Hi, I'm Elias, 20+ years old, welcome to my blog (◕◡◕)
Feel free to request/ask me anything! (If you don't like being shown names, you can ask as anonymous😎, or note me.)
Request closed
RULE
Please be respectful
Most characters are not mine and may be out of character (OOC)
I mostly write female reader insert. I can try different genders (male and gender-neutral). But I can't write for the others, as I don't want to misrepresent the LGBTQ+ community due to my limited knowledge. If you can give me some more insights then I could consider.
I will write platonic relationships depending on the character, especially for minors and the elderly.
I am not fluent in NSFW writing. I can try my best but no promises.
Some cultural knowledge and lore may be inaccurate; if so, please correct me. I’d appreciate the opportunity to learn more.
English is my second language so if you see any error is grammar or spelling. Please understand that I try 😭
Thank you for reading. Have a lovely day ❤️
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✧ Masterlist ✧
Identity V
Love and Deepspace
Homicipher
The Kid at the Back
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Hi! Sorry I couldn’t write a fic this time 😭 Butttt… I’ve been exploring new interests lately, and in my free time these past few weeks I’ve been teaching myself to draw through online guides. I thought this request would be a nice chance to practice my art instead! I still wanted to bring the idea to life, so here’s my take on how Naib would react. I’m still learning, so it’s not perfect ...but I really hope you’ll enjoy it just as much.
I was the anon that asked for the last Naib one. Thank you so much!! I feel like you write him so well!! I actually have another ask if that’s ok with you. Since his birthday just passed could I get one with the reader trying to celebrate his birthday by making (at least attempting to, lol) him a traditional Nepali meal??
Hey! I just wanted to give you a quick update about the fic request.
First, it really means a lot that you'd want me to write. I’ve also been really happy knowing that you enjoy reading my fics. That kind of support keeps me going, honestly.
It’s just that I’ve been juggling a few other things lately, and my focus has been a bit all over the place. Since it’s a birthday fic for Naib, I really want to give it the time and attention it deserves rather than rush something half-finished.
So for now, it’s on pause, but I promise I’ll come back to it as soon as I can.
Could I get one for Naib where he gets really injured during a match and reader is patching him up and it makes them sad to see him hurt like that. They’re not together but there’s definitely chemistry there so when reader hugs him and kisses his head he doesn’t know what to do with himself. I feel like he would just melt to any affection shown towards him.
Don't do that again!
Tag: Naib x gn!reader
Tags: Comfort (fluff?), Mild protective, Established relationship, slow burn,
Warning: Grammar & spelling
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The match ended in a scramble of breath and blood.
You made it through the gate only because he threw himself between you and the Hunter, catching the claws meant for your throat. You had seen his body twisting unnaturally with the force of the blow, his arm crumpling as he landed hard. You wanted to go back, scream at him for being reckless. But the timer was running out, and the exit gate was right there, and if you hesitated, he’d have done it for nothing.
So you ran.
The moment your boots hit manor stone, you spun around to see if he was behind you. He wasn’t.
Others were trickling in. But still… no sight of him
Your stomach coiled with something sick and sour.
They started congratulating each other. Relief jokes, half-laughs, someone slapped your shoulder. You barely heard any of it. Your mind was back at the forest edge, where blood sprayed like black ink across dead leaves and where someone you weren’t supposed to care about hit the ground for you.
He showed up five minutes later.
He walked in through the infirmary door like he wasn’t missing half a sleeve and limping on one side. Like the cloth pressed to his ribs wasn’t soaked in red. Like this was normal. Routine. Nothing to talk about.
He didn’t look at anyone. Just made a straight path to the nearest cot and sat down with the kind of control that only people used when they knew sitting normally would make them wince.
You didn’t ask if he was okay.
You just followed him in, grabbed the medkit off the wall like it was a reflex, and sat on the bench beside him. He didn’t even glance your way.
"You’re bleeding." You said flatly.
"It’ll clot."
You hated how calm he sounded. How easy it was for him to say that like his skin wasn’t torn open beneath that sleeve. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t trust your voice to hold if you did.
You unwrapped the bandages, unscrewed the antiseptic bottle, and reached for his arm.
He didn’t move away. But he did turn his head like he didn’t want to watch. Like this wasn’t worth his attention.
"I didn’t need you to do that." You said, trying to keep it level. "I had time. I could’ve made it out."
His response was barely a breath. "You were cornered."
"I still had time."
"I didn’t think."
That made you pause. The cloth soaked too fast. The wound was worse than he was letting on.
"You didn’t think?" You repeated. "Since when do you move without thinking?"
Naib didn’t look at you. "Since it was you."
There it was again. That flicker of something he didn’t mean to say out loud.
You stared at the side of his face. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight. Like if he didn’t acknowledge it, the words could vanish between you.
You dropped the soaked cloth into the bowl and reached for clean gauze, hands shaking now. Not from the blood, but from the silence.
"I’m not trying to start something. I just-" Your voice hitched. You swallowed hard. "You can’t keep doing this."
He glanced at you finally. A flicker of irritation. Or maybe… confusion.
"You can't just... throw yourself into danger like you’re some meat shield"
Naib didn’t answer right away. Then, without looking at you, he muttered. "That’s the job."
"No, it’s not." You said, sharper than before. "The job is to win. You don’t have to bleed every time someone else is at risk."
His gaze snapped to you. Something about your tone cut deeper than expected.
"Let me make this clear." He said, low and steady. "I’m the one who can take the hit there and still get us out. All of us. I survive. You don’t."
It hit the air like a dropped stone. Simple. Heavy.
He wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was staring down at the bandages on his side, like if he looked at your face he’d take it back.
Your pulse picked up. You didn’t move, didn’t speak. Because part of you knew if you said the wrong thing now, he'd shut down again.
So you let the moment hang. Let him sit with the words he probably didn’t mean to say out loud.
And after a while, he spoke again. Quieter this time.
"I get that you're worried." He said. "But I'm not some damsel waiting to be saved. If it happens again, I’ll take the hit the same as today. And let’s be honest…"
He paused, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same. Cause we’re both the kind of fools who throw ourselves in the fire for someone else after all."
The room spun gently on those words.
You didn’t know what to say. Not yet.
So instead, you reached down into the medkit again and quietly unwrapped another roll of gauze. The room was still too quiet, too fragile. The distance between you was different now. Not closed, but not quite so wide either.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
He exhaled, slow and irritated. "No. It’s supposed to make you stop crying."
And that’s when you realized... Your cheeks were wet.
You wiped them roughly with the heel of your palm, face turning away from him. It wasn’t a sobbing mess, just quiet, shaking tears that slipped past your defenses without permission.
"Great." You muttered. "Now I’m the dramatic one."
Naib didn’t say anything.
For a long, tense beat, he just sat there. The match was over, but the echoes of it still clung to the air. Around you, the world moved on, survivors regrouped, the map reset, the void of quiet settling in. But between the two of you, time had stalled.
Then, slowly, he shifted.
It wasn’t much. Just enough to pull at his sleeve with his uninjured hand and extend it toward you.
You blinked, caught off guard by the gesture.
"It’s clean." He said, obviously.
Maybe you should have taken the sleeve. Played it off. Wiped your face and pretended none of this cut you deeper than it should’ve.
But your hands were trembling. And your chest ached. And your heart was screaming.
You moved before your brain could talk you out of it. Your arms slid around him.
The reaction was instant.
His shoulders went rigid. His jaw was tight, like he was grinding down a dozen words that wouldn’t come out right. Hands stayed at his sides for a moment too long before one hovered awkwardly near your back, uncertain.
Your tears fell onto his shoulder.
He let out a sharp huff through his nose, maybe a laugh, maybe just disbelief.
"I guess… that works too." He muttered, voice rough and dry.
Then, slowly, like he had to give himself permission to do it, he raised both arms and pulled you in.
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Picture: from Identity V official (not me)
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Hear me out, Naib x GN Reader who keeps letting themselves get hurt. They're not necessarily reckless, but they don't attempt to take care of themselves if it means it'd benefit the team. They're bleeding out? That's fine, as long as it secures a win. The hunter's being rougher than usual and no one comes over to heal their wounds? They can handle it, they won't ask for help until they absolutely have to
I think it'd drive Naib insane since he already lost so many people, so for his partner to constantly be in the verge of death in almost every match? Oh no
Ah, so …self-sacrificing type, huh?
Well, I’ve got news for you. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you see it) Naib Subedar is exactly the same. Flirting with death? Please. That man has been on a full-blown situationship with it since the first time someone called him "soldier."
To strangers, he doesn’t give a damn. If they go down, that’s unfortunate. If they survive, neat. He doesn’t lose sleep over it either way.
But to those he considers close (if you’re in that precious category he might silently call "family"). Then it’s war. Every match becomes a silent competition of who can throw themselves in front of danger faster.
In the beginning? He doesn’t mind it too much. After all, he understands it. It's in his nature too. Pain is familiar. Sacrifice makes sense. You take hits to keep others safe? Respect.
But over time, if you keep doing it, if you keep dragging your broken body out of matches with that same forced smile.
That’s when the tension starts.
The arguments.
They don’t come in loud, dramatic explosions. They come in low voices in the hallway after the others leave. In gloved hands gripping your arm a little too tight. In sharp eyes that narrow every time you try to brush off an injury.
As it keeps happening, match after match, injury after injury, something inside him starts to twist.
You’ve picked up the same bad habits that he had. You’ve started measuring your worth by how much damage you can take before falling.
So now he’s conflicted. Because how do you tell someone to stop when you’re the one who taught them that bleeding for the team is just part of the job?
And yes…
He becomes protective.
Overprotective. Borderline ridiculous, honestly. No doubt.
But here’s the thing about Naib... He won’t sabotage you. He won’t lock you away or lie to your face or treat you like you’re fragile porcelain. Cause he himself hate being treat like that.
He still gives you your freedom.
He just… works around it.
Most of the time, you won’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late. His favorite tactic? Clear the battlefield before you even get there. You will go in expecting chaos, just to find the danger’s already been handled. No need to rescue, kite or support. He got this.
So yeah. Congrats, you just entered a protective-off with a man who would fistfight the Grim Reaper if it meant you got five more seconds to breathe.
The battlefield isn’t just a strategy zone anymore. It’s his love language. And if you ever dare say "I’m fine" again with your arm barely attached, prepare for the quietest, deadliest, most passive-aggressive lecture of your life.
But lets not go too far yet. Here is a moment that he couldn't take it anymore, tired from all the time you didn't listen but still love you too much to ignore. Remember that you two already have some kind of chemistry before this.
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Sugary Sweets
Tag: Naib x gn!reader
Warning: Hurt/Comfort (Soft angst?), Established relationship, Grammar & spelling
Pain is strange.
You get used to it, in a way. It becomes the hum in the back of your mind, the heavy pressure that blurs the edges of thought, but never really leaves. You breathe through it. Push through it.
Just another moment that isn’t as bad as it could’ve been.
Emily tried. She always does. Gentle hands, firm voice, methodical work. She’d told you the damage was deep but clean. That was supposed to be good news. Something about "less chance of infection" and "a clean slice is easier to treat."
But all you remember is the color of her eyes as she looked down at your side, and the brief flicker of concern she tried to hide behind clinical calm.
Appreciate, but unnecessary
But let's get back to this moment.
It's late. The infirmary’s quiet. A single faint light linger across the room, casting soft, warm light over the wall. The other beds are empty, all thanks to you.
You lie on your side, still and silent, eyes half-lidded but very much awake.
Every breath still hurts. The kind of pain that isn’t sharp anymore, just deep, aching, constant.
You tell yourself again.
It’s fine and you’ve had worse.
Always have to say that …cause if you don't, you don't know if your mind can handle the bad thought.
The door opens quietly.
At first, you think it’s Emily, returning to check in. But her footsteps are different. This one is slower, measured, almost too quiet.
You don’t look because you already know who it is.
He doesn’t speak as he enters. Doesn’t ask how you are or if you’re awake. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and he stands there for a long moment, like he isn’t sure he should’ve come at all.
Quiet steps carry him to the edge of your bed, lingers at the end of the bed before you glance up.
His hood is half-down, shadowing most of his face, so it's hard for you to catch the edge of his expression. And in his right hand, loosely held, some kind of paper bag.
Your voice is hoarse as you decide to speak up instead of playing this game of pretending to sleep.
"…What’s that in your hand?"
Naib shifts his weight. Not even a surprise. Because of course he knows you’re still awake.
Then, flatly:
"Sugar."
Your brow lifts faintly.
"Sugar?"
A pause. His eyes flick to yours, unreadable.
"…Candy."
You blink.
Even through the haze of pain, you perk up a little at the word. Something sweet, to enjoy, and to chase the bad medicine taste in your mouth? Sweet! Guess he is not that angry this time.
"What kind?"
He doesn’t answer.
So, instinctively, you reach out.
Or try to.
Your side protests the movement and you flinch, gritting your teeth. Your hand stretches out toward the treat. Before you can grab it, Naib calmly lifts it out of reach, making you pause.
You blink confusingly. "Seriously?"
Still no answer.
You let your arm drop back against the blanket with a quiet groan. "Naib."
His expression doesn’t change. But his voice, when he finally speaks, is low and level.
"Promise me."
"Promise what?"
He stares at you. Long. Unblinking.
"That you won’t do that again."
You blink slowly, the weight of the words heavier than they should be.
"Do what?" You ask, even though you know. You’ve been through this conversation too many times it's starting to get boring now.
"Throw yourself in front of the hunter. Take the second hit when the first one should’ve stopped you. Walk bleeding past the cipher just so someone else can escape."
His eyes narrow slightly.
"Lie to Emily. Lie to me."
That last one lands harder than the rest.
You look down. "I didn’t lie."
"You smiled and said you were fine."
The silence that follows feels like pressure on your chest.
"I am fine." You say eventually, quieter. "I made it out. Everyone did."
"You could barely walk."
You exhale sharply, frustrated and aching, your voice coming out harsher than intended. "I can crawl."
"…"
You sit in silence, fingers curling in the blanket, eyes locked on the piece of candy in his outstretched hand.
It’s not just a simple snack.
It’s a request he’s too afraid to ask out loud.
And you… you’re not ready to answer it. So you do the opposite.
"You do it, too! Every match. You take the hits. You run head-first into danger. I’m just doing the same thing."
Bad mistake, bringing that up. You know it the second the words leave your mouth.
Naib’s stare sharpens.
He doesn’t like being called out for anything, good or bad. Not before a match. Not after. Not ever. Keep himself low, he said. If it wasn't because of the fact he has a soft-spot for you, you will be dead in less than a minute.
You swallow nervously.
Naib says nothing.
The floor creaks softly beneath his boots as he steps forward, slow, steady, deliberate. The candy wrapper crinkles in his hand as he peels it open.
Leaning down, one hand planting itself firmly on the bed beside you. His weight sinks in. His face is close now.
Even now, even in this tension, you can’t help but notice how stupidly good he looks up close.
"I’ve buried people." He adds, voice low.
"Good ones. Brave. The kind who didn’t flinch when it came time to throw themselves away."
He watches you, gaze steady, unwavering. Like if he looks away, you might vanish right in front of him.
"I’m not asking you to stop fighting." He says. "I’m asking you to stop trying to disappear."
You don’t move.
So he does.
He puts the candy in his mouth. Leans in further.
And press it to your lips.
There’s no warning. No permission asked. Just the quiet pressure of sugar and breath and the steel edge of someone who’s made up his mind. Your mouth parts without thinking, and his lips follow, warm and certain.
The kiss is short.
Just like every argument you two have.
But this time, for the sake of this relationship, you have to be the one who backs down.
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Picture: from Identity V official (not me)
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Ithaqua murmured, voice low and steady, barely louder than the wind that whispered through the manor’s ancient walls. He stood at the far end of the waiting room, eyes scanning the long, familiar dining table. Survivors had always gathered here before matches, waiting for the call, nervously adjusting their straps or chatting in hushed tones. But today, something felt... unsettled.
Empty chairs. Unfinished tea. A half-cracked biscuit resting by a familiar spot.
Their spot.
They always sat there. Legs curled beneath them, eyes bright with defiance or exhaustion, depending on how many matches they'd endured that day. The manor's cruel whims often pulled their name more than any other, again and again, into the fog.
A consistent presence. An easy chase. A fast runner.
Ithaqua's gaze lingered on the chair longer than he meant to.
His mask, as always, hid any emotion. No one could see his frown. No one could read the strange weight that had settled across his chest. He was a hunter. Hunters did not worry. Hunters did not notice absence.
He reached out, gloved fingers brushing the edge of the table. The wood was cold. Undisturbed.
He let out a breath. Quiet. Faintly visible in the manor’s chill air.
Enough of this.
He turned, lifting his axe from where it leaned against the wall. The metal hummed softly at his touch.
Time to hunt.
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Cold.
So cold.
My fingers curl against the snow, nails digging into the frozen earth as I try once again to pull myself forward. Pain flares sharp in my side, like fire, but it fades too quickly into something worse.
Numbness.
One leg won’t move. The other just drags behind me, useless.
I gasp in a ragged breath. Blood coats my tongue. The wind stings my eyes.
With it, I breathe out my last breath with the familiar sound of the match coming to an end.
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They had been his favorite.
A fact they probably didn’t know. Or perhaps they did. There were moments, fleeting but unmistakable, when their gaze would catch him across the map. A flicker of recognition. Not fear. Not defiance. Just... familiarity. As if they too understood this strange rhythm between them. The hunter. The hunted. The chase that never truly ended.
They weren’t the strongest. Weren’t the loudest. But they ran like they were born for it. Like they understood the storm that followed them, and chose to dance through it anyway.
He called them "Little mouse."
The name came to him instinctively, something muttered beneath the hiss of the wind, too quiet for anyone but the ice to hear. They skittered through half-cracked windows, dove beneath broken pallets, looped him again and again until it no longer felt like a match.
He should have ended it, several times. He’d had them. Cornered. Slowed. Bleeding. But instead of finishing the job, he would hesitate, long enough for them to slip away again.
The manor was a place of repetition. Cycles. Fog. Screams that echoed and faded and never changed. But when they ran from him, there was motion. There was heat. There was life in the cold. And somewhere deep beneath the layers of frost that coated his soul, something stirred awake.
He didn’t know what to call it.
But it was something. A flicker. A reminder.
So he spared them.
Not every time, no. That would be too obvious. But often enough that he knew. And maybe they knew too. Maybe that’s why they kept coming back, even when their hands shook from too many matches, even when the others told them to hide.
They ran for their life, and he chased for his.
In the silence after every hunt, when the snow settled and the manor walls returned, he would remember the way they looked back. Not with hatred. Not with despair.
With breathless determination.
It was the only time he ever felt alive.
—-------
"Psst, hide."
Emma’s whisper cut through the static hum of decoding, just as her fingers tapped urgently against your shoulder. You didn’t stop. Your hands kept working on the cipher machine, sparks flicking at your gloves. She let out a soft pout and leaned closer.
"You’re half-health and already been chaired twice." She murmured. "If he finds you, it’s over."
"I know." You said simply.
Emma frowned, watching your fingers continue to fly across the wires. The last cipher ticked down too slowly for her liking. She bit her lip, then sighed, finally kneeling beside you to help decode.
"We need to be quick. Luca’s still kiting, but if he teleports here... it’s going to be a two-man battle."
"It’s fine." You replied, steady, quiet. "He won’t chair me."
That made her pause.
Emma turned her head slightly, concern settling across her features. "How could you be so sure?"
You didn’t look up. "Trust me. I know him."
Emma stared at you for a moment longer, but in the end, she didn’t argue. She just nodded reluctantly and focused on decoding beside you.
Luca didn’t make it much longer after that
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The dining room was loud.
He hated it.
The long table was cluttered with mismatched silverware, spilled drinks, and hunters in varying degrees of noise and presence. Light poured down from the ornate ceiling, harsh and golden, pressing into his eyes. The warmth of it felt wrong. Suffocating.
He sat in silence, the only one untouched by food or mirth. A glass of water sat in front of him. Untouched, at first. Then he took a single gulp annoyingly. As if the water itself had offended him.
He had been acting irrational lately. Less thinking. More instinct. Decisions made without thought. A growing crack beneath the frost that made him what he was..
A heavy chair scraped across the floor beside him. The noise was obnoxiously loud.
"You're scowling again." Came Bane’s gravel-coated voice as he dropped into the seat next to him, meat still on his plate. "And you haven’t touched anything but water."
Ithaqua didn’t respond. He rarely did.
Across the room, Jack laughed at something Joseph muttered. Mary tilted her head back to sip her tea in that eerie, too-smooth way she did. Michiko sat alone, polishing the edge of her fan with precision. None of them paid attention to the conversation happening in this corner.
Hunters didn’t meddle in each other’s thoughts. Not unless something cracked the surface.
Bane didn’t push further. Ithaqua appreciated that about him the absence of pretense. The silence stretched long between them. Long enough for another laugh to echo from across the table, and another sigh to rise from Ithaqua’s chest.
"You noticed the matches’ve been different lately?" He asked, voice quieter than before. "Shorter. Fewer."
Ithaqua’s eyes flicked sideways, not turning his head. "Yes."
Bane gave a slow nod. "Thought you might. You keep count of things like that."
He leaned back in his seat, resting one arm along the back of the chair as he looked out across the dining hall.
"Something’s going on in the survivor side." He said after a moment. "Ain’t official, of course. Nobody tells us anything. But… you hear things. Picks are uneven. Some of the survivors won’t even leave their rooms."
That caught Ithaqua’s attention. It was subtle, but visible. His posture shifted, just slightly. His fingers, which had been idly tapping against the rim of his glass, came to a complete stop.
Bane picked up a piece of bread, tore it slowly, and kept going. "Normally, after a hunt ends, everything resets. But this time, something didn’t. After the match, when everyone returned, one is missing."
He paused to chew, as if that detail wasn’t heavy enough to hang in the air like smoke.
"No body." He added plainly. "Not in the infirmary. Not in the snow. Nowhere. It’s like they were never there at all."
Bane swallowed.
"…And the roster adjusted on its own … some how."
The chill that settled over Ithaqua wasn’t visible to anyone else. He remembered now. The detail he had shoved to the back of his mind, the thing he refused to acknowledge each time he sit down waiting for the match.
Their name, once so familiar and always listed near the top.... was gone.
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Laughter echoed through the trees, sharp and breathless against the cold wind.
You pressed a shaky hand against your abdomen, blood slipping between your fingers. Your pulse throbbed beneath the wound. It wasn’t the worst hit you’d taken, but it wasn’t pretty either. This was definitely going to be a pain in the ass when you got back to bed tonight.
But honestly?
Worth it.
You grinned, teeth flashing despite the pain. Across the field, Ithaqua was rubbing his temple, the remnants of your well-placed kick still clearly affecting him. He growled low, rolling his neck as he turned his head sharply in your direction. His breath came out in misty bursts.
"How you like it?" You called, voice hoarse but triumphant.
His only answer was a sharp inhale, a tilt of his head, and that familiar, eerie silence that clung to him like a second skin.
"You’re gonna regret it." He muttered, tone low and icy.
"Pussy."
His eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"Rat."
You laughed again, almost buckling forward from the pain but still holding onto the pallet beside you like it was your last defense.
"We’re back to that lazy insult?" You wheezed, breath clouding the cold air.
Ithaqua didn’t respond. He stood still, breathing slowly, mask angled toward you with unnatural precision. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
Your grip on the pallet tightened. You could feel your knees trembling beneath you, the ache in your ribs growing with every second. You wouldn’t get far if you ran. Maybe a few steps. Maybe just enough to distract him so the others could escape.
That would be enough.
You leaned heavily against the wood.
"You ain’t gonna win." You muttered. "Why don’t you just put me in a chair already? At least then you’ll have a tie and stop wasting time."
Still, he said nothing.
The wind blew softly between you, brushing snow across your boots and up your arms.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared.
You were about to make another jab, something to break the tension, when he finally spoke.
"…I’m not intending to win."
You blinked.
"Says what?"
He tilted his head slightly. The mask gave away nothing, but something behind it felt unbearably real. You could feel it, heavy in his silence. The way his breath fogged in front of him. The way his shoulders didn’t lift for an attack. The way his fingers didn’t tighten on his axe.
For a long moment, nothing else existed. Not the pain in your side, not the blood soaking your shirt, not the others running somewhere far from here.
"You’re seriously telling me that you’d rather tie this match than chair me? After everything?" You snapped, voice gaining strength despite your labored breathing
Your stomach twisted. You hated this. You hated his silence. You hated how calm he looked. Like none of this mattered.
You glared at him, teeth clenched, eyes burning through the freezing wind. Boots scraped backward through the snow as you took one determined step, shifting weight toward the pallet behind you.
"Fine." You growled. "Then I’ll make you work for a tie too."
And with that, you twisted your body, ignoring the sharp flare of pain, and dove through the broken window behind you. The jagged edge of the frame caught your sleeve, cutting into the fabric, slicing skin, but you were already gone, landing hard in the snow beyond.
—---
The wind howled across the cliffs outside the manor, slicing through the trees and scattering snow like shards of glass across the frozen ground. Ithaqua stood at the edge of the overlook, high above the training grounds, his figure still and silent, barely distinguishable from the surrounding frost.
He had been standing there for hours.
The cold had never bothered him. It still didn’t. But tonight, it brought him no comfort.
The silence pressed down heavier than the snow beneath his boots, and it did nothing to quiet the storm churning beneath his skin.
His breath rose in thin, controlled clouds from behind the slits in his mask, curling upward into the dark air like smoke from a dying fire.
They should have run.
That thought circled in his head like a vulture, steady and suffocating. They always ran. That had been the rhythm of their encounters: hit, dodge, flee, repeat. Even bleeding, limping, seconds from collapse, they had never once failed to make a break for it.
And that day had been no different. Or so he thought.
They were wounded, yes, but conscious. Breathing. Stubborn as ever. The dungeon had opened just feet away. He had struck them down, but not fatally. He had left them there on purpose.
He turned away. He spared them. For once, he let them go.
Because he believed they would survive.
Because they always did.
But they didn’t.
They had stayed there in the snow, unmoving. The dungeon door had remained untouched. No final burst of defiance. No last-second escape. Nothing.
Not in the way you usually was. Bandaged up and lounging by the fireplace like nothing had happened. Flashing him a grin during the next match. Calling him "ice cube" or "snow freak" or rolling their eyes at his usual insults.
The manor’s magic, for the first time in its long, twisted history, had failed to bring someone back.
His fingers twitched at his side, gloved and shaking. He didn’t notice the motion at first, but when the tremor reached his wrist, he turned, stepping back from the cliff’s edge and toward the old stone wall at his back.
Then, without warning, he struck it.
His fist connected with the cold rock in a violent thud. The force sent cracks sprawling out beneath the frost. Shards of ice scattered in all directions, and the stone groaned beneath the blow.
He hit it again.
And again.
The leather of his gloves split slightly under the pressure, and still he didn’t stop.
"You could’ve moved." He growled through clenched teeth, each word rougher than the last.
"You should’ve moved. You knew what I was doing."
Another punch followed. Louder. Harder.
"I left you there. I let you go."
His voice wavered, and he slammed his palm flat against the wall, bracing himself as his shoulders trembled beneath his coat.
"You could’ve lived."
His chest rose and fell with sharp, uneven breaths. The fog from his mask clung to the edges like frostbite. The world around him blurred, and not even the familiar chill of the night could ground him.
"You stupid, reckless little mouse." He whispered. His voice was barely audible. "Why didn’t you run?"
He stayed like that for a long time, hand pressed to the cracked wall, head bowed beneath the weight of a silence that would not answer him. The wind continued to howl through the trees. Somewhere in the manor below, the candles still burned, and matches still played on, indifferent to the absence of one stubborn survivor.
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Picture: from Identity V official (not me)
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You were dragging a heavy garbage bag to the curb when you heard a faint thump come from one of the other bags nearby. Alarmed, you rushed over and tore it open with shaky hands.
Inside was a small, limp rabbit curled around a shredded towel. Its body was as cold as ice.
Panic surged through you. You gathered it into your arms, swaddled in your shirt, and placed it under every warm light you could find. You called out, pleaded, for a hours. Just when your fear was starting to feel unbearable, one ear gave a twitch.
That was how you got Xavier.
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Xavier, as it turned out, was the chillest rabbit you had ever met.
No zoomies. No flailing limbs. No frantic digging or furniture chewing. Just calm. Almost too calm.
Most rabbits thump loudly when they’re upset, flick their feet when annoyed, and spook at every little sound. Xavier barely flinched at anything. If something irritated him, he would just flick an ear and give you a long, unreadable stare. It was oddly human. And slightly unsettling.
He also slept a lot. A ridiculous amount, honestly. You’d go out for a quick errand, come home an hour later, and find him lying in the exact same spot, in the exact same position. Sometimes, you had to stare at him for a while just to make sure he was still breathing.
And when it came to food?
Oh boy, all that calm composure disappeared in an instant.
He had absolutely zero self-control. If it was edible, or even just questionably edible, he wanted it.
Once, you dropped a small square of chocolate. Before your brain could even process what had happened, Xavier launched himself toward it like a tiny predator. You barely managed to grab it in time. He stared up at you with wide, innocent eyes and tilted ears, pretending like he had no idea what he did wrong.
You weren’t fooled. He was fast and stubborn, and definitely knew how to weaponize his cuteness.
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You used to worry Xavier wouldn’t survive in the wild. He seemed too calm, too passive, too spoiled.
You could scoop him up at any time and he wouldn’t resist. Carry him like a loaf? He’d go limp. Hold him like a baby? He’d just blink. Sling him over your shoulder and walk around the house? He’d hang there like an accessory.
So you babied him, thinking surely this lazy, docile little thing needed protecting.
Until one day, you walked into the living room and froze.
There he was, standing completely still with a bird pinned beneath his tiny paws. The poor thing flapped wildly, but Xavier just loomed over it, dead silent. He looked like a little predator mid-hunt. Cold. Calm. Unbothered.
You yelled his name in shock. He looked up at you, startled, and let the bird go. It flapped off in a panic.
Xavier watched it disappear into the sky, then turned back to you as if nothing had happened. Like you were the one being dramatic.
He wasn’t sorry. Not even a little bit.
That night, you looked him in the eye. "You’re not sleeping on my bed."
He flicked an ear. You placed him gently outside the bedroom door and shut it.
At first, there was the thumping. Then the soft scratching. A quiet, pitiful plea for mercy. You steeled yourself and ignored it.
Then came silence.
You waited a bit longer, just in case.
Eventually, you cracked the door open. He was curled up right outside, ears drooping, his tiny body pressed to the floor where your bed’s warmth no longer reached. He looked so small like that, shriveled into himself and shivering slightly in the draft.
You sighed.
"I hope you learned your lesson." You muttered, scooping him up. He nestled against your chest with a soft, weary sigh.
Did he learn his lesson?
... Maybe
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You first noticed it when you couldn’t find him.
"Xavier?" You called, looking under the table and behind the couch. No response. No movement. You started to worry again.
Then your eyes landed on the laundry pile.
Buried deep in your worn clothes was a familiar pair of long ears and a fluffy tail. There he was, curled up in your favorite hoodie, paws tucked in, completely content. His ear gave a twitch and he burrowed deeper, pretending he hadn’t been caught.
Figuring it wasn’t hygienic, you decided to replace the worn clothes with freshly laundered ones over the next few days. You assumed he’d adjust.
... He did not
Xavier sulked. He turned his back on you with dramatic ear flicks, making sure you knew he was upset. When you didn’t immediately fix it, he started his own investigation.
He tore through the laundry pile with alarming determination, sniffing around the room, pawing through the hamper, clearly distressed by the betrayal.
Then he jumped onto you and started rubbing his face against your arm, scent-marking you with zero shame.
And when that didn’t satisfy him?
He stole.
One day, you caught him dragging one of your worn shirts back to his nest. He flopped onto it with a dramatic sigh and stared at you.
At that point, you admitted defeat.
Xavier got your- i mean- his scent-covered clothes back. Every single time.
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It sounded silly when he first heard those “online” instructions:
📺Do not let your pet sleep with you on the bed—one, you might crush them; two—
Two what? He couldn’t remember. Something about boundaries, maybe. Or safety. Or whatever else humans worried about when they didn’t trust their instincts.
The little white fluff in the pet bed twitched an ear before standing upright. Then, with a shimmer of quiet motion, the rabbit form rippled, fur melting into skin, paws elongating, limbs reshaping. A smooth shift, effortless. From a small, soft creature to a lean, silver-haired man crouched on the floor beside your bed, ears still long and twitching.
Xavier straightened and glanced over at you.
You were sprawled out on the mattress, sound asleep, arms wrapped around a pillow in a loose but affectionate grip. The corners of your mouth were relaxed. Peaceful. Calm. He hated that pillow.
That should have been him.
He huffed quietly and reached out, tugging the pillow from your arms. You didn’t even stir. The pillow dropped to the floor with a soft whump.
"She’s really tired today" Xavier thought, his gaze softening.
Listening to the steady rhythm of your breath, he hesitated for a moment longer, watching your chest rise and fall.
Then, as silently as he came, Xavier slipped under the covers and nestled himself into the space your pillow used to be.
Xavier sighed in quiet contentment, the tension melting from his body as he settled into your arms. His head dipped, nuzzling into the crook of your neck where your warmth was softest, most inviting. He took a long, slow breath in, and nearly moaned.
The scent was everything. You. Raw, real, and unfiltered. It made his head buzz, his chest tighten.
His cheeks flushed a faint pink.
"…Mine" He murmured, voice barely more than a breath, a claim made not out of arrogance but instinct.
He shifted slightly, pressing closer. His nose brushed your skin as he rubbed against you, slow and deliberate, leaving his scent behind like a whisper only he understood.
Marking you.
Only then, satisfied, Xavier stilled. His ears twitched once before folding back, eyes fluttering closed. With your steady heartbeat in his ear and your arms wrapped around him, he finally let himself drift.
📺 But regardless, all animals are different. What’s important is that you love them. And they will love you back.
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Picture: belong to Love & Deepspace official (not me)
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Great... I got tons of ideas to write. 3 fics ideas for IDV (Ithaqua, Fool Gold, Aesop...), 1 for Lads (pet au), 1 for Tkatb (Sol, Crowe), 1 for Homicipher (the continuous part). Yet my lazy ass waste a month and no work yet. Fuck my brain try to make sense of all illogical things in my fics.
Yeah so just wanna say i'm not dead. I'm just lazy. Sorry:D
How about reader and some idv characters got a matching costumes?
Outfit Sync
Tag: Naib x gn!reader, Andrew x f!reader
Warning: grammar & spelling
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Sometimes, you find yourself genuinely baffled by how the manor manages to come up with so many costumes. The variety is overwhelming, some outfits look like they’ve been pulled straight out of another century, completely out of touch with the present. Others are so frilly or cutesy that you feel more like a child playing dress-up than someone preparing for a serious match.
Today is no exception. You eye the latest outfit handed to you by Nightingale with a mix of caution and curiosity. But to your surprise, it’s… actually quite nice. Elegant, even. It fits well, the fabric feels comfortable, and the design is far more flattering than the tattered clothes you’re usually stuck with.
You turn it over in your hands, running your fingers along the details, trying to guess what sort of theme it’s meant to represent. There's a quiet sophistication to it, almost like it was made with a story in mind. Whatever the inspiration, you find yourself liking it more than you'd care to admit.
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Mercenary - Naib Subedar
Tch. Another day, another match, another godforsaken dump of a map to crawl through.
He sits with the same stony expression etched into his face, body angled slightly away from the group. His arms fold across his chest in that closed-off way he’s known for. Cold. Distant. Intentionally intimidating. That’s fine with him.
What’s not fine is watching the one person he actually relies on in matches, the one person who understands his hand signals and doesn't waste time emoting in corners, suddenly get up and leave the table. Without a word.
Great. Just great.
Minus one competent teammate.
He scowls, trying to convince himself it’s fine. Maybe you just needed a break. Maybe you were tweaking your persona build. Game sense. Sure. That’s it.
Still… there’s a nagging unease in his gut. What if the manor replaces you again? It’s done that before, last-second switchouts that ruined all his tactical prep. He clicks his tongue in irritation, loud enough to startle a few of the chatting survivors nearby. He closes his eyes, trying to push it out of his mind.
Minutes pass.
The scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor breaks his focus. Finally, took it long enough.
He opens one eye, almost expecting to see a stranger.
But no, it’s still you. And…
What the hell?
You're wearing a new outfit. Not just any outfit, either, it matches his. The same palette, similar fabric, enough variation to stand on its own, but side-by-side? There’s no denying it. The manor paired you up.
Of course it did.
He stiffens slightly, but his expression stays neutral. No one needs to see his reaction. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as you settle into your seat, fidgeting, clearly nervous.
Did you… go back there just to change?
A strange feeling coils in his chest, equal parts confusion, flattery, and… something else he doesn’t want to name. You look… Striking
He forces his gaze back to the front, jaw tightening.
Damn it. Stupid manor.
He watches the way you fidget in your seat, clearly nervous. Did you really just run back there just to change into that? Part of him wants to laugh. Part of him feels… something else.
The outfit suits you.
It suits you too well.
His gaze drops against his will, taking in every little detail. The fit, the boots, the subtle matching details. His head betrays him with one intrusive thought after another.
He groans quietly, trying to shake the images out.
But his eyes wander again, just in time to meet yours.
You're watching him, not directly, but from the corner of your eye. Subtle. Hesitant. Like you're waiting for something. Approval? Feedback?
He should be annoyed. He wants to be. But instead, his mouth moves before his brain can stop it.
"You look good."
The words hang in the air. He blinks. Regret sets in. Naib nearly slaps himself.
What the hell was that?
Before he can backpedal, your response comes out in a flustered blur.
"Thank you, you look really handsome– I mean… you're not bad either…"
You shrink back in your chair, clearly dying inside.
Why must you act so damn cute?
Naib stares at you for a second longer than he means to, expression unreadable but thoughts absolutely screaming. Then he turns his head away with a quiet huff, slouching just slightly to hide the strange warmth crawling up his neck.
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Grave Keeper - Andrew Kreiss
Same day. Same waiting room. Same quiet hum of voices he doesn’t belong to.
Andrew sits in his usual corner, fingers laced around his shovel’s handle. The weight is familiar. Comforting. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone. No one bothers him, and he prefers it that way. Keeps things simple. Keeps the thoughts quiet.
The door opens.
You step in, light-footed, the manor’s dim lighting catching just enough on your hair, your skin, the soft fabric of the outfit that looks… like his.
Matching.
His grip on the shovel tightens. Breath caught. His hair shields half his face, but not enough to hide how his eyes follow you, drawn, helpless, like a moth to a flame.
The same worn leather. Same dark accents. Same hint of mystery. But where it hangs on him like armor, on you it settles like divinity.
For a moment, he can’t look away.
You look like something beyond human. Ethereal. Like you just stepped out of a dream… or a prayer.
Angelic.
He feels a tightness in his chest, like something’s been lodged there, lodged there by you.
You glance around the table. Your eyes scan past the others and land on him.
Of course, you sit next to him.
He panics silently. Shoulders stiff. Head low. What is he supposed to do with this information? With the warmth creeping up his neck?
You shift in your seat beside him, tugging lightly at the edge of your glove. Fidgeting. Waiting.
His mouth moves before his brain catches up.
"…My goddess."
The words are no louder than a breath. A whisper. A reverent confession not meant for ears beyond his own.
But you hear it.
He feels it in how your movements still. The air shifts. Realization hits him like a shovel to the face.
Blood rushes to his ears. He shoves his face lower, burying his face into his hands. Maybe if he sinks low enough, you’ll forget he exists. Maybe the ground will swallow him whole.
You tilt your head, a slight questioning look crossing your face.
"…What was that?"
He freezes. His heart pounds. Please don’t make me explain.
"I-I mean my goodness…" He stammers, voice suddenly higher than usual, as he scrambles to fix it. "…The clothes suits you" He bites his lip, hands trembling, and wishes he could just disappear.
The words hang in the air, awkward and hopeless.
You just stare at him. No teasing. No mocking. Just a calm understanding. It’s like you can see the mess of thoughts he’s trying desperately to hide.
And then, finally, you smile. Just a small, quiet one.
Your voice is gentle as you offer. "Thank you… You look stunning too."
His stomach does a strange flip at your words. His breath hitches for a moment. He doesn’t know why, but those words hit harder than he expected.
You ... actually complimented him.
It feels like an angel just offered him a blessing, and he’s not sure his heart can handle it.
He blinks rapidly, trying to process what you just said. His heart races, and his hands tighten around the shovel’s handle again. His face is burning, and despite his best efforts, he can’t seem to look anywhere but at you.
Andrew doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this.
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Picture: from Identity V official (not me)
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Sorry that it took this so long. I have lots of exams the previous week.
Tag: Sol x reader, fluff
Warning: grammar & spelling
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You yawn again. Dragging your feet into the library like you’re floating more than walking. Your body’s heavy. Eyes sting from lack of sleep. Your brain's practically mush. It's been a long day. Honestly? You need somewhere quiet to crash. Just for a second.
Of course, he’s there.
Same spot, like always. Slouched over the desk, head dipped, dark clothes blending into the dim light of the corner. Pencil dancing lazily in his fingers. He doesn’t even blink when the door creaks open. Doesn’t move when your bag thumps softly against the floor.
Just a glance. Quick. Dismissive. Until he really sees you.
His eyes flick up again. Sharper this time. He clocks your posture. Your sluggish steps. Your barely-open eyes. His gaze lingers like it’s magnetized to the curve of your face. The slump in your shoulders. The way your hoodie’s collar slides off one side. And when you drag your tired body toward him, he straightens up.
You stand beside the table for a moment. Rubbing your eye with the back of your hand. You know there’s a seat beside him. But right now you want comfort. Not a cold wooden chair.
So you act on instinct.
Without saying a word, you swing one leg over and settle yourself right on his lap.
His breath stops. Like someone hit mute on his entire system. Arms frozen mid-motion. Eyes blown wide for half a second before he forces them away. Like he’s afraid looking too long might give something away. You shift to get comfortable. You feel it. His legs twitching beneath you. Fingers gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go pale.
"Hope you don’t mind." You mumble sleepily. Leaning your chest against his chest. Head tucking under his chin like it’s your usual spot. Hands drapes over his shoulder.
He doesn’t answer. Can’t.
Because right now, Sol’s fighting for his damn life.
Your scent fills his lungs with every breath. Warm. Soft. Intoxicating. Your weight against him is driving him insane. Every movement. Every sigh you make. Vibrates through his body like static electricity.
He tilts his head down slightly. His nose brushes against your hair.
A low sound escapes him. Barely a whisper of a groan. He doesn’t know whether to hold you or dig his nails into the table to ground himself.
You shift again. Just slightly.
And he’s losing it.
His head tips back, eyes briefly closing as he tries to collect himself.
"Fuck..." He mutters under his breath. The sound of the air shifting in his lungs feels like a weight, and the ceiling above him seems to mock him as his mind races. His hands are shaking slightly, but he refuses to let you see it.
You hum sleepily. "What was that?"
He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just… stay still.”
His words are strained, like he’s trying to convince both of you, but more so himself. He doesn’t trust himself to say more. The feeling of your body against his, your weight pressing down in the most deliciously torturous way, is sending heat spiraling through him.
You hum, a lazy, contented sound, and you nuzzle further into him. Your head buries into his chest, and your breath, soft and warm, flows over his neck. He swallows hard. His throat feels tight. Every shift you make is a reminder of how close you are, how dangerously close.
"Mm. Okay." You mumble, your voice dripping with exhaustion, unaware of how it rips through him.
Sol knows it’s wrong. You probably don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. But he can't stop it.
His hands, the ones that had been trembling at the edges of the table, now drift. Slowly. Hesitantly. Until it finds its place on your hip. His fingers curl there like he's testing if this is real. If you're really letting him hold you like this.
He refuses to move anymore than that, unwilling to risk even a slight twitch, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.
Taking in a slow breath, trying to steady himself, his mind is all about the way you feel against him, how soft and warm and perfect you are there. Chest tightens, and heart races in a way that doesn’t make sense. Right now, all that control feels like it’s slipping.
"So cute... and all mine"
If you don’t move for the next ten minutes?
Well… don’t blame him.
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Art & characters from The Kid at the Back, created by Fantasia Kitt.
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