#non-otome-writings

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated

The LADS kitchen AU

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7700ish words. An AU (check the link for my initial ramble) where you suddenly find yourself working as a chef alongside the LIs from LADS. Non MC! Reader. Heavy inspiration from The Bear (the series). Anything can happen in this kitchen, so I’m marking this as an 18+ series—just to be safe. This chapter includes: banter, fluff, drama, stress, and flirting coming at you from all directions. Potential harem drama? The heat is on, peepz, and we’re just getting started!

Tags: @gavin3469

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six , chapter seven, chapter eight

Entrée | Pilot

“Behind! Corner! Hot pan!—Chef, the risotto—”

The kitchen is alive. Screaming, sizzling, blistering alive. Steam curls up from every pan, mixing with the staccato beat of knives and the shout of orders as the Friday dinner service slams into full throttle. The ticket printer hasn’t stopped squealing since 5:57 PM. Now it’s past 6:30, and the air is thick with garlic, heat, and suppressed rage.

You’re locked in on sauté—flames licking your wrists, sweat sliding down your spine. Your risotto’s clinging too hard to the pan, the duck breast needs one more minute, and someone moved your goddamn ladle again.

“Two risottos—truffle on one, mushroom pulled from the other, one duck rare, fire it now,” Caleb calls from expo, voice like tempered steel. The kind of voice people move for without question.

Meanwhile, from pastry, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Puh-lease, someone get this plate out of my sight before I commit artistic homicide,” Rafayel croons, holding up a dessert that looks more like sculpture than food. He’s already halfway draped across his workstation like a model mid-photoshoot.

“You’re not plating anything until it’s on a ticket,” Zayne says, not even looking up.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were in charge of my inspiration,” Rafayel purrs, eyes gleaming as he turns to you. “What do you think, Flame? Should I plate with edible flowers or the blood of my enemies?”

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “Try plating on time.”

Rafayel gasps, full offense. “You wound me.”

“You wound my sanity.”

A beat. Then you actually laugh—shaky, stressed, but real.

Rafayel winks at you. Zayne sighs and returns to his tickets like nothing happened.

Across the kitchen, Xavier appears beside you like a silent blessing. He slides a bowl of diced shallots next to your elbow, then disappears again, back into the whirl of motion—organizing the fridge, grabbing fresh herbs, restacking the clean pans. He doesn’t speak unless necessary. Doesn’t cook, thank god. But the second you need something, he’s already holding it.

You murmur, “Thanks,” but he’s already moving again.

And then—Caleb’s there.

His presence brushes your back like static—always too close, always too calm. “You’re burning your sauce,” he says, voice pitched low just for you.

You clench your jaw. “I’m not.”

He steps closer, hand brushing yours as he takes the handle. His fingers move with infuriating grace—just a subtle shift of the heat, a flick of the wrist, and the sauce settles.

His arm brushes yours. His breath ghosts against your cheek. You can feel him smirking without even looking.

“Careful, chef,” he says. “Pride doesn’t plate well.”

You shoulder him—not hard, but enough.

“Neither does micromanaging.”

His voice drops, warm and smug. “If you want me to stop watching…” He leans just close enough for you to feel it. “Stop being so interesting to watch.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Back to the pass, calling out new orders like nothing happened.

You want to hurl the sauté pan at his head. Or drag him into the walk-in and slam the door behind you.

You haven’t decided yet.

“Chef,” Xavier says gently, pointing at the pan.

You snap back into motion.

“Five-top incoming,” Caleb calls.

A full table—five guests, five entrées, five chances to mess it up. You hear the bell ring. Another ticket prints. And then—

The back door swings open.

The entire kitchen tenses.

Sylus.

Pressed shirt, open collar, no apron. Clean shoes. Cool air follows him in, like he’s above the heat. He surveys the room, eyes drifting past the boiling pots, the flames, the staff running on fumes. When he lands on you, he lingers.

“Smells… intense,” he says with a small, amused smile. “Like ambition. And panic.”

“Out of the kitchen,” Caleb says without turning.

Sylus walks in anyway. Straight past the flames, toward the shelf of wine bottles. He picks one up. Sniffs. Frowns. He opens a drawer—your drawer, the one with the backup wine list—and pulls out a slim black leather notebook.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He doesn’t look up. “Fixing the mistake someone made by serving the Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris with duck confit.”

“Who even pairs the wine here?” Rafayel asks, licking sugar from his knuckles.

No answer.

Sylus smiles faintly and slips the notebook back. You catch a glimpse of neat handwriting. You’ve seen it before—on the wine map pinned to the walk-in, the one everyone quietly agrees is weirdly perfect.

No one ever said who wrote it.

Sylus pours himself a half-glass of something expensive—definitely not meant for staff—and takes a small sip, eyes closing in faint approval.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says to no one in particular. Then, with a final glance toward you: “Let me know if anyone wants to learn how to taste properly.”

And then he’s gone. Smooth. Untouchable.

Leaving behind a sudden silence that feels like a storm just passed through.

Caleb exhales through his nose.

Zayne mutters something about poisoning the wine.

Rafayel fans himself dramatically.

And you?

You pick up your pan. Xavier slides in beside you without a word, sets down a pat of butter and a fresh sprig of rosemary at your station—already prepped, already perfect. He’s gone again before the heat even rises. Everything you need is in place.

Now it’s just you, the fire, and the five who know how to burn beside you.

——————————————————————————

It’s past midnight.

You’re perched on an overturned milk crate near the deep sink, your back pressed against cold steel. One boot taps softly against the tile, the rhythm inconsistent—residual adrenaline bleeding out through movement. In your hand, a plastic deli container filled halfway with cheap red wine. It’s warm. You don’t care.

Across from you, the remnants of staff dinner: a tray of sad, over-salted fries, scattered with a few slumped sprigs of rosemary someone got fancy with. Grease pooled at the edges. Nobody’s throwing it out. It’s communal now.

Leaning against the prep table, arms folded, is Zayne. Shirt sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing old burn scars, healed nicks, the quiet story of a man who works with his hands and doesn’t complain. He hasn’t touched the wine. Hasn’t sat down. He watches the room like it might get up and move again.

“You missed a fold on the duck,” he says without looking directly at you. His eyes stay focused on the tray of fries, like he’s just stating fact.

You let out a soft scoff. “You’re seriously giving me notes after midnight?”

He shrugs. One shoulder, subtle. “If you’re awake, you’re learning.”

The stainless lowboy fridges clack slightly as Rafayel drapes himself over them like they’re his fainting couch. He’s half-melted against the surface, one leg kicked up, the toe of his shoe idly circling in the air. There’s a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He doesn’t care.

“Puh-lease, could we not do the critique hour? I’m emotionally brittle and overworked. I need to be coddled.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “No one coddles you.”

Rafayel flicks a cold fry into his mouth, chewing slowly, then points the next one at Zayne like it’s a wand. “You coddle me. In your cold, clinical way. Admit it.”

“I’ve never coddled anything in my life.”

“Tragic,” Raf says, mournful. “Explains so much...”

You let the grin spread before you stop it. It’s crooked, half-buried behind the rim of your ad hoc drinking glass. The tension in your shoulders starts to melt, fraction by fraction.

Against the wall, a quiet shift of movement—Xavier, sitting on a stack of flour sacks like it’s a throne made of clouds. His back’s slouched against the wall, knees up, arms resting on them. He looks half-asleep, but you know better. His eyes track every flicker of motion in the room.

He reaches into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a hard candy wrapped in glossy plastic. He peels it slowly, the crinkle unusually loud in the quiet.

“You want one?” he asks, voice gentle as always.

You glance at him. His hand is open, the candy resting in the center of his palm like an offering.

You take it. It’s stupid sweet. Artificial cherry. A kid’s candy in an adult’s world. Still, it makes the wine taste better.

Across the room, Caleb finally moves.

He’s been standing—always the last to drop his guard. His black jacket is still on, sleeves pushed up, the collar stained with the sweat and heat of ten hours behind the pass. He lowers himself slowly onto an empty stool, spine straight, arms braced on his knees.

His expression doesn’t change. But the way he exhales, long and slow, says enough.

“Good service,” he says, voice low and even. “No one dropped. No one quit.”

“Low bar,” you mutter, taking another sip.

Caleb’s mouth twitches. The almost-smile lives in his eyes for a second before it disappears again. “Barely still counts.”

A creak.

The back door swings open on squeaky hinges.

Every head turns.

Sylus.

He steps inside like the air belongs to him, sleeves rolled just once at the forearms. No sweat. No mess. No apron. Just that quiet calm, the smell of leather and wine and some expensive cologne none of you can place but all of you recognize. He carries a bottle of something dark under one arm.

He surveys the room slowly, his gaze moving from Zayne to Rafayel to you—pausing, slightly, when it lands on you—then finally Caleb.

“You’re all still alive,” he says, tone dry but almost… pleased. “Charming.”

“No thanks to you,” Caleb mutters, not lifting his head.

Sylus uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, plucks a wine glass from the drying rack without asking, and pours a half-glass. Deep red. Rich. Nothing from the line. This is his stock.

He lifts the glass. Sips. Eyes closed briefly. A subtle appreciation.

Then, eyes open—straight at you.

“You’re still standing,” he says. “Which is impressive. Tonight was chaos.”

You roll the candy against your tongue. “Chaos is part of the job.”

“No,” Sylus says smoothly. “Chaos is part of your job. Mine is keeping it bankable.”

Rafayel raises his hand in a languid gesture. “You’re welcome for all the emotional gravitas. And the soufflé.”

“I didn’t see your soufflé on the pass,” Caleb says flatly.

Rafayel leans back like he’s been struck. “It was evocative, Caleb. Too powerful for the plate.”

Zayne doesn’t look up. “You forgot the timer again.”

“I’m a visionary, not a timekeeper.”

“You’re a liability,” Zayne says, his voice as precise as his blade.

“And yet here I am. Unfired. Uncaged.” Raf gestures vaguely at the kitchen. “Mystery.”

Xavier shifts his weight slightly, shoulder brushing the wall. “You forgot to turn off the oven.”

Raf doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his chin, all faux-grace. “…I meant to.”

Sylus, still watching, drains the rest of his glass, then walks to the back wall—toward the small wine rack no one’s supposed to touch. He runs a finger down the labels. Adjusts one slightly. Opens a drawer.

You tense.

It’s your drawer. Again. Where the backup wine list is kept. Where the slim, black leather notebook lives.

Sylus opens it. A flick of Sylus’s pen. A line drawn. A note added.

“You’re the wine guy,” you murmur.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “I am a guy with wine.”

Caleb straightens just slightly, voice sharp. “You never told me.”

Sylus looks at him then, one brow raised. “You never asked.”

A silence stretches over the room.

Thick.

Sylus corks the bottle, tucks it under one arm with a smooth movement, and turns to leave.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says. “Trying to find a glass that deserves this vintage.”

Then, as he reaches the door, he pauses and looks at you.

“If you’re not doing anything, chef, feel free to join me. Always more honest conversation once the pans are cold.”

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him and room exhales.

Caleb tips back his wine, downs the rest in one long pull.

Zayne moves to the counter, starts wiping it clean. His cloth is precise. Efficient. Methodical.

Xavier offers you another candy, not saying anything. He doesn’t need to.

Rafayel lies flat on his back and sighs like a Shakespearean tragedy.

You sit there. Candy melting on your tongue. Wine staining your throat.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen hums with the dull ache of a shift survived. No more shouting, no more sizzling pans. Just the whisper of the overhead vents and the occasional clink of glass on steel.

Zayne wipes down his station like another ticket’s about to drop. Every motion is sharp, practiced—chef-first, human-second. He folds the towel with crisp corners and sets it just so. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head, the slower breath, that he’s beginning to wind down—but he still can’t let go entirely.

“That’s me,” he says, finally. His voice is calm, quiet, but final.

You glance over your shoulder. “Clocking out already?”

He nods once. “Clean line. No reason to linger.”

He grabs his coat off the hook—creased, folded exactly how he left it at the start of the shift.

From across the room, a dramatic groan echoes off the tiles.

“Already?” Rafayel lifts his head from where he’s sprawled across two prep stools like a wilted orchid. “You’re leaving me in my hour of need?”

Zayne gives him a blank look. “It’s been forty-five minutes since service ended.”

“That’s forty-three minutes too long for me to be denied attention.” Raf flops to his feet with exaggerated grace, twirling one glove lazily in his hand. “Come, Icebox, at least walk me to the door. I might collapse from artistic exhaustion.”

“You’re standing,” Zayne says dryly.

“Barely,” Raf sighs, wobbling on purpose as he collects his coat. He tosses a wink your way. “Say goodbye to your favorite dessert.”

“You mean yourself?” you mutter.

“Obviously.” Rafayel leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, feather-light but undeniable. Pulls back with a grin like he didn’t just set your pulse spinning.

Then he twirls dramatically toward the door. “I’ll return reborn, little flame.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything, but you swear the corner of his mouth twitches before he heads toward the door, Raf trailing beside him like a spark orbiting a sharp edge.

Just before they disappear, Raf glances back over his shoulder. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone, Flame. And if you do—make it meaningful.”

The door closes with a soft click, and you’re left in the quiet again. The kitchen feels bigger without Raf’s voice bouncing around the walls.

You finish what’s left of your wine, set the empty container beside the sink, and stretch your back until it pops.

Then you move through the double doors into the front of house—

And step into an entirely different world.

——————————————————————————

The restaurant is immaculate.

Warm light glows low from the sconces, casting shadows across the marble floors and polished wood. Tables are set, untouched, crystal glasses lined up like sentries. Everything gleams. It smells faintly of lemon and linen and something floral, soft in the vents. The kind of scent no one notices until it’s gone.

Sylus is the only soul in the room.

He sits near the windows, one arm draped along the back of his chair, the other holding a half-full wine glass with casual elegance. The bottle is resting in a carved metal cradle on the table. The label is vintage. Expensive.

He looks up as you approach, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly.

“You made it.”

“Thought about going home,” you say.

“But didn’t.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The velvet cushion is cool against your legs. Too soft. Unfairly comfortable. Of course he’d pick this table.

He picks up the bottle and tips it toward your glass. “You’re already drinking something terrible. Let’s fix that.”

You slide your glass toward him. “You always this generous after service?”

“I’m always generous to people who survive fire.” He pours carefully, not spilling a drop.

The wine is deep, smooth, the color of garnets and smoke. You sip. It tastes like money and secrets and something slow on the finish—something almost like regret.

You set the glass down. “This place looks untouched. Like service didn’t even happen.”

He smiles faintly, watching the candlelight flicker against your glass. “That’s the point. You build a kitchen to burn. You build a dining room to hide the burn.”

You glance around. “You care about this place.”

His eyes shift back to you. “Of course I do. My design. My money. My bones, in some ways.”

You study him a moment. He doesn’t look away.

“You built it to impress?” you ask.

“I built it to last.”

You nod slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

Sylus leans forward slightly, one elbow on the table, glass poised. “It’s survival. Beautiful survival, yes—but still survival. You know what I mean.”

You do. You don’t say it.

He looks at you differently now—quieter, more curious. His voice drops a notch. “You’re not like the others.”

You raise a brow. “Because I drink expensive wine when offered?”

“No.” He smiles. “Because you understand why it matters. You care about the fire. And about what survives it.”

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Once.

You pull it out.

Caleb: Need you back here. Xavier’s down again.

You look up. Sylus already knows.

“Another time?” he asks. His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—like he already sees the future version of this moment repeating.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He watches you stand, glass half-finished on the table.

“If you ever want something that doesn’t burn,” he says, eyes sharp but warm, “you know where to find me, chef.”

You don’t answer.

Back in the kitchen, the lights are lower, quieter. The heartbeat of the space has slowed. Caleb is crouched near the dry storage, elbow braced on one knee. Xavier is curled up on the flour sacks again, arms folded under his head like a cat settling into the quiet.

“He’s out,” Caleb says, voice low, glancing over his shoulder—not irritated, not worried, just watching him with that quiet kind of care he never names.

You kneel beside them, brushing Xavier’s shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes crack open just a little.

“You good?” you whisper.

He nods, slow and soft. “…I’m fine, Second set.”

Your chest squeezes just a little.

Caleb is already lifting him with practiced ease, one hand under his arm. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way his fingers grip Xavier’s jacket that he’s done this before. But when you reach to help, he shifts to make space. Without looking at you, he makes room. Always does.

Together, the three of you leave.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the cool air of the city wraps around your skin. The sidewalks shine with old rain. Streetlights glaze the pavement with soft gold. Your shoes scuff against cracked cement as you fall into step—Caleb on one side, Xavier tucked into the quiet middle, blinking slowly.

The three of you walk in rhythm, quiet, boots echoing soft against the street. Caleb says nothing at first. But then—

He leans slightly toward you, voice low, warm in the stillness.

“Hey… good job today.”

Not performative. Not for show. Just soft. Real. Like it matters to him more than he lets anyone else see.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

Then he looks down at Xavier, who’s barely keeping his eyes open, head dipping forward as he walks.

Caleb reaches out with one hand and gently ruffles Xavier’s pale bangs—an affectionate sweep—before tugging up the hood of his jacket like he’s tucking him in.

“And you too, Ghost,” he says, quiet.

Xavier hums, a little nod. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.

Caleb’s shoulder brushes yours—once when you slip on uneven pavement, and again when Xavier starts to lean too hard to one side. He shifts his weight easily, like it’s natural to hold both of you steady.

Behind you, the restaurant glows. Through the front windows, you can still see Sylus, alone at the table, wine swirling in his glass, elbow resting just so on the white linen. He doesn’t look tired. He looks… exactly where he belongs.

And then—

He looks up.

He sees you.

Not glances—sees. Like you’re a chapter he’s already reading ahead in.

And just before you turn the corner, before the street swallows you, he lifts his glass. A toast. To you? To the night? To what comes next?

You don’t know.

But something shifts in your chest—just slightly.

Not fear. Not heat.

Something else.

——————————————————————————

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks like a familiar rhythm as you push the door open and step into the kitchen.

It’s technically a closed day—no service, no tickets. But the kitchen never really rests. Not here. There’s always something to prep, to refine, to fix.

Cool air hits your skin first—the prep station lights still off, only the early sun pouring through the back windows. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the soft thunk-thunk-thunk of a knife on wood.

Zayne.

Already in place, sleeves rolled up, black strands brushing his forehead. He doesn’t glance up as you enter—just adjusts his grip on the cleaver and continues trimming down a mountain of bright spring onions. The scent of them—clean, sharp—hangs in the air like a warning.

You walk in slower, letting the door swing shut behind you, and start walking toward your station when—

“Morning.”

His voice is low, unbothered. No shift in pace, no dramatics.

“Morning,” you say, setting your bag down.

There’s a pause, just a breath too long to be casual. Then—

“Good call on the tangerine oil yesterday,” Zayne murmurs, slicing through a stalk with surgical precision. “I didn’t say it then.”

You glance over, a little surprised. “You mean you noticed?”

“I notice everything.” He looks up, just briefly. And for the shortest beat, he smiles.

Small. Barely there. But real.

And only for you.

Then it’s gone. His knife resumes its rhythm. The rest of the kitchen hasn’t even started breathing yet.

And just as you turn toward your station—

“You’re late,” a voice drawls from behind a stack of flour bags.

You freeze mid-step.

You know that voice.

“…Raf?”

Rafayel pops up from behind the counter like a devil in a drama. He’s wearing his apron inside out, sleeves rolled and pinned with two glittering clips. His eyes catch the light like a prism.

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands before you can speak. “Don’t ask why I’m here before noon. I’m as shocked as you are.”

You blink. “Why are you here before noon?”

He leans in, eyes wide like he’s about to tell you something salacious.

“Food critic,” he whispers, as if invoking a spirit.

Your stomach tightens.

“Wait—” Raf straightens suddenly. “Didn’t Caleb text all of us to show up early?” He looks between you and Zayne. “Right? He texted you two too?”

“No,” you and Zayne answer in unison.

Raf stares.

Zayne slices clean through a fennel bulb and slides it aside with absolute precision.

“He doesn’t need to.” A pause. “We’re always early.”

Raf gasps, clutching his chest like it’s a personal attack.“God, you’re such A-types. How exhausting.”

You raise a brow. “And you’re what, exactly?”

“Obviously B-type,” Raf says, flicking flour off his sleeve with flair. “The artistic kind. The ones who dream. The ones who show up when the muses say ‘now.’”

Zayne doesn’t look up.

“Your muse needs a schedule.”

“My muse needs espresso and validation,” Raf says primly. “Neither of which I’m getting fast enough.”

You can’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth as Raf grabs a mixing bowl with the drama of someone accepting an award.

Rafayel waggles his fingers. “Aaanyways…Not that I care about some starch-shirted, no-palate having, bland-gutted fork collector. But Caleb? Oh, he cares.”

He hops off the counter, landing with a bounce. “And Sylus?” Raf makes a low whistle, spinning one finger through the air. “He hears the word ‘Michelin’ and suddenly it’s ‘revamp the wine list’ and ‘triple the foie gras.’” He mimics Sylus’s voice perfectly. “It’s all very dramatic.”

“You’re the dramatic one,” Zayne mutters from the cutting board.

Raf ignores him. “I suggested we go to the beach instead. Cleanse the palate. Feel something. Maybe get arrested. You know, real inspiration.”

You smile.

The kitchen is still cool, still half-asleep, but slowly beginning to hum.

And then—

The back door opens with a thud.

Caleb.

He’s dressed in a dark shirt with cuffed sleeves, casual but still precise. In each arm, grocery bags—paper, heavy, full of weight. You spot the edge of imported cheese, the glint of glass bottles, long sprigs of fresh herbs still dripping with condensation. He steps in like he’s walked five blocks uphill.

Rafayel eyes the bags, unimpressed. “Let me guess—three kinds of truffle and one single blood orange?”

Caleb drops the bags on the prep table with a thunk. “Brigade,” he says, eyeing the room. “Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He turns to you, nodding once. “We’re doing something special today. Want your hands on it.”

You blink. “For the critic?”

“For the team,” he says simply. Then: “Critic’s just an excuse.”

Rafayel dramatically presses his palm to his chest. “Are you suggesting I create something for someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

Caleb tosses him a bundle of herbs. “I’m suggesting you create. Period.”

Zayne steps forward, inspecting the bags. “This is… high-end.”

“Expensive,” Caleb confirms. “Sylus gave me the green light.”

That tracks. Sylus isn’t in yet—a night creature, as he once called himself. “We work the day,” he’d said once, swirling wine. “I own the night.” Xavier’s late too, of course. But that’s just Xavier. Like Raf, he moves on his own time.

You pull out your phone and tap a quick message:

YOU: You coming in soon? The crew misses your ghost routine.

You set it down again.

Caleb glances over, catching the motion.

“Let him sleepwalk his way in,” he says, a dry twist in his tone. Then, a beat—softer now: “We’ll try to keep order until our fifth remembers time exists.”

Caleb’s already unpacking. Hands sure. Focus locked.

“Let’s build something new. You. Me. The four of us. Five, when Ghost floats in.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no pressure there, no edge. Just invitation.

“Bring me ideas. Or at least good bread,” he adds.

Rafayel claps his hands. “I knew this day would come, Maestro. A collaboration! Shall we open with edible orchids or existential dread?”

Raf’s already reaching for the nearest fruit like it’s a paintbrush. “I want bitterness. I want longing. I want something that tastes like a last confession whispered into a velvet napkin—”

Caleb glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching—just barely. Amused. But not swayed.

“Start with flour,” he says, dry. “Then spiral from there.”

Raf gasps softly. “Ouh—Daddy Discipline has spoken.” Then, with a wink: “Should I kneel? Or just sift dramatically?”

Your phone buzzes softly.

You check the screen.

XAVIER: On my way. Dreaming of fennel. Don’t burn without me 🐰🎀

And just like that, it begins.

The morning stretches with warm light on your shoulders. Dough starts rising. Butter softens. You smell lavender. Blood orange. Scorched sugar.

Rafayel hums as he works. Zayne corrects your knife grip once, but with quiet patience. Caleb doesn’t hover—but he passes close, every so often, to taste. To glance. To quietly trust.

And for once, the kitchen doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

It feels like something else.

Something good.

Steam from reduced vinegar curls into the air alongside delicate floral notes from the elderflower syrup Raf’s been coaxing out of thin patience and sugar. The room is warm now, alive—but without the chaos. For once, the burners are lit, but the tension isn’t.

The prep table is a soft mess of bowls and plates, slashed parchment paper, flour scattered like stardust. A plate of cooling tart shells rests near the edge, and someone—probably Zayne—has already lined up mise in exact rows: black garlic paste, candied fennel, crushed pink peppercorns.

A jazz track loops quietly from someone’s phone—the compromise after Rafayel insisted on opera. You all vetoed it. Jazz didn’t demand attention. It just filled the space, soft and steady, giving the kitchen rhythm without stealing the scene.

Caleb paces slowly along the line—not correcting, just hovering. Tracking movements like he’s syncing them to something internal. He passes behind you, the warmth of him brushing your shoulder, deliberate but unhurried.

He leans in, barely a breath from your ear.

“You’re two steps ahead of everyone this morning, Hotshot.” He murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Then, with the smallest curve of a smile—

“It’s irritating.” Caleb moves on before you can respond.

Zayne is all precision beside you, his knife a metronome. He’s slicing roasted fennel into paper-thin arcs and assembling them into soft folds like petals. Every motion is practiced. Economic. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, impressed at how little he ever wastes—motion, energy, time.

He must notice.

Because without breaking pace, he flicks a glance toward your station—eyes scanning your hands, then your face. Just once. A small nod. A subtle tug at the corner of his mouth—barely there. But it’s yours.

And then he’s back to his work like nothing happened

Across the table, Rafayel leans over a set of tart bases, bare-handed, his fingertips pressing custard into each shell like he’s painting emotion into a canvas. He hums something under his breath—minor key, off tempo. Sweet but a little strange.

He licks a smear of citrus glaze off his wrist and suddenly sighs, loud enough to catch your attention.

“Has anyone ever told you that custard is a lie?” he says dramatically, not looking up. “It pretends to be simple. Wholesome. Comforting. But it’s fickle. Clingy. It breaks the second you look at it wrong.”

You glance over. “Having a moment?”

“I’m having an awakening, Flame.”

Zayne doesn’t even pause in his slicing. “You’re having a meltdown.”

“Don’t mock my process,” Rafayel huffs. “You weren’t there when the egg curdled. You didn’t see what it became. It looked at me like it knew I was doubting myself.”

You hold back a smile.

“Also,” Raf continues, spooning another slick of custard into a shell with excessive flourish, “if anyone asks, I invented emotional citrus. It’s soft. It’s devastating. It haunts your childhood.”

“I’m going to haunt you,” Zayne mutters.

“And that’s what I call team spirit.” Caleb, still watching, glances your way. Just once. Noticing. Measuring.

This is what the kitchen feels like when it isn’t drowning.

And then—

The door creaks open.

Xavier steps through like dusk itself: quiet, soft-shouldered, pale blond bangs falling over his forehead as he shrugs out of a light coat. He’s holding a paper bag of herbs tucked under one arm, and a clean stack of towels clutched to his chest like a warm offering.

His shoes barely make a sound on the tile.

His eyes move through the room—Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb—then finally you.

He blinks once. “Need hands?” His voice is calm, but there’s something gentle behind it. Like he already knows the answer.

You smile, automatically. “Always.”

He moves with almost no sound, setting the bag down at your station before you’ve even shifted. You glance sideways and catch him silently organizing your tools—towel folded, knife turned blade-in, a fresh set of herb sprigs unwrapped and waiting.

“Nice to see you in the light,” you murmur.

Xavier smiles, barely. “Too bright. Feels like cheating.”

You’re about to ask what that means when—

The back door swings open hard enough to stir the air.

Sylus steps in like a gust of something colder, crisper. Pressed shirt, sleeves rolled once. No jacket today, just cufflinks catching the morning sun in a glint. In one hand, a thin black folder. In the other? A single, perfect baguette wrapped in wax paper and twine.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t have to.

The room slows.

Rafayel, of course, is the first to fill the silence. “Ah. The Night King arrives.”

Sylus pauses, just enough to give him a glance. “And here I thought I was early.”

“You are, for you,” Zayne mutters, not looking up from his slicing.

Caleb steps out from behind the counter, arms folded across his chest. Not tense—just reading the air.

“You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re creating.”

Sylus raises a brow. “Creating?”

He walks forward slowly, glancing at the plates—at the ingredients still strewn across the prep line. His eyes pass over the orange custards, the chilled tart shells, the unfinished sketch next to your station.

He lingers for a second. Then: “Is this… for them?”

“The critic?” Caleb says. “It’s for us.”

You nod, echoing. “But they’ll eat it.”

Sylus hums—a sound of faint amusement—and steps closer. He sets the baguette down neatly near the center of the table. Then flips open the black folder with one hand.

Inside, a printed wine list. Notes. Names scribbled in Sylus’s handwriting.

He studies it for a beat, then reaches for the paper again, scanning the rows.

“I’ll pull the Tempranillo,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Zayne, without looking up: “Critic prefers white.”

Sylus doesn’t lift his head. “Then the critic lacks imagination.”

Rafayel lets out a small snicker. “See? This is the kind of reckless elegance I live for.”

You almost laugh. You don’t.

Sylus disappears to the back, sliding into the cellar like it’s his second home.

Xavier slides a plate your way without a word—a tasting spoon laid neatly beside it. You didn’t ask. You needed it. He knew.

Rafayel leans closer to you, whispering, “We should form a splinter kitchen, Flame. You, me, The Whisperer, and the king of wine aka Daddy Deep Pockets. No rules. No menus. Just vibes.”

“I think we already have that,” you murmur back.

He grins, then pops a sugared fennel into his mouth. “Ugh. Still too grounded. I want transcendence.”

Caleb has started prepping again, head bowed, brow furrowed—but he’s smiling.

You glance at the team—present, steady, maybe even happy—and you feel something click into place.

The critic’s coming. The pressure will return.

But right now?

The kitchen is whole.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—so are you.

——————————————————————————

Only the light above the prep table is on, casting long shadows against steel and tile. The others have gone for the night—Raf babbled about “moonlight gelato dreams,” Sylus vanished in a trail of cologne and cryptic wine notes, and Xavier? Somewhere between the pantry and a nap in the dry storage.

You’re still here.

And so is Caleb.

He’s standing at the counter, arms braced on the steel, sleeves pushed up, steam still curling faintly from the forgotten pot beside him. There’s tension in his jaw. A tightness to his stillness.

You finish wiping down your side station and wander over to the prep board, eyes scanning the half-finished layout for tomorrow’s service. You don’t hear him move, but you feel it when he’s suddenly close.

Too close.

He leans in behind you, not touching—but you feel the heat of him along your back, the slow press of his voice by your ear.

“Don’t tell me you’re still second-guessing the placement of the tartlets,” he murmurs.

You don’t look at him. “They’re not centered.”

“They’re fine.” He exhales a soft chuckle. “If you stare at it any longer, it’s going to combust. Though I’d enjoy watching that.”

You try to ignore the way his voice dips on that last part. “Your definition of helpful needs work.”

Caleb leans in a little more, eyes scanning over your shoulder, breath warm on your temple.

“I am being helpful,” Caleb murmurs, voice low and easy, close enough that his breath stirs the air by your ear. “I’m giving you a second opinion. Up close.”

You glance sideways.

He’s right there.

Calm. Still.

A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His arms relaxed at his sides, and his ash-brown bangs fall low across his eyes—teasing the edge of his gaze like they’re trying to soften what’s already too sharp.

And he’s watching you. Not the plate.

You.

“This reminds me of school,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Late nights. Just us. You, me, four dozen plates, no time, no sleep.”

His voice sinks deeper, warmer. “You always worked like you were chasing something. Like every plate had to prove something.” A beat. “Maybe it did.”

You don’t answer—not right away.

The kitchen hums around you, distant now. You’re aware of the shape of him beside you, the weight of memory folding in like steam.

He tilts his head, hair shifting as his eyes flick down—first to your hands, then to the line, then back again.

“I used to stay later than I needed to,” he murmurs. “Just to watch you finish.”

The words land soft but heavy. Measured, like he’s waited years to say them without it sounding like too much.

Your breath catches.

“Back off or I’ll start moving your mise around,” you mutter.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Cruel.”

But he’s still smiling as he steps back, just enough to let the air cool again. Then:

“Do you trust him?”

You glance up. “Who?”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Sylus.”

The weight in his voice isn’t jealousy. It’s strategy. Tension.

You tilt your head. “I trust him to protect his own interests.”

Caleb nods once. Not agreement. Just recognition. He shifts slightly, drawing in a slow breath through his nose.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” he says, voice low. “How he acts like you’re already part of his portfolio.” His fingers flex on the table’s edge.

You blink, heart ticking faster. You don’t answer. You can feel the air shifting around him. Not heated—but heavy. Pressurized.

“And I know it’s none of my business,” he continues, stepping just close enough to lower his voice further. “But I also know I’m not the only one who notices.”

There’s a silence.

Then he adds, quieter: “I care about you. More than I should. And I’m not proud of how long I tried to ignore it.”

You stare at him, throat tight. There’s no performative heat in his words. No desperation. Just truth—terrifying in its clarity.

And then—

A voice, cool as glass:

“You done?”

You both turn.

Zayne. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, prep notes in one hand. His expression is unreadable.

“I came back for my folder,” he says, tone neutral. “Didn’t expect to walk in on… this.”

Caleb doesn’t move.

Zayne straightens slightly. “You want to have feelings, do it off the clock. Because if this is going to interfere with service, then someone else needs to be running the pass.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the line is drawn.

You open your mouth, but Caleb holds up a hand—not to you. To Zayne.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud. It’s final.

“I built this kitchen.” His voice is steel. “I run it. I trained every person on this line to breathe in rhythm because I commanded it. So if you think you’re going to walk in here and take my place because I had the audacity to feel something human for five seconds—think again, Sous.”

Zayne’s face doesn’t change. “I’m talking about focus.”

“I’m always focused,” Caleb replies. Calm. Deadly. “That’s the difference between you and me. You cut to fix. I cut to lead.”

You feel your chest tighten. You’ve heard Caleb take control before—calm, commanding, in total charge. But this isn’t that. This is quieter. Sharper. Like he’s sealing something off with every word.

Zayne looks at you briefly. Then, with no more to say, he turns, collects his notes, and walks out the door.

No dramatics. No parting shot.

But the room is different now.

You don’t realize your shoulders have tensed until you release them. Caleb doesn’t speak—just stares down at the table, knuckles pale against the steel.

Then, slowly, his head lifts.

His eyes meet yours.

And the sharp edge he showed a moment ago is gone—replaced by something quieter. Something that slips out in the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s still trying to hold onto whatever thread just snapped.

Not anger. Not regret. Just… want. Steady and unsaid. Heavy in his chest. The kind that’s been there for too long.

He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady something breaking apart beneath the surface. His mouth parts—he’s just about to say something.

And you cut in, too soft:

“I’m gonna—step out.”

That breath never finishes. Whatever he was going to say dissolves on it. He just watches you go.

You slip out of the kitchen, shoes quiet against the floor, and walk the familiar path to dry storage—where Xavier tends to hide.

Sure enough, he’s there. Sitting on a sack of rice like it’s a lounge chair, head tilted against the shelf, fingers absently stirring through a bowl of dried lavender.

He glances up as you step in. The light overhead flickers once, then steadies.

“You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then you sink down beside him, legs folding slow, spine rounding. You let the quiet sit for a moment.

“I think something just cracked,” you murmur. “Between Caleb and Zayne. I didn’t mean to cause it, but… I was there. And it happened.”

Xavier doesn’t say anything right away. He lets your words hang there, like he’s waiting to see what shape they’ll settle into.

Then he blinks, slowly, and slides the bowl toward you. “Want to stir it?”

You frown a little, but reach for the dried lavender, fingers trailing through the soft buds and stems. The scent rises—herbal, calming, sweet.

You hear his voice again, quieter this time.

“I’ve seen cracks before,” he says. “In people. Places. Pressure doesn’t cause them. It just shows where they already were.”

You stare at the lavender. “So this was inevitable?”

He shrugs, shoulder grazing yours. “Maybe. Or maybe Zayne needed to hear something he didn’t want to.”

You exhale through your nose. It’s not relief, but it’s something close.

“I just didn’t expect Caleb to talk like that,” you say. “He didn’t yell. He just… cut.”

Xavier nods. Then, without warning, he lifts a hand and places it gently on top of your head.

Not ruffling. Not patronizing. Just… there.

His palm is warm. His fingers soft. His expression is still mostly neutral—but his eyes, when you glance up at him, are smiling.

Awake. Present.

“You’re not a crack,” he says softly. “You’re an anchor. That scares people sometimes.”

Your throat tightens.

He drops his hand back to his lap and unwraps a piece of hard candy from his pocket. He doesn’t even ask—just places it in your palm, like always.

You stare at it for a moment, then pocket it instead of eating it.

“I need fresh air,” you whisper.

He nods once, head tipping forward. “Take your time. I’ll stay here.”

You rise slowly and leave him in the stillness.

The hallway echoes under your feet.

And the moment the back door opens, night air rushes in like a wave, cool enough to sting a little when you breathe too deep.

You sit on the back curb of the restaurant, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped together like you’re holding something breakable between them. The light from inside spills out in a narrow triangle behind you. The rest of the alley is dark, still, wide with silence.

Your breath comes slow, but your thoughts move fast—Caleb’s voice, low and clipped. Zayne’s stillness before the exit. Xavier’s palm resting gently on your head like a safety switch flipped just in time.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to find something still inside yourself.

Then—

The sound of boots. Slow. Steady. Confident.

You open your eyes.

Emerging like he was made of shadow and tailored cashmere. His coat flares slightly as he walks, hands deep in his pockets, no rush to the way he moves. Just inevitability.

Sylus stops a few feet away from you, eyes catching in the spill of light.

“You look like someone just canceled your favorite dessert.”

You don’t even look at him. “Not in the mood, Sylus.”

“I know,” he says. There’s no teasing in it. Just fact. “That’s why I came.”

He steps closer, crouches down beside you—not too close. Just near enough to let you feel that Sylus weight, that presence like gravity in a dark suit.

“I’m not asking what happened,” he says after a moment. “I’m just saying—you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

You don’t answer. You look away instead, at the empty street. The way the lamplight pools on the asphalt like melted gold.

Sylus lets the silence breathe between you before he straightens again.

“I was going to take the bike home,” he says, casual now, light. “Wind’s good for shaking off unnecessary emotions. Or at least rearranging them.”

You glance sideways. “Your bike?”

He smirks. “Black Ducati. Impractical. Loud. Disrespectful. You’d hate it.”

You pause. “Maybe...”

He tilts his head. “Want a ride?”

There’s a long, suspended moment.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Exactly why I asked.” He holds out a hand. Not pushy. Just there.

You hesitate only a second longer—then you take it.

Ten minutes later, you’re flying through the city.

You’re pressed to Sylus’s back, arms snug around his waist, helmet a little too tight, and the wind feels real. Not just cold—but electric. Like it’s moving through your ribs, threading out all the things you can’t say.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t show off. He just moves.

Smooth through corners. Confident at every red light. Leaning into the road like it’s his stage and you’re the only audience. The buildings blur. Headlights trail like comets. Your hands stay still at his middle, but your heart is starting to beat in rhythm with the engine.

The night smells like spice and exhaust and the faint trace of whatever cologne Sylus wears that defies logic.

For a little while, you’re nobody’s anchor. Nobody’s pressure point.

Just a passenger.

Sylus slows in front of your building with a soft rumble and kills the engine. The world gets quiet again. Too quiet.

You swing your leg off, pull the helmet off with fingers a little numb, and shake your hair loose into the night air. You’re flushed. Alive.

Sylus dismounts after you, smooth and effortless. Helmet tucked under one arm.

He glances over. “Better?”

You nod. “Yeah. That was…”

“A terrible idea,” he says, with a small grin.

You huff a breath of a laugh. “Exactly.”

He steps a little closer, gaze steady now. No smirk. Then he cups your face—just barely. Fingers warm against your jaw, thumb resting gently near your cheekbone.

“You’re not just talent,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant for your bones, not your ears. “You’re the reason this place works. The critic won’t change that.” A pause—long enough to carry weight.

“Neither will what happened tonight.”

Red eyes soften. His jaw eases—just enough to blur the sharp edge of his profile. He’s close. Closer than you meant to let him be. And then—just for a breath—he bites his lower lip. Like he’s tasting the moment before it breaks.

You blink—throat suddenly dry, like your body realized something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You don’t know what to say to that.

So he hands you the helmet instead. “Keep it. You might need it again, chef.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by night, like the moment was never real to begin with.

You make it up to your apartment, lights low, boots kicked off, helmet set gently on the counter. You exhale—but it’s not release. Sylus’s still there. Not in the room, but in the shape of your breath, in the echo of his fingers on your face.

His presence clings—low in your spine, high in your throat. It curls behind your thoughts, quiet and hungry. You lean into the counter, eyes closed, trying to shake the heat from your skin. But it’s not leaving. He’s not leaving.

Then your phone buzzes.

RAFAYEL: Did you die??? I had a dream you were kidnapped and made to eat under-seasoned risotto. I woke up crying. Text me back or I’m calling the police.

Then another buzz.

RAFAYEL: Also. You looked hot today. That’s not related. Just wanted you to know.

You snort, flopping down on the couch, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

God bless the chaos.

And god help the critic.

——————————————————————————

Chapter one

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: First off, a massive thank you to everyone who left such lovely comments, reblogged, and liked the draft—it truly means the world! I was considering color-coding their dialogue, but honestly, it just pulls me out of the flow when I read it myself. That said, if it’s something you’d prefer, let me know—I’m always open to your thoughts and where you think this story could go. The next chapter is ofc already cooking in my brain, and I can’t wait to dive deeper into the flames of this kitchen AU!

(And finally—finally—I have a real use for all my wine-and-dine knowledge beyond just obsessing over a perfectly cooked scallop, pickled Hokkaido pumpkin, paired with a beautiful Furmint (and binge watching Masterchef AU). I’m not a snob, I swear—just passionately invested in the finer things… like good wine, a perfect cup of coffee, soft lighting, and Caleb being the most heart-stealing man to ever exist. HEH.) And you better believe New Noise as been on repeat. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[moeblob]

So there was going to be a lot more but consider this a part 1? For OC Lore Drops.

(none of this was drawn today but because it was storming earlier and I got some rest, I feel like I really want to knock out commission work and do not have time to draw something to post today without messing that rhythm up.)

Also a little bit more: Simeon is a romance novel writer and his hobby is people-watching. His ability to sense the supernatural entities is so exciting to the hellhound who just adores /trying/ to get the jump on him but always ends up 'sniffed out' before she can.

[threepandas]

Bad End: Eve

You know how most Otome games are vaguely historical? Usually some non-specific mishmash of European countries? But fluffier and with more bows? It had once "gotten" to me, I think. I remember looking for outliers. Non-joke ones. Something that wasn't just "but this time with hats!"

I found one.

And now? Now I'm not sure if I curse that day or thank whatever force of nature lead me there. I guess... I guess it depends. Would I still have ended up HERE? If I had not found it? If so, then I genuinely and actually fucking rue it. Like... like actual "you'll rue the day! Bwahaha!" Type rue it. That's me. Ruing.

But? If it was always going to happen?

Then I guess...

I guess I'm weirdly glad. Because at least I have some fucking idea of what's going ON. Terrible, as it all is. Fucked, as the situation is. At least I'm not... not confused. Blind and at the mercy of those around me. Ignorance truely isn't bliss. All it does is leave you to try an fill in the blanks yourself. Usually with something far worse.

Not that the situation could GET much worse, by much.

I was in an Otome game. NOT a flower, high society, and dragons kind either. No. I? Was in a Dark Sci-Fi otome game. "Fate of man" was thrown around a lot. Power of luuuuv~ and such. Also, you know, HORRIFIC ethical violations. Human experimentation. Cataclysmic events and humanity "starting over".

All the high drama sci-fi concepts you could expect. It was a romp. Had good art. I'd had fun! Which is why I remember it so clearly.

Less fun when you're IN IT.

When you AREN'T one of the characters you KNOW will survive.

In fact, are one of the characters you know WON'T fucking survive. And will probably die MESSY. Horribly. Cause see, our BELOVED Harem collecting Protagonist? She? Was AN Eve. "AN".

Take a wild fucking guess what THAT project is about.

Did you say "breeding a better race of humans"? Ding ding ding! With humanity currently fucked, they want to FIX the problem by FIXING humanity. And of course, fuck ethics! Volunteers? Why use those?! Let's horrifically mad scientist our way to atrocity-ville! Make it all the more "God rightfully punishing us for our unforgivable sins" when we get wiped out!

Fffffffuck YOU, plot! I have to live here too!

You may, in fact, be picking up a slight note of stir crazy. A "wow, this lady rambles like a mother fucker" vibe. You would TOO, if you were stuck in a FUCKING TUBE. All I can do, day in and day out? Is wake, think, observe, then go right back to sleep. I can't even eat! I got a TUBE for that!

I... I miss showers.

Everything is GOO.

I'm an Eve. And if it weren't for the air tube controlng my breathing? I'd laughing hysterically until I died. And no, not in the "oh how funny" way. God. Oh... oh god. What a way to die. NONE of the Eves survive "the program".

Those IDIOTS are so OBSESSED with making bigger and bigger, better and better, FUCKING JUGGERNAUTS? That the Adams? Have long since reached the point of "mindless killing machine". UNSTABLE is putting it lightly. There is sexual dimorphism and then there's literal incompatibility.

But GOD FORBID the scientists admit that THEY are the ones with the inferior product.

It... it was even part of the game's plot. The scientist who made "Eve" HID her while HE made an Adam. I do not have that luxury. Somewhere, there is an unstable BESERKER being told I'm his "wife". That we're going to be HAPPY together. That he'll get to put his bruising, blood soaked hands anywhere he WANTS... just after he WINS me from the other Adam's.

Got to prove HE'S the best specimen, after all.

It makes my skin crawl. All I can hope, is that I can either provoke the bastard enough to kill me before they have a chance to stop him, or? I use my own enhanced strength to snap my neck. Maybe bite my tounge. Like HELL am I letting an Adam get near me.

The hiss of laboratory doors.

"Perfection at last..." Comes a relieved sigh. "All those HIDEOUS specimens. Why they make me suffer them, I'll never understand. We should have terminated them months ago. My poor project, they really think they're WORTHY of you..."

There's a derisive laugh. The scientist strolling into the lab I've been developing in, familiar. I watch him casually shrug off his lab coat and dump is bag. Hang his coat over the back of his chair. Turn, as he does each day, to STARE up at me. His eyes are a pale, pale purple the likes of which I've never seen before.

They're HAUNTING.

There is almost a red tint to them, though maybe that's the lights. The goo. I can never tell. He always looks ENTRANCED by me. Floating, visored, connected to far too many tubes an' wires. I'd think it was the fact that I was naked if it weren't for the way his gaze doesn't seem to drift lower then my shoulders. Seems more entranced by the way my hair moves, as though under water.

I've never once heard him talk about me lustfully.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't SCARE me.

"Let's begin, shall we? Time for your daily doses, mmm?" He says, voice dangerously affectionate. As though i had CHOSEN to do this to myself. As though he were merely reminding me of my morning medicine and not the hell ahout to come. "Going to be good for me? I know you shall, you always are."

He turned back to his desk, his computer. A few keystrokes... and I could feel the pod above me begin to hum, as it awoke. Oh god. Oh god it never got easier. From the corner of my eyes, bright chemicals slide down thind lines and into my veins. Like lines of lava. Bolts of electricity and pain. It was... AGONY.

My muscles seized. Brain screeched, first to the screaming I wish I could make... then static. With the long practice of daily pain, it took me far away. The click, click, click of keys. The sound of his voice, so terribly PLEASED, as I hung there and just TOOK it. No restraints, no strugging, no damaging myself. Just unbearable fire in my veins and a brain far, far away.

"Good girl~"

Distantly a phone rang. He made an annoyed sound, but picked up regardless.

"What. I'm in the middle of- ...Excuse me? I'm quite sure I did not hear you correctly. I said 'NO'. She's not-....I will NOT BE-...What. Are you out of your god damned MIND? That pile of scraps you call a project is coming NOWHERE near my-! ....you think you're clever, don't you?"

"Fine. You want to TALK? Let's TALK, Anderson. I'll be there in five."

From far away, past the pain, I watched him chance down at something at the screen. Back up to me. He hung up the phone but did not pause the program. Instead, calmly rising from his desk. Shrugging on his lab coat. Rounding the desk and striding towards my bio-tube.

"Hmmm, honestly, it should have been spaced out over a few more days... but you can take it. Endure a bit longer for me, would you, darling? Daddy's going to go deal with something for just a moment, he'll be right back, my perfect girl. Be good."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to my tank. One hand splayed next to it like he badly wished he could touch. Could stroke skin. Hold his creation close. It was not the first time he had done this. Small, covetous, little actions like he wanted to crawl inside my skin and STAY there. Like he cursed the glass that separated us.

He pulled back. Shifted to the side and kneeled. He... had hidden something behind my bio-pod? When? Apparently before I had become aware. Because I had not known about it. A black shoe box. I watched him open i-GUN. Thaaaat was a gun! Fuck. Well at least? By the time anyone thinks to look in on me? The overdose will probably have killed me?

There is a cold, terrible smile on his face as he rolls to his face. Tucking the gun into an inner pocket. It has a silencer. He leans forward one last time. Lightly kissing the glass of my pod, as though heading off to work and not to very obviously kill somebody. The pain continues. Builds. I watch him leave.

With nothing to anchor myself on... time blurs.

I think? There are alarms? Red lights flash. Then they stop. There is shouting at one point. But then silence. An explosion? Or am I hallucinating? Pain. My nerves are on fire. I don't want to have SKIN. Please... please make it STOP! Calm foot steps? Come to kill me? Please come to kill me. Make it STOP.

The lights died a... time? Ago? Emergency lights on now. Generators in the room are loud. Why can I still hear the feet? Footses? Words. H..hurts. please.

Click.

The pain eases to a stop. Aching but nothing new. Over? Oh, thank god. I can sleep now, right? But... sound? New. At my feet. Gurgling. Wha-? The very top of my head feels cold. Then my forehead. Then my temple's and ears, cheeks, jaw... wait. Is? Is the tube...DRAINING? I open my eyes.

When did I close them?

He's back.

Standing right in front of the tube. Blood staining the hem of his coat, lingering marks of his massacre cleaned but not quite scrubbed from his body. There are little off red stains on his cheek, from what must be blood splatter. They look like tiny freckles.

I'm... I can't...

I reach as the tube down my throat is pulled almost carelessly away by the machine. Choke, suffocate, as the same is done for my air tube. But then it's done... and I can BREATHE under my own power. Gasp and splutter, as the goo sloshes around my knees. Then it's gone. And the tube I've been leaning my weight against is roughly pulled away.

I collapse forward, my muscles having never actually supported me in this life.

Arms catch me. Wrapping me in a possessive hug. A hand immediately burying itself in long uncut hair, even as the other wraps itself around my torso to lean me against his body in a cradle. My face is pressed to his neck by the hand in my hair, cradling my head and neck. I can feel breath against the goo wet crown of my head.

"Finally~" he breaths out, whispering it against me like a sigh. "My beautiful, perfect girl. My darling creation. It took so LONG. Those retrobates interfering at every turn, lusting after you like ANIMALS, trying to keep you from me. Then, worst of all, trying to toss you to some pack of savages? Oh, darling~ Daddy's been so worried for you."

"But we'll be okay now, won't we? I finally have you. All fresh and finally finished. My perfect Eve. You can pick any name you want, of course. You and I will be leaving this ugly little place. Daddy has PLANS. A fresh new world, just for you, sweetheart."

He laughed, his hug tightening in a way that would have left bruises had I been a normal human. Kisses were pressed to my temple. A cheek, rubbed against my hair. He seemed... seemed GIDDY with it. That nothing could stop him now. There was no glass in his way. I could not move yet. My muscles twitched when I tried, but that was it. I wasn't even sure I could talk yet, if I tried.

"Aaah~♡ Welcome to the World, Darling. My Perfection. My Eve. This time no snakes or Adams to tarnish you. To get in your way. Just you and your Father~"

"FOREVER~♡"

Next: ->

[widemushroom]

Auto translate the fanfic you read to your own native language and reread it again if you are not native English speaker

It will be a totally different experience

You are welcome 🤝

[yuri-is-online]

I FORGOT THAT I SET UP SHRIMPY AS NICKNAME BY MYSELF….I was so surprised I thought it was accidental😭

Honestly? Do not blame you one bit Rafayel already uses so many sea creature analogies it feels in character for him and I am doing the same as we speak.

Interesting fact: I have seen a bunch of people theorizing the l&d boys are based off of different fairy tales and I have to say I kind of agree. I have to say I really like it since I read a lot of Hans Christian Andersen's stuff when I was a kid so it's nice to see someone else take a crack at a story based off his fairytales.

[meezer]

oh and I finished my otome game. well just kai's route. I really loved it and it touched me in a way I'd find it hard to articulate. kai is a fantastic character imo, very well-written. I got his best ending and uhm, at the end there... everyone in that cafe fangirling over him must've had their jaws drop when they heard him tell the MC that, after they hang out there, they'd be going to his place, so he can say things "he can't say in public." everyone in that cafe now thinks these two popular up-and-coming actors are gay as fuck. and well are they wrong

[ailelie]

Essays and Meta on Interactive Fiction Design

2025.5.20: Updated original list with more resources. I've also fixed the links.

Structure

Standard Patterns in Choice-Based Games

Design Patterns in Choose Your Own Adventures

Small-Scale Structures in CYOA

By the Numbers: How to Write a Long Interactive Novel That Doesn't Suck

Adventures in Text: Innovating in Interactive Fiction

Structuring IF Side Plots

Narrative Graph Models

Beyond Branching: Quality-Based, Salience-Based, and Waypoint Narrative Structures

Puzzle Dependency Charts

What does your narrative system need to do?

Narrative Logics

Design Decisions: Stats

Loose, Tight, Flat, and Bumpy Stats in ChoiceScript Games

7 Rules for Designing Great Stats

Think Before You Stat

Set, Check, or Gate? A problem in personality stats

Design Decisions: Choice

Mailbag: Moments of Non-Choice

Should Games Have Meaningful Choices?

Creating Choices in Interactive Writing

A Bestiary of Player Agency

Making Interactive Fiction: Branching Choices

Successful Reflective Choices in Interactive Narrative

Design Decisions: Other

Writing in Collaboration with the System

Story vs. Game: The Battle of Interactive Fiction

Narrative States

How to write a branching narrative and won't lose your mind

Storygame Genre

Narrative Mechanics, Narrative Dynamics

That Darn Conundrum

Writing Advice and Opinions

The Seven Deadly Sins of Writing Interactive Fiction

Three Solutions to Three Problems in Interactive Fiction

Writing Interactive Fiction in Six Steps

Writing IF

Game Analysis

CYOA Structures: Tween Romance

These Maps Reveal the Hidden Structures of 'Choose Your Own Adventure' Books

Playing With Words: The remarkable Firewatch is part of a new generation of games taking cues from the text adventures of the 1980s

7 works of interactive fiction that every developer should study

The Illusion of Free Will: On "Bandersnatch" and Interactive Fiction

Scarlet Sails (and a discussion about game size

Musings on IF

Interactive Fiction as Literature

Riddle Machines: The History and Nature of Interactive Fiction

Toward a Theory of Interactive Fiction

Interactive Fiction for the Modern Game Designer

The Joy of Text: the fall and rise of interactive Fiction

Going Interactive or: How I Learned to Relax and Let the Reader Take Control

In the Beginning Was The Word

An Alternative Taxonomy for Interactive Stories

Misc

Ethically Designing Unethical Worlds

Break the Loop

Game Taxonomies: A High Level Framework for Game Analysis and Design

An in-depth look at what otome players wants

Mailbag: Self-Training in Narrative Design

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

isekai and in over my head.

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

it starts with you waking up in what might be a coma, probably isn’t a otome game, and is definitely not your life. It ends with five dangerously attractive men forming an unofficial committee to keep you alive, loved, and under constant emotional surveillance.

ABOUT | 3.1k words. f!reader x 5 LI (non-romance so far). slice of life.

TAGS | isekai. for shits and giggles. flirting. banter. fluff. survivors guilt.

NOTE: i’ve been spiraling a bit—writing, life, family stuff. so i’m putting angst on pause for now. i just want to write something light, a little unhinged, maybe even fun. here’s a side of me you probably haven’t met. either way, let’s laugh a little.

INDEX | chapter one ✧ chapter two ✧ chapter three ✧

chapter one | congratulations, you've died again.

THE FIRST THING...I noticed was the light.

Not warm sunlight. Not even the dim, flickering sort that hums overhead in hospitals. This was harsher—clinical, fluorescent—like someone had screwed neon tubes directly into my skull. It sliced through my eyelids in angles too precise, too sharp, and far too awake for whatever this was.

I groaned.

My head didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt... full. Like someone had replaced my brain with a bag of cotton wool and static. My mouth was dry, my tongue unfamiliar, clumsy against my teeth. My hands twitched beneath me, brushing against something cold and unwelcoming—metal, maybe. Or concrete. Hard to say. My brain hadn’t quite caught up to the part where things had weight and texture.

For a long, uncertain moment, I just lay there. Staring.

The sky above me wasn’t blue.

It was a pale, silvery sheen, streaked with bright, swirling fractures—like someone had smashed a mirror and scattered the shards across the clouds. They hung there, glinting, suspended in air like pieces of broken glass refusing to fall.

Which, all things considered, wasn’t ideal.

Around me, the skyline stretched upward in angles that didn’t quite make sense—black spires, too smooth, too symmetrical, like a fever dream of the future. Buildings that shimmered with their own light. Towering structures that bent the laws of physics just enough to make my stomach turn.

And the ships.

They hovered midair, motionless yet humming. Too steady for helicopters, too sleek for jets. Like someone had redrawn the rules of flight while I wasn’t looking.

Okay.

I closed my eyes again.

Deep breath. In. Hold. Out.

This was fine. This was probably fine.

Because obviously, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. No version of reality I knew included silver skies or floating ships or buildings shaped like knives. Which left me with one of three options:

One: Dream.

Two: Coma.

Three: Hallucination.

I went with coma. It sounded marginally less embarrassing than hallucinating a sci-fi skyline. People fell into comas all the time and woke up in places their brains had cobbled together from memory, TV shows, and the occasional Reddit spiral. Right? It happened.

Because the alternative—the one brushing against the frayed edges of my thoughts—was just too absurd.

I swallowed.

The absurd thing had a name.

Love and Deepspace.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head. Or tried to. It was like moving through syrup. My body wasn’t quite mine yet.

This wasn’t that. This was just... brain noise. A side effect of too many sleepless nights and maybe a mildly enthusiastic mobile game phase. That was all. People dreamed about video games all the time. That didn’t mean I’d somehow ended up inside one. That would be ridiculous.

So ridiculous, in fact, that my heart was starting to beat a little too fast just thinking about it.

I sat up slowly. The ground beneath me tilted, a slow, nauseating see-saw. Balance wobbled, but held.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—sharp, synthetic bursts echoing against the skyline like a warning shot. I turned toward the sound.

Figures moved in careful formations, small as ants against the horizon. Uniformed, some of them. Black silhouettes flitting between metal towers, fast and focused, like they knew exactly what they were doing.

I squinted.

Pain bloomed behind my eyes, a quiet, steady throb—don’t look too hard.

Another breath. Shallower this time.

Dream. Coma. Hallucination.

Pick one.

The air tasted like metal.

That strange, sterile tang—part scorched wire, part hospital corridor. Somewhere nearby, something sizzled. A pulse of heat rolled through the street like an aftershock, brushing against my skin with the vague threat of combustion.

I pushed myself upright, limbs reluctant but intact. This time, my knees held. Small victories. I’d take them.

A voice rang out in the distance—male, sharp, cutting through the static of my thoughts.

“—Pipsqueak!”

I didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t for me. Obviously. Why would it be?

Another burst of static cracked above. A ripple of... something—energy? reality?—shimmered across the silver sky like heat on asphalt. My brain tried to explain it, failed, and quietly replaced the gaps with white noise. I moved forward. Or wandered, really—aiming vaguely for the direction that seemed least likely to kill me.

“Pipsqueak!”

There it was again. Closer this time.

A chill climbed my spine.

I slowed. My heart stuttered in its rhythm, and logic gave up entirely.

Just look. Not hard, not long—just enough to confirm this is all a mistake.

I turned.

And froze.

He was running toward me.

And by he, I mean him. The man. The myth. The military-grade mistake of my emotionally stunted dreams. The colonel. The fan edit. The character who had no business being that hot in a pixelated cutscene.

Caleb.

And—dear god—it was really him.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. I just stood there, limp and blinking and deeply malfunctioning, as he sprinted toward me across the broken street like the chaos was just backdrop and he’d been waiting for his cue.

His boots hit the ground like a metronome. His coat flared behind him like it had been programmed to. And that face—that face—wore the expression. The one he always had right before everything went to hell: intense, focused, softer than it had any right to be. Brow furrowed just enough to look concerned. Jaw set. Eyes sharp enough to slice through time itself.

And then—swear to god—I heard it.

That song.

The edit song. The one with the slow drum and the breathy vocals that every Caleb stan on the internet had synced to his most dramatic cutscenes. The one where the MC catches him mid-fall, wounded but weightless, the entire galaxy burning behind them.

Somewhere in the back of my brain, a full string section began to swell.

I actually shook my head. “Stop it,” I muttered, half out loud. “Get a grip.”

It didn’t help.

Because the way he was looking at me—as if the universe had cracked open and I was the only piece left that mattered—was exactly like the game.

He shouted something again. I didn’t catch the word. Just the sound of it: urgent. Certain.

I stumbled back a step.

Because this wasn’t some lookalike. This wasn’t some glitch of the coma-dream matrix. This wasn’t fan art or hallucination.

This was him.

Real. Undeniable. Breathtakingly—infuriatingly—three-dimensional.

Which meant… which meant…

I swallowed hard. My throat rebelled. My palms had gone slick.

He was almost close enough now that I could see the shift of his muscles beneath that damn coat. The way each step sent a ripple of motion through his body, grounded and graceful, like even gravity didn’t want to get in his way. His boots struck pavement with military certainty. His voice carried like a commandment.

He was real.

Too real.

This wasn’t a face cobbled together from bad lighting and wishful thinking. This wasn’t the result of scrolling too many fan pages at 2 a.m. He had weight. Presence. Light clung to his skin like it didn’t want to let go. His voice resonated. His gaze held.

And me?

I wanted to drool.

Right there. Mid-apocalypse. Mouth open. Brain buffering. One click away from falling flat on my face in front of an emotionally unavailable fictional war god.

I was about to be scooped up into the arms of a man who, for all intents and purposes, wasn’t supposed to exist—except with abs that could end world peace and a voice that sounded like safety and sin rolled into one muscular, tactical daydream.

He was nearly upon me when survival instincts kicked in—and promptly malfunctioned.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I shut my eyes, slapped my face, and hoped I’d pass out.

I didn't.

The sting rang out louder than expected. My palm left a warm print across my cheek, and my dignity evaporated on contact.

When I opened my eyes again, he was there.

Right there.

Towering over me like a verdict.

“Pipsqueak.”

His voice was lower now, wrapped in something between relief and reprimand. Like someone who’d been holding his breath too long and only just remembered how to exhale.

I stared up at him, utterly silent.

Because what exactly do you say to a man who thinks he knows you better than anyone in the universe—when you’ve only ever known him through a screen?

“Are you hurt?” he asked, already reaching for me. “Did you hit your head?”

Yes. On the pavement of delusion.

“No,” I said quickly, even though my voice cracked like it had been in storage since 1998. “I mean—yes. Maybe. I don't know.”

His hands found me before I could back away.

One cupped the side of my face, angling it gently toward the light. The other hovered under my elbow, like I was something fragile—something that might fall apart if left unattended for too long.

Which wasn’t... inaccurate.

But his touch. God.

Warm. Grounded. Steady. So deliberate, like he’d done this before. Like this was muscle memory. Like he’d held this face in his hands a hundred times—knew it from the curve of the brow to the line of the jaw.

I couldn’t breathe.

And I couldn’t lie, either. Not well. Not under pressure. My face was a glitching disaster of emotions—shock, awe, guilt, and a flash of something primal I will not be taking questions on at this time.

He misread it, of course.

“Still in shock,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over my cheekbone.

I shivered. Not helpfully.

“You're freezing.”

No. I was combusting. Actively boiling inside my skin. My bones were sweating. If he touched me for one more second, I’d melt straight through the pavement.

“Pips, your vitals are all over the place,” he said, checking some kind of wrist scanner he’d unclipped with infuriating efficiency. “You must've been close when the second pulse from the rift hit.”

Second pulse? Rift hit? The hell was he talking about...

My brain could not compute. It was juggling too much: his nearness, his impossible voice, the nickname he kept using like it belonged to me.

“Stop calling me that,” I said.

Too sharp. Reflexive.

He blinked. His hands stilled, but didn’t fall away.

My breath caught.

And then, without thinking, I moved.

I pushed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Not even forceful. Just a small, shaky shove to the chest—barely enough to make him step back. But he did. Instantly. Like the spell broke the second I touched it.

We stared at each other.

His face shifted. Only a little. A flicker of confusion, chased by something quieter. Something dangerously close to hurt.

“I'm sorry,” I blurted. “I just—don't touch me.”

It came out worse than it felt.

Inside, I was clawing at my own ribs, trying to make space to think. His closeness had short-circuited something critical.

He straightened slowly. Not offended. Just... recalibrating.

“Alright,” he said softly. “No touching.”

The way he said it—careful, like it hurt—made my stomach twist.

Like he'd done something wrong.

Like I had.

“I didn't mean—” I started, but the words tangled and fell apart in my mouth before they could reach air.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He wasn’t supposed to exist. Not like this. Not with real muscles and real warmth and real concern folding into every breath. He was supposed to be code. Character art. A game.

And yet, somehow, he was looking at me like I’d just broken his heart with one uncertain step.

He stepped back. Half a pace. Just enough to give me room. Just enough to let the cold rush in.

“It's okay,” he said. “We can talk about it later...”

His voice was softer now. Like I was made of glass, and he’d already heard the first crack.

He turned his head, muttered something into a comm clipped to his collar. I caught fragments—medical, stabilized, containment zone—but none of it landed.

I stood there, adrift in my own body.

Because he thought I was her.

The real her. The MC.

And I... wasn’t.

Not the one who’d grown up with him, trained beside him, made him laugh, made him stay. Not the one who teased him into softening, or shattered him just enough to help him heal.

That was her story.

Not mine.

But he didn’t know that.

And I couldn’t tell him.

Because if I did, I might lose the look on his face.

This softness. This impossible tenderness—woven through ash and urgency and dust and dread.

So I said nothing.

Besides, I needed answers. How I got here. And—if it was even possible—how to get home.

Caleb turned his head again, murmuring into his comms, his voice clipped now—brisk, efficient, all that earlier warmth folded beneath military precision.

“Secure the perimeter. Prep evac. She's coming with me—yes, I'll bring her in for assessment. Zayne's on standby, right?”

I blinked.

Zayne?

The name hit like a spark to dry kindling.

My head whipped up. “Wait—did you just say—?”

But he was still talking, still barking words I couldn’t follow—containment, bio-signal, integrity, elevated charge—his mouth moving around the vocabulary of a world I wasn’t supposed to be in.

I took a step forward, breath lodged high in my throat.

Did he just say Zayne?

As in... ZAYNE?

As in Doctor Zayne?

As in sweet-tooth, sharp-witted, god-tier-with-a-scalpel Zayne? The one with the voice like melted chocolate and hands that made the fandom lose structural integrity?

As in Dawnbreaker Daddy?

I stared at Caleb, genuinely unraveling.

Because that name wasn’t background noise. That name was legend. That name wore glasses and saved lives with one hand while tearing through enemies with the other. That name had a two-part origin myth, a drop rate lower than mercy, and an entire corner of the internet dedicated to his jawline.

And now he was apparently… on standby?

Like this was just a normal Thursday?

“What—”

A sharp beep cut through the air.

Then another. Then a rising whine, mechanical and shrill—like a futuristic kettle winding itself up to panic.

I looked down.

A device. Strapped to my wrist. Sleek and unfamiliar, pulsing blue at the edges. Numbers scrolled across the surface—fast, tight, cryptic. A countdown? Coordinates? Diagnostics?

“What the hell is that?” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Caleb turned.

No—snapped.

He crossed the space between us in two strides, wrapping one hand around my wrist and lifting it for a better look. His eyes scanned the display, jaw tightening.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Metaflux spike. Too soon.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be worried, terrified, or offended that metaflux wasn't just a word in a game, but a real thing in my current reality.

Before I could settle on a reaction, he looked at me again—different now. Sharper. Command-mode fully engaged.

“You still have your handgun?”

I blinked. “My what?”

“Your sidearm. On your thigh.”

“My gun?”

He gestured—two fingers, quick and precise—toward my leg like it was obvious.

I followed his gaze.

And choked.

Strapped to my thigh—like a casual accessory—was a matte black firearm. Sleek. Polished. Very real. It hugged the curve of my leg like it had always been there. Like I belonged with it.

My stomach flipped.

I hadn’t even noticed it. I had a gun. I had a gun.

I. Had. A. Gun.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Okay. That's... a lot.”

Caleb’s face didn’t shift, but something eased slightly around his eyes. Like he registered the rising panic and adjusted for it in real-time.

“I know your head's still scrambled,” he said, calm and even. “But we don't have time. Wanderers are breaking through the breach.”

Wanderers.

As in the actual nightmare fuel from the game?

The voidborn horrors with spindly limbs and glowing mouths and movement patterns that made your skin crawl?

I swallowed.

Hard.

This wasn’t funny anymore.

(Okay, it had stopped being funny about three hallucinations ago, but this was now fully entering run-screaming-into-the-sunset territory.)

Caleb saw it—the shallow breath, the inching step backward, the way my fingers curled like I could vanish into my own palms.

And to his credit, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t push. He just stood there—still, grounded. Like he’d wait forever if I needed him to.

“You're safe with me,” he said quietly.

And I hated—hated—that it helped.

That those four words landed somewhere deep and shaking. That they loosened something I hadn’t realized I was holding. That they made me want to believe him, even though everything in me screamed don't.

It wasn’t the words.

It was the way he said them.

Not we'll keep you safe. Not you'll be fine. But you're safe with me.

It was personal.

It was protective.

It was too much.

I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

Once.

Because if I opened my mouth, I might scream.

Caleb shifted beside me, speaking into his comm again—voice low, clipped, all business.

But I wasn’t listening anymore.

The air had changed.

Not the temperature. Not the pressure. Something else. Something… off. Sharper. Thinner. Like reality itself had sucked in a breath—and forgotten how to exhale.

Then the light bent.

Not dramatically. Not with thunder or fanfare. Just a shimmer—subtle, glassy—like a mirage on hot pavement.

Except it moved against the breeze.

Wrong.

Wrong in a way that prickled across my skin like static. Like instinct. Like the deepest part of my brain had already decided we are not supposed to see this.

Caleb snapped to attention. “Get behind me.”

And then I saw it.

The tear opened twenty meters out—ripping clean through the air like a mouth mid-scream. A sickly blue glow spilled from the breach, curling around something moving.

No—emerging.

Limbs.

Not arms. Not legs. Limbs. Jointed too many times. Bent in ways bones should never bend. Skin like wax stretched over sinew, too smooth, too long. It pulled itself from the rift as if being born—and hating every second of it.

A Wanderer.

An actual, canon-accurate, Wanderer.

And up close?

It wasn’t just nightmare fuel. It was too real.

Flickering sigils twisted across its body, pulsing with something foul and alive. Its face—or whatever it had instead—turned toward us, blind but searching. It clicked.

Once. Twice.

Like bone tapping bone.

Caleb stepped in front of me.

I didn’t move.

I couldn’t.

Because my body had gone ice cold from the inside out.

This wasn’t a cutscene.

There was no turn order. No dodge button. No pull to restart.

The creature roared.

Sound cracked through the sky like a warning shot from hell itself. The ground shook. Caleb raised his weapon.

And me?

I just stared, lips parting, voice flat with disbelief as my nervous system gave up entirely.

“Oh, fuck no.”

To be continued...

[xxsycamore]

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ━ ≪ VISIONS OF TEMPTATION 2024 ≫

Welcome to the fifth annual installment of Visions of Temptation, a multifandom kinktober prompt list/creation challenge! ►Under the cut you will find both lists written down in blank format. You’ll also find a short explanation of some of the lesser-known kinks.

███ GUIDELINES

► minors DNI!

► The two lists are absolutely free to use across all fandoms, with a main focus on otome games. If you’re a writer, artist, visual graphic creator, etc., you can use these lists to create your kinktober works.

►You can share this with your followers and open requests using these lists.

► In the kink list, you can choose a kink to work with for each day of October, while in the other list, you have 31 dialogue prompts. It’s up to you whether you choose to follow one of the lists or both, and to combine them or not. You don't have to follow just one list either - mix and match them if you'd like!

► Make sure to put content warnings where needed.

► Unlike most of my challenges, this one won't have a masterlist featuring the works created for it, meaning that it won't have a deadline either - feel free to complete it at your own pace.

► About credit: Make sure to mention the challenge itself and its creator. I’d be happy to see your works, so please tag me when using my list here on tumblr! Posting to other sites is fine, as long as you credit me :)  

►In order for us to find each other's works and appreciate them, please make sure to use the tag " #visions of temptation 2024 " !

►Don't hesitate to reach out if you have a question! My askbox is always open!

►Remember to have fun and not stress over this really long challenge! ❤

targeted fandoms: Ikeseries (Ikemen Villains; Ikemen Prince; Ikemen Vampire; Ikemen Sengoku + other cybird games); Love and Deepspace; Tears of Themis; Obey me!; Mr. Love: Queen's Choice; Count of Darkness; Voltage games; Mystic Messenger; Lovebrush Chronicles; Light and Night + all other mobile/console otome you can think of. Remember, this is just the focus of the challenge - you can write for any fandom at all!

Depending on how much free time i've got on my hands, I'll also be checking out your works and reblogging them on my main blog, @kissmetwicekissmedeadly - under the tag "#vot '24 reblogs" :)

If you're wondering if I'm taking requests for my challenge, make sure to check my blog beforehand. At the moment of posting this, requests are closed - but that might change in the future.

███ PROMPTS

► both lists in blank format + handy explanation of some of the kinks under the cut.

Happy creating, everyone and may you have a great October! ❤

KINK LIST:

 Porn Actors AU  |  Anonymous Sex/One-night Stand

 Gloryholes  |  Handjobs/Fingering

 Phone sex  | Guided Touching 

 Orgasm Control  |  Bondage/Shibari

 Make up Sex  |  Mirror Sex

 Feather Play  |  Coming Untouched

 Sensory Deprivation  |  Sex Toys/Object Insertion

 Workplace Sex  |  Sex in a Vehicle 

 Choking/Breath play  | Dacryphilia

 Accidental Stimulation  |  Body Part Worship 

 Wet Dreams  |  Sexual Fantasy

 First Times  |  Role Reversal

 Fetish Clothing & Accessories |  Striptease

 Bathroom sex  |   Outdoor/Public sex

 Discipline & Punishment  |  Degradation/Praise Kink 

 Nipple Orgasms  |  Lactation/Pregnant sex 

 Blade/Gun Play  |  Spanking/Impact play 

 Intoxication/Hypnosis/Aphrodisiacs  |   Dry Humping

 Watersports  |  Begging 

 Food Play  |  Come Play

 Anal Sex/Pegging |  Size Difference

 Omegaverse/Breeding  |  Petplay 

 Massages  |  Temperature Play 

 Facesitting  |  Deepthroating

 Voyeurism/Exhibitionism  |  Getting Caught 

 Spitroasting  |  Double Penetration 

 Casual Sex/FWB  |  Switching Partners 

 Biting/Marking  |  Jealousy/Possessiveness 

 Sex Games/Dares  |  Trying New Positions     

 Cockwarming/Somnophilia  | Foreplay/Aftercare focus

Non-human characters/traits |  Sexual Roleplay 

DIALOGUE LIST:

 "I have no plans of stopping anytime soon."

"You have to say it. Use your words."

"See this? It's going to go inside you."

"Hush now. I'm only trying to help you."

"Let's see how long you can last."

"You know what happens when you do that."

"Maybe I should be punished?"

"Look at you, you're taking it so well."

 "We can go, or we can stay here and fuck."

"And here I thought you were an innocent one."

"Go on, put it in yourself."

"Where do you want me to cum?"

"Don't tease now. Be nice."

"I want to watch you come just from this."

"Beg me to be gentle."

"You thought you could get away with seducing me?"

"One more orgasm and I'll untie you."

"You look good like that. Thoroughly loved."

"I thought this is what you wanted?"

"I love that you're only making this erotic face for me."

"Poor thing, you're barely standing on your legs."

"Here, bite into this. Since you can't stay quiet."

"That's it, you're doing such a good job."

"I can't stand a second more of not being inside you."

"Did the risk turn you on so much?"

"Oh, you'll regret letting me know that you like this."

"Come here. I'll make it all better."

"You're breathtaking. It makes me desire you so much."

"Seems like we can't keep our hands to ourselves."

"You feel so good. I don't ever want to stop."

"I've got much more in store for you."

some prompts explained...

Gloryholes - A person inserting their sexual organ through a hole in the wall with the intention to be pleasured from the other side.

Anonymous sex - Here's an idea: masquerade balls.

Orgasm Control - Can include Edging, Forced Orgasms, Orgasm denial.

Make up sex - Sex after an argument.

Mirror sex - Sex in front of a mirror.

Sensory Deprivation - Blocking stimuli from one or more of the senses. Example - Blindfolds.

Dacryphilia - Being turned on by your partner crying during sex.

Sexual Fantasy - Sharing/being made to share about a sexual fantasy, masturbating to a sexual fantasy, or helping your partner live out a sexual fantasy.

Role reversal - Swapping the giving and receiving role during intercourse.

Voyeurism - secretly watching someone participate in sexual activities or do something private and intimate like taking off their clothes.

Watersports - Everything involving pee. Holding it in, Golden showers, etc.

Come play - Anything to do with a partner's cum, for example Come marking.

Spitroasting - A three-way sex act in which a person is penetrated orally and anally/vaginally at the same time.

Omegaverse - A kink-trope-universe build around a hierarchy of biological roles: alphas>betas>omegas.

Somnophilia - Intercourse while a sexual partner is asleep.

FWB - Friends with benefits.

Switching partners - Two or more couples having intercourse at the same time, swapping/switching their partners.

Impact play - Slapping a sexual partner, could be across the face or on their rear.

Sexual roleplay - doctor/patient play, boss/employee play, all kinds of play pretend.

Hope these could be of help! Remember, you can always come ask if something's unclear. Once again, happy creating! ❤

[clairewritesfanfics]

Invincible MASTERLIST

Route: Mark Grayson | Invincible & Variants

Multi-chaptered fics

Villain Creation System (a quick transmigration fic involving an isekai'd Reader)

Invincible Variants: Origins

No Goggles Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 (last part)

Sinister

Mohawk

Prisoner

Omni-Mark

Branching Route: Viltrumite!Mark Grayson

Nail Reader Character Settings: Gender neutral, partial to completely blind Synopsis: He's the quiet, genius transfer that the grownups praised to high heaven, you're the chew toy for every bully in and out of school. He may have been the boy who lives next door, but he might as well have been a stranger. As far as you're concerned, you have no place in each other's life. You didn't think a cheap notebook would change that.

Milf Reader and Vil Mark

Harem Route: Standalones/One-shots

The Idea of You (working title) Reader Character Settings: AFAB, she/her Synopsis: You are a normal human, all things considered, but having the ability to see future events has doomed you to a life as the GDA's pawn. However, what begins as one uneventful day results in your whole world getting turned upside down by the echoes of a man you've only ever seen in your dreams.

Alt: The variants break the Reader out of her prison in GDA headquarters.

Drabbles/Imagines/One-shots

Rick Sanchez-level genius Reader who drags Angstrom to the wasteland where he sent the Marks

Cheating men must die

Variant!Mark Grayson who treats you way more kindly than he does everybody else

Variants encounter Invincible!Reader during the Invincible War

Variants with a chaotic evil Reader with Scarlet Witch powers

Variants react to their Reader wanting to break up with them (she's pregnant or scared that if she does have a child with them the baby will end up being forced to follow in their footsteps)

Reader gets replaced by an alternate version of themselves and the Marks find out

Main Mark and variants whose Reader gets into a motorbike accident

Variants and a childhood friend turned girlfriend that became blind before childhood was over

Doctor Strange/Herta Reader

Captured Mark (this is the variant that Angstrom interviewed and the one was captured by genderbent Cecil and Donald)

Short angst with Captured Mark

Male!Reader confesses to Mark and the variants (Main Mark, Full Mask, Maskless, Mohawk, Prisoner)

Zombie AU

Main Mark and variants with Neglected Batsis!Reader

Civilian AU: Shiesty

Headcanons

Mark Grayson Variants as Husbands:

Emperor, Mohawk, No Goggles, Omni-Mark, Prisoner Mark

Cap Mark, Full Mask Mark, Maskless Mark, Shiesty Mark, Sinister Mark, Viltrumite Mark

Their pet names for you

If you one day you looked different, bordering on non-human, would he recognize you?

Fluff Alphabet for Mark Grayson Variants:

Mohawk

Omni-Mark

Prisoner

No Goggles

Harem AU

Chibi Reader

Giant Reader

Male Lead Clichés and Tropes

Full Mask, No Goggles, Prisoner and Target as otome game male leads because why not (ver. campus life)

Main Mark and variants find out Reader draws them

Main Mark and variants find a way to prolong Reader's life but Reader does not want that

Main Mark and variants whose Reader gets up at night to draw them

Main Mark and variants with a clumsy reader

Variants with a paraplegic Reader

Variants fight a superhero Reader with shapeshifting powers

Variants with an asexual Reader

Variants with a Reader who loves to feed them

Variants (No Goggles, Prisoner, Shiesty, Sinister) with a waterbender Reader

Variants (Emperor/Target, Shiesty, Sinister, Viltrumite) who are soft only for their Reader

Main Mark and variants with a Frieren-like Reader

Music as Writing Prompts

Prisoner and Main Mark really fit Would You Fall in Love with Me Again

Happy Evil Love

Love with the Marks as told in Taylor Swift lyrics. Part 1, Part 2

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire. They were lifted from the following sources:

Invincible flying is from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

Alternate Invincibles is from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

The image of Viltrumite Mark fighting is a screencap from the TV show.

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

Invincible Questions & Discussion<<select

[stcrmade-illusions]

mmm I’m gonna say it…I really, really don’t like how this fandom treats nonbinary people. yes this is an otome game that’s targeted to straight women but that doesn’t mean nonbinary people and even men can’t play it and love and thirst over the characters.

I’ve been writing a sylus x male reader fic, I shared a few paragraphs and someone commented “Why? lads men aren’t gay!”

Yes, you’re absolutely right! They’re the straightest fictional men to ever exist but what people do in fanon isn’t going to change what’s canon.

There’s a thousand and one fics with lads men x fem reader. I love and enjoy those so much and I’ve even written a few of my own…but I am nonbinary and one of the ways I explore my gender fuckery is through fiction.

I don’t always want sylus or caleb to fuck my pussy or feel up my tits sometimes I want them to suck my non existent dick and fuck me in the ass!

I see a lot of people get defensive and claim they’re not homophobic but maybe the people who get so up in arms about lads men x male reader or when people ship the guys together should ask themselves why it bothers them so much. Especially because it doesn’t affect you and if you don’t want to see something, you have the option to block and mute.

…I think a lot of people get way, waaaay to defensive about this game. Nobody’s gonna take it from you. 💀 The characters aren’t gonna magically turn gay, the company has made that crystal clear. Idk…shit like this just turns me off from wanting to engage and participate in the fandom.

[occasional-yan-stuff]

really enjoyed your yan otome post! im a fan of stuff like that where characters in traditional video game settings/other media go yan for people irl :3 i saw your post in the community so i wanted to ask- whats your opinion on characters in a standard rpg party setup going yan for the player (possibly healer bc i main white mage in ffxiv lol)? the hero, archer, mage, tank/knight, etc?

Ask and ye shall receive! This will be set up kinda like my berries post, going through characters one at a time. Let's do another isekai type thing, but this time with each yan being kind of an... alternate scenario where that character is the one becoming meta and going yandere, as opposed to there berries where it was sort of a harem. I realize now that you probably wanted a more casual type thing, but I ended up writing little mini stories for each of them. oops!

And now, without further ado...

RPG Archetypes as Yanderes

Pairing: Yandere!Meta!RPG characters (multiple genders) X GN! reader

Warnings: Manipulation (hero, healer, mage, archer), Factitious Disorder Imposed on Another in a non familial context (Healer), implied physical abuse (healer), Obsessive behaviors (all), Possessive behaviors (Healer, Rouge, Tank, Mage, Archer), Stalking (rouge, archer), Blood (rouge), Murder (rouge, tank (implied)), Dubiously consensual SFW touching (Rouge, Tank,), Intelligence degradation (Tank), Nonconsensual kissing (Tank), love spells (Mage), mind control (mage), emotional dependency (Archer)

Details/Tropes: Abuse of italics, Himbo (Tank), Nicknames (hero, rouge, tank), Protector Yan (hero, rouge, tank), Submissive Yan (hero,), Resentful Yan (Rouge), Flirty Yan (tank, archer), YanTsun (Mage), Needy Yan (archer)

THIS IS GONNA BE A LONG ONE, FOLKS! STRAP IN!

It wasn't dramatic. You didn't get hit by a truck and get reborn as a baby. You didn't have a heart attack while playing the game and wake up as the main character. You didn't even get sucked into the console after a bright light came out of it. No, you just went to bed one night and woke up here. You looked exactly like you, you talked exactly like you, you just had different clothes and had somehow woke up in a bed you hadn't gone to sleep in. Looking around the room brought up nothing. It was as if everything had been taken from every drawer. All that was left behind was a set of clothes in the wardrobe. They were brightly colored and gaudy with strong silhouettes, nothing like the typical garb of the medieval-ish setting a quick glance out the window lead you to believe you were in. These looked more like something right out of... oh... oh no.

After getting dressed and taking several minutes to convince yourself, you crept down the stairs of the strange inn to see the party. Your party. They had all of the exact armor upgrades you had given them and had the exact same weapons equipped. You looked around the room and it finally hit you, this was the inn you had saved the game in last night, before you went to bed. This was your save file. You had woken up in your save file.

You talked to the party for a bit and, of course, they recruited you to join. That's just how stories like this go, after all. Traveling with them was fun at first, you loved slaying monsters and getting to know your favorite characters. It was even better because when you died, instead of going back to the inn, it would just take you back to the previous morning, meaning you didn't loose much progress in the adventure, or in building connections with your new friends. Still, as you got to know the party better and better, you couldn't help but notice how odd one of them was acting...

The Hero

He was so instantly sure that it was you. Your voice gave it away instantly. You were the one who has been in his head, telling him what to do, what to say, and how to direct his allies. You were the one he had deemed his Guardian Angel. Now that were here with him, he still wanted to listen to you. You'd gotten him this far, hadn't you? He looked to you for guidance so much that you basically became the de-facto leader of the party.

The first reset was startling to him to say the least but no one else in the party seemed to remember it. That meant it was his duty to make sure what happened before didn't happen again. You had been his Guardian Angel, how he had to be yours. Disobeying your orders to prevent resets was uncomfortable at first but he knew it had to be done. He knew he had to protect you.

You didn't think much of it when it happened. He was, in theory, the leader after all, and you liked to see him taking charge again. However, it eventually became clear that he didn't respond to the resets like other characters, who would behave in the exact same ways and say the exact same things, and you knew you had to confront him about it.

He breathed a sigh of relief that you remembered the resets too. He didn't have to be alone anymore and protecting you wasn't as important. Things could go back to normal, with you being the Guardian Angel that he could never tell you that you were. It was so nice to just take a load off. He always had to be in control, having someone like you to take charge for him and help him with tough decisions was like a breath of fresh air.

It was so nice to be told what to do in battle for a change, it made him feel more like he was on the same level with the rest of the party, and better yet, it made him feel more like he was below you. It was a feeling he couldn't get enough of for whatever reason. Maybe he was just tired of all the challenges, maybe he thought you were better at it, or maybe... it was just the effect that his Guardian Angel had on him.

At times, he would pretend not to know how to do even the most basic of tasks so you would help him or even do it for him. Lighting a fire? Cooking an egg? Putting on his own armor? All skills he magically lost but some how regained the second that anyone but you offered to help him. And every time you did help him, he fell in love with you more and more.

Once you had come along, he quickly lost interest in all 6 of the romance options he had in the original game. You were all he cared about. He loved you. He needed you. His move was finally made about 5 weeks after you appeared in this word. He asked you to come to the beach and look at the sea with him that night. You had played this game time and time again. You knew what that meant, but still, you went. Perhaps it was out of simple curiosity, perhaps it was something more.

That night, he dropped to one knee, unsheathed his sword, and held it up to you. Its black blade glistened in the light of the moon.

"I don't want to be the hero of prophecy anymore," He said, his voice fully certain, "I only want to be yours, my Guardian Angel."

The Healer

She wanted to protect you. Of course she wanted to protect you. She wanted to protect everyone in the party but you... you were different. Perhaps was the amount of interest you took in her that really did it. You were always there to make her feel better in the many many times she got self conscious and you always helped her and the archer make dinner for the rest of the party.

She was, admittedly, pretty darn tropey, but that's part of what drew you to her in the first place. In your old life, you loved writing fanfic that explored her on a deeper level, studying how her backstory influenced certain aspects of her characterization and why she was so motherly towards all the other characters. Now, you had an opportunity to find the real answers to exactly why she was the way she was, what made her tick, and the type of person she was when she really knew someone and could open up to them.

The original game only really treated her as a love interest for the hero and a fragile thing that was there to patch up the rest of the party. Now that you were able to see things from your own perspective, instead of the perspective of the hero, you could finally interact with her without having to worry about going down a romantic route... or so you thought.

She had a tendency to latch onto anyone who payed attention to her and this time, it was you. In here eyes, the rest of the party only ever saw her for her utility, but you saw her as a person and as a friend. She couldn't let you leave her.

She would often give you less healing than you needed, keeping you weak and dependent. What an odd coincidence that she never had enough components or ingredients to make a strong enough spell or potion. The other party members could get healed up fine but maybe there was something about you that made you resistant to healing magic. That was the excuse she always used.

There were some nights where she crept into your tent as you slept and used her spells to decrease your max HP, making you over all weaker and weaker, over all more and more in need of her service. She felt bad about it, a little, but this was the only way she could ensure that you would stay with her. This was the only way she could keep you. It didn't matter that she was breaking her oath to always prioritization the health of others. You were far more important than that.

As was bound to happen on a long journey like this, you got sick once or twice. She adored these periods of illness. It was so lovely to coax soup down your throat and gently stroke your hair. You needed bed rest, after all, and it was up to her to decide when you were all better. Sometimes she wished she could just keep you like this forever but she knew that the dark lord would have to be defeated at some point, and thus always forced herself to put an end to things.

Although she couldn't keep you sick all the time, she was still constantly worried about you and doting. She was always a worrier but now she had someone else to worry about. You noticed how at times she would say things to you that she said to the hero in her romantic route. This made it clear that she had feelings for you.

You didn't want to give her the wrong idea so you began to distance yourself. This didn't make her feelings fade, though. All that happened was her becoming desperate and clingy, always wanting to go on missions with you. Everything came to a head when you offered to go on a side quest with the archer.

You woke up the next morning with a broken leg.

The Mage

The second you got to this world you were deeply interested in magic. This was a bit inconvenient for the mage because they weren't deeply interested in you, seeing you as another pointless addition to an already over crowded party. That was before the first reset, however.

The way the flow of time was connected to your death was fascinating. They didn't show this fascination, of course, being a pretty two dimensional tsundere in the original game where they were a love interest, but it was definitely there. This secret fascination is what made them reluctantly start teaching you magic, so that they could research you.

It was never a secret that they knew about resets. They had assumed the others did as well before they brought it up and everyone looked at them like they had two heads. This was the thought of their theory that only those truly versed in the arcane could remember resets. This only expanded their interest in you, the only other person that remembered.

They were convinced that you had some secret magical knowledge that you were hiding from them, but then why would you ask them to teach you? Just to spend more time with them? That was there assumption but they played along with your 'lessons' because they wanted to study you more.

The more time the two of you spent together, bonding over magic and resets, the more they started to fall for you. It was just like in the game where progress in the mage's romantic arc would give the hero more and more powerful spells to use.

They started using lines from the romantic arc that you had played through time and time again for the spells. You wanted to back away and distance yourself but you remembered the bad end of their romance route: They use a love potion on the hero to keep him theirs forever. Not wanting to suffer the same fate, you let it play out, letting them call you dummy and get flustered just as you remembered it in the game.

That wasn't enough though. They could tell your heart wasn't in it. They could tell that you weren't truly theirs. They really had no other choice than to make you love them.

It was just one of your usual magic lessons when they pressed the flower petal into your palm and whispered those fateful words into your ear.

"This bloom makes you mine and mine alone."

That was all that was needed for your head to go fuzzy and everything to go pink. All you could think of was them. All you needed was them.

The Rouge

One word: Sneaky. They didn't really like people, and, in all honesty, they barely liked you, but something about you drew him to you. They would always stand there, silent, hood up and starting at you. You never found it strange. This was just how they were. The only thing you found truly off putting was the way they would seem to become quietly frustrated every time you spoke with another party member. It was like they saw you as a prize, another treasure to steal.

You were never alone on missions or quests. No, they were always there, watching from the shadows, hand on their knife in case anyone jumped out to attack you. Usually they would handle those who meant you harm without you even seeing either them. It was always so strange how they would be covered in blood whenever you got back from missions.

One night, however, as you walked the dark streets of the city, there was a dangerous person they hadn't spotted. A man much larger than you jumped out and pulled out a knife. He was about to say something but was cut off by the rouge's own blade entering his back and twisting.

The rouge pulled you out of the way of the body, which fell to the earth with a thud, and pulled you close with their blood stained hands.

"No one hurts my treasure," he whispered in your ear

The Tank

He was too dumb to be conniving, but that was ok. Smarts weren't necessary to know how special you were. It seemed to you that with very reset, he would get just a little dumber and just a little more obviously in love with you. Not that he ever wasn't.

He'd always been the type to tease, be it enemies or party members, that's what made him such a fan favorite in the real world, but with you it was more... flirty. Like something straight out of an 'X reader' fic on tumblr. He also had a tendency to use pet names for you. He had nicknames for all of the party members but that was always more playful "red," "sharp shot," "Mx. Silent," stuff like that. For you, it was almost always "cutie."

You were always the priority in fights too. If there was ever an AOE or an attack with multiple projectiles, you were always the one he threw himself in front of.

"wouldn't want anyone ruining that pretty face," he'd say with a smirk.

This was how it started but it got more intense with each reset. Your third death was about the time he started getting all touchy feely. A moment seldom passed with his hands not on you, holding your hand, around your waist, on your thigh. It was as though he thought that letting go would make you disappear.

He also became even less afraid to speak his mind. Other party members would address their dissatisfaction at his prioritization of you over them in combat, to which he would respond "you're just jealous that I like the newbie better than you." and cross his arms with a loud clang emitted from his heavy plate armor.

In the game, there were a lot of things he canonically couldn't do. He couldn't start a fire, he couldn't name certain species of animals off the top of his head, and he couldn't tell a scary story to save his life, just to name a few. More and more skills were lost as the resets went on. By your 10th death, he didn't even know what a deer was called and seemed convinced that the sky was red.

He was more impulsive too, jumping off of water falls to make a big splash, chasing after animals that he was 'helping' the archer hunt, and even kissing you right on the mouth with no warning, squeezing your cheeks with his gauntlets. It was weird. The rest of the party could tell too.

Your 15th reset is when he finally snapped. The party sat around eating breakfast, the hero notably absent. He had been here by now during the previous reset and even pulled you aside after breakfast for a serious talk about the tanks behavior.

"Where's the hero?" you asked to no one in particular.

"Oh," the tank responded with a casual smile, "I didn't like him talking to my cutie."

The Archer

She was fragile, really fragile. Not just because of her low HP, armor, and stamina but also emotionally. It was a common headcanon amongst fans that her charming, flirty attitude was just a defense mechanism for how insecure she was on the inside. Getting to know her in this new world showed you that this was absolutely true.

There were many hours late at night where she would sob to you around the fire, telling you all about a backstory that was never revealed in the actual game. It was heart breaking. You felt so bad for her. These moments were why she became so deeply attached to you.

You became her rock, she would come to you whenever she needed to talk about anything. She practically broke down when you were out of commission for whatever reason. The others respected her as being quick and witty, a fire cracker. She couldn't turn to anyone else.

Still, she was incredibly flirty with you and loved seeing how flustered she could get you. That's one of the main reasons she took you on so many missions with her and hunting trips too, but there was one other reason that the always took you along, other than teasing and emotional stability: she didn't trust the other party members alone with you.

Even when you went on missions with other party members, she was there, using feather light hunting steps not to be detected. You were hers, after all. She couldn't let you have too much emotional investment in anyone else.

Whenever she saw at camp that you were about to have a heart felt moment with another party member, she would step in and ruin it, and if she saw you and another party member have a heart to heart on a mission, she would pull them aside for a chat and they would start avoiding you for whatever reason.

It was ok though, even as everyone but her started to avoid you. She was all you needed. You knew because she always reminded you.

[mandalhoerian]

I’m really impressed by your analysis of Raf’s new card! Everything you stated makes so much sense and gave me a fresh perspective on his insecurities.

However, I recently came across a discussion on Reddit where someone pointed out that Rafayel's actions could be seen as problematic. They argued there’s a lack of consent from MC, suggesting that MC wasn’t fully into it. They mentioned the use of the dagger as a symbol of the MC's discomfort or pain, which they attributed to her being tense or unrelaxed. They also highlighted how MC seemed to try distracting him, like asking him to answer the phone or pointing out the snow.

Personally, I don’t agree with their interpretation, but I’m struggling to articulate why. Do you have any thoughts or interpretations that might help address this perspective?

Okay, um. First and foremost, thank you for sharing your thoughts and for trusting me with this question, but god did I literally react like this.

But, before we get into the analysis of the deed itself, let’s start first by grounding this discussion in the context of the product that is Love and Deepspace.

This is a 12+ rated action-adventure sci-fi otome game, which sets a clear expectation for the tone and themes presented. While otome games can and often do explore nuanced and occasionally darker themes (and this doesn't mean they have subpar writing just because they're meant for a wider audience), they are typically balanced with the age-appropriate rating in mind. In a banner like this that is intentionally designed to revolve around romantic sex, it’s essential to recognize that the developers aren’t aiming to create content that veers into dead dove or non-consensual territory. To suggest that the writers or developers would include something as serious as this, especially under the guise of a romance storyline, is not only a misinterpretation but also an extreme departure from the genre’s conventions and the intended tone of the game.

The entire theme of the event is centered on exploring romantic tension, intimacy, and the growing bond between characters in a way that’s exciting but ultimately safe and consensual. The "spice" in these scenarios is shockingly suggestive when you have the censorship in mind, and designed to make us scream, not to introduce dark or inappropriate themes that would completely undermine the romantic fantasy. To imply otherwise is frankly absurd and feels like reading intent where there is none.

1) Otome games, particularly those rated 12+, are crafted to engage players in a romantic and emotionally fulfilling experience. They're fluffy, they're angsty, they can be dark and heavy, but even in more mature otome games, themes of non-consent (when they appear) are explicitly framed and addressed with appropriate tonal shifts. This isn’t a game where heavy, disturbing themes are shoehorned into a romantic storyline for shock value.

2) If the developers were truly presenting a situation where non-consensual sex or coercion was involved, it would be a complete betrayal of the genre, the event’s theme, and the player’s trust. The "spice" banner would instantly alienate the audience it’s designed for and spark backlash, not romantic engagement. The devs know their audience and their ratings, and this simply isn’t the place or context for something so serious.

Now that we're done WHY this sort of scenario CANNOT be the case for infold's writing, let's go into the symbolism and the language used to describe the act.

Rafayel enters the room abruptly and begins kissing MC without preamble. While this could initially seem forward, the scene takes care to show that:

MC actively breaks away to question him multiple times. This demonstrates that she is neither overpowered nor silenced, she has the agency to assert herself.

When she bites his lip, Rafayel respects this boundary and answers her questions, and more importantly, stops being non-verbal and communicates. It shows he is responsive to her cues, even when caught up in the moment.

The dynamic here leans into playful tension rather than coercion. MC’s actions (breaking away and biting) and Rafayel’s response (answering her and continuing to interact with her desires) showcase a mutual push-and-pull, common in romantic tension scenes.

As the scene progresses, it becomes clear that MC is not just passively involved but actively reciprocates:

Holds his hand on her own to make him accept the call while they're being sexual. That's freaky.

She flips him over and begins initiating physical affection, kissing him from his ear to his chest. This is a strong indication that she is not only comfortable but also eager to participate in their intimacy.

The "punish" action selected by the player highlights MC’s playful intent and interest in this interaction, especially in the context of teasing Rafayel while his friend’s call looms in the background. This playful edge basically screams mutual enjoyment rather than discomfort.

And now to the main course

the dagger

Listen. As much as we've normalized that this is dick in puss moment, infold can't. So, they've got to use euphemisms to describe Rafayel's dick and what he does with it. The metaphor of the "dagger" isn't meant to represent his dick and it hurting her.

Soft sharpness seeps into me bit by bit: This describes the initial entry, slow and deliberate, emphasizing Rafayel’s care in ensuring the act is comfortable and mutual. "Soft" reflects the intensity of the sensation without implying pain by juxtaposing with "sharpness". It also tells you that "soft sharpness" is his dick and it's describing how gentle he's being. How can sharpness be soft? When you're careful with it that it doesn't feel "sharp" anymore. It's meant to be a stand-in for his cock. It's not describing pain. It's his peanis. The dong. The verb "seeps" here says all you need to know, it's not painful.

Then it (the <<soft sharpness>>) digs into me like a dagger: This directly describes Rafayel increasing his movement (or thrusting), with the "dagger" symbolizing THE MOVEMENT. You know what you do with a dagger? Stab with it. The imagery of a dagger isn’t meant to evoke harm, it’s a stand-in for the deliberate and rhythmic motion of penetration.

So, in smut-language, Rafayel was putting it in slowly, then half-way, he thrusted it all the way in, quickly.

And so, let's interpret the act going forward.

"Yellow sand as far as the eye can see is covered by snow"

Remember that Rafayel indirectly called MC "the snow" by saying "it was soft and beautiful" when she pointed out it was snowing in the desert? This metaphor reflects the emotional and physical dynamic between Rafayel and MC. The “yellow sand” symbolizes Rafayel and his inner turmoil, dryness, and insecurities. The “snow” represents MC and his soothing presence and how her love transforms and comforts him. They are also on top of each other lmao, he is being “covered” by her presence, fully surrendering to her.

"We approach the sea beyond the dunes despite the bumpiness"

The "sea" symbolizes climax or release, both physically and emotionally. The “bumpiness” describes the physical intensity of their rhythm as they near this point together.

"Ripples travel along the undulating water's surface"

Yep. They're still going at it. This metaphor captures the sensations and physical effects of reaching climax. The ripples signify the aftereffects of release, the pleasure that radiates and envelops both of them. This is Rafayel and MC experiencing the peak of their intimacy, with the “undulating water” representing their synchronized pleasure and satisfaction.

"Swept into that endless blue"

Post-orgasm bliss. The overwhelming euphoria and serenity that comes with shared climax. It emphasizes the emotional connection they feel in this moment—boundless and all-encompassing.

"This isn't the abyss. Rather, it's a place filled with red flame lilies. This is Rafayel's color."

Now, this is MY interpretation, so take it with a grain of salt.

The "abyss" here symbolizes the emotional and creative void Rafayel has been experiencing--his lack of inspiration and his deep-rooted insecurities that leave him feeling hollow and disconnected. The abyss represents the blank canvas of his mind.

The transition from the abyss to the field of red flame lilies signifies a turning point for Rafayel. The flame lilies are not just a burst of inspiration, they are deeply tied to MC and the way she has reignited his passion BEYOND pain, both as an artist and as a person capable of love and connection.

By stating, “This is Rafayel’s color,” the narrative emphasizes that the flame lilies are uniquely his. They symbolize the return of his personal brand of creativity and vibrancy. It’s not about finding generic inspiration, it’s about rediscovering his own voice and perspective and MC doesn’t simply provide inspiration, she helps him unlock what was already inside him, and I believe, somehow witnesses the bursting of life inside him in her mind throughout the bond they share. MC serves as the guiding force that helps him reclaim his “color,” allowing him to see himself, and his art, in a new light.

Flame lilies are striking and bold, often symbolizing passion, love, and transformation. They’re an apt metaphor for Rafayel’s internal rebirth. Where the abyss was blank and desolate, the lilies are vibrant and overflowing with meaning, mirroring his renewed sense of self.

So, yeah.

And let’s be honest if you’re going to suggest non-consensual sex in a scene where MC flips him over, actively teases him, and metaphorically commands his every move through a glowing mark on his chest, then maybe it’s time to step away from the Reddit threads and reconnect with nature, maybe consider why you're intentionally picking on Rafayel like this.

He even asked, “Are you sure?” AND checked in with her later with "Are you comfortable?" -- all green flags here. If that’s not the gold standard of consent in an otome game, I don’t know what is.

I hope this was satisfactory, anon!!!!!

[otomehonyaku]

a reader's guide to otomehonyaku ☽ translation masterpost & request guidelines (updated 4 Feb. '25)

you can call me Ottie (she/her)! 20s, DiaLovers translator & writer

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Working on...

Diabolik Lovers More,Blood Stellaworth Complete Tokuten Short Stories ☽ All 10 characters (Next up are Shuu and Reiji!)

Upcoming translations

Diabolik Lovers More,Blood Character Popularity Poll Short Story ☽ Subaru ver.

Diabolik Lovers Chaos Lineage Drama CDs ☽ Vol. 3 (Orange, 4 tracks)

Diabolik Lovers Grand Edition Special Booklet ☽ Year-End Pandemonium (Sakamaki short story)

Diabolik Lovers Vandead Carnival Special Voice CD

Surprise long-form story from one of the tokuten booklets

Diabolik Lovers Chaos Lineage Special Booklet ☽ Short Story (Scarlet ver.)

Diabolik Lovers Chaos Lineage Special Booklet ☽ Short Story (Violet ver.)

Diabolik Lovers Official Anime Novelization ☽ Chapter 4

Note: Please be aware that list is subject to change. If something exciting pops up, I might alternate this list with other translations─in this case, please refer to the 'currently translating' section above to see what I'm working on!

Mainline Diabolik Lovers instalments

☽  DIABOLIK LOVERS: GRAND EDITION ☽ INCLUDING HAUNTED DARK BRIDAL & MORE,BLOOD

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Guidelines for requests & commissions

As a rule of thumb, Diabolik Lovers-related translations are always my priority and I sometimes write for fun. I do not take requests for writing (short stories, headcanons, reacts, scenarios and the like), though paid commissions are negotiable! Creative writing is quite a personal and subjective thing for me, so I tend to be selective as I want to ensure that I have enough inspiration and fun while writing in order to deliver a quality product. Please reach out through DM if you’d like to discuss a paid commission! Thank you for your understanding ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

When requesting/commissioning a translation, please be aware of the following: ☽ Please provide the source materials which you would like to have translated. I do not have the financial means nor the time to personally buy all of the drama CDs or tokuten for all 13 characters, for example, so if you want something translated: please include a link to the source materials. These could be links to audio files on SoundCloud and BiliBili, or links to Tumblr posts with scans of short stories or interviews and the like. ☽ In all cases, it is your own responsibility to ensure that the source materials—particularly fan-made artwork and scans—have been acquired with full permission from the original poster. If the original poster has NOT given you permission to repost or reuse/translate the materials in question, I will NOT translate them. ☽ This probably goes without saying, but I do these translations for fun—I enjoy doing them, but I am also busy in my daily life. I will try my best to finish and post the translation as soon as possible after your request, but I give no guarantees on how long they will take. I do work relatively quickly given my current language skills in Japanese, but the time I can spend on translating varies per week. ☽ If you would like me to translate Japanese-language materials from other otome franchises or pop culture related things, please consult with me and I’ll see what I can do! ☽ DO NOT REPOST ANY OF MY TRANSLATIONS ELSEWHERE, IN ANY FORM WHATSOEVER (INCLUDING VIDEO), OR TRANSLATE MY WORK TO OTHER LANGUAGES WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

[temis-de-leon]

Shy gn!reader goes to their first date with the Demon Brothers

Characters: Mammon, Levi, Satan, Asmo and Beel (x reader, separately)

Main Masterlist

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 4 , Dateables version

Romance Anon: Could I request headcanons for Mammon, Leviathan, Satan, Asmodeus and Beelzebub react to shy gn s/o who asked what he would like to do for their first date because he made them happy by accepting their confession so they want to make him happy?

.

A/N: I asked my brain, "hey, how about we write a little bit" and it answered "how about we fucking don't"

.

Mammon

He’s ready to turn every single one of your outings into a date, but he’s also excited to have the opportunity of organizing the best first date you’ve ever had.

He’ll make sure you won’t ever regret confessing your undying love to him.

It needs to be memorable and special, so going to the casino is a big no-no. You’ve gone together numerous times already and the image of losing every piece of gold in his pocket and his wallet in front of you on such a special occasion makes him shiver in fear and embarrassment.

A fair or a festival are good choices, but, as much as he’d love watching the city skyline on the ferris wheel or winning a plushie for you to cuddle and think of him, those aren’t available all of the time.

The idea of having dinner and a movie makes him remember the projector in his room, but his brothers could spoil that very easily and bile reaches his mouth at the possibility.

You could go shopping, but that doesn’t feel too intimate, does it?

He becomes desperate after hours of thinking and scratching his head and it’s not until he enters his car to go out for a drive and clear his mind that he realizes he has the perfect solution.

Having dinner together and watching the city skyline are romantic activities, but who says you have to do it at home or on top of a fair attraction?

It’s not even two days later when you find yourself sitting on his car’s hood with take-out ramen in your hands, patiently waiting for him to get a blanket out of the trunk.

The chirping sound of crickets and the distant city noises fill the cold night, but the only thing he can think of is the fondness of your embrace slowly warming his body and making him smile like a fool.

Leviathan

He’s already happy that you like him back and he kind of forgets about everything else, so your offer feels like a slap in the face. An enthusiastic reminder that you’re both now starting a relationship.

That thought makes him cry and yell in the emptiness of his room with non-contained happiness.

He fears you’re going to be disappointed with his ideas for your first date, though.

Going out of the house makes his heart pound in apprehension, anxiety quickly scratching his neck and prickling his brain with needles.

Reading through his manga collection, watching multiple shoujos and playing every otome game he has only make him feel worse and inadequate for you.

Why do you want to go out with someone like him? Reclusive, a bitter sad excuse of a demon who can’t get out of the house without an incentive or a pep-talk.

Do you still like him, despite all of that?

Or is it that… you like him including all of that?

Do you want to be seen holding hands with him? Do you want everyone to know that you like him, of all people?

He can’t set your first date in his room, that would be too pathetic; but, at the same time, going to a café like any other normie couple doesn’t feel like him at all.

What’s a place that combines the comfort and privacy of his room and the outside world?

He asks Henry and his beloved pet stares at him with unblinking eyes. Almost immediately, reality hits him like a train.

Of course! The Royal Aquarium!

The blue lights and the submarine life couldn’t be a better substitute for his room and you’d get out of the house! It’s perfect!

Plus, he gets the opportunity of showing off his knowledge of the ocean, something he hopes will impress you.

He wants to do more for you because you deserve it, but he needs time.

There’s a Ruri-chan convention in a few weeks. Maybe you could go together…

For your second date, perhaps…? No pressure, though!!

Satan

He’s a romantic at heart and he’s been picturing how your first date could go since you confessed to him, so you can’t imagine the happiness he felt when he was granted the opportunity to let all of those ideas become real.

A big gesture would feel impersonal and kill the essence of a newborn relationship, so, although he wants to impress you, Satan will not go overboard.

There are museums where he could show you his knowledge on Devildom’s art and history, but he doesn’t want to spend your first date speaking like a pedant scholar.

There are also high reviewed bookstore cafés, as well as his beloved cat cafés, where you could go to have a hot beverage in a soothing space, but that isn’t exactly what he wants.

He wants to talk to you, hear the nervous stammering in your voice while you blush and struggle to look at him in the eye, and going to a bookstore would quiet your conversations, so he keeps that idea for the future.

The cat café is his favourite, but you would expect that from him and he wants to surprise you at least a little.

He gets the perfect idea while feeding the stray cats behind the House of Lamentation.

Knowing where every single cat in the neighbourhood lives, as well as those who prefer the outskirts of town or even the countryside, shows him a part of the area that no one else has ever seen.

A few days later, Satan looks giddy and enamoured walking by your side while you both feed the cats you encounter, following a path full of flowers that lead you to an abandoned viewpoint.

You’re sitting together, surrounded only by the felines that know when to leave you alone, and, despite the beautiful scenery that displays beyond, Satan can only look at you.

Asmodeus

His first impulse is to go all the way.

Showing you around for his fans to know that you two are dating sends a shiver of excitement down his spine, eyes glowing in delight while he ponders which outfit he should wear so he can match with you.

His plans for your first date seem generic, but a closer look into it lets you know that he has it all planned to make you both the centre of attention.

Other’s and each other’s centre of attention, that is.

You’re colour coordinated, your orders in the café are trending in social media and the weather is so good that little to no people are staying inside their homes.

The both of you are being seen just as you deserve.

Beautiful, together, happy.

Jealousy and envy surrounds you, all of his fans photographing your first date with a mixture of admiration and resentment, wishing to be you; wishing to be him more than ever.

The combination of your company, the external flattery and his own satisfaction makes him think that there couldn’t be a first date better than this one.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

You’re not truly alone until the night comes and the residents of the Devildom have no other choice but to leave you to your own devices to continue with their lifes.

You walk close to him, bumping your hips with his until you both start smiling and giggling. Your voices are almost a hush and he finds the way you lean into him to hear his words better quite addictive.

He feels your breath on his skin, your eyes on his. His hands are itching to bring you even closer and never let you go and it’s not until you kiss under a streetlamp in an empty park that he understands why your first date is so perfect.

You’re with him and he’s with you. That’s enough.

Beelzebub

You already know what he’s thinking, although you may be misinterpreting his execution.

While, yes, he wants to take you out to his favourite dinners and restaurants, Belphie advises him to not go all the way. You don’t have the same stomach as him and ending your date feeling ill would leave a very bad impression.

He doesn’t want you to see him as a permanently hungry beast, anyways. It’s not what he wants you to think whenever he’s close to you, even if he acts like it most of the time, so it doesn’t take much convincing from his twin to agree and search for a more delicate plan of sorts.

He wants the full experience: drinks, starter, main dish, side dish and dessert, but why would you have all of that in the same establishment?

There’s a map in his head where every food related store is highlighted in bright neon colours.

A juice and smoothie bar to start the date followed by a true hamburger restaurant, not any of those fast food chains that only serve half of what is shown in the pictures. Far from there, a walk long enough for you to comfortably digest the food, is a stall specialized in fries. Made in a dozens different ways, they are the perfect last savoury treat to eat before ice cream or a pastry.

Asmo recommended him the retro ice cream parlor and Barbatos took him to the traditional bakery once.

If you don’t like burgers or fries, however, there are more places you could go, just tell him! Whichever you prefer, he’ll be fine with it!

His main goal is for you to have a good time with him, after all, and, although food is a necessity to keep his sin in track, he knows it won’t be what will make your first date perfect.

You being his date is what will make it perfect.

.

.

[sylviewrites]

do you write reader as the mc or as a non-mc? bc i don't like mc i find her too perfect and unrealistic to be me and i read your raf piece and thought i would never do that to him

Greetings,

I write both, and they can be interpreted as both. I especially like doing a Non-MC! Lads MC ─── kind of like how you see in Isekai and Transmigration novels. However, I do love both as in: both the same character, and as different characters.

This question has unexpectedly brought a lot of peculiar feelings about the subject. Humans are always different. They have different personality traits, values, different mannerisms, mindset, philosophy and perspective.

There is a big variety of options we have to insert to characters, yet the genre of "self-insertion" has been lacking diversity in the name of relatability.

It is why I have held polls for the people to vote. Many readers want to insert themselves into the world they are reading, not as they are, but as what they could be.

Taking your statement, for example. I am not a particularly athletic woman, I chose the pen over the gun, and I am dealing with a lot of anxiety and self-doubt for years now. However, I could still see MC as a part of myself, because what she liked I also liked, I never resented or disliked.

The MC of Love and Deepspace has a vibrant personality that, as someone who has played quite a few Otome Games, was a breath of fresh air.

To me, she is not unrealistic. She is reckless, sometimes she doesn't think. For many times her emotions have clouded her judgement. Other times, she is too passive. She is also kind and smart, funny and a tease. To create a model for a Personalised Game that can feature both entertainment and the audience majority, many things are going to be overlooked.

Now if the piece you are referring to is DTDM Rafayel one shot, I do have something to say. It is a angst filled written piece about a woman who is at her limits with her partner's constant bitterness of her so called abandonment. This is a case of how people are going to react differently on situations. For someone, they would try to quell Rafayel's burning desperation and centuries-old grudge, acting soft and reassuring. For someone else however, they would butt heads with him, taking his insecurities as a personal jab to them not being a reliable and secure partner, as they never showed him anything else but love and loyalty.

The conclusion that I want to come down to is, that if you are reading each piece of literature for a character that acts just like you, you are not going to find any of them.

Because there is only one you in the world, and so instead, you can try finding yourself through them.

This character shares my love for plushies.

This character likes cats just like I do.

This character drinks their coffee the way I like.

This characters shares my love for the ocean.

This character shares my loves for sweets.

This character sleeps just as much as I do.

This character sings just as horribly as me.

This character loves the sky just as I do.