yun ?

18 ── veni vidi vici

[syoldei]

NAVIGATION › #_about me

💭: YUN — 8teen, welcome to my writing blog !

ⓘ feel free to interact with me ( as long as u don't fit the dni list lol ) and don't forget to like and subscribe and share , thank you !!

if u want to be moots, feel free to ask me 🫶

FANDOMS. honkai star rail, twisted wonderland ( mostly twst )

— masterlist.

#📬 :: masterlist #🪞:: twisted wonderland ── masterlist for twst #🌾:: honkai star rail ── for hsr

— additional tags.

#🦢 :: songbird's archive ── navigation #📨 :: yun's broadcast ── rambles #🧷 :: yun's garland ── my works

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ01. ⋮ RULES 02. ⋮ MASTERLIST ㅤㅤㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ03. ⋮ REQUEST STATUS: closed .

@ syoldei . 2026

[syoldei]

ALSO requests r closed for now guys unfortunately i have a lot of things on my plate rn that needs my attention so im rly sorry 😢 ill try to finish all the lovely requests u fuys sent me 😋🫰

[syoldei]

hi for some reason i cant click the master list 🥹

HAI ANON TYSM FOR TELLING ME !! lord im rlly sorry for that tumblr is up my ass bro 💔 ill try fixing it but in case it doesnr work again i have tags on my pinned post that u can use to filter the posts u want to see 😢

[syoldei]

OMG HAIIII X3 !!! CAN I PLS JUST SAY YOU ARE, (dare I say...) THE BEST FANFICTION WRITE IVE SEEN ON TUMBLR SINCE THE DAWN OF THE DINOSAURS. (Reading this over and that might've been a lil intense...oh well that's who I am) ANYWAY I zon't really have a request or anything bcuz lord knows I have LEGIT NO IDEAS EVER 💔 I just wanted to show my appreciation :3. LAYOUT? fire. FICS? FIRE. MY TWST OBSESSION? FED!! MY WIG? flew to freaking mars. (Okay sorry now im just bein cringe) ILYSM HAVE A PICKLE STRAIGHT FROM THE JAR STILL FRESH!!! (Or a gummy bear instead if you don't like pickles 😋)

-- the plushie under your bed

HAII OMG THANK U SO MUCH 🥹🥹🫰🫰 this warmed my heart anon (or the plushie under my bed....) let me give u a kiss omg im glad u like it as much i liked making them 🥹🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶 ilyt i hope u get a whole packet of gummy bears 💝💝

[syoldei]

Мне действительно интересно откуда у вас так много картинок типа " This is the peak "

HII i assume this is abt the reaction pics i use but i got them from pinterest LMAOO 😋 it usually peeks out on my home page and i have the irresistible urge to use them

[syoldei]

didnt sneeze but ur works always bless me

oh my god ruu and they said shakespear is dead 🥹🥹🥹🥹

[syoldei]

haii hello... would u be willing to write riddle ruggie and jamil (me and my 2nd yrs bias...) with a s/o who's their polar opposite. like riddle obvs some sort of delinquent and i guess a rich reader and maybe a really lazy/no work ethic reader could worth for either jamil or ruggie tbh?? whatever u think fits best ^__^

www.twst › ACCORDING TO COULOMB'S LAW

💭: opposite attracts—that's part of the law of nature !

pairing. riddle rosehearts, ruggie bucchi, jamil viper x gn! reader (separate)

wc. 800-1k each (total 3.5k)

warnings. fluff no hurt, established relationship, not proofread

a/n. HAI ANON !! thank u for the request and this was so cute to write omg i rlly enjoyed writing this... my cutie labubus 🥹 also i got carried away writing jamil's part srry ...

I. RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Q: WHAT COULD GO WRONG WITH A LITTLE DELINQUENCY IN A MODEL STUDENT’S LIFE ?

Infirmary trips are quite lovely to some. 

If you push aside the detestable whiff of anesthetics and medicinal herbs, the prominent tang of blood that has your tongue subconsciously twitching, the numbing ache that nearly had you tipping on the edge of becoming a psychopath, the glaring white light that feels as if the empyrean glimmer of heaven’s gate is caressing your eyelids—

It is quite a holistic experience. 

“Unbelievable.”

Infirmary trips are peculiarly refreshing if you don't have Riddle glowering at you, looking seconds away from bursting a blood vessel.

Though it’s certainly not because of how you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge, moreover, acquiesce to the fact that it was entirely your dumbass fault—that your pride is expansive enough to warrant a unit expedition and explore the fuck out of it. 

No, that can’t be it. 

You squint your eyes at the figure that loomed over the pristine bed, abandoning the distant palpable throb of your swathed wounds (and the irritated voice of his that sounded so far away, probably scolding you) to place your interest in studying every contour and crevice of his face in lieu. 

Upon closer inspection, you can discern how his eyebrows are knitted together in some way along the lines of concern (yet vexation seems to triumph over it like a bloodied cloth), face scrunching up from that trademark frown he has over there. 

He looks pretty mad (he is fucking furious). 

“Are you even listening to a single word I am saying?” Riddle’s voice finally cuts through the static of your concussion, sharp enough to slice glass. He crosses his arms, the perfect, rigid posture of Heartslabyul’s housewarden contrasting violently with the absolute state of you—rebellious, blood-stained, and thoroughly thrashed from the brawl you definitely started. 

“You broke three school rules, disrupted the peace, and ended up bruised all over. Again, do you possess no concept of self-preservation?”

You merely offer him a lazy, loopy grin, entirely unbothered by the incoming lecture. You lean back into the pillows, wincing slightly as you reach a hand up to tap the tip of his scowling nose. “Love it when you talk dirty, Riddie. Keep going, I think my ears are finally stopped up with dried blood.”

Riddle’s face flushes a dangerous shade of crimson, but he doesn’t slap your hand away; instead, his fingers twitch, dropping his pin-straight stance just enough to carefully catch your wrist—avoiding the bruised knuckles with a gentleness he’d never admitted to. “You are an infuriating and reckless idiot.” 

His words come out clipped and sharp, but his thumb brushes unconsciously over the uninjured patch of skin near your wrist as if reassuring himself that you’re still here—not that well, but alive, nonetheless.

“You’re still grinning, I see,” he notes dryly, though the severity of his glare is somewhat undermined by the fact that he’s still cradling your wrist. “Is there something humorous about the fact that your cheek is currently swollen?” 

“Only that you’re looking at it like you want to kiss it better.” You rasp, the vibration of your own voice sending a dull throb through your jaw. You lean further into his touch, peering teasingly at him through your eyelashes.

Riddle freezes, the crimson colour on his cheeks instantly darkens, threatening to spread all the way to the tips of his ears. For a second, you think you’ve finally pushed him over the edge—that he’s going to cast his signature spell and let you deal with a collar on top of a concussion.

You beam in delight when he simply tightens his grip on you just a fraction, enough to anchor you.

“Do not be absurd,” he huffs, though his voice lacks the usual judicial bite. He momentarily looks away, pointedly staring at the wall beside your bed. “We are in an academic infirmary. Have you no shame? Truly, the impact to your head must have been more severe than the school nurse let on.”

For all his talk of rules and order, his composure is fraying at the edges, worn taut by the sight of your tattered uniform and the sight of your dressed wounds. He looks like he wants to scream and demand you follow the Queen’s laws of safety—but he also looks like he’s one more smartass comment away from collapsing into the chair beside you.

“If you do this again,” he whispers, leaning down until your foreheads almost touch—close enough that you can smell the faint, soothing scent of roses. “I will lock you in the rose maze until you forget what the outside world looks like. Do you understand me?”

“Sounds like a date,” you grin, tilting your head just enough for your forehead to lightly bump against his. It is probably the wrong response to make while the love of your life is actively threatening to imprison you for your own safety, but the way his eye twitches makes it entirely worthwhile.

“You are impossible,” he sighs, but he doesn’t move away.

II. RUGGIE BUCCHI

Q: WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU PUT AN IMMOVABLE OBJECT WITH A(N) (UN)STOPPABLE FORCE ?

“Are you dead?” 

You peel one eye open, your gaze instantly locking on the sight of Ruggie standing over the couch with a grocery bag in one hand and the most deeply unimpressed expression known to mankind. 

Hell, he looks like he has been run over by a Spelldrive team—his uniform is wrinkled, his hyena ears are sagging at a tragic angle, and he is practically dragging his feet as he walks to the center of the room.

From your position on the couch, you don’t even blink, perhaps too busy with the ecstasy of residing in the state of higher consciousness (read: being a chud lounging all day on the couch). Still, who can truly blame you for the godly setup you pulled? Wrapped around a blanket so thick it can survive an arctic winter, your phone propped up lazily against a pillow, playing a video you aren’t even really watching—who would deny themselves the gates of heaven?

“No,” you answer, your voice muffled by the soft blanket pulled up to your nose.

He narrows his eyes. “You haven’t moved over since I left.”

“I rolled over once.”

Ruggie let out his cute, little shishishi laugh at that, though it sounded incredibly dry and ran entirely on the fumes of his remaining energy. He drops the grocery bag onto the coffee table with a heavy plastic rustle, then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a mix of exasperated fondness and profound jealousy.

“Oh, wow, a whole roll,” he scoffs, his tail giving a weak, tired twitch against his leg. “Remind me to throw you a whole parade later. I just spent the last four hours running errands for half of Savanaclaw, hustling around campus, and hauling groceries. My feet feel like they’re about to fall off, and my partner is out here celebrating a complete body rotation.”

“A rotation is a rotation—at least I moved, no?” You counter, stretching like a cat as you do so, and burrow deeper into the blanket instead of showing even the slightest intention of getting up,

“Yeah, yeah, how productive of you,” Ruggie snorts, walking closer until he’s leaning over the back of the couch. His calloused fingers, still a little cool from the evening air outside, reach down to gently brush a strand of hair out of your face before playfully pinching your cheek.

“Come on, scoot over a little—or better yet, give your boyfriend a proper hello before you turn into a literal puddle.”

You don’t find the idea of scooting viable in your comfort zone—moving away requires a level of physical exertion you simply aren’t cleared for today. Instead, you decide to solve the problem using your own unique strategy.

Your hand shoots out from the plush safety of the blanket like a striking python, catching Ruggie completely off guard. Your fingers snag the collar of his rumpled vest, and with one heavy tug, you drag him down to your territory. 

Ruggie, in return, lets out a startled squawk as his center of gravity betrays him, tumbling face-first into the plush expanse of the couch right beside you, his noise burying straight into the soft pillows.

“Whoa—hey! What’s the big idea—” he scrambles to roll over, his sharp elbows digging into the cushions as his reflexes try to kick in so he can push himself up.

He doesn’t even have the chance to finish his words before you throw your arm haphazardly over his chest, effectively anchoring his scrawny frame to the spot, and drag the massive blanket right over his shoulders. Within seconds, you have him completely pinned in place with your body draping over his side.

“Stay,” you mumble, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck, effectively cutting off his escape route. “You’re too loud, Rugs… just sleep.”

Ruggie huffs, his fluffy tail flicking erratically against your shins as he tries to find room to squirm. “I can’t just sleep! I brought the snacks you wanted, and I gotta unload the rest of the groceries!”

He waits for your predictable retort, for you to whine about the snacks or drowsily command him to let the groceries wait for next time—yet, he finds that the snappy comeback never comes. Instead, the only response he gets is the rhythmic, deep rise and fall of your chest against his side, followed by a soft, warm puff of air against his collarbone.

He blinks, shifting his head as much as your vice-like grip allows, only to find your eyes tightly shut, your features entirely smoothed over by the sudden onset of deep sleep.

Ruggie lets out a quiet groan—did you seriously trap him here?

He tries to slowly wiggle his left arm free from your grasp, but the action only warrants your grip to tighten instantly, a sleepy and discontented whine vibrating in your throat as you subconsciously pull him closer. 

For a guy who prides himself on being the quickest and slickest beastman in Savanaclaw, he has found himself stuck and outmaneuvered by someone who hasn’t even touched solid ground since noon. To be frank, he can easily use a bit more force to slide out from under you, but as he looks down at your serene face, the remaining fight in his bones drains right out of his body.

Well, looks like the grocery bag on the table can wait—the snacks aren’t going anywhere, anyway. Ruggie can’t even bring himself to argue further—the couch is incredibly cozy, the heavy blanket is retaining every ounce of your shared body heat, and you smell like clean laundry and absolute comfort. 

With a soft and defeated chuckle, Ruggie lets his head sink back into the mountain of pillows. His twitching ears finally flatten against his messy hair, and his arms slowly creep around your waist, his fingers hooking into your shirt as his heavy eyelids threaten to flutter shut.

“Man… you’re dirty for this,” he whispers into the quiet room. “Total cheat code, I tell you…”

III. JAMIL VIPER

Q: WHAT BREWS UP WHEN “I LIVE MY LIFE LIKE A CARTOON SKIT” BECOMES ENTANGLED WITH “I AM FIVE STEPS AHEAD OF YOU” ?

There is one universal consensus that the universe inherently despises a cocky question, no matter how rhetorical it may be.

To ask “what could go wrong?” is to be bereft of sanity and court the unmitigated wrath of Murphy’s law. It is to take a lit match to the fuse of calamity and act surprised when the explosion arrives ahead of schedule. 

It does not care that you had good intentions, it does not care that your risk assessment was reasonably based on an objective metric, that the variables were accounted for, that the plan was solid, and the execution was clean, and everything should have been fine.

Should, in Murphy’s jurisdiction, is a foreign tongue, unfortunately. 

Fate and destiny (or whatever bureaucratic nightmare the universe uses to govern human life), though technically incongruent with each other, are cut from the same cloth—they are both equally fucking sadists.

Really, you should have known better than to ask yourself, “How hard could baking a cake be?”

The plan, in theory, should be simple—you would be surprising Jamil with a homemade birthday cake before midnight, because store-bought felt impersonal and you had seen enough cooking content online to have developed a deeply theoretical understanding of the process.

You have a recipe pulled up on your phone, and you have the entire Scarabia kitchen yourself, a rare luxury afforded by the fact that the rest of the dorm is fast asleep. 

Truly, no biggie at all.

So, you’re not truly sure where things went wrong for the first time tonight.

You stand in front of the counter, sleeves rolled up to your elbows with flour dusted on your cheeks, all the while you stare at a bowl of what can only be generously called “batter” if one is feeling charitable.

“...Okay,” you try to assure yourself. “That might be fine.”

It… definitely doesn’t look like the picture—if anything, it might be closer to a witch’s cauldron of agony, blasphemy, and everything raggedy—but that’s fine, heat should fix things up.

Allegedly.

Roughly forty minutes later, several things are true simultaneously:

First, the cake is out of the oven.

Second, the cake is not what anyone would describe as a cake. 

To be fair, it is cake-adjacent—structurally committed to the general concept, present in the correct pan, and the resemblance is there, somewhere. No matter if it has sunk in the middle, and that one edge is higher than the other, for reasons that are unknown to you. 

You tilt your head, then tilt it the other way—well, it certainly does not look any better from any other angle. 

The Scarabia kitchen also does not look any better from any other angle—dusted in flour from how you yanked the bag with too much enthusiasm (sending a fine white blizzard over the pristine marble counters, your clothes, and your hair), a pool of vanilla extract lies on the floor, and the oven mitts are slightly singed because you panicked when the timer went off.

“It’s fine,” you whisper to the empty room. “Nothing a bunch of frosting can’t hide.”

You are just about to slap a massive clump of icing directly into the center crater of the cake when the heavy oak doors of the kitchen open with a quiet keen of your impending doom.

Jamil cannot believe his fucking eyes—well, he can, but the sight in front of him leaves them wide with a rare, visceral mix of profound disbelief and immediate threat assessment. He had come to the kitchen for a glass of water; that was it—a simple and rational decision. 

He certainly had not anticipated having to neutralize an assassin that somehow sneaked into the dorm, a rogue arsonist, or Kalim having another one of his ideas.

Yet, looking at the scene before him, any of those options would have been vastly easier to imagine.

“...What,” he says slowly, “are you doing.”

You freeze mid-motion, spatula raised like a blunt weapon. The thick streak of frosting adorning your left cheek and the smudge of flour give you the appearance of a guilty ghost.

“...Nothing?” you offer weakly.

Jamil closes his eyes and takes a deep, grounding breath—it’s the kind that is usually reserved when Kalim suggests hosting an impromptu banquet for three hundred people on a Tuesday night.

When he opens them, the reality of the situation has not changed.

“Nothing?” He repeats, his voice flat and dangerously calm. He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe, his dark eyes sweeping across the disaster zone. 

“If this is ‘nothing’,” Jamil says, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. “I would hate to see what you consider an actual incident. Are you attempting to bake, or did something detonate in my kitchen?”

“First of all, it’s our kitchen based on the dorm layout,” you counter, attempting to sound reasonable while holding a spatula dripping with buttercream. “Second of all, I was baking—it just… had a few hiccups.”

A few hiccups are just putting it lightly.

He sighs and walks forward, before stopping right next to you, looking down into the bowl of frosting.

“You didn’t even sift the powdered sugar, did you?” he asks, taking the spatula from your hand with a gentle but firm tug.

He looks at your face, his expression softening slightly. Before you can ask him what he’s doing, he reaches out, his thumb brushing against your cheek to wipe a stray streak of flour. His touch is warm against your skin, a stark contrast to his cool, composed demeanor.

“You have it in your hair too,” he murmurs, a faint and amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I leave you alone for a few hours, and you manage to turn the kitchen into a winter wonderland. What was the goal here anyway?”

“Well,” you mumble, suddenly looking at the flour-covered floor. “It’s almost midnight, and I wanted to make you a birthday cake from scratch. You always cook for everyone else, and I just wanted you to… receive something for once.”

Jamil blinks, his gaze flickering from your face to the unfortunate excuse of the cake on the counter, and then back to the frosting adorning your face. For a brief moment, he simply stares, caught somewhere between exasperation and something far softer. The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, and when he finally lets out a sigh, it lacks any real irritation.

“You are unbelievable,” he says, but his tone is entirely laced with fondness. He rolls up his sweater’s sleeves, exposing his forearm with practiced ease before tying his hair up into a simple ponytail. “If you wanted to give me a heart attack for my birthday, you could have just said so. Come here.”

To your absolute delight, he accepts the challenge of the disaster cake.

This time, Jamil takes charge (thank the lord), but he doesn’t push you away from the station. Instead, he steadies and guides your hands, showing you how to properly whip the frosting to salvage the lumps. 

You think he might be explaining the steps slowly for you to understand, but you can only hear glimpses of it when his chest is pressed lightly against your back as he reaches over to guide your grip on the whisk. 

“Slow down,” he murmurs near your ear. “Whisk it with steady and consistent movements, like this.”

For the next twenty minutes, the kitchen is filled with the quiet rhythm of the two of you working in tandem. You manage to accidentally squirt a star of frosting on the back of his hand, and he retaliates by bopping a dot of chocolate onto the tip of your nose. It is messy and utterly uncoordinated on your part, and entirely uncharacteristic of Jamil’s usual perfectionism—but it’s perfect and familiar in every sense.

By the time the clock on the wall begins its chime, the cake has gone through a serious metamorphosis.

It is still fundamentally crooked, considering its resemblance to the leaning Tower of Pisa, but under Jamil’s expert guidance, the crater is filled with a rich chocolate center. The outside is coated in a smooth layer of buttercream, and you have aggressively showered the entire thing in gold star sprinkles to distract any remaining structural anomalies.

Jamil sets down the piping bag, wiping his hands on a towel. “...There.”

You immediately circle the cake, inspecting it from every conceivable angle. “Huh, it actually looks edible now.”

You steal a glance at the clock, a wide smile taking over your lips when it counts all the way to midnight.

“Hold on, don’t touch it yet,” you say quickly, a sudden burst of energy hitting you.

You turn your head and rummage through your pocket, your fingers finally closing around a small, slightly crumpled paper wrapper. With a triumphant little aha!, you pull out a slightly bent candle and a box of matches. 

Jamil raises an eyebrow, watching as you carefully straighten the candle and plant it right into the center of the chocolate crater, burying it deep enough to stand. When that’s done, you pull a match from the box and with one quick flick of the wrist, strike it against the side.

The small and warm flame dances between you, casting a golden glow against the lopsided cake and illuminating the sharp lines of Jamil’s face.

“Go, make a wish.” You smile, nudging the cake a little closer toward him.

He stays there for a moment (enjoying the profound quietness between you two, tucked away while the rest of the dorm sleeps), before he finally tilts his head down toward the lone flickering candle. 

With a soft exhale, he blows out the flame, leaving the two of you in the shadowed warmth of the kitchen. In the dark, the smile he sends your way is small and fleeting, but tender enough that you think you might remember it longer than the cake itself.

You suspect you’ll be thinking about that smile for a while.

“Happy birthday, Jamil.”

[syoldei]

Veni vidi vici, I came I saw I conquered

Ennie meenie Minier moe, catch a tiger by the toe🫪

OH MY GOD YES LMAOOAOA unironically veni vidi vici ennie meenie miney moe is my yearbook quote 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭✌🏻

[syoldei]

"Fortune favors the bold" i read and i am trying so very hard to be bold rn!!! this is my very first time sending an ask and omg— i just read through all of your works in record time!

Your writing is so lighthearted and refreshing in a way i cant really explain, its really fun and has me giggling and kicking my feet every time! and the characterization is MWAH, i will never be able to read silver content from anyone else i fear .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·.

Thank you so much for writing such beatiful works, im really looking forward to whatever you come up with next!!! 🌸

HI ANON!!! first of all this is so sweet thank u smmm omgomg 🥹🥹🥹🫰HEHE IM SO GLAD U LIKE THEM THANK U!! THIS MEANS SO MUCH TO ME im glad u guys enjoy them as much as i enjoy writing them 🥹💝 LMAOO i guess ill have to write more silver contents in the future 😋

[syoldei]

ok not twst related but what the hell we got hyeonmu team 1 panel in the manhwa omg we r gonna see them again in 5 years 😭😭🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

[syoldei]

DUDE NAGI IN THE BLLK LIVE ACTION TRAILER?? oh my goodness...

[syoldei]

this is not rlly a request BUTTTTT do u think we will highkey ever be able to see a delicious, five star course of a riddle fic??? 🥹🥹🥹🙏🙏🙏

HI ANON !! omg i have a few riddle requests in my inbox rn so hopefully im able to cook up some riddle fics u would like 😋🫰

[syoldei]

HELLO YUN!! first of all I just wanna say I absolutely LOVE YOUR BLOG AND YOUR WORKS ITS SO GOOD IM ADDICTED TO RE READING THEM!! AND SECOND!! I didnt know that you knew Windah! I saw you using his face for a post! BUT NONTHELESS KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK

HI ANONNN!!! THANK U SO MUCH FOR THE COMPLIMENTS they make my entire week atp omg 🥹🥹🫰 im so happy u like them sm ily mwuach and windah is funny as hell i love that dude fr LMAOOOOO AND TYY!! 🥹💝💝

[syoldei]

Hellooooo authorrr! :3 I read ur recent Idia fic and….*drum rolllll* I LOVED ITTTT 🤤🤤🤤 me and the 5 other idia fans cheered/j/j ty for the delicious food you have provided for our lanky hasn’t seen the sun in 500 years Greek boy™🙃🙃 take care of urself and hope you have an great rest of ur day!! Bye byeee

HII ANON! AND TYYYY IM SO GLAD U LIKE IT 🥹🥹 its ok idia fans i got u and ur greek boys back 💓 TY!! take care of urself and have a great day too 😋😋🫰💝

[syoldei]

OMGG YOUR RECENT FIC WAS SO GOOD JAJAKSKSBA HOAPVSJVAKVABSKLBKSLBKBLBSB I'm fangirling so hard rn please don't explode bro ✌️

LMAOOO THANK U ANON 🥹 i hope i DONT??

[syoldei]

Hello, author!! Hope you are having a good day so far! 🙃 (If not, dw, I know it will be another day, trust.) I saw your post about Deuce Spade's new birthday card, and honestly… SO REAL OMG THST GRIN IS FR GONNA BE THE DEATH OF MEEEEEE 🫪🫪🫪 djgjfjdjfksjdjakdjdhfbfhd Deuce may or may not have bumped up to my top 3 fav now because of that card 🤭🤭 Okay, that is all. Now, bye-bye, and take care of yourself!

HII ANON!! SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY but kmg fr.... wow ok mb deuce spade i was NOT familir with ur game wtf 😭✌🏻✌🏻like yo prefect is a genius to put him in that pretty blue fit like careful deuce dont outmog the others bro 😍 and tyy anon!! take care of urself too 🥹💓

[syoldei]

ayyy twin ur so goated i saw u got requests open !!!! can i request my husband idia shroud tryna bag a baddie and lowkirkenuinly feeling like he’s fumbling (bc yk how he is) but then he finds out she’s like highkey into his shit anyways lebron smiles down at you twin ily and ur writing so so much !!!!

www.twst › LOVE IS THE ANTITHESIS OF GAMERS (?)

💭: idia has a crush—what's the worst that could happen? apparently, his IQ and rationale drop by 70 points every time you're within a three-foot radius near him. fortunately for everyone except idia, you think it's positively adorable.

pairing. idia shroud x fem! reader

wc. 4.3k

warnings. loser idia lol, idiots in love, reader lowk wants that cookie bad too, not proofread

a/n. HII ANON !! thank u for the request first and foremost 😋 , and this was highkenuinely a cute prompt to write. tysm my king may lebron smile upon all of us twin 🥹🥹

Idia Shroud is in some deep shit.

Much to his horror, it's not the "I stayed up a whole night or two grinding an event raid knowing full well I have PE the morning after", nor the "oh shit my mom found out about my history searches" type of deep shit. No, this is far, far worse than he can ever imagine—an insidious, life-altering catastrophe of Biblical proportions that has rendered his hyper-optomized intellect completely obsolete.

To put it in simpler terms: he has a crush—a real person, too.

He has a crush on a real person in a sense that it is not on one of his oshis that exists safely behind a screen where rejection cannot physically reach him, but rather, an honest-to-gods, horrifyingly tangible crush on an actual living person who walks the halls of Night Raven College and greets him every time they meet like that alone isn't enough to reduce his entire system into decimated rubble.

He handles this revelation as well as you think—disastrously. Now that he acknowledges it with no room for denial, every interaction with you feels like a limited-time event quest with irreversible dialogue options, except unlike in games, there is no strategy guide to look up online (that he finds feasible, anyway), no save slots, and no guarantee that choosing the wrong response won't have him want to dissolve into ash on the spot.

Take his latest predicament, for instance. Yesterday, you asked him about one of the newest figurines on his desk, and that was all it took. One harmless little “Oh, this one looks cool. Where did you get it?” and suddenly Idia blacked out so hard that he regained consciousness midway through a ten-minute ramble about it, up until the character archetype marketing.

The moment his consciousness finally jogged up with this mouth, Idia felt his soul try to physically detach from his body. He stopped dead mid-sentence, the horrifying realization of spending ten continuous minutes infodumping about a literal figurine washing over him after a few seconds.

Oh, that was it. Any second now, you were going to execute a hard skip on this dialogue tree, back away slowly, and backfire him from your social circle forever.

He could practically see the dialogue box clearly—

INCORRECT CHOICE ! Love interest is now deeply uncomfortable—Affection Points decreased significantly.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hands flying up to grip the strings of his hoodie as he braced himself for the inevitable. “A-Ah—whatever, it’s stupid anyway! Just ignore me, I-I’m basically just a glitch in the NPC matrix, disregard everything I just said!—”

“Whoa,” you quip, your lips curling into a warm, effortless smile that thoroughly crumbled his remaining frame rate. “I didn’t exactly realize that so much detail went into marketing for these. You really know a lot about these, Idia.”

Despite his initial spiral, he was stunned to find that you just sat there, leaning forward slightly with your chin resting in your hand, looking up at him with a genuinely captivated expression. You hadn’t interrupted him once, he realized, and that you had been listening to his rambles the whole time with your head tilting with curiosity at all the right moments, completely unfazed by his mile-a-minute, high-pitched tech jargon.

In fact, he’s pretty sure his soul briefly left his body the moment you continued, “I like hearing you talk about things you’re passionate about.”

Like… huh?

What kind of romance-route dialogue is that?! That’s not fair—that’s literally a critical hit to his EXP! 

His blue hair violently combusted, the flames instantly shifting from panicked embers into a blinding, neon, flustered pink from root to tip. The flames crackled and hissed so vigorously that they nearly drowned out the sound of his own hyperventilating and the hysterical pulses of his heartbeat. His eyes darted wildly around the room, desperately scanning the air for hidden cameras or a floating twitch chat.

Surely, this was a prank set up by some high-tier Pomefiore influencer for a “pranking the local Ignihyde otaku” video, right? Real, actual 3D heroines didn’t just say stuff like that—they didn’t just sit there looking like a literal SSR drop while handing out free, unprompted ego buffs.

Idia stammered against his words, voice hitting a higher frequency than usual. He yanked the strings of his hoodie so tight his face was practically swallowed by the fabric, leaving only his wide saucer-like eyes visible. “Y-you’re… you’re hackling. There’s no way… what kind of broken RNG…?”

You just let out a soft and melodic chuckle at his absolute meltdown.

“I’m serious,” you said, leaning in just a fraction closer, completely unfazed by the heat radiating from his blushing flames. “It’s nice to listen to someone who actually has deep lore to share. You should show me some of your other setups sometime.”

Idia nearly fucking died.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he remained as he was in his gaming chair for a solid thirty seconds, staring blankly at the closed door. After what felt like hours, he folded forward until his forehead hit the desk with a loud thunk, his flustered pink sparks dancing wildly against the ceiling. 

This was bad—this was incredibly, dangerously bad. 

Idia is in some deep shit, and he’s got it horrendous.

That leads him to his current train of thoughts, which mostly consists of him staring into the middle distance like a war veteran while questioning where exactly his life took such a catastrophic turn—genuinely, when did this happen?

Idia never planned for this; people like him aren’t supposed to fall in love in the first place (love, he thinks, is supposed to be a word that he mouths with no lingering weight of pathos promised and entangled within its philosophy). He isn’t built for the main storyline—a background-dwelling tech support NPC like him is supposed to be the guy behind the scenes, he’s supposed to be with the rest of the audience that spectates on the male lead sweeping the female lead off her feet, he’s supposed to be the comic relief shut-in who is named Supporting Character A.

Supposed, supposed, supposed—yet, here he is, completely and irreversibly hard-locked into your route, with a heart that is currently hammering against his ribcage so violently it feels like a mechanical keyboard stuck on macros.

He has never wished harder in his life for visible quest objectives and navigation to magically appear in front of him. At least then, he’d know what he’s supposed to do.

Hell, not even the otome games he downloaded for this specific situation help him much. Those self-insert protagonists can casually lean against walls, trap their love interests in kabedons, and whisper devastatingly smooth lines into their ears without wanting to blow their shit smooth off—but Idia? He’d rather die than do any of those things in public, let alone in the halls of fucking Night Raven College, where those normies can have a front row seat to his social doom.

Absolutely not.

Sure, he’s confided in Ortho, which, in hindsight, might’ve been his first fatal mistake. 

Ortho, being the wonderful little brother he is, immediately treated the situation like a full-scale strategy game. By the time he pulled out pie charts and statistical breakdowns with alarming enthusiasm, Idia belatedly realized that somehow made things infinitely worse because now, with every analysis that spills from his brother’s mouth, the suspicion that comes with every tiny interaction with you worsens.

You smiled at him, you laughed at his niche gaming references, you reposted anything remotely romantic? Was that normal, platonic friendliness, or was that a hidden affection flag?

At this point, his brain is running thirty tabs at once while overheating catastrophically. The worst part is that, despite everything, a small delusional part of him is starting to think that maybe—just maybe—you actually like him back.

Which is an insane thought—actually clinically insane on his part, because there’s no way you would genuinely look at his chronically online ass and think, yeah, this one. I want this one.

…Probably

Muscle Red: Oho! A love trouble? Then you must court them properly!

Muscle Red: Listen well! Courtship is a sacred tradition between two burning souls. You must demonstrate sincerity, devotion, and the unwavering confidence of a man prepared to seize happiness with his own hands!

Muscle Red: Bring her gifts! Walk her back to her dorm! Praise her openly before others! Challenge rivals for her affection if necessary! 

Gloomurai: im gnna throw up

Suffice to say that Idia can only stare at the screen in mounting horror.

Walk you back to your dorm? In public? Where people can see him? He would rather get caught accidentally liking a six-month-old post on your account at three in the morning.

Praise you openly before others? The closest he has ever gotten to publicly complimenting someone was typing “cool fit” into a server chat once—and that led him to overthink about it for three business days.

Don’t even get him started on the “challenge rivals” part.

What rivals?! This isn’t some shoujo manga where he dramatically confronts another guy beneath cherry blossoms while orchestral music swells in the background. If anyone else liked you, Idia would simply accept his defeat and back off.

The next few days become a special kind of torture, during which Idia spends approximately ninety percent of his time internally debating every possible interaction before chickening out at the last second.

Should he message you first? No, too desperate.

Should he invite you to hang out in his room again? Too suspicious. 

Should he casually send you one of those funny cat videos you liked last week? Wait, no, what if you think he’s weird for remembering that—

By day three of this psychological gridlock, Idia is practically a ghost haunting his own gaming chair. He hasn’t even logged in to do his daily quests, a tragic metric that has Ortho considering launching an emergency medical protocol.

Every time his phone buzzes with a notification, his entire central nervous system experiences some sort of shock wave. If it’s an update from a gacha game, he sighs with a mix of relief and profound patheticness. If it’s you, his blue hair violently flashes a bright, neon-pink warning signal before he shoves the device face-down onto his mattress like it’s a live explosive.

He’ll stare at your chat head for twenty minutes, his thumbs hovering over the digital keyboard with the manic, trembling high-APM of a pro e-sports player at a grand final.

“hey, r u free to look at that coding script 2day?” Draft deleted—he sounds like he’s an underpaid IT helpdesk NPC.

“yo, i got a rare item drop if u wnt it.” Draft also deleted—what if you think he’s trying to bribe your affection metrics?”

“uhm, wyd.” Yet another draft deleted—literally a cry for help, he sounds like some no good frat boy.

Ultimately, he locks the screen, buries his face deep into the fleece of his hoodie, and emits a muffled groan of absolute defeat.

Unbeknownst to him, however, his unsuspecting self is about to be hit with a massive, unavoidable random encounter. On the fourth afternoon of his isolation, just as he finally sneaks out of Ignihyde to restock on his highly specific, premium snacks and energy drinks under the cover of dusk, he turns the corner of the courtyard, and runs straight into you.

“...Uh. W-well.”

The single syllable chokes out of his throat, hitting a pitch so violently uncalibrated.

He does not remember much from that embarrassing moment, his brain entirely wiping its cache of those crucial ten seconds due to a system-wide stress overload. Next thing he knows, his autopilot script had somehow had him stammer out an invitation to his dorm under the paper-thin, incredibly pathetic excuse of “O-ortho wanted to show you something new.”

Which brings him right here—the thing that Ortho had apparently “mentioned” happens to be a co-op game. He didn’t even have the time to swap his oversized fleece hoodie before you are already sitting right beside him in his personal sanctuary.

“T-the game itself is this co-op puzzle RPG where the mechanics are built around synchronized movement patterns and environmental coordination, so if one person messes up, both players immediately explode. Which is, uh, fun—in theory.” He explains quickly, his hands fumbling as he offers you a spare controller.

“Sounds perfect for us, then,” you joke lightly as you take the controller from his hands.

He sounds like a loser thinking about this, but the moment your fingers brush against his for less than a second, Idia almost drops dead on the spot.

Blissfully unaware of his inner battle, you merely settle beside him, knees nearly brushing against his. Idia sits rigidly beside you the entire time like a corpse being propped upright for a funeral service, while you are having the time of your life.

“Okay,” you grin, glancing at the character selection screen. “Who do I get to be?”

Lord, he’s finished.

The first round goes surprisingly well so far, mostly because Idia becomes terrifyingly competent the second a controller is in his hands.

“Okay, jump there—no, not there there, the glowing platform—wait!—”

A shrill, distorted scream echoes through the speakers as your avatar pinwheels downward into the endless abyss below. Idia's avatar—who had been perfectly balanced on the platform a second ago—is immediately yanked off the edge after you like some poor sack of potatoes.

Then, in giant ornate Gothic lettering, splattered across the holographic display are the words Game Over.

“...Oops,” you say weakly.

Idia makes a strangled noise beside you—not an angry noise, per se, more like a sound of someone watching years peel off his lifespan in a matter of seconds.

“W-we actually died in under four minutes. This might actually be a new record.” He mutters. “A total server-wipeout… in the very first run.”

“Hey,” you nudge his elbow gently with yours, a soft, bright burst of laughter cutting through the air. “Don’t pass away on me, yet. I still need a teacher to help me get the hang of it.”

It’s not even a full shove—just a tiny bump of your elbow that barely grazes his sleeves—and yet, his heart jolted so violently that he nearly drops the controller straight into his lap.

Fuck, why did his entire nervous system fail him at the contact? What is he? A plaintive, sopping loser?

“A-ah, no, you’re fine,” he blurts out, his posture akin to that of a statue at this point. “I-I mean, the first quadrant is basically designed to filter casuals, anyway. The devs are sadists, it’s not your fault—well, not fully your fault, but—”

He watches in absolute horror as your eyes widen theatrically. 

“Wow,” you gasp. “I’m quite offended.”

“N-no!” His voice cracks so hard in his flurry. “That’s not what I— I meant statistically speaking! The map layout is intentionally made to be deceptive and—”

You can’t even hold the fake, theatrical offense for more than three seconds before you completely lose it, letting out a loud and joyous laugh that echoes beautifully throughout his room. You slightly lean back, shoulders shaking as you try to catch your breath.

The holographic screen paints shifting blues and violets across your face while you grin at him like this is fun—like he’s fun, and something terrifyingly warm twists and convulses fiercely in his chest.

“I’m kidding,” you assure him between giggles. “Relax, Idia. We can just try again.”

Idia lets his hands drop, his pink hair settling into a slightly calmer, but deeply flustered magenta. He wipes his palms against his pants, yanking his hood down just enough to shield the red that peppers across his cheeks, though he can’t hide the tiny, incredibly bashful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“U-ugh… fine. A very funny joke modifier,” he mutters, his fingers snapping back onto the joysticks with a sudden competitive burst of high-speed adrenaline. He gives you a sideways glance through his glowing blue bangs, his heart doing completely unpatched glitches against his ribcage. “But you gotta seriously lock in for the second run.”

His fingers twitch anxiously over the buttons. “Besides… it’d be kinda lame if we give up after one try.”

The words come out more honest than he intended, because the thing is, he doesn’t care about the game anymore—not really.

He just likes the low flare of the holographic screen reflecting in your eyes, the sound of your laughter resounding through the room instead of the usual mechanical hum that he has come to liken with his dorm, the fact that you’re sitting here beside him close enough that your sleeve brushes against his every few seconds without recoiling from him once.

Judging from the way you beam at him afterward, Idia finds that awful pressure in his chest doesn’t feel quite as unbearable anymore.

It’s still absolutely mortifying—his heartbeat is pounding so frantically that he’s halfway convinced the controller can feel it through his palms, but beneath the burning embarrassment and internal, non-stop screaming, there’s something warm—dangerously close to elation—blooming quietly.

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I’ll try not to drag us both to our death next time.”

“Good,” he murmurs, though the tiny smile clawing at the corner of his mouth completely ruins any attempt at sounding cool. “C-cause carrying you is already consuming like… ninety percent of my processing power.”

Thankfully, the next several stages go relatively smoothly. There are still several incidents involving nearly avoiding laser grids, one extremely unfortunate puzzle mishap where both your avatars get flattened by a giant stone mechanism, and a particularly humiliating moment where Idia nearly accidentally walks straight into a cursed debuff trap because he was too busy staring at your excited expression after you solved one of the rune sequences correctly.

By the time the twelfth stage materializes, the difficulty has scaled exponentially. The environment shifts to a scene of ruins that give way to a massive suspended cathedral floating in the void, stained-glass windows glowing with fractured luminous light while chains hang endlessly beneath the platforms, mimicking the remains of a fallen god. 

You lean slightly closer to the screen, brows furrowed in concentration as you navigate through a narrow, razor-thin edge.

“This is the midpoint difficulty spike,” Idia mutters. “Most co-op teams dissolve here because the synchronization timing gets super strict and the platforming physics become—”

Midway through this explanation, your character encounters a sudden collision glitch, causing its footing to skid perilously close to the platform’s edge. Before his processing units can even boot up, let alone catch up to his mouth, Idia jolts in a frenzy.

“Careful!”

At the same exact moment, his right hand shoots out entirely on instinct, abandoning his controller to steady your wrist. 

On the massive screen, your character’s sprite catches the edge of the mesh at the last possible frame and pulls itself up.

The good news is that your avatar survives—bad news is that Idia might as well be the opposite.

He is made painfully aware that:

One: He is holding your wrist—his long, pale fingers are wrapped firmly around your skin.

Two: your skin is warm, in contrast to the chill touch that lingers on the expanse of his skin.

Three—

Holy fuck.

What if that looked overly possessive?! What if he just triggered a permanent creepflag?! What if his user rating just dropped into absolute null?!

His hand jerks away from you so fast it may as well have been a recoil animation. Had you not known, you might think he’d just been struck by a high-voltage lightning spell.

“S-sorry!—” he stumbles out the apology immediately, nearly swallowing his tongue. “That was—uh—gamer reflex! It’s purely a tactical maneuver! N-not in a weird way! I’m not trying to, like, grab you or anything! T-that sounded bad—wait, no, that made it worse—”

His words rapidly devolve into incomprehensible static, his entire chest heaving beneath his hoodie. His saucer-like amber eyes are blown out to the size of dinner plates as he tries to compress his entire lanky frame into the deepest, darkest depths of his ergonomic gaming chair. 

The flames around his head explode, burning such an aggressive and flustered pink that they cast an almost blinding, radioactive glow across the room. 

You blink, completely stunned for a second by the sheer, thermonuclear velocity of his meltdown. You look at the vibrating bundle of hoodie and pink sparks sitting next to you, and then down at your wrist, where the faint imprint of his surprisingly firm (and pleasant) touch still lingers against your skin.

A chuckle escapes your lips, cutting through his frantic static like a high-tier debuff cleanser.

“Idia,” You reach over, using the edge of your controller to lightly tap his rigidly locked elbow. “Relax, if anything, I should be the one thanking you. You literally saved our run.”

The flames around his head sputter more glaringly.

“I’m serious,” you reaffirm, a warm and blithe smile tugging at your lips as you lean closer, wholly unfazed by the subtle crackles of his blushing flames that slightly warm the air between the two of you.

“Besides, if you’re going to keep saving me every time I almost fall off a cliff, I think I’ve got a pretty good teammate.” You tilt your head. “Guess I’ll just have you stick with me, hm?”

“Oh.” The eloquent response escapes before he can stop it.

You raise an eyebrow in amusement. “Oh?”

“Uh, N-not—” His voice cracks. “I-I mean, y-yeah, technically. The fail state would’ve been triggered if your character fell there. So from a purely strategic standpoint, preserving teammate integrity was the optimal choice.”

His hair slowly begins to cycle back into a deeply flustered magenta, casting a warm glow over his sharp features as he fixes his gaze on the screen, refusing to risk looking at you again. “Of course, maintaining both player units is the most efficient route for progression, so it wasn’t, uh, anything special or—”

He continues to ramble, his clarifications getting increasingly tangled in technical jargon.

“Mm.” You hum thoughtfully, leaning your cheek against the top of your controller. The single sound is enough to make him nervous.

“Mm?” He echoes weakly.

You let the pause hang for a beat longer, your lips curling into a soft yet thoroughly amused smile that fully dismantled his remaining defenses.

“I think that’s the longest explanation anyone’s ever given me for grabbing my wrist,” you tease. “I never thought you would be so flustered over this, though.”

He makes a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. “T-that.” 

A useless syllable, that he is aware of. He stares straight ahead at the suspended cathedral on the screen with such an unblinkable intensity.

“You—uh.” 

His grip on the controller tightens, the joysticks creaking ominously beneath his thumbs. What the hell is he supposed to say? “Oh, sorry. I’m flustered because I have a humiliatingly massive crush on you, and I can’t think of anything every time you stand within a three-foot radius?”

Yeah, fuck no, he might as well dig his own grave and lie down in it at this point.

“Y-you’re making it sound weirder than it was,” he mumbles instead, visibly shrinking further (if that’s even possible) into his hoodie. He looks everywhere but at you—staring intently at the carpet, at the glowing power strip on the floor, at the stray charging cable—anywhere to avoid your direct line of sight. “I just reacted before I thought—that’s all.”

“Mhm.” Your voice hums with a smooth, heavy drop of skepticism that slices right through his defenses.

“I did,” he insists, his voice hitting a slightly higher and defensive cadence that completely betrays his inner panic.

“Sure.”

“I-I did!”

The immediate high-pitched defensiveness almost makes you laugh out loud. 

“I mean, obviously, I didn’t want to run to fail,” he continues, the words tripping over themselves and colliding in his throat as he rushes to build a logical explanation. “And we’d already gotten past, like, twelve stages, so it would’ve been a huge waste of progress, unallocated playtime, and—”

There he goes again. 

You don’t interrupt—you don’t think you could even if you wanted to. The rambles keep branching into increasingly specific tangents, spiralling from game mechanics to reaction times, then, somehow, jumping seamlessly into other rabbit holes.

At some point, you subconsciously begin to focus on him. You watch the way one of his hands flails and moves as he talks, while the other still rests over the joysticks. You notice the sharp and defensive hitch of his shoulders whenever he thinks he’s embarrassed himself, the fabric of his hoodie bunching up like some sort of armour.

Your gaze traces the dance of pink embers around his head, watching them flicker into dazzling starbursts every single time his tongue buffers. Beneath his bangs, you catch the frantic, side-to-side darting of his wide amber eyes, because he still can’t quite summon the courage to look you in the eyes.

Cute.

The thought arrives so naturally and unprompted that it almost catches you off guard. You blink; the word echoes in the space of your own mind, carrying a strange warmth in its wake.

Across from you, Idia is still rambling himself deeper into whatever massive hole he’s currently digging, his voice dropping into a low mumble as the seconds stretch by. He’s not even aware of the shift in his room—thoroughly and utterly hopeless against the silent psychological warfare of your stare.

A soft smile tugs at the corner of your lips—he’s… kind of adorable, no, scratch that, he’s incredibly and devastatingly adorable when he’s trying this hard to pretend he doesn’t care.

Judging by the sudden, stupid little flutter that your heart gives the exact moment his eyes finally steal a brief glance back at your face—

…Yeah, this might be a serious problem.