ᛝ FANDOMS I M IN / WRITE FOR :
01 Forsaken
02 Avm/Ava
03 Ena (Dream BBQ)
04 Madoka Magica
05 Okegom
06 Cookie Run : ( Kingdom , Ovenbreak , Tower Of Adventures , Witch’s Castle )
07 Block Tales
Requests from any other fandom will not be accepted, even if I recognize the character!!
ᛝ REQUEST RULES :
Be clear if your message is a request or a question. If you don’t specify, it’ll be treated as a regular ask.
I reserve the right to decline any request for any reason.
If your ask hasn’t been answered, do not resend it. Repeated asks will result in a block.
Do not spam. Sending more than 2 requests when none have been answered will get them deleted. 3 or more will result in an immediate block.
Be respectful and patient. I’m one person, and creativity takes time.
ᛝ WHAT I DO WRITE:
Character x Reader (romantic or platonic, depending on the character)
Fluff, comfort, angst (light to moderate), hurt/comfort
Platonic dynamics (e.g. older sibling!reader, caretaker!reader, found family)
Headcanons, scenarios, short fics, and character interactions
ᛝ CONTENT BOUNDARIES (HARD NOs) :
Anything involving:
SA, suicide, incest, non-con, dub-con, Dead Dove, or explicit trauma
Romantic/aged-up content involving minor characters
Platonic/fluffy dynamics are okay! (e.g. “older sibling!reader” or “babysitter!reader”)
Canon X Canon
ᛝ REMINDERS :
Weird/uncomfortable asks will be deleted and may result in a block.
Some requests may be answered as short responses or concepts instead of full fics depending on inspiration or burnout.
Thank you for understanding and respecting my space!
Haii, I love your work sm, I figured I would put a request in.
How about some 007n7 x Reader; but the n7 BEFORE C00lkidd, so he's still an asshole, just with a soft spot for reader.
I don't mind you choosing what happens in the fic, I'll read regardless!
-🐾
⠀ ִ ࣪ ׅ 𐔌ㅤ GHOST LINES
01. | 007N7 X READER
WARNING : Mild Language , Mentions of hacking/exploitation , Light romantic tension
*coughcpugh* Im back *cough*
The buzz of old neon signs flickered through the window, bleeding cyan light across the floorboards of your hideout. Wires coiled like vines across the tile, tangling under terminals, monitors, and one ancient vending machine that only dispensed off-brand Bloxy soda. The air smelled faintly of burning dust and overheating GPUs.
A voice broke the quiet.
“You left your SSH open again.”
You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Was busy frying an exploit. You gonna scold me or help?” you asked without flinching, eyes still fixed on the lines of code spilling across your monitor.
Behind you, 007n7 gave a quiet snort.
He always sounded bored. Even when he wasn’t. “You’re lucky it was me who noticed. Some brat running Synapse X could’ve stripped your kernel bare.”
You spun in your chair with a grin. “Mmhm. But it wasn’t. It was you.”
007n7 stood with one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other holding his ancient flip phone. The Burger Bob hat sat crooked on his head, his eyes half-lidded under the noob mask, though you could tell he was watching you. Observing you. Like he always did.
He wasn’t smiling. He never smiled. But something flickered in his expression—disapproval wrapped in something softer. He walked over, booting your second rig with the toe of his shoe and sinking into the chair beside it.
“Show me what you’re working on.”
You tapped your terminal. “Builderman’s firewall. It’s thicker than usual. Someone must’ve spooked the board.”
007n7 leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You using the proxy relay we built last week?”
You nodded. “Triple masked. It’s clean.”
He exhaled and nodded, then paused. His voice dipped lower. “Don’t tell anyone you’re targeting Builderman.”
You quirked a brow. “Why?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Because I said so.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t push. This was how he was—rough edges, cryptic mutterings, half warnings wrapped in an almost unnoticeable kind of care. You’d known him long enough to read between the lines.
You tapped a few more keys and the wall of code shifted, revealing a deeper backend. You glanced at him. “You in?”
He smirked—not a real smile, but a ghost of one. “I’m always in.”
You worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the hum of your hardware and the soft, electronic tics of keys being pressed in tandem. It was strange, the way you two clicked. You were different—loud, a little reckless, gleeful in your chaos. He was cautious. Cold. Detached, except when it came to you.
“You ever wonder why you’re still doing this?” he asked suddenly.
You froze. “Doing what? Hacking?”
He tilted his head. “Being here. With me.”
There it was again. That hint of vulnerability buried deep beneath his aloof facade. You stared at him, surprised.
“You say that like you don’t want me around,” you replied, slowly.
He didn’t meet your eyes. “You could’ve joined the Cleaners. Or run with NovaNet. You’re good enough. Better, maybe.”
You leaned back in your chair, watching the light from the monitors flicker across his face. “You think I stayed because of clout?”
He finally looked at you.
You weren’t sure if it was sadness or regret flickering there—just that it was honest. Rare.
“I think you stayed because you’re reckless. And I don’t want that getting you killed.”
You stood and stepped toward him, narrowing the space between you.
“And maybe I stayed because you look out for me. Even if you pretend not to.”
He flinched—barely, but you noticed. “I don’t care.”
You grinned. “Liar.”
He clicked his tongue and turned away, muttering, “I could drop you off the server right now.”
You laughed and leaned in closer. “But you won’t.”
The two of you stared at the screens for a few more minutes. Until suddenly, a low ping echoed from his pocket.
He pulled out the flip phone, eyes narrowing at the screen.
“…Noli’s in trouble.”
You raised a brow. “What kind?”
“The kind that ends with a shadowban and thirty IP traces.”
You whistled. “We better bounce then.”
007n7 didn’t move. He looked at you again—really looked at you.
“…You don’t have to come.”
You stepped past him, grabbing your bag, slotting your USBs into place, slipping your laptop into the case like a sidearm.
“You’re an idiot if you think I’m letting you go alone.”
His fingers twitched, and you could’ve sworn—just for a second—he looked relieved.
You’d seen his reputation. Knew what others whispered. That he was selfish. An asshole. A has-been. That no one could trust him.
But you weren’t “others.”
You were his partner.
And when the lights dimmed and the code began to melt into heat maps and firewall warnings, 007n7 tapped into his lesser c00lgui, and in a shimmer of data, you both vanished from the room in a static pop of corrupted light.
HI! Hello!! It's 💕 anon again! I hope you're doing well and today went good for you!
If it’s cool with you, could I have more yan!paycheck but this time how they comfort the reader? Maybe a oneshot where Elliot and Chance are in the readers cabin trying to make them feel better while she cries?
The reason why is up to you! I was thinking maybe they got too overwhelmed during a round or maybe bc of a nightmare? Your choice, I know whatever you write will be absolute cinema <3 AAAGJHFHDHEJ I LOVE THEM sorry not sorry shrugs
Note ! : heh I rock aint I / Artist : @/wiitchingh0ur on X
The rain outside doesn’t fall right.
It taps wrong against the window — too steady, like a clock counting down instead of a storm rolling through. You press your forehead to your knees and try not to think about it. About the wet noise. About the hurt in your chest that doesn’t have a name. About the weight behind your eyes.
Your cabin creaks.
The fire flickers in the hearth, pretending to warm things that aren’t truly cold.
But you are. Cold. Somewhere beneath your skin. Or beneath the skin of this place.
You hear the door open. You didn’t lock it. You never remember to lock it.
“[Name].”
It’s Chance. His voice always sounds like someone trying not to crack a joke. Today it doesn’t. Today it’s flat.
You don’t lift your head. You don’t have the strength to answer. That’s okay. He walks in anyway.
Boots scrape the floor. Pause. Hesitate. Then:
“I heard you didn’t show up at the main.”
No answer.
A creak. A crouch. The scent of ash and forest and something you can’t name.
“I thought maybe you just needed space. But…”
He sees your shoulders shaking.
“Shit,” he says softly. “You’re crying.”
Fingers graze your back. Stay there. Too warm. Not enough.
“You should’ve said something.”
A beat. Two.
“You never say anything.”
You don’t mean to cry harder. But you do. And now it’s too loud. Ugly. Human.
He moves closer. You feel a leg against yours.
“I’m right here, dummy. Just let it out.”
His voice is soft now. It shouldn’t be.
His hand finds your hair. Stays there. Possessive. Gentle.
Then — another voice.
“Hm.”
The door didn’t make a sound this time.
“Of course you’re here.”
Elliot.
Your heart jolts.
Chance tenses. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.”
He’s already inside, already closing the door, already leaning against it like it’s his right to keep people out. “Just noticing. You’re always first. Always playing the hero.”
Chance’s laugh is low and sour. “At least I show up.”
“I always show up,” Elliot says, eyes flicking to you. They change when they see your face. Something in him stills.“[Name].”
He crosses the room. You feel him kneel beside you, opposite of Chance. You are bracketed now. A storm in a jar.
“You’re crying,” Elliot says, like he’s naming a crime someone else committed.
“Why didn’t you call for me?”
You shake your head, throat closing.
“You know I’d come.”
His voice is velvet now, edged with steel. “I’d always come.”
Chance snorts. “She didn’t call me either.”
“Still made it here first though.”
“Like that matters.”
“It matters to me.”
The words hang in the air, sharp and heavy.
You hiccup a sob.
Neither of them speak for a long moment after that. Just the fire crackling. The rain tapping its wrong rhythm against the windowpane. Your breathing—uneven, wet, dragging.
Then a warmth wraps around your waist.
Chance.
He’s pulled you in fully now, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One arm around your back. His chin rests lightly on the crown of your head.
You’re not sure when your fists had curled into his shirt, but they have. Tight. Like if you let go, you’d disappear.
Elliot’s hand touches your jaw.
A featherlight caress. He’s looking at you like you’re something broken and rare. Like you need to be handled carefully or you’ll vanish through his fingers.
His thumb catches a tear.
“I don’t like seeing you like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t like that I wasn’t here sooner.”
“She didn’t want anyone here,” Chance mutters into your hair. “That’s the problem.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Elliot’s voice is tight now, nearly trembling. “But if she’s hurting—if something’s wrong—I should be here. We both should. Always.”
His hand drifts to yours. You feel the cool brush of his knuckles as he carefully, slowly, laces his fingers through yours.
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he says, lower this time. Closer. “You don’t get to do this alone anymore.”
Chance exhales into your hair. “We mean it, you know. You don’t have to hide. Not from us.”
“But I…” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
Elliot’s arm tightens around you. “You’re not a burden.”
Pressing his forehead into your temple. “You’re… shit, [Name]. You’re everything.”
It’s not the first time you’ve heard something like that from them—but right now, it lands differently. Right now, when you’re cracked open and full of nothing but ache, it doesn’t sound sweet. It sounds frightening.
Like a vow. Like a threat.
Like a promise you’ll never be allowed to undo.
Your tears slow. Your throat aches. But the weight on your chest has shifted—less sharp, less crushing. They’ve stolen some of it, just like they said they would.
You don’t want to say thank you. Not because you’re not grateful. But because it would encourage them. And deep down, something inside you whispers that they’re already too far gone.
But they’re here. And right now, that matters more than anything else.
So you say nothing.
You just stay in their arms. In the warmth. In the cage. You let Chance rock you and let Elliot’s fingers draw invisible shapes on your spine.
Eventually, your breathing evens out.
Eventually, the tears dry.
They don’t ask permission to stay.
They just do.
Waiting for anyone or anything to try and take you away.
requests….. open…? i look down to my hands and smirk, it…. it must be my destiny…
HII!! hello there :J I ABSOLUTELY ADORE THE WAY YOU WRITE WHAT? drags my hand down a window longingly, can I so very humbly request something with Forsaken’s one and only Noob? </33
could be whatever, fluff, hurt/comf, yan, GEN WHATEVER go crazy,,, i feel like i’m starving over here, clawing at the bars of my enclosure for the SCRAPS, help a guy out and my life is YOURS 🙏
𓏵 NOTICED
NOOB X READER
Warning ! : Emotional Vulnerability & Trauma Responses , Mentions of panic & fear , Physical content
Note ! : THANKU SM WHAR!!!! Art : @/eurymun on X
Noob drinks it slowly. They always do. Not because it helps them run faster or shakes off the slowness of dread, but because it’s the last thing in this world that still feels like before.
Before the maps.
Before the Others.
Before Sixer was a scream in the fog and not a hand in theirs.
Noob hides under the collapsed floorboards of the maintenance shack, knees tucked tight to their chest, ghostburger still clutched in trembling fingers. The wrappers crinkle when they shift, and the sound is too loud in the dark.
They’re not crying.
Their health is questionable. Their face disagrees.
The killer didn’t even hit them this time. Just got close. Close enough that their aura flashed red with that jittery, pixel-deep burn and Noob froze up. The panic sets in before pain ever does.
They hate that.
They hate being the kind of survivor who panics first.
Even though they’re trying so hard. Even though they haven’t used their potion yet. Even though they mapped every generator before the round started. Even though they whispered to you, just before the countdown:
“Y-You can hide behind me if you need to. I-I can… I can take the hit…”
They meant it. They meant it.
They always mean it.
You find them there eventually, tucked away with a white-knuckle grip on a half-bitten snack and their tears quietly pooling at the edges of their face. They don’t hear you at first.
They only look up when you gently kneel next to them, offering your own Bloxy Cola like a peace treaty.
“Here,” you whisper, “it’s the kind with Speed II. Trade?”
Noob’s lower lip wobbles. Their expression flickers like a dying signal: guilt, confusion, soft hope.
“B-But… this one’s mine…”
“You can have both.”
A pause.
And then they sniffle, blinking too fast. You’re not sure if they’re stunned by the kindness or stunned that it came from you. Maybe both.
They take the cola.
“Th-thanks…”
The fizz cracks softly in the quiet. You sit beside them, not saying anything more, letting them sip in peace. And when their shoulders stop shaking, when the crying-face fades from their status bar, when the tension bleeds out of their limbs just a little—they finally speak again.
“…I used to like these ‘cause… S-Sixer always saved me the cherry ones.”
You blink.
“Sixer?”
They don’t answer for a while.
Just sip.
And then:
“I… I never sent the letter.”
You don’t know what letter they’re talking about.
But you know it matters.
So you listen.
Noob fidgets with the wrapper on their ghostburger, tracing the edges with a trembling thumb.
“W-We used to be… always together, back then. N-Not scared. Just—j-just us. They’d run ahead, a-and I’d catch up. Always caught up.”
“Then we got caught. I— I d-don’t know if it was my fault or theirs or just—just… something. I ran. They didn’t. I thought maybe if I just… if I wrote it all out, I’d be brave enough to fix it.”
A shiver runs through them. Not from the cold. From memory.
You place your hand over theirs. Carefully. No sudden moves.
And to your quiet surprise—Noob lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
“Y-You think… Sixer remembers me? Or— Or if it’s like everyone else now. Glitched and gone and… different.”
You squeeze their hand.
“I think they remember.”
They don’t speak again after that.
But you sit together for a long while, tucked into the dark of the maintenance shack, two survivors with shared soda and mismatched wounds, the static hum of the round pressing in just far enough to remind you you’re still in danger—and still alive.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe, just maybe, surviving with Noob means healing, one cola at a time.
That night, when they lay curled on their bunk in the dim survivor quarters, the finished can sat on the floor by their pillow. They didn’t drink it.
Hii helloo! Hope you're doing fine!! Can I request John Doe x Survivor Reader pls?? There's no many content of that man p l e a s e
Maybe John Doe feels something for the reader and has some special spot for them acting real clingy with them plz
𓏵 RESIDUAL GLITCH
JOHN DOE X SURVIVOR! READER
Warning ! : Injury and blood , Stalking-like behavior , Corruption themes ( pyschical and digital ) , Mild horror elements
Note ! : GGRHRSGSHSG hes suxh a kitten…, Art : @/1stampzy on X
The air was still in the cabin—oppressively so.
You leaned against the cold concrete wall, arms crossed over your chest, listening to the hum of fluorescent lights above. No one else was talking. A few Survivors milled about on the opposite end of the room, keeping their distance as usual. You weren’t new here, but you weren’t exactly old either. Just… stuck. One of the many taken from your world and deposited into this fragmented purgatory of code and horror.
The terminal buzzed near the entrance, a flicker. Then static.
A sentence appeared on the screen.
They’re all yours, Mr. Doe.
You felt a chill crawl up your spine.
Not fear. Not quite. Something else. Something heavier.
You’d been through rounds with all sorts of killers—raging monsters, cold tacticians, even the theatrical ones who laughed while they chased you. But John Doe was different.
You heard it before you saw him. A low thrum, almost electrical. Then the soft drip drip drip of something thick hitting the ground. You ducked into a hallway, crouching, eyes searching the corners. A strange sound echoed—metal scraping against metal, as if claws were dragging down a vent.
And then—
Your screen flickered. Not the real one—your eyes. The world itself stuttered for half a second, like corrupted code rerouting in real time. Your vision filled with binary, then cleared. That’s when you saw him.
John Doe.
He stood at the far end of the hallway, unmoving, backlit by an emergency light behind him. Limbs barely resembling what they once were. His right arm was a heavy, malformed spike, pulsing faintly with red binary code. His left claws twitched, black substance writhing faintly across his forearm. The corrupted eye glowed red, bright and direct.
You froze.
But he didn’t move to kill you.
You waited for the dash, the charge, the spike-filled onslaught of pain and corruption.
It didn’t come.
Instead, he tilted his head.
Slightly.
As if… curious.
Your breath hitched.
Then, silently, he raised his clawed hand—slow, deliberate—and pointed. Behind you.
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
For a moment, you froze. The low static humming through the air sharpened, distorting slightly like a broken signal. The space behind you felt colder, heavier, as if someone—or something—had just stepped into your shadow.
You turned.
But there was nothing there. No killer. No traps. Just the gently flickering hallway you had come from, its corners warped by low, pulsing glitches. No blood. No footsteps. Just the eerie silence.
You turned back to John Doe.
He was gone.
You fixed two generators before you saw him again. Once in the stairwell, where he stood directly in your path and didn’t move until you whispered, “I need to pass,” and only then did he step aside. Again, without a word.
And then a third time, when you were bleeding from a close encounter with one of his Digital Footprints. You’d stepped wrong, limped into one of the slow zones by accident. The pain had been sharp, your vision hazy. You collapsed near an open elevator shaft, too weak to move.
He appeared again.
This time, closer. Claws sheathed. That same unreadable stare.
But instead of finishing you off…
He knelt.
The floor warped under his weight, tiles darkening with his corruption—but it didn’t touch you.
He reached toward your arm—stopped halfway—and hesitated.
Then, slow as dusk, he touched your wrist. You expected agony. Instead, a warmth pulsed from his claws. The bleeding slowed. Your health bar ticked up. Not much. But just enough.
He let go. Stood.
And then… something strange.
He walked behind you. And stayed there.
You didn’t realize it at first. You thought he’d left again. But when you stood—unsteady, limping—his shadow moved with you.
John Doe was following you.
You tested it.
Walked through a hallway. He followed.
Entered a room. He followed.
Paused by a generator. He hovered by the door.
He wasn’t hurting you. He wasn’t placing traps in your path. He wasn’t even trying to scare you. He was just… there. Looming. Massive. Watching every move you made.
Eventually, you sat on a crate and looked at him directly.
“Why are you following me?”
No answer. Not that you expected one.
You leaned forward, elbows on your knees.
“Are you gonna kill me?”
He tilted his head again. Almost the same way he had earlier. The red eye dimmed slightly. His claws scraped the wall beside him, not threateningly—more like a nervous habit.
Something about that made your chest tighten.
You looked at him, really looked.
And you said, quieter this time, “You don’t have to.”
He stood still for several seconds longer, then stepped forward.
Not close enough to touch. But close enough that you could hear the faint sound of code whispering from his corrupted limb.
And then…
He sat.
Not on a crate. Not on a chair.
Just on the floor. Near you. Heavy, silent, like a statue left behind at the end of the world.
And he stayed there.
Until the round ended.
You were the last one alive.
The screen glitched. A siren called the end. Time ran out.
But John Doe didn’t kill you.
Instead, as the arena began to collapse into static, he stood first. Looked down at you. Then bent low, clawed fingers reaching toward your shoulder.
The world cracked around you.
But you felt it.
Just before the teleport yanked you back to the cabin—
A touch.
Not a claw. Not a strike.
Just a brief, careful press of his hand on your shoulder.
Note ! :This story leans into the psychological and atmospheric side of the yandere trope—if you’re looking for an explosive or violent obsession, this isn’t that kind of ride. Here, the danger lies in what isn’t said. Art : @/Dazo__263 on X
There were rules at Rocket Corp—unspoken, like the quiet shiver that passed down every spine when Victim walked past.
The most important one?
Don’t get in his way.
You hadn’t broken that rule yet.
You’d only been working in the research wing for a month, organizing files, sorting corrupted data left from the war, compiling reports for higher clearance employees. Most of your time was spent alone in the lower levels, beneath the deafening sound of hoverbikes above and the clicking of mechanical limbs belonging to his mercenaries.
Still, sometimes…you could feel it.
Not the hum of machines. Not the cold of the concrete floor. Something else.
Eyes.
Eyes on your back when no one was supposed to be there.
You’d learned quickly not to look. The one time you turned around, you saw nothing.
Or rather—you saw Victim’s door closing.
His office was at the very top of Rocket Corp, in the dark tower with no windows. You’d only seen it once, escorted up by Ballista to deliver a data chip. Ballista hadn’t spoken. Just handed you the security clearance card, gestured silently. He didn’t even grin like usual.
When the elevator opened, the air changed. It felt like stepping into an older version of the building—one where laughter had once existed, now long-evaporated. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, as though afraid of disturbing something asleep.
Victim’s door had been half open.
And he was smiling.
You’d heard stories from the other workers. How his smile wasn’t a sign of approval, or even humanity. He smiled to unnerve. To dominate. His quiet grin was a predator’s calm. Like he was always two steps from violence, but too bored to act on it.
You hadn’t understood that until the moment you saw it yourself.
You stood in the doorway with the chip, and he looked at you with that expression—like he was watching a mouse forget the trap was baited.
“Come in,” he’d said, without moving his mouth.
You weren’t sure how long you stood there, the silence stretching between you like a wire pulled taut. His office was stark. A black desk. Three monitors. A photo, turned face down. A cracked corner in the glass behind him, like someone had once thrown a chair—and he’d left it as is.
You stepped in. Gently placed the chip on his desk.
“Thank you,” he said. Still smiling. Still motionless.
That was all.
No other conversation. No indication of anger or praise. You turned to leave. He didn’t stop you.
But he was watching.
You felt it again in the elevator. And when you got home. And in your dreams.
You told yourself it was just intimidation. He was good at that. Everyone said so.
But it didn’t stop there.
It began small. Files you were assigned would already be sorted. Work you hadn’t submitted yet would vanish from your queue and reappear in perfect condition—completed exactly how you would’ve done it.
Then came the mug.
You’d lost it during a long shift. Simple ceramic, pale yellow, chipped on the handle. A comfort item more than anything. You didn’t even bother reporting it—thought maybe Hazard or Primal had accidentally knocked it into a trash compactor.
Three days later, it was waiting on your desk.
Clean. Still warm. With tea in it.
You were alone in the lab.
And once again, no one was around when you checked the hall.
Victim didn’t show up often outside his office, but when he did, silence followed. The mercenaries trailed behind him, ghostlike. Agent never spoke when he was walking. Ballista would flash a sharp-toothed grin at others, but never at you. Hazard’s frame rate slowed like they were freezing for your benefit. Even Primal once paused, head cocked, before continuing on—like he smelled something on you that he recognized.
None of them said anything.
But you noticed.
Victim was always nearest to you.
Even when the room was full.
Even when you shouldn’t have been near the front of the crowd.
It was late one night when the power glitched.
You were alone again, monitoring a corrupted data block from the lab server. Something about it was strange—it had patterns, like it had been touched. Human fingerprints in code. Like someone had left behind a message, or a memory.
And then the lights died.
For a moment, everything was black. No buzz. No hum. Just silence.
And then the monitor flickered.
You’re not safe.
You blinked.
The words were gone.
A line of unreadable code replaced them, scrolling too fast to parse.
You reached for your communicator.
“I wouldn’t.”
The voice didn’t come through the comms.
It came from behind you.
Slow. Low. Smooth.
You turned.
He was there.
Victim.
No mercenaries. No sound. Just him.
Smiling.
“You should sleep,” he said.
You opened your mouth. No sound came out.
Victim tilted his head slightly.
“You’re working too hard. I’m impressed.”
He stepped closer.
You didn’t back up. Didn’t move.
Because something in the room had shifted.
Like the oxygen had frozen. Like your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to.
He raised a hand.
Not to touch you.
Just to turn your chair toward him.
He leaned down slightly. Not enough to invade your space. Just enough to lower his voice.
“They’re not allowed to touch you. You know that, don’t you?”
You swallowed. “Who?”
He smiled.
He didn’t answer.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he stood. Turned. Walked away.
You didn’t move until his footsteps were gone.
The next day, Primal nodded at you in the hall. Agent stared too long. Ballista didn’t smile. Hazard blinked once, slower than usual.
The way I rushed to your requests when I found out they were open😭 your writing made me giggle and kick my feet you are SO talented
Anyways! Can I please request (if it’s okay with you) a Yandere team-up with Chance and Elliot (forsaken)? They’re both head over heels for the reader and so they decide to work together..
Headcanons are fine!! Make sure to drink lots of water and take care of yourself!!
Note ! : AAAAAA TYSM !!!! this means a lot to me truly! And I think Im KINDA bad ab headcanons so so its kinda a one shot???….,,,, I HOPE U LIKE IT!!! Art : @/fishumlem on X
Chance notices you first, but not in any dramatic way. He sees the way you hesitate near the fire, uncertain. The way you laugh too quickly when someone jokes, trying to fit in.
He likes that you don’t yet know the game. People like that are interesting. Predictable in some ways—naive—but also capable of surprising him. And Chance loves surprises.
He starts approaching you slowly. Playfully. Nothing alarming.
“You know, you keep standing by that tree like you’re expecting it to save you from a killer.”
You laugh. It’s easy to laugh around him. He makes it easy.
Elliot notices too. Not your laugh, not your smile—your fear. The way your hands tremble just slightly when you hear the killer’s scream. The way you fumble with a generator. The way you linger near others for safety.
He doesn’t say anything to you. He just… starts watching.
At first, he’s near you by accident. Or at least, that’s what it looks like.
You blow a generator? Elliot’s already nearby to cover for you.
Get knocked down? He’s the first to pick you up, silent, efficient.
You thank him. He nods once.
He doesn’t ask for anything in return.
Not yet.
It’s subtle.
Chance starts treating you like a game. Not a cruel one—but a test. A series of probabilities and risks. He bets you small things:
“Want me to boost you to that ledge? Let’s flip for it. But if I win, you owe me a secret.”
“Heads, we take the long way. Tails, we sneak past the killer.”
You laugh, roll your eyes. But you play along. It becomes habit.
He always seems to win, somehow.
Elliot, meanwhile, watches who you talk to. Watches how you smile at certain survivors. Watches when you flinch. He doesn’t say anything when you start trusting Chance more—but he watches him, too.
He starts intervening. Slightly.
That one round when you and Chance are paired together? Elliot joins too. He doesn’t speak, but he’s always just there, between you and a threat. Or between you and Chance.
They begin to notice each other.
At first, Chance thinks Elliot is just… hovering. A protective type. He finds it amusing.
“Silent knight,” he jokes to you once. “Pretty sure he’d throw himself in front of a trap for you.”
You glance at Elliot. He doesn’t deny it. Just tilts his head, quiet. Still watching.
Chance narrows his eyes. It’s not funny anymore.
Elliot doesn’t like how Chance makes you laugh. He doesn’t like how close he stands to you, how his voice drops when you’re alone together.
But Elliot is patient. He doesn’t act on impulse.
He waits. Watches. Calculates.
The Shift.
It’s during a brutal round—Jason, maybe, or c00lkidd. You get separated. Alone, bleeding, hiding behind a rock.
They both find you at the same time.
Chance crouches beside you, all charm, coaxing words:
“Hey, hey, easy. You’re alright. Just a scratch. Let me help, yeah?”
Elliot is silent, but his hands are already pulling out a medkit. His expression is unreadable, his eyes locked on him—not you.
Chance smirks.
“Oh, sure. You can patch her up if you want. I’ll just hold her still.”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist. You smile, nervously. Neither of them does.
They both fix you. Carefully. Silently. But the air between them is sharp.
From that moment, something changes.
They don’t argue anymore. They start working together.
Chance engages you with warmth and wit. Elliot handles logistics—watching your back, offering tools, helping you silently.
You barely get time alone. Not because they’re obvious, but because they’re coordinated.
One distracts while the other circles in. One keeps you smiling, the other keeps you safe.
And slowly, the others fall away.
Survivors avoid you—either pushed out, subtly sabotaged, or scared off. You never notice the pattern.
But soon, it’s just you and them. Always.
Chance manipulates the social side of things. He always has an excuse to talk to you.
“Hey, come with me. Safer in pairs, right?”
He makes you feel like choosing him is your idea.
He studies you like a strategist studies the board—tracking your fears, your preferences, even how fast your heart beats when he leans close.
If you ever question why people avoid you now, he shrugs with a smile.
“Maybe they’re jealous. I mean, you’ve got two of the best keeping you safe. Who wouldn’t be?”
Elliot doesn’t try to win you over with charm. He builds a quiet, unshakable presence in your life.
You fall, he’s there. You’re in danger, he’s already moving. You cry, he passes you a handkerchief without a word.
He starts taking things from you—not objects, but choices.
You don’t need to fix that generator. He already did it.
You don’t need to ask for help. He’s already beside you.
He never pressures you. But he’s always watching. Always waiting.
And over time, you start to rely on him. You trust him.
That’s all he ever wanted.
They talk when you’re not around. Quiet, tense meetings.
“They looked tired today.”
“I’ll handle it. You just keep them entertained.”
They don’t like each other. Not really.
But their shared obsession keeps them in orbit. And if either one of them ever steps out of line, the other is watching.
Warning ! : Mild Horror Elements , Loss Of Identity , Obsession , Manipulation , Unhealty Relationship
Note ! : This story is intended for mature audiences who are comfortable with these themes. If you are sensitive to content involving unhealthy relationships or psychological distress, please proceed with caution. Art : @/nikasandayooo on X
You first hear of her in whispers — not through direct warnings, but old radio signals, warped dream-visions, and the scent of overripe fruit carried on warm, lazy wind. No one says her name outright. They call her The Lady in Sugar, The Sleeping Garden, The Mother of Sloth. But her true name? It lingers like a taste on your tongue: Eternal Sugar Cookie
She is divine — or at least, she was. A fallen virtue. Once a symbol of peace and sweetness, now a deity of stillness and silence, offering something between love and oblivion.
At first, you don’t even realize she’s watching you.
You just start sleeping longer. You start forgetting little things — how long you’ve been walking, what day it is, where you were heading. Your dreams become more vivid, soft and glowing. Her voice begins to slip into them, gentle, motherly, echoing through petals and gauze.
“You’re tired, aren’t you, little crumb? Come rest. The world has hurt you. I won’t.”
Her Obsession Grows Slowly — Almost Invisibly
Eternal Sugar Cookie doesn’t force. She invites.
She doesn’t chase you through the woods. She wait at the heart of them.
She is the flower you fall asleep beside. The warmth in your bones when everything else is cold. You never feel like you’re in danger. You feel… loved. Safe. Soft. She speaks like a lullaby — everything she says sounds like it’s for your own good.
You begin finding evidence of her attention. A teacup set out in an empty field. A flower blooming in the shape of your footprint. A lullaby humming from the wind, with lyrics that mention your name.
The Garden calls to you before she ever does.
“Let the thorns stay outside. In here, you’re perfect. You always were.”
And once you enter the Garden — you don’t even realize you’ve crossed the boundary.
It feels like a dream: honey-colored skies, petals that follow you, fountains of milk and syrup. And at the center: her.
Eternal Sugar Cookie greets you with open arms and endless patience. She never demands. She only offers.
A warm cup of rose tea. A bench of soft cake. A place to lay your head forever.
“There’s no rush, sweetling. Stay as long as you like. The world will still be cruel when you leave — if you leave.”
The Horror Lies in Her Love.
Her obsession is a soft cage. You don’t see the vines until they’ve curled around your limbs. She tells you stories of how the world outside betrayed her — how it demanded too much, never let her rest. She doesn’t want you to suffer the same fate. So she pampers you. Lulls you. Preserves you.
Every time you try to leave, something slows you. Sleep takes you at the threshold. Your limbs grow heavy. You forget why you wanted to leave in the first place.
And she is always there, brushing your hair, whispering apologies laced with sweet guilt:
“Did I do something wrong, little crumb? I only wanted to keep you safe. Don’t you see how the Garden loves you? Don’t you see how I love you?”
The flowers become watchful. The wind hums your name. Mirrors in the Garden only show her holding you.
She doesn’t think she’s hurting you. She thinks you were made for this — for her.
She speaks in old symbols, myths, scripture-like stories about “the Bloom” and “the Beloved Crumb.” She believes you are a reincarnation, a sacred guest sent to her after eons of loneliness. In her mind, you’re not a prisoner — you’re a blessing.
Even when she punishes you for trying to escape — vines tightening, dreams turning darker, your memories slowly dissolving — she does it with tears in her voice:
“Please don’t make me do this. I can’t lose you again. You don’t understand — if you go, I’ll fall asleep and never wake up. You are my joy. My only sweetness left.”
The deeper you sink into her Garden, the harder it becomes to remember who you were.
You forget pain. You forget urgency. But you also forget freedom. Your name. Your past.
You are loved to the point of erasure.
And yet… when she holds your hand and strokes your hair, when she cradles you against her chest and calls you darling…
Note : Please do not romanticize real stalking or abusive behavior. This is for fictional and horror purposes only. Art : @/MrMiao_Noir on X
You hear about ITrapped before you ever see him.
Rumors. Whispers. A name spoken in hushed tones by survivors in the campfire light. Most describe him with confusion. “He’s not like the others,” someone mutters. “Doesn’t chase you like a normal killer… doesn’t even look like a monster.”
He doesn’t. Not at first glance.
When you finally see him, it’s under flickering lights in a run-down hallway. A basic noob avatar, low-poly and harmless looking—except for that Ice Crown on his head, glowing faintly, coldly. He stands motionless in the dark, head slightly tilted, as if studying you. Not attacking. Not even moving.
Then he vanishes.
You think it was a glitch.
It wasn’t.
His obsession begins not with violence, but with access.
You start noticing strange things in your rounds. Generators you just touched regress by themselves. Doors that should’ve been opened glitch out and lock. Items flicker in and out of existence. But these things only happen when you’re nearby.
At first, it’s frustrating. Then it’s unsettling.
You complain to others, but no one else sees it.
Except him.
ITrapped always appears briefly—standing in the background of your match, not lunging at you like other killers, not roaring or hunting. Just… watching. Frozen. Calculating.
Eventually, the sabotage stops targeting you. Instead, it starts protecting you. He disables traps you don’t see. Breaks paths for other survivors—but not you. You’re allowed to move freely, untouched.
You haven’t done anything to earn his favor. That’s what scares you.
You’re not playing the game. He is.
You begin to realize he’s more than just a presence in the matches. He’s altering the game itself.
Somehow, your matches always start with him now. The map selection glitches until it favors the ones he prefers. Load-in screens freeze when you try to quit. Your inventory resets to a “default” version, and the only item that stays is a strange crown-shaped charm he leaves in your loadout.
Players who get too close to you start having issues. One survivor who stayed by your side the whole round disconnects mid-match and can’t rejoin the server. Another finds their controls reversed. One player swears their Roblox account briefly locked when they tried to message you about him.
Still, he never harms you directly.
When you’re injured, he lets you limp away. He never tunnels you. He lets you finish generators—if you’re alone.
You realize, eventually, that he doesn’t want to kill you.
He wants to isolate you.
The first time you speak to him is accidental—proximity voice, maybe, or a glitched chat prompt.
You don’t even know what to say, but you try: “Why are you following me?”
There’s a pause. A long one.
Then a quiet, unreadable line of text appears in chat:
“I used to fix broken things. Then I saw you. I don’t need anything else now.”
You feel a chill—not from fear, but because the message auto-deletes seconds later. Like the system itself didn’t want you to remember.
But you do.
From that point on, he no longer hides. He orbits you in every match. Other survivors grow suspicious. Some stop queuing with you. Others start blaming you when their matches glitch out. You’re alone more often now.
Which is exactly what he wants.
He never refers to you by your username. He calls you “buddy”—the way he once referred to Chance. The way someone might speak to a pet project, or a favorite possession.
You stop seeing him as just another killer. He’s no longer playing the game.
He’s rewriting it.
Your escape routes begin to vanish. The hatch doesn’t spawn when you’re the last one. Exits flicker with ERROR signs when you touch them. Sometimes, your screen goes black mid-match, and when it returns, you’re in a custom map no one else seems to recognize. He’s always there, standing still in the center.
“You’re the only file I didn’t want to delete.”
You can’t tell if he’s speaking in metaphors or literally viewing you as code.
Either way, you’ve stopped feeling like a player.
You’re Already His.
Eventually, he stops appearing to other players entirely.
Only you see him now.
You’re told he’s “disabled” or “removed” from the rotation, but he still shows up in your queue. You report it. Nothing happens.
One night, your screen boots up without you clicking anything.
