#host reader

[kedsandtubesocks]

Sunday Sunlight

michael “robby” robinavitch x f!reader

summary: a glimpse into a slow cozy day with you and your growing little family

word count: 1.8k

content warnings/tags: 18+ only, girl dad!Robby, toddler fic, mentions of unspecified age gap, reader is pregnant, cozy & sweet fluff, husband!Robby & married goodness, introspective moments (thoughts of self doubt and internal struggle), parenting themes, jealous Robby with a splash of protective tenderness, soft domesticity vibes, light baseball discussion

a/n: my first ever fic for the Pitt & I’m so grateful getting to write it for the A Doctor A Day Writing Challenge [ #5 “tell me the truth, am I losing you for good?” + black] thank you so much @letsgobarbs @clubsoft & @ananonymousaffair for hosting this! And a sweet extra thanks to @jolapeno for cheering me on & giving me the push to post this

Robby didn’t believe his days could ever look like this. Soft warm spring light fills a cozy living room. The faint sounds of the Pirates game is on the tv -

And his daughter happily takes his full focus.

Her toys litter the carpet with no regard for any foot traffic and frankly, Robby doesn’t care that much either.

Your little girl is happily engrossed with the toddler hospital checkup playset Abbot got her this year for her birthday. She’s been obsessed with it, barely knows what she’s doing, but Robby can’t tear his eyes away from her.

Especially now as she readily tries to fix her Winnie the Pooh bear lying ready for examination on the pull out countertop.

Her face scrunched up in deep concentration looks exactly like yours as her chubby little hands clumsily put on the stethoscope.

“What’s your diagnosis, doc?” Robby asks her while he slowly sits up to move closer to her.

“Sick.” She quips simply, and his lips twitch amused.

“Did you check his heart? Make sure he’s okay.” He gently touches the center of the stuffed bear’s chest. Immediately his daughter, instead of using the stethoscope, leans down to press her ear against his chest.

Robby can’t help it, he laughs.

“Good, that’s a good start.” He reassures her.

Gently, he moves the colorful child sized stethoscope to sit on her properly. She eagerly roams the diaphragm all around the fuzzy bear’s tummy, diligently searching for something with it.

“Try to find the heartbeat.” He tells her patiently.

Robby then makes the familiar heart beat thump himself with a hum. Her eyes bloom surprised, becoming little bright stars.

She’s so smart, so damn quick. Immediately her sharp gaze flickers up, realizing it’s him making the noise and not the bear.

“Papa!” She cries indignant.

“Not me, mister bear.” Robby innocently replies, tapping the poor plushie patient.

So stubborn, a trait she definitely inherited only from you and not an ounce from him, his daughter shoves the poor bear away and stomps towards Robby where he sits on the edge of the couch, opposite to where you sleep.

Seven months pregnant again and peacefully napping, lightly snoring even though you swear you don’t, you’re the picture of ease and steal Robby’s heart all over again.

When his little girl eagerly arrives at his side, Robby reminds her to stay quiet to make sure you get to rest.

Bubbling with curious eagerness, his daughter nods then presses her tiny hands against his face, checking for a fever the same way he does when she’s sick.

Robby feels as if his heart just might melt from his ribs.

It seems like only yesterday she was keeping you and him awake at all hours of the night as a newborn, so tiny in his arms as Robby went through singing two lullabies to get her to sleep. Now his baby is readily growing as her own little person, bright and curious.

“Check my heart.” He says with a watery grin while she tries listening to his chest.

Then, as if remembering something, she perks up and scurries back to the playset. His eyes perk up seeing her grab an otoscope and hurry back to him.

A burst of pride swells in his chest.

“Papa, say ah!” Gathering a composed sternness, he holds back a laugh while his daughter uses the toy otoscope, used to examine the ears, to check his throat.

But listening to his little girl, he does as told and she peeks inside examining him with the toy.

Then she makes a face, scrunched up and confused.

“What?” He questions curious now.

As caring and sweet as his daughter is, Robby knows exactly how mischievous she’s becoming. The smirk and tiny giggle she gives, he knows she’s up to something.

“What d’ya find, doctor?” He asks her again. She pays her father no mind and grabs a pack of play bandaids from the kit.

Wearing the most amused smirk she hurries back to him, the colorful stereoscope bouncing against her neck. Determined and with a firm step, his daughter arrives before him.

Patiently she then places one of the bandages on his lips. Her diagnosis? For him to stay silent.

“All done!” She announces bright, giggling proud, like she’s made the most hilarious inside joke.

Robby’s lips fight hard against a grin and the bandaid. He moves to take it off when his daughter spots him.

“Nah uh, papa! Rest.” She says with a firm head nod, he blinks stunned at her.

“Bossy… definitely your kid.” Your warm sleepy voice emerges. Gently you sit up from your nap, shoving away the small blanket.

You look so fucking god in his old black penguins hockey t-shirt, especially with your belly growing more and more. Slowly sitting up, you reach for him. Like you’re the extension of him, effortless and without any question, Robby gently draws you towards his side letting you now rest your head against his thigh.

“Mama!” Your daughter cries happy and loud, sliding towards you on the couch.

“I help papa!” She declares.

“Good job, sprout. You’re the doctor of the family now.” You playfully poke her nose.

She giggles triumphant. Robby then watches his little girl throw her small body over your tummy, hugging you and the baby as much as she can.

“Sissy, I help.” She’s been eagerly announcing everything to her little sister once she learned the baby could hear everything.

You finally glance up at Robby grinning at him. Noticing the bandaid on his lips, you gently peel it away before your daughter notices.

“Yeah you do, baby. You’re already such a good big sister wanting to take care of everyone.” You gently tell her through a yawn.

Robby wonders if this moment could shatter at any moment, like it’s too pure and good for him, too precious to believe it’s his.

But when your hand moves to rub his arm, your touch grounds him.

His eldest daughter suddenly squeaks happily, and you snicker. The baby must have kicked.

“Your baby sister is playing kickball in my tummy. Gonna give us a check up now too?” You offer, sitting up more. You now lean against Robby’s shoulder, and he happily welcomes your warmth.

Your daughter now babbles scurrying to the playset and grabs a random wooden spatula that somehow managed to sneak into her toy collection.

Deeming that important to her care, your little girl scurries back and presses her face against his black shirt.

“Sissy, no kick mama.” She orders.

You burst out laughing, and Robby covers his with a quick cough.

“I think she’s got the making of a good physician already,” you tell him.

“Her bedside manner could use some work.” Robby snorts, and you snicker.

Top of the 5th inning and Pirates are still tied zero to zero against the Astros. His daughter now yanks the playset closer to the couch allowing Robby to examine more of the tools.

He’s always been impressed by this thing. It’s rather accurate, makes him appreciate whoever made it.

“They even got the right buttons on the EKG machine, it’s pretty crazy.” He says messing with the toy set.

“I don’t know what kind of kid would want to be playing with this and not legos or barbie dream house or something else.” He lets the comment slide out a bit low.

Robby’s already torn when he thinks of his little girl’s future - if she’ll end up wanting to practice medicine or not. If that colorful stethoscope she wears will one day match his, black and professional.

A quiet sigh escapes you letting your hand rub his back now.

“She plays with both… plus I think she likes knowing she gets to pretend to be a grown up and help people like you.”

He lets your words sit gently and decides not to keep digging into this tangled topic.

“I still can’t believe there’s even multiple syringe and scissor options.” He chuckles, changing the subject.

“Might as well have included some clamps and blood bags.” Robby adds and then picks up one of the toys.

It takes him a moment to realize he's been rambling out loud mindless thoughts about this damn toy set for the game to be in a new inning now.

You’ve gone quiet now, and his eyes flicker down to you leaning against his chest.

“Alright,” he begins with a sigh.

“Tell me the truth… am I losing you for good?” He means it half jokingly.

Robby still can’t believe how lucky he is to have you, his absolutely gorgeous sweetheart. He’s holding his breath still, waiting any minute for you to wake up and realize you got stuck married to an old man like him.

Hell, just last week Robby had to calm himself down when the cashier had no fucking shame flirting with you, even as you wear Robby’s ring on your finger and have his second baby growing in your belly.

It’s almost as if a part of him is waiting to fully lose you, let you slip away from his fingers.

Your hand curls against his face now, rubbing against his bearded jaw as you draw him closer.

You place the softest kiss on his lips.

“Not at all,” you tell him gently. “If anything you hook me in more and more, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me.”

A warmth collides in his chest like an unleashed sea.

Robby smirks, humming content as he places a kiss against your head.

“Love ya, kid.” He warmly tells you, sliding his arm around you.

And he does.

He adores you so damn much, didn’t think it was possible to love you any more but you love to prove him wrong.

His eldest daughter, now bored with the doctor's playset equipment, currently sits on the carpet floor fiddling with a colorful whale toy.

The pirates, now up to bat, suddenly hit a home run. Even through the tv, the ball is sent flying with a solid whack.

Robby cheers appreciatively, and your daughter immediately perks up eagerly scrambling to him with excited eyes as she bounces holding onto his arm.

“Papa, good?” She asks, picking up the excitement from the game.

“Yes baby girl, very good.” He grins.

“See,” you pat his leg affectionately, “No need to worry about her.”

“You’re gonna play baseball for the Pirates right, sprout?” You ask your daughter.

“Yup!” She says bright, probably not even realizing what she’s agreeing to as her focus stays on the TV.

That makes him laugh.

He’s never felt older and younger all at once, like a multitude of lifetimes has collided into him a beautiful cosmos shining bright.

All his girls together right before him, and he’s never felt luckier.

Robby wants to carve out this moment forever, letting it crystallize around him and soak in this warmth. One he wants to embrace and never let go.

[ozzgin]

content: gn reader, NSFW

Now I keep thinking about it. Monster Dating Show host with a hoe Reader. It's a win for everyone involved. The other monsters have their chance with a human, you get ravaged by monsters, and Mr. Host is drowning in views, ratings, and fame.

He's not the jealous type, you see. At the end of the day, you return to him. You belong to him. He knows it, you know it. You've chosen him because no one else compares.

Sometimes he'll sit back and watch with a grin on his face. There's something particularly amusing about the desperate thrusts of the beasts, their longing gaze, their drooling snouts. Once they're done fucking you, you come crawling back to him.

"Not what you expected?" he'll say smugly, sliding his fingers between your legs. "Such a greedy human you are. Well, I don't blame you. Can't do without a grand finale, eh?"

Rinse and repeat. The little muppets fight to have a taste of your body, competing for a pathetic evening at your feet. The grand prize, however, was always his.

[Monster Dating Show Series]

[moodnoodle]

ouran sketch pt.2

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience chapter navigation

➼ kyoya ootori x fem!reader ➼ last updated: 21.4.25 ➼ genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut maybe

Season one!

Prologue Part one: Starting today you are a host! Part two: The job of a highschool host Part three: Beware the physical exam! Part four: Attack of the lady manager! Part five: The twins fight! Part six: The Gradeschool host is the naughty type! Part seven: Jungle pool SOS! Part eight: The sun, the Sea, and the Host club! *Bonus chapter*: Last night at the beach house Part nine: A Challenge from Lobelia Girl's Academy! Part ten: A day in the life of the L/N family! Part eleven: Big brother is a prince! Part twelve: Honey's three bitter days! Part Thirteen: Y/n in wonderland! Part Fourteen: Covering the famous host club! Part Fifteen: The refreshing battle in Karuizawa! Part Sixteen: Operation double date! *Bonus Chapter*: Degrees of separation Part Seventeen: Kyoya's reluctant day out! Part Eighteen: Chika's 'down with Honey' declaration! Part Nineteen: Lobelia girl's academy strikes back! Part Twenty: Until the day it becomes a pumpkin! Part Twenty one: Mori-Senpai has an apprentice candidate! Part Twenty two: Tamaki's unwitting depression! Part Twenty three: And so Kyoya met her! Part Twenty four: The host club declares dissolution! Part Twenty five: This is our ouran fair!

Season Two

Part One: The Ouran host club is back in business! Part Two: How to melt a frozen heart! Part Three: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 1! Part Four: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 2! Part Five: The Lobelia Girls academy meets their match! Part six: Join the black magic club! Part seven: Operation: Misuzu's reconciliation! Part Eight: the twins take the runway! Part Nine: Strike three for Tamaki and Kyoya! Part ten: Kyoya's big choice! Part eleven: The wizard of Ouran! (coming soon!)

[ddejavvu]

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

request: The BAU going to interview a witness in the hospital, only whenever Spencer is in the room, or speaks to reader in his soft voice, or touches them, their heart monitor starts beeping extremely loudly. Much to the amusement of the rest of the team. And to your sheer mortification. Spencer hypothesises maybe he looks like the unsub, poor guy has to get explained to him why he's wrong for once. And why they all keep sending him in to talk to you ;)

"Guys, I don't think I should go in there." Spencer's face is pinched in a concerned frown, and his teammates eye him with the same worry.

Derek claps a hand on Spencer's shoulder, "Why not, Reid? You're the only one she'll talk to."

"I think it's because she's afraid of me," Spencer admits, shoulders hunched uncomfortably inwards, "I think she's only talking because she's worried I'll hurt her, or something. I must look like the unsub."

"You think she's afraid of you?" Rossi questions, a paper cup of coffee in his hands that is entirely too empty for him to be having this conversation, "Reid, I don't think that's true."

Spencer presses onwards undeterred, shaking his head, sending his curls flying, "Every time I go in there I make her nervous. Her heart monitor starts going haywire, like she's having a flashback or something. I mean, one time I put my hand on her arm and the nurses flocked into the room because they thought the medication they'd given her was causing a seizure. I think I must remind her of the unsub somehow, and we can use that in the profile, but I don't want to keep tormenting her."

There's far too many seconds of prolonged, awkward silence. The team glances at Reid, at each other, at the floor, anything that will keep them from having to open their mouths. Eventually, Hotch steps into his role as leader, and moves through the cramped hallway towards Spencer's nervous, guilt-ridden trame.

"Reid, she's not nervous because you look like the unsub. She- squirms, and stutters, and you're the only one she'll talk to about what happened to her. If she were really negatively affected by your presence, she'd ask us not to send you in anymore. But she practically looks disappointed whenever anyone else tries talking to her. I don't think her heart rate increases because she's afraid of you."

Spencer's silent, his brows creased in thought, but perhaps even his genius brain can't parse this one out in a timely manner. Emily pipes up, "Reid, she's got a crush on you. And if that's what it takes to get this guy, then that's what we'll have to use. You're kind to her, and she's receptive to that. Now it doesn't matter the reason, but you can at least take solace in the fact that she's not afraid of you, okay? Not at all. That's why you have to go back in there, because you make her feel safe."

"No, I- I don't think that's what it is." Spencer's cheeks warm, pinkening beneath the hallway's fluorescent lighting, "I don't think she'd be able to form that sort of connection so soon after experiencing such a traumatic experience."

"That's exactly why she likes you," Derek insists, "You saved her. You swooped in and carried her to safety and now you're her knight in shining armor. And even if she won't feel this way forever, she feels it now, and you're the one she wants to talk to. You're the one that makes her feel safe. So go in there, and make her feel comfortable enough to help us catch this guy. Okay?"

Spencer's mouth tightens in a displeased frown for just a second, "I don't think you guys are right. I- I think it's something else. But I'll talk to her again."

"That's all we're asking." Hotch nods, pushing his shoulder gently towards the door of your room, "Now, go in there, and work your magic, Reid. We need more details."

Spencer turns the doorknob to your room with clammy hands, and finds you sleeping inside. He debates whether or not he should back out and let you rest, but for every minute he delays, their unsub walks free. He presses onwards, and the soft click of the door shutting behind him is enough to rouse your frayed nerves from sleep.

You jolt awake, eyes flying wide open and hands clenching the bedsheets like they're weapons you could use. Your eyes lock onto Spencer, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you stare at him like he'll attack you. But you drink in the curve of his nose, the puff of his lips, the messy ringlets of honey-colored hair that fall around his face, and your breathing evens out.

Your heart monitor, though, does not. Reid watches as your heartbeat stays frantic, and he moves slowly towards a chair by your bed in hopes of not spooking you any further.

"Hi, Dr. Reid." You murmur, your voice soft as you settle back against your pillow, "Is there any news on the investigation?"

"No, nothing new." Spencer admits, watching as you turn to face him. You angle your body entirely towards him, and you even scoot your head a centimeter closer on your pillow. Your face twists in displeasure at Spencer's admission, but you don't move away.

"Oh." You lay your cheek in your palm, "Did you want to talk to me more? I told you everything I know."

"I believe you." Spencer nods, "But l'm here to coach you through a memory exercise. You can stay laying down, but- take my hands?"

There's a slight blip in your heart rate, a missing beat where there should have been two. Then it kicks back up wilder than ever, and you take the hands Spencer's offering to you.

"Close your eyes," Spencer instructs, his own flitting towards your heart monitor where it beeps wildly.

"Think back to when he moved you. What sort of terrain was it? Did he go over any hills? Did it smell like animals?"

You squeeze Spencer's hands, nervous, and he squeezes yours back, "Just- remember, I'm here with you, l'll be here with you the whole time." You breathe deeply, and nestle closer to Spencer on the bed. Your hands are sweating in his own, which is a symptom Spencer knows all too well. You're leaning into him, begging for contact as you angle yourself towards him like a flower to the sun, and your heart rate steadily beeps at a mildly concerning level. Spencer keeps his voice steady as he leads you through the memory retrieval exercise, but nothing convinces him more that his team was correct than when it's over, and your eyes snap open, wildly, desperately searching for him.

"I'm here." Spencer hums comfortingly, and he knows that you're taking solace in him when you squeeze his hands, keeping him close instead of letting him go.

[mintjeru]

a story that grows with its reader, a reader that grows with his story

open for better quality | no reposts

[yandereforme]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Ouran Academy

TW: Neglect

You weren’t wanted by either of your parents. That had been the cold hard truth that you had known since you were nine years old.

Your mother was a member of a wealthy family. While she wasn’t the heiress, that title belonging to her older sister, she still had a lot of money at her disposal, and took long trips to different places.

That was how she met Bruce, and she had a one night stand with him.

She didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late for a termination, and her parents threatened to cut her off if she gave up their grandchild. So she reluctantly kept you.

You were mostly raised by a revolving door of nursemaids and babysitters until you were five, and your mother deemed you old enough to be alone. You saw your mother about three times a year, during which she would play a doting mother in public before verbally tearing you down in private.

You were five when you understood you were a burden to her. You were eight when you stopped desperately searching for her love.

You were nine when she died in an accident, and your biological father had to take you. (Your grandparents were too old to take care of you, and your aunt was rarely seen outside of a board room, and was unwilling to take you.)

You had a few days of hope for a family, since Bruce Wayne was known for being an amazing father to his children.

That belief was shattered after you moved in and you were basically shunned by everyone. Bruce was cold and rushed around you. Tim was cold and distant. Dick acted nice, but he barely gave you a minute of notice. Even Alfred was constantly brushing you off, though he had a decent excuse.

The final hope was shattered when, three weeks after you moved in, your birthday passed unacknowledged and unnoticed. The only sign of it was the text from your grandparents and the package you received from them two days later, filled with nice dresses for you.

You grew up quietly, keeping to yourself. You had weekly calls with your grandparents, but didn’t mention the family.

The breaking point was when you were 13, and Damian arrived. You thought now, finally, you would have someone like you. That belief lasted six hours, until you were almost stabbed by the menace.

It was one of the first times the family spoke to you, and it was to tell you not to overreact. You barely held back the rebuke and bitter laughter.

The worst part about Damian’s arrival? The fact they loved him. Even though he kept acting out and threatening people and generally being a prick, Bruce made time for him and brought him to meals. Dick showered him in affection. Even Alfred was softer with him. It wasn’t fair. You were a perfect kid and they didn’t care about you, but in comes a kid with the same story as you but with a worse attitude, and he is loved unconditionally?!?

It wasn’t fair.

After the fifth time Damian almost killed you without reprimand, you contacted your grandparents and asked about returning to the country. They eagerly told you about a high school in Japan that wasn’t far from one of their houses, filled with people of your status and known for giving its graduates a great advantage in later years.

Two days later, you approached Bruce with the papers to okay your move for the school year and signing custody over to your grandparents temporarily while you were in Japan. You had a whole speech prepared in your mind defending the choice, but he signed without even bothering to ask any questions. (You didn’t cry, even as you felt a lump in your throat. Despite everything, you thought he would at least care enough to ask questions.)

You boarded a plane a month later, reading your new textbooks as you flew. You took the sparkling champagne (non alcoholic) from the flight attendant and raised your glass in the direction of Japan, your new future.

“To Ouran Academy and my future there.” You murmur softly before downing some of your drink.

Edit: I hope you all like this! I’ve been working on it for a while, and hopefully this isn’t too bad. My finals are next week, so wish me luck!

[0798f]

💞 — Secret Banter.

RELATIONSHIP: Ootori Kyoya x Reader

SUMMARY: Somehow, discovering a disheveled Kyoya in a commoner mall was only the second strangest thing Haruhi found out that day. Your existence took the number one spot.

A/N: I love secret relationship trope so much... Tell me Kyoya wouldn't keep his relationship under wraps.

This was far from the worst day Kyoya has ever had, but. Well. Today was not making it into the top 10 of best days for sure.

He was dragged to a labyrinth in his sleep and then subsequently abandoned by his friends. In a terrible outfit, no less. Kyoya wasn’t sure if he was relieved to have Haruhi rescue him or if he was mortified that she had to see him in this state.

Haruhi wasn’t sure either. She was in awe watching Kyoya eat a burger— it was like entering an alternate timeline. Compared to the rest of the host club, Kyoya was always more knowledgeable on the lives of commoners, but in a superficial way. He knew statistics and basic facts about regular people like a child knew facts about dinosaurs. Without Haruhi, Kyoya was as disconnected from the real world as everyone else at Ouran.

“… Kyoya?” The pair looked up at the voice calling Kyoya’s name. For a second Haruhi thought someone from the host club finally came back to look for their missing parent, but the person standing in front of them was a stranger to Haruhi. They had a bag of groceries and a confused expression. An utterly normal person.

The strangest part was that Kyoya clearly recognized this person. “(Name)?” His eyes reflected the same confused expression that the bystander had.

“Why… are you dressed like that?”

Now Kyoya was sure that mortification was the strongest emotion he felt today.

“Kyoya-senpai, you know this person?” Haruhi tried to figure out what kind of person would be shopping for groceries at a commoner’s mall but also be acquainted with the shadow prince of the host club. Related to the owner of the mall? No, that was too small scale for the level of high society that Ouran students dealt with. Them being related to the CEO that owns every mall chain across Japan was more likely.

He hesitated to answer, gaze lingering on the person in front of them. Kyoya carefully put down his burger before pushing up his glasses and stating matter-o-factly, “yes. Haruhi, this is my partner, (Name). (Name), this is the Haruhi Fujioka I told you about.”

Haruhi blinked. Partner? She went through her known information about Kyoya, which admittedly wasn’t a lot, but nothing pointed to him having a partner. Especially not a commoner! But the living proof was standing right next to their table and Haruhi was miffed, to say the least. “Partner?! Kyoya-senpai, you have a partner?!”

“Must you sound so shocked?” Kyoya retorted, and there was some earnesty in his otherwise sarcastic remark. It wasn’t like she ever asked him if he had a partner. Everyone just assumed he didn’t.

(Name) bowed following the introduction. “Fujioka-san,” they smiled. “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to meet you.”

They really were a normal person. Dressed in plain clothes and unassuming. And polite. Haruhi realized early on at her transfer to Ouran that polite was rarely a word to describe the children of the wealthy and elite. Haruhi stood up to bow in return. “It’s nice to meet you too, (Name)-san. Sorry, I hope my reaction wasn’t rude. I had no idea Kyoya-senpai had a partner. Do you want to sit with us?”

Before (Name) had a chance to respond, Kyoya already grabbed a chair from an empty table and pulled it over. One exchanged glance with Kyoya was all it took to get (Name) to sit down. “Don’t worry about it, Fujioka-san. Kyoya doesn’t really tell people about me.”

“Please clarify that it is a mutual decision to keep our relationship private,” Kyoya sighed.

(Name) laughed. “Sorry, I was teasing.”

“No one knows? Also, you can call me Haruhi. Please don’t feel the need to be formal!” Haruhi was trying to figure out how to phrase questions that wouldn’t immediately get shut down by Kyoya. How did you meet, how long have you been together, how is your partner a commoner?

“Well, Tamaki-san knows. He found out after—“

Again, Kyoya was quick to interrupt. “Please don’t explain that story. It’s embarrassing.”

“I didn’t know you were worried about shame. Could’ve fooled me with that outfit of yours and your peculiar new hangout spot!” (Name) grinned, and Haruhi found herself in awe for the second time that day. She was used to Kyoya always having a witty remark ready for when one of the club members decided to yell at him, but (Name) might be his equal in that regard. Not only could they banter with Kyoya— Kyoya seemed to enjoy it. He had an unbeatable poker face but Haruhi definitely noticed the corners of his lips curling upwards as he looked at (Name). There was a softness in place of his usual cunning.

Haruhi leaned back in her chair, pleasantly entertained by the pair in front of her. “I guess it makes plenty of sense for Kyoya-senpai to have a private relationship. But, doesn’t that mean you don’t have a lot of time to spend with each other?”

“Oh, sure. I wouldn’t call it ideal. But, Kyoya is married to his job, y’know? I couldn’t take that away from him.”

That time, Kyoya pinched (Name)’s cheek in retaliation. “You’re making me sound like a bad partner. Yes, we don’t spend as much time together as the average couple, but we always make time for each other.”

“Have I ever told you that you look uncomfortable when you explain our relationship to other people?” Kyoya pulled on their cheek. “Agh! Let go!”

Kyoya complied with the request, but not before pressing a light kiss to the cheek he just bullied. He was a host, after all. He knew how to treat someone right. His regular customers would probably be furious to know that he was so chaste on physical affection because it was reserved for his dear partner.

(Name) wasn’t wrong about Kyoya being uncomfortable. He knew how to play the role of a host, but having to be honest about something real, in public, was a different ballpark entirely. But the fact that he was in a space where no one knew who he was or what his status was served to be quite freeing. The usual pressure on his shoulders of being an Ootori was alleviated for once, so he locked hands with (Name) over the table.

It was Haruhi’s turn to be cunning since she would never be afforded this opportunity against Kyoya again. “Kyoya-senpai has been so grumpy today,” Haruhi started. “But he relaxed as soon as you arrived, (Name)-san. He’s really fond of you.”

If (Name) wasn’t here, Kyoya would’ve probably found a way to twist Haruhi’s comment into more debt for her to pay off. But (Name)’s eyes lit up, so Kyoya let Haruhi get away with it this time.

“You’re really good at reading him, Haruhi-san! I may be teasing a lot, but he’s really a great guy. I couldn’t ask for a better partner.” (Name) talked about Kyoya like he was the most precious thing on the planet. For (Name), Kyoya wasn’t just the third Ootori son. He wasn’t burdened with the harshest expectations. All he had to do was be good to them and sometimes Kyoya wished he lived in a world where that was the only thing he ever had to be worried about in his life.

But, right then, in a commoner mall Kyoya had no familiarity with, it was like living that alternate life. So Kyoya allowed himself to smile at (Name) and take in the praise.

“Neither could I.”

masterlists.

[screeching-bunny]

Yandere! Game Show Host Hcs

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Thoughts, Bad Writing, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Reader is Referred as ‘You’

A/N: I saw this request and was like this is such a cool request but what if we made him an evil game show host. Like one that would put contestants in deadly scenarios.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host who kidnaps all of the contestants and forces them to play this twisted game that he created for money. Don’t worry though, he rigged the entire game to be in your favor. It was discreet enough for the viewers not to really care but apparent enough for you to notice the favoritism. Did you care? Hell no!! As long as you were getting paid you and survived this whole ordeal could give a rats ass about what happened next. Even when you do manage to get certain questions wrong, he will just brush it off and pretend that it was just a warm up question. The contestants are definitely seething whenever they see this happening.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host is a psychopath by nature. In each round, he presents the contestants with morally ambiguous dilemmas, enticing them with promises of grand rewards while dangling the threat of dire consequences for failure. Whether it's forcing them to choose between betraying a fellow contestant or facing a treacherous obstacle, he revels in their anguish, relishing the psychological torment he inflicts.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host is doing everything in his power to make sure that you win the game. He can’t have his poor baby feeling upset if they fail to win the grand prize. He would absolutely give out the most insane questions that practically no one knows the answer to. The punishment for getting a few questions wrong is mutilation of certain body parts and if you get too many questions wrong then you’ll end up being sent to your death. While everyone is basically being tortured in their punishments, he’d never allow that to happen to you. At most he’d probably just flick your forehead and call it a day. I imagine that most of the people watching the show are people who paid for the contestants to be kidnapped and be brought there against their wishes. Everyone who is put onto his show is a horrible person, including yourself, and have done something to be warranted to be there.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host bends all the rules of the game for you, providing subtle hints or covert assistance to ensure your safety. Although he has a strong desire to see others in pain and suffering, his love for you is stronger. At first justifies these actions as preserving the "entertainment value" of the show, but deep down, he's driven by an inexplicable desire to protect you.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host would baby you during your time there. He’d make a fuss whenever you tried to do anything remotely dangerous or touch some blood. I could totally see him using a baby voice to try to convince you to stop what you're doing. He has no shame, and everyone is looking at him with utter disbelief/confusion on their faces.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Oh No! Please don’t go over there! You might slip from all the blood on the ground! Come here let me carry you across.”

Viewers: “…”

The contestant with their leg cut off: “…”

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host thrives on the power he wields over his contestants, reveling in their suffering as they navigate his challenges. As the game progresses, his demeanor grows more twisted, enjoying the contestants' internal conflicts and emotional turmoil. He taunts them with mocking laughter, reveling in their discomfort and manipulating their decisions to heighten the drama. God forbid that you manage to develop a crush on someone while you are there. He’d absolutely lose it and do everything in his power to crush them. You best believe that he’s going to keep them alive for as long as possible and give them the worst punishments known to man.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host has cameras everywhere and when it's time for the contestants to rest for the night he’s going to be observing you. He’s a loser who doesn’t really know how to act around you without becoming a mess. In his spare time, he likes to just watch you through the cameras and imagine himself right next to you. He’s absolutely delulu about your feelings towards him and believes that you feel the same way. Even when you do manage to win this fucked up game, he’s not letting you go. There’s no way that he’s letting you leave after you managed to steal his heart. After this is all over, he’s taking you to his house and locking you there.

🌟 Yandere! Game Show Host holds pride in knowing how many people are at the mercy of his hand. Has a minor God complex and has this skewed mindset about how everyone else is beneath him besides you. Believes that you were made just for him and that you're his one true love. Would rather die than give you up or allow anyone to “take you away from him”. He’s like an annoying roach and almost impossible to get rid of. He’s making sure to stay with you for as long as possible.

—

Yandere! Game Show Host strides onto the stage with a wicked gaze, his piercing gaze fixed on the contestants. His voice, a chilling blend of charm and malice, booms through the speakers as he welcomes the participants with a mocking flourish. Thom who were strapped onto a table with heavy objects over their heads.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Alright contestant number one, what is the mass of the Sun divided by Planck's constant in nanometers.

Contestant One: “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT!?!?!”

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Unfortunately, that's not the correct answer. You’ll now be facing the consequences.” In a matter of seconds, the heavy object comes flying down with alarming speed. Upon impact, it mercilessly crushes against their skull, unleashing an overwhelming and unimaginable force that distorts bone and flesh. Yandere! Game Show Host then makes his way towards you and begins to speak.

Yandere! Game Show Host: “Alright, it's your turn now. No pressure, I know you’ll do great just take your time. Okay what’s 1 + 1?”

You: “2.”

Yandere! Game Show Host: "Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever done before, unafraid to reference or not reference, put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it."

Other Contestants: “What the hell!?!? How is this fair!?!!

[shanalikeanna]

I saw the artwork below the cut and kneeeww I had to draw Doflamingo 💖🦩

@doffyslittledove @physics-of-one-piece @mandiemegatron

[heartfullofleeches]

Host: Lotta gorgeous new faces here with us today. You, my friend- seem to have had some extra luck in that department. Why don't you tell us your name and what you like in a partner?

Darling: I like women.

Host: That can be arranged.

Darling: Scratch that, I like men.

Host: You're looking at one now! If- that's how you choose to see me

Darling: I like horrors beyond human comprehension.

Host: Your eyes are quite capturing, but personally I think it'd be shame to see them anywhere outside of in that pretty head of yours, so why don't we settle with horrors within your realm of understanding for now?

[luvingjeanie]

u guys ever think abt how gojo is lowkey suoh tamaki grown up?😭

like gojo that’s ur SON come get him

(this is in relation to how they act now how they look btw)

[ozzgin]

OK so, maybe the dating monster game is futile bc I fell for the Gorgon host... he has big boobies and that is all I ask in a person. Pls he looks like he needs to be in my bed, we doing sum work here, relaxing? NO. But-

I'll have to warn you that Mr. Host is a little...off. You can't be sure if he genuinely cares about you or the TV show ratings. He loves being the center of attention and would do anything for a good spectacle. He lives to entertain. You can never tell what goes on behind that manic smile.

"You can't be serious," you manage to blurt out, eyeing the beastly creatures behind the stands. "Are you insinuating they should take turns in using me?"

A single droplet of cold sweat runs down the Gorgon's temple.

"Of course not, I wouldn't..."

This could be the show of his lifetime. The sales! The numbers! He'd remain in history books for providing monsters with such an exotic feast.

"...hurry to reject it, (Y/N). Let's think about it."

A wide grin spreads across his face. Oh, what would he do without you?

[Monster Dating Show]

[moodnoodle]

ouran doodle pt 4

[elryuse]

Pay To Play

Yandere Wonyoung X Male Reader

Tags : Dark Romance, Yandere, Obsessed, Obsession, Dangerous Love, Manipulation, Slight Smut Words : 5,282 Words

A Lovely Commision Work For My Friend @Pizza_anon From Ko-Fi I Hope You Guys Liked It.

You meet her on a night soaked in perfume and silence.

It’s a Tuesday — slow, heavy, and typical. The kind of night where laughter feels forced and your smile is mechanical, stitched on like a uniform. You’re halfway through a drink you didn’t order and pretending to enjoy a conversation with a bored office worker when the manager taps your shoulder.

“Table three. New client. Paid premium for you. Be good.”

You glance toward the velvet booth tucked in the corner. That’s when you see her.

She doesn’t look like she belongs here. She’s curled into herself, a soft cream sweater draped over narrow shoulders, hair falling like shadows over her face. She's not like the usual clientele — no designer handbag, no air of entitlement. Just big, doe-like eyes and fingers that fidget with the edge of her glass.

She looks lost.

You slip into the booth across from her, flashing your usual charming smile. The mask fits easily — it always does.

“Good evening,” you say smoothly. “I’m Kai. And you are…?”

She lifts her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are strange — brown, but with flecks of gold like molten candlewax, staring too hard, too long. There’s hesitation in her voice.

“Wonyoung,” she whispers. “You’re… different from what I expected.”

You chuckle, tilting your head. “Is that a compliment?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

“Hired a host?”

She nods, glancing around like she’s afraid someone might see her. “I thought it’d be awkward. But I just… I just wanted someone to talk to.”

You relax into the seat, your practiced posture giving way to a sliver of curiosity. Most clients want flattery, fake romance, or attention they don’t get at home. But this? This feels different.

“What do you want to talk about?” you ask.

She hesitates again. “Nothing in particular. I just… wanted company. I’ve been alone for a while.”

You talk. At first, it’s superficial — campus life, favorite drinks, the weather. You tell her half-truths. Say you’re studying business, that you like jazz, that your real name is Kai. She listens carefully, like every word is a thread she’s sewing into something secret.

But then she surprises you.

“Why did you become a host?” she asks one night, a week later, her eyes never leaving yours.

You lie easily. “Because rent doesn’t pay itself.”

But she doesn’t let up. She just watches. And there’s something about her silence that makes you falter.

You sigh. “Because it’s easier to be what people want… than to be real.”

“That’s lonely,” she says.

You nod.

“It is.”

She becomes a regular. Every Tuesday, same booth, same corner. She pays extra for longer sessions. You don’t ask why. You just start looking forward to the hour before midnight when she walks in, awkward and quiet, always dressed too plainly for a place like this.

But it’s not her clothes you remember. It’s the way she watches you — too deeply. Like she’s searching for cracks. Like she wants to consume the version of you beneath the mask.

She touches your hand once — an accident, she claims. Just a brush of fingers when she laughs too hard at something you said. But her touch lingers. And so does her stare.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending?” she asks the fifth time you meet.

You blink.

“What do you mean?”

“You smile all the time, but your eyes never smile.”

You pause, your façade cracking at the edges. No one’s ever said that to you before. Not the regulars. Not even the girls who pretend they’re in love with you.

You look at her a little closer that night.

Maybe too closely.

Two weeks later, she asks something you don’t expect.

“Do you ever think about seeing me outside of here?”

You’re trained to shut that down — it’s a boundary, a line that keeps your job clean. But you freeze. Because part of you has thought about it.

You look at her — really look.

There’s something unhinged buried deep in her smile. A twitch in the way she grips her glass. A silence too calculated.

“Where would we go?” you ask, finally.

She smiles, like she knew you’d say that. Like she planned this.

“Somewhere quiet. Just you and me.”

You meet her on a Sunday next. Against your better judgment. She finds you outside the university gates and tells you she’s been watching from across the street for weeks. She says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s sweet.

“I was curious about you,” she says. “You’re different outside of the club. You walk faster. You don’t smile.”

You laugh it off. But your stomach tightens.

That night, you sit with her at a late-night diner. She doesn’t eat. Just sips her tea and watches you.

“I think about you,” she says suddenly. “Too much. It's… frustrating.”

You look up. “Why?”

“Because you’re not mine.”

The air shifts. Her tone doesn’t match her words — it's too calm, too quiet. And yet, her fingers clutch the edge of the table like she’s barely holding back a storm.

“You paid for time,” you say. “Not ownership.”

She tilts her head.

“Doesn’t it ever get tiring? Having everyone touch you, pretend to love you? I wouldn’t be like that. I’d really mean it.”

You lean back, forcing a smirk. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

She smiles softly. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just seeing you more clearly than anyone else ever has.”

Later that night, you walk her home. Or at least, you think you do. But the next morning, you wake up to a photo under your door — a candid shot of you smoking behind the club, alone, from a few nights ago. No note. No explanation.

Just the photo.

You check your phone. No messages. You tell yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But when you arrive at the club that evening, the manager greets you with a sly smile.

“Your regular’s coming again tonight. She asked for the whole night this time.”

You already know who it is. You already feel the weight of her eyes on your skin. And deep down, you already know —

She’s not just some lonely girl.

She’s watching.

And she’s already claimed you.

You don’t take the train home that night.

There’s something about fluorescent lights and the hushed, exhausted stares of strangers that make your stomach twist. Instead, you walk. Through narrow alleys and over cracked pavement, past flickering streetlamps and buildings that lean like they’re tired of standing. The city smells like old rain, cigarettes, and piss. The sky hangs low, gray and bloated, like it might suffocate you if you looked up too long.

Your apartment is in a rotting complex tucked behind an abandoned parking structure. You climb the stairs — the elevator's been dead since last winter. You know which steps creak and which ones are damp with mold. You know the exact moment the smell changes from mildew to something more sour. It’s always the third floor. That’s when you know you’re home.

The door is unlocked, but you expected that.

Inside, the lights are off. You don’t bother flipping the switch. The apartment smells like stale beer and ash. A mess of unwashed dishes spills over the kitchen counter. Crumpled cigarette packs lie beneath the flickering TV, which is playing static at low volume.

Your father is passed out on the couch. Shirtless. One arm limp, the other wrapped around an empty bottle of soju like it's a lover. He mumbles something when you step over his feet, but you don’t care enough to listen. You never do anymore.

Your mother isn’t home. Again. It’s been two nights. You don’t ask questions. You stopped asking a long time ago, back when her perfume started to smell more like other people than herself. When the lipstick smudges on her collars weren’t hers.

You retreat into your room and lock the door. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs long dead. The room is quiet — too quiet — but it’s the only place that’s yours. You lie back and stare at the ceiling, cracked and yellowing with water damage. Your stomach growls, but you ignore it.

You close your eyes.

And for some reason… you think of her.

Your phone buzzes the next morning. You ignore it at first, thinking it’s another club text or a reminder to pay your tuition. But when you finally glance at the screen, it’s a name you didn’t expect.

[Wonyoung]: “You looked tired last night. Didn’t sleep well?”

Your pulse stutters. You never gave her your number.

You stare at the message, hesitant, then lock your screen without replying. Something about it itches at the edge of your thoughts. You brush it off, tell yourself she must’ve asked the manager — or maybe it’s some club database she slipped through.

Still, it bothers you.

You don’t go home after class. Instead, you head to a nearby bathhouse. It’s not fancy, but at least it’s clean. The water is cold, and the cracked mirrors reflect a version of you that looks just as broken. You scrub your skin until it stings, until the smell of perfume and cheap cologne fades.

And when you step outside, she’s there.

Standing across the street. Dressed casually in an oversized hoodie, holding two coffee cups in a paper bag. Her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. She looks… harmless.

She waves at you, crosses the road, and presses a cup into your hand. “I guessed your order,” she says with a smile. “Black. No sugar.”

You blink. “How did you—”

“I watched,” she says before you can finish. “You always drink it that way at the club.”

You’re not sure whether to be impressed or unnerved.

You walk. She follows.

Down the side streets behind campus, where the wind carries silence better than sound. She skips occasionally, humming to herself, her steps light and breezy like she hasn’t done anything wrong.

You finally speak. “How did you get my number?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just keeps walking, her eyes on the pavement.

“Wonyoung.”

She stops, then turns to you. The sun slices through the clouds and touches her face — soft, sweet, familiar. But her eyes hold something darker.

“You left your phone on the table that first night,” she says plainly. “I memorized your number from the lock screen. You were smiling in your wallpaper… but it wasn’t real.”

“You went through my phone?”

She shrugs. “You let strangers pay to touch your soul. I only wanted a glimpse.”

Her voice is light, innocent, but every word feels heavy. Calculated.

You step back. “That’s not okay.”

“I care about you,” she says, stepping closer again. “No one else does. Don’t act like you don’t feel it. Don’t act like you didn’t like waking up to someone thinking about you.”

You want to deny it. But her voice is warm. Her gaze — terrifyingly focused.

She whispers, “I don’t want to be a stranger. I want you to be mine.”

She starts showing up everywhere after that.

Outside your lecture halls. In line behind you at the cafeteria. Sitting on the bench across from the campus library. Always with that same gentle smile, like she was meant to be there. Like this is fate and you just haven’t realized it yet.

Sometimes she brings you snacks. Sometimes books. Sometimes just herself.

She doesn’t ask permission.

She starts asking questions — innocent at first. “What kind of music do you like?” “What was your dream as a kid?” “Do you ever cry alone at night?”

Then darker. “Have you ever wanted to disappear?” “Do you think anyone would miss you?” “Would you quit your job… for someone who loved you enough?”

One night, you come home and find groceries in your fridge. Real food — not instant noodles. There’s a note on the counter:

“You’re not taking care of yourself. Let me do it.”

No signature. No name. But you know it’s her.

Your skin crawls. You tear the note in half.

The next night, there’s a new towel in your bathroom. Soft, pink, with a lavender scent. You find your laundry done. The sheets changed. You don’t even remember leaving the window open.

You confront her behind the station the next morning. The alley is cold, and she’s standing by the vending machine with two canned coffees. She smiles like nothing is wrong.

“I didn’t give you a key,” you say.

She tilts her head. “Your lock was broken. I replaced it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I care about you,” she says softly, stepping close. “Why is that so scary for you? No one’s ever loved you, have they? Not really.”

You don’t respond.

She reaches out, brushing her fingers along your wrist. “Let me be the first.”

You pull away. Her expression falters. But then her smile sharpens.

“I can wait,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She walks away, humming again. A melody that crawls into your brain like rot.

That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling again. The old water stain has grown. It looks like a blooming flower, dark and ugly.

You think about your father snoring in the living room, your mother’s absence, the cold silence that fills the apartment like fog.

And for the first time… You wonder if being wanted — even by someone unhinged — is better than being nothing at all.

The club is louder than usual tonight.

Laughter, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of music vibrating through the floor — all of it feels exaggerated, like a performance turned up too high. You stand near the bar in your usual suit, your name tag clipped over your chest like a label someone else gave you. Smiles are mechanical, gestures practiced.

You're tired.

You haven’t slept much, haven’t eaten since yesterday. You keep glancing at your phone, the messages from Wonyoung replaying in your head, even though you deleted them twice. Her words still hum beneath your skin, soft as a needle sliding in.

Then you hear your name. Not your real name — the one you use in here.

A manager’s voice. “You’ve been requested.”

You already know who it is.

She's sitting in a private booth in the back. The lights above her glow low and warm, casting shadows across her face, making her skin look porcelain, her eyes impossibly wide. For a second, she doesn’t see you. She’s swirling her drink, fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, her legs crossed.

She’s wearing black.

A sleek, almost sinful dress. Velvet, low-cut. It clings to her body like it was poured onto her. She’s wearing sheer stockings, the faint outline of her thighs visible through the fine mesh. Her lips are painted crimson, and her hair falls over one shoulder in soft waves.

And yet — something’s wrong.

You don’t feel the usual intensity, the suffocating obsession you’ve come to expect from her. Instead, she looks… sad. No — more than that.

Empty.

“Hey,” you say gently as you step into the booth. “Rough day?”

She looks up. And when she sees you, something flickers in her expression — relief, maybe. Longing. Her smile is faint, not the dangerous kind you’ve seen before. Just… tired.

“You came,” she whispers.

“I was requested.”

She nods, almost ashamed. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You sit down slowly, careful not to lean too close. “What happened?”

She laughs, soft and bitter. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. Her fingers trace the rim of her glass. You notice her nails are chipped tonight. Her lipstick is slightly smudged. The perfect, flawless Wonyoung — cracked, for the first time.

“I saw someone today,” she murmurs. “Someone from my past.”

You raise a brow. “Old friend?”

“Not exactly.” She takes a sip, gaze fixed on the dark liquid. “It was my mother.”

That makes you pause. “Didn’t know you had family in the city.”

“I don’t,” she says quickly. “She didn’t come for me. She never does. She was just… there. At a hotel downtown. With some man. I watched them from the lobby, and she didn’t even recognize me.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel her pain clawing beneath her words like something feral.

“I thought maybe she’d changed,” she continues, her voice tighter now. “That maybe she’d see me, say something, apologize. But she didn’t. She just laughed. Like I never existed.”

You reach for her hand — instinctively, maybe. She doesn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

She looks at you, really looks at you. And something in her eyes burns hotter than anything else in the club.

“I thought if I made myself beautiful, desirable, someone would notice. Someone would stay.” Her voice is glass on skin. “But it’s not enough, is it? Nothing ever is.”

You stay silent.

Then she leans forward, close enough that you smell her perfume — rose and smoke and something faintly metallic.

“But you notice me, don’t you?” she whispers. “You see me.”

“I do.”

Her lips part slightly. You think she might kiss you, but instead she lets her forehead rest against your shoulder. Her body shudders — maybe with a sigh, maybe a sob — and you wrap your arm around her before you even realize what you’re doing.

The two of you sit like that for a while. In silence. In the dark booth surrounded by false laughter and fake affection, you hold her — and for the first time, she feels real.

Then she pulls back slowly and looks up at you with something dangerous in her gaze.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” she says. “Will you come with me?”

You should say no.

Every red flag is waving at full mast. The obsessive messages. The groceries. The creeping sense that she knows things she shouldn’t. But the desperation in her voice twists something inside you. Something bruised. Something lonely.

You nod once.

Her smile is slow, haunting.

Her apartment is… immaculate.

Too immaculate. Everything is white and silver and spotless. No mess. No clutter. No warmth. It feels like a hotel room designed by someone trying too hard to appear normal. There are no pictures. No memories.

She kicks off her heels and pads barefoot to the kitchen, pouring wine into two tall glasses.

You wander, eyes catching on a closed door near the hallway.

“Don’t go in there,” she says without turning around.

You freeze.

She walks over, presses a glass into your hand. “That room’s not for guests.”

You don’t ask.

She curls beside you on the couch, pulling her knees up, her thigh brushing yours through the black silk of her dress. Her shoulder leans into you. Her presence — soft, aching, yet terrifying in how badly you’ve come to recognize it.

“I want to keep you,” she murmurs.

You laugh nervously. “I’m not a pet.”

“You’re not a stranger, either.” Her fingers trace the edge of your sleeve. “I’m not letting go. Not after this.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ll be anything you need,” she says. “I’ll be your home, your obsession, your punishment. Just don’t leave me. Promise me you won’t.”

You open your mouth — to lie, to comfort, you don’t even know — but her lips press against yours before you can speak.

The kiss is deep, desperate, dangerous. Her mouth tastes like wine and sorrow. Her fingers grip your shirt like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. And part of you wants to vanish. Wants to fall into this moment and never surface again.

When she finally pulls away, her breath is hot against your cheek.

“I saw your home once,” she whispers.

Your blood goes cold.

“I followed you. Just once. I saw your father on the floor. The broken lights. The rot in the walls. And I thought… how dare they treat something so precious like trash.”

You pull back slightly, blinking.

“I want to give you everything they didn’t,” she says. “I’ll build you a new world. One where you never have to feel small or unwanted again.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And you realize — this isn’t a crush.

This is a girl who's decided you’re hers.

No matter what it costs.

The first time you make love to Wonyoung, it feels like falling.

Not into pleasure — though there is that — but into something deeper, hungrier. A plunge into dark waters where everything is quiet and nothing is safe.

Her body is soft and warm beneath yours, but her eyes never stop watching. Even as she moans, even as her back arches and her fingers claw into your skin, she doesn’t look away. She stares into you like she’s memorizing every breath, every twitch, every weakness.

After, she rests her head on your chest and exhales like she’s finally alive.

“Did it feel good?” she whispers.

You hesitate, then nod.

She smiles. Not her usual sly, calculating one — but a soft, content one. A smile that almost makes her look human again.

“Good,” she breathes. “Then I won’t let anyone else touch you. Ever.”

You lie still, heart racing. Her words settle on your skin like ash.

She falls asleep wrapped around you, possessive even in her dreams. And in the silence of her sterile white apartment, beneath the hum of the fridge and the faint city noise, you lie awake and realize something terrifying:

You don’t want to leave.

The next night at the club feels different.

You wear your best suit. You fix your tie twice in the mirror. Your body still aches faintly from the night before — from her fingernails, from her weight, from the way she whispered your name like a secret spell.

She hasn’t messaged you tonight.

It feels strange.

Not wrong… just off.

The club is buzzing again. The music, the alcohol, the artificial laughter. You’re back in character, smiling on cue, bowing to the regulars. But you’re distracted — every time the door opens, you look up, expecting to see her in another black dress, waiting to possess you.

But she hasn’t shown.

Instead, someone else walks in.

You don’t recognize her — not that that’s unusual. New customers come all the time. But this one is different.

She’s standing near the entrance, unsure. Her eyes are wide, her posture stiff. She’s overdressed — a frilly dress that doesn’t fit the sultry tone of the club. Her hands are clasped in front of her like she’s in a museum, not a host bar.

Her friends — two loud girls in designer skirts — are dragging her along, laughing and chattering.

One of them says something to the receptionist. Almost instantly, the girl next to her is paired with a tall host named Hiro, and the third is swept up by Ren, who always gets the flashy clients.

But the shy girl hesitates. She stands by herself, shrinking into her seat. You watch her. Something about the way she looks around, uncertain, out of place, makes your chest twist.

She’s nothing like Wonyoung.

She doesn’t ooze confidence. She doesn’t dress to kill. She isn’t playing a game.

She’s just… here. Awkward. Lost.

Your manager walks by and taps your shoulder. “That one,” he mutters. “The quiet one. Go warm her up, yeah?”

You nod and walk toward her.

She notices you when you’re just a few steps away. Her eyes widen, and she straightens up, clearly nervous.

“Hi,” you say gently. “May I join you?”

She nods quickly, too quickly. “Y-Yes. Please.”

You sit down, keeping your voice low and warm. “First time?”

She blushes. “Is it that obvious?”

You smile. “Only a little.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers tremble slightly. “My friends dragged me here… I didn’t think I’d actually— I mean, they said it would be fun, but this is a little— overwhelming.”

You nod. “It can be, at first.”

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she says, eyes darting around. “You all seem so… confident.”

“We’re just good actors,” you say, chuckling.

She smiles — shy, but real.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Then she asks, “Do you do this every night?”

You hesitate. “Almost every night.”

She looks down at her drink. “Do you ever get tired of pretending to like people?”

The question hits harder than you expect.

You think of Wonyoung. The way she looked at you. The way she touched you like she owned every inch of you. The way her voice haunted your dreams last night.

You think of how none of that felt like pretending.

You don’t answer the girl.

She looks up at you again, her eyes wide and searching. “Sorry. That was too personal.”

“No,” you say softly. “It’s fine. I just… didn’t expect a question like that.”

She gives a small laugh. “I guess I’m not very good at this kind of thing.”

“You’re doing better than most.”

She blushes again.

And in that moment, something shifts in you. Not attraction — not yet. But curiosity. She’s gentle. Real. The kind of girl you might’ve met in another life. In a life where your mother didn’t sell herself and your father didn’t drink himself into oblivion. A life without broken homes and false smiles.

She offers her name — Yura.

You repeat it once, softly. It fits her.

You’re just starting to relax when you feel it.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

You turn, instinctively scanning the club.

And there she is.

Wonyoung.

Standing in the shadows by the bar. Dressed in blood-red tonight, her eyes locked on you and Yura like a wolf who just caught a trespasser in her territory.

Your heart drops.

She wasn’t supposed to come tonight.

Not when you’re with someone else.

Not when you’re pretending to enjoy another girl’s presence.

Her gaze doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. Her lips are parted slightly, like she’s savoring the image of you — sitting with someone else, smiling, listening.

She tilts her head.

And she smiles.

But it’s not a kind smile.

It’s a promise.

A warning.

And in that moment, you know:

Something bad is going to happen.

You don’t sleep well after that night.

You see Wonyoung’s face every time you close your eyes — the way she stared at you while you were with Yura, the stillness of her expression, the slow, deliberate smile that curled across her lips.

You’d excused yourself from Yura early, told the manager you weren’t feeling well. But even after leaving the club, you felt her. Not just watching — waiting. Somewhere in the dark, she lingered.

You don’t hear from her for two days.

No messages. No calls.

And somehow, that silence is worse than any confrontation.

When she finally reappears, it’s at the club again — unannounced, unbooked, walking straight past the receptionist as if the place belongs to her. She finds you near the bar, polishing glasses and keeping your head down. You freeze when you hear her voice.

“Let’s talk.”

You turn slowly. She’s in another black dress, this one tighter, with a slit high enough to expose her thigh. Her makeup is perfect, but her eyes — her eyes are tired. Wild.

You try to smile. “Wonyoung—”

“Now,” she says. No smile. No pleasantries.

You follow her to a private booth, out of habit more than choice.

She sits across from you, crosses her legs, and places her bag delicately beside her like she’s about to make a business proposal.

“I want you to quit,” she says.

Your throat tightens. “What?”

“Quit this job. Quit this club. Come live with me. I’ll take care of you.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wonyoung, I can’t just—”

“You can,” she interrupts. “You just don’t want to.”

“I have bills. Tuition. I—”

“I’ll pay them.”

Your stomach churns. “You don’t even know me that well.”

“I know enough. I know you don’t sleep at night. I know your eyes are always searching for something that doesn’t exist. I know you’re lonely.” Her voice softens. “I see you, even when no one else does.”

You stare at her, stunned by how earnestly she says it. How desperately.

“You don’t understand,” you murmur. “This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“No,” she whispers. “It’s a prison. And I’m offering you the key.”

You hesitate too long.

She sees it.

Her face drops. The silence between you stretches, then cracks like glass.

“You don’t trust me,” she says, more to herself than you.

“I didn’t say that—”

“Then why are you still here?” she says sharply. “Why do you keep pretending this is okay? Working in a place like this, selling pieces of yourself to strangers, night after night?”

“It’s not like that—”

She slams her hand on the table, loud enough to make you flinch. Her voice is trembling now. “You let that girl touch you. You smiled at her like she meant something.”

“She was just a client.”

“And what am I?” Her voice breaks. “Am I not enough?”

You try to calm her. “Wonyoung, you’re not thinking straight.”

But she stands suddenly. “Fine. If you won’t come with me willingly…”

You blink. “What?”

The world turns black before you can finish the sentence.

When you wake up, your head is pounding.

The air is cold, but the blanket draped over you is silk. The lights are dim. For a moment, you don’t recognize the room — it’s too big, too sterile, too quiet. The walls are glass and steel. Expensive. Minimalist. The air smells faintly of lavender and something colder — antiseptic, maybe.

You try to sit up.

Your arms are heavy.

Something’s… wrong.

You look down and realize: your wrists are cuffed. Silk-lined, yes — but restraints all the same.

Panic starts to rise in your throat.

“What the hell—?”

“You’re awake.”

Her voice is soft now. Almost motherly.

You turn your head slowly, and there she is. Wonyoung. Standing in the doorway of her penthouse suite, wearing nothing but a silk robe that falls off one shoulder. Her hair is damp, like she just stepped out of the shower. Her eyes gleam with something dangerous.

“Wonyoung—what the fuck is this?”

“You needed rest,” she says simply. “You were overworked. Stressed. I did what any caring lover would do.”

“Let me go.”

She smiles. Walks toward you. “You’ll feel better after breakfast. I had the chef prepare your favorite.”

“I never told you my favorite.”

Her smile widens. “You talk in your sleep.”

Your stomach knots. “This is insane.”

“No,” she says softly. “This is love.”

She kneels by the side of the bed and places a hand on your chest. “No more noise. No more fake smiles for strangers. No more pretending to be okay. You’re safe now. With me.”

Tears prick your eyes — not from fear, but fury. “You can’t just lock me up.”

“I can,” she says gently. “And I did.”

You yank your arms again, but the cuffs are tight.

“Let me go, Wonyoung.”

Her expression darkens. “Say it again, and I’ll have to hurt you.”

You go still.

And she smiles again. Brushes your hair from your face. “You’ll see, baby. You’ll love it here. You’ll never need to beg for attention again. I’ll give you everything. Everything.”

You look into her eyes and finally understand.

This isn’t infatuation.

This isn’t love.

This is possession.

And she doesn’t intend to ever let you go.

[sky-high-standards]

Yandere Host x reader

Gonna try a new writing style for this one

Yandere host~ Who was on the job charming his clients and giving them a false sense of worth when you walked in

Yandere host~ Who couldn't deny that you were very beautiful, and he couldn't wait to toy with you.

Yandere host~ Who was shocked and offended when you pushed him away and said it was your friend that had a hosting appointment not you.

Yandere host~ Who did indeed charm your friend but glanced at you every time as a desperate attempt to make you jealous or convince you to make an appointment yourself.

Yandere host~ Who was stunned and flabbergasted to find out that you weren't interested in him at all how couldn't you like him he's so pretty.

Yandere host~ Who decided to get close to your friend to get closer to you which did indeed work.

Yandere host~ Who was thrilled to find out that you'd be making host appointments, but that joy turned into jealousy and heartbreak when he found out you made appointments for other hosts and not him.

Yandere host~ Who would ignore his clients and stare at you from across the room with jealous eyes burning holes into the people that would host you.

Yandere host~ Who asks your friend everything about you which makes the whole thing about you not her.

Yandere host~ Who genuinely falls in love with you after hearing more and more about you.

Yandere host~ Who constantly asks you out and gets pouty and sulky every time you reject him only to ask you again the next day.

Yandere host~ Who one by one "gets rid of" all the other hosts so you'll have no choice but to let him host you.

Yandere host ~ Who's the definition of clingy and loves your personal space and is the equivalent to a puppy when you're around.

Yandere host~ Who always slips something into your tea and you always wake up in his embrace or with marks on your neck and chest (or both more often then not).

Yandere host~ Who will do anything and I mean anything or your attention and much more for your affection.

"Why can't you love me? It can't be that hard..."

Remember Jesus loves y'all and he's the truth the way and will forgive and deliver us if we put our faith in him.♥