What would Esteban do when in superhero world? Like full on hero or antihero darling moved by duty/desire so they dont interact much with Esteban the fundtrust baby because they dont see the appeal.
I dont actually remember if this has been answered, i think it was...
I didn’t answer this actually!
I love this AU idea because Esteban’s personality would be so funny to see paired with a hero/antihero darling
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📈 To be able to interact with them, Esteban would organize a lot of charity Galas and purposefully dedicate them to antihero/hero reader… so imagine how awkward it would be if they didn’t at least make an appearance at these events. They don’t want the citizens to think that they’re ungrateful.
📈 There, he would make speeches like “We are so lucky to have them to protect our families and loved ones, so this is why I want to do my part by raising money for hospital fundings! This dear hero of ours truly inspired me to be a better citizen.”
📈 Being a man of influence, Esteban would obviously be present at any other events where reader would be invited to, following them around everywhere like a puppy.
📈 If that doesn’t work he’d put himself in dangerous situations to impress them. For example, if villains attack a bank where he happens to be, he’ll offer himself to be the sole hostage, using his status as CEO to convince the criminals.
📈 Or he is not above paying people to fake kidnap him, just so that he gets to flirt with reader while they save his ass.
📈 If one day, his life is being threatened by a supervillain, he’ll do everything for reader to be his bodyguard while things get resolved, going as far as to get on his knees and beg.
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Raise your hand if you love a clingy drama queen!!!
atlas my beloved... he will always be #1 in my heart i love me a good robot
THAT'S MY BOY!!!! 💪💪I'm so happy he was the one to catch your attention and thank you so much for the beautiful art
It's so nice to see him in color and I love your interpretation of it ❤😭Also you were totally on point with the color of his jacket, pants and long sleeve shirt, like I 100% imagined them to be this grayish and black color (And the hip windows are just delectable 🤤)
Hey guys idk if I'ma start writing again, sorry for a sudden break. I didn't expect so many people to read my shi cuz I only wrote those when I was feeling a lil too freaky 😭😭. Anyways u tell me if I should continue writing 😛. And I had like 7 drafts from back then, 0 of them are finished lmaoo. Well since I'm here Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to my readers love y'all mwa mwa 💓💓💓
Asher declared; his tone as casual as if he were ordering takeout.
He didn’t even spare Nex more than a fleeting glance, already pulling you tighter into his lap. His arm draped over your shoulders with the ease of someone asserting ownership, his breath warm as he purred into your ear. “Iconic, terrifying, and it gives me the perfect excuse to hold my baby tight. Don’t you agree, honey?”
Your ears throbbed with heat, a telltale sign of your flustered state. His amused blue eyes drank it all in, a smirk playing on his lips as if he thrived on your bashfulness.
Nex, perched awkwardly at the far end of the couch, cleared his throat.
His bandaged fingers were fidgety as the pink haired male hunched his shoulders –making him look like a guilty child caught raiding the cookie jar.
“Uh…how about something, you know, lighter? Like Howl’s Moving Castle? Or Paddington? Even Mean Girls?” His voice wavered, hopeful but clearly trying not to let his aversion to horror bleed through too much.
Asher turned his head slowly, the deliberate movement alone enough to make Nex regret opening his mouth. His piercing gaze locked on Nex like a predator sizing up its prey.
“Seriously?” he deadpanned. “You’re afraid of a spinning head and a little green puke? What are you, five?”
“It’s not just about me!” Nex snapped, trying to sound defensive but failing miserably as he faltered under Asher’s glare. “I mean, she might not like horror too—”
“She?”
Asher’s expression darkened in an instant, his icy blue eyes narrowing. “It’s Noona* or Hyeong-sunim* to you. Pick one.”
Nex visibly shrank, his bandaged hands clutching his hoodie strings like a lifeline.
“N-Noona,” he stammered beet-red, sounding like a kid in the principal’s office. “I meant Noona might not like scary stuff either.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Asher’s sharp tone melted away as if it had never been there. A disarmingly warm smile replaced the menace as he nuzzled into your shoulder, making you jolt.
“Besides, you don’t have to look out for my girl,” he said with syrupy sweetness, directing his words at you now, “We get enough romance in real life, don’t we, baby? A little possession and head-spinning won’t hurt.”
You blinked, torn between laughing, crying, or bolting from the room altogether. But Asher’s arms locked firmly around your waist, leaving you no choice but to stay rooted in his lap, acutely aware of Nex’s twitchy discomfort.
“Fine,” Nex muttered, defeated, sinking into the couch with a sigh.
The room dimmed as the movie began, the haunting tones of its score filling the silence. You tried to focus on the screen, but Asher’s grip on you was impossible to ignore. His chin rested on your shoulder, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on your hip in a nonchalant display of possessiveness. It was maddeningly casual, yet unmistakably deliberate.
Meanwhile, Nex was visibly uncomfortable, his eyes darting everywhere but toward you and Asher. Beneath the bandages on his hands, you were certain his knuckles were white as he gripped the cushion tighter, clearly enduring the awkwardness and impending fear with as much dignity as he could muster.
For what felt like the hundredth time, you questioned how this once-postponed movie date for two had spiralled into such an absurd scene.
Your lover—who was seized by a fit of possessive jealousy, shamelessly embracing you just as you were about to honour your conscience, guilt-ridden decision to maintain a respectful distance in presence of his most cherished work buddy.
The estranged maknae—a recovering addict—who was valiantly holding onto his composure amidst a lovesick couple.
And you—your lover’s supposed ex-stalker—who had allegedly groomed him to become a temperamental beast in heat—were caught in the middle of this painfully bizarre situation.
It was almost too much to process for your fractured mind.
The guilt that had weighed heavily on your shoulders mere moments ago had evaporated, replaced by a suffocating wave of embarrassment—first-hand, second-hand, and every kind of hand possible.
You had anticipated something entirely different.
A serious conversation about Nex’s precarious situation, perhaps even a plan. Instead, Asher had swept it all aside in favour of this surreal bonding session.
What had gotten into him so suddenly? you wondered, shifting subtly in an attempt to wriggle free and occupy the open space beside your lover.
But before you could escape, Asher’s arms tightened around you, pulling you flush against him with a grip that made it clear you weren’t going anywhere.
“Relax, baby,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr against your ear. “It’s just a movie. Nothing to be afraid of.”
His tone was deceptively soothing, but the way his sly hand slipped beneath your baggy T-shirt to trace slow, deliberate patterns over your navel made your breath hitch.
You weren’t sure if his words were meant to calm you, to tease the already uncomfortable maknae—or both. Either way, the atmosphere in the room only thickened as the movie played on, the tension as palpable as the flickering light of the screen. At least The Exorcist wouldn’t be worse than your current reality.
Or so you had forgotten.
As the eerie background music built to a chilling crescendo, a sudden, heart-stopping jumpscare flashed across the screen. Nex’s timid eyes darted away instinctively, too scared to even close them, his fear of the darkness only making the terror worse. He hated being the third wheel, but his gaze flickered toward you and Asher anyway.
You were not having a great time—trembling visibly as you flinched and shrieked at every scare. At one particularly horrifying moment, you buried your face in Asher’s chest, your fists weakly pounding against his firm torso as you cursed him for putting you through such torment. “I hate you—you sadistic jerk!” you hissed, your voice muffled against his shirt.
But unlike those ‘other’ days, Asher knew not to take your words too seriously. In fact, he was chuckling softly, his smirk as insufferable as ever. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered, though his tone made it clear he wasn’t sorry at all. His large hand rubbed soothing circles on your back as he cooed blushing, “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”
The maknae’s gaze lingered for a moment longer than he intended, watching your feisty protest. He decided, grudgingly, that he’d rather endure the awkward spectacle of your lovey-dovey antics than keep his eyes on the nightmare fuel flashing across the screen. But before he could turn his head fully, Asher’s piercing blue eyes darted his way, sharp and deliberate. Nex flinched and immediately snapped his focus back to the screen, the gory scene making his stomach churn.
In his peripheral vision, the pink-haired male caught the faintest smirk curl on Asher’s lips, and then came the words. “See, baby,” Asher purred, loud enough for Nex to hear, his tone playful but unmistakably possessive. “You’ve got me to protect you, even from scary movies. A kiss would be a fair trade, don't you think?”
“Who knows, it might even help distract you—! Mmph-”
It was a shameless trap.
Nex knew Asher was trying to bait him into stealing another glance, but he resisted, sinking deeper into the couch as if to disappear as he became visibly flustered—the soft squelching sound of your lips and Asher’s drowning the eerie background score for his utterly bothered ears.
As much as it seemed like Asher was being possessive, the maknae knew it wasn’t insecurity driving him. His hyung didn’t feel threatened by him—not even a little.
This wasn’t about jealousy.
It was a message, one that Nex understood all too well.
This was Asher’s way of showing how much you meant to him. Not just as someone he loved, but as someone he would protect at all costs. And anyone foolish enough to harm you wouldn’t just deal with his wrath—they’d face something far worse.
It was both a warning and a demonstration to him, painted in smirks and subtle threats, as deliberate and unnerving as the horror film playing on the screen.
The suppressed anxiety churned in Nex’s chest, resurfacing with an unwelcome ferocity.
____
Though the memories of the day he allegedly overdosed were hazy, buried deep thanks to the sedative Asher had injected into him three days prior, the consequences were all too clear.
One high dose had proven too much for his fragile body, leaving him slipping in and out of consciousness, unable to fully grasp his surroundings or his predicament—only catching disjointed fragments of reality.
“Wow, you really did a number on yourself with that drug, didn’t you?”
Asher’s voice, faint and detached, cut through the fog in Nex’s mind. His bleary grey eyes fluttered open briefly, catching a blurred glimpse of the raven-haired male with his back turned, murmuring almost to himself. “What were you doing? Mixing it with cereal for breakfast when I wasn’t looking? Your immune system must be utterly fried up by now to react so sensitively to just one dose (of the medicine).”
The words stung, though Nex couldn’t fully process them. Asher’s tone was sharp, but his actions betrayed a troubling concern. The blue-eyed male sighed heavily as he bandaged Nex’s bruised hands, his motions uncharacteristically careful, almost absentminded.
“I guess it’s better I got to you before the Old Man shipped you off to some real facility,” Asher muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Nex realized that his hyung hadn’t noticed him stirring.
Deciding it was safer to feign unconsciousness, the pink-haired male closed his eyes again, letting his breathing remain shallow and even. Listening silently, he tried to ignore the strange twinge in his chest at Asher’s apparent care.
It was confusing, this softer side of his hyung.
Asher had always been sharp, caustic even, especially after starting to foil his drug dealings a year ago. Tough love—more like a sick joke in Nex’s eyes.
But now, with the disinfectant applied carefully, the bandages snugly wrapped, and his hyung’s hands uncharacteristically gentle, the maknae felt his long-held hatred waver.
That is, until Asher’s voice shifted, his tone as cold as ice.
“But I didn’t think you’d sink low enough to come for my girl,” he said, venom lacing every word. “Really? A few grams of narcotics are all you’re worth?”
Nex felt the shift in the air, the tension so thick it was suffocating. Asher’s hands stilled briefly before he yanked off the old bandages and threw them into the trash with unnecessary force. The maknae barely had time to brace himself before Asher’s hand snaked around his throat, gripping him with a firm, deliberate pressure.
“Should I just end things here?”
Asher’s icy blue eyes bore into him, his voice deathly calm. “Why waste my time trying to tame a snake that shares blood with that woman?”
For a terrifying moment, Nex thought this was it. But then, just as suddenly as the pressure came, it eased.
Asher let go, stepping back and scoffing to himself. “But that would make me the biggest hypocrite,” he muttered, his gaze unreadable as he began gathering the medical supplies.
Before leaving, Asher murmured, almost to himself, “Guess I’ll wait and see if you try to bite me again, Hyeong-je*.”
The door clicked shut, leaving Nex alone.
Hot tears trickled silently down his face as his watery grey eyes opened, staring up at the ceiling. His chest ached, tight with unprocessed trauma and pain, but disturbingly, a faint, bittersweet smile curled on his trembling lips.
How long had it been since Asher acknowledged their shared kinship—even to himself?
Never.
Asher had always refused to recognize their blood relation, keeping their shared secret buried from even the members—forget the rest of the world. And yet, here he was, risking that very old secret to protect a new one—someone Nex hadn’t even met properly yet.
Truly, it made him extremely curious and a bit envious to know more about you.
The person who had managed to thaw his hyung’s icy blues and unravel his twisted heart even if only a part.
Yet, his innocent desire was quickly nipped at its bud, a day before he officially met you.
____
“What do you mean, don’t ask anything personal?” Nex had furrowed his brows, clearly confused. “How am I supposed to get to know her? Or even talk to her?”
Asher, unbothered, had barely looked up from the papers spread across the desk in the guestroom. “Don’t talk, then. Speak when spoken to.”
The curt reply left Nex restless, clutching the blanket around him tightly.
Asher’s sharp blue eyes flicked to him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Too difficult for you to follow?” he added mockingly. “Want me to help by cutting out your tongue?”
“N-No thanks,” Nex stammered, hating how easily Asher’s gaze could unnerve him. Gathering his courage, he pressed on. “Um..what if I am asked a question instead?”
For the first time, Asher’s gaze softened, a faint chuckle escaping him.
Returning his attention to the papers, he said casually, “My baby won’t. And if she does, you’ll know what to say. Just be how you usually are around others.”
The vagueness of the answer left Nex uneasy. He realized, with a sinking heart, that while Asher had dipped into their past connection to keep him in check, it was clear he wouldn’t let Nex use it to his advantage.
It was all about you.
Everything Asher was doing was for your sake alone.
Nex’s chest burned with frustration, bitterness curling around his heart like smoke.
“Why should I listen to you?” Nex finally asked, his voice low and defiant, his grey eyes hard. “You need me. I don’t.”
Cold amusement flickered in Asher’s icy blue eyes as he scoffed, studying Nex’s face with a mix of disbelief and disdain. Rising from his chair, he walked toward the bed, making the pink-haired maknae flinch and clutch the blanket closer instinctively. However, instead of making a move against him, Asher simply dropped a stack of papers onto the bed in front of Nex’s wide, timid eyes.
“Are you sure about that?” Asher arched a brow, his gaze sharp as he gestured for the youngest to look at the scattered documents.
Confusion shifted to shock as Nex scanned the papers. His breath hitched at the sight of detailed medical reports—blood tests, liver and kidney function results—with critical points highlighted in bold red. Interspersed among the reports were photos—clear portraits of familiar faces, grainy CCTV stills, and unsettling images Nex could already tell held damning evidence.
“I assume you can figure these out on your own,” Asher remarked coldly, gathering the medical reports and shoving them closer to Nex with deliberate force. “If not, let me summarize it for you.”
He pinched his fingers together, narrowing the space between them as he smirked. “You’re about this close to a full-blown liver failure. Which, in simpler terms, puts you this close to having one foot in the grave.”
Nex stared at the reports in silence, his mouth dry, unable to form a single word. His grey eyes shifted hesitantly toward Asher, who rolled his own in mock exasperation.
“What? Already losing me?” Asher sneered, the mockery in his tone biting. “And here I thought the withdrawals clearing up might help you think a little better. But hey, what do I know? It’s not like I can pump you with another dose of the sedative without sending you straight into a coma. So, bear with it, will you?”
The frustration in Asher’s voice was palpable, though it wasn’t entirely directed at Nex.
Beneath his cold exterior, an unfamiliar mix of emotions churned—regret, disappointment, and even… fear?
It wasn’t like him to care for the maknae. Contempt and indifference had always been his go-to emotions. Yet, seeing the results of Nex’s self-destruction had shaken something in him.
Not that he’d ever let it show.
The pragmatic part of Asher’s mind urged him to maintain control, to suppress the slivers of humanity threatening to surface. Perhaps, he would have to take the classic route of manipulation and blackmailing without much assistance from the medicine.
There could still be a use of a knight, even if wounded.
Meanwhile, Nex felt hot tears sting his eyes, the overwhelming weight of mortality pressing down on him. The reports painted a picture he couldn’t ignore—his recklessness had brought him to the brink. Even the faintest tremors in his hands reminded him of his withdrawal episodes, each one a stark reminder of how fragile he had become. Before he could stop himself, he reached out, his trembling fingers clutching the corner of Asher’s sleeve.
“Am I really going to die, hyung?” Nex’s voice was raw, his grey eyes glassy with desperation as tears rolled down his pale cheeks. “Please… please save me.”
For a moment, Asher’s cold mask cracked, his icy blue eyes flickering with something unnameable. Vulnerability from Nex wasn’t something he had expected, and for the briefest second, he almost wavered.
Almost.
Shrugging off Nex’s hand with practiced indifference, Asher scoffed, turning his attention back to the papers. “Are you dumb? I said close to dying—not actually dead.”
Nex flinched at the harsh dismissal, hurriedly wiping his tears and cursing himself for breaking down in front of Asher. Of all people, his hyung was the last person he wanted to see his weakness, especially when the latter seemed to revel in it. Still, there was no reprieve.
Asher wasn’t finished driving his point home.
“Now, if your own body shutting down isn’t enough to scare you,” Asher began, his tone sharp, “let me introduce you to the people who would make you wish you were dead.”
He gestured toward the photos of known drug dealers and shadowy figures. “Kingpin, Dragon Kim, Ghost Lee—ring a bell?” Asher sneered. “These are the lovely individuals—the big shots, you had been dealing with. Money in exchange for your stash. Did you honestly think these people played fair? Took me some time, but I recovered the call logs and texts they kept tucked away for insurance. One of them was already on his way to sell everything to the paparazzi before Baek intercepted him. Careless doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
Nex’s gaze dropped, his fingers gripping the blanket tightly as shame bubbled beneath the surface. Asher, of course, wasn’t done.
“And this,” Asher continued, pointing to the CCTV stills. “A waitress from the club sipping one of your ‘special’ drinks. Here? That’s one of our fans sneaking into your little party. And this—,” he said with a particularly cutting scoff, flipping over a photo, “—is the masterpiece. You. Passed out in your own puke and sweat. Truly, a sight to behold.”
The image was a slap in the face. Nex stared at it, the reality of his actions crashing down on him like a tidal wave. He couldn’t decide which was worse—the incriminating evidence or the icy disdain in Asher’s voice.
“You really think you don’t need me?” Asher’s voice cut through Nex’s spiralling thoughts, low and dangerous. “Keep telling yourself that, kid.”
____
As the end credits rolled, the maknae sat several shades paler, haunted by both the horror movie and flashbacks. Meanwhile, you were flushed and light-headed, having spent the entire runtime making out with Asher. The culprit himself remained full of energy, his lips still trailing over your heated neck with unrelenting passion.
You found Asher’s stamina bafflingly inconsistent.
One moment, he’d be gasping for air after begging you for the sweet torture of your tongue. The next, he’d be ravenously devouring you—over and over—until you were left in a haze of lust and exhaustion.
It had reached a point where even Nex’s awkward, wide-eyed front-row seat to your steamy session barely registered in your mind. As Asher had whispered teasingly in your ear, the maknae was the “uninvited guest” in your home, not the other way around.
So, there was no reason to be polite.
A loud growl from your stomach broke the spell, snapping you out of the trance that even Nex’s wary, pink-haired presence in your peripheral vision couldn’t shatter earlier.
Embarrassed, you bit your lip, feeling heat rush to your cheeks as Asher chuckled softly.
He pulled back, withdrawing his arms from around your waist with deliberate slowness. His proud, mischievous blue eyes met yours, twinkling with delight as he noticed the clear disappointment written all over your face.
“Looks like someone’s hungry for actual food,” he purred, running his thumb teasingly over your bottom lip before planting a chaste kiss at the corner of your mouth. His lips lingered there, savouring the undeniable hunger for him in your gaze.
Stalker, was it?
Asher would make sure you wore that faux self-accusation as a badge of pride. There was no way he’d let you sink into self-loathing when every thought you had could—and should—be consumed by him instead.
“Nex,” Asher called out, his voice carrying just enough weight to catch the maknae’s attention. His blue eyes flicked toward him as he added, “I heard you make a killer grilled cheese and brownies.”
“I do?” Nex blinked, clearly taken aback by the extent of Asher’s secret info on him. He fidgeted with the strings of his hoodie before stammering, “I-I mean, yeah…”
Asher smiled faintly, turning back to you as he casually smoothed your slightly messy hair with his fingers. “Great. I think we have everything we need, so why don’t you show me how it’s done?”
“S-Sure,” Nex replied quickly, scrambling to his feet and making a beeline for the kitchen. It was clear he was desperate for the excuse to escape his third-wheel predicament, no matter the cost.
Asher gently eased you onto the couch before standing, stretching lazily as he prepared to follow the maknae.
But before he could leave, you cupped his face, your voice low and tinged with concern as you whispered, “I know it’s not my place, but… don’t bully him too much. He already seems shaken.”
For a fleeting moment, Asher’s sharp blue eyes softened in surprise. A faint blush crept across his face, but it didn’t last. With a sly smirk, he caught your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm—a lingering, wet kiss that left you flustered and breathless.
“Fine,” he murmured, his lips curling into a devilish grin. “But I don’t like it when you’re thinking about another man while I’m right in front of you.”
With that, he licked his lips and strode toward the kitchen, leaving you a blushing mess on the couch—completely alone with your racing thoughts.
HELLOOO! I just want to say that I LOVE your work and writing. I stumbled on your page and I'm SO GLAD I did!!! I hope you Iike the drawings I made of Atlas, I love him so much!!♡♡ I hope I did him justice :3
Like it?? I LOVE IT!!!! I literally got cuteness overload from your art ❤️❤️❤️ and you 👏🏻without👏🏻a👏🏻 doubt👏🏻 did him justice.
I just adore the way you drew his eyelashes, like you perfectly capture the vibe it's supposed to give off. And the little expressions you gave Atlas!!! I want to kiss his face all over because of how freaking beautiful you made him. I am foaming at the mouth right now. (also the little Altas chibi must be protected at all cost)
Thank you so so much for sending this in! I can’t explain how happy and honor I feel that you took the time to draw my little guy🥺
"Welcome to another episode of Guilty Files, the true crime podcast," a smooth, steady voice resonates from the speakers, breaking the quiet of the cabin. "I’m Liza Lee, and today, we’re diving into the twisted world of a once-revered artist whose obsession blurred the line between inspiration and imprisonment. Picture a cramped underground cell, buried deep where not a trace of daylight can reach..."
𝕋he words rolled over you as you popped another piece of chocolate into your mouth, the crinkling of the golden wrapper slicing through the eerie silence of the cabin. In your other hand, you gripped your tablet, eyes darting between the podcast on the smart TV across the room and the game on your screen. You tapped, swiped, keeping your character alive in a never-ending digital fight, but your attention waned, drifting back to the story Liza Lee was telling.
"Concrete walls press in like silent witnesses, their cold, gray expanse offering no comfort, no reprieve—only an endless reminder of isolation."
The imagery was haunting, yet somehow familiar. You shifted under the plush, oversized blanket draped over you. The half-crocheted flower bouquet beside you slipped down the side of the bed, one of the chunky needles clattering to the soft rug below, muffled by its thick fibers.
In this cabin, you had everything you could ever want. Soft blankets, a bed that felt like clouds, endless books, music, and streaming—all set up by the person who insisted you stay here. Asher, your lover. Or was he your captor? If you were being honest, the lines had blurred a while ago. He’d kept you close, away from your old life, the outside world fading like a dream. But he treated you so preciously, as though you were something rare, something he couldn’t bear to lose.
"But here’s the unsettling part—why was she taken? Was this about money? A ransom demand? Or perhaps the twisted satisfaction of a serial abductor?"
The voice from the podcast tugged your focus back, pulling you into the story of Mary Gomez, trapped in an underground cell. Your brows knit together as you listened. Mary had been taken, not for money or revenge, but because of an artist’s obsession. He saw something in her, something he needed to capture, even if it meant keeping her caged like a bird with clipped wings.
You tried to concentrate on your game, fingers dancing over the screen, but even that failed to hold your interest for long. In this luxurious prison of yours, you had come to know restlessness intimately.
However, it wasn’t as stark as Mary’s despairing cell. Here, there were warm fires, soft lights, books, snacks... every comfort, every amenity you could want. And he visited often, bringing you gifts, spending hours talking with you, looking at you as if you’re something exquisite, something he can never get enough of.
"Imagine your shock when I tell you that her captor wasn’t after money, vengeance, or some misguided obsession with power. No, the reason she was confined, cut off from the world, was far more chilling."
Your mind flitted to your lover, his face flashing in your thoughts—his deep gaze, that intense stare that seemed to see through to your core. You weren’t locked in here, not really; you could leave if you chose.
But whenever the thought crossed your mind, his face, his words, his touch all came back to you, lingering like the faintest, sweetest perfume, coaxing you to stay.
This wasn’t a prison, you tell yourself. Not like Mary’s.
And yet...
"Her captor was none other than Ethan Hawthorne, the celebrated artist whose portraits once graced galleries worldwide. And his only motive? She refused to be his muse."
Liza’s voice felt sharp, unnervingly close to your situation, though you quickly shook off the thought.
Your blanket slipped further, leaving your shoulders cold, so you drew it back up, cocooning yourself in its softness. You glanced around the cabin, absorbing the contrast—the wide windows that open to endless forests, the soft, golden lights casting a cozy glow, the warmth that lingered in the air.
But beneath the comfort was an echo of something else.
How different, really, was your situation from Mary’s?
You shifted in bed, restless, caught between enjoying the comfort around you and feeling trapped by it. The podcast droned on, the story growing darker.
"Ethan, obsessed with preserving her raw, unyielding spirit, imprisoned her in his hidden studio, using her as his living, breathing canvas. With every stroke of his brush, he drew from her the emotions she tried so hard to hide—hope, despair, defiance, and, eventually, resignation."
A shiver ran through you. The parallel wasn’t lost on you. You had felt his eyes on you just like that, watching, waiting, always intent, as if he was trying to absorb every nuance, every fleeting emotion. But he wasn’t a mad painter, you tell yourself. You weren’t his muse.
Yet here you were, tucked away from the world, drawn deeper into his orbit, just as Mary was.
"Then came Ethan’s final piece, hauntingly titled Peace. The painting was his last, capturing Mary in a moment of final, tragic release—her last act of agency."
Your finger paused mid-swipe, frozen above the screen. You think of Mary’s tragic end, of the way she lost herself to him, bit by bit, until there was nothing left. And how Ethan, too, met his end shortly after. Your heart raced, and for the first time, you wondered what your lover might do if you ever tried to leave, if you ever finally grew tired of his quiet, smothering devotion.
"This is the story we’ll unravel today, piece by piece, exploring the mind of a madman and the victim who became his tragic masterpiece."
The podcast hummed on, filling the room with its haunting tones, but you barely cared to listen anymore.
Minutes blurred into hours as the voice from Guilty Files looped again and again due to the auto-reply setting – like a haunting lullaby as the night deepened and stretched into dawn.
You couldn’t remember when exactly you stopped feeling afraid, when the days of forcing yourself to stay awake, tense and watchful of his every move, faded into a quiet, almost comforting vigilance.
Your body hardly held up against the sleep deprivation anymore—the growing dark circles beneath your eyes, a permanent reminder of the restless nights.
A half-smile tugged at your lips as you realized how things have changed.
You once stayed awake out of sheer instinct to protect yourself, to be alert in case you needed to run or fight. Now, it was almost the opposite. Without him here, sleep barely found you. Nights felt endless, stretching on with a kind of hollow ache in his absence.
You shook your head with a soft chuckle, wondering how those intense feelings of repulsion, resentment, and distrust had morphed over time.
You hadn’t erased them from your memory—no, the past lingered somewhere in your mind like a hazy bruise, its details blurry, softened by months of peace. But now, those feelings felt foreign, detached from who you had become.
It should feel wrong, this quiet dependency.
But instead, there was a numbness, a void that only grew the longer you were alone.
Without him, hours slipped by, each minute swallowed up by the white noise in your mind. The days bled together, your once-sharp memories of the outside world fading with each passing sunrise.
You shifted on the bed, feeling a strange pull in your chest, something close to yearning.
He had been the only person you had seen, touched, spoken to for over a year then.
The only one whose warmth had brushed against your skin, whose heartbeat you had felt under your fingertips, whose gaze had persisted on you like a steady, consuming flame. His scent lingered; faint but intoxicating, grounding you even in his absence.
His azure eyes could pierce through you, could see you in a way no one else ever had. And despite the circumstances – despite everything, the thought of his presence was enough to quiet your mind.
He was your lifeline, you realized.
But still, a flicker of doubt remained, persistent and insidious. A small voice whispered from some dark corner of your mind, wondering if, one day, you would end up like Mary and Ethan. If their story—so far removed, yet so disturbingly familiar—might someday become your own. The thought clawed at you, fed your anxiety, a spiraling threat you couldn’t shake. You closed your eyes, the intrusive thoughts circling, until—
A familiar voice, low and steady, broke through the fog.
“You’re still awake?”
You turn, eyes wide and heart pounding, as his silhouette fills the doorway. He was here. Just the sound of his voice pulled you back to yourself, the steady beat of his presence grounding you.
You remain frozen, eyes fixed on the partially open door, waiting for him to step into the room. It had been nearly two weeks since you had last seen him, and by then, you weren’t sure if it was just another trick your mind was playing to keep you company. Normally, you would have leapt up, rushing to the door to greet him, craving his presence like a lovesick puppy. But that night, fatigue held you down, a heaviness that stilled even your reflexes.
The podcast still played softly in the background, its dark tale echoing through the room for him to hear. The voice of the host was sharp, unforgiving as it detailed the spiral of obsession and control. For a brief moment, you considered turning off the TV, dousing the flames before they ignited something. But the small voice in your head urged you to let it play. You weren’t forbidden from watching what you wanted—but the choice of a story that cut so close to your reality would undoubtedly provoke him. And that night, some reckless part of you wanted that.
It had been a long time since you’d felt the fire of rebellion. These days, your resistance had dulled, your heart no longer set on escape. But a strange desire lingered to test his patience, to push him and see what might lie beyond that endless restraint he showed you. If he could shatter into the darker version of himself that you had glimpsed once, if he could give you a reason to feel that old, familiar defiance… maybe then you’d feel the spark to resist, to remember the drive to escape.
You finally heard his footsteps from the dim hallway, and then he was there – standing at the edge of the bedroom, his gaze locked on the TV screen.
He looked… different. The warmth that usually softened his features was gone; his face was unreadable, lips pressed tight, eyes focused intently on the flickering screen. In the pale glow of the TV, he looked cold, a shadow of the man you’d caught a rare glimpse of when he was with his manager. Mr. Baek was his name, you remembered.
But then, his expression shifted. His shoulders tensed, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, seeming to struggle against something unsaid. His azure eyes met yours, and for one wild, exhilarating moment, you braced yourself, expecting the crack of anger, the explosion of emotion you had tried to provoke. But instead, his gaze wasn’t clouded with betrayal or fury—it was softened, tingling with something like… worry.
A pang of frustration twisted within you, and you felt yourself frowning slightly. Every time you tried to defy him, to lash out or make him question you, it would be always the same.
Rather than reacting with the anger you expected, he looked at you with concern, as if worried you might have accidentally hurt yourself in the process. Your resistance had become something almost… childish, a temper tantrum to him, and he was the unshakable adult, the one who only wanted to make sure you were safe.
You were caught between loathing and surrender when he finally walked toward you, his expression softening further with each step. He reached the bed, his hands warm and steady as they brushed gently against your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch melted something deep within you, that stubborn knot of defiance uncoiling despite your best efforts.
“Are you mad at me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, raw and vulnerable. His eyes searched yours with a quiet, heartbreaking sincerity, like he was on the edge of breaking himself.
You opened your mouth to say something sharp, something that might salvage a piece of your independence, but the words catch in your throat.
“No,” you said instead, your voice small, subdued. You looked away, guilt creeping in despite yourself, a feeling that maybe letting the podcast play had been a step too far.
Maybe you had miscalculated the game, and were, instead of the satisfaction of resistance, were left with a hollow ache in your chest.
He leaned down, his lips brushing your forehead with a tenderness that nearly let you loose. “I’m sorry, baby. I kept you waiting for too long this time, didn’t I?”
The question hung between you, heavy and painfully intimate. You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed downward, hoping he wouldn’t see the storm of emotions threatening to break through. Your fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, grounding you, as you struggled against the pull of vulnerability he drew from you so effortlessly. In your silence, he lingered, his thumb brushing over your aching lips, a gentle reminder of the hold he had over you.
And as the light outside began to creep in, you couldn’t help but wonder if there was any part of you left that could still muster the will to leave.
watch out for a mermaid drop some time eventually... :3
on a side note when two people are just so toxic and they're so perfect for each other be like:
warning: dom reader, sub yandere, sadistic reader, masochistic yandere sub, your yandere is a fucking brat, jealousy jealousy, minors DNI pls
You bristle in anger. Your yandere lays beneath you, a red handprint stamped on his cheek. You can see that cheeky motherfucker choke back a grin.
Another day and you see him walking with another girl to pick you up from your classes. Sure, he lights up immediately when he sees you and dashes to you like a dog, leaving the girl in the dust. But why does that matter? Every day, it's a new girl thinking that they can take what's yours. Your rightful belonging.
"You think this is funny?" you mutter, eyes lidded and your nails grazing his Adam's apple. He gulps and dares to flash another charming smile at you. Your hand wraps itself around his throat.
"I love it when you're jealous..." he moans, the bulge in his pants beneath you growing.
Your grip tightens and he sucks in his breath.
"Hah... you're doing this on purpose," you seethe, pressing harder on his Adam's apple. He groans, the corner of his mouth twitching upward happily.
You watch as he clenches his fists to keep his arms to his side. So much restraint, yet he still likes to keep flies around him. You lean down, your lips curling into a sneer.
"Fine. Let's play this your way."
You bring your knee up and abruptly drop it on the tent in his pants. He coughs, the air knocked out of him, but that dangerous glimmer in his eyes tells you everything you need to know. You keep your knee there, kneading on it. Harder, then softer, and with every motion, he moans and groans like a bitch in heat.
"Fucking bitch," you spit. You strike his face again. Then you grab him by his hair and lift his head to face you. His hooded gaze stares straight into yours, his face red and his breath heaving.
"I love you," he wheezes, cheek bleeding from your nail scratching him.
You ignore him. "And what if I walk around with a new man in my arms every day, hm? Act like a little whore for the men around me. Wouldn't you like that?" you goad, patting his unharmed cheek with your other hand. You're sat neatly on his abdomen, and you can feel it stiffen below you.
A shadow looms over his loving gaze, his smile becoming almost menacing.
"I've heard that I look great in orange, [Y/N]."
You laugh, dropping his head.
"That's a good boy," you praise, petting his head while crushing his cock with your knee. He throws his head back, eyes rolling up as he cums with a loud whine.
You do enjoy torturing your little toy, after all.
pleaseeee give me more human bloodbag yan x vampire reader :(( i love their angst
i was gonna post this yesterday but i fell asleep before i pressed post anyway
i'm glad you enjoy it!! i wasn't sure how many people would like angst with their smut but it's one of my favorite flavors >:3
Like Dust (Sub!Bloodbag!Human!Yandere x Vampire!Reader)
more works featuring Dion: Dion Introduction, Wild Roses and Hawthorns
warning: nsfw, masturbation, messy feelings, minors DNI pls
Dion's day proceeds as normal. He greets you and the sun early in the morning, pushing the curtains aside and allowing the rays of sunshine to fall upon your form. When you awaken, every brush of his skin on your bare skin lingers for more than a second. He dresses you and you leave him for the remainder of the day.
When you are gone, he stands in your room for minutes. Minutes that turn into hours, and then he's suddenly on your sheets, his cheek pressing onto the silk of your pillowcase. Your pillow smells just like the locks of your hair he dreams of placing gentle kisses onto. He closes his eyes and inhales, your warm scent wrapping itself around him.
When he opens his eyes a second later, his breath shakes, and his hand trembles. His fingers trace the lace on your pillowcase, eyes lidded and pondering. If he were another vampire, perhaps you would take him along with you on all your trips. No, but if he were another vampire, you wouldn't feast on him as you do now.
He closes his eyes again, hand trailing down to his stomach, and then a little more. As his hand lazily sneaks its way beneath his waistband, he stifles a soft moan. Perhaps it is because he is surrounded by everything that belongs to you, but when he blinks, he sees a hazy blur that resembles your silhouette.
Dropping his free hand to cover his eyes, he opens his mouth and lets out an unfiltered cackle. Oh, how pitiful he is... like a lonely rabbit abandoned by its owner, hallucinating the presence of its master. He grabs his member with his hand, gripping it tightly.
At this moment, he can't help but let himself imagine the unforgivable. The thought that, in this very room, it could be you and him in this bed instead of him alone, and your hands on him instead of his own. What would your touch feel like? Maybe you'd be gentle with him, a graceful smile on your countenance as you bring him to the pinnacle of his pleasure. Or maybe you'd be like a blessing from the hells, skillfully bringing him to the edge only to push him back into his abyss of yearning and endless wanting.
His hand begins to move before he is conscious of it. It strokes lightly up his length first and he chokes back a licentious groan. He is blinking and in every empty moment, he forms you in his mind. His hand is your hand, and suddenly it's you that is caressing him so harshly, so softly.
"Ngh... Ah..." he whimpers, as the pace of his hand quickens in his underwear.
You are there, ever so clear, your cold demeanor clashing with the ghost of a loving smile dancing on your lips. You're so cruel; he knows that you do not hate him, so why do you act so distant? He can convince you that what he feels isn't a byproduct of some mystical vampiric bonding. So please, just give him a chance to prove to you that he is full and genuine in his emotions for you. If you'd let him, he would bring all that is golden to your feet. He would eliminate all silver in the world for a simple, fleeting glance of acknowledgment.
His hips buck into his hand and he gasps, saliva pooling on your pillowcase and precum leaking onto your pristine sheets. He pauses only for a moment and then giggles escape his throat. He wishes you were here to admonish him for his greediness. Perhaps you would give him a slap to his cheek, letting it blossom in red, and then bite him to punish him for his wrongdoings. Just the thought has him whining.
In a swift movement motivated by desperation, he foregoes his pants and presses his bare cock against the cotton of your bedding. This bed has touched your bare skin; it has enveloped your vessel with its meager softness. He clutches the sheets in his hand, bringing them to his nose as he grinds against them.
Dion moans, his hips uncontrollable and his will unwavering. Your name slips out his mouth several times, but he doesn't correct himself. In this room, there is only him and your presence. When he moans your name, he dedicates every syllable to you, his eternal master. He thrusts into the sheets, his mind dreamily trailing to the thought of being wrapped in your warmth. He doesn't dare to explore the possibility for too long, however, because he loves you too dearly to bastardize the vision of you. But he can't help himself to just imagine... imagine for just another second what it would be like if you were caressing him with your body. If, instead of pleading for you, his skin can talk to your skin, and your mouths can kiss and bite in unison.
The air is thick with the scent of his sweat and your natural perfume, and he's staining the sheets with his audacity. With every precise thrust, he begs for you to return. Should you catch him at this very moment, you would surely be livid. And that anger is what he wishes to embrace with his naked form; every bruise, every puncture will be another trophy on his battle-worn body.
His breath hitches as he feels a familiar rush from the base of his cock rising to meet the tip. His nails dig into your bedsheets and his back arches. Closing his eyes, savoring the moment, he releases onto your pillow. He's shaking and quivering, bringing the pillow closer to softly grind onto it as he rides his climax out. He can only think of you, you, you, you. Your scent and his fluids mixing on the pillow, your sheets sullied by his immodesty, your eyes piercing into his guilty appearance.
And as though he were prophetic, he hears your footsteps outside your room, and the doorknob twists.
back to the kinktober grind, adonis and sea spirit are next on my to do list tho
