Childhood friend reader who goes blind slowly over the course of growing up? Like starts losing vision at 5, fully blind by 18.
Reader childhood friend being their defender at school, walking them home from school every day hand in hand, eventually their first blind-friendly teenage date night (maybe a home-cooked dinner? Or maybe going to a local concert)
I wonder how a yandere would react to their darling being so vulnerable? Not just a random stranger could steal you from him, but also something as simple as a wet floor.
I also imagine him staring down people in public that are rude to reader, while showing none of it in his voice. Like if he catches a guy leering, it's ice in his eyes but voice warm like a summer day.
You don't need to know how ugly the world is, if he can possibly hide it from you
🫣
Yandere Guide x Blind Reader
You’re five the first time the world dims.
It happens in a quiet, almost forgettable way. You blink at the sun too long and can’t see the chalk lines on the playground anymore. You think it’s a game at first—close one eye, then the other. But something doesn’t quite come back.
When your parents bring you to the doctor, you’re swinging your feet beneath the exam table, more fascinated by the rubber hammer than the gravity of the tests being done. The diagnosis is clinical, cold, and incomprehensible to your young mind: a degenerative condition. Your vision will fade slowly, year by year, until it’s gone.
You’re too young to understand.
Ezra is sitting beside you, swinging his feet too, but his shoulders are stiff, his fingers clenched so tightly on the arm of the chair that his knuckles go white. When your mother starts crying, Ezra doesn’t look away like the doctor does. He watches her. And then, he turns to you and takes your hand like he’s done since you were toddlers.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll see for both of us.”
Years pass.
You start to forget the precise colors of things. Your drawings become less defined, more abstract, until you stop drawing altogether. Reading becomes a chore. Eventually, someone teaches you Braille, but it doesn’t feel the same. The books don’t smell like they used to. You can’t lose yourself in the margins anymore.
But Ezra is there. Every day.
He walks you home from school, hand in hand. He learns to read Braille faster than you do, just so he can tutor you. You don’t know this, but he stays up late at night, fingertips raw from running over dotted pages again and again until he gets it right. He never tells you how hard he works. He just smiles that gentle smile of his when you praise him for being such a good teacher.
He’s your shield at school. When kids stare too long, or whisper cruel things, you hear Ezra’s voice—light, calm, always kind. But what you never hear is the way he stares back at them, like a wolf staring down prey. You never see the way people flinch under his gaze. He never lets you see it.
The world is getting darker for you. But it’s never anything less than warm when he’s near.
By the time you're fifteen, your vision is mostly light and color. Vague shapes. A world painted in blurred watercolor.
You begin to understand how dangerous things can be. A single step on uneven pavement, a misjudged curb. Once, you fall on a slick cafeteria floor, and you cry. You hear the snickering before someone helps you up.
But Ezra’s already behind you, pulling you gently to your feet, whispering, “Don’t listen to them.”
You listen to him.
Later, the boy who laughed at you gets suspended for a “locker accident.” No one connects the dots. You never even hear about it. Ezra makes sure of that.
You don’t need to know how ugly the world is.
Your seventeenth birthday comes with a full moon, but it’s just a pale blur to you now. Ezra’s hands are sure and steady as he leads you down the hallway of your house.
“Where are we going?” you laugh.
“You’ll see,” he says softly.
The scent of food hits you before anything else. Rosemary, garlic, warm bread. There’s music playing faintly—a song you told him once you liked, years ago, when you could still see the album cover.
He made dinner. Not just any dinner—your favorites, arranged thoughtfully and cut into perfect bite-sized pieces. The table is set. Candles flicker. You can’t see them, but you feel the warmth, the flicker against your skin.
He seats you like it’s a restaurant. Holds your hand for just a moment longer than necessary.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says.
You blush. You hadn’t thought to ask him what you were wearing. You don’t know anymore what looks good on you. But Ezra says it like a promise, like a fact.
He feeds you with care—only when you ask, never assuming you need the help, but ready the moment you do. The whole night is seamless.
You don’t know how long he’s been dreaming of this.
By the time you’re eighteen, there’s nothing left. No shapes. No light. The world is made of sound, of touch, of scent. You know Ezra better than anyone—not by face, but by footsteps, by breath, by the quiet way he clears his throat when he's thinking.
You don’t see the way men watch you sometimes—how your blindness makes them think you’re easy, or helpless, or not quite whole.
But Ezra sees.
You never hear the venom in his voice, because there never is any. He keeps it warm, soft, friendly.
“Careful, there,” he’ll say, when someone walks too close. “She’s delicate.”
You don’t see the way his eyes bore into theirs, daring them to speak again. Daring them to try anything. You don’t see the way his fingers twitch at his side, or how he memorizes faces.
No one touches you. Not without going through him first.
You never know how many times Ezra has protected you from shadows you’ll never see.
And he never tells you.
Because you don’t need to know how ugly the world is.
Not when he can carry it for you.
Not when all you need is his hand, warm in yours, leading you through the dark like he always has.
In desperate need of Phantom! Timothee X Reader, been thinking of it all day tbh.
This one has me so excited! Been thinking about it for a while and I think I came up with a good premise. May or may not need a part 2, since what I’ve planned would make an entirely too long single fic. Let me know if you’d like a part 2 and I’ll add it to my list :)
Phantom of the Theater
Warnings: feelings of being watched/stalked, not proofread, Phantom!Timothee, set a years into the future
You moved to New York City to pursue your acting career in 2029. The same year Timothee Chalamet dropped off the face of the earth. It’s a year that sticks out to you; not because you moved your entire life across the United States or because you auditioned for countless Broadway shows, sent in hundreds of video audition tapes to casting and talent agencies, but because it seemed like no matter where you turned, the first 6 months of 2029 was focused solely on one question: where did Timothee Chalamet go?
Things calmed down in the summer. People stopped talking about Timothee Chalamet’s disappearance and started talking about Kim Kardashian announcing her candidacy for US president. That July you got approved for a shitty apartment located on the top story of an old, but operating theater. It was overpriced, it was cold (even in the summer), and it didn’t have a bathroom. But you weren’t on the street, and you were no longer hopping around bed bug infested hotels, so you took it. You had a small savings thanks to your bartending job and a few Off Broadway shows you managed to score parts in since you arrived in New York.
Things were normal at first. Every morning you woke up and searched for new roles, begged Pablo, the casting advisor for the theater’s show to give you a script of that week’s shows so you could audition--to no avail-- and every night you went to sleep to the sound of whatever play they were performing that evening. And even though it was loud, and the orchestra’s music under the stage vibrated all the way up into your apartment, it was what you always dreamed of.
“If I could just get an audition,” you said out loud before drifting off one night.
It wasn’t long after that when the script arrived at your doorstep.
A knock at your door happened early in the morning. Well after everyone left from the previous night’s show but well before anyone was arriving for work the next day. Normally, you’d sleep through something as miniscule as a knock at your door, but this one woke you up. Not too light that it could have been mistaken for the apartment settling. Not too hard to scare the shit out of you. You heard it. The clock read 4:35 AM. The theater didn’t open for employees until 9am, and not to the public until 11am. Armed with this knowledge, you weren’t scared. Bravely, you stepped out of your bed, and padded your way to the door. You unlatched the chain, unlocked the bolt and turned the knob. A sound on the other side caused you to stop. Footsteps? Hurried ones, running softly away from your door. You took a deep breath, grabbed the umbrella you kept beside your door for protection, and swung it open. Your eyes took in nothing but darkness. For good measure, you swung your umbrella into the vacant space in front of you and when you were satisfied with the lack of bodies your umbrella hit, you chalked it up to the fact that you lived in an old theater that would likely make noises from time to time. You let out a sigh of relief, went to shut the door, but stopped when your eye caught the sight of a stack of white paper bound together, almost glowing in the darkness. Against your better judgement, you picked it up, took one last look outside your apartment and slammed your door making sure to secure the chain and lock the bolt.
You decided you weren’t going to look at the strange stack of papers. You needed to get some sleep; you had a few hours before you had to be up for another series of audition tapes. You turned over in your bed, the papers on your nightstand staring at you, calling out to you. You slammed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to sleep and when it was evident sleep wasn’t coming to you for the rest of the night, you grabbed the papers eagerly.
You opened the cover page and read it out loud.
“Patron of Sorrow.”
You flipped the pages, feeling the paper glide across your thumb and realized it was a script. Then, as you kept going, multiple scripts. Seven in total with varying cheesy titles: Rise of Anguish, Unity of Darkness, Angels of Pain, Girls of Dawn, Chasing the Castle, and your favorite: Bakers Without Fear. You took a minute to skim through each script, laughing at how bad they actually were. Then it dawned on you. These were the scripts for next week’s plays you’d been asking Pablo for. These are the plays he writes weekly that the theater shows to people who want a little less Broadway and a little more well...Off Broadway. At the time, it didn’t matter. At the time, it meant you finally had access to the scripts you’d been begging for every morning. And it meant you could memorize them. Audition for them whether Pablo liked it or not. You were going to get a spot in one of his shitty plays.
You sent in your audition tapes, like usual, only this time you knew they sounded rushed and you knew you looked tired. You messed up four times on the dialogue for a film called Without Reason, saying the dialogue for Girls of Dawn instead. You gave up on that one, sent the rest and went back to Girls of Dawn, the first show of next week.
You read Girls of Dawn all day. You ran lines with yourself into the afternoon, and by the evening, you memorized every single line of the character that was, at this point, destined to be yours: Tinsley, a grungy 20 something obsessed with finding the vampire that killed her boyfriend, only to find out the vampire is her boyfriend. You flew down the steps leading into the theater. It was 10:45pm, the show for the night was wrapping up and Pablo was seated backstage, on his laptop, feverishly typing what you assumed was another script.
“Pablo!” you yelled breathlessly.
Pablo jumped, his laptop jostled against his knees, sliding off of them. He barely caught and gave you a death glare.
You winced at his stare.
“Sorry! Sorry! I just-”
“Damn it, y/n! You made me erase two paragraphs! Thank God for Ctrl+Z.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” you admitted, “but I want to audition for Girls of Dawn!”
Pablo slid his glasses down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I told you, I’m not accepting new actors.”
“But why!?” you whined. “Why? I’m good! I swear it won’t be a wa-”
“How could you even audition? You don’t have the script,” Pablo interrupted.
You stood straighter, and a wave a nausea overtook you. Would he think you stole them if you told him?
“I uh...I somehow...acquired them...?” You said, your voice going an octave higher at the end, sounding like a question.
Pablo’s expression was unreadable. “So, you stole them,” he finally said.
“What? No! No, I didn’t steal them. Whywouldyouthinkthat?” you said way too quickly, making yourself sound unnecessarily guilty.
He stared at you for too long. Waiting for a confession. When you didn’t give one, he slide his glasses back up his nose and went back to typing.
“I’m not seeing your audition.”
Your breathing was too fast and too heavy, and your heart was pounding fast out of anger. Somehow those scripts ended up on your doorstep and damn it he was going to see you audition! You began with your favorite scene.
“I know you killed my boyfriend. I know it was you!” You said dramatically, though the shake of your voice and the tears welling in your eyes weren’t an act.
Pablo sighed, closing his eyes in exhausted annoyance. His eyes slid back up to you. You waited. Normally, in an audition, someone else said the other characters lines. It was clear Pablo didn’t plan on doing this. So, you did.
You brought your voice down low, to imitate a man’s and said, “I did it to protect you!”
You brought your voice back to normal, “protect me from what?!”
Down again. “From me!”
“Why would I need-”
“-Enough!” Pablo yelled, interrupting you and causing your shoulders to jerk upright. “I told you I’m not holding auditions, y/n. You need to leave. Now. Or I’ll have no choice but to evict you.”
You didn’t answer or give him a chance to say anything else. You ran back up the stairs, slamming your apartment door when you arrived. You threw the scripts onto the floor, not caring if a few of the pages ripped away from its seams. You fell onto your bed face down, crying into your pillow. You screamed into a few times, letting the stuffing and feathers take all of your anger. When you finally had enough, you turned your head to the side, and sat up straight. Someone had been in your apartment. On your nightstand, sat a black a rose with a black ribbon tied into a bow around the stem. Under it laid a note. Hesitantly, you took them both. The thorns had been clipped from the rose, like someone cared enough to make sure you wouldn’t get hurt when you touched it. You took the note out of the envelope, written on a small piece of cardstock you read the words written in beautiful scrawling handwriting:
“He will curse the day he denied you.”
Chills peppered your body. Someone watched your encounter with Pablo, saw him yell at you, wrote you a note with a rose, left it on your nightstand and somehow left before you came back?
You leaned back against your headboard, flipping the note over in your hands, and saw a stamp. It was small and the ink was black and elegant. The stamp was of two letters: TC.
Outside of your door, a soft thud sounded, followed by the same footsteps from this morning. You waited a minute before answering, but when you did you gasped. An entire bouquet of red roses with black ribbons tied around the stem, wrapped in black cellophane laid at your feet.
I can’t believe I wrote a fic today about cum literally spraying out of someone’s pussy, mouth, nose and ears but the more controversial topic is if someone actually has a crush on a boy named Cole or not …..
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