hand fisted in your hair so fast it felt like your scalp ripped. You screamed and the world spun. He yanked you back and slammed you into the wall so hard the air knocked from your chest in a thick, ugly sound. Your skull bounced off brick, white exploding across your vision. You didn’t even hit the ground he held you there, pinned by your throat, arm braced casually like you weighed nothing.
His face hovered inches from yours. Eyes wide, pupils blown. Breathing hard not from effort, but delight. “You really thought I’d give you a head start?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear like a secret. “You’re cute when you think you matter.” The blade kissed your cheek. Lightly. Then dragged down to your jaw. You trembled. He laughed. “God, I love this part. The moment the hope dies in your eyes.”
He pressed the knife against your neck, not cutting, just watching your pulse hammer beneath the edge. “You know,” he said, voice thick with heat, “seeing those tears makes me want to fuck you against the wall, make you forget everything but me. You like that thought, don’t you?” He closed the distance without a sound, pressing his body flush against yours.
The feel of him hit like a shock, a creeping heat that wasn't comfort but warning, and your breath caught in your throat. Every part of you locked up, instinct screaming while he stood there, unmoving, like he had all the time in the world. He noticed. Of course he did. And when the corners of his mouth lifted, slow and satisfied, it wasn't a smile. It was a quiet, cruel acknowledgment that he’d won something just by touching you.
Head tilted. Studying you like a broken mirror. His eyes darted across your face, to your lips, your bloodied cheek, your fear. Then he smiled like it bloomed across his face. “I can break that,” he whispered. “Piece by piece.” He spun you fast, shoving your chest against the wall. One arm wrenched behind your back, the other hand tracing the blade across your spine through your dress. You gasped more from the cold steel than the touch.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “There you are.” He leaned in so close you felt his breath in your hair. “You don’t get away. You never did.” The knife tapped your ribs. Rhythmic and almost playful. “Every step you took was mine. Every scream you swallowed. Every turn you thought was yours.” He chuckled. “I let you run so you'd feel alive.”
The knife pressed harder. “So I could be the one to take that feeling away and no one’s coming,” he said, almost gently pressing into your neck. "Stop—I’m begging you," you gasped, tears burning your eyes. “Hmm,” he murmured into your hair, breath hot against your scalp. You started to beg, voice trembling. “Please… please let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I don’t even know your name—I can’t ID you, I—” He cut you off without moving an inch. “Do Shik,” he said, softly. “My name is Do Shik.”
Your stomach dropped. You knew exactly why he told you. He giggled it was almost childlike like it was a joke only he understood. “Now you know my name,” he whispered, as if that somehow made it more intimate. The knife slid up your bare leg slowly and teasingly. The cold bite of the blade against your skin made you flinch, and he felt it.
You cursed yourself for wearing the dress tonight. “You should wear that one,” your friend had said, laughing as she zipped it up. “It makes your legs look amazing.” You thought about that now. About the mirror. The music playing. The perfume. And the way his hand on you like he owned you like all of this was inevitable.
He tilted his head slightly, amused by your silence. “Cat got your tongue?” he whispered, the edge of his blade tapping lightly against your inner thigh, just enough pressure to remind you he was in complete control. “It’s cute, how quiet you get when it finally sinks in.”
He stilled, the knife halting in place, then slowly dragged it downward with a deliberate, spine-crawling grace. You felt the fabric tense beneath the blade. "Let's make things... easier," he murmured, almost thoughtfully, as if this were some casual favor. And with the gentlest pressure the knife slid upward, slicing clean through the dress stopping halfway. The sound of the fabric parting was soft, almost insignificant, but it echoed in your ears like thunder.
“There we go,” he breathed, his fingers brushing over the newly exposed skin as he opened the slit wider. His hand slipped up along your thigh, slow, casual. The knife was still there, balanced in his grip as his other hand moved with practiced precision. And then, without hesitation, he hooked his fingers around the edge of your underwear.
"These..." he said, voice dragging into a hum. "Not needed." He tugged and you felt the elastic snap. The fabric slipped away, cold air kissing the skin that had been hidden seconds ago. He let the torn underwear dangle from his fingers for a beat, then dropped them like trash. "Better," he whispered, his tone low, breath thick with satisfaction."Now I can really see you."
The alleyway is dark, the brick wall rough against your chest as he shoves you forward, his body pressing you into it. You feel the heat of him against your back, the sharp bite of his breath against your ear before his voice drips into you, low and mocking. “God, look at you… trembling like that. It’s beautiful.”
He drops to his knees behind you, and you feel it, the sudden absence of his body, the cool air hitting your skin before his mouth is on you, wet and filthy, tongue dragging like he owns it. Your fingers scramble against the wall, nails scraping brick as a choked sound tears from your throat.
"Look at you," he sneers between strokes, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you spread. "Shaking already. Pathetic." You don’t get a second to adjust before his fingers push into you, curling just right, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out. He laughs at that, breath hot against your skin.
"Oh, you wanna be quiet? Think someone’s gonna hear you?" His fingers twist deeper, "Let them. Let them hear what you sound like when you’re being used." His mouth is back, tongue relentless, your hips jerking forward into nothing, into the rough wall as he works you open, fingers and tongue in cruel tandem. "Fuck—you’re so easy," he growls, pulling back just to spit against you, the sound obscene in the dark. "Bet you’d take anything I gave you."
His mouth is relentless, lips and tongue working you with a filthy precision that has your thighs trembling. Every drag of his tongue is deliberate, every suck just shy of cruel like he knows exactly how much you can take before you break. And you are breaking, fingers clawing at the brick, a whimper caught in your throat as he hums against you, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure up your spine.
Wait—what is that? That’s the knife handle. You gasp as the flat of the knife handle presses against your clit, the contrast of the smooth and unforgiving feeling against your overheated skin making you jerk. He chuckles, low and dark, dragging the handle in slow, teasing circles. "Look at that," he murmurs, breath hot on your inner thigh. "Already fucking yourself against it. Greedy."
You choke out a "Wait—", but he doesn’t. He presses harder, the pressure just shy of painful, and your hips buck instinctively, seeking more. "Stop?" he mocks, voice dripping with amusement. "You don’t get to tell me what to do." His fingers dig into your hips, holding you still as he replaces the knife with his tongue again, licking a rough stripe over your clit before sucking hard and you cry out..
Before you can catch your breath, the knife handle is back, this time pressing inside, the blunt edge stretching you in a way that burns. You whimper, and he tsks, twisting it deeper. "Tight little thing," he growls. "Bet you could take more." You feel him shift behind you, the knife handle working in and out in slow, taunting thrusts, each one dragging a broken sound from your lips. "That’s it," he murmurs, voice rough with satisfaction. "Let me hear how much you love it."
You try to muffle a moan, but he slaps your thigh and you gasp. "None of that," he snaps. "You don’t hide from me." His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back as he fucks you with the knife handle, the rhythm brutal now, the metal slick with your arousal. "P-please—" you stammer, but he just laughs, breath hot on your neck. "Please what?" he taunts, twisting the handle just so, and your vision whites out for a second. "You gonna beg me to stop? Or beg me to let you come?"
You can’t answer, not when he’s dragging the knife handle in and out of your heat "Too late," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "You’re gonna take it. And you’re gonna fucking thank me after." The knife handle works you mercilessly, each thrust hitting that perfect, devastating spot inside you until your thighs shake with the effort of staying upright. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, every nerve alight with pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. He doesn’t let up, his grip on your hair keeping you arched back, his voice a dark, taunting murmur in your ear.
“Look at you,” he growls, twisting the handle just enough to make you whimper. “So fucking close already. You’d come on anything I put inside you, wouldn’t you?” You can’t deny it with the way your body is betraying you, hips rocking greedily against the unyielding metal, your clit throbbing with every brutal stroke. The pressure builds, coiling tight in your belly, until you’re teetering on the edge, pleasure winding tighter and tighter and he stops.
The sudden absence is agony. You cry out, hips jerking forward, desperate for friction, but he just laughs, low and cruel. “Not yet.” His free hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse flutter. “You don’t come until I say.” You whine, writhing against him, but his grip is iron, holding you still as he drags the knife handle out of you with deliberate slowness.
The cool air against your soaked skin makes you shudder, and He’s pushing into you in one sharp thrust, his cock replacing the knife, stretching you even fuller, hotter. You gasp, nails scraping brick as he bottoms out, his groan rough against your ear. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
His rhythm is merciless, each snap of his hips a brutal claim, driving into you with the kind of precision that leaves no room for escape. You whimper, hands braced against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase as he fucks you deeper, harder—like he owns you. Because right now, he does.
“N-no—fuck—wait—” you gasp, but your plea is cut off by the sharp slap of his palm against your ass, the sting only making your body clench around him tighter. “You don’t get to say no,” he growls, his hand tangling in your hair, yanking your head back. “You take it.” You whine, hips jerking as his fingers slide between your thighs, circling your clit with rough, punishing strokes. Overstimulated, you writhe, but he pins you harder, his grip on your hipbone sure to leave bruises.
“Come,” he demands, voice rough with authority. You fight it, you tried to but your body betrays you yet again, pleasure coiling too tight, too fast. With a broken sob, you shatter, your orgasm tearing through you like lightning, so violent your legs give out. He doesn’t let you fall, arm locking around your waist, fucking you through it, his thrusts turning jagged, desperate.
“Fuck, fuck—” His rhythm falters, his cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself to the hilt, his groan ragged against your skin. You feel him spill, hot and deep, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to muffle his own release. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your uneven breaths, the slick slide of him still inside you. Then he pulls out, turning you to face him, his grip like iron. Your knees are weak, your body trembling, but his smirk is dark, triumphant.
“Fuck… you were worth the chase,” he murmurs, thumb carving through the slick mess between your thighs before shoving it past your lips. You whimper not from the pleasure but from the broken submission. Your tongue dragging over his skin, swallowing the taste of him and your own shame.
His grip tightens in your hair, wrenching your head back. “I think I’ll keep you,” he decides, the words a velvet-wrapped threat as he slams you against the wall. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but his hand is already at your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur. “My little thing. My toy.” His teeth graze your ear, voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t get to break until I say so.”
"Desperate for approval" - Park Joonggil x f!reader
"And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this."
content warnings - dark!joonggil, psychological instability, obsessive and controlling behavior, and an unhinged boss, non-con, manhandling, bruising, hair-pulling, and forced kissing, power-imbalance dynamics, “sir” kink, and a binding contractual arrangement.
word count : 4.6k
So. You’re the new one. The one they plucked from the filth and the flames, the deal struck in the stench of your own damnation. The Jade Emperor, in her infinite, bored wisdom, decided you deserved a second shot. A promotion, even. From tortured soul to tour guide. And for your mentor, your babysitter, your personal warden, you got Park Joonggil. Lucky you. He is all sharp angles and sharper silences. He moves like a blade through fog, and when he looks at you, it’s with the clinical disgust of a man finding a roach in his otherwise pristine kitchen. Hell-spawn. That’s what his eyes say every time they land on you. A stain on his perfect record.
You learn to walk on eggshells made of glass, to make yourself smaller, quieter, better. You learn to anticipate his critiques before they leave his thin, cruel mouth. The way you hold the scythe. The way you breathe. The very fact of your existence in his orbit is, apparently, a personal affront.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re on your best behavior. You will be the most meticulous, the most invisible, the most grateful little reaper he’s ever deigned to tolerate. You are not going back. The memory of that place, the endless, shrieking dark, is a physical ache in your bones. You are not going back. Then comes this soul. A panicked, fluttering thing that catches a whisper of the living world and bolts like a startled deer. One second it’s there, the next it’s just a ripple in the air, a faint, mocking laugh on the wind. Your blood, what passes for it now, turns to ice. Your lungs seize. All you can see is Joonggil’s face. The slow, deliberate way he would dissect your failure. The verdict. Incompetent. Damaged. Hell-bound. No. You spend an eternity in a few frantic minutes, chasing shadows through the thinning veil. You can’t fail. You won’t. The desperation is a hot, frantic pulse behind your eyes.
And then you feel it. That shift in the atmosphere. A pressure drop, like before a storm. The air itself seems to curdle. He’s here. You freeze, your back to him, every muscle locked. You force your hands behind you, a pathetic attempt at hiding your trembling, at looking casual. You turn, and there he is, a monolith of judgment against the grey. “What are you doing?” His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It sinks into you, a hook in your chest. “No… nothing.” The strut is a lie. You’re a marionette with tangled strings. His head cocks, a predator’s curiosity. His eyes drop to your hidden hands. “What do you have behind your back?” He takes a step closer. Then another. The space between you feels like the edge of a cliff. You open your mouth, a pathetic, pre-rehearsed lie dying on your tongue.
His phone chimes. The sound is obscenely cheerful in the heavy silence. He pulls it out, his gaze never quite leaving you. You watch his face as he reads the screen. You don’t need to see the notice. You know. Runaway soul. Escort: You. His eyes snap to yours. They are flat. Absolutely dead. You don’t think. You just go. A violent wrench of will, a twist of your newly-granted power, and you’re gone, teleporting blindly, anywhere away from that look. But he is better. He is always better. He is there before you’ve even fully landed, his hand closing around your arm, a manacle of cold fury. He yanks you back. “What,” he says, his voice dropping to something even more terrifying, a low, intimate growl, “is going on?”
The story spills out of you. The soul’s panic, your failure, your terror. You leave out the part about fearing him, about fearing hell, but it hangs in the air between you anyway, a stench you can’t hide. When you’re done, he releases your arm. You stumble back, cradling it. He just looks at you. A long, slow inventory of your worthlessness. “You know what happens when this happens,” he says finally. His eyes are lit with something that might be satisfaction. He has you. The little hell-spawn finally tripped. He can send you back. He can be rid of the stain. “Please.” The word is ripped from you, raw and ugly. You hate the sound of it. “Please help me. I swear, this will never—I’ll do anything. It won’t happen again.”
He watches you beg. He drinks it in. Then, with a flicker of contempt, he turns his face away, dismissing you. “And why should I help you?” He starts to walk. He is leaving you. He is leaving you to your fate. You can feel the heat of hell licking at your heels. “I’ll sign it!” you scream. Your voice cracks. “I’ll sign a reaper’s guarantee of responsibility!” His neck snaps toward you. The movement is too fast, too avian. For the first time, a flicker of something else crosses his face. Not pity. Never pity. But interest. A cold, covetous gleam in his eye. He turns back, slowly, fully. He takes a step toward you. Then another. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that you can feel the chill radiating from him, until his face is inches from yours. He tilts his head, studying you like a new, particularly useful species of insect.
“A guarantee,” he repeats, the words a silken threat. He reaches out, and with one cold finger, traces the line of your jaw. It takes every ounce of your will not to flinch. “That is… an interesting offer.”
He doesn’t look at you like you’re saved. He looks at you like he just found the perfect place to drive the knife. And you know, with a sickening lurch, that you haven’t escaped him. You’ve just signed your name on the dotted line of your own undoing.
You think it's over. You think the begging, the pleading, the utter degradation of offering your very soul on a silver platter, you think that was the worst part. You are so naive. He teleports you both to his office. Not your shared workspace, not some neutral ground. His office. The walls are the color of old bone, and the air smells like paperwork and secrets. And there, on his desk, pristine and waiting, is the cotract. It wasn't conjured. It wasn't summoned. It was already there, lying in wait like a spider in the center of its web. "Sign," he says. Not a question. Not an invitation. You reach for it, your hand trembling, and his voice stops you cold.
"You know what this entails, correct?" You look up. He's watching you with that same flat, dead-eyed interest from before. A scientist observing a specimen. You swallow. "Yes, sir. I do." "Explain it to me." He gestures lazily at the paper. "What is this?" You want to scream. You want to throw the paper in his face and run. But the alternative was hell, the real hell, the one you remember in your blood is worse. So you play his game. "It's a reaper's guarantee of responsibility." He sits. Slowly. Deliberately. He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of bored authority. "And what does that mean?"
You hate him. You hate him with a purity that feels holy. But you answer. "It means... the reaper who asked for help has to do anything the reaper who is helping asks of them. Anything." His eyes never leave your face. He's cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of fear, every bead of sweat you don't actually have but somehow still produce. "Good. Very good." He signs his name with a flourish Park Joonggil, sharp and final then slides the paper across the desk toward you. "Your turn." You pause. The pen is cold in your hand. The paper waits, blank and hungry beneath your signature line. Every instinct you have is screaming. Don't. Don't. Don't.
But you have no other options. You sign. The moment the pen leaves the paper, he smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who just watched you swallow the poison he handed you, thinking it was medicine. Then he's gone a ripple in the air, a faint displacement of atoms, and you're alone in his bone-white office with your signature bleeding into the contract. You stand there for what feels like hours. Minutes. A lifetime. Then he's back. Just appears, right in front of you, and you jump like a startled animal.
"It's done," he says. "What?" Your voice is too high, too fast. "What's done? The soul—you found it? You brought it back?" He tilts his head. That predator's curiosity again. Then he moves. He rises from wherever he was standing and walks toward you. Each step a drumbeat. Each step a countdown. You back up. Your spine hits the wall. "Well," he says, and his voice is soft now, almost gentle, the way a cat's paw is soft just before the claws come out, "I might have been the one to let that soul go in the first place. When you weren't paying attention."
The words don't make sense. They can't make sense. You stare at him, your mouth opening and closing, a fish gasping on dry land. "Why," you finally manage. It comes out broken. "Why would you do that?" He stops. Inches from you now. Close enough that you can see the flecks of something dark in his otherwise empty eyes. Close enough that his breath, cold as a winter grave, ghosts across your face. "Because," he says, and he reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your skin crawl, "I needed a way for you to sign that contract."
The world tilts. You feel it the floor dropping out from under you, the walls closing in. It was a setup. It was all a setup. The runaway soul, your panic, your desperate pleading, your offer of the guarantee and he orchestrated every second of it. "You," you whisper. "You planned this."
"Of course I did." He says it like it's obvious. Like you're an idiot for not seeing it sooner. His hand moves from your hair to your chin, gripping hard enough to force you to look at him. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited for a way to make you useful? Hell-spawn, foisted on me like I'm some kind of charity worker, expected to train you, to mold you, to waste my time on something that should have been left to rot in the flames." He leans closer. His nose almost touches yours.
"And now," he breathes, "you belong to me. Anything I ask. Remember?" You can't speak. You can't move. You can't even cry. He smiles again. That same smile. The poison. The trap. The spider, finally wrapping its prize. "Welcome to the team," he says. And then he's gone again, leaving you pressed against the wall of his office, the contract still sitting on his desk, your signature still wet, and the terrible, crushing weight of what you've just done settling over you like a shroud. You are not going back to hell. You are going somewhere much, much worse.
You think the contract was the worst of it. You think signing your freedom away, watching his smile curl like smoke from a fresh lit flame and you think that was the moment you hit bottom. You don't know what bottom is yet. But you're about to learn. The next weeks are a masterclass in destruction. He keeps you close now, always hovering at your shoulder during escorts, his presence a cold burn against your back. And every mistake the ones you make, the ones you don't, the ones he manufactures in the space between one breath and the next he pounces.
"You call that a transition?" His voice cuts through the silence of a funeral procession, loud enough for everyone to hear. The other reapers glance at you, then away. Always away. "Pathetic. Even hell's rejects should manage that much." In front of everyone. Every single time. He waits until there's an audience, until the other reapers are close enough to witness your humiliation, and then he unleashes. Your grip on the scythe is wrong. Your posture is wrong. Your face is wrong, you exist wrong, you breathe wrong. He finds the fault because he is looking for it, because he has made it his mission to find it, because the contract gave him permission to own you and he intends to collect every penny of that debt.
The others learn quickly. They stop meeting your eyes. They stop sitting near you during breaks. You become a ghost among reapers, invisible and untouchable, and every night you go back to whatever corner you've claimed and you tell yourself it's still better than hell. You are lying and you are starting to know it. The last soul of the day is a quiet one, an old woman who goes peacefully, almost gratefully. You're guiding her toward the light when you hear him behind you, his voice low and casual as he tells your co-worker to wrap it up. Then his hand is on your arm. Cold. Inescapable.
His office. Again. The bone-white walls, the desk where your signature still feels fresh, the couch you've never sat on because you've never been invited. "Sit," he says. You sit. He doesn't join you. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, watching you with that same flat, cataloging gaze. The silence stretches. You learn new ways to be afraid in those seconds. "Strip." The word doesn't register at first. It hangs in the air between you, a foreign object, something that can't possibly mean what it sounds like. "What?" His eyes don't leave your face. "Strip. Now."
You're on your feet before you decide to move, fury and fear tangling into something that feels like fire. "You are insane—" You're already turning, already reaching for the thread of power that will pull you out of this room, out of his sight, out of this nightmare "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
His voice is soft. Almost kind. It stops you cold. You turn back. He's smiling.
He walks toward you, slow and easy, a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. "Unless, of course, you'd like to find yourself back in hell." He tilts his head, considering. "I hear the welcome committee misses you." Your power dies in your chest. Your hand falls to your side. He walks past you, his shoulder brushing yours and sits on the couch. The one you just vacated. He settles in, making himself comfortable, and then he looks at you.
You're standing with your back to him. You can feel his eyes on you. On your ass. On the curve of your spine. On every inch of you that he now owns. "Come on," he says, and there's amusement in his voice now, a chuckle he tries to hide behind his hand. "It's not that hard. You've done this before, surely. Stripping. Begging. Being useful." The word drips with contempt. "Or was hell all fire and no fun?" You turn.
Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt. One by one. The fabric parts, slides from your shoulders, puddles on the floor. You're wearing black lace beneath it not because you planned this, not because you wanted this, but because it was Tuesday and it was clean and now it feels like a joke the universe is playing on you. His eyes don't move from your body.
You step out of your pants. Black, matching your bra. You stand in the center of his office in nothing but lace and humiliation, and you try to cross your arms, try to cover yourself, try to hold onto some shred of dignity "Hands at your sides." The command is quiet. Absolute. Your arms fall.
He pours himself a drink. Whiskey, amber, swirling in a crystal glass. He takes a sip, and his eyes never stop moving over your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hip, the place between your thighs that you're desperately trying not to think about. He's memorizing you. Imprinting you. Filing you away in whatever dark cabinet he keeps his trophies. He leans back. Crosses his legs. Takes another sip.
The silence is a living thing. It crawls over your skin, into your lungs, behind your eyes. You can hear your own heartbeat. You can hear the ice shifting in his glass. You can hear everything and nothing and all of it is terrible. He waves his hand. A lazy gesture, like he's dismissing a servant. "Take the rest off." Your fingers don't want to move. They're numb, frozen, someone else's hands entirely. But they reach behind you anyway, because the alternative is hell, because the alternative is worse, because you signed your name on a piece of paper and now you belong to him.
The bra falls. You step out of your underwear. You stand naked in front of Park Joonggil, and he looks at you like you're a painting he's considering buying. Like you're a meal he's deciding whether to eat. Like you're nothing and everything and all of it belongs to him. "Good," he says finally. He takes another sip of his whiskey. "Now. Let's discuss what anything really means."
And you understand, with a clarity that feels like being split open, that this is only the beginning. That he will never stop. That he will find new ways to take from you, new pieces of you to claim, new humiliations to catalog and savor. That the contract wasn't the trap. The trap was ever thinking you could escape him at all.
You think you understand what it means to be owned. You think the standing, the stripping, the way his eyes crawled over your naked skin like ants over something dead you think that was the lesson. He's about to teach you the rest. He settles back against the couch, whiskey in hand, and he tells you his plans. Not all of them he's not stupid enough to show his whole hand but enough. Enough for you to understand that this wasn't about one night. This wasn't about one humiliation. This is forever. This is the rest of your existence, however long that may be, stretched out before you like a road made of glass and you're barefoot.
"And if you don't listen," he says, swirling the amber liquid, watching it catch the light, "if you fail to comply..." He looks up at you then, and his smile is soft, almost gentle. "Well. You remember hell, don't you, darling? The heat. The screaming. The way it feels when your skin burn but it just keeps burning, forever, because that's the point, isn't it? Forever." Your throat closes. He pats his lap. Uncrosses his legs. Places his drink on the table. "Come sit."
The command is casual. Friendly, even. Like he's inviting you to join him for coffee. You move. What choice do you have? Your feet carry you across the space between you, each step slower than the last, each heartbeat a small death. You reach him. You turn your back to him instinct, modesty, some pathetic attempt at preserving something and you start to lower yourself onto his lap. His hands stop you. Turn you. Arrange you like a doll.
You're straddling him now. Facing him. Your knees on either side of his thighs, your naked body inches from his clothed one, your face near enough to feel his breath. Whiskey and something underneath something dark and hungry. Your hands go to his chest. Not because you want to touch him. Because you need distance. Because if you don't push against something you'll collapse into nothing. He doesn't allow distance.
His hand closes around the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pulls you forward. His mouth crashes into yours. It's not a kiss, it's consumption. He kisses like he's starving, like you're water and he's been in the desert for years, like he wants to crawl inside you and live there. His tongue, his teeth, his breath flooding your lungs and you bite him.
Hard. You taste blood, copper and salt, and you think yes, yes, finally something, finally I hurt him back His grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. He holds you there, your teeth still in his lip, and when he finally pulls away it's slow. Deliberate. A string of saliva and blood still connects you, stretching, thinning, finally breaking. His lip is red. Split. He laughs.
It's a low sound, rumbling in his chest, and you feel it through your palms where they still press against him. He laughs, and his eyes are wild now, the flat deadness replaced by something alive and terrible. And then you feel it. Beneath you. Against you. Between your thighs.
He's hard. He's hard, and you're naked, and you're straddling him, and he's hard and you can feel every inch of him through his pants and you look down..you don't mean to, you don't, but your body betrays you and you look. He grabs your waist. Grinds you against him.
The friction is electric. Wrong. You feel yourself react..your body, that traitor, that animal and you feel yourself get wet, feel the heat pool between your legs, and he feels it too, feels the evidence of your betrayal against his straining dick. "Shit." His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher. "Fuck. Damn."
His hands leave your waist. You hear the sound of a zipper. Feel him shift beneath you. And skin. Hot skin against yours, his dick freed from his pants, pressing against you, finding you, positioning itself at your entrance. "Wait—" The word is small. Pathetic. He doesn't hear it. Doesn't want to hear it. He pushes in.
The stretch is too much. You gasp or maybe you scream, you're not sure anymore. He throws his head back, his carefully styled hair falling across his forehead, covering his eyes, making him look like someone else entirely. Someone undone. Someone feral. "Fuck." He looks down. Between you. Watches himself slide into you, out of you, into you again. Watches where you're joined, where he's taking what belongs to him now.
"This," he says, and his voice has dropped even lower, deadly and dark, "is the tightest cunt I've ever had." His hands on your waist. Gripping. Bruising. You'll have finger-shaped marks tomorrow, purple and black, souvenirs of this moment. He moves you on him, uses you, your body a thing he's operating, a tool he's finally found a use for.
"You gonna take what I'm about to give?" His voice is dark, wet, a whine wrapped in silk. He bites his lip, and the sight of it the sight of him enjoying this, enjoying you makes something in your stomach twist. He slams you down onto him. Harder. Again. His hands on your waist, controlling the rhythm, controlling you, and you can't help it, you can't stop it, your body tightens around him without permission, without thought, just pure animal response to the friction and the heat and the terrible, shameful pleasure that's building low in your belly.
You're close. God help you, you're close. "Joonggil—" He stops moving. Just stops. Looks up at you with those flat, dead eyes that are suddenly very, very alive. "You call me sir." The words are a lash. You feel them on your skin. "Sir," you breathe. "Sir, I'm—I'm cumming." Your forehead falls against his neck. You can't look at him. Can't see whatever's in his eyes while your body betrays you, while you shatter around him, while you prove everything he's ever thought about you.
He chuckles. The vibration of it travels through his chest, into yours. "Knew it," he murmurs against your ear. "Knew you liked being fucked like a little whore. Shit—I'm close—" His mouth is on your chest. Teeth, tongue, suction he's leaving marks, painting you, claiming every inch of skin he can reach. You'll wear these bruises tomorrow. You'll wear them for weeks. You'll wear them forever, probably, because nothing about Park Joonggil has ever been temporary.
"Shit, I'm cumming—take it, take it—" You feel him spill inside you. Feel his body tense and release. Feel his hands grip your waist so hard there will be fingerprints there too, purple and black, his signature on your flesh. Then it's over. He leans back. His hands leave your waist. For one horrible moment you're just perched there, on his lap, on his couch, in his office, naked and empty and utterly lost.
Then he grabs you by the hair. He yanks you back not gently, just yanks until your face is inches from his, until you're staring into those eyes that have never once looked at you like a person. "This," he says, tapping your cheek with his free hand, "is where you belong. And this—" he shifts beneath you, makes you feel him still inside you, still softening, "—is mine. This cunt is mine. Do you understand?" You nod. Or try to. His grip on your hair doesn't allow for much movement.
"Yes," you whisper. His eyes narrow. "Yes what?" The word catches in your throat. Sticks there like glass. But you swallow, and you say it, "Yes, sir." He smiles. "Good girl," he says, and the backhanded praise is worse than any insult, because it means he's pleased, and if he's pleased he'll keep you, and if he keeps you this will happen again and again and again until there's nothing left of you but a raw, trembling thing that exists only to say yes sir when he tells you what you are.
He releases your hair. You slump against him, too weak to move, too broken to care. "See?" His voice is almost gentle now. Almost kind. He strokes your back like you're a pet he's just finished training. "That wasn't so hard. You just needed someone to show you your place." You don't respond. You can't.
"And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this." The tears come then. Silent. Betraying. They slide down your cheeks and drip onto his chest, and he doesn't wipe them away, doesn't acknowledge them at all, because your tears are just more proof. More evidence. Another fault for him to witness.
"There it is," he murmurs. "Crying on my chest after I fuck you. Sweet thing." He tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it." You just sit there, naked and used and crying, while Park Joonggil strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are, what a perfect little whore, what a treasure it is to have finally broken you in.
And you…you sit there, straddling your nightmare, and you realize that this is what he wanted all along. Not just the contract. Not just your humiliation. You. All of you. Every inch. Every secret place. Every part you thought you could keep for yourself. He owns it now. He owns all of it.
when the vulnerability of missionary sex becomes too much and you go to cover your face with your hands only for him to gently grab your wrists with a single hand as he says, “don’t. please. i need to see you.”
to my fellow fanfic writers, pls remember before writing fanfic for euphoria, euphoria’s creator sam levinson has stolen the aesthetic + makeup concept and all the actors recommendations from a woman.
i’m not saying that shouldn’t write fanfics about your hyper-fixations or anything but remembering the woman who’s art has been stolen is important.
dededos
areudirty
janainaart
theartofmadeline
titsay
