Please Do Not Read This If You Are Uncomfortable With The Yandere!

Dammon x reader

You work in a shop not far from his forge.

Dammon takes a break every day to look at you with a yearning look.

You don't even realize that someone is watching you while you go about your normal routine.

Dammon greedily remembers every little thing about you.

Every evening, before going to bed, a man scrolls through your image in his head.

Sometimes his brain rewards him. He dreams about you. How you tenderly hug him, seeing him off to work, and kiss him passionately when he returns.

He wakes up lost and excited. Half asleep, he searches for you with his hand, but then remembers.

Dammon is terribly embarrassed.

He cursed himself for never having decided to talk to you.

The next day, his day off. Dammon feels especially brave. He finally decides to visit your store to get to know you.

Hopefully I'll be free soon and be able to handle inquiries \(._.)/

Squid Game AU.

Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere!

Pairing: Yandere!Guard!Adrien x Reader

tw: obsession, mentions of murder

-Every morning, Adrian puts on a mask in front of the mirror, without even throwing a short glance at his face. Perhaps soon it will help him forget that he is a not human until the games are over. Perhaps then it will become a little easier for him.

-A triangle is drawn on his mask. It stands above the circle, but below the square. Give directions to the first figures and obey the second. This is a simple rule. Adrian doesn't know why he keeps repeating this to himself. Maybe because he is afraid to forget. If he break the rules, he will die. The rules are simple. Just keep it.

-The first time he pays attention to you when you cut a shape out of candy. You got a triangle. Just like the drawing on his mask. Your hands are shaking a little, but you are optimistic as you hum to yourself. You shake your head in rhythm and freeze when he's shadow falls on you. You lift your head and look at him. Adrian also freezes for some reason. After that, you just smile faintly, wave your hand casually at him and return to the game.

-"What was it?" in panic, Adrian thinks for a few more hours after the game ends.

-You get food and thank him politely. Everytime. As if feeding you is not their responsibility, but a generous gesture. Adrian tries to remember contact with your hands. He suddenly realizes how small your hands are compared to his.

-At night some woman throws a tantrum demanding to take her to the toilet. When Adrian opens the door with several other guards, he notices you standing modestly with a woman. You smile guiltily. He wonders if you recognize him. And then he remembers about the mask with the uniform and realizes that it is not. There was no way you could recognize him. Unfortunately.

-You are the first to leave the restroom and wait for the woman next to him, you rolling from heels to toes. "Mr. Triangle, I like the color of your uniform."

-Why? Why did you say that? What the hell? Do you even understand where you are and what he has the right to do with you????

-This night Adrian is no longer afraid for himself. He doesn't think about work at all. Thinks about you and your destiny. How is such a naive and kind flower supposed to survive here? What made you come here? If he had met you earlier, he would not have allowed you to appear here. He would help with your problems, even if it are beyond his capabilities. But what can he do now?

-The next day he takes you to the restroom again. Adrian goes with you hand in hand, not by the rules close, and at some point, grabs your hand. You cry out in surprise, but nothing happens and you calm down. And then you feel that he is handing you a folded piece of paper.

- "Don't make a mess there, 034" he says coldly, hoping you can take the hint and get rid of the prompt for the next game. You will understand. He has no doubts. After all, you are his smart girl.

- He'll figure out how to get you out of here. Or he will do anything to guide you through. But for now, a little clue will do. You will use it wisely. He doesn't doubt you. After all, you are his dear, smart, girl.

I'd like to write some headcanons yandere Astarion. But i need help. Does anyone have any idea? Please share this with me :3

Adults: ¡young people today only they look at the physical!

young people today: the 3 geometric figures are so attractive 👉👈😳

Never thought shapes would be sexy.

Also we simped over the spec ops guys last year so???? 🤨🤨

and in return you give hell : death! geto suguru x f!reader

"death is certain, but killing doesn't have to be ugly."

DARK CONTENT, MDNI ༚༅༚˳ . ♱ . ˳༚༅༚ alternative universe, no sex, stalking, blackmail, manipulation, jealousy, envy, obsession, yandere themes, noncon foreplay, possessiveness, major character death, deadly sickness, pet names (little one, my love, beautiful), reader is a nurse for context — 3.5k words

summary: inspired by the fairytale death's messengers, you find a man, wounded beyond mortal comprehension, at your doorstep and nurse him back to health.

a/n: part of @ljubimaya's 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐌'𝐒 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁

It all begins with a stranger laying at your doorstep, looking on the verge of death. 

His body is umoving, wrapped in the kind of silence that only the most severe of injuries can bring. A man cloaked in black, fallen to the ground as though the world had dealt him its harshest blow. His long, dark hair clings to his skin, sticky with sweat and grime. His face,  pale and sharp like the edge of a knife, is twist in pain.

Something about him seems out of this world, and yet, he looks so very human in his pain. Truth be told, all you yearn for is a warm bath after your draining nightshift, but instead there is another stray cat at your doorstep—desperate for the tender care of your hands. 

The people in your town are not only used to your kindness, they even take advantage of it—which is exactly why this man had been left at your door in the dead of night. 

You can’t refuse. It is in your kind-hearted nature to try, to heal, to save.

Kneeling beside him, you brush damp strands of his long, dark hair from his face, revealing features so flawless they seem carved by ancient stone masters. Despite his seeming strength—broad shoulders, a body hardened by something far beyond mere labour—he looks fragile. A strange dichotomy. 

“Hey,” you murmur, with your shaking fingers reaching for his ice-cold hand. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes hold an eerie emptiness as they flutter open to meet your curious ones. Their colour, rare as musgravite jewels, only alienate the man further. Subconsciously, you lean in, searching the depth of his dark stare, yet he was the one who found answers: Deciphering your entire life story with one glance alone.

“Help me,” he whispers, his voice rough yet strangely melodic. He tries to sit up, but slumps back down with a low groan. “Who did this to you?” you asked carefully , curiously. His injuries are unlike any you have ever seen before, the cuts too deep, the bruises too dark. He gives a low chuckle which quickly turns into a cough. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, little one.” Despite the sharp edges of his situation, he sounds oddly amused.

“I…” You looked around helplessly. “Allow me,” you start a sentence you leave unfinished, the pain you are about to cause something you can’t prepare him for either way as you muster up the strength to help him rise to his feet.

His lips curl into a faint smirk, entertained by this adorable little mortal trying her best to help him. “You’re braver than you look.” Yet a wince quickly follows his mockery once you slip an arm under his shoulders to help him up. His body is heavy against yours, lean and strong but cold as ice. 

It feels like the weight of the world has been lifted from your shoulders once he finally rests on your couch.

─── ♱

For days, he stays in your little haven. Basking in your tender care as you nurse him through the worst of it, never daring to ask questions. Something tells you it is best not to find out certain details of the world.

However, it is difficult to ignore the way his presence lingers in the room, like something else, something darker. The air seems colder around him, the shadows in the room longer and sharper. 

But you ignore it all. After all, he needs you.

Eventually, you come to know his name—Suguru, he said, though it rolled off his tongue with a strange weight that made you think it wasn’t the whole truth. He speaks little about himself, and when he does, his words carry an air of melancholy, as if he was recounting memories from a lifetime far from yours.

And yet, as you press a damp cloth to his forehead, your eyes lingering a moment too long on the curve of his lips and the sharpness of his jaw, you couldn’t deny there was more to this. A pull, as if his very presence beckoned you closer.

You can’t help but notice the strength in his body, the way his muscles flex beneath his skin when he moves, the quiet beauty in his features when he sleeps. 

In those tranquil moments, you find yourself watching him more than you should. There is an unexpected grace to him. It’s impossible not to stare at his full lashes or his ebon hair spilling over his shoulders.

But there is more to him. He carries an aura that makes the air feel heavier, making your skin prickle with unease. You tell yourself it was the mystery of him, the way he seems to exist just outside the realm of normalcy.

─── ♱

When he finally recovers enough to leave, he hesitates on your doorway, his tall frame casting a large shadow over you. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone low and solemn.

You know his name. But it doesn’t appear to be of importance at that moment. So you shake your head, hesitating momentarily before you speak. “No. Does it matter?”

His lips curl into a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He takes you by surprise the moment his cold lips linger against your forehead, fingertips encasing your chin to peer into your gentle eyes one more time. “I am Death,” he says simply. “The end of all things. The one who comes for every soul.”

You stare at him, your mind scrambling to process his words. The nervous chuckle escaping you is a reaction Geto is already used to. 

“That’s… not funny.”

“I am not joking.”

The look in his eyes tells you is earnest. Upon which your body subconsciously shifts into flight mode, with small steps taken backwards and away from the man you come to care for. “If you’re Death, then why are you here? Why did you need my help?”

For the first time his expression softens, just a fraction. “I was careless. Even Death is not invincible.”

You can‘t seem to find a reply for his nonsense.

“You saved me,” he continues, “and for that, I owe you a debt. I cannot undo what I am, but I can promise you this: I will not take you prematurely, and notwithout warning. When your time comes, I will send my messengers first, to prepare you.”

There was no kindness in his voice, no warmth. It was a statement, a fact, nothing more.

You nod slowly, though you’re not even sure why you offer him as much. You thought much of Geto, but didn’t expect him to be mentally unstable.

That day, he left his first curse with you. A small, deformed creature clinging to your shoulder, allowing Death to keep an eye on his chosen one.

─── ♱

Months passed, the seasons cycle through and the strange encounter becomes a brushed away dream. But the memory of his touch—cold and consuming—lingers. Even as you return to your life, throwing yourself back into work, an eeriness remains, like something shares your life force and weighs you down. 

You try to distract yourself from the growing discomfort, attempt to focus on healing others and ignoring the strange pull that lingers inside your chest.

But Death did not forget you.

When spring gives way to summer for a third time, you meet him—a kind man, with soft eyes and a gentle touch, someone who brings you comfort in the simplicity of his affection. He holds your hand with care, kisses your forehead with a tenderness that soothes any ache. His words, though few, are always full of warmth. 

It feels like a reward for the care you give to others, for your patience and your love. Maybe this was your chance at true happiness. 

And for a while, you allow yourself to be happy. You allow yourself to believe that maybe there can be a future with him, a simple life. With your new love, you feel safe, content. His touch is warm, reassuring, and his presence a balm to your soul.

It drives Death to madness. 

His jealousy surges through his very being, twisting the air around him until it becomes suffocating. How can you moved on so easily? Why are you giving his gift away to another man? You belong to him. 

Maybe promises are made to be broken, Suguru concludes, as his sanity boils away while witnessing you giving yourself to another.

Death knows no surrender. From that night on, he is there, always just out of sight. You catch glimpses of him in reflections, feel his presence in the cold that settles around you in the dead of night. He doesn’t speak, but you know it is him. 

Death. 

Watching. 

Waiting.

He has been patient enough. It is time for you to come to him, to remember who you are truly meant to be with. 

He sends a second curse. A cough. Harmless at first, just a light tickle in your throat, nothing alarming. So you dismiss it, believing it is simply a sign of the summer heat or the impeding change of the seasons. But as the days pass it grows worse. You find yourself coughing more, unable to breathe properly, your chest tightening with each passing hour as though something was pressing down on your lungs. 

It isn’t a cold. It isn’t something you can just sleep off. Something is wrong.

“Do you love him?” 

A deep voice often asks in your dreams. The question rings in your memory over and over again. Something about the tone was eerily familiar yet unknown all at once.

The sensation of someone watching you—the same suffocating, chilling presence you have tried so hard to forget—returns. Creeping into your life, even as you fight it with all your strength. 

He stalks you at night, a shadow that seems to grow stronger with every passing day. His jealousy consumes him, his need for you becoming a twisted obsession. And even while your lover comes to you, offering comfort and warmth, Suguru is there, lurking in the background, claiming you in ways that no mortal can ever comprehend.

You begin to distance yourself from your fiance, afraid that the illness might be contagious. Retreating into the silence of your home, shielding society from your misery, you isolate yourself. 

The cough, now violent, rackes your body.

By autumn, a third curse has joined. A fever that seeps into your veins, leaving you bedridden on your worst days. You visited doctors, tried medication, but nothing seems to help. Your body grows weaker, your once-bright eyes dull through exhaustion and pain.

But no matter how hard you try, you can’t escape it.

You can’t escape him.

You wake in the middle of the night to find him standing at the foot of your bed, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin crawl. “Are you truly here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer, only tilting his head, as if studying you. His presence is suffocating, a reminder of the mortality you can’t escape. You hate him for it, and yet, part of you longs for the man you once cared for, the man who looked so vulnerable in your arms.

"You’re unwell, aren’t you?" His voice is smooth, deep, exactly like the one that haunts your memory.

You nod hesitantly. “I’ve been sick for weeks… I’m not sure what’s going on.”

His smile deepens in faux-compassion, an expression that makes your blood run cold. "I can help with that, my dear."

Though, before you can respond, he disappears, lost in the shadows. But his words linger in your mind like a curse. 

─── ♱

Your final scene begins.

By now you are barely hanging on. The fever consumes you, leaving you delirious and weak.The wish of experiencing another Christmas seems like an impossible dream, your apartment is a cold, abandoned place. A mirror of your body, devoid of any love and comfort. 

And as you lie there, weak and frail, your mind begins to fill with dreams—no, not dreams, not anymore.

Death visits uninvited, when you are too weak to stop him. Night after night, you awake to the feeling of a cold touch on your skin, a whisper in your ear sweet like poison, the unmistakable presence of Suguru. His lips brush against your neck, his hands caress your fevered body, and all the while, his voice murmurs in that low, dangerous tone.

"My love... my beautiful, fragile love. Soon, I will no longer be a shadow to you. Soon our flesh shall embrace and we shall be as one.”

It drives you insane. You want to scream, want to beg him to leave you in peace, but the words won’t come. Instead, you awake again, breathless and panicked, the sensation of his touch lingering on your skin like a phantom ache.

Whenever your frantic eyes search the room, you find no sign of him. No shadow, no dark figure standing by your bed. And yet, you can feel him. He is there, in your bones, chilling you to your very core.

The cough that started in summer leads to your grand finale in the depth of winter, when the world grows cold and lifeless.

The night before Christmas, the fever burns like wildfire. Each breath feels like a battle, your body wracked with shivers that no blanket may calm. In your hopelessness, you think of him—the man you once nursed back to health. Death. And in your fevered delirium, you curse him.

That’s when he returns.

The air grows still, unnaturally so. Shadows gather, thick and impenetrable, until they shape into a figure at the edge of your bed. Him.

“My love,” he nearly purrs, his voice laced with something dark and possessive. He steps closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, you can’t help but shrink back into your bed.

“You should have known better than to entertain another,” Death muses, his tone soft, almost sweet, yet dipped in venom. “Did you think I would not see? Did you think I would let another have you?”

Tears dance along your lash line, your head shakes softly from left to right until you feel dizzy. “I didn’t... I wasn’t… You promised me—”

“Shh.” He is beside you now, his cold fingers brushing against your burning cheek. “It doesn’t matter, my dear. You’re mine. You always have been.” 

The chill of his touch feels like relief, one that you can’t refuse but lean into and yet it sends a shiver of fear through you. His gaze lingers on you, drinking in your frailty, the way your body trembles, the way your chest heaves with laboured breaths. It is as though every part of you—the sickness, the weakness—was a testament to his power over you.

You make him feel mighty.

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your face. His lips curve into a wicked smile, that when you come to realise that he is overjoyed. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. This very moment is Death’s personal heaven.

"I’ve waited so long," Suguru whispers, his voice low and dripping with dark affection. "So long to see you this way, fragile, weak… yearning for me."

His lips press to your neck, icy and unrelenting, stealing the warmth from your skin with each display of affection. His hands claim every inch of you that monkey dared to taint with his mortal hands. 

The tension between you and Suguru grows unbearable. You want to fight him off, want to yell at him, want to break free, but every time you try, his strength overwhelms you. 

He is Death, after all, and you are nothing.

"Please," you gasp, voice weakening beneath his kisses. "I don’t want to die. Not yet."

"You’re already dying, darling," he whispers in return. "But don’t worry. I’ll be with you. Every step of the way." His thumb traces your jawline, wiping away a tear you haven’t realised had fallen. You were already drowning in the cold pull of him, in the overpowering grip of death. 

Life has no meaning, but your death shall.

Your body can no longer fight, can no longer resist him. Weak hands try to paw him away, yet to Death it was but a featherlight caress against his chest—enticing, pitiful.

The cold seeps through your figure as he finds refuge between your thighs, to press his groin against your near-lifeless form. His kisses are unrelenting, reaching down to the valley of your breasts with a tenderness that sends chills down your spine. His hands roam, claim, tear at you with an icy grip as he holds you firmly beneath him. 

"You look so beautiful, my love," Suguru praises in deep satisfaction, his voice softer now, almost affectionate. "So close to me," a sighed moan vibrates against your skin as terror grips you tighter upon the realisation of something hard grinding against your stiff body.

“You called for me,” he whispers against your ear, his voice a cruel mockery of tenderness. “And I  listened to your command. Now I’ll take you with me-” he pants, clearly strained from shamelessly moving against you. 

Tears run free as you stare up at him, his smile tender and twisted all at once. “Please,” you whispered. “Don’t.”

He grasps your wrist in his hold, keeping you wide open while his face hovers dangerously close to yours, black strands cascading like curtains as his figure dwarves yours. 

“Have I not sent you one messenger after another?” he seethes with terrible hunger. “Did the cough not render your mortal body weak? Did not fever come and strike you, and shake you, and throw you down? Did you not feel a heavy burden on your shoulder the moment I left? During the night, did you not lie there beside me already, begging for me to come to you?”

He releases you from his bruising grip, his fingertips trace the shape of your lips instead. “You are mine,” he said, his voice a dark promise. “Now and forever.”

His presence is suffocating, his touch commanding, and as his hand slid down to your chest, his fingers digging into your skin, you feel something inside you break.

His lips hover over your neck, just above where the pulse still weakly beats. "This is my love," he murmurs. You can feel the cold of his breath against your skin, a prelude to the final moment. Tears won’t stop streaming down your face, strained cries escape your dry lips and through it all, Suguru whispers nothing but his sick testament of devotion into your skin.

The words hit you like a hammer. "Shh," he cooed. "It’s time." In an instant, his lips press against your skin. Your vision blurs as his kisses continue, the weight of your body dragging you down.

With a deep, longing kiss, Suguru steals your life force: allowing the cold to fill your very being. 

It is unbearable.

As though your body is being turned to ice from the inside out, each kiss a freezing touch that steals the warmth from your blood, the fire of your soul. Your body goes limp as the last of your strength slips away. His kisses trail down across your chest, each one leaving an imprint of icy darkness that consumes you. 

And in that very moment, you feel the coldest, deepest part of him—pressing against your lips, stealing the last of your breath. Your body grows still, your pulse fades, and then, just as everything seems to fall into darkness—there is a sudden, jarring pull. Something inside you is being torn away, your very essence ripped from your body.

Your soul is leaving you. No, Death forces it to leave.

It turns into an orb—a pale, glowing sphere that hovers before him. His eyes gleam with victory, a sickened joy in his expression, as he reaches out, slowly, almost lovingly, to take it. Cradling you in his palm like his most prized possession.

With a swift motion you’re gone. Swallowed whole, consumed entirely as Suguru licks his lips.

You are his. All of you. For eternity.

His eyes fall shut for a moment, savouring the feeling of you—now part of him. He had claimed you in the most intimate way possible, and you would never be free again.

"Forever," he whispers, his voice filled with dark pleasure. "You’re mine. My beautiful, fragile pet. Forever."

Suguru sits back on your bed, a triumphant sigh ringing into the silence. He waited so long for this, for the day when you would finally be his. Now, he can feel you inside him, feel the warmth of your soul, your essence, your pain eternally bonded to him.

He can’t wait to let you out for your future play dates.

And as your empty body lies before him, still and cold, Suguru smiles—sick, twisted, and overjoyed. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your lips. “Even in death,” he finalises, before crashing his lips into yours one more time.

Forever.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

Everyone in the camp is ready to fight for the right to go to bed next to you. Hugging your warm body in sleep and listening to your breath. They have fights every damn night. You're so tired of all of them. You just fall asleep, cuddling comfortably with the Owlbear and Scratch while the idiots quarrel

Yandere Jinshi x chaotic reader

Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: Jealousy, persecution Enjoy reading! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Everything highlighted in purple is Jinshi’s thoughts.

You constantly forget to bow to important figures, trip over your own feet, ask awkward questions... and laugh just a little too loudly. “They keep breaking protocol. I remember every mistake they make, yet somehow... I don’t feel annoyed.”

He finds himself listening for your footsteps. When you're in the corridor — he knows. When you're not — he knows that too. He's started noticing even when you're late by just a few minutes. “I should be focusing on the reports. Where are they? Who’s delayed them? Why don’t I know?”

Sometimes you leave little things behind in his office — a handkerchief, a ribbon, a feather. He keeps them. All of them. Hides them in his desk drawer. Sometimes, when he’s alone, he opens it just to look. “Their scent is almost gone. I should ask them for another handkerchief. Or... make them forget they ever left it here. That way, it’ll be mine.”

His jealousy is subtle. Almost invisible. You laugh with someone else. Thank another man for helping you. Bow just a little lower than usual. Jinshi only smiles. “I’ll remember his face. His name. His position. If he ever hurts them... or if they look at him too often...”

Sometimes you bring him strange snacks: “Try it, you’ll like it!” He doesn’t know where you find them. He doesn’t usually eat food like that — too unusual. But he accepts. Eats every last crumb. “Too sweet. But... if it’s from them, I’ll get used to it. I'll teach my body to crave their taste.”

“You're too perfect. It must be so boring. No chaos in your life at all,” you say with a laugh. “You are my chaos. And you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve already taken root in my life. All that’s left is to convince you to stay.”

Jinshi isn’t watching you. Of course not. He’s merely checking on the state of the garden. As always.

The fact that you happen to be there at the same time — a coincidence. Just like how he knows exactly who you're speaking to, what you're saying, and for how long. The physician needed help gathering herbs. Out of everyone in the inner courtyard, he chose you.

Laughter. Light and clear, like bells in the spring breeze. He loves your laughter. Usually.

Right now — he does not.

Right now, he wants to crush that sound in the throat of the one who drew it out.

Jinshi smiles. He approaches silently.

"Ah, you're here. How fortunate," he says, as if he hadn’t heard their entire conversation.

He doesn't spare the physician a glance. His eyes are only on you.

"I came for you. There's something… important."

You look up at him. Embarrassed. Offering a shy, awkward smile. But you follow, ready to do almost anything he asks. Because here, his word is law.

You belong to this place. To the harem. To his order. To his care. To his gaze. If anyone dares reach for you — they must be ready to lose a hand.

Jinshi gestures for you to go ahead. Once you've disappeared around the corner, he finally turns to the physician still frozen in place.

"In the future, please… delegate such tasks elsewhere." His smile remains flawless. "They are responsible for other, far more important duties. I'm sure you understand. After all, you seem to be a very busy man yourself."

And if not — Jinshi will make sure he becomes one

This work lay in drafts for a very long time. Now I have translated everything. Woohoo! (Reminder: English is not my native language. There are mistakes here)

Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! Pairing: Yandere! Ketheric Thorm x Reader, Yandere! Enver Gortash x Reader, Yandere! Orin the Red x Reader tw: platonic obsession, manipulation, restriction of freedom, mention of murders

I'm ready to throw an idea at you. Attention. You get into the bg3. BUT you aren't Tav and you aren't together with Tav. You find yourself among the Chosen Three. And they become platonic yandere!

Ketheric Thorm, Enver Gortash and Orin the Red will know that you know about their future. You know how to achieve certain events, as well as how to prevent it. Keeping you close is not only a necessary measure, but also an advantage. From now on, they must do everything to prevent Tav from finding out about you and taking you away.

You spend the least amount of time with Ketheric Thorm. As the leader of the army, he is always in the most dangerous places of the war. Besides, the Moonrise Towers are a dangerous place. There are a lot of killers there. You are usually in full view of Ketheric. Over time, you begin to get used to it. Ketheric listens, but often doesn't pay attention. You can tell him anything. At this time he goes about his business, sometimes nodding to you. But if you suddenly ask him a question, he will simply look at you menacingly, making you afraid. The old man is not angry. He just didn't remember anything you said and doesn't want to admit it. Your voice helps him not to worry. If you're still talking, it means you haven't been eaten. Therefore, he can continue his business. When you leave the Moonrise Towers, Ketheric looks with bitterness at the things you leave behind. It reminds him of the times when he was still a father. Perhaps he will put your drawing or note in one of his books.

Orin will become friend or foe depending on your decision. If you refuse to help them, She will find ways to make you talk. Her ideas about the world are very perverted, so friendship with Orin barely differs from enmity. She will take great pleasure in fooling around with you. She likes to scare you by telling you colorful ways of killing you. You will probably not be able to make friends because of her. It's hard to trust someone and tell your secrets when that someone could be Orin herself. She will need time to convince Gortash and Ketheric to allow you to visit the Bhaal’s Temple. They don't trust Orin. The more disgusted you are by the atmosphere of her temple, the more fun she will experience. In the depths of his bedroom, Orin will get a little soft. She will let you play with her hair. And she will talk about the teachings of Bhaal, but not with the intention of scaring, but with the desire to share something hidden for her. She will also want to teach you how to make a sacrifice to her god correctly. If you refuse, she will be upset, but will not insist. (Gortash made it clear to her that she should not break you.) Then she brings you back and avoids you for a week or two. It's new for her to feel this way. Not even her family received this honor. When she calms down and copes with unusual emotions, she will visit you again. And she will promise to kill you in the most beautiful way possible when necessary. It's not a threat. This is her expression of love.

It is with Lord Gortash that you spend the most time. His castle is safe, and the Steel Watchers walk around the city everywhere. You are well dressed and always look great to match him. High society is asking questions about who you are to him. Are you a lover, relative, decoration or pet? Only you and Gortash know that you are a means to achieve his goals. And only Lord Gortash knows that you are someone he has grown more attached to than he should have. He gives you almost anything you want, but expects you to cooperate in return. In addition, Gortash believes that just looking beautiful next to him is not enough. Therefore, all your free time (which is not much) will be occupied with training. If you escape from the castle (which is absolutely impossible), the guards will bring you back. Gortash is perhaps the only one among the owners of three stones who understands that your usefulness is not constant. Everything can go along the route you know with minor changes in his favor. Or it may happen that what is happening will become completely new even for you. Sometimes he jokes that he will throw you out when you become useless. But you still remember how Lord Gortash got angry at the impudent Count for asking to take you as his wife and Gortash ordered the insolent man to be executed.

----

Somewhere in the universe, the Emperor turns the table in a rage and demands Tav to quickly find and save (kidnap) you. (I don't know how he found out about you ._.)

----

Tav sighs tiredly and silently agrees. They're too tired of all. They just hope that their new future ally will be a little less problematic than everyone else in the camp.

Witcher's Kitchen

Geralt X Reader tw: no It can be read in both a romantic and a platonic context. A reader from the real world has ended up in the world of The Witcher. They have been traveling with Geralt for some time now. He keeps an eye on them, though not entirely by choice, and has promised himself to leave them in the next big city as soon as they get there. But for now... he needs to finish his latest monster contract and find them some dinner.

You sat in front of the fire, watching the venison with a focused gaze. A decent chunk of meat was skewered on a thin but sturdy branch. You turned it slowly, without much enthusiasm. It was well-cooked and smelled delicious. And yet… it tasted awful. So unbearably bland.

Of course, you weren’t ungrateful. Back when you first ended up in this world, wild game had seemed like the most precious, the most sacred food imaginable. You had spent days wandering the forest, starving and freezing, before Geralt found you and shared his meal. At that moment, you had been ready to fall to your knees and weep in gratitude for his kindness.

Time passed. One forest blurred into another. Along the way, you had come across only a handful of half-ruined villages, where even the locals barely scraped by. With no other options, you had clung to the Witcher with a death grip, begging him to take you at least to the first major city.

Since then, every meal had been the same—chewing on bland meat, washing it down with whatever was available, occasionally gnawing on stale bread if you were lucky. And all the while, you longed for the flavors of your world. You dreamed of spices, of anything that could make this food taste better. Day after day.

To be fair, Geralt was partly to blame. If he fed you a little less often, maybe you wouldn’t have grown so picky. Not that you’d ever say that out loud.

Speaking of Geralt… You shifted your gaze to him. He was busy sharpening his swords. A pang of guilt tightened in your chest. He wasn’t a terrible cook. If anything, you were nothing more than a stranger to him. A burden. And yet, he still looked after you in his own way. He was just practical—doing the bare minimum to survive, never bothering with small comforts. You were willing to bet he’d eat rocks if they were edible and provided energy.

But you couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to change. It was time to take responsibility—for the first time since you arrived in this world.

Taking a deep breath, you spoke up. “Hey, Geralt. Can I do the cooking tomorrow?”

Geralt gave you a mildly surprised but still characteristically grim look. After an unreasonably long pause, he finally replied.

“Do what you want.”

Then he went back to his task. You exhaled in relief.

Why did this man have to be so intimidating? Would he die if he let himself relax for just one second?

Shaking off your thoughts, you focused on the small victory—though calling his agreement a “victory” was a stretch. The real challenge still lay ahead.

----

It must be admitted, this village is much livelier than all the previous ones. This time, you and Geralt didn't settle in some inn. The witcher stated that you would set up camp not far from the village. You didn’t ask questions. You had enough time to learn not to meddle in his affairs.

Since your conversation yesterday, you and Geralt hadn’t crossed paths. He left early in the morning for a hunt, leaving you a small pouch of orens for your needs. That, along with the market being within walking distance, was precisely why you decided to take on your difficult task.

People bustled around the marketplace, immersed in their own concerns. You examined the stalls. Choosing the least predatory-looking vendor—a sweet old lady—you approached her. You had to be careful in matters like these. There were no friends in the marketplace. Every merchant was ready to sink their claws into a lost traveler and take their last coins in exchange for an onion. The medieval world was cruel.

The old woman, delighted by the attention, immediately began offering you everything she had while simultaneously asking about the witcher you had recently been seen with. (Oh, this curiosity. How many rumors would spread about you today?) You quickly adjusted the conversation, steering it in the direction you needed. The old woman didn’t even notice how she started telling you about all the spices available in the market, where to buy them cheaper, what could be used for which dish, and even mentioned which herbs grew in the area and how to add them to food to make it more aromatic and flavorful.

After getting all the information, and buying a couple of vegetables, you set off in search of the spices, feeling triumphant. Aside from that, it wouldn’t hurt to find a cooking pot. Geralt’s inventory lacked such an item. He had grumbled that some damned drunkards had stolen his bag with the pot while he was busy. Apparently, they had hoped for something more valuable inside.

Some time later, you returned to camp—filled with a pleasant sense of accomplishment but with a sadly empty purse. Pleasure came at a price.

You laid out the ingredients near the extinguished fire. If you used everything as sparingly as possible, it should last a week. The shiny new pot gleamed playfully. All you lacked now was a cookbook with local recipes. But finding one in a tiny village was impossible. And books in this world were rather expensive.

Relying on your modest, yet not entirely nonexistent, cooking skills, you swore that tonight, Geralt would taste the most delicious venison stew of his life. You would make this man thank the gods for crossing paths with you.

---

Geralt sat behind you, unusually impatient. He hadn’t said a word since he arrived, but you noticed his leg bouncing nervously. A magical aroma surrounded your camp.

You gave the stew one last stir, scooped some up, and filled a bowl for Geralt. He accepted the food with a grateful nod.

“Didn’t think you were serious yesterday.”

“I’m full of surprises,” you winked at him, taking a portion for yourself.

You had worried that cooking in such rough conditions would be a challenge, but your frequent observations of Geralt preparing meals had helped you adapt quickly. Cooking turned out to be unexpectedly relaxing. It gave you a sense of purpose, usefulness, and control over at least one part of this new life. On the road, you couldn’t fight monsters or earn coin, but you could make the journey a little more comfortable.

“Well? What do you think?”

“It’s really good. Thank you.”

As always, Geralt was a man of few words. But judging by the way he looked, the warm, hearty meal had made him a little less brooding.

You smiled happily, proud of your work.

Geralt thought that maybe… he could get used to this.

---

You and the witcher quickly settled into a new routine. He handled his usual work, while you took care of the cooking. It didn’t just add variety to your diet—it became a kind of care that Geralt initially saw as an unnecessary luxury. But despite his views, he grew used to it. Eventually, he even started grumbling from time to time, "What’s for dinner tonight?"

You kept learning about the local cuisine, interacting with merchants and healers, asking chatty villagers for advice, and even striking up conversations with bored-looking prostitutes. Surprisingly, many of them could have been excellent homemakers if life had turned out differently.

One day, Jaskier, wandering the world in search of inspiration for his ballads, stumbled upon your camp. He couldn’t help but appreciate your efforts. Encouraged by a delicious dinner and fueled by the ever-spreading rumors, he nearly turned your care into a grand romantic tale.

Geralt, however, swiftly shut him down with a dry threat: if the bard kept it up, he’d be left hungry next time. Faced with the choice between poetry and a juicy rabbit stew with vegetables, Jaskier wisely prioritized his meal, shifting his repertoire back to harmless songs about the heroic witcher and his mysterious companion.

Relaxed by the friendly atmosphere, you realized how much joy it brought you to see your cooking make life a little better for your companions—even if they didn’t always say it out loud.

Jaskier, being himself, couldn’t stay quiet for long. He interrupted your thoughts with a dramatic sigh:

“Ah, if someone cooked for me like this, I might even consider becoming a witcher myself!”

Yandere!Gale X Reader Please don't read this if you are uncomfortable with the yandere! tw: obsessive behaviour, mild somnophilia, non-consensual kiss

The camp greeted the night with peaceful silence. Another difficult journey was behind us. A fight with a small group of goblins left everyone exhausted. After a serving of hot stew, you immediately dozed off on your sleeping bag, not finding the strength to change your clothes. The fire crackled behind you, warming you pleasantly.

A mysterious silhouette separated from one of the tents and moved towards you. The firelight illuminated him, revealing Gale. The man sat down next to you and looked at you thoughtfully. He had a warm cloak folded in his hands, which he immediately covered you with. Gale froze, looking closely at your face. Never before had he been able to enjoy such closeness. A reluctance to leave settled in his heart. You slept in ignorance of how beautiful, how stunning his eyes saw you. Road dust stained your cheek. Gale reached up to gently wipe your face. Rough fingers touched your face. His heart stopped for a moment.

"Gorgeous," a barely audible whisper escaped his lips.

----

Gale felt especially brave. He leaned towards you, one hand on the ground and the other still on your cheek, and kissed you. His lips touched yours for the first time. The Netherese Orb in the wizard's chest began to pulse. He frowned. Gale wanted so badly to deepen the kiss. He wanted to see how far he could go before you woke up. But the curse in his chest made him stop. What is he doing? It's too dangerous. What will he say if you catch him doing something like this? Gale tensed. He realized that his actions were wrong. But how can he resist when you're so close? He runs his nose over your face and kisses the corner of your lips, showering light kisses all over your cheek, eyebrow and chin. After this, Gale hides her face in your neck. He enjoys your warmth and natural scent. He counts the pulse. Gale's eyes begin to close. He would like to stay with you in his arms. But he knows you won't be happy to see him so close. You are comrades. Maybe a little bit friends. But not lovers. And it makes Gale's insides hurt. He hopes that time will change that. He leaves one last kiss on your neck. You moan softly in your sleep. Gale's face flushes. He's happy to elicit this reaction from you. He would really like you to stay awake and give yourself to him willingly. But all he can do tonight is leave before someone catches him and things get complicated.

-Sweet dreams. See you in the morning - he says goodbye tenderly and gets up to go to his tent, followed by someone's gaze from the darkness.

From now on, Withers will keep the wizard's secret along with many other secrets of his own.