#so when he makes the choice himself to play a certain role for his own gains he wouldnt care at all

[fairsweetlonging]

even though shen yuan disdains wife plots, i feel it's because they're often so contrived and the wives are always damsels in distress, and when the system puts him in one it's against his will and he has no control over it, BUT, i think if he makes the choice to put himself in one on purpose and with a plan, he would excel at it, he would play into it so hard to get what he wants, he'd see it as his opportunity to cheat the system (pun intended!) and farm easy points

[yanderenightmare]

TW: yandere, obsessive behaviour/thoughts, implied stalking, manipulation

gn reader

Thinking about those yanderes who play the good guy – those yanderes who play it slow and safe – who take their sweet time gaining their your trust…

That calculative yandere who views you as not something to own but to earn – like a sweet-deserved prize he can taste on his tongue right before barreling over the finish line – all eager thrill and heart-blown triumph and such sweet bliss once he's crossed it, out of breath and forgetting everything else in the world.

Oh, and he's been so good – so fucking perfect these last months – the best – all according to plan – and now he’s finally going to get a taste, that victorious taste – allowed to bask in it, to roll it around his tongue, run it through his teeth – finally feel it between his hands, rake and dig his fingers into it and never let it go. 

He’s been sweet and soft and kind – so well-behaved – so boyfriendly – acting like the two of you were slowly getting to know each other even when he already knows you better than you know yourself. You’re so cute – every single squishy detail about you is just so cute.

He can barely hold it together, nearly shaking in vigor as you position yourself on his lap when the credits to the movie you’d been watching started rolling – soft music playing sweetly in the background – black screen throwing the room into an intimate dark, one that calls for certain things you do in the night, and hopefully dark enough to hide what positively red rouge tinted his cheeks as he felt you press down on where something was sleeping beneath the layers of his clothes.

He was beyond ready, beyond starving – hands so very frigid yet still with a practiced touch remained steady and deceptively calm as he placed them on your hips, grabbing onto the ample soft skin found at your waist – suppressing the urge to squeeze and settling for slowly messaging in careful meandering strokes instead. 

Even though he felt like attacking – like pouncing and trapping, like ripping clothes off – he knew that wasn't the way to win. No, he couldn’t let the mask slip – needs to keep playing the role.

His hand stirred again, ascending, perhaps too wantonly – but you didn't seem to mind as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear – feeling his labored finger-pads trace your jaw, swiping over your lips, cupping your chin, pressing into the plump squishy flesh of your cheeks, making you pout. 

He couldn't hold back the impulse that sent his tongue to swipe over his lips but quickly found a way to save himself. Asking, “Are you ready?” as though actually giving you a choice – voice as calm as he could muster, trying to withhold the strained timber of hormones that fought so badly to be satiated.

“I’m ready.” You say weakly – head bowed to look at him with eyes big and glorious.

He tilted his head to the side, pulling you in with a gracious touch when leaning forward to kill the space between your lips – smoothly brushing his stiff lips against your pillowy-soft ones – slightly parting to receive another greeting, and again and again with more and more pressure for every meeting, quite like the increasing drumming of your pulse. 

He pulled away to search your eyes, suddenly realizing his hand had slipped to wrap around your neck – but all that stared back at him were eyes full of trust – a look he couldn't help but want to devour. You’re so cute, so cute, so cute, cute, cute…

He pushed his lips back onto yours, kissing you more earnestly and desperately than before. 

The arm kept around your waist moved, also in favor of rising to head level, gently cupping your cheek as he deepened the kiss. Letting out a rugged groan when prying your mouth open.

You leaned away from the sudden boyish hunger, but his tongue slipped inside your mouth and tangled with yours anyway – making you go still as a statue until you let slip a tiny meager whimper. 

He gently rubbed your cheek at the sound – still holding you close with his words hotly purred on your lips, “Shh, Pumpkin – I won’t bite.” 

There was a look in his eyes you didn’t recognize – pooling with a predatory heat that caused a surprisingly pleasant shiver to slide up your spine, though not withholding the squeal of panic as he spun the two of you around and dropping you carefully on your back.

Now looming above you, with tenfold more control of what he had earlier.

His index finger stroked your chin before raising it for you to look up at him... or maybe for him to look down at you – enjoying the sight of you in all your flushed and bashful glory. 

It’s a different feeling than seeing you smile and laugh, different from looking at you in the hope you’d look back at him – no longer chasing but having his prey caught, ready to sink his teeth in. 

His other hand stroked a wisp of hair behind your ear as the locks had gone wild in the tumble, yet again groping your face as he leaned in closer. 

He pressed his lips against yours again – and though surprised and with a heart beating like a hummingbird, you slid your own hand around his waist, the other tangled in the short hairs at the back of his neck, legs climbing up his back, hooking over his hips and pulling him closer.

You felt his lips curl up into a smirk – before he drew his mouth from yours in favor of kissing a trail of pecks down your jaw, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, drooling with such suppressed lust, he groaned into the dip between your shoulder and neck – unsure if he could hold back once he started feeling the blood rush and pump, causing something to fatten in his slacks – unsure if you were ready to take all that he wanted to give you – unsure if you were willing to give all he wanted to take.

BNHA – Bakugou, Shoto, Shinso, Dabi, Hawks

JJK – Geto, Gojo, Choso, Yuji, Megumi, Yuuta

HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins

[shootingstarpilot]

Do you have any advice for writing Mace Windu?

Hello friend! I've been sitting on this for a while, because everyone's got their own interpretations, but mine is based on an idea I was struggling to put words to.

(Caveat that I have not read Legends material, that people can write what they like, etc. etc.)

The way I see it, Lucas specializes in writing stories in terms of themes and archetypes. This is why certain dialogue choices or the development of certain relationships can be... clunky, let's go with that. Characters (Obi-Wan and Anakin fall into their own category, sure) are written primarily as archetypes. You have Yoda as the wise old sage, Sidious as the ultimate evil-

And Mace Windu as the ultimate good.

We see this in the Chancellor's office, right? During the final showdown. This is the moment where Anakin makes his choice- stay in the Light or Fall- and the characters visually representing that choice are Palpatine and Mace. He's the Master of the Order. He's raised a Padawan who sits on the Council with him. He's an incredibly skilled swordsman- hell, his fighting style of choice (Vaapad) epitomizes how clearly he's mastered the art of internal balance!

All of that to say- his whole character is built around the idea that he is the Good Guy. That would be the one piece of writing advice I would give. If you're wondering how to write him, start with that idea- that he is written to represent the absolute opposite of Sidious. He's the ultimate good. He is the illuminating Light to Sidious' corrupting Dark. This is why antagonistic portrayals of him never ring true to me- they're coming from a foundational understanding that I simply do not subscribe to. It reeks of a fundamental misunderstanding of his character and of the whole saga's themes.

(And also racism. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the racism that too often plays a significant role.)

All of that being said, what might it look like to write from the foundation of Mace being the representation of ultimate good? The good thing about characters being written as archetypes is that it gives us fans a significant amount of freedom in determining what those characters look like when they're written as characters. Different people will have different takes, but for me:

Well, first off- he's the epitome of a Jedi. So all of what that entails- he is fundamentally kind, fundamentally compassionate, and fundamentally in control of himself.

He's funny. I think he has a very dry sense of humor, and that he finds joy in the smallest things.

He loves so much. He loves his Padawan, he loves his friends, he loves his family, he loves the Republic- he loves the galaxy enough to go to war for it, and he loves the men who'll kill his people.

There will never be a situation where he has the capacity to help and chooses not to.

And last but not least, I choose to believe that this man can bake pastries with the best of them. In my heart of hearts, he's a stress baker, and he mends his socks with purple thread.

Hope this helps!

[stevetonydatingsim]

Steve/Tony dating sim announcement & writer casting call!

The best part about a multiverse is all the different Steves and Tonys we get—and imagining them meeting. And kissing. And flirting. And maybe doing something a little spicier.

But why stick with imagining that when we can make it a reality? When we can make a Steve/Tony multiverse dating game? 

That’s right, we’re making a game and it'll be free to play! What exactly does that entail? The Steve/Tony dating sim (name TBD. We’re all ears for any ideas you have) will be a visual novel-style game that’s mostly dialogue with some simple minigames thrown in. You get to play as a Steve or Tony from one of the many universes that exist who’s thrown into a rift in reality with a bunch of other Steves and Tonys. You’ll get to decide whom to work with to invent, fight, flirt, and date your way back home. 

We’ll be sharing updates on the game development and launch on this Tumblr so make sure to follow us!

Who we are

The Steve/Tony dating sim team is made up of passionate Steve/Tony fans who have come together to write and illustrate the dating game of our dreams, coded by the wonderfully talented VTsuion/@v-thinks-on. You can read more about us here.

How this works

In order to make the game, we need writers for the player and love interest characters, artists for the visuals, and more. At this point, we’re looking specifically for love interest writers, but make sure to follow us as we’ll be looking for volunteers for other roles in the coming months!

Love interest writers can either work on their own or with a partner(s) to plot out and write a simple narrative arc and series of dates for a potential love interest character (a character that the player can choose to interact with and date). They construct the foundational beats for the story and dialogue for the love interest character, and they provide choices for player responses (you can indicate that the player can respond angrily, morosely, or happily to a certain line, but you’re not writing the player dialogue yourself). Later, player writers will insert responses to the existing love interest’s dialogue you wrote. It’s kind of like roleplay! 

For example, your script may look something like this:

Tony616 “So, you’re a Steve, huh” If <angry response>: Tony616 “Sorry I asked” If <happy response>: Tony616 “You’re a cheerful one, eh?” [the player gets closer to Tony616]

To get a more detailed understanding of how this works, see this guide here. We’re also happy to answer any questions, and we have a Discord server where we brainstorm and talk as a group.

Existing love interest storylines (more to come later!)

The following characters have arcs that are outlined already, and their writers are looking for a partner to collaborate with. Here are short pitches to give you a sense of each character’s emotional journey through the game.

616 Tony 

Iron Man V.1 128 Tony is newly sober for the first time and still hiding that he’s Iron Man. The player can either help Tony open up or drive him to drinking again. 

1872 Tony

Pre-canon Tony has lost faith in humanity and himself. Will the player convince him to get back on his feet? Or will he think everyone's better off with him at the bottom of a bottle?

616 Steve 

Avengers V4 Steve has just returned from the dead after his fight with his Tony about the Superhero Registration Act. He wants to trust Player, but can he?

MCU Steve

Post-2012 Avengers Steve is lost and doesn't know his place in the new century. Through his interactions with the player, he finds his home and purpose.

Don’t see a character you want to write for on this list? 

You can volunteer to write any Steve or Tony you want! In fact, we actively want more Steves and Tonys. This is a multiverse dating sim, after all, so the more the merrier. Just contact us with the canon character you’re interested in writing for and whether you’d like to work solo or with a partner(s).

How to apply

Please email stevetonydatingsim@gmail.com with the following information:

Confirmation that you’re over 18 (just let us know you’re 18+; we’re not asking you to share personal info)

The best way(s) to contact you

What character you’d like to write for (universe and name). If you have multiple, please order by preference

Do you want to write alone or with a partner(s)?

A writing sample focusing on Steve and Tony (link or attachment) - minimum 1,000 words, ideally with a good amount of dialogue. This doesn’t have to be a complete piece with a beginning, middle, and end; it's more to get a sense of your style and understanding of characterization, so all we ask is that it’s easy to follow. This can be something you’ve already written or you can write something new for this application

Availability from now to the end of 2024. We’re pretty flexible and you can work on your script over several months, but it helps us to know how busy/free you are and when

Contact us

Please don’t hesitate to contact us if you have any questions. You can reach us by email, Tumblr Messenger, askbox, or Twitter DM. Thank you!

[depravitycentral]

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer General Profile

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer x fem! reader

Tw: stalking, kidnapping, heavy manipulation, threats of violence, threats of assault, mind breaks, Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of non-con, non-consensual touching, mentions of somnophilia, mentions of cum, threats, Chrollo has a god complex but what else is new, Uvogin is mean to you but he doesn't mean it I promise!, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy! 

DARLING PROFILE:

Smart

His darling doesn’t need to be a genius or anything like that, but they do need to posses a certain degree of intelligence.

Chrollo considers himself a well-read, cultured man, and he feels that his partner needs to match his level of worldly awareness, of cognitive ability. It doesn’t need to necessarily lie in the same fields as his own (though he can’t deny that it would be absolutely wonderful to have a darling who enjoys the same types of literature as him, the same philosophers, the same composers), but they must have a certain area that they hold an above average amount of knowledge in.

He finds intelligence attractive, and what initially causes him to develop an interest in his darling is largely due to the showcasing of this knowledge and smarts. He’s entranced the moment his darling opens his mouth, eagerly hanging onto their every word and nodding along, actually finding himself enjoying speaking with them.

He doesn’t have to pretend to be interested in their words for his own gain, rather finding himself genuinely wondering about their opinion on this or that, curious like a child.

He finds his darling fascinating, and a smart darling will get him falling faster, harder, deeper, to the point where Chrollo develops into a love-starved, desperate man who wants to learn more and more and more, aching to become an expert of his own in his favorite field; his darling.

Creative

Similarly, a darling who leans more on the creative side is a perfect match for Chrollo. It doesn’t matter where this creativity finds its medium – perhaps his darling is particularly artistic, enjoying expressing themselves with the arts.

Maybe they love to paint, watercolors and acrylics seeming to come alive under their fingers. (He’d melt if he found a work of him, the colors making him sigh and dreamily trace the lines, joy swimming in his heart that they painted him, that he means enough to them that he’s taken a starring role in their hobby.)

Perhaps they enjoy photography, documenting small, beautiful moments in life. (He’s always trying to look his best around his darling, keeping his neck tense and posture strong, so that if they did take a sneaky, candid photo of him, they’d enjoy what they see.)

Perhaps they play an instrument, melodies ringing out and making Chrollo smile and nod along. (Learning his favorite pieces would make him struggle to not reach out and place a gentle kiss to their forehead, letting his hands wander down their shoulders and cupping their breasts, telling them he’d love to repay the favor and learn their favorite things as well.)

Maybe they enjoy knitting or crocheting, making all kinds of creations that Chrollo finds endearing. (He’d expect them to make him something, of course, subtly demanding he receives something so that when he’s away, he’ll be able to keep a piece of them with him, something made with love and care and specifically for Chrollo Lucilfer himself.)

Cooking, sewing, writing, anything and everything can fit into this category – Chrollo really just likes that his darling is thinking of him, that they spend their time doing something that makes them happy, and if he gets to be involved, all the better.

He’ll even push his way into their hobby, learning all that he can about it with eager fingers, wanting to impress his darling and make the activity into something they can bond over – a way to spend time together, a way to get them all by his side and happy, never, ever wanting to leave.

He just loves them so very much, after all.

Observant

While it would be difficult to find someone more calculating and cunning than himself, there’s something alluring about a darling who is more observant than those around them.

He likes the idea that his darling is just able to pick up on things, their eye more trained to assess those around them, to understand their motives and notice the things they do.

It’s a sign of intelligence, and once Chrollo’s obsession has formed, he’s purposefully doing things he’s hoping his darling will notice, all with the hope that they’ll spend time wondering why he’s always fiddling with his ring finger, or letting his eyes flick to them. It’s like a game to Chrollo, and he finds it beyond entertaining to watch his darling in action, seeing their expressions flit across their face as they try to interpret his odd behavior.

There’s just something that attracts him towards darling that are able to perceive their world for more than it is – he views himself as better than everyone else, a sort of God among men, but a darling that has this trait rises above the countless below him, standing out alone as a superior being, someone worthy and perfect for him.

He’s egotistical, after all, but a darling that can at least kind of match his observation skills is something that will attract him to them – whether that’s good or bad, one can’t say.

Witty

His darling certainly doesn’t need to be a comedian, but someone who can keep up with his thinly veiled banter would cause his interest to spike.

His words are almost always tinged with just the slightest amount of snark, the slightest bit of condescension that seems to be present no matter who he’s talking to.

Perhaps it’s a result of his own pride or self-confidence, but regardless, a darling who can not only pick up on this but also respond with a bit of snark as well would make him momentarily pause, before laughing a bit and wondering just how far he can push them. It excites him to have a darling who can keep up with him, bantering back and forth, and once his infatuation develops, this is one of his favorite things about his darling.

He loves that speaking with them is endless entertainment, hence how often he tries to goat them into conversations. He’s always, always asking them questions, often designed to get them speculating, philosophical questions that he’s genuinely curious to know their answer to, and in the process he gets to have a sort of playful discussion, something that makes his heart race a bit in his chest.

He just likes his darling’s ability to think on their feet, only reinforcing their intelligence and making him fall deeper, harder, more soundly.

It makes him want to keep that wit all for himself, to not let anyone else have the pleasure of indulging in his darling’s words – they’re his, and the longer his obsession festers, the more he believes in that sentiment.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Dependent

Much of what fuels Chrollo’s obsession for you is selfish in nature.

Initially, he’s interested in you because you make him feel something, some strange emotion he can’t quite place. He’s running through all the possibilities early on, wistfully trying each emotion on before discarding it.

Does he want to use you? No, you wouldn’t be especially useful - you’re not all that developed of a nen user, if one at all, so you’d just be wasted effort.

Does he want to steal something of yours? No, you don’t have anything of particular value, nor are you an important individual.

Does he want to kill you? No, something about the thought leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He’s stumped at first, genuinely unsure of what you’re making him feel, but it’s not until he spends more time with you that he begins considering options that are more foreign to him - that is, that he may have developed more positive emotions towards you, less manipulative and more yearning.

He contemplates whether he’s fallen in love - the books he’s always perusing make love sound so obnoxious, virtuosic, grandiose, and Chrollo can’t quite say he agrees. What he feels for you is ultimately overwhelming, surely - but it’s also much more subtle, slowly taking root in every aspect of his life seemingly without him even noticing. What used to be hours spent searching out new heists and items to steal becomes twinged with just a hint of your presence.

Small thoughts in the back of his head wonder whether you’d like the diamond necklace displayed in this gallery, or how it’d look against your pretty skin, sitting in the hollow of your throat.

What used to be solitary evenings spent reading in candlelight become small daydreams about what you’d think of his current philosopher’s theories, whether you’d indulge him in hours of philosophical discussions, what your opinions on the perception of self are. What your perceptions of yourself are, and, more importantly, what your perception of him is.

It’s not too overwhelming at first; he’s mostly able to control himself, that ever composed stature of his kept carefully in place.

The thoughts are mostly just fleeting, odd off-handed curiosity about you that he doesn’t worry too much about. It’s interesting, mostly, that you’ve gotten to him at all - and it’s this, really, that drives his desire to learn more about you. The fact that you continue to become more and more intertwined with his thoughts leaves him anxiously aching for more, wanting to see the extent to which you’re able to make him feel - something he’d always thought was more or less impossible.

And what you make him feel is so, so very good; his palms are a bit clammy when he sees you, gaze raking over your figure and noting how well your shirt fits your curves, dark eyes eagerly scanning the title of the book you’re reading out of. He’s a confident man, of course, but at the prospect of approaching you and discussing the literature, he can’t help but swallow, tongue sneaking out to lick over his lips.

He feels a strange sense of peace when he’s looking at you, taking in the way the sunlight shines off of your face, the way your clothes frame your body, how your lips quirk up into a smile when you see the little bunny that hops along the grass in the public park. It’s small things, mostly, that get little butterflies fluttering in his chest – and it’s these little fleeting moments of happiness, of contentedness and fascination that lead him to believe what he’s feeling for you could be the ever famous love – or, at least, some variation of it.

Is it love when he’s letting a smile cover his features as you scrunch your brows and huff when you can’t get that stupid jar open? The way you stick your tongue out in concentration and squeeze your eyes shut is  honestly adorable, forcing Chrollo’s eyes to linger on your face just a tad bit too long.

(He can’t help but imagine how you’d thank him so profusely if he opened it for you; he’d even go so far as to roll up his sleeves, exposing his smooth forearms that he knows women can’t resist. Do you fall into that category? Would you be transfixed by his strength, his physical appearance, his smooth voice when he tells you that next time call me first, please, I wouldn’t want you to struggle…)

Maybe it’s the way you look so disheveled in your oversized t-shirt and ill-fitting lounge pants as you shuffle about your apartment, completely unaware of the camera he’d had Shalnark place in your living room. You look comfortable, and there’s something about seeing you so vulnerable, so raw that gets him breathing a bit heavier.

(More than once a thought has, seemingly out of the blue, surfaced where you’re starring and wearing a dress shirt of his – white, stiff material just barely hiding the outline of your breasts and the curve of your hips, tantalizing and looking so very right on you. If that were to happen, Chrollo has already made peace with the fact that he’d hold out on washing that particular shirt – just until he’s gotten the chance to slip it on himself, occasionally sniffing the collar and getting something heavenly, something that can only be described as you and him together.)

Chrollo honestly isn’t sure what it is about you that’s gotten to him to develop feelings - he’s intrigued, earnestly trying to understand it, but as time passes and he finds himself spending more and more time simply thinking of you, he finds himself caring less.

It’s happened already - he’s in love, he’s certain, and now that he’s in that position, the only logical thing to do is pursue you. And while he tells himself it’s all because he wants to learn more about how you’ve managed to trick him into falling for you, really it’s all because he absolutely has to. The longer his infatuation goes on, the less time he can spend away from you, and the less he can justify the strength of his feelings.

He becomes restless when you’re not in his sight - his hands are shaking slightly, thin brows pinched together, every muscle in his body flexing involuntarily. His temper is heightened, irritation brewing in his chest even if he doesn’t mean it – he’s snapped at Nobunaga by accident, his words just a bit harsher, a bit more clipped when telling him the meeting time for the next month.

When he’s not been around you for long periods (a day or so), he just feels like something’s missing, something he can’t quite place. There’s a you shaped hole in his chest, and it turns Chrollo into something of an addict going through withdrawals - he’s become too dependent on the way you make something warm bloom in his chest, and the moment he’s without it, he’s counting down the seconds until he can return to you, return to the calmness and serenity of being around you.

And when you smile at him, answer his questions, brush your hand against his when he hands you a cup of tea, Chrollo can’t help but shiver slightly, his content smile twitching up at the corners ever so slightly. It’s addicting, the way you make him feel so alive, so strangely happy, so light and bubbly and horribly enslaved to his emotions. But while he’s never known himself to a weak man, he thinks he’d be okay with you being his Achilles heel - as long as you smile at him, let him stare as you talk away about your day, let him brush his knuckles against your cheek and whisper that you’re so warm and frail, Chrollo could care less.

He could care less about most things, really, once you step into his life - as long as you don’t leave him, that is. As long as you don’t abandon him, taking you and the feelings you ignite within him with you.

You wouldn’t dare, he’s sure of it. 

Possessive

Tying into his desperation for you to stay under his thumb and by his side, Chrollo can’t seem to shake the way anger flares up inside him whenever another man interacts with you. He knows it’s irrational - it’s possible to have interactions with the opposite gender without ulterior motives; he regularly speaks with Machi, Pakunoda and Shizuku without any goals aside from Troupe business.

And yet, he just can’t forget the way he knows some men are - viscous, disgusting, cruel, vile in a way even Chrollo isn’t. He may be a mass murderer, mentally unstable, unhealthily in need of being in control and a pathological thief, but he’s never harassed a woman before. He’s never sneered at one, groped or touched them in a sexual way without their consent, and he’s only ever seduced a woman with the intent of getting information out of her.

But others?

He knows others are probably just as in love with you as he is - you’re beautiful, intelligent, sweet and oh so perfect, truly a naive, painfully unaware little bunny in a world full of wolves. And wolves will pounce, even if the bunny is already in another’s jaws - just the thought of another man attempting to intervene and seduce you themselves is enough to get Chrollo’s jaw clenching ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing a bit and his fingers clasping around his nen book just a bit tighter.

He’s territorial, unwilling to share the way you make him feel with anyone else - only you can bring him the happiness he craves, so therefore only he is allowed to be on the receiving end. He hates the idea that another man could start chatting you up, throwing false compliments and sweet words your way, buttering you up and trying to steal you from right underneath his nose. It makes his fingers itch, the sense of control he harbors over you slipping slightly. It scares him, if he’s being honest – an emotion he hasn’t felt since he was very young, scavenging the streets of Meteor City.

He loves the way you’re able to make him feel, but this particular emotion he very much doesn’t like, nor does he enjoy the way jealousy pricks at his heart when another man glances at you. It leaves his blood boiling, every inch of his body feeling unbelievably hot, his muscles tensing up over and over.

And yet, Chrollo is a man of opportunity – while it may be torture to see you with another man, something excruciating in ways Chrollo has never experienced before, this is a good chance to paint himself in a better light. It’s a good opportunity to sway your perception of him – particularly if the man isn’t wooing you successfully.

Before he’s stolen you away, he’s quick to observe how men approach you, with suave smiles that make you visibly nervous, your high pitched responses to his questions vague and obviously constructed for your escape. It makes some weird sort of protectiveness spring up into him, but he holds himself back. He wills himself to wait just a tad bit longer, to elongate the discomfort you’re feeling because this will only really work if you’re desperate for an escape route. It’s torture, watching, but Chrollo holds on – until he decides you’re fearful enough, his long strides towards you not nearly as quick as he’d like.

Words will slip from his tongue before he can even really think, always placing himself in between you and the man, physically separating you as he quietly but firmly tells the man off, mentioning something about how unchivalrous it is to corner a defenseless woman.

Honestly, as shocked as you’ll be that Chrollo just emerges from the shadows so often, you’ll be incredibly grateful for his presence and intervention - which is exactly what he’s hoping for. He doesn’t like the way his possessiveness eats him up, but there’s something to be said about making sure that he saves you, making sure that you perceive him as your protector and someone to trust.

It’s an insurance thing, more than anything, because there’s nothing that calms Chrollo quite like knowing that you like him, that you’re associating positive emotions with him. It makes pride swell in his chest to think that you perceive him as some sort of guardian angel to you, and while it almost makes him pity you, it just makes his job easier.

It makes it easier to constantly be trailing you (you’ll never catch him, however), and to get you falling for him just as strongly as he’s fallen for you. If you hold him in a position of power, he will be exploiting that power and control - he’ll be subtle when he starts isolating you, the power trip making him giddy because now no one will talk to you. It makes the corners of his mouth twitch up when he sees that notification on his phone, your contact flashing across his screen.

(It’s just your full name, though sometimes he’ll play with the idea of adding a star next to it, or perhaps a diamond or crescent moon - it’s too childish for him, but he’ll often type it out and quickly delete it, only to retype and repeat the process.)

It makes him feel good to know that you’re contacting him, that you reached out to him, meaning you’re thinking of him and not someone else. He’s leaving small hints of his presence in your apartment; a copy of his book that he ‘accidentally’ left there last time you invited him over for dinner, a watch of his (that he stole, of course, but you don’t know that) that you keep neatly on your dresser and glance at every morning, marveling at how pristine and silver it is.

He’ll leave his leftovers in your refrigerator from nice evenings out, internally cooing at the way you finish them off yourself, liking that you’re wanting to finish his food, obviously not disturbed by the fact that his mouth may have touched a bit of it. He’s trying to stake his claim on everything around you, no matter how big or small it may be, just to get you thinking of him.

(Of course, he’s also a fan of staking his claim in ways you’re less knowledgeable about - he’s even spent nights at your apartment, dark eyes appraising your pretty, sleeping face, spending hours simply staring before wandering around your room, picking things up and digging through your drawers. Sometimes, on days when Troupe business has him feeling just a bit stressed, or he has to deal with particularly important but irritating individuals, he’ll even settle himself beside you, sitting in your desk chair and letting his black slacks fall to his knees, palming himself and shakily exhaling. He’ll caress your cheek with one hand, letting a strained, breathless smile slip across his face while his other hand relentlessly tugs and flicks around his cock, eager to see the way you’ll look with white splattered all across your pretty face. He’ll clean it up afterwards, mostly – it can’t hurt to leave a bit on your lips, right? Just so that you’ll taste him in the morning? Just so that he’ll be with you all night, all day tomorrow, so close?)

He’s possessive in the worst way possible, and while it manifests itself as seeming chivalrous and even a bit endearing, it’s anything but. There’s nothing cute about the way he religiously thinks of you, his every free moment spent watching you or speaking to you with the smoothest, most attractive voice he can muster.

There’s nothing sweet about the way his hand lingers on the small of your back, just a tad bit too insistent when he's guiding you through the crowd, making sure you don’t stray far enough away from him to let air flow between your bodies.

There’s nothing flattering about the way he gazes at you as you slowly wake up in his hold, with no memory of how you got there, no memory of where you are, no memory of how you’d changed into a pretty, billowy nightgown, and no memory of him, at least of the tattoo across his forehead or the carnal look in those eyes.

He’s a possessive freak, and once he decides you’re his target, there’s really no chance of escaping. So don’t even try.

Manipulative

He’s good at getting what he wants, and that mixed with his natural charisma leaves pretty much everyone he encounters susceptible to his charms. He’s spent his whole life studying human emotions, interactions and what drives people, and as such he’s got a pretty good understanding of how to exploit others, how to find the cracks in their armor that leave them putty in his hands.

It’s almost fun, in a way, like a puzzle Chrollo becomes extremely skilled at solving flawlessly. But when it comes to you? Well, no matter how adept you are at seeing through people, no matter how levelheaded or careful you are, Chrollo will be getting you wrapped around his little finger, completely bending to his will.

You are certainly no exception to his charms, if only because Chrollo is trying extra hard with you, the genuine drive to get you visibly bashful at his compliments and craving his touch nearly driving him to insanity. And honestly, you probably won’t even realize it – he’s subtle, giving you a small push here or there with little comments about the people around you, or about habits he wants you to break.

When you’re out together shopping around at stores much too expensive for you (courtesy of Chrollo smiling at you and requesting you let him buy you something, because it would mean so much to me, and I know you’ve secretly been yearning for that new dress), he’ll gently chastise you about how you shouldn’t talk to him anymore – don’t you see the way his eyes are on your chest rather than your face?

(The sales clerk who had been helping the two of you was most certainly not ogling your breasts – but even if you bring it up to your companion, he’ll just sigh softly at you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and murmuring that he knows men better than you do, that he can see right through them, just trust me, he would’ve given anything to have you alone.)

The comments will be small but plentiful, designed to get you listening to him and coming to think of him as right, as much smarter and more observant than yourself, something that Chrollo will use to his advantage. He does love you, in some twisted, sick way, but Chrollo’s idea of love is distorted, warped and made ugly by the way he treats you.

He knows it perhaps isn’t the classic method of wooing you, but there’s nothing wrong with twisting the situation just to make sure that his desired outcome sees fruition. He doesn’t like lying to you, and would prefer to always be truthful (to an extent, at least), but he understands that it’s what has to happen in order to make his long term plans a reality – in order to get you unconditionally devoted to him, just as he craves.

It’s unhealthy, but Chrollo doesn’t mind; which is why he’ll be putting to use every possible tactic he can think of to get you returning his feelings, all twinged with just a hint of manipulation, just to get the right seeds of thought planted in that pretty little head of yours.

He’s buying bouquets of flowers every week, sent to your address by hand with a note attached in big, loopy cursive detailing how gorgeous you are; haikus he writes describing your eyes, your hair, your figure and your laugh that get your neck and cheeks feeling warm, the flowers always your favorite colors. (The note also generously makes use of the word ‘my’, preceding nearly everything pertaining to you – my darling, my beloved, my angel, my future.)

He's dressing himself to the nines, with his shirts and pants always pressed and pristine, his cologne noticeably but not too intense, just the slightest touch of gel in his hair, all just to make sure he look as attractive and presentable as possible. He knows women find men in casual business wear attractive, and he’ll purposefully choose white dress shirts with the sheerest material he can get away with – just so that when the light hits just right, you’ll see the hard lines of muscle underneath, his abs and pectorals standing out and straining against the fabric. (He’s always making comments about how other men dress when he’s out with you – claiming that there’s wrinkles in their clothing, that wearing such bright, obnoxious colors are unbecoming of a true gentleman, that their watches and jewelry are obviously fakes, even that he’s seen that shirt for sale and it’s a laughable price – some men must not care much for beauty, and if they’re willing to purchase such low-quality items, imagine how poorly they must treat their partner.)

It’s a constant with him, as if he’s actively looking for every opportunity he can to make himself look better compared to those around him – call it a result of his possessiveness, or maybe some weird, unhealthy craving to get your praise and admiration.

Regardless, it’ll eventually have you slowly seeing what he means, finding yourself nodding along and agreeing with his words, even if you’d never have independently formed such a thought. It’s a slow process and will take a while to work, but Chrollo watches with intent, bright eyes and bitten lips, satisfaction oozing out of him because he’s got you right where he wants you, and sweet little you doesn’t even know.

Of course, once he’s stolen you away and permanently attached you to his hip, his manipulative tendencies don’t just magically disappear. Oh no – if anything they grow stronger, because now that you’re truly isolated, it’s just so much easier to mold you into the perfect version of yourself, all needy and dependent on him just as he wishes. It’s easy to get you believing things about those on the outside, using tactics like ignoring you or limiting your freedoms in order to get you caving to his desires, to get you listening and hanging on to his every word like it’s God himself speaking.

And really, Chrollo likes that imagery – that he’s your god and you’re his devoted little follower, worshipping everything he says and making him feel good, important, wanted in a way he’s never experienced before. (Although, in reality, the roles are more flipped – you’re his god, the one thing he comes crawling back to no matter the situation, his unending devotion to you rooted so deeply inside him that not even his soul is unaffected by you. He’s written poetry about the idea, entertaining it through writing, but he’s always quick to rip the pages out and crumple them, not enjoying the uncomfortable sense of truth in the words.)

So while Chrollo’s feelings for you do resemble love in some ways, his methods and expression very much doesn’t – he’s not afraid to lie t you in order to receive the results that he wants, and really, it’s best not to bother fighting him. He will prevail, no matter how to try and keep your head on straight, and it’s just easier for the both of you to not try, to not attempt to make sense of the mixture of lies and truth he feeds you. It’ll save you both time and energy, and Chrollo would really, really appreciate your cooperation – you’re cute when you’re being defiant, but it grows old.

And while Chrollo would never lose interest in you, he’s not above making you believe that he has – if it gets you obeying and letting him rest his hand on your hip (dipping down to firmly grip and squeeze at your thigh too, if he’s lucky), Chrollo will do anything it takes, no matter how depraved or violent.

Anything at all.

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Chrollo, while liking to view himself as being above other men, is only human. He’s still a man, one with an intense, disgusting obsession with you, and the moment that your attention is threatened, the human side of Chrollo becomes very apparent.

It’s difficult to look at him and see it, but internally he’s simmering with jealousy every time another man approaches you, to the point where it becomes difficult to focus on anything else except you, except the way that you’re looking at someone else, talking with them and breathing the same air as them. It’s horrible, and even more so than the idea that you’ll be stolen away from another man, Chrollo doesn’t like the fact that this scum thinks he has to right to even be in your presence.

You’re perfect, in Chrollo’s eyes, and he hates the fact that others get to be around you so freely, even when that privilege is something should belong to him and him only. It angers him how other men don’t seem to understand that you’re already taken and claimed, your fate decided the moment Chrollo decides he wants you.

You’re better than everyone else, a breed above, and he's always just a bit worried that you’ll somehow be tainted by talking with other men, like your perfection will become marred when others look at you.

So, Chrollo does what he feels he must – he must interfere, even if getting closer and closer to the scene has his heart pounding, anger swimming through his veins in amounts he’s never, ever experienced. It’s cathartic, in a way, to have such sudden bursts of emotion, but as his dark gaze focuses on you, he decides that what you make him feel, all the warmth and dizziness and disorientation, is much better than the jealousy sitting heavily in his gut.

He’ll, of course, take his time; he’s opportunistic and wont’ simply waste the chance to further build his positive image in your mind, but waiting is absolute torture. He’s digging his nails into his palms with every moment he’s forcing himself to wait, dark gaze unblinking as he stares at the two of you, mentally berating the man and thinking of the thousands of ways he could torture and kill him. And once he thinks it’s finally, finally time, he’s not wasting a moment and approaching the two of you as fast as he can. It's easy to enter into the conversation, picking up something the man has said.

His voice is smooth and sure, a complete contrast from the stranger attempted to pick you up – your head turns sharply when you hear him, relief flashing over your features at a semi familiar face.

He’s maybe a regular at a café or diner you enjoy – you’ve seen him around, chatted lightly a few times, only really knowing his name and a few of the books he’s always reading.

And while Chrollo knows this, he can’t help the way his heart practically soars when he sees how visibly relieved you are for his presence. His fingers twitch with the intention of reaching out and cupping your cheek, but he refrains himself.

The man, however, doesn’t seem nearly as pleased by his sudden arrival – he’s scowling slightly, brows tucked inwards as he growls out sorry, but we’re having a private conversation.

Your relieved and awed expression suddenly returns to a grim and fearful one, and internally Chrollo feels his anger flare. His face is still neutral, however, as he responds carefully and calmly that he’s making you obviously uncomfortable, and it’s the chivalrous thing to do when I see a woman being harassed. The man splutters slightly, shocked at Chrollo’s forwardness.

He tries to argue back, claiming you were answering his questions, being polite, so evidently you must have wanted him, right?

You’re unimpressed, shrinking back further away from the man and instead subtly getting closer to Chrollo, something he notes with a distinct sense of pleasure. Chrollo doesn’t let up, however, continuing to inform the man that you don’t want to be there, that you aren’t really interested when he offers to show you his apartment that he swears is the best thing you’ll ever see.

You’re grateful, and as weak and lame as it makes you feel to have Chrollo fighting this particular battle for you, you’re glad he showed up. He always seems to show up, really, just when you need him – it’s almost magic, you think, how he seems to know when you need help. The image of him as your savior makes your cheeks feel warm, the girlish thought embarrassing but oddly accurate.

 Eventually the man leaves, huffing and muttering under his breath about how you weren’t even all that pretty anyways, and Chrollo feels his eye twitch, a small flick of the wrist inserting just a bit of nen into his shoulder.

Not enough for the man to feel it, but just enough so that he can keep track of his whereabouts. You’re immediately thanking him profusely, embarrassed about how inept you’d seemed, some small part of you hoping you didn’t look as pathetic as you felt.

But he doesn’t seem to mind – if anything, he’s silent, allowing your rambling to continue on, those dark eyes meeting yours and holding your gaze. It’s intense, but as your voice dies off after the fifth ‘thank you’, he only softly smiles.

Of course, his voice is low and nearly demure, making a shiver roll down your spine, it’s no trouble at all. I’d help you out anytime you need me.

He can tell you’re flustered, and while he wants nothing more than to revel in the sight of you looking bashful, twiddling with your thumbs and stumbling over your words, he knows he has to leave. He needs to leave, really, so that he can check over his book of nen, flipping to the page where that the location of that piece of scum that had bothered you was.

He bids you farewell with a twinkle in his eye, looking over his shoulder as he turns and walks away. You look so pretty, standing there and staring at him, trying to hide the way your mouth gapes open, and Chrollo bites his lip ever so slightly, closing his eyes and reveling in the way his chest feels all warm and airy from just the sight of you. Soon he’s turning off the street where it had all happened, immediately stepping into an alleyway and flipping open the book.

The nen signature leads him to a dingy apartment – surely not the beauty he’d been boasting to you about – and Chrollo nearly snorts as he sees the man throwing back his head, drowning the beer bottle in hand. No one else is in the apartment, he finds as he slips through the front door, which is ideal. He’s quick to conjure up his giant nen fish, a smile slowly spreading across his lips as the man suddenly freezes, unable to move as a fish moves to nibble at a toe, teeth biting and crunching through bone.

It doesn’t take long – maybe ten minutes or so, but Chrollo enjoys every moment of watching the man slowly get eaten alive, those dark eyes wide and excited. It’s euphoric, really, and as he remembers the way the man had nearly had the audacity to touch you, to touch what was Chrollo’s, he can’t stop himself from chuckling slightly.

It’s only after the fact, once all is said and done, that he notices his hands are shaking, his cheeks a bit sore from smiling for such a long period of time. It’s only then that he hears how his heartbeat is loud in his ears, blood pounding as the excitement and satisfaction of seeing the sofa now empty, not a spec of blood ruining the upholstery.

He wishes he could have killed him by his own hand, perhaps stabbed him a few times, burned him alive, maybe even drowned him – but this is better, because now when you watch the news you won’t see some horrible, mangled body.

And once he’s stolen you away, it’s better if you don’t see the gruesome ways that he’s killed – how will you continue to look at him with such adoration and love in your eyes if you do? And Chrollo couldn’t stand to not have you gaze at him with anything short of fondness, admiration, desperation.

He closes the man’s apartment door, making sure to lock it, before tapping into the nen wedge lodged into your own shoulder – seems you’re walking home now. Perhaps you’d like some company from the shadows.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Chrollo is extremely methodical with his approach towards seducing you.

He’s careful to present himself as a gentleman, a classically chivalrous man with his dark features and smooth voice. He’s never tried to genuinely make someone develop feelings for him before – it’s only ever been for a job or to place someone into the palm of his hand, but with you it’s different.

He’s actively trying everything he can think of to make you like him, pouring through romance novels to find common themes, trying all manner of approaches and tactics so that you’ll only associate him with happiness and nerves.

And frankly, Chrollo will absolutely get you falling for him. By the time that he feels he’s ready to steal you away, you’ve probably developed a massive crush on him, your feelings strong and difficult to ignore. Really, you can’t be blamed – he’s a master manipulator, and while his romantic experience is dismal, it’s not so hard to find out your favorite flower and leave a bouquet at your door. It’s not so difficult to send expensive perfumes or jewelry to you, attached with a note detailing what it is about the piece that makes him think of you.

You’ll nearly be in love, something that he’s worked extremely hard to cultivate. It hasn’t been easy, holding off all this time. There’s been more opportunities than he can count where he could’ve so easily swept you into his arms and took off into the night, never to have you seen again by anyone but himself.

He’s had to physically restrain himself more often than he’d care to admit from reaching out and grabbing you, tucking you so tightly against his chest that you can’t breath as he boards the airship, the Troupe standing guard outside your new bedroom to make sure you don’t get any funny ideas. You’re laughably weak compared to him, and while it sometimes causes Chrollo to worry for your safety, it’s ultimately an asset to him.

Because now that you’re completely under the impression that Chrollo is the perfect man for you, it’s all so much easier to relocate you without a fuss. It all happens much faster than Chrollo had expected, however – all too soon you’re seeing blurry images on the television news one night, the cereal you’d been eating forgotten as you take in the familiar earrings, the dark eyes, the forehead tattoo he’s always written off as a family tattoo.

You’re in shock, eyes wide as you listen to the anchor list off the multitudes of crimes the Troupe has been accused of, and for a moment you refuse to believe it’s true. That’s not Chrollo – not your Chrollo, the man who picks you up at 7:00 sharp for the dinner date he’s reserved at the fanciest restaurant in town.

That’s not your Chrollo, the man who opens doors for you and pulls out your chair, almost placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you through large crowds. He could never murder someone – could never be the cause of the some hundreds of lost lives the TV claims he’s responsible for.

But then you hear a sigh, that familiar voice murmuring out that it’s really all just so unfortunate, I was hoping to gain your favor a bit more. Alas, the façade is up, I’ll make sure to pack that sweatshirt you love so much. Please, love, don’t struggle too much. There’s a pinprick in your neck, those dark eyes the last thing you see before blackness surrounds you. Chrollo can only mournfully look down at you, having caught your unconscious body in his arms.

It’s a good opportunity to run his fingers over your lips, to trace the shape of your nose, to press a surprisingly sweet kiss to your forehead. It was inevitable, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me eventually. We’re made for one another, after all.

Once you’re trapped with him, a few things will become very apparent to you very quickly. Firstly, Chrollo is a criminal – the dashing man you thought you knew is not real, his true personality slipping out almost immediately. He’s no longer attempting to hide the reality of his work, discussing new jobs and elimination plans over the phone in the same room as you, not mincing words when he tells the mystery man to make it messy, the more blood the better.

Second, he’s a very important man. He’s constantly being phone called, stepping out for this or that meeting, making decisions you don’t even understand. The very few people he’s ever let you meet almost seem to revere him, unconditionally bowing to his word and only addressing him as Boss.

Third, he’s much stronger than you’d realized, the odd pressure he seems to radiate growing and ebbing at various points in the day. You’d seen the way he’s merely flicked his wrist and a man that had seen the handcuffs initially around you was suddenly headless, sliced clean off without so much as a sound.

Lastly, Chrollo Lucilfer is desperate. Despite being kidnapped, forced to jump from hotel room to hotel room firmly attached at his hip, there’s never been a lull in the way that he demands your attention. There’s never been a free moment where he’s not looking at you, that same small smile quirking on his lips that used to fluster you but now only makes your gut twist. He’s always asking you questions – some are easy, surface level and don’t require effort on your part. He’s asking what your favorite color is, what your favorite breakfast foods are, if you prefer to wake up early or sleep in.

(He already know the answers, but he likes hearing you say it.)

Some are more difficult, making you consider your words before you speak them. He’s asking you whether you’ve ever dreamed of what your wedding venue will look like (he of course pushes for details, mentally noting everything and imagining it alongside you), what you would name a pet cat (either solid black or solid white fur, you pick), asking you to jot down a few of your favorite songs so that he can compile a playlist for you, as you have limited electronic access (the playlist is really for him, so that when he’s away on missions he can still feel like he’s with you, but that’s besides the point).

And then there’s the ‘why’ questions – these are the hardest, his eyes boring into you as he asks you why you claim to love your friends, why you’re fighting him so hard, why you think life itself even exists. They make you think, and while you don’t want to answer, Chrollo will keep pushing and pushing and pushing, using your words against you and slowly taking away any privileges you’ve managed to earn.

It’s not worth the fight that ensues if you ignore any of his questions, so you’ll answer as succinctly as possible, choosing your words carefully and watching for his reactions. Mostly, he just likes to hear your voice – knowing there’s no one else in the room, so you’re talking to him and only him, thinking of ways to respond to what he asked you.

He likes to know your opinion on things, each and every word you utter only furthering his fascination with you, contradictions in your thoughts popping up right and left. Mostly, as a captor, Chrollo is really just omnipresent. He’s always there, dark eyes trained on you and listening to every little thing you say, watching every little thing you do, commenting on what feels like every thought you have.

It’s exhausting, the way he’s constantly hovering, the way he’s constantly on the look out for any kind of interaction with him, and at first you’ll find yourself growing tired, afraid, frantic to be alone.

You’ll eventually explode, yelling at him and telling him to leave you alone, to disappear, to just get away from me, you monster! He’s silent as your words sink in, his face carefully neutral, before he laughs softly, shaking his head a bit.

If that’s what you wish, he’ll ominously tell you, walking out the hotel room door and locking it behind him. It’s wonderful, the first few hours without him – finally some time to yourself, to really cry or scream or just ponder your new life.

But after a day or two passes, thing start changing – you don’t like Chrollo, you promise, but it’s sort of lonely without him. The hotel room is big but empty, his missing presence louder than the silence. You’ll slowly find yourself starting to miss him, wishing he’d come back and continue asking those stupid questions of his, to brush his fingers against your cheeks and thighs, to gaze at you with that deranged but enamored look in his eye.

By day five, you’re frantic for him to come back, taking to sitting in the corner and staring at the door, persuading yourself that he’ll have to return sometime, that eventually he’ll come back to you, that he won’t just leave you alone to die.

And when he does, ten days after leaving you fully alone (minus the cameras placed in the room), he’s shocked to feel the way you rush in for a hug as the door swings open. You’re wrapping your arms around his torso, burying your face into his chest, and Chrollo can’t help but blink widely down at you, lips parted but no sounds coming out. He knew the loneliness was getting to you, but you’d never initiated physical contact like this before. Was it an act of desperation, or was it because you were missing him?

 Did you ache for human contact, or did you ache for his contact?

He’s not sure, but he finds himself humming and returning the gesture, letting a hand pet your hair as he asks you if you missed him, if you’d gotten lonely, if you’d like to lay down for a bit with him. You’re not as clingy after you pull away from the hug, but Chrollo doesn’t care – you lay with him, a good two feet of space between your bodies, but it’s progress.

You’re more open after that, not flinching away and snapping at him when he reaches out to touch you. Instead, you’re almost leaning into his touch, enjoying it – which leads to another key aspect of being Chrollo’s captive; the touching.

He’s not invasive with it in the beginning, but as time passes you’ll notice the way his hand is always lingering at your waist, his fingers drumming against your skin. You’ll realize he’s always shuffling closer to your body, dissatisfied with the space between you. You’ll get used to the way he asks for a kiss before you both fall into slumber, his arms snaking around your middle and pulling you back against his chest as he sighs into your ear.

The rational side of you is enraged, disgusted by his attempts at romantic and intimate touches, but a part of you that grows larger with every passing day stops caring, slowly accepting that Chrollo is all you have left now, and that you should take advantage of every ounce of affection he’s willing to show you. It may not be real (though the obsession that gleams in his eyes certainly is, as is the blood that sometimes stains his pale chest when he returns home from a few days away), but it’s something.

It’s enough that you can almost overlook the way he keeps you trapped in the hotel rooms, stuck by his side, with only your books and himself to entertain you. You can almost forget the way he’s freely admitted to killing for you, nonchalantly threating family members if you try to escape, telling you he’ll hear about anything and everything you do because nothing can hide from him.

Eventually, you’ll stop caring – your life is easier now, all the stress and worries of independence gone, and Chrollo couldn’t be more pleased that you’re settling down, or mellowing, as he likes to say. You’re closer to realizing your true purpose with him – to continue to give him that warmth he craves, to continue to let him kiss and hold you, to let him steal every ounce of your attention and time.

He’s a thief after all, and now that you’re his, he’s entitled to take whatever he wants.

PUNISHMENTS:

While Chrollo is, overall, a somewhat lenient captor, he does have a few strict guidelines.

Firstly, you are to never ignore him. To ignore him would mean a rejection of his feelings for you, and while Chrollo is normally a cool, level-headed man, the second you even encroach on any actions that could be considered a rejection of a his love, of him, he’s clenching his jaw and doing his best to not lash out, keeping his temper and check and calculating ways to make you recognize the consequences of your actions.

Secondly, do not try to escape. He’s lucid enough to understand that once you’ve first been kidnapped, you’re likely to try everything in your power to escape. It doesn’t matter how deeply your feelings for him have formed – it’s only human nature to not enjoy being trapped, which is why he’ll have to train you, to make sure that you correctly acclimate to your new life with him, to your new future.

And lastly, you must never attempt to hurt him. Of course, you could never do any real damage, but the sentiment will hurt him more than he’d care to admit – by reaching out and wishing him harm, you are, once again, rejecting him. You’re displaying a desire to wound him, and he absolutely cannot have you thinking that you’re in any position of power or control in your relationship with him.

(You are, of course, because Chrollo’s dependence on you is really quite pathetic and sad, but you won’t be aware of the depth of his feelings for you until very, very late into your time with him. He’s good at hiding this, if only because letting you see him vulnerable would mean letting you have a sliver of control over him, a concept that terrifies him to his very core.)

Those three things are really the only ways to set Chrollo off – he’s generally pretty adaptable, able to read you like a clock and understanding what you’re thinking merely by watching your facial expressions, and because of this he won’t often punish you. He doesn’t like the idea of disciplining you, instead preferring to simply manipulate you into thinking and feeling the way he wants you to. But, if any of the three rules are breached, Chrollo finds himself resorting to more extreme measures, doing what he feels is necessary to garner the results he’s looking for.

Even so, he won’t ever rely upon physical means to punish you – he doesn’t like the idea of you being injured or hurt, and it would be a hassle to mend the damage hurting you would cause.

So, Chrollo defaults to more manipulative measures, punishments he knows will leave you crying and terrified, inflicting more psychological rather than physical damage. It’s the only way he can get what he wants, after all, and Chrollo has always been determined to get his way – even at the expense of you, his most prized possession.

When you’re staring at him with such hard, pained eyes, it almost makes him feel bad for a moment. Almost, if only because your words are replaying in his head, the tone and wavering in your voice making pause for a brief moment.

You’d said you hated him, that he was a monster, that you were unhappy being with him. It was all things Chrollo had already known, of course, but it certainly didn’t feel good to hear them come from you, nonetheless.

He just sighs, looking at you with that same belittled, heavy gaze, telling you to calm down, darling, don’t say things you don’t mean.

This just angers you more, it seems, because soon you’re nearly screaming, throwing a pillow or two at him as you yell that you’re not lying, you sick fuck! I hate you, I will never love you, I will never need you! Please, you have to let me go, I can’t stand being with you any longer!

What you’re saying isn’t even particularly harsh – he’s heard much, much worse from his victims over the years, searing words insulting his intelligence, his appearance, his morals, his past, everything and anything. And yet, there’s something about hearing the words coming from you that makes him flounder a bit, a sinking feeling in his gut making him stand up straight, appraising your shaking, heaving form across the room. It’s silent for a few long moments, before he simply adjust his jacket, pulling the lapels slightly and turning his back to you. Very well then, if that’s how you feel. As you wish, my dear.

And with that, he’s slipping out the hotel door, disappearing to who knows where. You’re left trembling in anger, your breathing unsteady, but before you can think you’re rushing to the door, wiggling the handle violently and sucking in a sharp breath when you feel that it’s unlocked, practically begging you to throw it open and leave this godforsaken hotel room.

As you rush away, sprinting down staircases and down never-ending hallways, you’ll distantly know that this is probably a trap. Chrollo wouldn’t just let you go, you’re sure, especially with such suspicious time. But you can’t stop yourself from taking advantage of the opportunity, deciding that even if it is a trap, the few brief moments of freedom that you’ll have will be enough to warrant it all.

And yet, as you push through the front doors and take a look around the busy, bustling street you’ve stumbled upon, you nearly sob. You have no idea where you are, the landmarks totally unfamiliar, but you’re free, feeling the sunlight on your skin without Chrollo’s presence pressed into your side, his cold fingers pushing into your hip or shoulder. You don’t have any money and have no idea where to go, but your legs are moving faster than you can think, wandering through the city along back roads and side streets.

Hours quickly pass by, exhaustion beginning to settle into your bones as the sun dips back behind the horizon, leaving the city in shadows and quiet aside from the hum of cars and the bustle of city goers. It’s only once you’re stumbling through an alley that you hear it – him, to be specific.

At least, you’re pretty sure it’s a man – the footsteps are obviously trying to be quiet, but they’re not doing a good enough job to go unnoticed by you. He’s breathing loudly, too, and as you glance over your shoulder, eyes wide and scared, you don’t see anyone.

You’re sure there’s someone there, that they’ve followed you down this alleyway, and as you press your back against the slightly wet brick wall of the building behind you, you feel your heart practically about to beat out of your chest.

Who was there?

 It’s silent for a moment, before a short laugh is barked out, the man emerging from behind a dumpster. Shadow falls over his face, making it impossible to see his face, but you do see his size. He’s a monster of a man, bulky shoulders easily above your head, muscles bulging along his arms and under his pants. A wild bed of hair sits atop his head, and you feel yourself freeze, fear eating away at your heart.

You can’t move as the man comes closer, face still hidden in the darkness, and it’s only when he comes down to punch at your stomach do you realize what’s about to happen, panic engulfing your senses as his fist comes closer and closer and closer – It sucks the air right out of  your lungs, making you wheeze and gasp for breath, knees slamming into the concrete below you as you gasp and struggle to regain your breath.

The man laughs, a timber, horrible sound, but stops abruptly at the distant sound of sirens. He curses under his breath, and you feel his eyes on you, daring to look up at him in between your fits of coughing.

You’re lucky, bitch, he starts, voice gravelly as he begins backing up. Next time I’ll get you, the cops won’t be coming and I’ll show you why weak little things like you shouldn’t be in alleyways late at night – makes it hard for me to resist ya, and I think you’d look even better without that ugly ass nightgown you’ve got on.

And with that, he’s sprinting down the alley, running away even as the sirens get further and further away. You’re left to lay on the cold, wet ground, having regained your breath but letting tears stream down your face. You don’t want to admit it, but you’d been hoping that Chrollo would magically appear, just like he always does. You’d hoped that he would’ve stopped the stranger’s punch, that he would’ve saved you just like he used to.

The thought of Chrollo makes you flinch, but you can’t stop yourself from wondering if maybe he was right. Maybe he’s right that you can’t take care of yourself, that you’re too weak for this world, that you’re better off with a monster like him (quoted directly from him, with that signature smirk of his) rather than the everyday men.

You curl up, knees to your chest for a while, before your up again, wandering and trying to retrace your steps back to the hotel you’d run out of only hours ago. Eventually you’ll make it back, and as you wait in the lobby, rubbing at your now dirty and bruised body, your eyes will flick across every person entering and exiting, before you begrudgingly make your way to the elevator, riding up tot eh floor you knew your room was on.

It takes everything in you to knock on the door – his door, but eventually you do. And when he opens it, a small hello trickling past his lips, you can’t help but let out an ugly, gaspy sob, rushing forward and wrapping your arms around him. It feels horrible, disgusting, so very good to feel how he returns the hug, gently patting your back and smoothing down your hair, a soft hello my dear making your shoulders shake.

He won’t ask too many questions, letting you inside and nearly forcing you into the shower, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Even when he’s got you wearing a fresh set of soft, lounging clothing (with a neckline just a bit too low to cover your collarbone, something his eyes are often drawn to), you can’t find it in yourself to ask. He’s talking to you, after all, asking you if you enjoyed your time in the real world, if it was as grand as you’d hoped.

 His eyes are twinkling, and although the apology you offer up isn’t as loud or insistent as he’d hoped for, it still makes him smile, his throat bobbing as he loudly swallows.

The conversation is over for the evening, and it’s only after you fall asleep (in his bed, he notes with a somewhat shy smile and a shaky exhale) that he pulls out his phone, pressing the contact name and smiling at the dial tone.

Thank you, Uvogin, he starts, letting a hand run very lightly over your leg under the sheets. This favor won’t be forgotten.

OVERALL DANGER:

9/10

The thing that makes Chrollo a dangerous yandere is less his violent tendencies, and more of the way you nearly won’t recognize yourself after being with him for long enough.

Of course, he loves you – a sick, messy, disgusting love that he quickly grows addicted to. He finds you irresistible, fascinating and growing drunk off the way your body fits with him, but he’s still a criminal. He’s still a mass murderer, singlehandedly responsible for the deaths of more than he can count, and he will not be suddenly listening to commonplace morals once his feelings for you form.

There’s no such thing as bad to him – he views you as his woman, his partner and his most precious, cherished possession, and as a result he has absolutely no qualms about doing what he wants to you. He’s manipulative, lying to you just as often as he tells the truth, making you feel as if you’re going crazy because you have no idea what’s real and what’s fake.

He’s possessive, slowly isolating you and barring you from any contact at all with anyone he deems a threat to your future with him, or anyone at all, really. He doesn’t want you to grow feelings for another man, and has no issues with cutting off your contact with everyone in your life that you hold dear. He’s always got that same look on his face; a small, prideful smile, his dark eyes so impossibly wide and sparkling as he stares at you, every ounce of his attention focused on you and only you.

He’s terrifying, and while you’ll more than likely develop feelings for him before you know of his true self, you’ll begrudgingly find those feelings doesn’t entirely dissolve even once you know that he’s a crook and a perverted, horrible man who’s stolen you away. You’ll probably still find him charming, still thinking his hair looks soft enough to touch, still finding his hands (littered with a fair share of veins) drool worthy, even when you realize how many have likely died because of them.

You’ll hate yourself for it, but you will eventually find yourself growing just as dependent on Chrollo as he is on you – and really, that’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to need him, to yearn for him and crave him, if only because he feels all that for you and more, and he needs to make sure he has you under his thumb, so that your pretty smile and lovely voice and heavenly body are never not by side.

Things would grow ugly if you were to ever be snatched away from him, corpses piling up and his own sanity slipping away until he can hold you in his arms once more, pressing his lips messily, desperately against yours, hearing you say his name with that lilt you always do.

Chrollo needs you, and it’s best if you just give in – you may essentially be ending your own life, but you’re giving meaning to his and saving so many others. So, so many others.

[antianakin]

Out of curiosity: do you believe Anakin was truly was the Chosen One or was it Luke the whole time?

Anakin. 1000% Anakin. I believe it's Anakin as per Word of God, as well, but I don't have the quote on hand right now.

Part of the weirdness over this is because of how the films were released, Luke is obviously the main character of the original trilogy of films, he's the one on the hero's journey, and there was never any mention of a prophecy in those films. So when the Prequels came out and made this whole prophecy thing for Anakin, it's understandable that people sort-of looked at it and went, "But if Anakin was the Chosen One, why is Luke the hero in the end still?" Which has obviously led to a bunch of theories that it was Luke all along, that Qui-Gon misunderstood the prophecy or just misapplied it to Anakin, or even that Luke BECAME the new Chosen One when Anakin fell (all of which are made worse by Rebels sort-of validating this take by having Obi-Wan claim Luke is the Chosen One). I get it.

But the entire purpose of Anakin's story to me only works if he IS the Chosen One and he just... fails. Anakin fails. He defies his own destiny and it destroys an entire galaxy. One of the BEST things about the Prequels is how hard they work to subvert certain tropes and narrative expectations. Padme and Anakin are forbidden lovers, but it's a toxic unhealthy love and the relationship is forbidden for good reason. Anakin is willing to burn down the world for Padme, but it's not at all romantic when the world is actually burning and it's going to burn both of them down with it. Prophecies exist, Chosen Ones exist, but prophecies can be DEFIED and Chosen Ones can fail if they're making selfish choices. You only get the happy ending from the prophecy if you're making the right choices.

So Anakin DOES end up destroying the Sith and bringing balance to the Force, but only when he makes a choice that's primarily SELFLESS in nature. He MIGHT'VE been able to destroy Palpatine the Sith way, but then he himself would still be a Sith and so the prophecy isn't actually fulfilled. There would be no balance in the Force while Anakin remains a Sith. So until he figures out how to leave his darkness behind, he'll continue to defy his own fate.

And that is a FASCINATING way to represent a prophecy and apply a destiny to someone without completely removing their agency or making all of their choices unimportant. Anakin's choices literally define the fate of the GALAXY because the prophecy only gets to come true when he makes the right choices. Theoretically, Anakin could defy this prophecy until he dies. Personally, I think that this is something that could happen. Anakin could make that choice, he could literally just defy the prophecy FOREVER and it would just never happen. It doesn't mean he ISN'T the Chosen One, he just chose incorrectly and so the prophecy never actually gets to come true.

I also like that this leaves room for other people to achieve the same end without being part of the prophecy. Theoretically, Palpatine could still be killed in other ways, even while Anakin's alive. The prophecy isn't stopping someone ELSE from killing Palpatine (or Anakin), it's just a LOT harder. We do see people more attuned to the Force kind-of stepping back from something they can feel is perhaps someone else's destiny or following someone specifically because they have a destiny for something, but the opportunity is there for regular people to step up where a Chosen One has failed. And it's one of the things I love MOST about the Star Wars universe, I love the way this worldbuilding works.

Luke is still a hero, obviously, he plays a major role in Anakin ultimately making that final selfless choice, his faith in Anakin and his refusal to kill Anakin and his adherence to Jedi compassion are what eventually help lead Anakin towards making the choice that allows the prophecy to finally be fulfilled. I'm not downplaying Luke's importance or his heroism at all, but I think it kind-of makes all of his choices even MORE heroic if he's NOT a Chosen One. He doesn't do these things because he was destined to do them, but because he's a good, kind, brave, strong person making the choice to do heroic things. He's choosing to do what he believes needs to be done for the greater good. He's just a regular person, with no prophecies to fulfill, having to step into the shoes of a hero because his father failed and threw the galaxy into chaos. How is that NOT more interesting than just saying Luke was the real Chosen One all along?

So you'll never catch me saying the Chosen One was anybody but Anakin in canon. It's absolutely Anakin and it'll always BE Anakin. You remove SO MUCH of the best parts of Star Wars if you take away that part of it.

[lampochkaart]

Once again I'm thinking about how well written Kaito actually is. Even his irrational actions are pretty understandable and explainable.

Take, for example, the most obvious moment. His behavior after the Gonta's Trial. He had a falling out with Shuichi because detective was directly opposing him and siding with Kokichi during their argument. It's stupid of Kaito to be angry. He's wrong, and Shuichi was trying to prove it to him in order for everyone to vote correctly. Saihara had no choice because if they would've voted incorrectly, they would've died. But Kaito got angry, taking this as a personal betrayal.

And this is kinda understandable behavior for him. We've seen that Kaito is emotional and hot-tempered. We know that when he gets angry, he doesn't think rationally. We also know that he's very stubborn, and he doesn't really like to give up even if he knows that he's wrong.

Most likely, he even was angry not at Shuichi, but at the whole situation as a whole. It is unfair that Gonta has to die. It also goes against Kaito's view of the world. That someone might think that death is mercy. This is the reason why he was so angry with Ryoma in the second chapter. This is the reason why he forgave Kirumi for her actions. He considers life to be the most valuable and precious thing in the world.

This opinion makes even more sense when you look at it from the point of view of someone who is dying of an unknown disease, who has little time left and a very small chance of survival. From this point of view, he simply can't understand how someone could decide to end not only their own life, but also the lives of others.

Another reason he fell out with Shuichi is because, as he later admits, Kaito was jealous of him. Kaito saw that Shuichi was much more attentive to evidence, Kaito saw that he was better at making logical conclusions, and he saw how everyone believed at Shuichi, how everyone considered Shuichi much more reliable. And no matter how hard Kaito tries, he won't be able to reach this level. He was trying to play the role of a hero, but realized that Shuichi was becoming more suitable for this role, while Momota was becoming his shadow. And this feeling made him increasingly angry at Shuichi, instead of being proud of him.

Perhaps because of this, he did not even realize how much he was appreciated. He was surprised when Shuichi told him that everyone was preparing for a battle to rescue him from captivity. His envy clouded his vision to the point where he could no longer see how important *he* was to the group.

And, last but not least, the reason why Kaito had an argument with Shuichi. Certain someone specially pushed him towards this. Kokichi pitted Shuichi and Kaito against each other throughout the Fourth Trial. Kokichi was purposefully getting at Kaito's nerves. He immediately accused him of murder, insulted him at every opportunity, trampled his ideology into the mud, and praised Shuichi, convincing Kaito that the detective considered him an idiot, and Momota was only hindering him with attempts to participate in the discussion. Kokichi was hitting all of Kaito's painful points with deadly accuracy, getting under his skin and sowing discord in the group.

Considering all these reasons, Kaito's behavior after Gonta's Trial is understandable. It makes sense for him to act this way. It is illogical from a common sense point of view, but it is logical from a character point of view.

Many of these reasons also explain why he charged at Kokichi when he declared himself the mastermind. Of course, it's stupid to approach a person holding a remote control for giant robot weapons. But, again, Kokichi himself pushed him to it. Momota gets angry every time Ouma talks dismissevely about those who died. Naturally Kaito will lose his temper after all the cruel words that Kokichi said about his fallen friends. And Kokichi himself gave him the idea to try to punch him, because it was part of his plan. And Kaito has long wanted to prove (especially to himself) that he can be useful to the group. At that moment, he wanted to do something, anything to vent his frustration, even if this “anything” was a foolish, reckless attack.

In conclusion, Kaito is a very cool, well-thought-out character, and I really love both his strengths and weaknesses, because it makes him multifaceted and alive.

[wntrmelts]

Why I view/write Kaeya as living an inherently feminine experience

(reposting this essay from twitter)

This entire post will be a long string of observations and headcanons surrounding why I believe Kaeya’s story is an inherently feminine experience. It includes canon interactions but also explanations as to why I write him in a certain way in my works. Also, I would like to establish that with ‘feminine’ I am not explicitly talking about gender expression, but more so the societal expectations and gender roles that have been put on women. By this definition, a feminine experience is not exclusive to women only.

Starting in his childhood, Kaeya is described as being gentle and polite by Adelinde (1) whilst Diluc was described as more rambunctious. As they grew up, Kaeya, being the more reserved one, seemed to always stay in Diluc’s shadow (2).

The question is whether this was by choice or something that was imposed upon him. In a way, I think it’s both. To survive, he made sure not to cause trouble or speak out of turn, listening to and pleasing the authoritative figures in his life instead.

After Diluc was out of the picture and out of the KoF, Kaeya was given a completely different role. He was expected to lead now, his previous persona would not suffice in an environment like this. He had to be respected, and in order to gain the respect of his new subordinates, he had to change. He became louder and more visible, he had to learn how to stand his ground. This isn’t only reflected in his personality, but also his appearance. A big silhouette that exudes status with the gold accents and fur coat; it demands attention and communicates confidence to outsiders.

Kaeya as we know him has a very big personality. It’s hard to definitively say whether he enjoys the attention he gets from outsiders. Where does the act stop and his true self begin?

In his hangout, we can see him scurrying away with the traveler once he starts getting approached and praised for his on-stage performance in Port Ormos (3).

From the way he treats the interactions, it seems that he can humor these interactions when needed, but does not particularly enjoy them. There seems to be a dichotomy between the way he presents himself and how wishes other people to perceive him, and his true desires. I don’t think this means that he completely dislikes the way he presents himself. After having played this part for so long, it would make sense that at least part of it melds into his true self, but it does imply that his change post-fight isn’t 100% a case of ‘flourishing into his true self’ as his Vision story might suggest.

On that note, the attention Kaeya seems to get from bystanders seems to be something he does not seem /entirely/ comfortable with. Besides the fan interactions in Port Ormos, Kaeya also mentions in his hangout that he got approached by a group of mercenaries to dance (4).

The subtext suggests they were flirting with him, and whilst it is possible Kaeya genuinely did not realize this, I don’t believe someone like him would be oblivious to the implications of the interaction. He doesn’t name for what it was, plays it off lightly, and moves on. 

(To be fair, you can also take him at his word for this interaction. It really depends on how much you want to believe him. But also, my mans is not smiling in these?? At all??)

Now this goes into headcanon territory but I believe Kaeya is very aware of how people look at him. He’s been described to be eye-catching in his character story 5 (5), good-looking by multiple NPCs, even the traveler calls him handsome (6).

Point is: Kaeya looks good! He knows it, but as we’ve established before, he does not always like it. Despite his own discomfort, he still believes he can use this to his advantage. Because as we know, for him, the ends justify the means (7).

Perhaps he plays up his charm a little because he knows what it will get him, or because people will underestimate his true nature if he keeps it up. 

So for my personal interpretation: he’s ‘flirty’, not because he likes it, but because it helps him get things done. The reactions he gets out of it may or may not disgust him a little, but his sense of self-worth is not enough to stop him from using these tactics to get ahead.

Lastly, I would like to discuss how Kaeya, despite everything that has happened to him, does not outwardly express any of his anger frequently. At least, not in an obvious sense. To keep up appearances and to maintain his image, he never bursts out in anger, shouts, or yells. He is always hyperaware of how other people view him, and being angry is simply not appropriate. He remains composed in the presence of others even if he might want to shout or be angry. 

In short, the performative aspects of Kaeya’s character reflect a very specific part of the female experience to me. Always keeping in check with what other people’s expectations are, not wanting to take up too much space when he was younger but having to learn how to take up more space to gain other people’s respect when he got older, dealing with unwanted attention but not voicing complaints and dismissing them to not make a big deal out of it; these are all parts of it. 

All of this is super self-indulgent so don’t take it too seriously~ Just wanted to justify why I think he gets to sit with the girls :D

References (yes, I'm extra):

Kaeya Hangout: Taste of Home https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Taste_of_Home 

Kaeya’s Vision Story https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

Kaeya Hangout: All the World’s a Stage https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/All_the_World%27s_a_Stage#Must_It_Be_So? 

Kaeya Hangout: Poems Dedicated to the Wind https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Poems_Dedicated_to_the_Wind 

Kaeya Character Story 5 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

Archon Quest: Prologue: When the Wind Dies Down https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/When_the_Wind_Dies_Down 

Kaeya Character Story 2 https://genshin-impact.fandom.com/wiki/Kaeya/Lore 

[ohworm-writes]

I NEED TO HEAR ABOUT STATION 141. PLEASE. for a friend definitely not for me thinking about how fucking FINEEE good they would be.

「✰」 ━━ STATION 141

RATING PG-13 - Parents strongly cautioned [ Content warnings : light cursing, depictions of a vehicle accident, fires, mentions of injuries, references to and depictions of smoking, peer pressure (?), depiction of a house fire, mentions of and references to 9/11, implications to alcoholism, brief mentions of guilt and insecurity ]

SYNOPSIS Character explorations for the members of Task Force 141 in the case that they opted towards working for the fire department instead of the military, expanding on what the roles they play are, their backgrounds before pursuing the profession, and a few headcanons, here and there.

WORD COUNT 4.9k

Station!141

Firefighters are known for being dorks and pranksters outside of their profession when they’re trying to relax and ease the tension that comes with the job, and Station 141 is no different. Gaz and Soap are the resident pranksters, of course, and perhaps that comes with being the youngest out of anyone employed at the station. But, unfortunately, that leaves Price and Ghost to deal with their tormentation, both the acts and the aftermath of it.

Soap and Gaz do simpler, more tame pranks. Something like dumping water over someone’s head, pieing someone in the face when their backs are turned, or if they’re dozing off, switching the salt and the sugar—that kind of stuff. Simple, annoying pranks—those are elementary. Ghost and Price are evil when it comes to pranking, or, more accurately, getting people at people for pranking them. They’ve replaced the water in the ice cube trays with hotdog water, put cling wrap over the toilet bowl, replaced shampoo with hair dye, and done other things that you wouldn’t even dream of. The two of them get really creative with it. 

Gaz very quickly stopped pranking the two after Ghost snuck into his house and hid those really loud alarm clocks with the bells everywhere, setting forty of them up to go off in the middle of the night. When they went off, he screamed so loudly that he swore he had a heart attack because of it. Soap’s a masochist, though, and he keeps on pranking the both of them without any sign of stopping. He’s never able to one-up Ghost or Price, though, that’s for certain. It’s a challenge for him, though, and it’s fun (sometimes, not often, though). 

Granted, most firefighters already do this, but making fun of, taunting, and mocking cops is a given, and the 141 boys are no different. Soap hooked a donut onto a fishing line once, positioning himself on top of the firetruck, staying hidden, and dangling it above a cop when they were visiting the station one time. They locked onto it quickly. Another time, he did the same sort of thing but left a donut on the floor attached to a fishing line, pulling it closer towards him any time a cop tried to come close to it. Also, plain and simple: making pig sounds. 

They do have a fire dog of their own at the station, actually! And, of course, ever the classic choice, it’s a Dalmatian. In terms of technicality, it’s the Chief’s dog, given that he bought the thing... but, ever the generous man, he allowed the station to adopt the dog as their own. They all fought over the name for days, with some individuals actually getting heated about the matter. Price eventually got sick of it, went down to a pet store, and printed out a tag for the pup, a circular tag that reads the name ‘Ozzie’ with the station’s address printed on the back. Nobody argues against it. 

Soap isn’t the biggest fan of dogs as is, but Ozzie loves him, trailing after him and following his lead without hesitation, the others often joking about how the animal played his shadow better than his own did. Ozzie’s the only dog he likes, but he won’t admit it aloud, giving the dog a playful rub on the head here and there when someone’s around and roughhousing and playing freely with him when they’re alone. Gaz and Price are unabashed in their affection for the canine (Price has bought everything for this dog, he swears it), while Ghost is more or less neutral about his presence, but he won’t deny him a good rub behind the ears if he barks enough.

Let’s spend a moment talking about and appreciating the uniforms that firefighters wear, yeah? Station wear is typically worn around all the time, even under their PPE uniforms when out on calls. It consists of a short or long-sleeved button-up shirt, sometimes as simple as a t-shirt, which is navy blue in color and often sports the insignia of the department or the station or something of the like or any relevant patches. They’re matched with navy blue or black pants, giving the whole outfit a formal yet equally comfortable look.

As for PPE uniforms, the bunker pants are held up by a set of suspenders and matching jacket, often being either black or tan in color with long yellow or red reflective strips stretched out along the fabric at the chest, waist, shoulders, wrists, shins, back, and legs, with knee pads visible from the front of the uniform. The color can depend on either the rank the firefighter holds or, simply, what’s in stock.

But, just to state it, each and every one of the boys within the station looks good in their uniforms. They fit snugly in just the right places and loosely in others, especially the station wear—not to say the PPE doesn’t do the same, but rather, it looks good in the sense that we can all appreciate a man in uniform, now can’t we? PPE uniforms are designed to not fit snugly, providing more mobility that way, and they’re rather bulky. This, however, doesn’t at all negate the fact that the men within Station 141 look fuckin’ good in them.

As a matter of fact, the boys often get a lot of people who come up and flirt with them shamelessly. Sometimes, it can be a bit of a nuisance, with civilians watching from the sidelines as they respond to a call, making flirtatious and lustful remarks—it's distracting, in more negative ways than positive, in complete honesty. Though, when they’re off duty, maybe dressed in a tee with the station’s logo, they can be entertained. 

Gaz was shell-shocked the first time he was flirted with by someone for nothing more than his profession (and, honestly, it pissed him off a little, but he wouldn’t say that aloud), and he was turned into a confused, awkward mess, trying to get himself out of the interaction. Soap will entertain them as much as his attention can handle, but after that? He’s giving polite nods and hums here and there, but he isn’t listening all that much. Ghost just tells people he’s married, even though he isn't—he isn’t all that fond of getting flirted with on the basis of solely his job, much like Gaz. Price, honestly? He could care less. Have at him. 

One of the scariest moments that the station went through where one of the boys lives’ were at stake was in the case of a methanol fire that had broken out on the highway as a result of a crash. A car had run head-on into a truck that carried a methanol chemical tank, which had been damaged and spilled. Nothing bad happened until the car involved in the accident caught fire, lighting the methanol and causing an invisible flame to spread. While all of the boys were on scene, Gaz was busy helping one of the civilians out of their car from the wreck when the fire started. 

Obviously, immediately, he jumped away from the civilians, not wanting to catch them on fire too—they didn’t, thankfully—but Gaz was left screaming and yelling for help as the fire began to burn through his PPE equipment. Ghost put out the flame with a CO2 ABC extinguisher, realizing what the cause was immediately, but Gaz still suffered through some heavy burns along his back, legs, and arms and rushed to the hospital sooner after being put out. 

The first time Soap tried to go down the fire pole during the fire academy, he sprained his ankle, not knowing how to descend it properly and just shooting straight down onto his foot. He was fine, thankfully, but nobody ever let him live it down. Ghost tells him to be careful with this big, smug grin spread out across his face anytime Soap rushes through the fire house to go towards the fire pole to descend the floors (he flips him off each and every time, rightfully so). 

Price tries to call out sick every time he thinks it’s going to rain. For anyone who knows anything about first responders, it’s that they hate it when it rains. It’s a guarantee for more accidents, more calls, and, put simply, more work. Price has been working long enough in the field to know this, so he just so happens to catch the cold or the flu any time he sees it’s going to downpour—unless, of course, someone calls in sick before him and he can’t get out of work, or if he fails to check the weather. He’s pissed off for the rest of the day, and he makes it everyone’s problem. 

Soap is the one who's driving the truck, obviously, with Price sitting in the passenger’s seat. Behind Soap sits Ghost, and Gaz sits across from him. It’s lively whenever they go on calls together; most of the conversation in the truck is devoted to work, but there are more than a few occasions when they’ll just talk comfortably together. Especially on the rides back to the station from calls, usually when it’s getting late at night. That’s when the most heartfelt conversations happen. 

Overall? A dorky yet hardworking group of firefighters dedicated to their professions, sharing a bond like no other. 

Firefighter!Price

He, of course, plays the role of ‘Captain’ at the station, primarily due to the fact that this role does actually exist as a role within the profession; while I would have made him the ‘Chief’, the ‘Captain’ plays a way more present role as the commander of a company and overseeing the daily operations of a station. Chiefs, typically, only supervise and view the situation as is, not often actually being a part of the process of resolving an incident.

Firefighter!Price, who, contrary to popular belief, does not, in fact, smoke. It’s not as if he’s prohibited from smoking, per se, especially given that around 13.6 percent of firefighters smoke, but it’s more of a moral thing for him—his job is to fight fires, and cigarettes and other smoking materials make up a huge percentage of top fire causes, so it seems, to him, like a stupid decision to make to smoke. Also, it would affect his ability to do his job, and it just looks bad to have someone that people are supposed to look up to doing something like that, so he doesn’t.

Firefighter!Price, who, okay, yes, has smoked a cigarette and cigar at one point in his life, maybe once or twice, or a few more times than that, but never consistently. It’s not a habit that he has or ever indulges in, only having ever taken part in it thanks to a friend or two offering him a cigarette or cigar, outstretched hands taunting him, and teasing “c'mon, one puff ain’t gonna kill ya’, mate”, to which he relents. He hates the taste of cigarettes, and he refuses to go anywhere near one again, but he can entertain a cigar around the right company. 

Initially, he had intended on joining the military straight out of secondary school; however, a few months before he intended on joining, he bore witness to a violent house fire within his neighborhood. The house had been completely engulfed in flames, with smoke pluming into the sky and the flames spreading to a few nearby houses. He watched on with awe as the fire department showed up with swiftness and took care of the situation with ease, resulting in no casualties whatsoever. 

Although, yes, the job was far from being a proper equivalent to the military, it still provided a similar sense of fulfillment, and he would still be protecting innocents. (On a morbid note, his life would still be consistently on the line and threatened.) Thus, he joined the profession when he was around nineteen, working as a volunteer firefighter for a few years before eventually taking on the job full-time. He’s worked with numerous different stations and companies for the past ten years, give or take a few, and he’s made a number of different connections throughout different departments. 

Firefighter!Price, who toys with his suspenders when he’s clad in uniform like it’s a second job. It’s an unconscious habit he’s developed with the elastic straps, and there’s a certain progression it follows—it's like clockwork. It’ll start off with him simply hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of the trousers of his bunker gear, holding himself there comfortably as he stands and walks around the station—casual, if anything. But then, it slowly starts to progress further, with his hands wandering, his fingers gently trailing up and down the straps, and his calloused fingers brushing over the material in a repetitive up-and-down motion.

Firefighter!Price, who holds onto his suspenders near his chest in a loose grip, his thumbs grazing back and forth over them, pulling them not even an inch away from his chest, just holding them there. That is, of course, before he starts to snap the elastic against his chest, gently or not, it doesn’t matter; the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt as he repeats the action over and over and over again—it's something to do with his hands; he’s restless, and who can blame him?

Firefighter!Price, whose natural scent is simply smoke, the acrid redolence of sulfur clinging to his skin like a parasite, a second skin that he’s come to call his own. No matter how many times he washes his clothes until they start to fade into a lighter shade, no matter how many times he scrubs his skin until it blotches into harsh, raw, red patches, that scent still clings to him. It’s, in a sense, becoming a part of him, molding in with his natural musk effortlessly until it becomes it, a scent identifiable to him, whether that’s for better or for worse, he wouldn’t know.

Firefighter!Ghost

Again, of course, Ghost plays the role of ‘Lieutenant’ at the station, which is a role that falls directly under ‘Captain’, leaving him tasked with typical daily operations, readying their crew for emergency situations, and supervising the Engine or Rescue Company and the personnel within it, reporting directly to the Fire Captain or Chief, acting as a temporary captain, should they be absent from a scene.

Firefighter!Ghost, who kids absolutely adore. He can come off scary and intimidating, sure, given the fact that he’s, put simply, a huge guy, not to mention the balaclava he often sports that conceals his identity. But kids still think he’s the coolest guy in the whole world. Being a firefighter already has its own charms; several kids are asking him about his profession and how their dream job is to become a firefighter when they grow up, like him. He’s a bit awkward, unsure of how to respond to all of the compliments and praise, but takes it in stride.

Firefighter!Ghost, who has to deal with the fact that nearly every kid he comes across adores him, soon decides to just embrace it, honking the horn on the engine any time he passes by kids who wave at him or whose eyes light up when they see the truck, relishing in the way they let out loud, excited yells. Whenever kids come by the station, either for field trips or to simply ask if they can have a tour, he takes up the task of touring them around, lifting each and every one into the truck, watching as they giggle, laugh, and smile so brightly at him. 

A close friend of his who became a firefighter from secondary school was the one who eventually got him into the field, the friend in question having joined a little more than half a year after the two of them had graduated, though he didn’t immediately and solely join due to his friend’s encouragement. He still worked as an apprentice butcher for nearly two years after graduating at a local grocery store; that job kept up most of his focus, though instead of joining the military after September 11th, he chose to join the fire department.

(Because the fire department played such a large role in this event, I thought it would match more appropriately than him joining the military, like his background states in his biography.)

His friend was the one to tell him everything he needed to have before joining: his certifications, his license, his CPAT, et cetera. He completed each task without any hesitation or reluctance, and he was even willing to get a degree in Fire Science if it meant he would get into the profession. He passed the academy with ease and, soon after, was offered a volunteer position working at the same station his friend was positioned at, transferring, unfortunately, without him to Station 141 a year and a half later, though the two still keep in touch regularly. 

Firefighter!Ghost, who comes back to the station after a long day of rough calls, be it mentally or physically grueling, likely both, hops off the truck with deep, guttural breaths, beginning to strip himself of his PPE as he makes his way towards the locker rooms, hanging and folding everything up, his SCBA first, then his helmet, then his bunker gear, before he finally tears off his balaclava—his hair’s completely damp with sweat, beads dripping down his face, splayed across his forehead messily, letting out an exhausted sigh, running a hand through his hair, slicking the blond strands back across his skull.

Firefighter!Ghost, who takes a seat on one of the benches in the locker room, leans over with his elbows on his knees, his hands falling limp in the space between them, his back slumped over, and his shoulders dropped. His station wear is stained with sweat; the skin around his eyes and across the bridge of his nose darkened from the smoke that had penetrated through, dirt clinging to his body like a second skin. His suspenders hang off around his waist lazily, clinking against the bench as he shuffles around, letting out a long, drawn-out groan before standing and moving to rid himself of the day’s events with a well-deserved shower.

Firefighter!Ghost, whose vice falls to liquor. It’s nothing close to an excessive extent, but it’s enough to take the edge off and ease his mind from the horrors that come with the profession. It's a heavy task to fulfill, and having worked in the field for so long, enough so that he’s become an officer, that means he’s seen his fair share of shit, so who can blame him? After a particularly rough day, he’ll take a seat in the common room or his dorm, hand gripped tightly around the neck of a bottle of Bourbon, mask pulled up to his nose, drinking until his head spins and he can’t think. He'll wake up with a hangover that bashes against his skull, wash his face, and prepare himself for the day, only to repeat this cycle over and over again—maybe it is a bit excessive.

Firefighter!Soap

In a more unique aspect, Soap, instead of simply being a firefighter, works as a Firefighter Engineer, his primary focus being directed towards maintaining and driving firefighting vehicles and performing maintenance tasks on the vehicles. Though, still, he does play his role as a firefighter all the same, his specialized position not interfering or making it so that he has to do one or the other. He’s still put in his time to become a firefighter and accomplish the tasks that come with the profession, and he does his job well; all it is is that he plays a specialized role in addition to that fact. 

Firefighter!Soap, whose dorm is positively filled with the drawings and doodles he’s received personally when he and his crew visit local primary schools to teach them about fire safety and how to properly act during a fire drill, spends a significant amount of time telling the kids all about their careers and what they do, giving them a tour of the truck and everything. And, by the end of the day, three or four separate kids had given him drawings they had made of him and his crew. One little girl in particular gifts her drawing to him, and it’s just of him and her, holding hands, his mohawk overexaggerated, with a message written out sloppily, stating, 'I want to be just like you when I grow up!!!’.

Firefighter!Soap, who tapes each drawing he receives to the mirror in his dorm, the one he gets ready in front of each and every day without fail, fingers gently grazing over the different people within the pictures, each messy stroke of crayon, colored pencil, and washable marker. It’s a reminder to him of why he does what he does. Of why he puts his life on the line each and every day without fail. When the job gets tough and unbearable, the weight of it laying heavy on his shoulders, guilt and insecurity eating up at him, he looks at the drawings, memorizing them, committing every detail to memory—he has to make those kids proud by keeping on. And so he does. 

He dropped out of university to become a firefighter. He initially majored in the field of Military Technologies and Applied Sciences, specializing in the fields of Explosive Ordinance and Bomb Disposal, but after spending nearly five semesters in school, he concluded that the field and higher education weren’t something he was willing to pursue. So, he applied to become a firefighter when he was twenty-one, spending the first year and a half working towards getting his EMT certification and taking his CPAT, already having his driver’s license, and spending the next six months in the fire academy before he was eventually employed as a volunteer firefighter.

He spent the next two years working as a volunteer firefighter, not yet deciding to take on the role of a full-time firefighter, given he had a bit of apprehension and worries about taking on the job for longer hours. However, it was soon after he first became a volunteer firefighter that he learned about the career path of a firefighter engineer, which garnered his interest, which eventually led him down the path of driver training before ending up with the position and taking on the job full-time. 

Firefighter!Soap, who can’t even help the way his muscles flex as he works, which is most visible when he’s in his station wear—that short-sleeved button-up shirt hugging onto his biceps with ease, his pants holding onto his thighs snugly—it's the perfect combination of loose and tight. It leaves nothing and everything up for the imagination to think of. Especially when he’s sweating through his top, the fabric clings to his skin like a glove, showing off every inch of him without shame. 

Firefighter!Soap, who is so unconscious of how strong he actually is, regularly wearing equipment that can weigh up to seventy-five pounds (34.01 kilograms), not to mention the weight of the hose and the pressure it exudes, the way he has to control it, or all of the other equipment he uses while on the job. Because he’s so unaware of it, this just leads to him picking up some of the heaviest things—people, too—and acting as if they were nothing, because, to his credit, it isn’t anything to him. 

Firefighter!Soap, who is an earlier riser. He wakes up the earliest of anyone who works at the station, being the first one to arrive at work if he’s sleeping off site. He tidies up what he sees, maybe goes out and grabs some coffee or pastries for his co-workers, and just relaxes and basks in the silence of the station—that is, before the others begin to arrive, of course. If he’s sleeping on site? Same thing. The only difference is that he doesn’t have to rush around like he typically would; driving to work takes up the most of his time, so he can work at his leisure if he's already at the station.

Firefighter!Gaz

Gaz, arguably the coolest of them all (it’s not an arguable statement whatsoever; it’s just a fact), gets the job, plain and simple, of just being a firefighter. Responding to emergency calls, performing search and rescues, providing aid with traffic accidents, and educating the public on fire safety are just some of the tasks he completes each and every day. The job is both physically and mentally grueling. Yes, the horrors that can come with the job are unlike any other, but god, is it such a rewarding profession to be able to see the direct result of your actions 

Firefighter!Gaz, who actually really enjoys having new recruits shadow under him their first few months on the job. Even in meeting them for the first time, he has such a welcoming and warm personality, not at all shy to introduce himself, how long he’s been working in the field, the ups and downs of the job—everything! He spends a lot of time getting to know the recruit, not just in a professional sense but a personal one, too, and it fosters such an accepting environment that the recruit can become comfortable in, which is the whole goal!

Firefighter!Gaz, who can be stern sometimes when it comes to teaching newer recruits, but those occasions come far and few between, favoring a gentler, kinder approach of encouragement and redirecting and teaching the recruits on how to properly hook up the truck to a hydrant or operate the pressure controls for the water on the truck as opposed to yelling and barking out orders with a firm strictness. The Chief typically sends all of the new recruits over to Gaz for this exact reason, and, as you might have guessed, these recruits become professionals in no time. 

Unlike the others, Gaz actually had the intention of joining the fire department since he was young. He was one of those little boys who had a number of different toy trucks and cars and played with them obsessively, and his favorites were the firefighter trucks. His dream of becoming a firefighter was solidified when they came to his primary school one day. One of the firefighters present gifted him one of those crappy plastic helmets, letting him sit in the truck and telling him everything he wanted to know. 

From that point onwards, he dedicated himself to becoming a firefighter, spending years getting himself into the ideal physical shape required for the job, taking medical and health courses throughout secondary school to prepare himself for the EMT training program he’d apply to take once he turned eighteen, obtaining his license as quickly as possible—he's devoted to the career path, and he fully intends to push every ounce of his being into fulfilling the role to the best of his abilities, and then some. The day he graduates from the fire academy, in addition to actually receiving an offer to join a station as a volunteer firefighter, he swears up and down, is single-handedly the best day of his life. 

Firefighter!Gaz, who's almost always the first one to rush inside a burning building, given that it’s still structurally stable and will remain that way for the duration of time that he’s inside, holds a hatchet in both hands, firmly grasped, kicking the front door inwards before making his way through the interior. He’s completely composed, not an inch of doubt taunting him as he sweeps the area, finding civilians and immediately working to usher them out of the building, barking orders in a way where it sounds less like a command, so softer and so much more filled with care. He can easily sling anyone over his shoulder, hold them in his arms, or lift them on his back if need be, rough grunts resounding from him, strained at times from both the heat and the weight of carrying another human being.

Firefighter!Gaz, who doesn't ever complain or tell the other person to move and fend for themselves, because that’s his job, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fulfill it to the fullest. Given he doesn’t have any civilians to worry about, he’s rushing through flames, heat nipping at his PPE, trying its hardest to penetrate the fabric, failing while he comes out of the building, fire trailing after him, smoke and dirt caking his body beneath his uniform, and labored breaths wracking his body. All he can do is rip off his SCBA when he's at a safe distance from the smoke, mask off, sweat dripping down his skin, soak his hair, and kick his head back as he breathes the smell of anything but smoke.

Firefighter!Gaz, who always walks around the station in his bunker gear, is ready to go at a moment's notice. He's rarely seen in something as simple as his station wear, complaining that the uniform is unnecessary to be seen in if he’s going to change into his bunker gear anyway. In reality, the weight of the gear is comforting to him—it's heavy, yes, and can leave him sweating until he’s certain he’s drenched if he’s in it for too long—but the weight, feel, smell, and overall “vibe” of the bunker gear is something he’s spent his whole life dreaming of. Why be out of it if he’s dedicated his life to becoming the person to wear it?

[superbat-lmao]

A young Bruce Wayne asking Alfred what he did before working at the manor and learning that he was an actor. Where do you think Bruce learned the skill from?

The separation and performance level of Brucie Wayne vs Batman is completely intentional and NOT Alfred’s plan at all. He did not realize that Bruce would use it for secret identity/isolation purposes, but Alfred would definitely discuss his past performances/roles or other actors and their acting choices with Bruce. They would sit together and watch movies, plays, operas, anything where people were pretending and discuss the performances, believability, what factors leant to a credible performance or seamless one, and what things were a dead giveaway.

A lot of it comes down to studying the nuance of emotion and behavior, and then replicating it. People ask about “motivation” when acting, but what they’re really saying is that a character has to feel an emotion and there are different ways of making people feel something as well as the multitude of ways people react to those feelings. Why is the character sad? Are they only experiencing sadness or is it complicated by another emotion? Most people don’t feel single things, they are a summation of experiences. So Bruce would come up with narratives, explanations for characters behaviors and feelings so that he would be consistent in his performance.

Bruce would often watch a performance done by someone else, and work towards replicating and improving on it. Everything is an approximation of real emotions and behaviors in order to be convincing. And it is continually refined by Alfred, until he’s unable to assist with this insane level of mental separation necessary to turn all actions into a performance.

Maybe it started as a coping mechanism to distance himself from his feeling about the deaths of his parents, to try and separate himself from that pain, but now he seems able to convince everyone that anything he does or says is a performance or a cover.

Except Clark. Sure, he knows Bruce puts on a show often, even most of the time, but there are certain physical responses that can’t be controlled, not so quickly that Clark can’t catch them. So for every signal Clark is sure he’s giving off, he catches 3 that Bruce is actively trying to suppress and smiles even wider. This means that every active signal that Bruce is giving off is a choice, that Bruce is choosing Clark, that he has recognized his own emotional and physical responses to him and is allowing them.

[yuri-is-online]

Congratulations! If it’s alright, for the event could I have prompt 6 with Riddle, Floyd, and Idia. Thank you!

6. Crowley has decided to put together a murder mystery for the whole ball and you've been the first one "killed." Whoever is playing detective seems really upset about that.

Hello hello! Thank you so much for your patience with me (シ. .)シ In place of Floyd we have Ortho per your request, I hope you enjoy it friend.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, this was a really fun line up of characters and I really should write for Ortho more, he deserves all the friends in the world. The other requests can be found on my masterlist.

Riddle

Riddle is not fully aware of his reputation. He knows he has one of course, but he is very much under the impression that this reputation is a good one. He very much thinks that the glances going back and forth right now are because the other NRC students know just how intelligent Riddle Rosehearts is and that they stand no chance at winning this game when Heartslabyul's academic reputation is on the line. Because clearly

The steam pouring out of his ears and vein popping free from his skull are not something he is remotely aware of as he stomps through the crowd searching for- well he doesn't really know what. The Headmage had very pointedly said that wild accusations were not allowed in this game.

"The detective only has one chance to make the correct guess, so please make sure you are confident when you make your submission!"

The ballroom is filled with potential suspects, and it's not like he saw who tapped Yuu on the back to single them as their first choice. Really he can't decide what was more brazen, snatching them away while he was literally holding their hand or choosing to pick on the only person who wouldn't complain. The music pauses just as Riddle has managed to get some sort of baring on his surroundings, indicating he was once again too late.

"Our killer strikes again! Our second victim for tonight is Trey Clover, would you please set aside your mask and step up to the balcon-" The headmage's words are drowned out once again, but Riddle's not angry anymore. Frustrated certainly, but not mad, if he didn't know any better he would assume the killer was deliberately targeting him.

"Aww Goldfishie." Floyd has the audacity to look dissapointed, as if his favorite people were getting picked off and not Riddle's. "Aren't you gonna scream a whole bunch over Sea Turtle like you did with Little Shrimpy?"

"I did not scream." He crosses his arms and a bit of amusement returns to Floyd's face.

"Did too. It was really loud and super funny, everybody heard it." Floyd is provoking him on purpose, Riddle looks up towards Yuu to ground himself, but his scowl only deeps when he sees them giggling over something Trey's said.

"Excuse me but I really don't have time to waste talking to you." Both Floyd and Riddle are surprised at how certain he sounds, though one of them is certainly more disappointed. "I need to get back to my... friends and this game is getting in the way of that."

"Aww you're not going to scream any more at all?" Floyd doesn't bother looking up at the balcony, boredom turning his attention away from his role just as Riddle is finally hitting his stride with his. "Fine here," a card is thrown at him that he barely manages to catch, "I don't wanna play anymore if you aren't gonna be fun about it."

"Wait! That's against the rules you can't just-" Floyd is already gone and the Headmage already announcing the game over before Riddle can even think about how not actually upset he is. He feels small, useless, robbed of yet another chance to be normal even if Floyd's behavior is sort of normal for the school. Why can't he just get out of his own head for long enough to have fun? He promised his dorm, he promised Yuu, that he would try, didn't he?

"Riddle?" Speaking of Yuu, they've come straight to him, the trace of a smile is still there even if it's been dropped in favor of concern. "You ok? Did you not have fun?"

"Fun." It's a strange word. He doesn't really think he understands the appeal.

"I'm just annoyed with Floyd's behavior." He crosses his arms, but he is surprised to find that he's smiling. "But no matter, are you ok? Sitting around can't have been fun." You shrug.

"Well it was fun to watch you once Trey told me you were the detective, we were rooting for you!" And just like that the strange disappointment is back. There's pride and affection in your look he hasn't rightfully earned through the rules of the game. But perhaps, he thinks idly as you make no move to leave and stay chatting with him against the backdrop of the party, he was lucky enough to have it from the start.

Ortho

"Night One, the town has elected me Sheriff to address the serial killer preying on our people. Oh or should it be a werewolf? Pity the headmage didn't say..." It's always a bit strange to see Ortho "frown" but tonight it feels extra serious. This Masquerade was his first school event as a full Night Raven first year, AND he had made his own costume. You all had actually, Ace had suggested your little group make them together so you would be able to easily spot each other in case of emergency. And to make things even more extra important, Crowley had decided to assign him (you are pretty sure it was actually random but Ortho was so excited you didn't bother to say) the role of detective in his murder mystery game. You shouldn't be surprised that he was so eager to win, but it was still such a cute sight that you couldn't help but be a bit excited.

"I don't think it's against the rules to pretend the killer's a werewolf, actually that's one of the things we call this game in my world." You really hate adding that caveat onto the end of things, it makes you feel like an annoying old person who can't understand that times have changed. But Ortho never minds when you do, it's more data for him to catalogue and this tidbit seems to really excite him.

"Oh really?! I thought you said it was called 'Town of Salem?' That was how you pronounced it right?" You really should not be surprised Ortho remembers you telling him about a video game, but the mention of it still surprises you.

"Oh no that's just a computer game version of it. Sort of..." You don't want to waste more of the boy detective's time explaining the concept of the Mafia to him, the last time you tried something like that he had started calling Azul "oyabun" and you both had been made to "apologize" by waxing the Lounge's floors.

"Aww so I don't need to record what I do each night?" Thankfully Ortho doesn't push it further and just bounces back to his normal happy self with a shake of the head. "That's ok, I'll do it anyway! It'll keep me from wanting to review the security cameras hehe." And with that he bows and flies into the crowd, eager to start collecting clues and fulfill his duty as the "long arm of the law." You salute him just as someone taps you on the shoulder and the music pauses.

"And our killer strikes!" Crowley is the one saying it but you can almost hear it in Ortho's voice being added to his notes. "Yuu whatever your last name is I didn't write it down did I please set aside your mask and make your way up to the balcony!" The music resumes as you make your way off the dance floor, making sure to stick out your tongue at Ace who makes fake crying motions as you go.

"Night Two, we lost the prefect! That's just not going to fly with this Sheriff in town..." Ortho stops to consider his movements as the music begins again. Yuu had been "killed" approximately thirteen point two seconds after he left to survey the scene. That means the killer would have to be someone who was around them at the start of the game, either directly next to them or within a brief walking distance. And since they had been bold enough to "kill" just in front of the detective they would have walked away almost immediately, wanting to put as much distance between themselves and the scene of the crime as possible.

"IT WAS YOU!" Ortho joyfully yells, sternly pointing at an extremely surprised Pomefiore student, who drops his incriminating card in shock. Ortho gleefully snatches it up as you begin to make your way down the stairs to congratulate him, something that turns into a sprint as soon as you see the gathering magical energy. "Now awfully sorry partner but this town just ain't big enough for the two of us!"

"No bad Ortho! No lasers! And that's the wrong movie genre!!!!"

"Aw I was just kidding~" Ortho has the audacity to giggle and hit his head in another wrong genre move "If the ballroom goes away we won't be able to play again, right?" Oh you really wish you could explain why him saying that sounds so creepy without sounding insane.

Idia

"What a fucking drag." Idia pities the poor fool who decided to let him keep his tablet during the ball. So what if Ortho was technically another "player," did they really think that meant he didn't have access to the security cameras? It was literally taking him seconds to ID their stupid ass and then this it was going to be GAME OVER. This was always going to be the outcome, no matter who the killer was as soon as they were unfortunate enough to have to face off against him.

So why are his hands shaking so badly?

Yuu is standing confused about what to do, looking around for Mr. Grim probably, he can't help but zoom in on their face, thumb pausing the video as he runs it over their cheek before flinching back to the feed. They speak briefly to their friends before deciding to move towards the edges of the ballroom, looking to get away from the people probably, it's a feeling he knows well. Before they can make it to safety, Cater taps them on the shoulder and the music pauses as they sigh. Maybe they're disappointed at being the first one out, but Idia can't help but feel like they expected it. It sort of makes sense that the magicless one would be the first to go, like deleting irrelevant lines of code. It's fitting in more ways than they know.

"Fork it over." Idia is glad that he's taller than Cater, who seems really surprised that he's listening to his actual voice and not his tablet. The extra inches and flaming hair is really giving him a boost to moral even if he is going to go right back to hating himself for it later. "And don't play dumb I know you're the killer."

"Aww really?" Cater looks slightly annoyed, his finger comes up to twirl one of his annoyingly perfectly messy locks of hair. "#sad, I thought I made off with the Prefect perfectly." He hands over the card and Idia rolls his eyes, he had a speech he wanted to give. Something really cringey clowning on just how stupid Cater had to be to think he was going to get away with-

"Idia!" Yuu manages to tug him away from that train of thought, they must really have booked it here fast with just how breathlessly they called his name. They smile and give him a shakey thumbs up, something that would normally send him into cardiac arrest but doesn't effect him much at all to his surprise. The strange emotion he felt earlier, the one that is still making his hands shakey, is overriding any logical thought or normal behavior forcing him forward towards you rather than back into the shadows. "I just wanted to say good job! I mean I really shouldn't be surprised that you won so fast but it was still really co-" His shakey hand finds purchase on your neck, brutally aware that it's still un-gloved forcing skin to skin contact that he knows will be stuck in his brain for weeks to come. Sure, he should probably just have Ortho do a scan rather than look you over himself, technology doesn't make mistakes, or asses situations off of impulse. But he knows, even if he still asks Ortho to check on you later, that no amount of data would ever reassure him. He needed to feel the strangely fast beat of your heart himself.

"Sorry." Idia doesn't stutter, nor does he pull his hand away. "Can you just... stay like this with me. Just for a little longer." You simply nod, stay still not bothering to close the gap between you so as to allow Idia his space but relax into his touch enough to assure him that he is welcome to do it himself.

If he was forced to tell the truth and not spew his pessimistic drivel, Yuu's care and understanding would be what Idia would say he liked most about them. He didn't say he was afraid of them dying, but they heard him all the same.

When you are ready I am here. And while he might not be ready to say anything out loud, he can say it in the tender way he holds onto you for the rest of the night.

[cosmicjoke]

Levi's Choice and His Value of Self-Determination:

Another aspect of Levi's choice to give Armin the serum and let Erwin rest that people don't really consider, is Levi's respect toward peoples will and right to choose for themselves.

Erwin didn't want to be the commander of the Survey Corps anymore.

He wanted to be able to finally fulfill his role as commander by making that one, final sacrifice of his dream for his duty, and through that final act, at last absolve himself of his guilt and become worthy of the position. That's why he thanks Levi for making the choice for him. Because it allowed Erwin to do what he really wanted to do, deep down, but didn't have the strength to, which was sacrifice himself for the cause of the Survey Corps and live up to the sacrifices of all his fallen comrades. That's what Erwin wanted. To go out on his shield. To die for the cause.

Levi never forces anyone to do anything against their will, and that's an important part of his character to understand in order to also understand his choice.

He's constantly asking others to choose for themselves, to decide for themselves what they want and what they believe is right. We see him do this with Eren, and Jean, and Historia, and even Dimo Reeves. Even when Levi is trying to coerce people into a certain action through threats of violence, they're always empty threats which he never really follows through on and, ultimately, lets the person decide for themselves what they're going to do. Like his threats against Annie, or Zeke or Erwin. Levi threatens all of them with violence if they don't do what he tells them, but he never actually goes through with these threats, even as all these people fail to comply. And, of course, this pattern of Levi letting others make their own choices and decide for themselves holds true with Erwin, too, in Shinganshina.

Once again, because Levi values free will and peoples right to choose for themselves, to have agency over their own lives, above just about everything. That's what Levi's speech to the 104th during the Uprising arc was all about. This idea of the hell people choosing for themselves being better than the hell forced upon them.

To give Erwin the serum would have been to rob him of his own agency and deny him his own choice, forcing him back into a role and a life he no longer wanted, which he had given up gladly and thanked Levi for allowing him to give up, and that would have gone against everything Levi believed in and valued.

Levi's entire philosophy of "no regrets" hinges on this idea of always doing what you feel in your heart is the right course, even if the outcome isn't what you hoped for. It's about never compromising what you actually believe is right, no matter the cause. That's why I always roll my eyes at anyone who claims Levi compromised his values or his morals for Erwin. That claim is so antithetical to Levi's character as a whole.

Levi always followed his heart and did what he believed was right, no matter the cost to himself. Even if it meant losing the one person who gave him a sense of direction in life, which is precisely what he lost in letting Erwin die.

Levi refused to violate his belief that everyone should be allowed to choose for themselves their own path, and he refused to violate another persons agency and right to self-determination, even if that violation was meant to be committed in the name of "the greater good".

And again I posit, what does that term "the greater good" even mean, if people aren't allowed to choose for themselves what becomes of their lives?

That question is what underpins every dystopian nightmare ever depicted in fiction and played out in reality. A society of "peace" that's achieved only through the repression of free will, of fee thought and agency and autonomy. In other words, no real peace at all, but a false peace built upon a lie and the violation of other peoples wills. Further, a peace like that is inevitably doomed to failure anyway, because it's just another form of oppression and persecution. Just another form of imprisonment. Eventually, it would lead to rebellion. Eventually, it would lead to war.

Levi understood that better than anyone, I think. He understood that forcing people to do anything against their will was wrong, and that to do so would eventually only undermine whatever temporary benefit might be gained through forced cooperation.

We really see this belief of Levi's demonstrated through the story. Again, he never actually forces anyone to do anything. He ultimately lets everyone decide for themselves, and he never compromises in this, he never leaves anyone without a choice, because to him, there's nothing more important than people getting to choose for themselves, of getting to live and even die how they choose. It's one of the reasons Levi doesn't make a good "leader" in the traditional sense. He has no desire to tell other people what to do or how to act. And it's not because he's afraid of being responsible for other people, though that is something Levi fears, but because he believes it's every person's right to decide those things for themselves. We see this demonstrated also through the way Levi stands down when Hange makes the choice to sacrifice her life. It's why Levi doesn't try to stop her. Because it's her choice, and he doesn't feel he has any right to tell her or anyone else that she can't make it.

I think understanding this about Levi's character is also vital to understanding why he made the choice he did with Erwin. He wasn't ever going to violate Erwin's agency to choose for himself. He wasn't going to take that choice away from Erwin by undoing it through injecting him with the serum.

As an aside, what I also don't get about people who claim Levi was willing to doom humanity for Erwin is that it assumes Levi believed Erwin was absolutely, irrefutably essential to humanity's survival, which we know he didn't believe, because he was willing to let Erwin die not just once, but twice, prior to making the choice he did with the serum. Once during the Uprising arc, when he tells that MP they kidnapped that he's willing to let Erwin die if it means getting Eren and Historia back, and once during the RtS arc, when he lets Erwin ride to his death charging the Beast Titan. Neither scenario indicates at all that Levi believed Erwin's death in those circumstances would doom humanity to extinction, or whatever. On the contrary, he saw Erwin as expendable in comparison to Eren's survival, and twice put Eren above Erwin in the belief that Eren was more important toward achieving the goal of humanity's victory. Clearly, Levi always believed that humanity could survive without Erwin. He wouldn't have been willing to let Erwin die two times in the lead-up to his choice in Shinganshina if he didn't believe that. So this ridiculous notion that Levi "doomed" humanity for Erwin holds no water. It also assumes that Levi would have somehow, magically, understood the circumstances they would be facing before learning what was in Eren's basement, and that knowing those circumstances, he knowingly and purposefully let Erwin die. People that claim this are basically claiming that Levi had full knowledge of what they would be facing and that Erwin's continued existence was essential to defeating that threat, and he did it anyway just to spare Erwin further suffering. But the reality is, Levi had no way of knowing at all what they would be facing or what the threat was, nor did he hold any belief that Erwin's continued existence was essential in defeating that threat. He had no idea that they would discover an entire world of people beyond the walls, let alone a world of people hostile toward them and wishing for their eradication. He didn't make the choice he did while believing humanity couldn't go on without Erwin. He fully believed it could. This is what pisses me off so much about this bullshit claim that Levi "chose Erwin over humanity". No he didn't. Levi 100% believed humanity would survive without Erwin.

[bthump]

i was wondering and am curious about your opinion - we know guts is important enough for griffith to risk his life for repeatedly, made him forget his dream etc. etc. but do you think (pre-eclipse, pre-torture, pre- guts leaving ofc) griffith would *give* his life for him?

*risking* it still gives at least some chance of survival, but in a hypothetical gun-to-the-head situation where his own death for the price of guts's life would be certain, a situation that would allow him a little time to really consider it, not just an impulsive decision in the heat of the battle etc. - would he choose himself and his dream over guts, or would the guarantee of his own death, and thus no soul-shattering concept of continuing to live the rest of his life without the slightest chance of achieving the dream, be enough to for him to take that 'risking his life' a step further and fully sacrifice himself for guts's sake?

alternatively, if guts offered his own life for griffith's (i believe he would, but maybe you have a different opinion?), would griffith accept it?

lol this was a lot of fun to think about, ty!

Honestly I think my opinion is that Griffith wouldn't trade his life for Guts' if he had a chance to really consider it (and couldn't impulsively change his mind at the last second.) I think during the Golden Age, like before Guts leaves, Griffith's feelings for him are more subconscious - he knows he likes him and wants him to stay by his side, but he doesn't know that Guts is more important to him than his dream, and I think he'd consider that a personal failing if he did. I mean he kind of does in canon, imo.

And imo Griffith meant it when he said he has no friends among the Hawks - not because it's true, but because it's his way of trying to keep himself emotionally distanced. So he doesn't consciously think of Guts as his bff.

I also think that Griffith, when he's not actively deluding himself about the philosophical importance of having a dream lol, sees pursuing the dream as like, a duty he owes to everyone who died for it. In addition, he also feels like there's no point to living if he's not pursuing his dream. This is pretty headcanon-y, but I think it makes sense for Griffith to lowkey have some like, suicidal ideation going on. Dying would almost be a relief from the pressure of his dream, but it would also be a failure. Not to detract from the significance of Griffith sacrifcing himself for Guts - imo the fact that he's risking his dream for him in those moments makes it even more significant than just risking his life.

So like basically if someone had a sword to Guts' throat and said 'you or him' I think Griffith would want to give his life for Guts, both because he loves him and can't stand to see him die and because it would be an escape from his dream, but he wouldn't allow himself to, basically. He would tell himself that as a Hawk Guts is supposed to die for him and it's just a pebble on the path yadda yadda yadda and then he'd never be happy again lol.

On the other hand, if Guts offered his own life for Griffith's (I also believe he would btw), I don't think Griffith would accept. To me this falls more in line with impulsive decisions, without a real chance to think about it, and Guts wins those. If Griffith had a sword to his throat, and Guts was like 'nooo kill me instead' (in a scenario where this somehow makes sense) Griffith's automatic response would be 'absolutely not' and he'd probably slit his own throat.

Plus choosing to trade Guts' life for his own is more active a choice than simply not chosing to save Guts by stepping in and sacrificing himself, and the more active a role he has to play in Guts' death, the less he's able to do it. He can sacrifice him during the Eclipse in that moment of true despair, but even as Femto he can't actually kill him himself. I can't really imagine human Griffith choosing to let Guts die in his place.

I'm glad your question split that particular hair between Griffith sacrificing himself and Guts sacrificing himself lol because yeah I do think there's a difference.

[i-am-the-oyster]

Hi there, I also have a quick question about this post (Paul's guilt about hurting John, possibly evidenced in song notes during the making of RAM, and its source—that he left John, despite having promised not to).

Are you saying Paul felt guilty towards John, and knew why, during the making of RAM? And, if so, how would you square this with Paul's notorious 'grief rant' phonecall with Hunter Davies shortly after John's death, where Paul appears not only upset by the idea that he hurt John, but also unaware of what he could have done to cause this hurt?

"But what had really got Paul upset that day was an interview with Yoko in which Yoko was quoted as saying that Paul had hurt John more than any other person. Paul thought they were amongst the cruelest words he ever read." (Hunter Davies grief rant fun)

Was Paul bullshitting Hunter? (Go, Paul)

Was Paul being defensive and angry b/c Yoko blamed him for hurting John in public?

Was Paul not surprised to hear he'd hurt John (after all, they hurt each other often), but struck by the 'more than any other person' part?

I don't mean to say you're right or wrong. I'm just curious to hear you elaborate on this. Meaning, your take on Paul's guilt, and how accessible it was to him consciously. I've long been thinking about him hearing this claim, 'you hurt him more than anyone else', and how different that would have landed, depending on how aware/guilty he felt.

(Whether Paul was right to feel guilty or not is a completely different matter, and doesn't play a role on my question.)

Thank you for the wonderful meaty (sorry Paul!) ask!

I think Paul *did* feel guilty at the time, but I wouldn't exactly say Paul was bullshitting Hunter. The thing that always jumps out at me from that transcript is where Paul says:

There's only one incident I can think of that John has mentioned publicly.

(emphasis mine)

Isn't that an interesting distinction in the context? It makes me think that there were deeply private things that they each did to the other but Paul feels certain that those things would never end up the subject of public discussion.

I don't buy the image of Paul as lacking self-awareness or self-reflection. BUT he is extremely good at re-framing things in a positive way "so many times I had to change the pain to laughter" AND he is a very contrary person. He seems to often instinctively push against whatever narrative the person opposite him is proposing, especially where the topic needs some nuance. (eg the one time he approaches the topic of Jim's violence is in response to Stern pushing Paul's own "idyllic childhood" bit).

So back to the version of their story that had in mind when I made my original post. (Which I'm not married to, but seems like a plausible scenario worth exploring). Paul and John are in a codependent relationship, John has clearly expressed his terror that Paul might leave (as he did with Cyn). John's behaviour has become erratic and (at least borderline) abusive. Paul knows that if he lets go John will "take a tumble", but he's exhausted and Linda is teaching him to take his own desires and needs into account in a much healthier way. (Not to suggest Paul was never selfish in the 60s lol, but he wasn't practicing actual self-care).

John is spiraling, and pushing Paul away in that heartbreaking pattern I call "see I knew you were going to leave". (I'm sure there must be a name for it in psychology). Linda doesn't yet realise the depth of feeling she's dealing with. Paul knows how terrified John is, he's promised he won't be like the others, he won't leave. But he can't do it any more. John finally convinces him that he actually wants him to leave, he bawls his eyes out in front of Mal, and he disappears to Scotland.

I think he would be absolutely wracked with guilt.

And then I think as part of his recovery from that depression he would reassure himself that he did need to leave, that it was the right choice, that he and John could continue to care about one another deeply and move on.

I think Yoko's statement was unnecessarily cruel hurt him, and triggered that contrary response. What's she even talking about? What did I do? The worst ever?!

Thanks again!

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Slow and eternal - Occultus x fem!reader

warning : slowburn (as good as it can be in a One-shot), the dark circle being the dark circle, friends to lovers kinda

Summary : A poser or a true demon in the end, the group didn't know yet. But no matter what they knew, Occultust and Faust couldn't get her out of their heads.

Info : So a request for @sweetest-catha I hope you like it and sorry for the longer wait I really had not the most time. But again have fun reading ;)

masterlist

Disclaimer : I don't want to glorify anything, it's about the actors who play a role, not the real events.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Helvete. She had heard about the infamous store in the scene. Had been shown photos by her friends and the press. Had heard her fans talking about it on her own tours and concerts. The new band that had emerged was "Mayhem".

But she didn't see it as a threat to her music, she saw it as a way to make the best out of all the shit in the world. There needed to be more darkness in this overly wholesome world if you asked her.

But wasn't that the answer any satanist would give? But when she finally stood in front of it, it was something she hadn't expected. Although there were a few customers in the store, it seemed like everything.

Actually, even if she had wanted to come here, she had to admit that it was more her orientation, she wanted to go to the city recording studio for a new song and not here. But what did that mean, maybe it was fate and in the end she would find her destination. A dark satanic world of her own.

Where she liked to be herself. Still wondering if they would have that one thing. That one particular cover. But as soon as she entered, the smell of cigarettes and beer hit her, not unfamiliar but almost too much on a morning when she had enough oxygen and wasn't about to pass out.

Looking around, she had to admit that she felt a certain comfort but with a naive charm. She knew that she wasn't necessarily significantly older than Euronymous and yet the group seemed so much more bursting with energy it impressed her a little. Because she herself knew that the world had turned against her from the beginning, and not just because of her choice of musician and genre.

With a small grin on her lips, she began to go through the shelves. She saw one or two familiar albums before stopping at the one that made her smile. ,,What are you smiling about, sweetie?" she heard an almost cheerful voice and looked next to her.

A young man no older than her was standing next to her, a wide grin on his lips and broad sunglasses hanging from his black sweater. ,,Hi, I was just looking at the plates, you've got some good ones," she replied, pointing to a few of them and hearing the long-haired man giggle, which he found more than amusing. ,,What do you mean, darling? Euronymous the owner" another one came up to her, stood next to the guy and put a hand on his hip.

She looked into his blue eyes and saw that he was sizing her up, judging whether she was good enough for your store or just a poser. ,,Sweetheart or poser girl?" asked another and she recognized the tall one as Faust had seen his picture from the police station after being questioned about the murder of a man.

But no one could really ask if it was true, at least not yet. ,,I like poser girls," the shorter one commented, introducing himself as Occultus and simply grabbing her hand and shaking it, but the grin didn't leave his lips.

Something that also made her smile slightly the energy of the group was so different individually that it was almost ironic how they all belonged together. ,,If you have no idea, get out!" she heard Varg shout from behind the cash register. She knew the album he had made well but it wasn't necessarily her favorite.

Looking back at Euronymous, he had folded his arms and was pointing to the door, ,,Get out or something will happen," he threatened, but something told her he wouldn't dare. It seemed to be either the over-interest of his two friends or the slight flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

He was bluffing. ,,Well then, the poser girl is leaving now...but I'd have a look at one of the records, maybe you'll find something nice," she countered with a smile, turning on her heel and disappearing from the store with a wave. She left the boys slightly puzzled, but it was mainly Occultus and Faust whose grins only widened.

Because what at least she couldn't know was that when she gave the next concert, Occultus and Faust would be there as well as the whole circle. Everything about her was impressive, even if she wasn't the main singer, the boys recognized her despite the demonic masks.

The masks, which seemed to come from hell itself, covered the faces of the band and yet they recognized the young woman behind the mask. ,,She's epic," Faust heard his friend say as they both took another sip of beer and watched the demonic guitar solo they were about to witness. It was impressive how she could use her fingers to create such a beat for the band, it was as if Satan himself had taken over.

Even if she didn't notice the group in her frenzy, she put a lot of effort into this concert and it was well worth it. Because only a year later the band's new album was released and she wanted to see how well it was received. Or whether the boys had done their homework and now knew who they were or perhaps had a little more respect.

They had developed into decent Satanists and not thirteen-year-olds. When the door opened again and her arrival was announced, a small smile stole onto her lips. ,,That's right it's her" she heard the band founder murmur and the others scrambled out from behind the curtain. Not letting on, she went to the same shelf as a year ago, looked at the album and couldn't help but smile.

,,You...you...you were incredible," stammered the two friends who had dared to come to her, seeing Occultus trying to hide behind Faust and the other one the other way around. The two of them seemed too dazzled by her power on the guitar, at least from the outside.

,,Yes... really incredible," the two mumbled again and she couldn't help but giggle - the two of them were kind of cute and even if she didn't want to admit it at first, they were somehow adorable. ,,Thank you both," she began and held out her hands to them, which they shook and pulled into her arms with a surprised noise.

,,Tell me...would you like to be invited for a pizza?" she asked, gesturing with her head in the direction of the pizzeria opposite. Shabby and old and yet the best pizzas in town, as they all knew. Their hearts beat faster, it almost seemed like a date.

But even she couldn't deny the beating of her heart, they were already somehow in love. ,,You bet!" they exclaimed and she suddenly felt the two of them stand next to her, put their hands around her and the three of them smiled as they left the store. Feeling the fast but sweet kiss on her cheeks as the two kissed her as a thank you.

Not knowing that after the pizza date there would only be more opportunities to find out that their hearts beat for her and her heart beat for them. But above all, the black-haired Occultus would never forget this satanic goddess.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[zyrafowe-sny]

who gives a shit about tomorrow? (when it comes, we can worry then)

Inspired by the @goldenheart-week Day 5 prompts "disability" and "regret" along with Mika's Tomorrow. Cross-posted on AO3.

Chapter 1: you and I, we're really / really not that innocent

Perhaps the unreasonable heat had scrambled his ability to reason. There certainly was no other logical explanation for why Lord Ballister Blackheart, notorious villain, would reply in the affirmative to a middle-of-the-night message from Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin, Champion of the Realm, asking simply: “Awake? :)”

God, that smiley face.

He immediately regretted responding, but decided it was a problem for tomorrow and went back to willing himself to sleep.

Unsuccessfully.

He tried no blankets, but that felt deeply wrong on a fundamental level. Using a thin sheet to keep his sweaty limbs from rubbing together was a slight improvement, but he still found himself tossing and turning when the doorbell rang.

Ballister blinked at the clock, which informed him that it was a little after two. He had an unfortunate suspicion as to who it might be, and cursed his past self for not blocking his number. And/or for not changing his own.

He considered pretending that he hadn't heard the doorbell, but a series of impatient rings nixed that plan. Grumpily, he searched for his robe. While his visitor had seen him in less on (many) prior occasions — albeit over a decade before — just boxers felt entirely insufficient after all that happened between them.

As expected, he found Ambrosius Goldenloin on the other side of the door. Ballister couldn't remember the last time he had seen the knight in civilian clothes. His blouse was low cut — Ambrosius always did like showing off those collar bones — though a metallic gold instead of the minty green he used to favor. Before.

“Goldenloin,” Ballister greeted him flatly.

Ambrosius wore the same infuriating grin as he did when they sparred. “I thought you might like a fan in this fine weather we’re having.”

Ballister raised an eyebrow. “I don't see one.”

“Me. I'm your fan.” Ambrosius attempted to flip his signature mane of blond hair, but it was limp with humidity and the effect was altogether unimpressive. (At least compared to baseline.)

Ballister snorted. “Aren't you my archnemesis?”

“A hero can hold a certain…admiration for a worthy adversary,” he said not-quite-petulantly with a trace of a familiar pout.

Typical Ambrosius. Lately, it felt like he was treating their encounters like an ongoing game of pretend. Play-acting at knights and villains while conveniently ignoring all their history and baggage. Never once apologizing for his choices that had landed them into those roles.

And always, always flirting beneath a thin veneer of plausible deniability.

It was maddening.

Some combination of oppressive heat and tired delirium overrode all of Ballister’s better judgment, and he invaded Ambrosius’ space, trying to get under his skin the way he (regrettably all too often) got under Ballister’s. “Is that what I am? A worthy adversary?” he asked in a low voice.

Their eyes (and mouths) were less than a foot apart. Ambrosius’ previously cocksure gaze now held uncertainty, and Ballister could practically feel the huff of his ragged breath on his face.

Ambrosius retreated with a noticeable gulp.

Ballister pursued. (That is, if simply taking a single step forward could be considered a pursuit.)

This time, Ambrosius stood his ground, hand fruitlessly reaching for where his sword’s pommel would normally be, wary but likely aware he was in a trap of his own making.

Possessed by that same heatwave recklessness foolishness, Ballister’s left hand pushed back some of Ambrosius’ (slightly damp) hair, and his one-time lover stood still as a statue as Ballister continued to cup his head despite himself.

“Why'd you even come here, Zee?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The nickname — for so long locked behind years of hurt — slipped off his tongue without a thought, freed by the strange spell that had come over him. (And over Ambrosius too, presumably — he didn't usually do house calls. Especially unarmed. Damn this weather.)

Ambrosius shook off his trance and Ballister’s hand. “We should get out of the street.”

The lack of neighbors had been one of the strongest appeals of this warehouse-turned-lair and he doubted anyone was around to see them, but Ballister let him in anyway.

The thick security door closed behind them with a loud thunk.

And so they stood, inside, together, the stagnant air between them thick with humidity and awful awkward silence.

(A fan would be an improvement, actually, Ballister had to admit. The industrial ones in his workshop didn't do much for the living quarters. Pity Ambrosius usually blew hot air.)

After what felt like an eternity but was probably just a minute or so, Ambrosius cleared his throat. “I'm thirsty.”

When in doubt, Ballister apparently defaulted to banter. “Is that why you're here? That fancy townhouse of yours ran out of water?”

Still, Ballister made his way to the kitchen, and Ambrosius followed.

“Out of air conditioning, actually. Power’s out.”

“Grid probably got overloaded.” Another reason that setting up his own solar panel system — completely with backup batteries — had been worth the trouble (and cost — he’d had to pull off a few heists to raise the funds for materials).

Ambrosius nodded and made himself at home at the kitchen counter, perching himself on a stool. “Do you still make…oh, what did you call it, bottled starlight?” he asked wistfully.

Ballister’s earliest attempts at moonshine at the Institution were barely drinkable and hardly worthy of such a poetic name. Since then, with better lab equipment and more privacy — it had been damnably difficult to run a mini distillery undetected under the Director's nose — he’d managed to experiment and refine the process. As a minor side project, of course.

“I do. But moonshine isn't going to help with hydration.”

“So give me two glasses then. Just like you did when we were training together. One for water, one for the good stuff.”

Ballister rolled his eyes, but opened the cabinet with barware. He took out four glasses, one at a time, then reached for a bottle hidden in the back. A specially-built vice held it steady on the counter as he struggled momentarily with the cap.

When he looked up again, Ambrosius was staring — not at his face, but lower and to the side. At his injured shoulder, and the empty sleeve of his robe that flapped uselessly.

“Your arm…it's gone…”

Ballister took a deep breath, pinched his nose, and reevaluated his prior assessment of Ambrosius’ powers of observation. “You’re the one responsible for it and you're only just noticing.”

“Yes. No. I mean…” Ambrosius looked down. “When you're wearing your prosthetic…”

“Prosthesis.”

“Prosthesis. It's easy to… forget?” He dared to raise his gaze once more, and in those sky blue eyes Ballister could read guilt, clear as day.

“Ignore?” Ballister corrected pointedly.

Ambrosius winced. “I didn't have much time to see you immediately…after. You went from a hospital bed to walking around with a new arm in no time. And then you disappeared.”

“That's because the Institution was pushing one on me before my stump was ready for it, and then decided I was too much of a deadweight to keep around.” Ballister poured himself a glass of the moonshine and knocked it back. This batch was smoother than the last one, and in his current mood, he missed some of the harsh burn of his earlier attempts. “And maybe having me as a villain was always going to be more useful to them. Maybe that was the Director’s plan all along.”

Ambrosius didn't try to defend her. Instead, in a small voice, he asked, “May I see?”

The stool made an unpleasant scraping sound as he slid off it. He then made his way around to the other side of the counter — slowly, deliberately — to where Ballister stood.

Ambrosius’ hand rested gently against the belt of Ballister’s robe, but stopped short of opening it.

“Go ahead,” he said gruffly.

Ambrosius carefully undid the knot, slid the robe off of Ballister's shoulders, and folded it neatly on the counter. Ballister’s heart hammered inside his chest as a delicate finger traced each angry ridge and groove, but he willed himself to remain still.

“It's still so red,” Ambrosius whispered.

“I don't take off my prosthesis as often as I should,” Ballister said conversationally, as if he weren’t revealing his weaknesses to his self-proclaimed archnemesis. “It's devilishly hard to do on my own, but with this heat… I made the mistake of going outside yesterday and the metal got miserably hot.”

“Like that slide.” Ambrosius’ voice sounded distant as he revisited old memories. “At the playground we used to sneak off to. Near the orphanage. It would burn us during the summer.”

“Exactly. And the sweat” — Ballister wrinkled his face in displeasure — “it made the connector plate on my shoulder slide more than usual. And you know how you get puffy sometimes in the heat?”

Ambrosius nodded, eyes wide as he tried to imagine — likely for the first time — all the unpleasant details of a life with a metal prosthetic arm.

“Well that threw off the fit too. So that also made the chafing worse, and so...” Even one-armed, Ballister could shrug.

“I…I didn't know.”

“Fifteen years, Ambrosius,” he spat. “And you’ve never even wondered what you did to me.”

He flinched. “I’ve never met your equal with a sword. Before or…or after.”

“It hurts. Whenever I'm pushing against enough weight that it shifts the connector plate. Doesn't happen all the time, but broadswords…”

Ambrosius blinked as something finally clicked. “That's why you switch arms sometimes.” His expression shifted into something that might have been genuine (overdue) contrition. “Ballister, I'm so sorry.”

“Took you long enough to apologize,” he said acidly.

“I...I didn't before? Oh God.” His face grew pale and he raised a hand to cover his mouth.

“Doesn't mean I forgive you,” Ballister warned as he rested his (remaining) hand on Ambrosius' shaking shoulders, tapping a finger to time his breath.

“I… I under…stand.” It took a few cycles of long inhales and exhales, but soon enough Ambrosius stilled and Ballister stepped back.

“Ready to go home?” This middle-of-the-night foolishness had lasted long enough, and if Ambrosius left now, maybe they could both pretend it didn't happen.

“I still want that drink,” Ambrosius said with conviction, and his eyes burned blue.

“So you can blame whatever happens next on the alcohol?” Ballister accused. “So like you, Ambrosius, always deflecting responsibility on something — or someone — else. Well, I'm not going to let you this time.”

And he pulled him close for a fierce kiss.

His teeth scraped against Ambrosius’ lips, and then his tongue took advantage of the slightest part to invade his mouth.

Ambrosius let out a soft moan, and — just as expected — reciprocated.

Their tongues dueled, and manicured nails scratched at Ballister’s back.

“Wait.” Ambrosius pulled back, panting, pupils still blown wide. “Unhand me, villain?” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“This isn't what you came here for?” Ballister breathed into his ear.

Ambrosius shivered.

“Still trying to tell yourself that I'm the one in the wrong, even after you finally apologized? That you didn't kiss me back just now? That you didn't come here yourself with not-so-innocent intentions?”

Ballister was close enough to see the trajectory of Ambrosius' Adam's apple as he swallowed.

“If you want this, want me… you make that choice. Own that choice,” Ballister hissed.

Ambrosius searched his eyes for a beat, lips parted, then cupped his face with both hands.

And kissed him.

Regrets could wait until tomorrow.