#i’m aware this doesn’t make sense to most but it’s a reference to one of my fics

[multifandomforthemostpart]

proof for those of y’all coming from ao3

[euthymiya]

two sides of the same coin — ft. kamisato ayato

your husband is aware of your body like it’s his duty. doting as a husband should be, he takes matters into his own hands to offer you a solution that more than satisfies the both of you at the same time

contains: 2k words of pure shame ; fem reader ; periods and period sex ; cunnilingus ; fingering ; freak ayato like the usual ; reader and ayato are married (they refer to each other as husband and wife affectionately) ; ayato cums untouched

He knows. Like some sort of twisted sixth sense, Ayato always knows your body better than anything else.

He enters your chambers at half past five—it’s usually the time he’s most busy, the time when most of his important meetings run through. But he’s here, walking up to you as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Ayato?” You raise a questioning brow, “What are you doing here when—”

“I have cleared my schedule,” he cuts you off, eyeing you with a certain hunger you can recognize all too well. He’s quick to make his way over to you, body hovering over yours on the bed as he presses his nose to your cheek and inhales your scent.

“Cleared your schedule…” you repeat, eyeing him for a split second before you gasp, shivering as his lips nip at your jaw.

“Yes, my darling wife,” he chuckles, “it took a great deal of effort to afford myself this time. Do you not wish to be in my presence?”

“Oh, be quiet, will you?” You huff, fingers gripping at the loose hairs surrounding his face, brushing it behind his ear as he shivers at the soft touch. 

It doesn’t take long after that—his lips find yours hungrily. 

Ayato is impatient when he wants something. He’s never been accustomed to waiting for much, the spoiled thing. Whether it’s as the young master or as the head of the Kamisato clan, he has never had to ask for something twice. You are no exception. You give him what he desires just as quickly, if not quicker.  

Today is a bit different, though. Today, you pull away, stopping his hands gently as they play with the hem of your dress, stilling him from exposing your thighs. 

“Troubled, my dear?” He raises a brow, pulling away from your lips with glossed, swollen ones of his own. “I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to overthink. I have handled matters for the evening to spend my moments with you.”

“It’s not that,” you hesitate for a moment, faltering when his hand comes to cup your cheek, a delicate thumb tracing your lips. “I…I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why’s that?” He tilts his head, making you deflate with a pout. 

“Use your brain, you treacherous man,” you huff, slapping his shoulder lightly as he gives you a teasing grin. “What happens during this time of month—I know you know. You’ve spent a good deal of time handling my moods enough to be aware.”

“Ah, I see,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling as he leans down to nip below your ear. “I’m already aware of your…predicament. It’s precisely why I’ve come to you.”

“Ayato—”

“You know, I’ve come to learn the most interesting fact the other day. Did you know that achieving orgasm helps significantly with alleviating menstrual cramps? Such fascinating wonders of the body,” he hums. His eyes narrow as he looks at you, something far hungrier than you think you’ve ever seen. “Perhaps we should test for ourselves the validity of such theories.”

“Dear heavens. Your desires have become more and more improper as the days pass, Ayato,” you scold, flustered under his heated gaze, “Would it kill you to have a sense of propriety?” 

“Oh, my darling beloved,” he grins, so wholly amused it makes you almost feel like his prey, “You misunderstand me. I’m merely a devoted husband, one who aims to keep my beautiful lady pleased. Surely, it is not a crime?”

“But—”

“Now, now,” he coos, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your cheek before he slowly makes his way between your legs, kissing at your plush thighs as he moves your skirt higher, higher, higher. Until you’re stuttering over your breaths as he presses a kiss just below your belly button. “No need to worry. I assure you, I will handle the mess. Think of it as my way of expressing my gratitude for how patiently you always wait for me, my love.”

Ayato is a man of deep, untamed desires. You’ve learned through your years of marriage. He’s taken you in hushed corners of the estate, places where anyone can hear you, walk past you, catch you red handed for your obscenity. Perhaps they have—you don’t think it outlandish for someone to unintentionally catch a glimpse of your fucked out face, hear his filthy grunts, witness the roll of his hips as his swollen cock splits you in two outside of your chambers where he should be having you. 

The people of the estate are kind enough to afford you ignorance to their knowledge if they do happen to have been unfortunate passerbyers. It’s to your relief, and you suspect it’s to Ayato’s great disappointment. 

Such a shamelessly filthy man, you think. 

You don’t have time to really dwell on your husband's improper desires, however. Not when he’s so quick to disrobe your lower half and leave your pussy bare. 

He hums, pressing a kiss to your clit, earning a shiver from you as you whimper. 

“Ayato, this is filthy,” you whine, “You’re being utterly obscene.”

“Do you really wish for me to stop?” He challenges, “I shall end this the moment you ask—go on, my precious wife. Ask me to stop and I will.”

You can’t. It’s the shameful part of this whole ordeal—your cunt is aching for him, for his tongue, his fingers, his touch. Anything. There is no stopping Ayato, but not because he is good at taking what he wants. It’s because you are terrible at denying him. Deep down, just as much as he wishes to have you, you wish to give him yourself. 

It’s a horrid realization you try to deny. But it’s a simple truth. You and Ayato are a match perhaps even Celestia themselves would be shocked by—the pure lewdness of your natures are perfectly in sync. His more bold, and yours more hidden, of course. But they are one and the same at their core. 

Ayato aches for you, and you ache to give yourself up. It’s a simple arrangement of things. 

“You are a wicked man,” you huff, hand burying into his locks as you twist your fingers around the strands and pull harshly. Like a punishment. He groans, a lewd sound that makes your walls quiver around nothing—of course, he relishes in the slight sting at his scalp from your actions. “Get on with it then,” you say without meeting his smug, humored little eyes. 

“As you wish, my love,” he says smoothly. His lips are curled in a predatory smile, eyeing you with the slyness of a fox who’s cornered a small, helpless rabbit. But even with his teeth bared, Ayato is gentle. 

He gives kitten licks to your clit, rolling his tongue teasingly over the sensitive nub as you shake and give him a soft gasp. And because you are just as good at getting what you want from the man, you look down at him with the softest, pleading eyes as you beg, “Ayato, my darling. Do spare you poor wife the teasing will you? Don’t you love me so?”

He lets out a shaky exhale at that, breath hitching as he closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath. “I believe you are just as wicked as me, my dear,” he says hoarsely. 

And then his lips are attached to your clit, sucking around the nerves as you whine, head thrown back against the pillows, hips bucking into his mouth as he moves down to lick a stripe at your folds. You should be ashamed of your dripping cunt—of the filth mingled in with the slick. But Ayato has no qualms. He’s exceedingly happy, in fact, groaning in some sick pleasure of his own as he tastes you on his tongue, the vibrations leaving you sensitive and quaking. 

“Oh, Ayato,” you moan, a high pitched little sound that makes his cock twitch in his pants. He pants into your pussy, hot breath fanning over your entrance as he rubs his achingly hard cock against the mattress, right through his pants. “Ayato, please—I c-can’t…”

A finger prods at your folds, sinking in slowly. You mewl at the intrusion, arching your back as he slips in another and gives a shallow thrust of his wrist. His tongue flicks back and forth against your clit, eyes hooded as they stare up at your broken expression. 

“Fuck,” you curse. Such obscenities are only uttered by you when Ayato has his way with you—when he strips you bare of your formalities and turns you weak against your own etiquette. “It…it feels so good, Ayato. M-more—please.” 

He chuckles, planting a wet kiss, then another, then one more against your clit before he thrusts his fingers into you again, brushing against the spongy, delicate spot in the back of your walls that has you seeing stars. You sob, tugging at his hair and pulling him closer to your cunt, grinding your clit against his mouth as he hums at the action. 

“I’m close,” you whimper, “S-so—oh, gods.”

You break. Completely shatter. Never have your walls fluttered quite like this, spasming around his fingers in the most overpowering orgasm you think you might have had. His tongue swirls along your clit, long and slender digits brushing along your walls and dragging against every sensitive ridge. He hits that spot you’re most weak to so perfectly, precise and almost cruel as he brushes his fingertips against it without mercy. 

The pleasure is so much that it’s almost too overwhelming. It makes you feel out of body, makes you shake under his touch as you let broken cries fall past your lips. 

Ayato is not faring any better. You’re everywhere. Your taste lingers on his tongue, your heat envelops his every breath, your precious sounds invade his ears. Even your thighs that squeeze around his face suffocate him with you. It’s almost enough on its own to send him over the edge himself—and when he rolls his hips against the bed, he can’t help but choke on his own groans, spilling into his pants with heavy twitches of his throbbing cock. Hot ropes of his seed soil his pants, but he couldn’t possibly care—not when you’re whining above him and tugging his hair to pull him away. 

“P-please,” you pant breathlessly, “please it’s too much.”

Sensitive, he notes. You’re more sensitive during this time than the usual others. He’ll make sure to have fun with that later—for now, he pulls away, eyes hazy and blissed as he looks up at you with such infatuated pupils. 

“You are unearthly beautiful, my love,” he whispers. “Have I ever mentioned that?”

“Plenty,” you say exasperatedly, plopping an arm over your face as you hide the flustered expression on your face. 

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your thigh, grinning as a dull, red stain is left in the wake of his lips. So filthy—but he enjoys it so deeply. 

“Then I must remind you again. You are exceedingly breathtaking—I could not hope to deserve such a marvelous sight in any lifetime.”

“Enough flattery, you evil husband.”

“Evil?” He gasps, playfully offended. “I’ve taken such great care to help you in your moments of pain. Do tell me, were my findings correct? Has it helped your pains to come undone on my tongue?”

Ayato likes taking you. You like giving yourself up. Two filthy sides of the same coin. 

You hum thoughtfully, wiggling your hips before your hand tugs him by the hair to bump his nose against your clit. “I wasn’t paying attention. Try one more time so I can be certain.”

“Ah, of course. As you wish, my love,” he breathes excitedly. 

I uh….I don’t really wanna talk about it🚶‍♀️

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + nine

authors note: i know i've said this before, but this one might be my favorite. there are a few subtle hints spread throughout as well.....

i also listened to the song i named the story after while writing most of this chapter, so maybe recommended listening?

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, angst, language, inebriation, character being triggered, references to past csa, and suggestive themes

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 12k (i can't be stopped, clearly)

And I see a girl Who is learning to trust

---Leann Rimes

In many ways, Roman is a simple man. The kind that believes obvious gestures, actions, or even lack of inaction should speak for itself. That there are some things that are just so clear as day, it doesn’t make sense for him to have to explain himself. 

For him to have to repeat himself. 

Well, that’s gone out the window as of recent months, because he’s constantly found himself having to do just that. And his day is starting off no different with a surprising and unwanted guest showing up at his office demanding to speak to him.

Bayley stands across his desk with her arms crossed and an almost glare on her face. “I’ve been texting you.”

The fact that she even has his number is an issue in and of itself, but he’ll tackle that another day. “I’m aware.”

The avoiding of said texts is that obvious thing that she seemingly doesn’t understand the why behind. 

Bayley nods, very visibly keeping in a comment she’s at least smart enough to not make to the head of the Bloodline. Friend of his wife, or not. “Well, I would like to talk to you.”

Roman rolls his eyes, moving up from his desk to his filing cabinet to swap out expense reports he was trying to review before her rude, unwanted interruption. “I bet you would.”

“Seriously?” Ignoring her once again is the plan, Roman hoping that’s all it takes so that he doesn’t have to lose his temper before he even has his first meeting of the day. “It’s about Solana.”

And that is what finally catches Roman’s attention. He’s quick to turn around, expression suddenly hardened. “Talk.” She has his full attention. “Now.” 

Bayley takes note of how easily it is to gather Roman’s attention with the simple mention of Solana. It’s surprising to say the least and telling as hell to say the most, but she keeps this little observation to herself. 

“We’re having a Cinco De Mayo celebration at my family’s restaurant tomorrow night.”

“What does that have to do with Solana?”

Roman watches her hesitate for a second. “I want to invite her.”

For a split second, Bayley thinks she may have hit a stroke of luck when Roman doesn’t immediately shoot down her request. He seems to actually be thinking about it. And then he asks the question she knew would be the nail in the coffin. “Will Escobar be there?”

She’d like to just say no, as it’s highly unlikely he will attend, Bayley unsure if her cousin is even in the country. But, lying to the man before her has never turned out well for anyone, so she answers as honestly as she can. “I don’t know. You know he pops up at random times—”

Roman doesn’t even need to hear the rest. “My answer is no.”

She can’t be too surprised. Bayley wisely anticipated getting Roman to budge would be damn near impossible, if not entirely impossible.

“Roman—”

“Why the fuck would I allow her to be anywhere around that son of a bitch?”

To be fair, Roman’s relationship with Santos Escobar is tamer than most. They’re not allies, certainly not friends, and he doesn’t hate the man. It irritates him a bit how Escobar is a stubborn bastard and refuses to pledge loyalty and allegiance to the Bloodline, but that anger is eased by the fact that Escobar gives an even bigger middle finger to the Nightmare Factory.

His loyalty is to himself and the Legado Del Fantasma. That makes him a wildcard and potentially dangerous.

Roman won’t have Solana anywhere where danger could be present.

“You know as well as I do that while both you and my cousin have this weird ass Qué en es más macho thing going on, there’s all but a ceasefire. You've never attacked one of his men the same way he’s never attacked anyone in the Bloodline. That’s not going to change overnight just because your wife is present at a chorcha.”

Roman isn’t too full of himself to admit when someone has made a valid point, but as this involves Solana, the standards are a bit different. He won’t give Bayley that much. “Why should I even take the chance? You want to do something with Solana, take her somewhere else that’s on Bloodline or neutral territory.”

“My family’s restaurant is on neutral territory.” Bayley is happy to have another point of his she can counter. “And contrary to what the average, ignorant American thinks, Cinco De Mayo is an important part of our culture and our heritage, Solana’s heritage. I think she would really enjoy herself, that it would….that it would help her feel close to her mom.”

Roman is excellent in the way he remains absolutely unreadable even at Bayley’s point that has him seriously reconsidering his prior answer.

He has no doubt that would help her feel connected with her mom, being around reminders and in a space that’s so representative of half of who she is, who her mother was. He can’t see her not enjoying herself, which is something that doesn’t seem to happen a lot in her life thus far.

Just as he continues to mull over the options, Bayley adds on another defense. “I get where you’re coming from with the safety angle, but I’ll be there and Naomi will be there. Between the two of us, no one will touch her.”

Roman easily reads between the lines and identifies her unspoken request. “You don’t want Solo there.”

On one hand, he can understand it. Bayley not wanting his Enforcer there. Solo’s presence could be seen as him potentially scoping versus the real reason of serving as Solana’s personal guard.

Bayley doesn’t seem to be backing down, reminding with all the confidence in the world of her capabilities. “Like I said, Naomi and I got this.”

Roman will give her that. Bayley and Naomi could fight on his team any day. They’re just as brutal as the men, if not more when pushed. He knows they’d be able to keep Solana safe if need be. It’s that realization as well as the concern of depriving her of something that could make her happy that brings him to a revised answer.

“Fine, she can go.” Roman is quick to add on as an ominous warning, borderline threat, “but if anything fucking happens to her while she’s with you—”

“It won’t,” Bayley vows. “She’s our friend, and she’s family to Naomi. We look out for each other.”

Roman believes that. Believes that Bayley has seemingly pledged a loyalty to Solana that matches that of Naomi, and while he’d never fucking tell her this, he’s grateful she has someone like Bayley to talk to.

At his fill of socialization with people he doesn’t like, Roman is quick with the dismissal. “If you don’t have anything else to discuss with me about Solana, you can get the hell out of my office.”

Bayley is actually surprised she made it this long without being kicked out, so it’s under her breath she mutters, “a true gentleman.” She’s halfway to his door when manners get the best of her. “Hey, Roman.”

He’s back at his desk, gaze as irritated as when she first stepped in. “What?”

With a nod of respect and appreciation, she simply says, “thank you.” Whatever his response, or lack thereof, is after that is unknown because Bayley is out the door and on her way to invite Solana to what is sure to be a night of fun.

________

“Man, I tell you every dish Solana makes seems to get better and better.” Jimmy is rubbing his stomach as he places the now cleaned plate on the coffee table. “Where she been at all our lives?”

Once upon a time, Roman had a nice, quiet house that was his and his alone. Now though, it’s shared with a wife who really isn’t an issue, two obnoxious cousins who need to start paying rent at this point, and a dog who’s currently at the sliding door leading to the backyard having a one-sided bark off with a squirrel.

“Why are ya’ll always fucking over here?” Roman’s question is said with all the irritation manifesting in his muscular body. At the same time, he stands up from the sofa to retrieve the puppy he doesn’t feel like yelling at to shut up. 

She might piss herself in fear or something.

“Come on,” he grunts, leaning over and taking up Dulce who is almost instantly quiet. “Making all that damn noise for nothing.”

Roman places Dulce in her bed in the living room and returns to his previous seat on the sofa when she hops up and walks her ass right over to lean up on the sofa to stare at him with her unspoken request.

Jimmy is the first to notice this. “I think lil Nacho Libre likes you, Uce.”

Jey chimes in between bites of whatever Solana’s latest dish is that she’s made for them. “She know English yet or Soso still got her only speaking Spanish?”

“Man, the dog can’t speak.”

“You know what I mean, motherfucker. Damn.”

Roman ignores the two imbeciles currently freeloading in his house and relents to just letting Dulce on the sofa. He’s not sure why she’s downstairs with them instead off on the second level where the girls are getting ready, but she’s already here now, so no sense in transporting her. 

Dulce seems satisfied with her placement right next to him. 

“I still can’t believe we weren’t invited.”

“I can get why they didn’t invite us, but they could have at least given Nicki an invite.”

Jimmy is quick with the obvious answer. “You know Nicki don’t fuck with Naomi like that, or Bayley, and definitely not Soso.”

“Cause she’s fucking psychotic.” Roman has zero issues with his cousin’s wife having little to no interest in getting to know Solana. It’s for the better. As he said, the bitch is psychotic.

“Once again, Big Dog, you ain’t gon keep disrespecting my wife like that.”

Roman is as unfazed by Jey’s threat as Dulce is. 

“I gotta agree with Uce on that one. Nicki ass crazy as hell. One minute she love you, the next minute she pulling a Left Eye and burning your shit.” That emits a chuckle from him. His cousin's sneaker collection being burned in the backyard that one year was pretty funny. 

“Look, that was during a rough patch. That’s all.”

“Damn bruh, ya’ll must got a whole goddamn quilt then, cause your relationship been nothing but rough patches since we was in high school.”

“So what, you and Naomi never have no issues, huh?” Jey lives up to his hotheaded reputation, jumping into defensive mode. “Ya’ll just got the perfect marriage, right?”

“Of course we got issues, man, but never to the point where she turned into a lil arsonist!”

Completely disinterested in hearing dumb and dumber argue, Roman grabs his phone and shoots out a text.

Roman: You almost ready?

Solana’s reply comes in less than five minutes later.

Solana: Just about…..is Dulce by you?

Roman: Yeah. Sleeping….as always.

Solana: Lol….sorry about that, I meant to grab her before we got started.

Roman: It’s fine.

Roman: I need to talk to you before you leave.

He’s not surprised by the longer time it takes for her to reply. He can imagine she’s reading too much into his text.

Solana: Okay....I can come now?

Solana: I just have to put my shoes on….

Roman: I’ll come to you.

Roman knows better than to ask the bumbling idiots to watch Dulce. Their attention span when they get this heated is almost non-existent, so he opts to just take her upstairs with him, figuring he can deposit her in her bed in Solana’s room and that’ll be it for the night. 

One down.

Two more to get rid of.

Roman is standing outside of Solana’s door ready to knock when it’s ripped open, and he’s met with an instantly smiling Naomi. 

She’s smiling at the damn dog, of course.

“There you are, Dulce.” Roman has no issue whatsoever with letting her take the puppy, talking to it in that weird ass baby voice everyone seems to use around Dulce. He doesn’t get it, but it’s not something he desires to try to get anyway. Naomi calls out over her shoulder, “I’m gonna take her out to pee.”

Bayley shouts from inside the room, “I’ll come with you.”

Roman also has zero issues with that as well. He wants to be alone with Solana before she heads out.

Naomi is heading to the steps when Bayley walks past him, throwing out a rushed, “tell her she looks nice.”

That’s a given, but he gives her a nod, easily stepping in and closing the door behind him. He looks around the room, eyes settling on the connected bathroom where the door is suddenly swung open.

“Guys, are you sure I should wear—” Solana stops when she sees that Bayley and Naomi are no longer present, just him. “Oh, sorry, I thought—never mind.”

Roman would call her out on her apologies, both in the text and just now, but his attention is on something entirely different. 

Solana is fucking stunning.

Her dress is orange, thin sleeved and hugs her in a way that makes his jaw clench and dick stiffen. It’s more low cut in the front than he knows she’s probably comfortable with, but if anything, it accentuates just how fucking nice her chest is. There’s a slight split on the side of said dress that shows off her thighs, thick and soft to the touch, he’d imagine. She also has her hair down, something he hasn’t seen in some time, makeup that covers the scar, and lips painted in a teasing red. 

Roman has to catch himself because for a brief second, he’s tempted to completely change his mind. She looks too good to leave the house, especially without him present because there’s not a single doubt in his mind that she’ll turn heads.

She always does. 

Finally, he’s able to get words to leave his mouth that aren’t as filthy as the thoughts he’s trying to keep locked in the back of his mind. “Jesus, you look amazing.”

Roman has noticed an increasingly difficult time in restraining himself around Solana, not in the sense where he’d completely ignore her trauma and try to touch her in a way that would trigger her. Never that. More so in the way he fantasizes about her in that way, dreams of having her in that way, solely because of his growing physical attraction.

Granted, it’s always been there. 

Anyone could see her beauty even in how she would dress down and try to hide her figure, but now that Naomi and Bayley have been encouraging her to be less conservative in her appearance, it’s increased that difficulty exponentially. 

“Thank you.” The makeup on Solana’s cheeks helps to mask her growing blush at Roman’s unabashed compliment. She suddenly looks down, nervously running her hand down the dress. “Is it….is it too much?” 

Not at all. He might not want anyone else looking at her, but Roman could see her dress like this everyday and never grow tired. Still, his approval isn’t needed nor should she ever look for it. “Do you think it is?”

“I always think it’s too much.” It’s an honest answer, one that’s followed up with a caveat he’s surprised but pleased to hear. “But….but, I do like it.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Solana’s smile does something to him. She looks even more beautiful when she’s smiling. “Look….” Roman steps closer to her, trying to ignore her perfume, sweet and soft, a dangerous combination that matches her perfectly. “You need anything tonight, you call or text me, alright?” 

She nods and asks. “What about Solo? Isn’t—isn’t that his job?”

It’s not a conscious in as much it is a unconscious thing when he steps even closer to her, moving his hand to the small of her back. Roman gently tugs her toward him, and to his surprise, she doesn’t tense under his touch. “You’re my wife, Solana. My job is always to protect you. He just guards you when I can’t.”

She looks like she’s trying to memorize this piece of information, storing it for future use as necessary knowledge. “Do—do you want to come with us?” Solana’s hand resting on his chest is as surprising as her question. “I could talk to Bayley.”

Roman has never been a social person. To say he hates most people isn’t necessarily an exaggeration. So, the thought of being around a bunch of people he doesn’t know or like outside of Solana and maybe Bayley—she’s not entirely awful—is not appealing as well. That doesn’t stop him, however, from considering the question at hand.

He’s tempted to ask her if she wants him to come, because Roman can find it in himself to withstand socialization for a couple hours. 

He’ll do it for her. 

But, there’s another part of him, a larger part of him that thinks she needs to do this on her own. That she needs to establish a life and something for herself that doesn’t include him. It’ll be good for her.

“No.” Is his final answer, delivered much gentler than if she was literally anyone else. Roman reaches and plays with a piece of her hair. “Not my scene. Too many people.” Not to mention that his presence would draw too much attention, potentially not good attention. He won’t do that to her. Won’t’ risk ruining her night. “Go. Have a good time.” Again, for good measure, he reminds, “but I mean it. Something is wrong. You call me.”

She nods, and he readies to remind her of his need for words when she answers, “okay.” She then adds on, “I already gave Dulce dinner, so she should mostly sleep, but if you could take her outside every so often….”

“I got it.” He’d much rather sacrifice the couple minutes it takes to bring her outside than risk her shitting or pissing somewhere in his house. Granted, he has to give credit where credit is due. She’s doing great with her potty training. Solana takes great care of her, but that’s not surprising. It’s obvious how much she loves the puppy. “You should be back by midnight, though.”

It’s more a strong suggestion than a demand. Solana is a grown woman. He’s not going to dictate what she does and doesn’t do. She’s had enough of that in her life. He had to give his approval for her to go with Bayley because of safety issues, but this, he wants to leave up to her as long as she understands the later she’s out, the riskier things can get.

After a certain time, only bad or not so great things can happen.

“Of course.” She seems to understand this clearly, but he’d also bet that’s her preference to be back earlier than later. Solana grabs her purse and walks towards the door, having to pass him in the process. Roman catches her, arm around her waist. 

She looks up, curious, and he makes note of how she again doesn’t tense under his touch. That’s happening less and less, it seems. 

He likes that. 

“Text me when you get there.”

She smiles, and Roman suddenly feels a layer of his irritation with his cousins melt away. “I will.” Solana gives him one more glance before walking out the room. 

Roman scratches his beard, a part of him wondering if he made the right decision to let her go alone. Granted, he knows he would have never even initially agreed if he didn’t trust Bayley and Naomi’s abilities. 

They’d defend Solana as ruthlessly and violently as any of his best men.

That helps to chip away some of his second guessing along with the fact that this is something she clearly wants, and he wants to give her that. Give her anything he can that makes her happy. 

She deserves that much.  

Granted, that temporary peace is short-lived with the shout from one of his cousins who are apparently still present. 

“Ayo, Big Dog, did you change the WiFi password again!”

________

Roman needs a new house.

Maybe have Solana let him know what she likes as far as interior designing goes and have something built with an impenetrable wall around it.

That seems to be the only thing that will keep his annoying ass twin cousins from being at his place so much.

Roman just knew that when the ladies left, they’d leave too. But no, that’s too good to be true, because they’ve been gone almost an hour, and their asses are still here.

Even Dulce is sleeping peacefully like the unemployed bum that she is in her bed kept in the living room. 

And as always with them, they’ve been talking damn near the whole hour. One would think Roman straight up ignoring them as he works on his laptop would be a clear sign they need to go the hell home, but that would be too much like right.

He either needs an Excedrin or for his cousins to leave, the latter being preferred most. It’s especially needed when they seem to be watching whatever dumb ass Tok or Reel video over and over again. 

“Wait. I know that song,” Jey announces, face scrunched up as he tries to recall the name. All Roman knows is that it’s in Spanish and repetitive as hell on top of being played on repeat. Annoying as hell too. “That lil freak from Miami I used to mess with used to have this shit playing at her crib all the time.”

Jimmy sucks his teeth, asking. “What happened to her?”

“Man, she moved.” Jey shrugs. “She went to go be a freak in Cali.” 

Finally, Roman snaps. “Would ya’ll use some damn headphones or something?”

Jimmy is the first to speak. “You might want to watch this, Uce.”

“I don’t care.”

Jey slaps Jimmy on the arm, knowing how to get his cousin’s attention. “Yeah, why would he want to see a video of Solana?”

At that, Roman lifts his gaze.

Jimmy smirks knowingly. “Naomi sent some videos. Check your phone.”

That would explain it. Why Roman was out of the loop. It wasn’t from Solana. 

He’d selected a specific text and ringtone notification for her, so he wouldn’t be unnecessarily checking his phone. Hence why he hasn’t checked it since she text that they’d made it to the restaurant.

Opening up the thread that has himself, Naomi, and the twins, he sees the set of messages and videos.

Naomi: Having a blast! Solana especially. I kinda feel like the odd one out cause clearly I don’t know none of these dances 😩 I kinda got the Bachata one, but Merengue and Punta are killing me.

Naomi: Bay and Solana keep trying to teach me, but it’s not going well lmao

Roman watches them all. Every video shows Solana smiling and laughing as she dances with Bayley and Naomi. One of the videos shows her and Bayley trying to instruct Naomi who seems to be failing miserably at learning what he’d guess are traditional Hispanic dances. There’s even a clip of her trying to help a little girl learn whatever dance they’re doing, and she looks just as patient as he’s seen her with the kids she reads to at the library.

She looks fucking gorgeous and happy.

He likes that for her. After everything she’s been through, she deserves all of the happiness.

But, it’s in watching the last video with the song that he kept hearing on loop from his cousin’s phone that he understands why they have it on repeat.

It’s a different kind of dance Bayley and Solana do together along with other women he doesn’t know or give two fucks about. What he gives a fuck about and focuses in entirely on is the way Solana’s hips and ass move, rhythmically, teasingly, drawing out an uncomfortable tightening in his pants.

Fuck. 

Roman does his best to push his erotic thoughts away, still trying to figure out how to balance his sexual desire for Solana with the knowledge of her sexual trauma. It almost feels wrong, to feel and want her in that way when he knows how traumatizing that subject is for her. It doesn’t stop the desire though.

“Damn, I knew it had to move, just not like that.” 

“Like water.”

It’s probably a combination of his pent up usual, general and sexual frustration, but the dangerously slow way Roman lifts his head and equally slow way he sets his murderous gaze on his cousins is all they need to see to know they’ve gone too far.

And they know it.

Jimmy is instantly on damage control. “I meant—Bayley—you know, cause she—she’s also thick.”

Jey coughs awkwardly, hitting Jimmy on the arm. “I think, uh, we should—we should head out.” And Roman is just as slowly rising from the sofa when the twins literally almost trip over their feet and make a mad dash for the door. 

It takes a couple minutes for him to calm down, and he too suddenly finds himself watching said video, casually commenting to Dulce, “about time they fucking left.”

Dulce barks in agreement. 

________

Solana laughs along with Bayley and Naomi as they plop down in their seats after an almost four minute song of full out merengue. All are reaching for their respective drinks as Bayley playfully nudges Solana. 

“Aren’t you glad you came?”

Just then, Juanita Escobar walks over, Bayley’s mother who carries the same dimple and friendly disposition. She places her hand on Solana’s back, reminding in Spanish, “you must come back and see us again!”

Solana smiles, agreeing, “I will.” She then looks over at Bayley. “If that’s okay?”

Bayley waves her off. “Are you kidding? With how soft and girly you are, you can come be my replacement any time” 

Juanita glares at her youngest, muttering to Solana, “maybe you can rub off on my Bay, hmm? Never wanted to do girl stuff. Always wanted to fight with the boys.”

Bayley chugs back some of her drink. “Hell yeah.”

Solana thinks she’d prefer the fighting too. Maybe then she could have defended herself better. Defended her mom even.

Juanita shakes her head, looking at Solana. “Yes, come again, child. You look so much like someone, but I can’t put my hand on it. I’m sure my husband would know. He knows everyone.”

That doesn't necessarily make Solana want to come back, meeting someone, a man specifically. However, if he’s anything like Bayley or Juanita, maybe…maybe it won’t be so bad.

And maybe…maybe she could ask Roman to come with her. That’d make her feel moderately to significantly better. Safer, even.

Juanita is soon pulled away from the table by a customer at the same moment Solana’s phone rings.

Roman: You good?

Solana: Yes. 

She bites down on her lip, contemplating if she should hit send on her message. It feels like a risky thing to say, but it’s also how she feels.

And he’s always telling her to be honest with him.

So she is. 

Solana: Kinda wish you would have came.

Her fingers nervously tap against the table as she wait for his reply that ends up coming almost immediately. 

Roman: That’s your world. Not mine.

Roman: Do you not feel safe?

Solana: No, not that. I guess…...Nvm.

Roman: Tell me.

Again, more hesitation, and she’s not entirely sure where this desire to be honest and almost vulnerable with him comes from, but she does her best not to push it away, almost welcoming the slight discomfort that comes with sending such a risky text.

Solana: Idk, I feel better when you’re around. 

He doesn’t reply after that.

Bayley and Naomi share a knowing expression, having watched Solana quietly for the past few minutes. Naomi ends up being the one to lead the conversation. “So how are things going with Roman?”

The question takes her off guard, Solana trying her best to think just how to handle said question.

Roman no longer confuses her. Not nearly as much as her feelings about him confuse her. 

She wasn’t lying. She does feel better when she’s around him. And it’s not even that she feels unsafe currently. It’s just that he makes her feel safe in general. That’s such a foreign concept. One she hasn’t experienced in such a long time. 

If ever.

Because the truth of the matter is that while Solana felt an indescribable amount of happiness with her mother, there was never really safety. Not with her father’s wrath always waiting around the corner.

So while this is new and unfamiliar, it’s also nice, and she finds herself enjoying his presence. She likes being around him beyond the safety aspect. The way he talks to and with her, like he genuinely enjoys their conversations. When he meets her for work and asks how her day was or finds her in the house to see how her day was, it makes her feel like he actually cares about what she has to say.

Like he actually cares about her.

It’s such a stark contrast of how she sees him interact with others. Always on edge, it seems. 

He’s never made her feel that way though. Maybe at the beginning, but that’s starting to feel less like anything he’s done and more like her own trauma.

Trauma….

That’s also been an interesting experience. For the past few weeks, she’s worked out of The Courage to Heal, reading every page as instructed. And it’s been….an emotional time, to say the least. Definitely tears. A lot of them. Mostly shed in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep or on the bathroom floor as she sits against the tub, reading and writing, Dulce right beside her, offering that unspoken emotional support.

It’s been therapeutic and challenging and awful having to confront her demons but also freeing in a strange sort of way. Especially the poems. The words of other victims who express so eloquently and hauntingly beautifully what she still cannot. 

One of the things she’s really latched onto and tries to remind herself of is that there are different kinds of touch. Because of the assault, her brain has naturally associated any kind of touch as dangerous, which isn’t always true. Especially in the past few months. 

So, there’s been a conscious and active effort to remind herself when Naomi and Bayley hug her or playfully bump her, that it’s safe. That she’s safe.

Especially….especially with Roman.

Especially with how touch between them has seemed to also increase over the past couple weeks. Or maybe less increase in levels and more in frequency. She’ll find his hand on the small of her back, or him taking her hand in his, and sometimes, if they’re close enough, Solana also finds herself reaching for him, for his hand, her hand on his chest.

It’s all so innocent in presentation but something much deeper for her. A level of comfort she’s developed with him that she never had in any prior relationship. 

She likes it.

She likes him.

“Solana.” 

Jumping at being pulled from her inner dialogue, Solana remembers the initial question being posed. 

She clears her throat, finally answering, “umm….good. It’s—it’s good.”

“He’s not being an ass to you, is he?” She asks, almost protectively. “I mean outside of the natural ass that he always is.”

Immediately, Solana is shaking her head, almost feeling a duty to defend him. “No. No. He–he would never. He’s….always nice to me.”

Bayley nearly spits out her drink. “Nice?” She coughs a bit, also shaking her head. “Are we still talking about Roman here? Roman Reigns? That man has never been nice a day in his life.”

Naomi shrugs. “I mean, she has a point. I don’t think I’ve seen him be cruel to her.”

Cruel….Solana also could never find it in her to use that word to describe Roman’s disposition towards her. Maybe others, but never her.

Bayley sits on Naomi’s point, suddenly sharing to the table, “you know what, now that you mention it, when I went to go ask him if I could invite you tonight, he was ready to bite my head off for bothering him. But, the minute I said it had something to do with you, he was all ears. Like an instant switch.”

Solana is also all ears, slightly intrigued. “Really?” Doubt and insecurity creeps in as she weakly suggests, “he was probably like that with Samantha too.”

At that, Bayley and Naomi laugh aloud, Naomi nearly in tears.

“Now that is funny. Solana, Roman don’t give a fuck about that girl. Not outside of sex.”

Solana must look unconvinced, so Bayley points out, “think about it. She’s been around for years, and it’s not her he took down the aisle, so…..” She then adds, “arranged marriage or not.”

The girls bringing up their points takes Solana back to her run-in with Samantha in the bathroom and Nia’s jaw-dropping information. 

An idea appears, and Solana is instantly torn on whether to pursue or pop it. Something tells her it’s a bad idea, that she should take his information to the grave, but there’s also that side that feels like she can trust Bayley and Naomi to keep it between the three of them.

Sitting forward, Solana decides to take a risk. “Can I—can I tell you guys something?” Nervously, she stipulates, “but it has to stay between us.”

They look expectedly worried. “Solana, if it has something to do with your safety—”

“No, no that.” Solana almost feels confident enough to say that she’d go to Roman if that was the case. She trusts that she could talk to him if it was something like that.

“Of course, then.”

“Solana, you can tell us anything.”

And for some reason, she knows this to be true. It’s why she battles against her trepidation to open up. “It’s—ummm. I….I found out that when….when Roman was…..having sex with Samantha, he….” There’s a pause caused by the discomfort of such a discussion, but Solana manages to push through. “He said my name.”

Both Bayley and Naomi wear shocked expressions, the former of the two whispering harshly, “holy shit, what?”

Bayley then asks, “wait, how do you know?”

“Nia told me.” Solana has zero desire to wholly revisit that night in the bathroom with Samantha, so she only provides the important part. “She said that Samantha told her friend, I guess. T something?”

“Tiffy.” Bayley rolls her eyes. “Makes sense. That girl can’t hold water.”

“I don’t get it then. He obviously was imagining it was you and not Samantha, so why go fuck her and not you?”

Naomi’s question makes all the sense, but Solana doesn’t really know how to tackle it. This conversation is already difficult enough for her. 

But her face must give it away, Bayley seemingly putting two and two together.

“You two haven’t slept together…..have you?” Solana simply shakes her head, unable to verbally confirm and slightly mortified that it’s reached this level of detail. 

Solana is certain they must have a million thoughts floating around their head, starting with the how and why. That part…..that part she doesn’t know if she is ready to discuss.

An ironic thing considering she’s just started the chapter in her workbook on sharing her story with trusted people. 

The irony.

But instead of invasive questions that heighten her anxiety, Naomi places a comforting hand on her arm. 

“Look, I’ve known Roman my whole life, and the guy has been a dick the entire time. He would never hurt a woman, I know that, but he’s also never given a fuck about any of them either. So for him to be the way he is with you when you two haven’t even had sex……there’s something there, Solana.”

“I agree,” Bayley cosigns, saying what Solana has struggled to admit even to herself. “I think he really does like you. In his own Roman sort of way.”

Solana can’t deny the fact that it’s getting increasingly difficult to push away that possibility, even if she still can’t understand the why.

Just what has she done to deserve him liking her? 

Maybe it’s not like. Maybe he just tolerates her better than he does others for some reason. Whatever it is, she can’t negate the fact that it must mean something if Naomi, who’s known him her whole life, believes that something is there.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” Solana just needs to get away. Just for a couple minutes. This conversation took a turn she wasn’t expecting, and she needs to settle her emotions. 

Bayley seems cautious. “Want me to come with you?”

“No.” The rejection is paired with a kind smile. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

And before she can get any pushback, Solana makes her way through the dancing crowd and to the back restroom that she’s grateful to see is vacant. Closing and locking the bathroom door, she goes straight for the mirror.

Despite the unexpected amount of dancing and slight sweat, she still looks relatively the same. 

The same….

Same.

Even with the makeup and tight little dress, she’s still the same person. She’ll go home tonight, take off the makeup and remove the dress to find the same damaged, scarred girl who can never have something like what Jimmy and Naomi have.

Even if Roman does like her, it won’t last. 

She can’t please him. 

She could never make Roman happy, could never truly satisfy him, satisfy his needs.

She’s too broken for that.

It brings tears to her eyes.

Unable to withstand the sight of herself, Solana grabs a couple napkins to blow away her tears, tosses them out and heads out the bathroom. Instead of heading back to the table, Solana makes a beeline for the bar. 

She’s only had white wine, but white wine isn’t enough. She recognizes where her emotions are taking her, and it’s nowhere good. 

Solana refuses to ruin this night for Bayley and Naomi.

The bartender is a young girl, pretty, early to mid twenties. She asks in a friendly, deeply accented voice, “what can I get you?” 

Solana is naive to this, to the great array of alcoholic options that litter the counter before her, so she answers the best way she can. Thinking back to the few events she’d be forced to attend with her father and brother, the drinks she always heard people order before getting drunk.

“Vodka and Gin, p—please.”

________

Meanwhile, Bayley and Naomi sit at the table still partially stuck on this unexpected news. But also not entirely surprising. With how sittish Solana can be at times, they have a good, albeit depressing guess as to why sex hasn’t happened between them.

It does bring up a valid question though.

“Wasn’t the whole marriage for the purposes of giving Roman an heir? How is that—”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Naomi murmurs. “But, I think we both know it’s obvious Solana has some trauma. Touch is clearly hard for her.”

“I know.” Bayley frowns. “I guess I’m just surprised Roman of all people has been so….patient with her.”

“You and me too.” Naomi blows out a breath before again reiterating what she said to Solana. “He must really like her.”

“It’s just hard to tell with him. He’s so damn stoic, but….I think you’re right. I think she likes him too. She’s just…..scared.” Fear is also something Solana deeply struggles with, though Bayley and Naomi both can recognize the progress she’s making towards overcoming those fears.

With a gasp, Naomi grabs her phone, directing Bayley. “Get your phone.” 

Bay is confused but follows suit just as Naomi says, “I know who may know.” 

Less than a minute later, Bayley’s phone dings with a text notification from a new group she’s in that includes herself, Naomi, Jimmy, and Jey.

Naomi: Sooooo, Bay and I were just talking, and between the four of us, how do you think Roman feels about Solana?

Bayley: And please be honest.

Bayley quickly ensures. “We’re not going to tell them what Solana said, right?”

“Hell no. We could never betray her trust like that.” Bayley is relieved but also not surprised. 

Naomi values loyalty just as much as she does. 

Jey: Man, I think he really like ole’ girl. Bruh got her a dog, seems to drop whatever he doing when she needs something, and I don’t think I ever heard him say nothing bad about her.

Jimmy: He was definitely annoyed at first when Soso had her lil breakdown at the Warehouse, but that didn’t last long at all. 

Bayley: Plus Roman is always annoyed with something or someone.

Naomi: Except her 👀

Jey: Why ya’ll ask?

Naomi: We think Solana really likes him too but is scared to push on it because of her past and just don’t want to encourage her to give it a chance if he’s just gonna hurt her. Ya’ll know how Roman is.

Bayley: A certified ASSHOLE. And a hoe. 

Bayley: But, it seems like that’s not the case with her.

Jimmy: I would say he definitely likes her too. 

Jey: I mean they are married so….

Naomi: It was arranged. That doesn’t count. 

Bayley: Do we know if he’s still fucking around? Primarily with Samantha since she’s been his go-to the past couple years?

Jimmy: I don’t think so. Matter of fact, I guess she said some smart shit to Soso in the bathroom on NoC and Big Dog wasn’t having it.

Jey: He’s apparently planning to pay her a lil visit….with Nia.

Naomi: Oh my god, is he finally gonna let Nia kill her?

Jimmy: Naw, just fuck her up real good, I think.

Naomi: Damn.

Bayley: That’s wild for him to cut her off like that after all this time. Def sounds like he likes Solana to me too…..

Jey: Ya’ll really think he about to admit that shit though?

Naomi: No more than she is. He’s stubborn, and she’s so insecure.

Jimmy: Ya’ll thinking what I’m thinking? 👀

*Jimmy changed the group chat name to Operation RoSo*

Naomi: Bae, what is this damn title?

Jimmy: It’s our latest covert operation. We gotta get Roman and Soso to admit they like each other!

Jey: And just how the hell is we supposed to do that? Like Bay said, Uce is an ass sometimes.

Bayley: All the time unless you’re Solana….

Naomi: I mean, not to be vain, but if you look like Roman, you can kinda get away with being an ass. To some extent.

Bayley: You’re not wrong. He is gorgeous. 😮‍💨

Jimmy: He alright, I guess. His ears kinda big.

Naomi: Bae, I love you, but let’s not lie. Your cousin is an asshole, yes, but he’s also fine as hell.

Bayley: That’s not the only thing said to be big…..

Naomi: Girl….

Bayley: They can’t all be lying.

Jey: ANYWAYS!

Jey: What if they’re coming together at they own pace and we should just leave shit alone? 

Jimmy: 😐

Jimmy: That’s about the dumbest fucking thing I done heard all day. What next you gon say, huh? That they just magically gon fall in love on their own too? No! They clearly need our help!

Naomi: Maybe less help and more a shove in the right direction?

Bayley: A gentle push!

Naomi: Yes!

Jey: All I know is if shit backfires, I’m not taking the heat for none of ya’ll asses. Ya’ll gon have to deal with Big Dog.

Jimmy: Then we’ll just put Solana in front of us. He can’t hurt us then!

Jimmy: See…..I’m smart with this shit. That’s why Imma be the brains of this operation.

________

“What do you mean she’s drunk?”

Roman’s night suddenly went from uneventful and quiet, his preference, to unexpected and infuriating, all with a walk from upstairs to downstairs where he finds Solana awkwardly standing in the living room. Bayley and Naomi wait at the bottom of the steps with nervous expressions.

Good.

They should be scared shitless, because one glance at Solana, the gloss over her eyes, and he can tell she’s all but wasted. 

“You were supposed to be watching her.” Roman is fucking irritated. He knew it was a bad idea to leave these two in charge of Solana.

Bayley, however, seems unbothered by his anger. “She’s not a child, Roman. Were we supposed to stop her from drinking too? We had no idea she asked for something stronger.”

It’s an excuse, and Roman doesn’t do excuses. “What happened?”

Naomi answers this time around. “We don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” One. They’re lying, and Roman hates liars. Two. They’re lying, and Roman has literally killed people for less. Three. They’re lying, and he wants to know why. “You’ve both got less than a minute to give me the truth—”

“Look, we talked about some things, and we promised to keep it between the three of us, so I’m not telling you what exactly it was, but I can tell you she’s not in danger.” Bayley is smart. She must know that he’d literally torture the information out of her if it had anything to do with Solana’s safety. 

“It was just…some stuff about her past. I think it may have been too much, and she decided to get drunk to not think about it.” Naomi’s suggestion makes sense and pans out, but Roman can’t stop thinking about just what she shared with them. 

Was it the rape? But why? He remembers her terror in the locker room that day, the fear and pain in her eyes and voice as she pleaded with him to not make her talk about it. It doesn’t make sense why she would suddenly share it.

Even with how close she seems to them.

“Just leave.”

Roman will deal with them later. Right now, his priority is getting Solana settled.

They seem to know better than to push his patience, asking that he at least keep them updated on how she’s doing in the morning.

He neither agrees or disagrees. It’ll heavily depend on how fucked up Solana is. 

Once they’re gone, Roman walks into the living room to find her laid on the sofa, eyes glazed over from her drunkenness but that same beautiful smile on her just as beautiful face.

“Solana.” She’s so gone that it makes him wonder even more again just how upset she must have been. “I need to get you to bed.”

He needs sleep too, feeling the length and weight of the day starting to take a toll.

She’s protesting almost right away. “I’m not t–tired.”

“Maybe not, but you will be tomorrow.” Roman knows she’s in for one hell of a hangover.

“I don’t—I don’t want to sleep.” She’s almost pouting, brows caved together as she stumbles through more words. Solana suddenly stands up, and he naturally moves closer to her, noticing the almost sway she does onto the floor. “I just—have bad dreams and—and you’re just—just gonna leave once I sleep anyw—way.”

“What do you mean by that?” He asks. Getting answers from a drunk person usually isn’t the best or smartest thing in the world, but something tells Roman that Solana is the type of drunk person who ends up spilling secrets. And he’s certain there’s a lot she’s probably still keeping in.

She then issues an unexpected accusation. “You—you’re—you’re gonna go be with Samantha—that’s who you want.”

Roman finds her question slightly ironic considering he’s been letting Samantha think she got away with whatever disrespectful shit she said to Solana on the Night of Champions. He’s letting her think she’s safe and waiting for the right moment to set her ass straight, Nia tagging along to deliver the physical message he can’t.

“Af–after all.” Solana continues, surprising him with her openness that’s most definitely fueled by her inebriation. “Why—why would you want me?” She points to herself, voice taking on a softer, vulnerable tone. “Why—why would anyone want me?”

He’s silent for a good minute, sitting on such a heavy question. “Is that really what you think?” It’s asked in a low voice, and he’s not entirely sure if it’s more him thinking aloud or if he genuinely wants to know if that is how she really views herself. 

She shakes her head, nodding in a way that further signifies how drunk she is. “It’s like you said, I’m mentally u–unstable.”

For a second, Roman’s confused, but he quickly thinks back to their wedding night, to his hurtful words to her. Words he’d give anything to take back now. 

With an almost frown, he acknowledges his fault. “I was wrong to say that to you, Solana. You are not that.” Truthfully, with all she’s been through, even if she was, he couldn’t fault her.

With a family like hers, she never had a fucking chance.

Solana seems almost confused by his apology, taking him back with the next thing that leaves her mouth. “Is it—is it true you—you said my name when you were with S—samantha?”

He definitely wasn’t expecting that, has no idea how she even knows that. Is that what Samantha told her in the bathroom? Why would she? It does nothing to make her look good. Regardless, drunk or not, Roman sticks with his word that he won’t lie to her.

“Yes.”

Even drunk, he can tell how shocked she is by his admission. Shaking her head, she says either to herself or him—he can’t really tell. “I—I don’t get it.” Before he can say anything else, she starts on this train of self-hatred. “She’s pretty and—and—skinny and—she’s not—broken like me.”

That does something to him, Roman moving closer to bring one hand to the small of her back and the other to her face. “You’re not broken, Solana.”

“Yes–yes, I am. You don’t—you don’t know what—what happened to me.” Her bottom lip trembles as she shakes her head, hands on his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do what—what she does—can’t—give you t–that.”

He shifts his hand to the back of her head, forcing her blurry gaze to stay on him. “Baby….” It tears him the fuck up hearing her acknowledge the lingering trauma he’s certain she’ll always carry to some extent, but even more to hear how lowly she really thinks of herself. “I don’t—”

“I can’t—I can’t because—” Her voice cracks, her eyes focused everywhere but him as she almost comes to this heartbreaking realization that her drunkenness briefly helped her escape these thoughts that have now returned. “—b–because they r–raped me, and now I don’t—I don’t know how—how to be with anyone.” She gasps and sniffles, shaking her head. “I should—should have f–fought h-harder—”

“Don’t you ever fucking say that, you hear me?” Roman’s voice somehow contains all the conviction yet gentleness he can muster. Hearing her even think that makes him feel something he can’t fully describe. It’s heavy as fuck though. “You were a child, Solana. It wasn’t your fault.”

“You were a kid.” He has to say it again, because that’s the hardest part in all of this, knowing how young she was. “You should have been protected, and you weren’t, and I’m going to make sure every son of a bitch involved in what happened to you pays for that shit. I promise you that. The same way that I promise with my life, I’ll never let anyone ever hurt you again.”

She’s clearly taken back by his words, by his vow. “I don’t—I don’t—understand w–why? Why—why would you do that?”

Roman isn’t sure he has an answer for that specifically, but he does have something else he can provide her, a small part of him knowing, hoping maybe, there’s very little from tonight she remembers come tomorrow morning. 

“Because someone needs to protect you.” Roman swallows, adding before he even realizes what he’s saying. “Because I don’t want Samantha.” He brushes his thumb over her cheek, intentionally wiping her tears. “I want you.”

And suddenly, it’s so much easier to say it aloud, to voice to her what he still doesn’t entirely understand, why he feels drawn to her in ways he doesn’t understand. There’s a connection almost, a connection of mutual loss that’s formed some sort of bridge Roman is unsure just when he started crossing 

She looks more stunned at his admission than anything else he’s ever said to her. Still, she seems to try to discredit him. “But—but she—”

“She’s not you.” His voice unintentionally softens. “No one’s like you.”

Selfishly, he hopes she doesn’t remember much or any of this conversation, less painful for her, more time for him to figure out what it is about this woman that he feels so deeply drawn to.

Again, she tries to downplay her worth. “I can’t—I can’t—give you what you need.”

And somehow he knows exactly what she means. What she’s referring to.

“I don’t need that from you.” Truth be told, he doesn’t want to need anything from her. Needing anything in general has never been his thing. He just knows that, for some reason, he wants her around.

He likes having her around him. 

She’s blinking again and places her hand against her head, sharing, “my h–head hurts.” It’s not an intentional deflection, he’s certain, but it’s appreciated.

This is a much deeper conversation than he anticipated having tonight.

“You need to get to bed. The sooner you can start sleeping this off, the better.” He eyes her skeptically, asking, “can you walk?”

He should have already known the answer, because the minute she tries to pull away from him to walk, she sways almost immediately, Roman going right back to holding her. “Come here.” He expects her to tense up as he moves to lift her up bridal style, but she doesn’t. She just continues to look confused, clearly overwhelmed with all of her emotions. 

Roman doesn’t say anything as he carries her up the stairs and doesn’t think twice about taking her to his room instead of hers. 

He needs to monitor her tonight, and that’s easier done with her in his room.

She looks around still confused but doesn’t say anything as Roman lowers her down on the edge of his bed. Naturally, he’s on one knee before her.

“I’m gonna take these off.” He refers to her heels which could largely be a contributing factor for her to inability to walk. She nods, and he quickly unstraps and tosses the heels to the side. “Do you want to change?”

She nods and then adds, “I don’t have—my clothes….”

Roman is at his dresser, pulling out a shirt that he reaches to her. “You can wear this for tonight.”

She accepts it from him, turning to walk to the bathroom, Roman relieved to see the removal of her heels helps her to at least make it without falling.

While she’s changing, he heads back downstairs to get Dulce.

He knows she’s used to sleeping with Solana and will probably throw a fit or spend the night crying if that doesn’t happen, so a small sacrifice is made as he also brings up Dulce’s bed from the living room and places it on the side of his bed.

One night of her sleeping in his room won’t kill him.

It’s then that Solana walks out the bathroom, changed out of her dress and her face free from the makeup. 

“I washed my face….hope that was o–okay.”

“It’s fine, Solana.” Roman is half expecting to have to instruct her to lay down, but she again stays with the theme of surprises tonight and walks over to the bed, pulling back the covers and climbing in. 

He’s again ready to explain that he’ll be in the guest room across the hall but will be available if she needs anything. He’ll still be checking in on her occasionally, regardless.

But, before he can explain as such, she asks in the softest, most vulnerable voice, “will you lay with me?”

It’s an extremely unexpected question with an easy answer.

Roman’s answer is to move into the bed with her, half expecting her to freak out in one way or another. This close proximity is so unlike her, a complete contrast to what she’s usually comfortable with.

However, what he doesn’t expect is the way Solana moves her body close against his, pressing herself into his side, arm over his stomach and head on his chest.

In a switching of roles, Roman is the one to initially tense. This is more physical contact than they’ve ever had, and there’s not a doubt in his mind that if not for the alcohol in her system, she’d have a fucking meltdown touching him this much.

But in her drunken, highly intoxicated state, that’s not an issue. She wants to be close to him, wants to be pressed up against him. 

She’s looking for comfort.

And truthfully, he wants it too. Roman likes the feel of her next to him, actually uses his other arm to tug her closer, noticing how she adjusts her head on his chest.

Her hand is planted against his chest, and he starts to tell her to rest, to encourage her to sleep this off. But, she once again beats him to it, asking yet another question. 

“Why—why are you doing this?”

To be fair, Roman only answers her truthfully because he’s betting on her being so close to the edge of sleep that the chances of her remembering this rare shred of vulnerability are slim to none.

“Because—because I know what it’s like to not have anyone.” There’s a sense of hesitation and discomfort as he verbalizes what he’s never once openly discussed with anyone. “Because I didn’t just lose my mom when I was ten. I lost my entire family. My parents. My aunt. My uncle. And all of my siblings. I—I was the only one who made it out alive that night, and I spent years not knowing why, why I was left alone.”

Roman doesn’t want sympathy, doesn’t want people feeling fucking sorry for him. He never has. But the way Solana lifts her head to look at him is a look of something else, something that likens understanding and compassion.

The latter of which is almost an unfamiliar concept. 

“I didn’t—I’m sorry.” She lays her head back against his chest, moving even closer. She then murmurs into him, almost reassuringly, “you don’t—you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Roman doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn’t.

He says nothing.

________

Waking up in Roman’s bed wearing only his shirt is the last thing Solana expects along with the fact that the minute her eyes open, she’s hit with instant throbbing of her head.

She winces, confused about so many things as she forces herself to sit up, mind immediately wandering to a single question.

Where is Roman?

Her question is easily answered when she spots the notebook on his nightstand. She reaches for it, squinted eyes reading over his words.

Solana,

I’m sorry I had to leave. I have a meeting with the Elders I, unfortunately, can’t miss. I’ll be back right after.

If not for that, I would have stayed with you.

You most likely won’t remember last night, but you got drunk. Very. You’re gonna wake up with a nasty hangover. Take the Aspirin. It’ll help. 

I gave Dulce her breakfast and took her outside. She should be fine. 

I also let your job know you’re not coming in today.

Rest.

Roman

There’s so much to process in such a straightforward letter. What did he mean by stay with her? Did—did they sleep in the same bed? 

For some reason, that’s not as anxiety inducing as she imagined it would be. She doesn’t know the why or how, but it doesn't bring that heavy weight on her chest.

The drunk part triggers brief memories of the night prior. Bayley and Naomi. The celebration. Dancing. Fun. Happiness.

A switch.

At some point in the night, her mood shifted into something else. Solana remembers asking for a drink, but she doesn’t remember much after that. Glimpses. An almost sympathetic look from Roman. His arms around her. Him holding her.

It makes for a confusing story she doesn’t really have the wherewithal to deal with. She instead reaches over and swallows the Aspirin. 

And she goes right back to sleep.

________

Roman finds himself completely bypassing his office, clearing his schedule, and moving his phone’s status to Do Not Disturb.

He’s not in the mood to deal with any of that shit today. At least not for a couple more hours. He needs to make sure Solana is situated first. 

Thinking about her resurfaces his earlier level of anger at how the meeting with the Elders ended.

“What of the girl?”

This was the part of the hour meeting that caught his attention the most. Everything else was trivial and, in his opinion, a waste of time. But, it’s when Elder Aleki brings up Solana that Roman’s focus is recentered.

“What about her?”

He’s not stupid. Far from it. Roman knows exactly where this is headed. It was partially expected. What he didn’t expect was the anger that’s already brewing at just how Solana was referred to as ‘the girl.’

Aleki is bold with his questioning, jumping straight to the point. “Is she still not pregnant yet? It’s been almost four months.”

Roman’s jaw clenches, and he finds himself squeezing the armrest of his chair as he does his best to keep his voice somewhat subdued. “I’m aware of how long it’s been.”

Another elder, Sione, decides to join in on this conversation that Roman is about to shut down in less than a minute. “Perhaps she should have another medical evaluation. By one of our doctors—”

“The hell she will.”

Rikishi shoots Roman a warning look, quietly, muttering an equally pleading, “language, Uce.”

Roman straight up ignores him. Rikishi still adheres to those outdated traditions that just because someone has more years on this earth than you that they automatically deserve respect. Fuck that. Roman gives respect when it’s earned, and Aleki and Sione have been on his shit list for years.

He’ll never forgive them for their behavior after the death of his family, their questioning of Roman’s birthright to the throne.

Aleki releases a heavy sigh, and Roman has to restrain himself from not bashing the old man’s head into the table. “All we’re saying is if she is incapable of producing a child to continue the Bloodline, then we have no use for her and should seek to find you a better—”

That’s when Roman has enough. To suggest Solana be examined again. which would no doubt be triggering as fuck for her, is one thing. But, it’s an entirely different thing for them to have the unmitigated gall to suggest he get rid of her.

Over his dead fucking body.

Roman shoots up from the chair. “My wife isn’t going anywhere nor is anyone at this fucking table going to make her do shit.”

Rikishi shoots more than just his subtle warning this time around. “Roman, please—”

Roman’s not trying to hear that shit from him, though. He’s not trying to hear shit from anyone. 

“Our marriage is nobody’s fucking business but our own. That includes when she gets pregnant. We’ll share it when we want to.”

Truthfully speaking, this isn’t something Roman has thought much about, an intentional thing. The fact that the marriage was originally and solely arranged so that she could give him an heir is irrelevant to him right now, regardless of what they think.

That’s not a priority. 

“You may be the Elders, but I sit at the head of the table.” The Bloodline has always been successful and profitable, but it’s no doubt exceeded any and all records and expectations since Roman became the head. That’s an indisputable fact. “Don’t fucking forget who made this table what it is today.”

The ending of the meeting is still playing in the back of his head like a bad song on repeat. If not for his semi level of respect and acknowledgement of their standing as Elders, he would have put a bullet in their heads the minute that disrespectful shit started leaving their mouths.

In no fucking universe is anyone taking Solana from him. He doesn’t give a flying fuck whatever the original reason was for their marriage. She’s his now, and nothing is changing that. 

Roman makes active efforts to calm himself before walking back into the house. After last night, the last thing she needs is to be unintentionally triggered. 

He finds her on the sofa, writing in her journal, Dulce right beside her sleeping peacefully without a care in the fucking world. Roman halfway expected her to be out back on the patio, a seemingly favorite spot of hers.

But the sunlight would no doubt exacerbate the remnants of her hangover he’s certain she’s still battling, so it makes sense she’s indoors. It’s when she looks up, noticing his presence that Roman also realizes she’s still only wearing his shirt. 

For some strange reason, he likes that. Likes seeing her in his clothes.

“Hey…”

“Hey.” Roman sits on the sofa opposite from her. He takes her in, watching her set her journal to the side and as he notices her hair is pulled up. “How you feeling?”

She shrugs, making a face that suggests some level of discomfort. “My head still kinda hurts, but I guess—that’s to be expected.” He starts to ask her if she’s drunk enough water, recognizing the importance of staying hydrated a night after heavy drinking, but she’s suddenly pleading with him almost. “Please don’t be upset with Bayley and Naomi. It’s not their fault.”

To be fair, he hadn’t thought about them until now. “They were supposed to watch you.”

“They did. I—I got back fine.” She seems almost worried for them, for their safety. He would never actually kill either woman. He’ll just probably never trust them to take Solana out again in life. But no murder would actually happen. Still, it’s the part where Solana says she got back fine that irks him. He does his best to mask that irritation though. 

“You weren’t fine last night, Solana.” She was far from it, more emotional than he’s seen her in some time, if ever. 

Her shoulders drop, almost in shame. “I don’t—I don’t remember much of it.”

He’s thankful for that. For the both of them. “You were upset.” It’s not a lie nor is it specific. It’s just the truth. 

She then asks with almost hesitant curiosity. “W–what did I say?”

Roman shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t like being dismissive towards her, doesn’t like being dishonest, something he swore he wouldn’t do. But, she was an emotional wreck last night, and the last thing he wants is for her to go through all of those emotions yet again.

He doesn’t like seeing her upset.

But then she looks at him, studying him almost, a sad, almost tearful chuckle leaving her mouth. He watches as she brings her legs up to her chest and rests her chin against her knees. She asks, volume barely over a whisper, “I told you last night, didn’t I?” Roman realizes it’s less a question and more a heavy realization. “That—that I was raped. Didn’t I?”

It’s a bit of a lose–lose situation. Either he tells her no and risks her feeling bad for sharing something she didn’t have to or he confirms what she already knows and still feels not great.

They’re both shitty options, but he ultimately goes the route of honesty. “Yes.”

“It’s weird. I—” She looks away, eyes shutting for a minute before she unexpectedly explains, “I’ve been—I’ve been working out of this book for people who were…assaulted like me, and I’m–at the part where its recommended I tell at least one person because—because it’s not healthy to keep it to myself.” 

Roman knows exactly what book she’s talking about. It was the key that led to him figuring out just what happened to her. That still fucks with him. Still makes him fill with silent rage at her piece of shit family letting that happen to her. 

“You’re now the first person I’ve ever told.” Roman hates that even more.. Hates that someone like him is who she ended up breaking her silence with. He wishes it was either Bayley or Naomi. They’re much better at this sort of thing. The feelings thing. “I don’t—I don’t like talking about it.”

“You don’t have to.” He isn’t sure he’d be able to control his anger hearing details, hearing anything about it to be honest, not coming from her. His rage would be intractable. 

She nods, almost appreciatively. “That's why sex is—it’s hard for me.” He fully understands that, and a small part of him hates how he tried to initiate that with her on their wedding night. He figured her nerves were because of her naturally anxious personality. Never once did it cross his mind that it was because of something much darker. “And it’s not—it’s not like I don’t think about it sometimes, about being close to someone like that, I do.” This piece does surprise him, but he works hard not to think too much about it right now. He wants to be in this moment with her. “ I—I have. But, every time I try, I just—I get flashbacks, and I can’t.” She ends on an almost whisper, Roman’s stomach tightening as she quickly wipes at a tear. 

He doesn’t like seeing her cry. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Solana.” Not him or anyone else, for that matter. 

She doesn’t say anything for a good minute before asking, “what happens now?”

That’s a great fucking question, and he almost has the same towards a lot of things. He’s curious though what she’s specifically referring to. “What do you mean?”

Solana seems almost frightened as she asks, “are you—are you gonna send me back to my father?” 

Yeah, he could have never in a million years guessed that. “Why would you ever think I would do that?”

And he suddenly hates asking, hates seeing the way the emotion builds back up. “I’m not—not a virgin, and—” Her eyes close, her grip around her legs tightening. “You….you only married me because—”

“I don’t care about that.” This is his second time today having to face some level of this discussion, but this round is significantly gentler. Roman does his best to illustrate the conviction in his voice while also being mindful of her emotions. “What do you want, Solana?”

He has no idea what she’s going to say, but he does know for a fact he would never send her back to that hellhole. It would be like sending her to her own death. 

She seems to really think about his question, think about something he’s certain she’s never had a lot of. 

Options. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, she answers. “I want to stay here.” Roman’s unsure why he feels a small sense of relief at her answer, like anything other than that would have made him uncomfortable or upset. Solana wets her lips, continuing, “I like—I like living here.” And in an even smaller voice, she adds, “I like being with you.”

He doesn’t say anything, and neither does she. Roman is certain it’s because they’re both trying to process and register what this may mean, what this new piece of information means for them moving forward. 

Roman sits forward and motions with his index and middle finger. “Come here.”

He sees it instantly. The initial hesitation, the brief flash of fear, but it’s gone before he can offer reassurance. Solana lowers her legs and walks over to him, Dulce remaining sleeping and unmoving. Not once does Roman remove his gaze from her as he takes her hand, giving a gentle tug to guide her down on the sofa next to him. He slides his arm behind her, holding her body against him, his tattooed forearm across her stomach.

Roman watches the way her eyes close, recognizes that she’s trying to manage her emotions. He sees the little nod she gives herself, as if assuring herself that she’s safe. And he swears he sees her mouth as such.

Mouth the word ‘safe.’

Solana moves her hands to his forearm, as if holding onto him for some sense of comfort. 

He does his best to reassure her. “Relax…”And it seems to do something to help her, offering such a simple yet strong form of solace. “I’d never send you back there. Ever.” And that’s a fucking promise. “You’ll stay here. With me.”

“I’m—” Her voice is less emotional than before. It’s still there, but he can tell it's waning with each second that passes, her comfort level growing. “I’m supposed to give you an heir. What if—what if people start—”

“I’ll take care of it.” And he will. He already started with the Elders earlier today, but she doesn’t need to know that. 

She angles her head up to look at him. “But—” 

Roman brings his hand to her face, gently palming her cheek. “I’ll take care of it.” He moves his thumb over the apple of her cheek and part of her scar. “Alright?”

Solana nods with her acknowledgement but says nothing else as she lays back against him. He notices the absence of tension and discomfort. She’s fully relaxed against him, and Roman acts more out of instinct than anything as he presses lips against her temple for a brief kiss, still mindful of her comfort level. “I’ve got you…”

Everything happening in the past few minutes has been both unexpected and confusing, but there’s nothing confusing about the way Solana suddenly turns her body into him, laying her head on his chest. He watches her eyes close, signifying another layer of fear being peeled back. 

He sits there for who knows how long with her, holding her, noticing the slight rise and fall of her body against his, a sign that she’s fallen asleep. He lets her sleep, lets her rest, lets her stay close to him, under him, with him.

Roman thinks back on his question to her about what she wanted. He’s not sure what he would have said if she said she wanted to leave, because the truth of the matter is that Roman’s starting to think that he couldn’t let her go.

That he can’t.

Even if she wanted to leave. 

[sleepingdeath-light]

having a gomez and morticia-esque dynamic with his fem overlord s/o hcs ; alastor

requested by ; anonymous (15/02/24)

fandom(s) ; hazbin hotel

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; alastor

outline ; “So good to have you back!

Can I request Alastair with an fem Overlord! Reader? Like they have a relationship similar to Morticia and Gomez Addams, especially when Mortica says “Don’t torture yourself Gomez, that’s my job.” Reader is just elegant and classy in a sense with her man 👀”

note ; there are some potentially (very mildly) ooc bits here and there for the sake of filling the prompt, but otherwise this is exactly what the outline requested as best as i could write it lol ^^

warning(s) ; references to canon-typical levels of violence, but mostly fluff!

the two of you are, to put it bluntly, a match made in hell — which is rather fitting as your first meeting occurred in hell itself shortly after alastor’s reign of terror as ‘the radio demon’ had first began

very few people are aware that the two of you are in a relationship, or that you know each other at all, and that’s simply because neither of you see the point in broadcasting your attachments and personal lives to the entirety of hell — your husband may be an egotistical radio broadcaster with a kill count that most sinners can only dream of achieving, but he preferred to keep his private life private and your marriage was just one of those things

(of course rosie is keenly aware of the two of you and teases alastor relentlessly, and lovingly, for how utterly in love with you he is — but he lets it slide because he knows she means well and wouldn’t dream of causing you harm)

but when you’re together it’s plainly obvious, even to those who don’t know you well at all, that the two of you are deeply obsessed with each other — that’s mainly down to your unusual, and yet somehow not at all surprising for the two of you, displays of affection which most would find deeply off putting

of course your alastor is a gentleman and can appreciate the more traditional romantic displays — he never fails to greet you with a kiss on the back of your hand and a bouquet of the finest flora hell has to offer, and he’s always ready to offer you his jacket if you complain about the weather — but it doesn’t just stop at those more ‘normal’ acts (something that you come to be more and more grateful for as your relationship progresses from courting to dating to something resembling marriage without all of the formal paperwork)

there are displays of affection that are more reliant on his more cannibalistic side, for one: diligently licking any and all of your wounds clean whilst earnestly complimenting the rich flavour of your blood (after dealing with whichever poor soul decided to go after you in the first place), talking cheerily about all of the ways he’d prepare your flesh if ever you let him (and listening with rapt attention as you discussed your own plans for any errant limbs or slabs of flesh that he may lose in battle), making sure to get to rosie’s cafè as early as possible to ensure that you only get the best of your favourite baked treats, and staring hungrily down at you as you gingerly wipe the blood from his lips and cheeks with your fingers and lick them clean in a way that most anyone else would find disturbing

there are shows of love that lean more into your mutual sadistic tendencies: kissing sweetly whilst the blood of your victims is still fresh on your skin and clothes, slow dancing to whatever song he’s broadcasting from his radio on top of the corpses of your slain targets, wistfully admiring each other as you rage and show your full demonic forms to anyone who dared to cross you (a precursor for plenty of compliments and private affection later on, i’m sure), and you stepping forward and coaxing him out of a violent episode by insisting that he should torture you instead with that sweet tone of voice that you know he can’t say ‘no’ to

there are acts that are a mixture of the three — such as you calling each other the sweetest pet names in a mixture of your spoken languages (‘love’, ‘cher’, ‘dearest’, etc.) before going on to say something truly monstrous that would have everyone else in earshot staring with a mixture of horror and disgust, or him taking you out to get your tailored clothes repaired since he so loves taking care of you after a spat with another (now likely very dead) overlord left your clothes torn in places and stained with all sorts of viscera

and, of course, amongst all of that you can guarantee that alastor is being nothing short of encouraging, adoring, and protective over you (read: quick to threaten anyone who intends to cause you harm into silence and slaughtering anyone who refuses to comply with that warning) and your honour as you go about your life as an overlord alongside him — he knows you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but he was raised to be a gentleman and he’s certainly not going to stop being one just because he happened to go to hell

truly, it’s like the two of you were made for each other

[nakahras]

᯽ they forget valentine’s day • multi

synopsis • dazai is an oblivious and dramatic fool. chuuya is a wounded puppy that needs to relax

warnings • dazai (he needs his own warning yes), i’m not sure this even has cursing, anxiety, alcohol, drunk chuuya bc he’s a lightweight, reader is a civilian, fem!reader

wc • 2.8k

a/n • happy valentine’s day, lil birdies <3

᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽

dazai:

you’d been pouty all week. giving him short responses both verbally and through texts. on day 3 he plucked up the courage to ask but you were short with him once again.

“i’m fine, osamu.”

you were lying to him. you never called him by his full first name, never called him “osamu.” it was always “‘samu” or “baby.” he tried his best to get it out of you a couple more times that day before letting out a huff of defeat at his desk. he was usually able to avoid his paperwork by distracting you but this week has been excruciating for him. you were “too busy” with paperwork. when had you ever been too busy for dazai? it just didn’t make sense.

you were lying and he knew you were.

on day 4, you were both dispatched on a mission together. it was just a standard patrol. something you have done a million times before and usually use it as an excuse to goof off and make a date out of it. this time, however, you apparently took it very seriously. you wouldn’t even let dazai hold your hand. dazai was wounded at this point. his chest felt heavy in the worst way possible.

even worse you started referring to him as dazai. he thinks he would prefer osamu over dazai.

“bella, why are you treating me like a mere colleague. i’m your boyfriend. shouldn’t i be able to hold your hand?”

he’s pouting, you can hear it in his voice but you refuse to acknowledge it. “we’re on assignment, dazai.”

“‘samu. ‘s ‘samu, not dazai. what did i do to deserve this injustice?” the pressure in his chest grows as you continue to look forward, straight faced.

you let out a sigh. “if you don’t know what you did -- or didn’t do -- i don’t know what to tell you.”

dazai spends the rest of that assignment wracking his head over things he specifically avoided doing.

on day 5 he started to actually sweat a little bit because of your increasing mistreatment of him. was this how you were ending things with him? he couldn’t for the life of him think of anything he had done wrong, or hadn’t done at all, as of late. he had been on especially good behavior recently. so the only conclusion he could rationally (read: irrationally) come to was that you were sick of him. you couldn’t stand him anymore. you hated him. that was the only possible explanation.

it wasn’t.

on day 6 dazai had lost all hope. he spent his whole day at his desk staring at the ceiling. he was moping and he was aware of it. the whole office was aware of it but no one was indulging him and that was part of the problem. it’s as if everyone was in on it with you. they all knew but no one would give him a hint. traitors. every single one of them were traitors. even his usually sweet protege, atsushi refused to stare dazai in the eye. that’s how he knew they were all keeping it from him.

dazai wholeheartedly believed they were all plotting on his demise.

finally ranpo came to dazai day 7 with a bag full of…heart themed treats? what was he supposed to-- oh. OH!? how could he have missed that it was mid february. he was meant to ask you to be his valentine and now it was day of and he didn’t even have any plans. he didn’t like the idea of ranpo having to bail him out. once he’s connected the dots, dazai bolts straight up. his chair crashing to the floor with a loud thud. he startles everyone in the office, even you look up in shock. he doesn’t say anything just rushes out leaving everyone, especially you, utterly confused.

he comes back an hour later with the biggest stuffed teddy you had ever laid your eyes on and the most gorgeous bouquet of 2 dozen roses. you’re not even sure where dazai got the money to buy them? you desperately hope he didn’t manage to steal them. he struggles his way over to you and gives you his big pleading puppy dog eyes that he knows works every time.

“i’m such a fool! my belladonna, i’ve failed you and i deserve to be shot where i stand. if you were to deny me i would completely understand,” no he wouldn’t. “but would you please be my valentine?”

you try to stay stern with him but you can feel yourself melting under his big brown eyed gaze. you’re conflicted and it shows on your face. “’samu…”

thank god for yosano walking in at that very moment. she is your savior for the second time this week. she looks at dazai incredulously and then just starts crackling. everyone looks at her confused. once she’s composed herself enough, she looks to you.

“please, tell me i get to be the one to break the news to him.” dazai’s brow furrows in confusion as he looks back at you for an answer.

you nod your head and smile relieved. “i haven’t told him yet….”

“told me what? what am i missing? why are you two being so cryptic?” dazai is whining now. he’s only slightly nervous that you have yet to give him a response, surely you won’t say no to him, right?

wrong.

“this sweet little angel agreed to be my valentine yesterday.” yosano announces proudly while wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

it’s comical, the way dazai’s jaw drops. he let’s out a dramatic gasp. “yosano i thought we were friends. you would steal my bella just like that?!”

“chicks before dicks, dazai. you slept on my pretty angel for too long.”

dazai tries so hard to be appalled but the shrill and scandalized “yosano” kunikida yelps out makes dazai lose his composure. the brunette takes opportunity in yosano and kunikida bickering to pull you aside. he gives you an earnest look, one so rare that you forget to breathe for a moment.

“are you really going to continue to be yosano’s valentine and not mine?”

curse his shining burnt caramel colored eyes. curse his pathetic shaggy haircut that made his waves frame his face so beautifully. and last of all curse those pouty and perfectly pink lips of his that you’ve denied yourself of for a week now. you want to curse him. you really do. but he is so pretty and you’re so weak to a pretty face.

your fold under his gaze and huff in defeat. he lights up like the radiant star he is. you missed his light, it had been dull the last 7 days. you pout as he brings you into his arms. “thank you for giving me another chance, my bella. i promise to make it up to you.”

“you better, ‘samu.”

᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽•᯽

chuuya:

chuuya always worked extra hours. it was normal for him to overwork himself. but lately he felt as though his workload had doubled. he could only delegate so much before he started to feel bad about not doing the work himself. even the paperwork started piling up. after a long 4 days of sleepless nights chuuya has finally managed to clear out every stack of papers that were littering his office.

as if she had a sixth sense for knowing when chuuya was done with his work, kouyou walked in at the most opportune time. “a little birdy told me that you’d finally finished your work. how about we go for drinks to celebrate. it’s still early enough. my little sister should still be in her night class, right? she wouldn’t mind if i stole you for an hour or two, would she?”

“a drink?” chuuya can’t deny that a nice glass of vintage sounds heavenly right now. he hasn’t seen you in 4 days and although he wants nothing more than to hold you in his arms, he has to respect that you’re currently occupied by the one night class you have a week. kouyou was right, you wouldn’t be out until 9pm. it was only a handful of minutes before 7pm.

chuuya nods. “yeah, i could go for a drink.”

he found himself in one of the private rooms of one of the many restaurants kouyou owns. as promised he is sipping at his second glass of wine, heat is starting to settle in his stomach and he knows that soon enough, if he doesn’t pace himself, he’ll be feeling that heat in his head. it always made his mind foggy.

the conversation had lulled but it was a comfortable silence as they both picked at the appetizers kouyou had ordered for the two of them. kouyou takes a bite of and enoki beef roll and sighs in satisfaction. mid chew her eyes widen and she hums as if something just occurred to her. she hovers her hand in front of her mouth starts to chew quicker. a finger is held up by her other hand to indicate that it’ll just be a moment.

kouyou swallows her food intently and looks at chuuya excitedly. “what do you have planned tomorrow for my little sister?”

kouyou gives chuuya an excited smile and expectant look. the problem is…chuuya has no idea what kouyou is talking about. why would he plan something for tomorrow? panic starts to settle at the pit of his stomach. why would he have something planned for tomorrow? did he forget your birthday? anniversary? what even was the date?

kouyous smile drops as she watches visible panic flit across chuuya’s expression. she sighs, feeling a little sorry for bringing it up. she thought maybe chuuya had been working so hard to get everything finished to enjoy the day with you tomorrow. no, he was just being his usual self and overworking himself to exhaustion. evidently he had no idea what tomorrow was.

“chuuya, calm down. it’s only valentine’s day. she’s forgiving. i’m sure she won’t hold it against you if you forget one valentine’s day. even so, you still have time. i’ll make reservations for dinner for you two at my nicest restaurant, the one at the hotel in the business district. i’ll book you a suite to stay the night as well. on me.”

chuuya visibly relaxes but the look on his face is still one of worry. kouyou gives him another expectant look and chuuyas shoulders slump over. he looks like a wounded puppy. she could practically hear the whimpers.

“i didn’t ask her to be my valentine…” chuuya feels ridiculous saying it but he figures if anyone was going to understand it would be kouyou.

kouyou picks up the bottle of wine and tops off chuuya’s now empty wine glass. she doesn’t think he’s noticed in his panic how much he’s had to drink but she’s hoping a little more will relax him. she doesn’t expect him to finish the whole glass, maybe just another sip or two.

kouyou has never been so wrong in her life.

᯽•᯽

you get let out early from your night class, something about needing to prepare for tomorrow? whatever that was supposed to mean. perhaps it was a special day for him?

as you’re walking up the stairs to your small apartment you look at the time: 8:23pm. you had expected to take the train home but one of your friends offered to give you a lift home. so you were home earlier than expected and you were so appreciative of it. it’s been a long week and you just want to relax.

you shot chuuya a text when you got out. you felt a little guilty for not being able to talk to him more the last 5 or so days. you’d been busy with starting up clinicals and of course having mock patient evaluations and notes due the same day. but you were finally settled and just so happened to have the next 2 days completely free.

you check your messages and see that the message is marked as read but chuuya never replied. you don’t have much time to worry about it though because the second you’re rounding the corner you see -- is that two? yes, it is. you see two familiar heads of ginger hair standing outside of your apartment door. your brows furrow as you get closer and notice your boyfriend is leaning on kouyou for support. his face is abnormally red; it's almost comical.

you clear your throat and kouyou looks up from struggling to keep her own balance. she gives you an apologetic smile. “sorry to dump him on you, sunshine, but he refused to go home after he got your text. i had no choice but to bring him here.”

chuuya seems to have enough consciousness to realize that kouyou is talking to someone. he finally looks up and squints at your for a moment before his eyes light up in recognition. he whispers your name under his breath and gets this adorably determined expression on his face. oh god, he and kouyou must have just came from having drinks. he’s surprisingly stable on his feet still, only stumbles over his feet twice before he’s standing in front of you, examining your face intently, as if he's looking for something that’s clearly not there.

“did kouyou feed you too much wine again, baby?” you let out a small giggle and chuuya swears he could cry over how much he missed you these last few days.

“...yeah. she did. drank too much wine. ‘was good though.” his sentences are short and words are slurred. you think if his speech wasn’t slightly broken, he would definitely be slurring more.

you peer over at kouyou and smile at her appreciatively. “thank you for getting him to me safely, kouyou. are you gonna be alright getting home?”

she waves her hand at you dismissively. “he insisted. i have my driver with me. you two lovebirds have a good night and enjoy your date tomorrow~”

just like that, kouyou leaves you confused. before you’re able to process her words and form a question she’s already made her way around the corner and out of sight. you look at chuuya for an answer instead. his eyebrows are furrowed and he’s examining your face once again. you begin to feel self conscious and pat at your face.

“what? what is it? also… what was kouyou talking about? what date? are you taking me somewhere tomorrow?” you know you might be asking too many questions for chuuya’s muddled brain right now but you’re far too confused to care.

chuuya huffs as if remembering something distasteful. his mouth turns down in a frown and he does something he rarely would sober. his hands find your waist and he pulls you into him with his ability. you make a small squeak of surprise as you practically crash into his chest. your palms placed o his chest to brace yourself. you notice chuuya is uncommonly stable for his state and chalk it up to his ability being activated. you’re correct of course, his body is illuminated by a red glow -- your’s is too.

before you have a chance to ask what in the hell was going on you’re distracted by chuuya’s hands slipping under your scrub top and circling your waist. your breath hitches at the intimate touch. his head drops to your shoulder and he breathes you in. the breath is immediately followed by a content sigh.

“‘m sorry. i forgot” it’s muffled but you still make it out.

you swallow thickly trying to ignore just how much his touch affects you. “you’re sorry about what? what did you forget?”

“didn’t ask you sooner…” you think maybe he’s lost his mind. it’s the only explanation you have for the nonsense he’s spewing.

you reach over to pry chuuya from your shoulder but it’s no use. you let out a defeated sigh. “ask me now.”

chuuya looks up at that. for the third time in the past ten minutes he’s examining your face. you’re no longer questioning it. you suppose it makes sense. it’s been almost a week since you last saw each other. you can’t deny that you missed him too.

“be my valentine?” you don’t think that you’re seen him this nervous since he asked you out.

your brows furrow for a moment until realization slaps you in the face. your mouth forms a circle as it hits you that today is the thirteenth of february. tomorrow is valentine’s day. guilt seeps into your very core. you had completely forgotten because of how busy with school you were.

you sigh and reach out to hold chuuya’s face. “only if you’re still willing to be mine too since i also forgot that tomorrow is valentine’s day.”

chuuya perks up, it’s akin to an excited puppy. you can’t help the way your heart melts at the sight of his soft expression. you giggle as chuuya brings you in and showers you in kisses. you can’t help but to think that all the hard work you put in and going days without seeing chuuya is all worth it when you finally reunite and get to see him again like this.

[somewhere-in-the-rain]

Xaden’s mother theory

A couple of months ago when I reread Fourth Wing and Iron Flame I noticed an inconsistency with the character we’re given of Xaden’s mother (by this I mean an intentional inconsistency which I’ll get to later, rather than a fault of Rebecca Yarros’s). This is long, but please bear with me, I promise I’m making a point.

MINOR SPOILERS FOR FOURTH WING AND IRON FLAME

There are as far as I remember three times in the series so far that Xaden’s mother has been mentioned (there may be others but these three stuck out in my memory):

I’d forgotten what it felt like to be loved, really, truly loved—it’d been so many years since Dad died. And mom… Not going there.

Fourth Wing (Chapter 39 - Xaden’s POV)

As far as I’m aware, this is the first time Xaden’s mother is mentioned in the series, on the very last page of Fourth Wing. To me, this line shows that Xaden was greatly hurt by his mother leaving—despite the clause in the wedding contract saying she was free to leave when he turned 10, it’s like he still didn’t actually expect her to. It’s clearly a sensitive topic for him, if he still doesn’t like to think about it 13 years later.

“What’s in our armoire right now?” … “What about the blanket my mother made me that’s tucked back on the top shelf?” 

Iron Flame (Chapter 55)

So Xaden’s mother made him a blanket. This is where the main inconsistency in her character that I noticed happens. I personally have never made a blanket, but I knitted a scarf once and that took a very long time, and a blanket is much bigger than that. It shows she clearly cared about him (of course she did, he’s her son) and is a gesture that got me thinking—are these the actions of someone who would abandon their 10 year old son? I don’t think so.

The fact that the blanket is tucked away at the back of the armoire again emphasises the point that this is still a sensitive topic for Xaden.

“Where’s your mother?” He startles but quickly masks the reflex.“No one talks about her,” I continue. “There are no paintings, no references to her being at the Calldyr executions. Nothing. It’s like you were hatched and not born.” The moment stretches between us. “She left when I was young. Their marriage contract said an heir had to survive to the age of ten, and then she was free to go, which is what she did. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.” His voice sounds like he dragged it across broken glass.

Iron Flame (Chapter 58)

First of all the “hatched and not born” line is clearly foreshadowing for something, because I’m fairly sure there have been references made to wyvern hatching and I just think that’s such a particular phrasing to use.

Secondly, it doesn’t surprise me at all that there are no paintings or references remaining after she left. If Fen Riorson is anything like his son (and from what we’ve seen I think he is) I don’t think he’s the type to yearn for someone or admit to missing them after they leave. Xaden says that his mother cut off all contact when she left, so it makes sense that they’d remove all references to her, although I do think there is something else going on there (but it’s 1am right now and I don’t have the energy to work out what).

So to conclude, I don’t think that someone who hand-makes a blankets for their child would abandon their 10 year old son, cutting off all contact completely. I don’t think Xaden’s mother would do that. Even if she left Xaden’s father, surely she’d still keep in touch with Xaden? I don’t think she left willingly, and even if she wasn’t physically forced to leave I think there must’ve been some reason she did what she did, other than just being free to—either because she literally had no choice or because she was trying to protect Xaden from something, most likely something to do with the venin. I can’t remember if Rebecca Yarros confirmed it or not, but I’m certain she will play a large role in the later books (and definitely die at some point but that’s a different thing entirely). I think she knows something about the venin or about the dragons. I also think she’s running from something, and that there’s a reason she hasn’t tried to get in touch with Xaden in over a decade, not just indifference to his existence. Maybe Fen told her to stay away. Maybe she knew too much. Maybe it was something else entirely.

I do think Xaden knows more than he told Violet about this situation as well, or at least suspects something. 

Anyway, if you made it this far THANK YOU and have some cookies 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪 I’m gonna go to sleep now

[nelsaqift]

Would you talk about the “magic-ing someone out of existence” thing from that one bird in the storm comic. Actually, Tango vastness backstory in general? Anything you’d see fit to answer if you want. The vibes I’m getting of him and the open sky and storms and the lightning strike? Really fun!

tango’s connection to the vast is quite vague, to be fair, and mostly has to do with the “fear of insignificance in the vastness of the universe” aspect of it. he’s been marked by it via a lightning strike (to say it was inspired by mike crew would be an understatement) as a young adult struggling to define himself. neither him nor jimmy are really avatars in the commonly agreed upon sense, though if you’re familiar with TMA you most likely know how much discourse there is in the fandom when it comes to clearly defining what even makes an avatar, so do with that what you will. all i can add is that tango doesn’t know of the entities, or what the strange feelings he experiences when staring out at open fields mean

he doesn’t think much of what was, unbeknownst to him, getting marked by a fear entity beyond human comprehension. he treats it like a funny story/great conversation starter, and he found jimmy’s absolute terror upon learning that information particularly amusing. and a little sweet

as for the comic. not being an avatar doesn’t necessarily mean no “powers”, as it were, just that the person hasn’t sacrificed their humanity to fully align with whichever entity. what tango’s referring to is an accidental use of such “power” - during an argument, he unknowingly (and not fully of his own accord) sends a person to what i can only, very eloquently call the “endless sky dimension”. he doesn’t know what happened, what he did to this person, his brain sort of refuses to accept that any of what he just saw was real. all he knows is that there used to be a person in front of him, there isn’t anymore, and that it’s somehow his fault. him not being aware of the existence of the dread powers is why he describes what he can only assume was someone’s death the way that he does. plus he thinks that telling the story accurately wouldn’t help his case at all, considering jimmy probably already thinks he’s a lunatic (spoiler alert he doesn’t) 

[cripplecharacters]

Hello!! I’m a fic writer and have had the idea of giving one of the characters I’m writing for prosopagnosia. Within the canon, he mistakes the protagonist for someone he used to know (the protagonist is unable to correct him) and doesn’t realize his mistake until much later on, where he then comments that the two aren’t actually similar at all, in reference to their personalities. He’s also known to refer to people with notable visual traits, at least in the online circles I’ve run in.

I have a couple smaller questions in regards to how I should proceed:

Is it reasonable for him not to have been aware that the way he perceives faces is different?

Would it be incorrect to have him identify others by facial features? Not in the sense of “the one with the short nose” or anything, but “this one has red eyes” and “that one has a scar”. Something easily picked out on the face. Would those be identifiable traits at all?

My fic isn’t meant to have much of an overarching plot, and it’s just supposed to be funny/slice of life. This character is important though and will be a consistent presence. What jokes might my characters make, what jokes should I avoid making, and what jokes is the character going to hear the most and get sick of real quick?

Thank you for your ask! Whether or not he realizes he can’t recognize faces depends on both his character and the severity of his prosopagnosia, as it can range from difficulty differentiating faces to being unable to distinguish faces from objects. From the experience of myself and most people I know with prosopagnosia he’d probably just assume he’s bad with faces and not think any deeper than that, but it isn’t a universal experience.

It's also fine if he recognizes people by unique facial features! Despite not being able to picture someone's face he could try to remember key aspects of someone’s face like a prominent mole or a crooked nose, though I agree something like ‘short nose’ is too vague. The more unique and prominent, the easier he’ll have remembering it (to clarify when I say ‘remembering’ I mean remembering that they have that feature, not being able to picture it). He can also try recognizing people by clothes they always wear or unique hairstyles, though it can get confusing if someone decides to change their hair or he meets a stranger with the same hat as his one friend. The easiest way for me to recognize someone is by their voice or calling their name and waiting for them to respond.

Have a nice day!

Mod Rot

Hi!

Usually I identify people by hairstyle or specific articles of clothing, although unique traits like a scar or red eyes would certainly help as confirmation! (Of course, personality as well--but speaking about visual traits, this is what I look for.)

I hate when people change their hairstyles, it makes them totally unrecognizable for a while. Often I can figure out who someone is a few minutes into a conversation, maybe shorter for people I know really well, but changes to big recognizable features throw me off. (Don't ask how many times I've been in conversations with people and had No Idea who I was talking to...)

So yes, it's realistic to go off facial features, although non-face features may be more common as an identifier. It's also realistic to mistake someone for another person entirely. I often think people look alike and they just are similar heights with similar hairstyles to non-face-blind people.

Joke-wise, I make fun of myself for not recognizing people. It's embarrassing, sure, but in hindsight it makes a good story. I don't like being teased about it, it makes me feel bad or inadequate that I can't recognize people. But when I do it? Funny story!

Mod Rock

Hello,

As someone with a similar condition (I've always heard it referred to as face blindness,) I use a few different things to recognize people;

Glasses. A lot of people I know have unique glasses and I use those to recognize them. I know this person because they have blue, red, and gold glitter in their glasses, and I know this person because she has electric teal wire-frame glasses.

Hair. This only works when people have an unusual hair colour or style. If someone has one side of their head buzzed, I recognize them by that. If someone has very long red hair, I recognize them by that.

I also look at distinct facial features. I know someone who wears red contacts and I recognize them by that. Something like a scar or very distinct facial features can help me recognize someone.

Voices. I'm not excellent at recognizing voice but I can recognize a distinct vocal quirk, like a Louisiana accent.

Context is also important. The biggest thing I struggle with is recognizing people out of their usual context. I struggle to recognize most of my old classmates outside of high school and school-related functions like graduation ceremonies. If I see an old classmate or even a family member in the drive-thru, it's hard to recognize them unless they have something distinct about them or I know them really well (such as if they were in my friend group.)

And then there are little things I pick up on that help me recognize people I wouldn't otherwise recognize. I work in a drive-thru so I can recognize a lot of people by their orders or by the cars they drive. I can recognize a few people based on their names when they order on the mobile app- if they order and don't use the app, it takes me a minute. I can recognize most of the regulars because they usually know my name and make conversation.

And yes, like you mentioned, personalities.

I didn't know I struggled to perceive and recognize faces for a very long time, I thought everyone was the same way. If it had never been pointed out to me, I probably still wouldn't know that I need to do things differently. It's not something that's easy to notice without outside help telling you that no, actually, most people can recognize people they know or even people they've met a few times.

So yes, he sounds very realistic based on my experience. He sounds like he has it pretty severely. And, by the way, the same situation happens to me all the time. And it's extremely embarrassing when it happens.

I make a lot of "I barely recognized you!" jokes with people who know I have face blindness. They aren't extremely funny but it's my way of saying "You've changed something about your appearance" or "Wow, it's been a long time!" I don't know of many face blindness jokes either, it's not something we often have the opportunity to joke about. If he draws people, he might make a joke about "Yeah, this probably isn't the best career" or "I know, don't quit my day job." Or he could do something kind of like Toph Beifong and react to someone else's art with "Don't worry, I think it looks exactly like the person." Maybe if they're looking for someone and he points out a random person like "Hey, there they are!" only for the group to realize he's messing with them?

Maybe you could repurpose some blind jokes and make them about "I can't recognize people" instead of about "I can't see"?

Mod Aaron

[intimidating-fettuccine]

“I’ve also said before, he’s only TRULY happy about 30% of the time. He’s usually feeling quite cold and detached because of his trauma.” “Whenever someone starts to get too suspicious though, he’s quick to amp up his masking to try and relax them and get them to stop trying to dig too deep into him.” Oh! I wasn’t aware of this before, but I find it quite interesting. I was wondering how this would influence or be reflected when in a relationship with reader? I hope this makes sense, I’m not sure how to describe what I want to ask properly.

Those are mostly references to much older headcanons so it doesn’t surprise me you might not be aware.

I think Toby has his happy go mask up a lot when he first meets Y/N. He doesn’t want to scare you away, and he doesn’t want you to hate him or dislike him because he feels so negatively about his emotionless side that he thinks people won’t like him. His trauma is one of the most private things about himself, and he prefers to keep it hidden.

I think the longer you date him though and pay more attention to him, the more obvious his smiles start to seek fake and the mask begins to crack. I think you’d have to date him for a good year and a half before he starts to let the mask slip off around you, and it’ll take even longer before he truly lets you in to see him when he’s not masking at all. It takes a LOT of trust for him to allow that.

I also don’t want it to seem as though he’s lying to you when he’s masking, though. He never explicitly lies about anything he tells you, he just tries to seem much happier and bubbly and air-headed than he actually is. He might dodge questions or change subjects, but he doesn’t like to lie to people. He just has a hard time revealing what he’s actually like.

Although I’ve said before sometimes when his trauma hits a high and his mental health plummets he has times where he’ll go days to weeks without talking to anyone, so you’d find out sooner or later that his trauma runs much, much deeper than it appears to. You just have to be patient and wait for him to reveal to you why.

I think if you can fully earn his trust though, you’d be one of the only people that Toby truly let’s in and goes to for comfort. If he gets to the point where he can shut off his mask around you completely and still feel comfortable, you’re pretty much the most important person to him in the world.

[trans-androgyne]

Sorry if this is an irritating ask or anything, but could you please explain to me what people find wrong about the term transandrophobia? As far as I’m aware it’s literally just a word to describe trans men’s oppression. I’m not against the idea that it might have something wrong with it (as a transmasc person), but through all this fighting I’ve never once seen someone clearly explain what the problem is.

I’ve seen people claim that transmascs keep throwing transfems under the bus, but the only thing I’ve ever seen is actually the OPPOSITE way around, and only when I go searching for it (but that might just be because I make an effort to keep my dash free of that kind of thing) again I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, I just… don’t quite understand all this.

Sorry abt this rambly ask, I’m just tired and frustrated and I HATE that we’ve been pitted against each other

I will do by best to genuinely present and respond to the main arguments I have heard made against using the term. Apologies in advance for the length.

The most common in my experience is that “androphobia/misandry doesn’t exist,” or “men aren’t oppressed for being men,” based on the terms transandrophobia and its origin, transmisandry. It feels like a non-sequitur to me, completely bypassing the actual meaning of the term. Some people do include androphobia or misandry in their definition of the term, but many more don’t and just use it to describe the intersection of transphobia and misogyny in the lives of transmascs or even just “transphobia against transmascs.” I personally do believe androphobia exists in a literal sense—the fear of men that has serious consequences—but not in the way they mean it. They are attempting to paint us as MRAs, but nobody who gets any eyes on them using the term has ever argued that women oppress men as a class. MRAs are antifeminist, and the transandrophobia conversation is very much a feminist one.

The simplest is just that transmascs just “don’t need a word” to talk about their oppression. Our experiences are called “just transphobia” or “just misogyny” based on whatever they think applies most in the moment. Our theorizing is painted as useless infighting or just being jealous that trans women have a word to describe their oppression. I vehemently disagree with this one, I think everyone deserves language to describe their experiences. I think it’s impossible to ignore the way that both transphobia and misogyny interact to affect us in a new way (the very definition of intersectionality), and that we deserve to recognize and describe that intersection. Even the coiner of the word “transmisogyny” appears to agree with us on this.

Other people will focus on the term’s perceived origins. They frequently call the person who changed the term “transmisandry” to “transandrophobia” a “lesbophobic transmisogynist” and rape fetishist. From everything I’ve been able to put together on the matter, it seems to be that they’re referring to him having engaged in someone else’s detrans kinks as a sex worker on a private blog. I’ve heard from others he may have harassed people, absolutely cannot verify that. To me, it feels like another case of accusing trans people with kinks others find unsavory of being a sexual predator/sex pest, which people generally recognize as transphobic. In any case, even if every single part of their outrage was true, I do not think the behavior of a person who didn’t even come up with the ideas means that transandrophobia theory is inherently transmisogynistic.

In regard to “throwing trans women under the bus,” I think a lot of those ideas come from oppositional sexism. It’s assumed that what we’re saying is true of men must be the opposite for women. Trans women, including the woman who coined “transmisogyny,” have been using trans men’s perceived “opposite” experiences to prove their points for many years. They try to make a claim for transmisogyny by saying trans men don’t experience similar issues (violence, sexualization, demonization, safety issues, misogyny, trouble passing). But the reality is, trans men do experience those issues — some to a lesser extent, some in a different form, some just less visibly due to our chronic erasure — and have other issues of their own that trans women don’t face (like abortion rights issues). An attack on the idea that trans men have it easier is seen as an attack on transmisogyny as a concept. But it isn’t!! Transmisogyny is so blatant and oppressive of a system that it doesn’t need to compare itself to transandrophobia/trans men’s issues to have ground to stand on. Trans people are all harmed by transphobia in different, complex ways and none of us have gendered privilege.

Very few people engage with the actual meat of transandrophobia theory. We have really bad optics, I’ll give them that. It’s hard to like a word with “androphobia” in it, talking about men’s issues puts people on edge due to MRAs, and there are TERFs actively trying to recruit us. (The last part is used against us when it shouldn’t be, they try to recruit transmascs of all stripes for detransitioning and are only using us in particular because so many transfems have been awful to us because of the term. They are trying to widen that divide while most of us discussing transandrophobia are trying to close it.)

We (people who use “transandrophobia”) are often characterized as a unified movement that hates trans women (like in that post that blew up in the wake of predstrogen’s banning). We are not a movement any more than “transmisogyny” or “exorsexism” are. We don’t all believe the same things, the only thing we share in common is that we feel transmascs have a specific kind of oppression and deserve a word to describe it. And, obviously, we are doing our best not to perpetuate (trans)misogyny! The number of disclaimers I have seen people put on their post to make it exceedingly obvious to the piss on the poor website that they’re not talking about trans women is absolutely astounding. I’m sure our circles do have some transmisogyny in them, everywhere does! We do our best to combat it and I know my personal spaces have a couple transfems in them that help keep us in check. If we were being genuinely transmisogynistic, I would ask people to actually point to what they’re seeing that’s harmful instead of just dismissing all of us as evil bigots.

I think what contributes to the backlash the most is simply that trans men do not fit into current understandings of feminism well. People have gotten it into their heads that men are gender oppressors and not gender oppressed — which doesn’t shake out so well when you put being trans into the equation. I grew up hearing “ew men are gross” “I hate men” “kill all men” sentiments due to being in LGBT spaces. Some people really, really do not want to let go of the idea that men are bad and icky and dangerous and women are good and pure and safe, especially when it benefits them as non-men. Many transmascs themselves have internalized the idea that they are gender oppressors, traitors to feminism, more likely to be dangerous/predatory/misogynistic, and take up too much space because they are men/mascs. I sure felt like that before finding these conversations! I sincerely think that as we grow our transfeminism and heal from our gender essentialism a little more, this rhetoric will be left in the past.

[should-know-better]

Thinking about Bad Habits

Have we ever properly considered the lyrics to Bad Habits? I mean, we know the story about how the song came about from the Zane Lowe interview:

Miles: Al had that bass line.

Zane: Hell of a bass line

Alex: I played that for about 45 minutes and he did the thing that ends up being the song; and probably didn’t repeat himself at all… Bad Habits, Large Rabbits,

Miles: Blue Door [laughing]

Alex: He could have done that for like 72 hours…

And then James helped them to edit it down to make the song. But when you actually look at what they used - whew 😳 (!)

I have googled some of the definitions to double check the expressions and I don’t believe for one second that naughty Miles wasn’t aware of these alternative meanings.

“Bad habits” - okay, this is a negative behaviour

“Sick puppy” - in my naivety I originally pictured a poorly dog, but this isn’t a bad habit. It is actually ‘a person who is crazy, cruel or disgusting’ so yes, it fits.

“Thigh high” - if you’re kneeling in front of someone and they’re standing, where would you be looking?

“Knee deep” - part of the phrase ‘knee deep in trouble’ which if repeated could be a bad habit (and also ties in with the previous line)

Skipping to:

“Deep trouble” - see knee deep.

“Red lollipop” - could be a sexual connotation for sucking cock

“Pale faces” - this line had me most confused. I would have thought flushed faces made more sense. Could refer to our Northern boys having pale skin that doesn’t tan. You can become pale from fear or worry, but this doesn’t really fit. Urban Dictionary says it’s ejaculating in the hand, then slapping with that hand!!! Make of that what you will!

“Delicious” - refer back to Red lollipop (!)

I personally think that the lines:

“Should have known little girl that you’d do me wrong / Should have known by the way you were showing off”

were added later to make it more in line with record company policy, ie heterosexual.

Then we’re left with Alex singing, “c’est sur le bout de ma langue” (translated to ‘it’s on the tip of my tongue’) - which again could refer back to the ‘red lollipop.’

Finally,

“Do you want to hold hands? / Should we get back down? / Do you want a slow dance?”

These lines may or may not have been part of Miles’ original freestyling, we’ll never know, but in other words, ‘do you want to do something romantic or shall we carry on having sex?’

So there you have it. Two blokey mates are together creating a song, and Miles thinks about these images and sings them to Alex. Not gay at all. And these are the bits they use! Imagine how filthy the rest of the 45 minutes could have been; Alex has said Miles is no innocent! Obviously the lyrics could be about sex with a girlfriend but hmmmm - why is that then a bad habit?

Apologies if this is just me interpreting the lyrics this way with a dirty mind. Also apologies if I’m stating the obvious 😉. Any alternative thoughts are welcome. x

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Could you talk about the designs Viv makes? I don't see many posts talking about this and I wanted some design tips, I intend to post my own cartoon designs (I just don't know when) and I wanted some tips <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

Hey hey!! Id love to talk about designs!

I actually answered this entire question and then uh…. Tumblr deleted my draft so let me try to redo all this lmao

Vivzie has a problem with bodytypes I’ve noticed. Almost all of her cast is insanely skinny and the only two “plus-size” characters I can think of are Millie and Mimzy. Meanwhile, Angel Dust, Vox, Stolas, & Alastor are a few very skinny characters I can think of off the top of my head.

For the best example, I’m going to be using Vox for now. Here is my Vox design next to his canon appearance

They don’t look too different right? This is still easily identifiable as Vox because his main characteristics are there; stupid little hat, tv head, thats about it.

My design also keeps elements of his suit with the stripes and shoulder pads, though in my design his body is a bit wider and his shoulders + waist make him look more commanding and intimidating while still maintaining a sense of professionalism. As for his canon design, he definitely looks sketchy, but he doesn’t really give me that commanding sense of popularity or authority that I feel an overlord should have, especially one with such a wide range of influence as Vox. His canon design looks top heavy and a little pathetic in that “he was born in a wet cardboard box all alone” way. Don’t get me wrong, a small waist can do wonders for a design, but when your designs start to look like… this

I think you might have a problem.

Now, I know I am nowhere near the best character designer in the world, but I have designed my fair share and I think I have enough experience to flatter myself a little.

This is a very simple design choice to make. Body types are probably some of the most intricate and interesting parts of a person in my opinion, and with a lineup like this where everyone looks more or lest the same from the torso down, it’s kind of a dead and sad looking cast, and not in the intended way.

I’m aware my designs are very detailed and wouldn’t be easy to animate with my style, but it’s very easy to draw extra body types with a style fit for TV.

Gravity Falls is a great example of stylised bodies and also using them to build personality. By looking at these characters you can generally tell what their base personality is probably like right? You can do the same thing to an extent with the Hazbin Cast, but all of their designs get muddled into the other. Can you even tell where half of these people are positioned in this screenshot

It’s so pink and red im going to start seeing green when I look away. There are so many colours, use them!!!! You can still slap a red overlay over it and make it “look like hell” or whatever, but you’re still gonna have more variety.

Here’s my body/fur references for Angel and Husk. They are almost entirely opposite to eachother but you can probably get an idea for how they are based on colour and shape. I recommend studying other TV shows and things like anime or movies to see how body types and colours impact character design, but general things I always think of are, like I’ve said, body type, personality, colour, and silhouette. Silhouette is a bit harder to pin since a character can have a very recognizable silhouette and still not be a good design, but honestly to me as long as you can tell which character is which from silhouette you’re good to go on that front.

- Generally just don’t reuse the same colour palette over and over (heres some of my hazbin colours)

- Give diversity in shapes when you can and when it benefits the design

- Try to show their personality through their clothes and pose

- Don’t be afraid to add little physical or personality details that other people might not notice, a good design should keep you interested in tiny details like that or surprise you later on

- Pay attention to what would and wouldn’t make sense (ex. A character that doesn’t like modern fashion wearing modern fashion)

Im not the best at explaining all of this but I hope you could grasp even just a tiny bit of an idea from this! At the end of the day as long as you’re having fun and not actively harming people with the designs then you should be good to go

[sleepless-in-southlands]

You're Telling Me Lies (I'm Telling You Myths)

Ao3

Summary: As a mob boss in Heremita, Scar's life was an inherently dangerous one. Surviving as long as he had required a certain level of risk-awareness, and the ability to make choices that would prioritize his safety as much as they did his power. So as to why he kept ending up spending time with another mob's right-hand, one who he was fairly certain would happily kill him at a moment's notice… well, Scar was still working on rationalizing that. Content: AU - Mob bosses, open-ended; flirting/threatening/who knows, trust issues, myths, flower language, poor communication, the rituals are intricate and right now that's not helping them ok Pairings: Fruity scarian (the plot is that they won't admit it), background also-fruity-but-not-admitting-it grumbo, platonic scar + bdubs Notes: Part six of the Bloody Fruits au

~

“Just buy a second bed.”

“We generally try to avoid staying overnight. A second bed encourages the opposite.”

“It doesn’t seem as though having only one bed is serving as much of a deterrent.” Grian pointed out, glancing at Scar. “Is it a cost issue? I’m sure the South could afford to supply its ally with another bed.”

Scar huffed, feigning insult. “A cost issue? Have you never seen the goods of the Glass Empire?”

“Goods?” Grian echoed questioningly, staring at Scar in a way that meant nothing but, as of late, hadn’t once failed at getting under Scar’s skin in the most maddening of ways.

“Gems and jewels and precious metals? All of exquisite taste and high cost?” Grian’s expression didn’t change, not that Scar truly expected it to. “You’ve been to at least one of my shops before, you know they’re jewelry stores.”

“Rocks don’t interest me much.” Grian said with a shrug, very purposefully adjusting his amethyst tie clip. Scar rolled his eyes.

“Alright then, what does interest you?”

“My work.”

Scar waited for Grian to say something else, chuckling when it became clear he wasn’t going to. “That’s all? Just your work?”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“What about- I don’t know- your employer?”

“Mr. Eris is rather heavily related to my work.”

“You know what I’m referring to.” “I believe what you’re referring to comes from a time where I was… less than rested, and you were nearly dead.” Grian dodged neatly, ever so slightly tilting his head in mock confusion. “So I don’t know if it’s a trustworthy reference.”

Get an inch, lose a mile Scar thought as he sighed, ignoring the smirk Grian technically wasn’t making but was certainly present. “Still. Nothing else?”

“You know my profession. Would you prefer I not give it my full attention?”

“I mean your out-of-work hobbies.” A blank stare. “Oh, I know you know what a hobby is.”

“My hobbies are also work related.” Grian stated with another shrug.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Are you trying to tell me, what, you don’t do anything except work? If it doesn’t have anything to do with being a right-hand, it doesn’t have anything to do with you either?”

Scar’s tone was teasing, non-serious; if Grian wanted to keep his hobbies to himself, Scar wasn’t going to pry, but he was going to poke fun. Grian’s reaction, however, was oddly somber. His face shifted minutely, but instead of scoffing or rolling his eyes, his lips downturned into something that could be read as rueful.

“My job is my priority.” He said flatly, the statement shadowed by a hidden meaning Scar could sense but not make out, before turning away from Scar to organize supplies at the back of the bar.

Frowning, Scar crossed his arms over the bartop. He had been at the End Crystal for about thirty minutes, having originally come to talk to Mumbo only to learn the head of the South was ‘busy.’

(“He’s busy with paperwork at the moment,” Grian had told him, which either meant that Mumbo wasn’t there or Grian was forcing him to rest, because never once had Scar seen Mumbo prioritize paperwork over anything, “but I can pass a message if you want.”)

Scar, whose business wasn’t quite worthy of leaving a message over, had opted to chat with Grian instead. Whether or not Grian would have entertained him in usual circumstances was moot, the right-hand having briefly traded his role as overbearing casino security guard for that of bartender, making it difficult for him to escape Scar. The only bartender employed for that portion of the day shift had called out sick, and since the End Crystal was rarely busy enough in the daylight hours to need more than one, they were short-staffed. The next shift worker wasn’t set to arrive for a few hours, and with no extras on stand-by (they had yet to fill the most recently vacated position, and Scar was starting to doubt they ever would- not for the first time, he considered seeing if he could convince them to let him handle it on their behalf), the options had come down to Grian filling in for a bit or closing the bar during business hours. Apparently, Grian bartending was the lesser evil.

Not that Scar was convinced it was any sort of evil. Grian had mostly been sorting and putting away supplies, a task he carried out with familiar ease even while talking with Scar, and the few drinks he had mixed he had done so with deft and clever movements. It was obvious Grian was experienced with working behind a bar, not that he was going to directly acknowledge that to Scar.

(“You’ve worked as a bartender before?” Scar had asked, watching as Grian flipped a bottle in hand and poured it into a metal shaker, arm rising and lowering gracefully as he did so.

“I have more important things to tend to than our drink selection.” Grian had responded, non-committal, as he lidded the container and began to shake it. The ice within the shaker started audibly cracking right away, slamming against itself and the metal around it, tossed about with the strength of arms built by cracking bones. Scar told himself he wasn’t thinking about that.

“You���re pouring drinks as skillfully as you break fingers.” Scar pointed out, earning an amused eyebrow raise from Grian as he did just that, a dark gold liquid spilling out of the shaker into the tall glass he had put onto the bartop beforehand. “You clearly know what you’re doing.”

“Interested in what I can do with my hands, Mr. Chronos?” Was Grian’s only reply, detached and cheeky, leaving Scar to pretend he was glaring at Grian when he was really watching his fingers flex as he smoothly slid the drink down to the patron that had ordered it.)

Grian had moved back to the counter area by the time Scar reemerged from his thoughts, stacking drink napkins underneath the lip of the bar, a silent indication that Scar could keep talking if he wanted to. Scar grinned at the gesture. Even if Grian was playing a passive role in the conversation at best, and even if he was working the entire time, and even if he was most certainly going to abandon Scar the moment he was no longer working the bar, Grian did want to talk to Scar.

Not that it mattered to Scar whether or not Grian wanted to talk to him. Or, it did, but only because it was important for Scar to be on good terms with all his organizational allies, like he was with Mumbo. But not exactly like with Mumbo, obviously, not that he would necessarily be against- wait-

By his Empire, Scar was starting to sound as bad as Mumbo. 

“No hobbies, and the only job you'll admit to working is this one. You're a difficult man to small talk with, Mr. Penemue.” Scar finally said, using the addressing conventions he usually protested in the same way Grian had shoved all the bar knives into a drawer when Scar sat down- automatically. Even Mumbo was only ‘Mr. Eris’ around other people, and Scar wasn't trying to antagonize Grian into using his name. “What can I ask you?”

“You can ask me anything.”

“I thought we weren't using weak moments against each other.”

Grian chuckled, and Scar took it as adequate compensation for having his own wit turned against him. “Playing fair isn't really in our mission statement.”

“Not even for a friend of the casino?”

“Usually? No. But I suppose I can make an exception, seeing as you’re our only one.” Grian looked up from his counter work, shifting his gaze to Scar. “I’ll answer one reasonable question. ‘Reasonable’ is determined at my discretion. How’s that for small talk?”

“It feels a bit more like one of your casino games.” Scar replied, propping his chin against one of his hands. “Since I’m guessing that asking you what counts as ‘reasonable’ is a quick way to end the chat in your favour.”

That pulled an actual smile out of Grian, as if in delight. “You catch on quick.”

“Like I said, you’re difficult to small talk with. Have to be careful not to miss the opportunities I get.” Scar returned Grian’s smile. Thinking of a question to ask Grian wasn’t hard, and choosing might’ve taken longer if it weren’t for Scar having a particular one that had been pressing into the back of his mind for longer than he felt could be considered normal. “What’s with the name thing?”

“How elegantly put.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Grian acknowledged. “But do you think that’s a reasonable question, Mr. Chronos?”

“You’re the one who decides that, Mr. Penemue.” Scar over-stressed Grian’s name that time, metaphorically gesturing at his point. “But for the record, yes, I do think it’s a reasonable question. I deserve an answer for all the trouble you put me through for it.”

Grian moved to rest his arms on the bar across from Scar, leaning closer to him as he did so, tone amused as he repeated, “Trouble?”

“I’m not the one who’s agreed to answer a question here.”

“No. You make the mistake of doing it for free.” There was an inflection to Grian’s voice that suggested he was teasing Scar. Scar did his very best to not press closer to the counter, to Grian. “But yes, your answer- it’s more respectful to refer to casino guests by their last names, and you know how the End Crystal prides itself on treating its guests as respectfully as possible.”

“Don’t lie, I know you don’t respect me.” Scar joked. “Besides, I don’t come here to empty my wallet. No need to bamboozle me with formalities.”

“You’re still a guest.” Grian said simply, pausing for a moment before adding, “For the sake of business, last names are also more professional. First names can get… personal.”

Silence, for a long minute, as Grian busied himself with refilling a bowl of peanuts and Scar attempted to un-busy himself with watching a mental replay of every time Grian had called him by his first name. He could count the instances on one hand, theoretically quick to run through, but his mind caught on the most recent, layered with thoughts of touch and personal and close.

“That explains me then, but what about Mr. Eris?” Scar asked, pivoting hard into the familiar territory of poking at Grian and Mumbo's relationship. “Hate how I phrase it all you like, I'm not wrong when I say things between you two are certainly personal.”

“Mr. Eris and I are close in a purely professional manner,” Grian lied like clockwork, “and technically that's a second question.”

“It’s a subquestion expanding on my original question, it’s allowed.” Scar argued, like it mattered, like they were in some sort of negotiations, like Grian wouldn’t just stop playing their little game the second he felt like it.

“It’s cheating.”

“So now we’re playing fair?”

Another smile. “Of course not.”

“Then please, Mr. Penemue, answer the subquestion.”

“If I must.” Grian’s attempt at sounding put out was unsuccessful in face of the fact that Grian never said anything he didn’t want to, never disclosed anything without first carefully thinking it through. Case in point: the slight pause in consideration before he spoke again, hidden behind more bar busywork. “You are aware that me and Mr. Eris used to… work elsewhere, I believe.”

Mumbo, panicked, fingers digging into his own chest, convinced old rivals had poisoned him; Grian, staring at Scar’s neck, talking about the right-hand who had tried to kill him, as if he knew something Scar hadn’t said. “I am, yes.”

“This line of work can follow you anywhere,” Grian said casually, conversationally, and if Scar wasn’t watching him so closely he might’ve missed the quick way Grian’s eyes darted around them, “can you blame us for being careful?”

“Never.” Scar replied, a little too quickly if the raise of Grian’s eyebrows was anything to go by. Scar cleared his throat, producing another ‘subquestion’ to distract Grian with. “Have you ever considered other options? Aliases, codenames, those sorts of things?”

“We like our names,” Grian answered as he tidied the already more-than-neat bar space, “and codenames aren’t great for professional interactions.”

“So you have codenames that you only use in non-professional circumstances?” Scar asked with a smirk. “Y’know, I think they have a different term for those. Starts with a ‘p,’ ends with an ‘etnames-’”

“Purely professional, Mr. Chronos.” Grian repeated, tone flat but not necessarily annoyed. “And I never said we use codenames, merely that they would be impractical for business purposes if we did.”

Scar huffed a laugh. “I take it you won’t be telling me whether or not you two do use codenames?”

“Observant as ever.”

“I try.” Scar quipped back, conversation briefly lapsing past that. Scar had already passed his allotted small-talk-questions quota, but Grian had yet to stop talking to him, and the End Crystal’s atmosphere had Scar wanting to push his luck. “I’m also guessing you won’t tell me if you have codenames with anyone else?”

“If you have a point you want to make, you may as well get right to it.” Grian replied, sounding curious despite the way he cut Scar’s dramatics to the quick.

“The point is maybe we should have codenames. For each other. Since that’s the only time, I imagine, I’ll ever get to know any of yours.”

Grian cocked his head to the side. “Not a minute ago you were implying something very… personal about codenames. Unsubtly, I might add.”

“Codewords, then.” Scar switched to, most certainly not blushing, because he refused to keep allowing his teasing to be turned back on him more effectively than he himself had employed it. “A type of confirmation without being so ‘personal.’ Come on, throw a dog a bone.”

Grian didn’t immediately respond, not that Scar expected him to. Scar had decided the most likely outcome for his conversational gamble was Grian taking his time to prepare a truly devastating remark, one that would then force Scar to flee the casino and make the difficult decision between going back to his base of operations and being ridiculed by Bdubs, or getting shot in enemy territory.

Before Scar could get too deep into thinking through which situation he’d be in more trouble over, Grian picked up a rag, using the excuse of wiping down the bar to lean close to Scar, speaking quietly. “And what would you propose our codewords be?”

“Hmm… let me think…” Scar did his best to sound like he was drawing out his answer on purpose, and not because he didn’t expect to make it that far, “They should share a theme, something easy to bring up in everyday conversation.”

“You’ve really thought this through.” Grian commented, making it clear that he knew Scar was making it up as he went. “Shall we choose each other’s words, then? So we don’t forget them.”

“That’s a great idea. Care to go first?”

“You insult the End Crystal’s hospitality. I insist you pick first.”

“I doubt ‘hospitality’ has anything to do with it.” Scar mumbled, ignoring the professional smile Grian flashed in response and casting his gaze around his immediate surroundings, looking for ideas.

Anything relating to casinos and gambling would be too obvious, so most of the scenery was out from the start. Liquor wouldn’t be quite as conspicuous, but Scar didn’t care for the idea of assigning Grian a cocktail as his codeword. It couldn’t be anything as common as ‘chair’ or ‘floor’ either; the codeword couldn’t be so unordinary as to make it jarring to bring up, but if it was too ordinary, it would be of no use.

Scar twisted in his seat, looking away from Grian. The space adjacent to the bar was filled with a cluster of tall tables, giving patrons a place to sip their drinks and chat in between games. The centerpiece of each table was a tall golden vase holding an elegant, colourful bouquet- tasteful eye candy that was nice to look at without distracting from the End Crystal’s more tempting splendors. Oh, yes, that would do nicely.

Without a word, Scar slipped off his barstool, walked to the nearest empty table, and picked up the vase on top of it. Turning back towards the bar, he found Grian watching him, having paused his work to focus on Scar with an intensity others would likely be concerned by. Scar took it in literal stride, returning to his seat and setting the vase down on the bar between them, pushed enough to the side it didn’t block their vision.

“Flowers?” Grian asked neutrally, still watching as Scar ran his fingers through the bunch. After a few seconds, Scar stopped, fingers curling around the stem of one flower in particular, swiftly pulling it out from the rest of the bouquet.

Taking advantage of the fact that Grian was still leaning over the bar, Scar tilted forward, reaching out and tucking the purple sprig behind Grian’s ear. “Lilac.” Scar corrected, settling back in his seat and admiring the way the flowers seemed to curve around Grian’s head like a half-crown. “How’s that for a word?”

Once again, there was no immediate response from Grian, but the silence came with the uncomfortable fact that Scar hadn’t expected it. He had put a flower in Grian’s hair, for End’s sake, he had expected- again- to be ruthlessly yet efficiently quipped out of existence, or perhaps even get his wrist broken as punishment for putting it so near to Grian.

(A voice that sounded unfortunately similar to Bdubs in the back of his mind asked why, then, did you even put the flower behind his ear in the first place? Technically unable to lie to himself, but certainly willing to try, Scar put the thought aside for later consideration.)

Instead, however, Grian wasn’t doing anything, acting almost as though he had been frozen in place. His expression was the one he wore most commonly around the End Crystal, professional but meaningless, like he wasn’t quite sure how to react and had ended up on a default.

“Mr. Penemue?” Scar said, tentatively, as the silence stretched. Without knowing what was wrong, Scar didn’t know what- if anything- he could do to help, outside of calling Mumbo if Grian proved to be truly unresponsive.

Thankfully, at the prompting of his name, Grian blinked and narrowed his eyes, expression shaping into one of (oddly mild) scrutiny. “You don’t know, do you?”

“I- what?”

Another moment of Grian staring before he closed his eyes, letting out a huff that could have been a laugh, could have been a sigh. Not answering Scar, he turned to the vase Scar had brought over, shifting through the flowers for a moment before plucking one out. Stem pressed tight between his fingers, Grian waited until Scar leaned forward, allowing him to tuck the bright red flower behind Scar’s ear in return.

“Poppy.” Grian said simply, looking as though he knew something Scar didn’t, before he echoed, “How’s that for a word?”

Not for the first time, and almost certainly not the last, Scar found himself envious of Grian's ability to adapt to whatever Scar tried to throw at him, skillfully returning any advantage Scar had held over Grian back to the right-hand tenfold. In his defense, his preparations had been for an outright attack, not… whatever this was classified as.

“Stunning.” Scar said after a moment, the pause dragging out a bit too long. He was still leaning forward. Grian hadn’t moved back. Close. “Er, it’s stunning. Great word.”

Grian stepped forward, the edge of the bar digging into his midsection as he tilted towards Scar, as if staggering, as if tipsy, even with his perfectly professional expression and perfectly steady cadence and perfect-

“Is that all you find stunning, poppy?”

“Well, Mr. Penemue, I do believe I’ve taken up far too much of your time already.” Scar quickly pulled back from Grian like a moth who had finally realized the flame was burning it, the flame himself watching on with no significant reaction. “Have a good day, tell Mr. Eris I’m sorry I missed him!”

Grian watched Scar hurry off, waiting until he had made it to the lobby to sigh. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

A moment later, Mumbo was sliding into Scar’s vacated seat, not looking apologetic in the slightest for his wakeful eavesdropping. “I woke up.”

“You could go back to sleep.”

“Later.” Mumbo glanced to the side as one of the casino’s waiters quickly ducked past him, dropping a drink order on the counter in front of Grian before leaving just as swiftly. Despite their standings in Heremita, Grian and Mumbo didn’t usually have to deal with skittish waitstaff, but the still fresh-in-memory firing of the waiter who had tripped had created a tense atmosphere.

(An overreaction, both Grian and Mumbo had acknowledged in retrospect, not that either had been interested in exploring why they had made it. They had their reasons- Mumbo’s boyfriend and business partner, Grian’s boss and organizational partner- but they knew they were excuses.)

Grian picked up the discarded paper, reading the scrawled order and grabbing the first glass he’d need without looking up. Scar hadn't been wrong in his earlier assumption- the road between the Desert and the South had been a long one, and of the jobs Grian had picked up along the way, bartender had been a favourite.

For a few minutes, Mumbo sat quietly as he watched Grian mix drinks. His own favourite occupation.

“You scared him off.”

“I’m trying to make a point.”

“Is it working?”

“Given he keeps coming back?” Grian carelessly dropped an olive garnish into one of the drinks, frowning at it before he adjusted the stick and wiped off the edge of the glass to correct the slight untidiness. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“Does he not,” Grian leaned forward as soon as he saw Mumbo’s arm moving, making it easy for the mob boss to brush the backs of his fingers past the petals in Grian’s hair, “lilac?” Grian scoffed. “He picked a random flower.”

“It’s accurate, nonetheless.” Mumbo pulled back, allowing Grian to return to his bartending. He moved his hand to the vase beside them, idly tracing the lip. “Yours wasn’t random.”

“I told you, I’m trying to make a point.”

Mumbo’s fingers stilled. He tilted his head, just enough to be noticeable, and Grian didn’t need to be looking at him to know a thread of melancholy had woven its way into his expression. “And you think that will work?”

Grian shuffled the completed drinks off to the side, other hand already reaching for another glass under the bar, ignoring how red the bases looked wherever his fingers pressed into them. “No. I don’t think it will.”

~

“Lilacs and poppies?” Bdubs looked up from the ledgers he had been reviewing to stare at Scar, confused and slightly apprehensive. “You want information on flowers?”

“Yes.” Scar rocked on his feet, tapping his cane for emphasis and balance. Around him, the back offices were bustling with the activity of counting bills and inspecting gemstones. Most of it was legitimate, and only Scar and Bdubs knew all the parts that weren’t. “They came up in conversation while at the End Crystal, and I was simply curious if you knew of anything… note-worthy regarding them.”

Bdubs eyes flicked to the poppy still nestled in Scar’s hair. Scar knew it was far too late to hide the flower, and trying to remove it in the moment would only draw further attention to it, but it was tempting to see if yanking it out of his hair and flinging it across the room would relieve some of the scrutiny being directed at him.

(It wouldn’t, but it was nice to think it would. Scar did miss the days when Bdubs only had to question his decisions when he got himself shot.)

“Flowers aren’t really my area of expertise.” Bdubs pointed out, as though Scar might have forgotten he was a mob boss’s right-hand and not a florist. “I know there's a myth associated with them, but that’s all.”

“A myth?”

“You don't know it?” Scar shook his head. “Well, it doesn't have much to do with the flowers themselves, but it’s supposed to tell how they came to be.”

“And that would be how, exactly?”

Bdubs frowned at Scar. “You’re aware I have actual work to be doing, right?”

Before Bdubs could finish his sentence, Scar leaned over and scooped up one of the ledgers scattered on his desk, holding it open with one hand. He gave it a quick once-over, identifying it as one of their less-than-honest logbooks before he looked back to Bdubs. “You were saying?”

Bdubs sighed before sitting back in his chair, accepting his defeat. “According to the myth, lilacs and poppies were created in a time where gods still ruled over humanity. Every so often, they’d demand a certain number of tributes to fight each other for the gods’ entertainment. Those who died were considered divine sacrifices, and the victor would honour the gods with their glory. Lilac and Poppy were two tributes in the same fight.”

“Ah.” Scar mumbled as he scanned one of the log pages. He did know some myths, after all, and it didn’t take too large of a leap in logic to guess how the named characters would end up correlating to their modern-day flower equivalents.

“The full myth is more detailed, but Lilac and Poppy team up and end up as the last two tributes. Since there can only be one survivor, Poppy offers to allow Lilac to kill them, but Lilac refuses and insists upon a fair final battle. They get one, but,” Bdubs shrugged, “Lilac still wins, and it’s unclear how hard Poppy actually fought back. Lilac, covered in Poppy’s blood, is declared the victor.”

Scar turned a page in the ledger as normally as he could, trying not to think about the flower in his hair. Or who had given it to him.

“Angry at the gods, however, Lilac kills themself as soon as they’re deemed the winner, throwing themself off the cliff they had killed Poppy on. No surviving victor, no glory for the gods.”

“Seems… extreme.”

“That’s kind of the point.” Bdubs replied, glancing towards his pocket watch to check the time. “Anyways, most of the gods hated both Lilac and Poppy for the disrespect of their final battle, but the god of love was touched by their devotion. To memorialize the tributes, he turned the drops of Poppy’s blood and the broken bones of Lilac’s body into flowers, thus giving the world poppies and lilacs.”

Scar briefly leaned against the edge of Bdubs’s desk, resting his cane against it as well. With his newly freed hand, he grabbed one of the pens Bdubs had out, making a quick mark next to one of the entries. “I take it the flowers are typically… paired together, then?”

“All the time, in romantic dramas for teenagers.” Bdubs said pointedly, reaching over to take the book and pen from Scar in a much nicer manner than he had made his implication. “And yeah, outside of movies too. It’s common to find them in the same bouquets, or in two-packs sold to couples to exchange between each other.”

“...Exchange?”

“The meanings of the flowers mirror their namesakes.” Bdubs explained distractedly, frowning at Scar’s note. Still looking down at the book, he made a gesture off to the side, catching the attention of one of the wandering employees. “Lilacs represent dogged loyalty taken to disastrous extremes, and poppies represent devotion above all else, even to the point of ruin. Although the traditional meanings are more watered down these days…”

Bdubs trailed off as the employee approached, focus shifting away from Scar as he started issuing a set of instructions to them. The timing worked out perfectly for Scar, given he needed at least ten seconds to re-school his expression into something a little less ‘openly shocked and possibly panicking.’

Unknowingly, he had given Grian a couple’s marker of intense loyalty. Knowingly, Grian had given him the matching marker of fatal devotion, right before he leaned directly into Scar’s space and called him by it.

Was it a threat? A reminder of who killed who in the stories? A promise between allies? Or… a promise between enemies?

How close do you keep your enemies?

“With that settled,” Scar forced his attention back towards Bdubs, who had handed off the marked ledger and switched to checking numbers in another, “did you ask Mumbo the South’s election counts? In between… everything else you were talking about?”

“I didn’t get a chance to, Mumbo was out.”

A microsecond too late, Scar realized his mistake, Bdubs’s eyes instantly narrowing at the admission. “You weren’t talking to Mumbo?”

“Uh-”

“Who gave you the flower, Scar?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was the bartender?” Not technically a lie, but Scar was fairly certain that wouldn’t change Bdubs’s level of disappointment upon learning who the bartender was.

“Grian was bartending?”

Scar was right- no change. “They were short-handed. And I was just passing the time to see if Mumbo would show.”

“With flowers.”

“With flowers.” Scar confirmed defeatedly. Scar moved a hand towards the incriminating poppy tucked over his ear, meaning to take it out but hesitating a moment before. The motion ended with his fingers briefly brushing the flower’s petals before dropping back to his side, achieving nothing.

Bdubs rolled his pen between his fingers, a little too fast, before sighing. “You should talk to him. Directly.”

“You and I both know how that would go.”

“It would be a start.”

Scar looked away from Bdubs, throwing his attention onto the busyness of the office instead. “There’s nothing to talk about, Bdubs.”

“That’s not-”

“Grian’s only loyalty is to Mumbo, and as either will tell you, that loyalty is entirely professional in nature.” Scar continued, shooting Bdubs a wry smile after a moment. “I’m nothing but the ally dating his boss.”

Bdubs looked up at Scar carefully, expression neutral- not Grian’s neutral, of stainless steel and polished mirrors; his had life to it, schooled away out of personal consideration rather than business etiquette. “The ally with a poppy in his hair.”

Scar just let his smile grow into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, picking his cane back up and shifting his weight off of Bdubs’s desk in the same motion. “Speaking of allies, do you still have the resumes and background checks for our most recently interviewed, but not hired, applicants?”

“I do.”

“Did any of them have experience serving drinks?”

“A few.” Bdubs answered, turning his chair to watch as Scar started to walk away. “Want me to get them for you?”

“Yes please!” Scar called over his shoulder, fully confident as he stepped into his office that Bdubs had heard him and would get to his request as soon as he could. He slid into his chair, dropping his cane into its regular spot and readjusting the bright red flower curling around his ear.

He was going to get the South another bartender, like any good ally would do, and he wouldn’t think anything else about Grian, or mythological devotion, or the act of risking a punch just to get close enough to touch.

[ryuichirou]

So i'm reading your yandere/hypnosis post and i get to Vil being utterly jealous enough to try on Rook; and it makes me think about his drive and the second place club lol (Leona, Jamil and Vil) like D: poor them they're always outranked by that ooonnee person! Can our boys catch a break? whether that person knows or not I always tend to feel bad--especially for Vil since i remember his inner speech in book 5 and the fact that his most trusted person ended up being such a big fan of the person who makes him feel like second best. wait i love rookvil i think i made myself sad LOL NOoo--aahh I rambled im sorry, i guess the main question i wanna ask is what do you think about those particular three always having to come second to their respective counterparts? I think your opinions and insight is so interesting that i'd like to know your thoughts on this! and you don't have to answer for all three characters if you dont wanna I was just curious on your thoughts! Anyways, have a good day and stay hydrated! it's hot this summer oof

Anon! Took some time to get back to you as well, sorry for the late reply. Summer is already over, but it’s still SO HOT…

Without diving into just how much I love the ending of book5 and the whole Rook-Vil-Neige thing (I feel like I talk about it all the time LOL)… It is interesting how these Vil, Jamil and Leona always get to be second best, isn’t it? But ironically, I don’t think I ever grouped them in my head based on this. Maybe it’s because of how different their situations are? But also now that I think about it…

Vil isn’t better than Neige, and he tries to be better by working hard.

Jamil is better than Kalim, but he can’t be better because of his status.

Leona may or may not be better than Falena in some ways, but he doesn’t even bother.

Ignoring the fact that this “better” is always subjective and in actuality things are more complex than that… and also trying not to sound like an armchair therapist that’s just telling anime boys “you should have done this you idiot”, but.

Jamil got the most development in that sense because this internal conflict is very straightforward, in fact, he was the easiest one to describe with these little sentences I just wrote. Jamil wants to stop pretending to be worse than he is, he wants to work hard and to show how great he is without being forced to get worse results than Kalim. He is only the second best because he consciously allows Kalim to be the best whenever he is given this choice. And he isn’t always given a choice: a lot of times the system decides for him, just like when Crowley chose Kalim to be the housewarden. Still, even in that situation, Jamil knows for a fact the shape, the density and the nature of this ceiling he can’t break, he’s been aware of it for his entire life. This is why it’s easy to pinpoint moments of Jamil’s growth: when he expresses how much he hates pretending to be worse than Kalim, when he says that he won’t hold back anymore, when he gets to dance and rap at VDC as a lead-vocalist and, ironically, when he gets scolded by Leona in ch6 (I have some issues with their sub-story, but still).

With Vil, the difficult part is to understand what exactly he understands as “beauty”: I mentioned it in a bunch of Vil-centric posts, but we’ve seen how in-canon he was described as too beautiful, therefore not as relatable as Neige. So this isn’t about beauty, and in a way I think this isn’t about Neige either. This is about Vil’s own feeling of self-worth and self-expression, and how people perceive him; Neige is just a very good point of reference, a good metric, especially considering that they always end up being compared to each other and that comparing numbers of followers is easy and seemingly objective (which is a cruel trap a lot of people fall for).

What I’m trying to say is that Vil isn’t fully and constantly aware of “the shape of this ceiling”, or rather why he can’t reach Neige; this is why we had that ending to his book. This isn’t solely about skill or quality, but those are the main things Vil focuses on.

And Leona… I am not sure about him, to be honest, because it boils down to one problem that I have with him: I am not sure what he wants.

It’s easy to compare him to Jamil because it seems like his issue lies in being frustrated with the system: he will never be the first because Falena is literally the first born son. But I don’t think it’s fair to compare a prince with a servant like that, because even though Leona wouldn’t be the king, he still has a lot of power and opportunities, and we’ve seen Falena valuing his strong points and expressing that he wants Leona to help him. One might even say that he invited Leona to be by his side, as a brother and an equal. But this isn’t what Leona wants in actuality, is it?

His “ceiling” seems to be obvious, but I guess his actual frustrations lie elsewhere, and those are kind of difficult to see because of how inconsistent he is. But maybe it’s just me being frustrated with his character again lol

I am replying so late because I really thought I would have some kind of conclusion about this whole thing, but it seems like I don’t lol Still, it was an interesting topic to think about.

Thank you for your ask! <3

[s1i9d]

Alright, here’s my thoughts on Magnus Protocol’s first season as someone who hasn’t listened to Archives.

[No Archives Spoilers. Spoilers for Magnus Protocol Season 1 Finale.]

Initially I was unsatisfied with the ending. At first I was engaged with everything, but I felt a lot of questions I wanted to know weren’t answered. Like “What is the Archivist and their deal?” or “What is FR3-D1 up to? Why is Colin so afraid?” So that felt a little bit of a downer.

But after thinking about it, it was a really big and amazing finale that leaves me wanting more.

I got to admit The Custodian was the biggest surprise but also not really. Magnus Protocol has kept this formula of having a statement in the episode, and a lot of my IRL friends were doubtful there would be one but I knew there would be one.

What really surprised me about The Custodian was how he was turning to stone after he finished his statement. Every non-main character statement The Archivist took ended in death, but the death was a result of resisting the Archivist (25) or they were already dead (15/18). So to see what happens to someone in perfect health from start to finish of the Statement.

Celia was a big star in this finale, and it feels like this was the “secrets revealed” moment for her. Unclear if she has more secrets, but it feels like her biggest ones are out there now. Explains her reaction to the Doppelgänger case (17), why The Hilltop Centre has been so prominent in a variety of cases, and why she’s been teleporting to Oxford.

The only question I really have about Celia is how much does she actually remember? Throughout the season we’ve clearly seen her reference things from what I’m assuming is Archives, but in the finale she says “The Fearless One” tore her who from her what and “left her story to fall like autumn leaves.”

Is her name actually Celia in Archives? Who is “The Fearless One”? Feels like her memory is blurry, but she remembers vague details of people instead of story events in Archives (my Doylist answer is this is a way to make the story accessible to viewers who haven’t listened to Archives) and that’s why she remembers Jon and Martin?

Overall, really great work from Celia this season.

Sam wouldn’t think so though.

Sam is an interesting case. He’s been dying to know what happened with The Magnus Institute and when we finally found out (28) it made a whole lot of sense why he’s so adamant about the institute.

Initially when Sam exploded at Celia for her secrets I was like “Sam! Buddy! Now’s NOT the time.” But actually, that was the right time.

He’s been really patient with Celia not feeling ready to explain her backstory, and consistently reassuring her she doesn’t need to reveal anything until she’s ready and actively reassuring yet making her aware it’s important to share at some point. Here he is, in front of what is potentially the biggest supernatural secret he’s ever seen, and Celia has turned out to know this was here the entire time!

And Celia (in his perspective) determined to sacrifice Sam to the Rift was a really big twist I didn’t see coming. The idea that Celia has disrupted the rift between the two worlds is incredibly devastating and she wants to stay in the Protocolverse for Jack makes it heartbreaking that she has her own selfless/selfish motivation for sacrificing Sam.

Then Alice-

Oh, Alice.

I think this finale was the hardest on her. She had Teddy trying to bring something up (29) and she rushed to Sam. She had Colin terrified asking for help while she was trying to get the last train to Sam and Celia. She’s been the most connective person in their whole group trying to look out for everyone, and then everyone desperately asking for help at essentially the same time is heartbreaking.

It’s incredibly fascinating that out of the three groups (Sam/Celia, Colin, Teddy) she chose Sam every time there was a chance. It does make sense. She’s fully aware Sam and Celia are going to be encountering something supernatural, and she needs to make sure she’s there to either stop or help them. Teddy and Colin might vaguely have something affecting them, but the urgency for Sam clouds her vision so Teddy and Colin were turned away. Who knows if they’ll even be alive when they get back?

And speaking of when they get back!

Gwen, my love, you have girlbossed far too close to the sun.

There’s no way she’s surviving this. She’s assumed this whole time that Lena was trying to keep responsibility from her because maybe Lena didn’t believe in her or because of her nepotism, and Trevor Herbert was the one calling all the shots. But she found out too little too late that Lena was the one in charge and she’s been the one focused on keeping the Externals at bay. Trevor Herbert has no fucking clue what happens at the OIAR as long as it gets the job done.

I do wonder why Gwen got those files. I’m assuming it’s Jon/FR3-D1 after Sam got that email (7) but why did FR3-D1 decide to give it to her? What’s the purpose of getting Lena out? Is it for the Externals to be loose? What’s FR3-D1’s goal here? Is it somehow tied to being set free?

After this finale, I have so many questions, and while I am still kinda unsatisfied with how it ended I do have to admit this season was such good fucking food. The workplace dramadey combined with horror statements and the slow merging of the two storylines was so seamless I almost didn’t notice until the end. I’m really excited for season 2.

[tobyislame]

general eyeless jack headcanons

ik i literally just said this will be an exclusively ticci toby blog but u guys get one (1) ej post as a treat bc i have a biiiiig phat crush on him

- he has a strong distaste for his given name. constantly being referred to as "eyeless" just feels like twisting the knife. so, he really appreciates it when people shorten it to ej. he prefers to just be called jack, though.

- he has black blood. does that subsequently mean his blush would be black?? idk i’m thinking maybe it shows up on his skin as like a dark bluish-purple, kinda like a bruise but… he’s blushing.

- he's got a nice set of large, pointed teeth. when he speaks those chompers are on FULL display, so if he happens to have his mask off, he’ll mumble to try to keep them as concealed as he can.

- what used to be fingernails are now blackened, talon-like claws, which will rip through everything if he isn’t careful. with enough concentration, he can keep them folded down to make them less obtrusive, at least enough to get dressed without making his clothes all… holey.

- that being said… he has no control over his claws when he’s asleep. his sheets are absolutely shredded, pillowcases torn through. they’re also perpetually stained with his eye goop. he's learned to just not bother with patching up his sheets anymore.

- he is LARGE. he is a LARGE MANTHING. he's 8'2 and well aware that he towers over most because people won't shut the fuck up about it. he's also just stocky, with big burly shoulders and enormous hands and man he is just BIG.

- despite his size, he moves quietly and swiftly. he carries himself like he's much smaller than he actually is.

- he isn't really aware of his own strength — he still surprises himself with the damage that he can unintentionally administer. he finds himself having to make a conscious effort to hold back.

- he's completely blind. the way that he “sees” is similar to snakes — utilizing infrared sensors which lie somewhere in those eye sockets of his (eldritch being rules it doesn’t have to make sense), he can sense the heat given off by objects in his environment. this becomes especially useful when tracking down potential victims. somewhere along the line, he learned or “evolved” to use echolocation as well, gaining the ability to make the same sonar clicks that bats do to make their way through the world. these can’t be heard by human ears, but if you’re close enough, they can be felt in your teeth.

- also similar to snakes, he’s cold-blooded. just absolutely cold to the touch. he wears warm clothes all year round, even in summer. he should be sweltering in multiple layers in the middle of june, but really, he’s just fine.

- his senses have all evolved to compensate for his lack of sight. most sensitive of all, though, are his ears. he can identify individual footsteps from miles away. this makes it near impossible to get away with muttering something under your breath. even from across the entire house, he’d be able to hear what you said. (i am aware actual blind people don't have superhuman abilities i just think this is the way it'd present in an enigmatic being)

- his skin is thick, sort of like a rhino's. bullets essentially ricochet off of him, blades snap... this, however, doesn't make him invincible. high frequencies are a surefire way of disabling him.

- he feels hunger much more intensely than any normal person does. when he goes too long without eating he'll become rabid, driven by instinct alone. at that point, he isn’t himself anymore. his body isn’t his.

- in this condition, he'll take on more bestial qualities, sprouting (larger) claws, a second row of teeth, additional tongues... he also exhibits heightened strength, speed, and agility. he'll behave more like an animal than anything else, tunnel vision pointing to only one thing: eat. he does everything in his power to keep this at bay, because in the past… incidents have occurred. let’s just say you wouldn’t want to be caught in the same forest with that thing prowling around. he hates to hurt others when he doesn’t mean/need to, especially since all he can do in those moments is helplessly watch behind the eyes of something that isn’t him.

- he really isn't a killer. although he's lacking in the sympathy department, he has the ability to put himself in the shoes of others and feel what they feel, which is his biggest weakness — as you can probably imagine, being an empath isn't so convenient when you have to kill to survive. often, he feels the pain of those who have the misfortune of ending up beneath his scalpel. beneath his hands. he’s aware that he’s taking that person away from someone, and it hurts him. he just powers through.

- he couldn't eat human food even if he wanted to, and believe me, he wants to. it's just that, if he even makes an attempt, his body flat-out rejects and regurgitates it. think that one tokyo ghoul scene... basically like that. he seems to be able to ingest coffee and tea just fine, though. earl grey is his favorite. on rainy days, his favorite thing to do is brew a cup and sit on the steps to the front porch, listening to the drops plinking off puddles.

- he doesn't particularly like for anybody to see his face. would rather keep it to himself. he's not exactly sure what he looks like, but he can take an educated guess that it isn't pretty. he'll usually just keep his mask on when he's around others, only taking it off if it ever happens to be absolutely necessary. if someone were to take his mask from him, that’d probably be the closest he could get to his rabid state without fully submitting to it.

- when he’s angry (which seldom happens) the tar in his eyes seems to boil and pop, kind of like hot oil in a pan. if it happened to get on you, it’d fucking burn and begin to dissolve right through your skin in the same way acid would. stay out of the splash zone ig.

- he can cry, but the way it presents is similar to ghibli tears — thick, messy glops of black that stain his skin, clothes, and whatever else they happen to spill onto.

- he doesn't just eat kidneys, he tries to make use of the entire body. it’s the least he can do. he doesn’t want to just throw the rest out like it’s trash. even when they’re dead, dissected, splayed out, closer to meat than human, he tries to respect his victims. they were people once, too. just like him.

- he also tries to make harvesting from his victims as easy of a process as possible, for the both of them. he injects them with anesthesia, enough to kill, then uses surgical tools to make the job as quick and clean as possible. no screams. no thrashing. easy.

- he can't remember much of his past life. most of what he can recall are just bits and pieces of out-of-place memories, puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit together no matter how hard he tries to make them. however, the one thing he was able to definitively grasp was his affinity for physiology, human anatomy, and surgery. because of this, he held onto it fucking tightly and devoted himself to it — just so he wouldn’t forget it, too.

- before, he was going to college to become a general surgeon. in fact, he was just about to move on to med school. now he's essentially the mansion's resident surgeon/doctor, and he does his job quite well given that he doesn’t have the resources most other medical professionals have at their disposal.

- he's especially interested in the medicinal qualities of plants. often, he'll go on nature walks in search of herbs that he can put to good use. he uses what he finds to make ointments and medicines and such, often utilizing his own resources in his procedures. in his room is a little garden of his own in the form of pots hanging from the ceiling, holding plants that he meticulously tends to with GREAT precision and care. he'd never trust anyone else to take care of them for him, not even for a day.

- he cannot stand disorganization, it drives him fucking insane. everything has to have a place, and everything has to stay in its place; it becomes difficult for him to find things, otherwise.

- if he can't rely on his sight, then he figures he can at least rely on his memory — it’s why he marks the position of his furniture and such with tape so that if anyone does happen to move something, they can at least put it back exactly where it was.

- messy people get on his nerves. leaving stuff in random places and on the floor is just incredibly inconvenient for him. he's tripped because of people's misplaced laundry and stuff.

- he's a man of few words and lacking in expression. often, a tilt of the head is the most he will react with. when he does speak, his voice is deep, so deep that it seems to vibrate. he keeps his voice soft and quiet, though, as if he's afraid of being too loud. and he is.

- since he doesn't speak much, he empties his thoughts into a journal. he'll write about anything: how his day was, what he did, how he feels, what all had happened in his surgery that day, the things he'd observed... although, if you look through it, ramshackle scraggles that almost resemble words litter the pages. he thinks he's writing words, and will continue to do so until it gets pointed out to him.

- a gentle giant. he's incredibly composed and docile, qualities that betray his physical attributes. he isn't "friendly", per se, but he tries to stay far away from hostility when it isn't needed.

- he has an overbearing need for control. he hates the thought that fate could rip everything out from underneath him whenever it pleases. it happened to him once before. he won’t let it happen again.

- he displays an... almost catlike vigilance. the slightest noise is enough to make his head snap towards the source. it's incredibly difficult to sneak up on him, especially since he hardly ever allows himself to drop his guard. he doesn’t like to be at the mercy of anyone or anything. a lot of his mental energy is put towards preventing bad things from happening to him.

- he can purr .