#how to start positive reinforcement

[sewerratzz]

yk i realized i havent thought much about jay and ava’s relationship with each other when ava was alive. surprisingly

but like. jay always looking up to her big sister as the ideal role model, someone she has to immolate, someone she should be. ava looking at her little sister trying to follow in her footsteps instead of being herself.

do you think her stomach sort of dropped every time jay flaunted a near perfect score on some navy test. do you think she tried to subtly push jay away, tried to tell her she could do what she wanted and didn’t necessarily need to follow after her. do you think she felt a little sick every time she saw jay straightening her hair.

somewhere inside, a piece of her soul chipped whenever jay showed signs of ava. signs of jayson’s idea of a perfect daughter. jay never picked up on any of it. she always felt that sort of sad twang in ava when they were alone and talking about their futures, but that big boasting pride was so overwhelming it drowned it out

jay saw her perfect big sister with their father’s love and wanted to be just like her, ava saw her unsure little sister getting in over her head and wanted her to be herself. its late but. thinking about the ferin sisters

[straw-berrydonut]

Chat, what is the opinion of fics that are very dialogue heavy? I'm trying to write one, but there's been no action so far, just a ton of yapping😭

[forgotn1]

What sucks is that I would never think or talk about other people the way I do myself, but that doesn't make it easier to stop myself from thinking of myself in negative terms.

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress company I worked for the first time no longer exists. It was long ago eaten and assimilated by a bigger company. But when I started it was an incredibly intense five weeks of training. I was told I was extremely lucky to be selected, and I was. From a pool of a hundred applicants only fifteen of us made the cut to entering the training program.

The course covered how to talk to customers, how to ask open ended questions, how to close a sale, and product knowledge. I learned a lot, and truthfully my greatest takeaway was a lot of social scripts that I could use in other areas of my life.

We also had a midterm exam and a final. Both included a roleplay element with a trainer and a written portion. They told us when we started that the course was challenging but it was still a shock to come in after the midterm and realize half the class had failed.

I was named valedictorian of training- a dubious honor as it meant I’d done the best in the class, but popular lore had it that valedictorians struggled the most on the sales floor. Lo, I struggled.

Not because I wasn’t good. I was. But because my manager set out to systematically destroy my self esteem. Every sale, every interaction I had was scrutinized and criticized.

If I sold a bed with protectors, moveable base, and pillows he’d ask why I hadn’t managed to sell pillow protectors too. His first trainee had thrived on being challenged and he’d never bothered to learn a different way to coach.

It was wretched. My performance started strong but nosedived after a few weeks with him. My trainer, a man I loathed for stonewalling me in my interview, came in to inform me I was on new hire probation. If I couldn’t get my sales numbers up I’d be let go.

His actual phrasing was, “When you have a bandaid do you like to rip it off or pull it slowly?”

Since it was eminently obvious why he was visiting and because I thought it was condescending I sweetly informed him that I liked to soak my bandaids in hot water so they come off on their own.

He was briefly startled at this derailing but then got on with the bad news. I signed some forms stating that I understood my job was in peril.

I went home furious. I thought long and hard about why I wasn’t succeeding and how frustrated I was with my manager. I came in the next day and my anger had crystallized into a cold sharp edge.

My manager opened his mouth to address the probation and I snapped, “Just leave me alone. Go in the back if I have a sale. If you must address a serious issue then you will give me praise on two things I did right and present it as a compliment sandwich. Otherwise just say good job and shut up. Your constant nitpicking just makes me anxious and I do worse. Back off.” Belated and begrudging I added, “Please.”

He raised his eyebrows in dim surprise but I’d gauged him well. He backed off. Dutifully he’d meander into the back when I had a sale and praised me when I closed it. I resented knowing it was only because I’d demanded complimented but they still boosted me up. My numbers skyrocketed, I landed my first split king sale, and I exited probation with flying colors.

The trainer came back in to congratulate my manager for turning things around. To my gratification he gave me credit for setting him straight and said I’d taught him a different way to lead. My manager would often genuinely praise that moment when I’d stood up to him, impressed with my stubborn refusal to fail and my insight into what would help.

My biggest takeaway from the whole thing was just that people need positive reinforcement to succeed. Praise people for doing a good job. If you’re ever in a position where you need to criticize someone put it in a compliment sandwich instead of just saying the negative.

[cairdine]

In the past fifty years, fantasy’s greatest sin might be its creation of a bland, invariant, faux-Medieval European backdrop. The problem isn’t that every fantasy novel is set in the same place: pick a given book, and it probably deviates somehow. The problem is that the texture of this place gets everywhere.

What’s texture, specifically? Exactly what Elliot says: material culture. Social space. The textiles people use, the jobs they perform, the crops they harvest, the seasons they expect, even the way they construct their names. Fantasy writing doesn’t usually care much about these details, because it doesn’t usually care much about the little people – laborers, full-time mothers, sharecroppers, so on. (The last two books of Earthsea represent LeGuin’s remarkable attack on this tendency in her own writing.) So the fantasy writer defaults – fills in the tough details with the easiest available solution, and moves back to the world-saving, vengeance-seeking, intrigue-knotting narrative. Availability heuristics kick in, and we get another world of feudal serfs hunting deer and eating grains, of Western name constructions and Western social assumptions. (Husband and wife is not the universal historical norm for family structure, for instance.)

Defaulting is the root of a great many evils. Defaulting happens when we don’t think too much about something we write – a character description, a gender dynamic, a textile on display, the weave of the rug. Absent much thought, automaticity, the brain’s subsconscious autopilot, invokes the easiest available prototype – in the case of a gender dynamic, dad will read the paper, and mom will cut the protagonist’s hair. Or, in the case of worldbuilding, we default to the bland fantasy backdrop we know, and thereby reinforce it. It’s not done out of malice, but it’s still done.

The only way to fight this is by thinking about the little stuff. So: I was quite wrong. You do need to worldbuild pretty hard. Worldbuild against the grain, and worldbuild to challenge. Think about the little stuff. You don’t need to position every rain shadow and align every tectonic plate before you start your short story. But you do need to build a base of historical information that disrupts and overturns your implicit assumptions about how societies ‘ordinarily’ work, what they ‘ordinarily’ eat, who they ‘ordinarily’ sleep with. Remember that your slice of life experience is deeply atypical and selective, filtered through a particular culture with particular norms. If you stick to your easy automatic tendencies, you’ll produce sexist, racist writing – because our culture still has sexist, racist tendencies, tendencies we internalize, tendencies we can now even measure and quantify in a laboratory. And you’ll produce narrow writing, writing that generalizes a particular historical moment, its flavors and tongues, to a fantasy world that should be much broader and more varied. Don’t assume that the world you see around you, its structures and systems, is inevitable.

We... need worldbuilding by Seth Dickinson

[whumpster-fire]

Broke: Chilchuck Tims is child coded.

Woke: Chilchuck Tims isn't child coded, he's a middle-aged, divorced man with grown up children.

Bespoke: Chilchuck Tims cannot be accurately described as either "child coded" or "not child coded" because he is a deliberate commentary on the idea of "child coding" itself.

Chilchuck, and half-foots in Dungeon Meshi in general, are given significantly more neotenous proportions and appearances (e.g. larger heads and eyes, rounder faces) than the other races. This is not universal for depictions of hobbits / halflings in Tolkien / D&D inspired fantasy fiction. Compare Chilchuck relative to the "tallmen" (humans) in Dunmeshi to how small races are drawn in something like Legend of Vox Machina (many of those characters are gnomes but whatever) or in basically any official D&D art. It was an intentional artistic decision to make him look like that. This is reinforced when he's temporarily transformed into a tallman (human) and in addition to becoming much taller he gains features that make him look more visibly middle-aged (stubble, eye bags / wrinkles, a more oval face) that he doesn't have as a half-foot. See also Marcille's transformed form and supplemental drawings of what all of the main party would look like as other races. However they do NOT look indistinguishable from actual children as portrayed by Dunmeshi's artstyle and have distinguishing features e.g. larger ears.

Chilchuck is frequently mistaken for a child in-universe, or treated / perceived as one even by members of other races who know he's a half-foot, and he hates this. His infantilization and that of half-foots in general isn't just a running gag, it's a significant plot point and source of discrimination. Like when the party gets impersonated by shapeshifters copying everyone based on the others' memories of them, and most of the Chilchuck clones look and behave more childish than the real one, and they almost get away with it, even though his party should know better than to think of him as a kid.

The narrative consistently takes the position that the people infantilizing Chilchuck are wrong, and are being ignorant/racist.

Conclusion: Chilchuck is definitely not "child-coded" in the way that a 700 year old shapeshifter that looks and behaves indistinguishably from a little kid for contrived reasons. However, he is intentionally designed to make it seem plausible for people who know he's an adult to still not fully believe it and this can make the viewers fall for it too. Which I guess is "child-coding" in a sense. But the message the work is trying to send is very clearly "Don't decide that grown-ass adults are equivalent to children and treat them like children because they have physical characteristics that remind you of a child you dipshit."

While hobbits aren't real and Chilchuck's traits that get him mistaken for a child are exaggerated compared to the vast, vast majority of real people, infantilization of grown-ass adults due to ableism, racism, or just people being dumbasses who forget short people exist is a real issue, and if you start shit with people for shipping Divorced Dad Chilchuck Tims with other characters or whatever you are displaying the exact attitude that's being criticized.

[letmegrabyourcuteass]

Imagine Chimney going through Bobby's desk in his office. Having to clear personal things out. It breaks his heart, but also warms him because the captain was sentimental.

Then he comes across a small blue book labeled simply "Buck." Curious, he opens and flips through it.

Kid has eating problems. Will forget to eat when stressed. Feed him, and encourage him to cook, because he likes to taste-test a lot.

Chimney remembers that. Buck mentioning getting so hungry the starving pains go away. He does remember during the shitty times when Buck lost so much weight.

-Loves carbs

-Hates Okra

-Probably allergic to shellfish and mangos. Encourage him to get an allergy test

-Allergic to Naproxen

-Allergic to heavy fragrance laundry detergents. Use gentle.

-Remind him he's doing a great job. Use positive reinforcement.

-If he's depressed, as Maddie says, hand him a child. May and Harry work too.

-He's finally gaining weight! :)

-The Buckley parents are banned. Do not ask why. Firehouse is his safe area.

-He fidgets when he's stressed. Have him chop some vegetables or prepare them for you. He loves being helpful.

-He loves his clipboard. Have him organize important events. Give him gold stars. Do not let Hen and Chimney hide it. He gets sad.

-Remind him not to read too close or in the dark. He's gonna need glasses at this point. (If he does, don't let others tease him. Tell him he looks great)

-He doesn't admit it, but his leg still bothers him. Heating blankets are in the closet in the office. Have Eddie massage his leg or send him home early if he's obviously struggling.

Chim laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and starts to cry. Of all things, he did not expect to find a "How to Take Care of Your Buck" guide hidden away in Bobby's desk.

[chow0w]

i come to suggest kinkajou for redesigning!! :3 your style is so incredibly BEAUTIFUL bro

It's been a long while, but I finally have the redesign! @steve-the-dino wanted to see this too!

I love this baddie, but she was SO incredibly hard to design for like no reason at all. This is my third attempt. I was going for some kind of flower-power vibe... almost like those wallpapers you would see at playplaces/party rooms as a kid. I really like the electric, exciting vibe that they have and thought it would be a good fit for Kinkajou since she gives off the same intense positivity!

The design speaks for itself - heavily saturated from long periods of time in the sun, with flower/polka dot patterns being the main recurring theme of her design. Even though her design is mostly pink/purple/yellow in canon, I wanted to add some greens to reinforce that flowery vibe + put a little more diversity into her pallet. I'm forever going to be slightly upset that Kinkajou didn't get her own book, especially considering how important her character is to the jade mountain arc! It would have been nice to see the darkness of dragons timeframe from her perspective, or even just get a winglet that explains her thoughts during the conclusion of the arc. I love you forever Kinkajou...

That's all for this design! Sorry for the short (In my standards) blurb - I might revisit Kinkajou's design in the future, if a better idea ever comes to mind. Thank you all so much for your support of this redesign series! I didn't really start posting consistently until mid-April, and to see that I'm already nearing 1k is a massive win in my book!

You may notice the lack of list on this post. I usually put my waitlisted/completed characters down here, but it's getting a little long so I moved it to a pinned post! Feel free to check that out if you're looking for your favorite - and drop a request in my inbox if not! Bear in mind, you can always inbox me for a character who's already waitlisted. I'll tag you when it's done!

edited:

Hi guys! just wanted to put the vote here too so more people see it. For context, this is a vote on what we should do to celebrate 1k!

later (＠´ー`)ﾉﾞ

[pricegouge]

if you let kyle onto the fact that you've got a praise kink he'll have you catering to his every whim by the end of the month, no doubt.

cw: coercion. manipulation. dubcon body mod. non-negotiated poly dynamic. rimming. MDNI

it starts easy enough, chuckling darkly as his words make you writhe under him, turn your cheek as if you can escape the onslaught of niceties. doing such a good job, taking me so well. there's no helping it, the way it makes you shudder and clench around him. of course he catches it, so in tune with you. possibilities branch out before him, courses he's run many times. positive reinforcement - he could shape you into anything, really, but he knows what he wants.

he gets you taking pictures of yourself first; no big ask, really, but he can tell by your stiff poses and the not-quite-demure smiles that it's still out of your comfort zone. at least, it is until he tells you how pretty you are, how hard you make him. all spread out for him. just for him.

(it's not, but he'll work you up to that.)

the piercings don't take much convincing. you swear you've always sort of wanted them when he casually complicats an actor's nipple piercings as the two of you watch porn. he he hums his approval, pinches your hard nubs and gushes about how good they'd look on you. you have them within the week.

humping his leg, warming his balls in your mouth. all he has to do is tell you to be good for him and you're letting him straddle your head so you can lick into his hole. nevermind how you'd told him it was gross when he'd tried to do the same for you, it's all forgotten so long as he keeps his thighs spread wide enough you can hear the words encouragement spilling from his mouth. he likes watching your thighs squirm when he tells you how good you feel, how clever your tongue. knows he'll like it even better when he pushes you over that last limit, when it's the captain's low growl praising you for letting them do what they like.

it's always worked for him, at least.

[straw-berrysoju]

STUDY BREAK (18+)

Synopsis: A late-night study session with your sexy, sharp-tongued study partner turns into a game of control when he quizzes you with pop questions, punishing wrong answers with teasing touches and threats. What was supposed to be studying quickly becomes an erotic lesson in submission and power.

Themes: study partners, college setting, psychology majors, study sessions turning into intimate encounters, power play, teasing and edging, control and submission, sexual tension, public risk, control, obedience

Pairing: seungcheol x female reader (both psychology majors)

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, power imbalances, public setting (library), oral sex, fingering, edging and orgasm control

Word count: 1.9k

Minors dni!

_______________________________________________________

It’s close to midnight when Seungcheol finally shows up.

He’s ten minutes late, again, with his hoodie pulled low and his hair still damp from a shower. You pretend you don’t notice the way he smells—like soap and warm skin and something a little too clean for the things running through your head.

“You already started without me?” he asks, throwing his bag on the chair across from mine.

“You were late,” you say flatly, not looking up.

He laughs, the deep kind that vibrates low in his throat. “Someone’s cranky.”

“I’m focused.”

“Mm. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The words are offhand, but his gaze lingers. There’s something about the way he says it—how casual his voice is while his eyes roam over you like he already knows what’s going to happen.

You cross your legs under the table, gripping your pen a little tighter.

He takes his seat. You start reviewing. At first, it’s normal—terms, definitions, case studies. But then…

“Define operant conditioning,” he says, leaning in just slightly.

“Reinforcement or punishment used to increase or decrease a behavior,” you reply automatically.

“Good girl.”

You freeze.

He says it so softly you're not sure you heard him right. But when you glance up, he’s looking at you—really looking.

“You—what did you just say?”

Seungcheol smiles. “Just giving feedback. Positive reinforcement.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Call you a good girl?” His voice drops. “Does it bother you?”

“It’s distracting.”

“Interesting,” he says, folding his arms behind his head. “Because it looked like you liked it.”

Your pulse kicks up. The room is too quiet. Too private. It’s the end of the semester, and most of campus is asleep or wired on caffeine in another building. We’re in a back corner study room, half the lights off, no one walking by.

You should shut this down. You should get back to your notes. But then his foot slides under the table and touches yours. Light. Testing.

“Want to play a game?” he murmurs.

Your hand stills. Your mouth is dry. “No games. We’re behind.”

“Then let’s multitask.” His eyes flash. “For every correct answer, I reward you. For every mistake…” He smiles slowly. “You get punished.”

You know you should say no. Should roll your eyes and go back to reviewing. But your thighs are already pressing together under the table, breath catching in your throat.

You glance up. “How are you defining ‘reward’ and ‘punish’?”

His gaze drags down your face, your chest, your legs.

“Why don’t we find out?”

You swallow hard and nod once.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, legs wide.

He smiles like he’s been waiting for this.

“Question one: What’s the difference between positive and negative reinforcement?”

You blink, recite from memory. “Positive reinforcement adds a stimulus to increase behavior. Negative reinforcement removes something to increase behavior.”

His smile deepens. “Good girl.”

The words slide under your skin like silk.

You’re not prepared for the way his foot slips under the table, brushing your calf, sliding up, slow and deliberate. You suck in a breath.

“That’s your reward,” he says. “Next.”

You barely have time to recover.

“Question two: Define punishment in behavioral terms.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. “Punishment… decreases behavior. Positive punishment adds an unpleasant stimulus. Negative removes a positive one.”

His foot presses between your legs, nudging your knees apart.

“That hesitation cost you.”

You stiffen.

He leans forward, dark eyes locked on yours. “Don’t close them. Keep your legs where I put them.”

You obey, your breath catching when his toe presses lightly against your inner thigh.

“Third question. Define fixed ratio schedule.”

You’re panting now, trying to think. “It’s… reinforcement given after a specific number of responses.”

“Correct.”

This time it’s not his foot—it’s his hand, sliding under the table, fingers skimming the bare skin just above your knee. You’re hyper aware of every brush, every shift of his knuckles.

“Shorts?” he murmurs. “Or skirt?”

You meet his gaze, throat dry. “Skirt.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes briefly, like he's holding himself back. “You really are trying to test me.”

His fingers drift higher.

“Fourth question. Describe the concept of learned helplessness.”

You try. You swear you try. But all you can focus on is the heat of his palm against your thigh, creeping higher, tracing the crease where your leg meets your hip.

“W–when an individual… is exposed to inescapable negative stimuli, they stop trying to escape, even when a solution is present.”

His fingers pause just short of your underwear.

“Very good,” he murmurs. “So smart.”

You’re aching. Slick between your thighs. And he hasn’t even really touched you yet.

His thumb strokes along the waistband of your panties. The featherlight touch makes your breath hitch.

“Next one,” he says. “Ready?”

You nod, swallowing hard.

“Name two famous behaviorists.”

“Skinner and… Watson.”

“Good girl,” he whispers, and this time he rewards you with a single, slow stroke over your clothed core. You twitch in your seat, biting your lip to keep from making a sound.

“Oh, you liked that.” His fingers repeat the motion. “You’re so wet already, baby. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You shift in your seat, thighs tightening. “Cheol, we can’t—”

“We can,” he cuts in, voice a command now. “No one’s coming in this late. And you’re the one begging for attention with those pretty little skirts.”

“I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off with a soft, dark laugh, leaning in. “You wore lace under that skirt to a study session. You wanted to be touched.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s right.

And when his fingers slip past the lace this time—bare skin to bare heat—you forget how to breathe.

He groans, the sound deep and quiet. “Fuck. You're soaked.”

“Cheol—”

“I told you.” He sinks a single finger in, slow and teasing. “Get the answers right, and I’ll give you what you want. Get them wrong…”

He pulls his hand away. Cold. Empty.

“…and you’ll have to beg.”

You whimper, chasing his hand instinctively.

The smirk he gives you is pure sin.

“Last question. Get this right, and I’ll make you come right here, right now.”

You stare at him, shaking slightly, thighs slick and trembling.

“Define conditioned stimulus.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. His hand hovers just above your cunt, waiting.

“One…”

You panic. “A—a previously neutral stimulus… that, after association with the unconditioned one, triggers the same response.”

His hand sinks back down. Two fingers this time. Crooked just right.

“Correct.”

And just like that, you fall to pieces—back arched, breath ragged, his name on your lips like a secret sin.

You try to stay quiet, really, you do.

But when his fingers start pumping in and out, slow and steady, curling just right, it’s impossible to keep still on his lap. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing the friction, grinding down as your thighs tremble around him.

“Fuck, you’re needy,” Seungcheol growls against your neck, voice barely above a whisper. “Dripping all over my hand in a goddamn study room.”

You bite your bottom lip, tasting skin, trying to suppress the moan clawing its way up your throat.

His free hand grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back just enough so he can watch your face as he fucks you with his fingers. “Let them hear if you want,” he says, eyes dark. “Or be a good girl and stay quiet. Either way, you’re not leaving this chair until I feel you come.”

You dig your nails into his hoodie as your body shakes, that coil in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter. Every press of his thumb against your clit sends sparks flying. You’re soaked, whimpering into his shoulder, thighs clenching around his wrist as he works you through it.

“Cheol—please—”

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Come for me, sweetheart. Be loud. Be messy.”

You do. You fall apart right there in his lap, teeth sinking into his collarbone to muffle the broken gasp that spills from your lips as your orgasm hits hard and fast, making your whole body go tense and weightless at once.

By the time you catch your breath, your panties are ruined, and his fingers are glistening.

“You made a mess,” he smirks, sucking one finger into his mouth with a filthy groan. “We’re not done.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. Doesn’t let you fix your hair or adjust your skirt. He just grabs your bag, presses a kiss to your cheek like you’re some innocent girl he’s walking home, and guides you out of the library with his hand on your lower back like he owns you.

When you finally reach his dorm, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. He locks the door, pins you to it, and kisses you like he’s been waiting all semester to ruin you.

And he does.

He strips you slow—fingers tracing every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s studying you now—and when he finally peels your panties off completely, he brings them to his nose with a groan, then pockets them like a trophy.

“You’re gonna ride me,” he says, voice rough as he pulls his hoodie off and sinks onto the edge of his bed, jeans undone, cock thick and hard in his fist. “Nice and slow. Show me how much you really learned tonight.”

You climb onto him, thighs sore, cunt still throbbing from earlier. His hands grip your hips as you sink down, and the stretch steals your breath. He’s thick. Hot. Heavy. Every inch of him fills you up perfectly.

You start slow, bouncing gently, rolling your hips the way he taught you to move, but Seungcheol clearly has other plans.

“Not like that,” he snaps, slapping your ass. “You teased me all week wearing those short skirts. Begging for my attention in those tight little study group outfits. You don’t get to take it slow.”

He grabs your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them with one hand, while the other grabs your throat—not tight, but firm enough to make you moan.

“Now fuck me like you mean it.”

And you do.

You ride him hard, your thighs burning, tits bouncing, moans filling the dark room. His cock hits every sensitive spot, thick and perfect, dragging over your walls until you’re crying his name like a prayer.

“Touch yourself,” he growls. “Let me see how pretty you look falling apart on my cock.”

Your fingers find your clit, and with just a few messy circles, you’re unraveling again—legs shaking, cunt clenching tight around him as you come with a sharp cry.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, and then he’s flipping you onto your back, hooking your legs over his shoulders and slamming back in, fucking you deep, hard, relentless. “One more,” he pants. “Give me one more.”

Your head lolls back, brain fogged with pleasure, body wrecked and begging. “Cheol—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, biting down on your collarbone. “You will.”

You come again—shaking, sobbing, nails digging into his back as he finally lets go with a low, guttural growl, spilling inside you and holding you tight as he rides out every wave.

After, he doesn’t speak for a while.

Just pulls you into his chest, kisses your forehead, and strokes your hair as you lie tangled in the sheets, spent and dripping.

“Guess we’re doing another study session tomorrow,” he murmurs.

And the smirk in his voice makes you shiver all over again.

_______________________________________________________

Author's note: this smut may or may not have been a reaction to Scoups' met gala look. Sorry not sorry. I also may have gotten a little carried away and started writing the second part of this oneshot but I'll most probably not upload it.

[thefemigirl]

★ Discipline Made Beautiful

Discipline and consistency are often seen as heavy or restrictive, but they are the foundation of any goal. By reframing these practices as empowering and beautiful, they stop feeling like sacrifices and start feeling like acts of self-respect. The key to achieving your dreams is aligning your daily actions with the life you envision.

So, I have a list of actionable ways to embrace discipline and consistency in your life!

⋆ Reframe Discipline as Self-Care Instead of viewing discipline as deprivation, see it as an act of love toward yourself. Showing up for your goals—whether it’s working out, studying, or creating—fosters self-respect and builds confidence.

Example: Choosing to eat foods that nourish your body isn’t about restriction but about creating a body you feel confident and strong in. The same idea applied here.

⋆ Build a Lifestyle That Reflects Your Goals Align your habits and routines with the person you want to become. When you act in ways that reflect your goals, you start believing in the possibility of achieving them.

Example: Slow, intentional mornings with a cup of tea and a moment for gratitude can make success feel attainable and normalize a higher standard of living.

⋆ Normalize Small Wins Create small, intentional experiences that reflect the life you want. These moments help you feel successful and keep you motivated to stay consistent.

Example: Rewarding yourself with a favourite skincare product or a relaxing bath after sticking to your routine reinforces positive feelings about your journey.

⋆ Fall in Love with the Process Not every part of building the life you want will feel exciting, but you can find joy in knowing these actions contribute to something greater. Consistency becomes easier when you view it as part of your identity.

Example: Journaling may not feel thrilling every day, but it’s a ritual that connects you to your goals and fosters clarity.

⋆ Practice Gratitude for the Journey Appreciate how far you’ve come and recognize that every small step matters. Gratitude helps you shift your mindset from focusing on what’s lacking to seeing the beauty in the progress you’ve made.

Example: Look back on a previous version of yourself and celebrate the growth that discipline and consistency have brought into your life.

When you align your actions with the life you desire, success stops feeling distant and starts feeling inevitable.

Celebrate your progress and trust in the journey—you are building something beautiful.

Wishing you all the best,

[starry-bi-sky]

im being hit with The Visions again

the Vision this time is a "homeless danny in gotham" au except its pre-robin Batman again because im on a batdad kick. --------------------

Danny finds a car.

Which-- isn't, like, anything super interesting or impressive. It's Gotham, it's a big city. There's cars on every corner, can't throw a stick without hitting one somewhere. And then setting off the alarm.

But-! It's a car, and it's past midnight-- or he thinks it might be past midnight, it's late enough to be. He doesn't have a watch and he left his phone at Vlad's; asshole put a tracker on it after the last time Danny ran off.

It's been over a month since, it's a new record -- last time it took just over two weeks for Vlad to find him and drag him back to the mansion. This time, Danny ran further. Left the state and everything. See how long it takes Vlad to find him now, hah.

People go missing all the time in Gotham.

Anyways-- there's a car, and it's midnight, and it's parked in an alleyway. Danny would've called it invisible with the way he pretty much trips over it, phasing through the wall of the building beside it and not watching where he's going, but it's not. So he doesn't.

Danny runs into the hood and nearly faceplants right into the darn thing with an 'oomph', hands catching himself on the metal as a flash of irritation flashes hot through his gut. It doesn't hurt or anything, but getting the wind knocked out of you sucks always, and he's tired and hungry, and as a result not in the best state of mind.

He's just about to sink his foot into the side of the wheel -- it wouldn't do anything, he's not that big of an asshole, but it's the principle -- when he stops.

Danny pauses.

He takes a step back, holding his hands out 'n' everything, and examines the car. He squints, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness, considering the closest streetlight is twenty feet that way and positioned in a way that none of the light is hitting it.

Danny would not call himself a car guy. He doesn't think he counts, considering his size and lack of everything. But, but, he knows his way around a few cars, and he had an old obsession with older models when he was little that kinda petered out of existence after his accident. Had a bunch of little car models sitting on one of his shelves back in Amity, and Dad offered to get his hands on an old car for the two of them to fix up together so it'd be ready for Danny when he got his license.

...Anyways.

Point is: Danny can appreciate an old car, and this car has an older -- albeit obviously modified, if the matte paneling and plated wheels meant anything -- look to it. That kind of flat top went out of style years ago, and it's got this kinda rectangular look Danny doesn't see often these days on modern cars.

Other than the electrical cars, but he doesn't think those count. That's boxy, not rectangular.

Danny frowns, tilts his hands down, and leans back further as if that will let him get a better look at this thing. "...What model is this?" He mutters, it's hard to tell in this lighting.

Wait, he should see if there's anyone in the car. It's not running or anything, and nobody's come out to yell at him -- or shoot him -- but, still. People are crazy in Gotham, crazier than they've ever been in Amity. The last thing he needs to do is piss off some guy from the mob.

Danny peers into the window and-- there's no window, okay. Well, no window, and no driver. Some idiot left their car unprotected and without windows, in Gotham?

He pulls on the door handle just to be annoying -- it doesn't budge. Okay, maybe not that stupid. Especially since Danny didn't even see it until he was quite literally running into it.

So. Not that stupid.

Danny looks around warily, pulling his hoodie around him tighter, and then starts circling the car slowly. Like a vulture. No license plate; shocker. Hear how shocked he is? Clutching his pearls right now.

"Reinforced bumper. Cool." he says, er- whispers, really, quiet enough that it doesn't even echo. Danny squats in front of the car and runs his hands over the -- what, should he even call this a bumper? It's bigger than his head, and it's covering the grille. He picks at these... things on the side that remind him of leather straps. Probably to keep this bumper up? Like a ratchet strap?

Danny leans back until his butt hits the ground and he can sit back properly, propping himself up on his hands -- maybe not a good idea. There's probably broken glass somewhere here and he doesn't wanna pick shards out of his palms, again. It's like popping the world's most annoying zit depending on if it gets under the skin.

(He could always just phase them out, but the picking gives him something to do. It doesn't hurt that much.)

Eh. It'll be fine.

With one knee propped up, Danny looks the front up and down, and furrows his brows. The style kinda reminds him of a dodger, especially with the placement and style of the headlights. He plants his hands on the concrete -- hissing when he feels something cut into his palms, ow, there's that glass he was talking about -- and leans down to look under the car.

Hm, nothing jutting out that much. Looks pretty normal. Good space between the bottom and the ground.

He gets up and circles the side again, brushing whatever pebbles or glass that could've stuck into his skin off. He's really curious about where the owner got matte plating for it, or if it's just a wrap. The silhouette's definitely sixties or seventies; too angular for the eighties and fifties.

...There's no one here, Danny looks around again just to make sure, cranes his ears to catch anything. Nope, just the typical quiet rumbling of Gotham's underbelly. It kinda reminds him of Amity, or-- no. No, it reminds him of the quiet groan of the Zone.

That's far more comforting, he thinks. Danny's never really liked Amity all that much.

Back to the car: there's no one around, so Danny folds his arms against the side of the door and sticks his head inside the window. No keys in the ignition, should've figured.

Not like Danny was planning on stealing the car anyways -- anyone capable of modifying a car into this kinda beast -- or paying someone to modify -- was not someone he wanted to piss off. Danny's an orphan, not stupid.

Ignore the fact that he's got his head stuck through the window. The interior isn't anything interesting, but the seats are made of leather, which is nice. Must be a pain in the summer or winter, but leather is cool, and gets stains out better than cloth.

No stick shift though, he's a little disappointed.

Danny presses his mouth into a line and then slants it, humming in the back of his throat. Honestly, he's kinda tempted to crawl in and go to sleep. The leather seats look really inviting, and he's been sleeping on the ground or on park benches for weeks, and the car is really well hidden. No need to worry about being kidnapped.

But, it still belongs to someone. And they're probably using it for something shady. They'll come back for it eventually, so he should get this gawking over with anyways.

And, and-- and. He wants to get a look at that fucking engine. 'Cause holy shit!

Danny pulls his head out of the window and half-dances over to the back, his hand curling around one of the bars as a grin spreads across his face. Now, Danny hates Christmas, but this, this is like it came early and good for once.

"You could smuggle moonshine with this thing," Danny says to himself, grinning ear to ear and running his hands over the edge of the metal. The car is too conspicuous for backroads driving, but the engine, wow. What a thing of beauty.

One of Auntie's friends would probably know what engine it is -- or what type of engine it's based off of, it could very well be a bunch of different engines frankenstein'd together. Danny doesn't recognize it.

Which means it could be illegal. Again, what a shocker. In Gotham? He's clutching his pearls.

Fully satisfied with himself, Danny dances around to the front again and holds his hands out. He makes an 'L' with both hands and shuts one eye, getting the car within the frame of his fingers like he's about to take a picture.

"I rate you," Danny makes a camera shutter sound and mimics taking a photo, "one cool fuckin' car."

"Thank you."

Danny doesn't scream. He does not. He's taught himself better since ghosts started popping up in Amity, and honestly he deserves some credit for that considering they only started popping up over half a year ago.

He does, however, gasp. And he gasps hard, the type that has a high chance of giving you the hiccups afterwards; the painful, chest-thumping kind. Danny slams both hands over his mouth and stumbles backwards, eyes wide and his heart kicking into the fifth gear in his ears.

Bleeding out from the shadows is a man entirely drenched in black, Danny can hardly make out his silhouette and barely catches the white glints of his eyes. Fear like a prey animal burns in his lungs, wild and rabid, Danny has half a mind to bolt.

His ghost sense didn't go off, which might just be the most terrifying thing.

The man doesn't move any more than a step, just enough that Danny can barely see him, but he can feel him watching him. Shit. Shit. He should've never stuck around.

His hands are still over his mouth, Danny, shaking, flutters them open, "How-- h-- how--" he wheezes, "how long have you been standing there?"

[strwberri-milk]

How would the lads boys react to a reader that is touch starved but is to shy to initiate physical contact (at the beginning) cuz she’s afraid of making them uncomfortable ?

Zayne doesn't initiate physical contact often either on account of just being a little too busy to be cuddly. He will hold your hand your or put his arm around your waist - showing you affection in socially acceptable ways because that's just how he shows affection. He isn't one to pull you into an intense kiss in the middle of the street - that's reserved for dark alleyways or the car on your way home.

He just thinks you're the same, not realising that it's a need you have. You'd have to communicate it with him or else he won't understand that you want him to initiate more contact. He doesn't mind holding you whenever he feels the need to or kissing your cheek and would assume that you'd do the same as he's never expressed not liking your attention.

Once you confide in him, telling him that you're just worried about making him uncomfortable he won't understand it at all. He reassures you that you'd never bother him, wanting you to reach out to him whenever you feel like you need him. It makes him feel needed by you as well, something he definitely appreciates because he wants you to find comfort in him.

Xavier can sense your unease because he sees how you always seem to hesitate whenever you touch him. He doesn't understand why you're acting like that but decides to continue observing just for now. When he determines it's a habit you have he'll ask you why you don't just touch him or hold him or kiss him whenever you want without seeming so nervous. He's worried he's somehow scared you off, made you feel like you shouldn't reach out to him for comfort.

You have to vehemently deny that statement, now feeling a little bad that you made Xavier think that he did something wrong. Thankfully, he's not going to dwell on it too long, telling you that he wants you to reach out and initiate physical contact whenever you feel the need to. He likes it when you're affectionate with him and wants you to do it more often, egging you on by responding with a little more enthusiasm than normal to reinforce the positive behaviour. You laugh a little at how obvious he's trying to make it, knowing he's doing it for your benefit, especially when he normally isn't this emotive in day to day things.

Rafayel is incredibly affectionate so for the most part, you don't find yourself needing too much of his attention since he usually gives all of it to you unprompted. The times you need to seek him out would be when he's deep into an art piece since he tends to forget everything. He'll still greet you with a kiss if you enter the room and hug you tightly to recharge his batteries but it's not nearly as much as he normally subjects you to, making you miss him a little bit more.

He notices you hanging around in the studio a little aimlessly, raising a brow at you. He decides to see what you're doing while he waits for his layers to dry, seeing you just sort of wandering until he calls you over. You practically bound over, looking at him expectantly. He doesn't get it quite yet, looking at you with mild confusion but also loving how adorably you're looking up at him.

It'll take him a second to realise you're waiting for him to shower you in attention the way he normally would, pulling you into his lap and letting you bury your face into his neck. He realises how much he's been neglecting you now, apologising and telling you that you can always make him give you attention. He loves you and would do anything for you, reinforcing the fact that he wants you to shower him in attention too whenever you feel like it. It makes him feel loved too and when you finally start doing it he'll overreact a little, practically melting at your touch because of his adoration for you.

Sylus can tell you have an aversion to initiating physical touch so he decides to make his cues for you more obvious. He'll look at you a little longer, opening an arm for you to crawl into his lap or come to his side to have a kiss pressed to your cheek. He doesn't mind initiating the physical contact this way because it clearly makes you more comfortable.

Over time with his patience you'll start to pick up on the fact that he's trying to acclimate you to initiating more physical contact. It works though, which you're glad about as you realise your nervousness around giving him physical affection is beginning to become far more manageable. He always leans into your touch whenever you initiate no matter where or what you're doing, thanking you in that smooth voice of his as he presses a kiss to your lips.

[solxamber]

Oh Hero, My Hero || Riddle Rosehearts

You’re a villain. Riddle’s your destined hero. He wants to arrest you—you want to hold his hand. It’s love, it’s war, and honestly? You think you’re winning.

You are a villain. A rather good one, if you do say so yourself.

And you do. Often. With flair.

Not because you're arrogant—heavens, no—but because it’s important to maintain workplace morale. Your minions, bless their easily influenced hearts, thrive under positive reinforcement.

They chant your name with gusto during heists, schedule evil meetings with color-coded agendas, and once threw you a surprise “Congratulations on Burning Down That Insurance Building (For Tax Reasons)” party. You cried. It was beautiful.

Your lair is everything a villain could want: spiky towers, ominous mood lighting, and traps that range from “mild inconvenience” to “psychological evaluation required.” You’ve even installed a mechanism that drops glitter every time someone steps on the wrong tile. It’s technically not dangerous, but it is infuriating, which is honestly better.

Yes, life is good. But... something’s been missing.

You know how these stories go. For every great villain, there is a great hero. A dramatic, infuriating, righteous counterpart with impeccable hair and a moral compass that spins violently in your presence. You’ve read the lore. Studied the tropes. Ripped out pages from “The Villain’s Guide to Theatrical Longing” and taped them to your dream board.

One day, your hero will be chosen, and when they are, oh, what a pair you’ll make. You’ll clash! You’ll banter! You’ll bring balance to the world through mutually assured flirtation and destruction!

After all, that’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it?

It’s a slow day, which is the perfect time for a little recreational crime.

Nothing major, of course—you’re not cruel, you just think the local artifact museum has gotten far too cocky with its security system. Besides, the cursed amulet you’re currently attempting to swipe really ties together the “apocalyptic-chic” shelf in your lair.

You’re halfway through disarming the exhibit’s alarm—a very fiddly one, with far too many wires and a voice that keeps saying “You are not authorized to touch that” in an increasingly judgmental tone—when you hear it.

“Stop right there, villain!”

You pause.

Slowly, theatrically, you turn.

There, bathed in a ray of dramatic light that absolutely wasn’t there a second ago, stands a guy. No. A hero. Red hair, grey eyes, and an expression so stern it could cut glass. His hand is clenched around the hilt of his sword like he knows how to use it, and his entire posture screams “I memorized the moral code and I will recite it to you.”

You blink. Then beam. “Oh, you’re adorable. What’s your name?”

He blinks back, completely derailed. “...What?”

“Your name,” you say, stepping away from the pedestal like you’re not currently committing a felony. “I feel like we’re about to start a very meaningful rivalry and I’d rather not label you ‘that handsome one with the righteous fury.’ Although it does have a ring to it.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Riddle,” he says eventually, in the tone of someone who isn’t sure how they ended up in this conversation and regrets all their choices. “My name is Riddle. Riddle Rosehearts.”

“Riddle,” you echo, tasting the name like fine wine. “Delightful. Very ‘divine mission meets repressed rage.’ I love it.”

He takes a step forward, clearly gearing up for a speech. You cut him off by snatching the amulet with a flourish and tucking it into your coat. “Well, Riddle, I’m afraid I have to run. Villainy doesn’t wait for anyone, you know. But don’t worry—we’ll see each other very soon.”

And then you skip away.

Like, full bounce-in-your-step, cartoon-character skipping. It’s important to commit to a bit.

Behind you, there’s a moment of silence. Then, from the museum steps, a cry of pure indignation:

“YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE AFTER—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

You grin as the scream echoes after you.

Oh yes. He’s perfect.

It’s well past midnight when your latest act of moderately tasteful villainy concludes.

Tonight’s caper had a theme—“Revenge, but Make It Fashion”—and you’ve just successfully replaced the mayor’s wig collection with sentient moss creatures. It’s your finest work yet. You even left a calling card. It was scented.

You’re about to vanish into the night, cackling quietly to yourself and dodging a very judgmental pigeon, when a voice rings out.

“There you are!”

You freeze. Not out of fear, of course—you’re wearing your lucky boots, and they’ve never failed you. No, you freeze because you know that voice now. You like that voice. It’s the sound of divine justice and emotional constipation.

You turn around slowly, dramatically, your coat billowing like you practiced in front of a fan for hours. And there he is.

Riddle Rosehearts.

Sword drawn. Eyes ablaze. Face scrunched into that exact same scowl he always wears when you do something heinous like wink at him or breathe near museum exhibits.

“You can’t keep running away after committing these crimes!” he says, striding toward you. “I will stop you. I don’t care how clever or deranged you are—this ends now!”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then you beam. “Oh, Riddle. I knew you’d ask me out eventually.”

He halts so fast he nearly trips over a rogue bit of moss.

“What?!”

“I mean, it’s a little sudden,” you say, brushing ash off your sleeve from where something behind you may or may not still be on fire. “But if you wanted dinner, you could’ve just said so without the threats. I get it—you like a little spice in your courtship.”

“I was not—this isn’t—You replaced the city council’s water bottles with electric eels!”

“Which we can talk about over appetizers, obviously,” you say. “I’m in a bit of a rush right now—horribly mysterious deadline, secret villain society, you know the drill—but let’s make it happen tomorrow. Same restaurant I robbed last week. I’ll even pay this time, for the experience.”

“You held the maître d’ hostage with a baguette!”

“And yet the ambiance was divine, wasn’t it?” You’re already walking backward, saluting him with two fingers and an over-the-top wink. “See you at seven, Riddle! Wear something red! It brings out the fury in your eyes!”

You disappear around the corner with a twirl of your cloak.

Behind you, Riddle stands in the wreckage of your crime scene, gripping his sword in white-knuckled hands, yelling to no one:

“THAT WASN’T AN INVITATION! THIS ISN’T—YOU CAN’T JUST SCHEDULE—STOP MISINTERPRETING MY JUSTICE!!”

But you’ve already mentally penciled in the date.

You’re bringing flowers.

Riddle has made many mistakes in his life.

Eating that one suspicious tea cake in the third grade. Agreeing to babysit Ace and Deuce in his spare time. Wearing white in a rainstorm because he “checked the forecast and it said clear skies.” But nothing—nothing—compares to the existential mistake of actually showing up to the dinner you invited him to after literally committing a crime in front of him.

He sits at the candlelit table of the very restaurant you robbed last week—still functioning, somehow—and wonders what exactly is wrong with him.

Maybe the goddess is testing him. Maybe this is a deeply specific curse. Maybe he’s sleep-deprived and hallucinating a date with a criminal.

And then you walk in.

You walk in, with all the confidence of a person who thinks “arrest warrant” is a love language. You're wearing something entirely too dramatic for the venue, looking like you just strolled out of a villain-themed opera. And in your hands—dear, blessed heavens—are flowers.

You walk right up to him and smile like this is the most natural thing in the world. “For you,” you say, handing over the bouquet.

He stares.

Then, slowly, like someone defusing a bomb, he takes the flowers.

“What…” he begins, clearly unsure what part of this situation he wants to question first. “What is this?”

“A date!” you say cheerfully, sitting across from him. “You asked so sweetly last night. Shouting. Sword waving. Very romantic.”

“I was threatening to arrest you.”

“Yes, yes, and now we’re here.” You unfold your napkin. “Funny how life works.”

He sits there, holding the flowers like they might explode, lips slightly parted in sheer bafflement. And yet—yet—he doesn’t leave.

Dinner is, despite his eternal internal screaming, pleasant. The food is good, you don’t commit any crimes at the table (an honest effort on your part), and Riddle slowly transitions from vibrating with rage to… a sort of confused civility. He even joins in when you mock the restaurant’s ridiculous chandelier that looks like someone turned a jellyfish into a war crime.

At the end of the night, you walk out together. You stop just outside the restaurant, turn to him, and lean in without a word to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

He freezes.

“See you next crime night,” you whisper, grinning, before vanishing into the shadows with the speed and flair of someone who definitely practices this.

Riddle remains there, completely still, blushing down to his collarbones and clutching the flowers like they hold answers.

“…Why,” he whispers to the empty street. “Why was that… actually nice?”

The flowers don’t respond.

They do smell great, though.

The next time Riddle corners you, it’s on a rooftop because of course it is. Villainy is fifty percent dramatic elevation, thirty percent elaborate monologuing, ten percent jazz hands, and the rest is tasteful crime, of course. You’re perched on the ledge like a gargoyle with better cheekbones, admiring the mess below.

Tonight’s crime was “turn the city’s water supply into champagne” and honestly? You think the bubbles give the infrastructure a certain je ne sais quoi.

Then, behind you, boots clack ominously.

“Villain!”

You turn and there he is. Riddle. Divine wrath incarnate. Red cloak billowing, sword strapped to his back, expression locked in that righteous fury that just screams “I rehearsed this in the mirror and accidentally made eye contact with myself too long.”

He’s prepared this time. You can see it in his eyes.

He’s convinced he's not going to fall for your charms again.

He takes a step forward, inhales, and begins reciting something clearly not written by him.

“By decree of the Goddess, I will bring your reign to an end. I will dismantle your corruption, tear your empire apart piece by piece until—”

You gasp. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.

“First dinner,” you say, hand to chest, “and now you want to tear me apart? Hero, you’re bold.”

He physically chokes.

“What—NO—THAT ISN’T—”

“I mean, I like to take things slow, personally,” you continue, swanning over like you’re not actively the reason five neighborhoods are flooded with sparkling rosé. “I’m a little old-fashioned. Maybe court me a bit before the dismemberment, hmm?”

He makes a sound like a kettle reaching a full boil.

“I am not trying to court you! I’m trying to arrest you!”

You lean in just slightly, grin widening. “Sure. Arrest my heart, maybe.”

His eye twitches. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. Then makes a weird little squeak and visibly blue-screens.

And just to finish him off, you pluck a rose—where did it come from??—out of literally nowhere, and step close enough to tuck it behind his ear like you're in a telenovela and this is your third scandal of the episode.

“There,” you murmur. “You get prettier every time we meet.”

You hop onto the edge of the building, cape fluttering. “See you next crime night, sweetheart!”

And you leap.

Not fall.

Leap. Like an Olympic gymnast with zero regard for city ordinances.

Riddle stands there for a solid thirty seconds, completely motionless, as his brain tries to recalibrate from “heroic justice” to “accidentally seduced again by a chaotic menace with an infuriatingly cute smile.”

The rose is still in his hair.

He stares into the night.

Somewhere far away, the Goddess laughs into her wine.

It’s been a long week. You deserve a break.

You’ve committed three heists, sabotaged a bridge (a small one, you’re not a monster), and orchestrated a flash mob in the bank lobby purely for dramatic effect. The mayor’s still recovering. Your minions are thrilled. You’ve earned this.

So tonight, you do what any self-respecting supervillain does on their off-night: wear your pajamas backwards and binge the local news while eating cake with a fork in each hand.

And then—there he is.

Hero of the People. Bringer of Justice. Riddle Freaking Rosehearts.

You squeal, legs kicking in the air like you’re fifteen and he’s the lead singer of a boy band.

The news anchor looks mildly afraid as they gesture at Riddle, who is standing in front of a smoking crater you may or may not have caused because someone at City Hall called you a rascal.

“Hero Rosehearts,” the anchor says, “any words for the villains of the city?”

Riddle takes a breath. Looks directly into the camera like he’s about to propose to a jar of moral purity. He radiates the energy of a substitute teacher on the verge of snapping.

“I will find them,” he says, calm but filled with unholy fury. “And I will bring them to justice. They can’t hide behind glitter bombs and confusing innuendos forever.”

You gasp, hand to chest, cake forgotten.

“He remembers my glitter bombs,” you whisper, soft and touched.

Twenty minutes later, at Hero HQ:

Trey opens the door expecting takeout.

Instead, he’s greeted by a florist holding the largest bouquet of roses, peacock feathers, and hand-folded origami doves anyone’s ever seen. The card dangles off it like it’s trying to escape.

“Uh… Riddle?” he calls, carefully dragging it inside.

Riddle appears in the hallway, looking like he hasn’t slept since your last rooftop encounter. “What now—”

He sees the bouquet.

He sees the card.

He reads the card.

"Can’t wait! You always know how to make a villain feel so special. ~Yours in mild but persistent crime"

There’s a doodle of him in the corner. Blushing. In your handwriting. With little sparkles. And dramatic shading. His cape is glorious.

Cater walks in, sees the scene, and drops his phone from laughing so hard.

“They SENT YOU FAN ART. You’ve got a criminal parasocial relationship.”

“This is not a relationship,” Riddle hisses, clutching the card like it personally offended his lineage. “This is TERRORISM. Emotional terrorism.”

“Aw,” Trey says, examining the bouquet. “They even matched your color palette. That’s considerate.”

“I’m filing a formal divine complaint,” Riddle mutters, turning on his heel. “The goddess lied to me. She said I was chosen for righteousness, not romantic sabotage.”

Cater wheezes. “Bet you five madols they send you a mixtape next.”

Meanwhile, back in your lair, you’re gluing rhinestones to a brick with “To: My favorite nemesis” scrawled on it in glitter glue.

You hum a little tune and smile to yourself.

Love is war.

And you’re winning.

There was a time—not long ago—when Supervillain Group Night™ filled you with a certain kind of existential emptiness.

Everyone else would be lounging around in their aesthetic-themed lairs, attending the secret network meeting (there’s a schedule, a calendar, a monthly tea sampler, and a surprisingly active Discord), trading stories about their latest dramatic rooftop clashes and high-stakes battles with their assigned heroic rivals.

And then there was you.

“Oh, no hero for me yet,” you’d say, sipping your drink with forced casualness. “Still waiting on fate. The divine matchmaker’s probably just backlogged, y’know?”

“Backlogged for three years?” muttered Villain A whose hero punched him into a canal weekly.

But now?

Now the universe has finally answered your prayers.

Riddle Rosehearts: Chosen by the Goddess. The embodiment of law, order, and unyielding justice. Blushes like a strawberry when you wink at him. You love him. (Professionally.)

You beam as you drop into your villain lounge chair, already mid-rant during today’s check-in.

“—and then he said I’d be brought to justice, again, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing ever. And when I said, ‘careful, darling, you’re gonna make a villain swoon,’ he made this noise like a kettle about to explode. Isn’t he the cutest?!”

The others stare.

Villain B sips her wine. “Did you just say darling?”

“Several times. Also ‘beloved symbol of righteousness.’ I was feeling poetic.”

Someone coughs.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer force of your yearning, he appears.

The wall to your hideout blasts open (you just had it repainted), and there he is—Riddle, in full dramatic hero mode, hair windswept, cape fluttering, eyes narrowed like he’s about to smite you for jaywalking.

“You’re under arrest,” he snaps, stepping inside like a one-man apocalypse.

You stand immediately. “My hero!”

Riddle visibly stutters. “Th-that is—you can’t just—” He yanks out the handcuffs like they insulted his ancestors. “You’re under arrest!”

You practically glow. “Oh, you brought cuffs? You always know just what I like.”

There is a horrified choking noise from him. A villain drops her wine in disbelief.

“I came here to detain you, not—!”

“Flatter me in front of my colleagues?” You shoot the others a smug grin. “Isn’t he great? He always shows up right when I’m talking about him. It’s, like, our thing.”

“You’re being arrested,” he says, and it sounds like he’s begging the gods to smite him then and there. He slaps the cuffs on, ears glowing red. “Stop making this sound like a date!”

You gasp as he starts dragging you toward the exit. “You admit it’s not just in my head?”

He trips.

The council of villains erupts into chaos. Someone’s filming.

“You’re so shy,” you coo, utterly delighted. “Save that for the interrogation room, sweetheart.”

He lets out a noise of pure pain and kicks the broken wall on his way out.

By the time you arrive at the holding cell, you're still in full chatter mode.

“—so anyway, I know you usually interrogate me in the serious room with the chair and the threatening spotlight, but I brought snacks this time. I thought we could do something a little more casual? Maybe get to know each other. Or maybe you could, I don’t know…” You lean in. “Search me for more secrets.”

Riddle looks like he’s five seconds away from yelling objection in a court that does not exist.

“I SWEAR, THIS ISN’T—THIS IS NOT—”

You smile as he slams the door of the room shut behind him.

You know what this is?

Bonding.

The interrogation room is silent.

Riddle sits across from you, arms crossed, face neutral, expression studiously blank—the expression of a man who has taken a fifteen-minute breathing break in a broom closet just to convince himself that you are not, in fact, flirting with him on purpose.

That this is a job. That he is a hero. That he is not involved in the slowest and most emotionally confusing courtship ever orchestrated by a criminal lunatic with glitter glue and a god complex.

You are currently lounging in your chair like it’s a chaise at a five-star spa. Legs crossed. Elbows on the armrest. Not a care in the world.

“Do you understand,” he begins, calm and practiced, “that breaking into the mayor’s garden, kidnapping his prize-winning koi, and replacing them with rubber ducks is an act of terrorism?”

You nod solemnly. “Some crimes are worth committing for justice.”

He stares.

You blink innocently.

There’s a pause where he very obviously chooses not to ask what you did with the koi.

Instead, he sits forward slightly. “This isn’t a game, you know. This is an official interrogation.”

“Oh, I know.” You look around, squinting slightly at the cheap fluorescents above you. “But I have to say, this is… the most intimate lighting you’ve ever used. Are you trying to seduce me?”

Riddle blinks.

Hard.

“These are standard government-issued bulbs.”

“Exactly,” you say softly. “You remembered I like minimalism.”

He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again like his internal OS just crashed and is trying to reboot from safe mode.

There’s a solid ten seconds of silence where the entire city’s justice system hinges on whether he can form a sentence.

And then—

BOOM.

The side wall explodes. A cloud of smoke and glitter (your signature mix) floods the room as three of your minions rappel in through the hole like synchronized ballerinas with grappling hooks and vibes.

“Boss!” one of them shouts. “We got your emergency sparkle-signal!”

You beam. “Aw, you noticed! I made it red this time.”

“Very flattering!”

Riddle—coughing through the smoke—lunges out of his chair, but one of the minions is already rolling a smoke bomb under the table. Chaos erupts.

In the middle of it all, you stroll up to him, utterly unbothered, and gently kiss him on the cheek.

He freezes.

Like a startled cat.

“I had a lovely time,” you whisper. “You should come by again. Next time I’ll make tea.”

And with that, you're hoisted into the air by glitter-stained ropes, cackling into the night like a Disney villain.

Riddle stays there, motionless, as confetti slowly drifts down around him. One of the doves from your last bouquet flies through the hole and lands on his shoulder like punctuation.

He stands there.

Still.

Blank.

“…I hate my life,” he mutters.

The dove coos sympathetically.

It’s supposed to be your crime night.

Riddle knows your schedule better than he knows his own. Mondays are for mail fraud (the glitter kind, not the dangerous kind—unless you count eye injuries), Wednesdays are for elaborate museum heists that end in interpretive dance, and Fridays, like tonight, are for whatever ungodly act of chaos your whimsy drags into the world.

Once, it was robbing the city’s largest jewelry store and replacing everything with candy rings. Another time it was just—you, standing on a rooftop at midnight, holding up a sign that read “my hero is cute” while fireworks spelled out his name.

And now? Nothing.

No alarms. No sparkle-smoke clouds. No explosive streamers. Not even a vague threatening note written in calligraphy and sealed with your signature wax stamp of a raccoon in a crown.

The silence is... disturbing.

He lasts three hours. Which is already two hours and fifty-nine minutes longer than he’s proud of.

Finally—against every rule, regulation, and speck of dignity he possesses—Riddle storms over to your lair.

He expects traps. He expects overly enthusiastic minions. He expects you, standing at the top of a dramatic staircase with a glass of something suspicious and a cloak that flows unnaturally in the wind.

What he gets is chaos.

Not the usual kind. This is frantic. Your minions are sprinting through the halls, panicked and yelling over each other, their coordinated outfits undone, glitter smeared across their faces like war paint. One of them is crying into a smoke bomb.

Riddle doesn’t yell at them.

He should.

But something in him twists. Something cold.

And then he sees you.

You’re slumped against a sofa—barely upright, pale, one hand clutched to your stomach where blood is steadily soaking through your otherwise very stylish outfit. Your cape is torn. Your usual cocky smirk is weak and trembling at the corners. And when you see him, your eyes light up.

“Hey, hero,” you mumble, giving a little wave before flinching. “I'm a little late for our date, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t think. He crosses the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you and pulling open his bag with shaking hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he snaps, already pressing gauze to your side. “Why in the world didn’t your minions call for help?! Why aren’t you in a hospital?! Why are you always like this?!”

“You came,” you whisper, a little loopy. “Awww. I must’ve made an impression.”

He presses harder than necessary.

“Who did this?” His voice drops an octave—low and dangerous in a way that makes half the room go silent.

You tilt your head lazily. “New hero. Caught me off guard. It’s rude, right? Jumping into someone else's love story…”

His hands pause.

Then tremble.

“You reckless imbecile!” he shouts. “You’re—! You’re a top-tier villain! A menace! A disaster with a good tailor! How could you let some random newbie hurt you?!”

You blink slowly. “...Awwww. You think I’m a good villain?”

“I think you’re my villain!” he snaps, ears red, not even noticing what he’s said until your smile returns in full, dazed brilliance. “I mean—! To vanquish! To arrest! You are mine to defeat, not to be taken down by some amateur with no style and worse morals!”

“Jealousy looks good on you.”

He presses the last of the bandages down with a huff and shoves his supplies back into his bag with unnecessary force. Then he stands. Straightens his coat. Brushes glitter off his sleeve in a futile display of dignity.

“I’ll… return for your proper arrest when you’re not on death’s doorstep,” he mutters, turning away, “and when your entire organization isn’t crying into each other’s capes.”

One of your minions sniffles louder.

You reach out and grab his hand weakly.

“I’ll be good next time,” you say, tone teasing despite the wince. “But don’t wait too long, or someone else might steal me away again.”

He yanks his hand back like it burned him. “Tch. As if.”

And then he leaves, stomping out of your lair with his face red and his heart doing something very not hero-like.

Later that night, he has to explain to Trey and Cater why he’s muttering “mine to arrest” into his tea while clutching a stress ball.

You’re halfway through dramatically pretending to die of soup poisoning just to get Riddle to feed you by hand—when you notice he hasn’t even touched his own bowl.

He’s just watching you.

Not in the normal “I’m here to arrest you when you’re no longer half-stitched up” way, but in the “if I blink, you might vanish and I will spiral emotionally” way.

His spoon sits untouched, his posture rigid, and his pretty grey eyes flicker with something that looks like... worry. The kind of worry that makes your stomach do strange fluttery things unrelated to the stab wound.

“I’m not going to drop dead in front of you, hero,” you say lightly, swiping the last bit of soup from your bowl. “Unless you like the drama. You do keep showing up when I’m bleeding—are you into that?”

He ignores your comment. Tries to.

“I just need to make sure you’ll be fine,” he says stiffly. “So that I can arrest you properly. That’s the only reason I’m here. This is not... a social visit.”

“Of course not.” You grin, tilting your head. “And the soup?”

“For strength.”

“And the way you’re looking at me like I’ll evaporate?”

“For strategy.”

You reach out and take his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he leans in.

And so do you.

And then you kiss him.

It’s soft at first. Shockingly tender. And then—desperation. Like he’s been holding back this whole time. Like he’s trying to memorize the taste of rebellion and regret. Your hand cups his jaw, and his own fists relax against your lap, and you’re about to pull him in for round two—

And then: knock knock.

Riddle practically falls off your couch.

You, still bleeding slightly but never off-brand, stand and open the door like you’ve just invited the Girl Scouts over.

But no. It’s not Girl Scouts.

It’s the Goddess.

She’s glowing, slightly levitating, and wearing the expression of someone who has just crushed a celestial bet and can’t wait to gloat about it for the next few centuries. You can feel the divine smugness radiating off her in waves. Like sunshine. But condescending.

“Hi sweetie,” she says, casually leaning against your doorframe like she owns the multiverse. Which, in fairness, she kind of does. “Riddle. Looking radiant, darling.”

Riddle straightens like a soldier under inspection. “G-Goddess—I—I can explain—!”

“Oh no no, don’t you dare ruin this for me.” She waves her hand. “You’re adorable. That rooftop scene? The rose in the hair? Chef’s kiss.”

Riddle looks like he’s about to either combust or faint.

You lean against the doorframe next to her. “So... how many gods owe you favors now?”

She grins with teeth. “Twelve. And a demi-god promised to name their firstborn after me. Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to win a Hero/Villain Rom-Com Wager?”

Riddle opens his mouth, probably to say something about sacred duties and moral responsibilities, but she steamrolls right over it.

“Oh, and by the way, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Follow your heart, chase your destiny, snuggle your villain, whatever. The others bet you'd smite them in the name of justice. Fools.” She turns to you and wiggles her fingers. “You’re my favorite now. Don't tell the others. Or do. Stir the pot.”

Then, with the daintiest wave imaginable, she disappears in a puff of divine light.

Riddle just... stands there.

Staring.

Processing.

Reevaluating his life’s entire moral framework in real time.

You close the door gently and turn back to him.

“So,” you say cheerfully, plopping back on the couch like this is your usual weekday, “I’m thinking spring wedding. Maybe late summer, depending on your heroic arrest schedule. Also—do you mind if our honeymoon includes some light tax fraud?”

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. “W-what—no—this isn’t—this is not how any of this is supposed to go—!”

“But the soup was good, right?” You lean closer. “And the kiss?”

“I—I—yes!” he snaps, blushing furiously. “But that’s not the point! I was supposed to bring you to justice, not fall victim to your—your criminal charisma!”

You boop his nose.

He freezes.

“I don’t see why you can’t do both,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Be my spouse and my nemesis. I believe in multitasking.”

“I’m going to lose my knighthood.”

“You’re going to gain a very fashionable set of matching his-and-theirs balaclavas,” you purr, tucking yourself under his arm. “So when do we start planning the cake? Is koi-flavored too on-the-nose?”

Riddle sinks down beside you with the exhausted sigh of a man who knows he's doomed—and is weirdly fine with it.

“I regret everything,” he mumbles.

You kiss his cheek.

“You regret nothing.”

And he really doesn’t.

This is just your life now.

Sometimes you commit crimes.

Sometimes Riddle comes to stop you.

It’s a rhythm, really. A delightful little dance. He shows up, flinging spells and citing laws with the righteous fury of someone who still hasn’t fully accepted that his archnemesis steals art mostly for aesthetic purposes.

You flirt. He gets flustered. You escape. He grumbles. You leave a note on his office windowsill with a pressed flower and a coupon for couple’s therapy “just in case.

And then you both go home.

Because home is shared now. With one (1) moral hero, one (1) incurable criminal, and an alarming number of cat-shaped throw pillows neither of you remembers buying.

Tonight, you’re in the kitchen, valiantly attempting to bake a cake. The counter looks like a flour-based war crime. The batter has suspiciously purple streaks. Riddle stands in the doorway watching you, eyebrows slowly crawling up his forehead as you hum tunelessly and pour the batter into a pan shaped like a skull.

"Is that... supposed to be edible?"

You turn around with the expression of someone who absolutely believes they’re on The Great Baking Showdown of Doom. “It's lavender and love flavored! For you.”

He blinks. "I’m... honored. Deeply concerned. But honored."

And he is concerned. He’s concerned a lot. He still doesn’t understand half of what happens in his own life now. Like why the city keeps thanking him for “finally putting a leash on that criminal menace,” even though he's very clearly the one being led around by the hand.

Or how his arrest quota has somehow increased since dating you. Or why the Goddess keeps sending him anniversary cards. (“Keep being cute, my power couple! XOXO—The Divine Matchmaker.”)

But then he looks at you.

Standing there in an apron that says “Kiss the Villain,” with flour in your hair and cake batter on your cheek and the biggest, most ridiculous grin on your face. Like you just won a gold medal in chaos.

And he realizes—he doesn’t even care anymore.

He’s in love. Horribly, irrevocably in love.

With you.

And that makes all the sense in the world.

“Fine,” he sighs, walking in to wipe a smudge of frosting off your nose. “But if this cake kills me, I’m haunting you.”

“Promise?” you ask, eyes twinkling.

He kisses your cheek. “Unfortunately.”

And honestly?

It’s perfect.

Masterlist

[loriache]

@grammarpedant You're exactly exactly right -- those different meanings of "to judge" were exactly what I was getting at in the tags!! Kabru isn't what we would commonly consider to be "judgemental" at all because he's got basically no attachment to his initial judgements or preconceptions; he's constantly taking in a huge amount of data about the people around him, their thoughts, behaviours, interactions and desires, and compositing them into this elaborate interwoven net.

You're right about his manipulations too. No-one who isn't Laios* is really fooled by him long-term; even Toshiro, who is also not exactly the most socially adept either, is questioning his motives like a day into knowing him! He doesn't manage to mask 100 percent successfully. Mithrun is like "you're clearly up to something, but I'll give you some rope and see what you do."

People do like him very much, and they often do what he wants, but it's not because he has them fooled, it's that he does things like "figure out how much personal space to give them" and "ask about themselves and listen with genuine interest". When he talks Toshiro down about Falin's resurrection, he immediately realised he was played, but isn't bothered by it because Kabru was just using a roundabout way to make a completely reasonable point. Even with mirroring Laios' interest in monsters, he hides his distress and pretends to be more interested than he is, but he is interested - he wants to understand Laios and understand how somebody could genuinely love monsters.

The way that, like Iztarshi says, this comes off as sinister just because he's doing consciously what other people do without thinking, that also makes me think of the way his altruism comes across as more "morally grey" than it really is. His consideration for others and his goal (to understand and end the threat of dungeons) don't have the same "warming" effect on his character as they would if he was pursuing them less pragmatically, and with less overthinking and doubting his own and others' methods. His decision to trust Laios would make him seem softer and more likeable if he did it without thinking, without doubting him so much. But that isn't how he operates, which I think is really realistic, and links to his autism too. He can't turn off his "analysis brain" and just go by instinct, you know? I kind of relate to that.

"I've been waiting for ages for somebody to unmask them."

This moment tends to elicit negative reactions in a first read through, and I've got some opinions about why where Kabru is coming from here actually makes a lot of logical sense. So I thought I'd elaborate on that.

I think people hear this and go, "He thinks they must be hiding something because they gave money to someone? What a cynic." Or "he dislikes them because they did charity?? What's wrong with this guy!". And obviously, a lot, a lot is wrong with him. But I think this makes more sense than it seems at first glance! What people evaluating this judgement miss is why Kabru is paying attention to Laios and co to begin with.

Kabru knows of the Touden siblings because (he's a little bit of a stalker-) he is keeping an eye on all the relevant parties in events developing on the island, in order to be able to guide them to his preferred outcome. This includes adventurers because they are the ones actually exploring the dungeon! He's well aware that something as minor as internal tensions between party members could be key to the historical events that are developing. (He would love the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.)

His desired outcome is that whatever the rewards are of breaking the dungeon's curse, whether that's kingship or the ancient elven secrets of dungeons, are claimed by:

A) a short lived person

B) Someone who will be a good, effective leader and/or use those secrets and the power they carry wisely, with foresight, and to establish a political bloc for short lived people.

The person he can best trust to do this is, of course, himself. But due to his PTSD regarding dungeons and monsters, he's not able to develop the necessary skills to conquer the dungeon. Once he realises this, he starts looking for someone else who he can support to that end.

But most of the adventurers don't have any intentions of conquering the dungeon, don't have the skills, or are unsuitable in other ways. In fact, it seems like some potentially suitable people are the Toudens. There are a lot of good rumours about them going around - they actually seem to have a very positive reputation! That's what Kabru means when he says "unmask".

So when Kabru is observing something like them giving money to an old comrade from their gold-peeling days, he doesn't consider it a problem because "they're giving money to this person who doesn't actually need it" or because they must have some dark secret if they act superficially nice. I think he actually understands this situation and what it implies about Laios (in particular) perfectly well.

Laios and Falin gave money to an old comrade who got injured and couldn't work. That person then healed up but kept taking their money. Then he used the money to start smuggling illicit goods to the island.

The key is that for Kabru, the problem here is the same as with the corpse retrievers - people using the dungeon's resources to fuel dangerous, selfish, or violent pursuits cause problems for the island, attract more criminals and people with motives other than breaking the curse, and increase the chances of the whole situation ending in tragedy.

Kabru is willing to work with the Shadow Lord of the island if it gets him to his goal - he isn't scrupulous - but the criminal element of the island increasing is something he sees as a major issue.

Also, when you're evaluating someone as a candidate for power, riches, secrets, potentially kingship - then being curious about how the money you give to people is going to be used is kind of a relevant trait!

Interpersonally, Kabru's actually very easygoing - I mean, Mickbell isn't exactly an upstanding guy, is he! But Kabru likes him and they get along well. These traits wouldn't be a problem at all in a friend, or a comrade, or someone Kabru was confident he could use. But he can't get a handle on Laios, and Laios is someone who has the potential to be a major player!

On Laios' end, this is the same as with the marriage seeker who joined their party. She kept asking for things and he gave them to her, because he tries to be nice to others. He even gives her money! It's the exact same thing.

That's fine, but it became a problem because he basically wasn't interested in her motives, didn't notice she was trying to manipulate him, and it also didn't occur to him that the other party members would notice or be affected. We can assume the situation with the gold peeler is the same. When Kabru says that "It's not that they're bad people, they just aren't interested in humans," he isn't wrong.

The extent to which this is true of Laios is linked to his autism imo, (because it isn't just disinterest - he genuinely isn't able to notice nonverbal cues that people are lying to him or have ulterior motives) but to a greater or lesser extent I think it's a very common trait. Most people aren't actually that interested in other people who aren't close to them. Kabru is the weird one here. It isn't an issue except as a leader - which is why we see an immediate comparison to the Island's Lord, because that's how Kabru is evaluating them.

And disinterest in/lack of ability with people to the extent Laios exhibits it, it does, actually, make him a worse leader... it's just that as we see in the story, people can help him out. The rest of the party tell him the marriage seeker is taking advantage of him so he tells her he can't give her special treatment anymore. They're pissed and it's a crisis point - he couldn't have recovered their trust without Marcille and Falin - but that's exactly the point. With Marcille and Falin, he was able to recover their trust.

And he has other good traits that make up for it, such as his intelligence, strategic knowledge, open-mindedness and sense of fairplay.

Kabru doesn't disqualify Laios as a candidate based on what he sees about him from afar, though - he still tries very hard to get close to him, obviously hoping that if he manages he can steer Laios to defeat the dungeon and make up for his lack of people-skills in the aftermath. (Which... he does eventually achieve that goal!) He completely fails until the events of the story, so... definitely I think "They just aren't interested in humans" could also partially be a stung reaction to Laios' complete disinterest in him.

Anyway, that's my read on what exactly Kabru's "issue" with Laios is. Obviously, once he does find out what Laios' true nature is like - about his love for monsters - he develops an entirely new set of fears about Laios' priorities. But since Laios kept that a secret until the start of the story, he has no idea of that yet.

Given all that, I think it's interesting that he says that he doesn't think that the Toudens are suitable to defeat the dungeon, and that he's hoping they'll turn out to be the thieves. As some of his few potential candidates, people who he thinks may play a big role in the island's future, you'd think he'd hope they would be good people!

I suppose it's better, in his eyes, because it means that he's involved in something "interesting". They haven't just had their stuff stolen by regular criminals (boring, puts them further away from his goal) - they've been caught up in the beginning stages of "a historic event". The desperate and dwindling group forgetting morals in their quest to retrieve their lost comrade probably appeals to his sense of melodrama. Because he also just... loves drama.

Despite it being "uglier than anything he was expecting", he still pursues Laios as the person he wants to conquer the dungeon pretty much as soon as it becomes clear that he won't be able to do it himself and they are out of time. That's because... well, to be fair, there aren't any other options. And he fits standard A: he's short-lived!

and Kabru still hopes he can fit standard B, too, and be persuaded to use the power he wins for good. No matter how many nightmares he has about Laios, or whether he thinks about killing him. He doubts him, but ultimately he puts his faith in him and seems happy after the manga's ending that he made the right decision.

[hellenhighwater]

How do you keep cats while having a home full of such fanciful, vintage, and delicate objects? These seem like interests that don’t mix well.

A really big chunk of it is training. When the kittens were little, I started them in one room where there was really nothing they could damage, and then let them into new rooms one at a time under close supervision. You can see here Mayhem (then Jane) and her littermates going into the kitchen, with stuff blocking them from going into other areas.

While in the new spaces, I would carefully monitor and immediately correct if they were getting into something they weren't supposed to. The trick is to not put them in a position where they can break a rule and not get caught right away, and to give positive reinforcement when they interact with 'problem items' in a way that they're allowed to. Eventually the novelty of the space wears off and they learn what they are and aren't allowed to do, and generally they tend to stick to that. Obviously, you've already got your cat used to your house, so instead you could try moving a plant down into cat range, and monitoring them as they explore, and then putting the plant back out of reach when you're not going to be supervising any more, and then repeat until the cat doesn't seem interested in the plant any more.

A good chunk of the behavioral issues have with cats come from their cats being understiumlated and wanting stuff to do or attention. I'm by no means an expert, but when my cats were wanting to bite my plants all the time, I just got them wheatgrass to eat and play with and encouraged them to do that. If they're causing problems and you immediately give them lots of attention, even if it's negative attention, then they're going to learn to do that when they want your focus.

So just...give them attention when they seem to want it. And sometimes the problems are unintentional--cats aren't always as graceful as one might hope, and at a certain point it's easier to just clear a path where they want to go.