#uniqueness among religions

[jarredlharris]

The uniqueness among religions

During my recent appearance on Di the Yoga Witch’s podcast, we got talking about our views on deities. And I provided a few thoughts on why I tend to favor hard polytheism — or at least treating the deities and individuals rather than the same deity (or divine couple) by different names. Here’s what I had to say:1 For those who may not have the time or ability to watch or listen to the video…

[lionheartlr]

Exploring Belgium: A Comprehensive Travel Guide

Belgium, a charming country nestled in Western Europe, offers a rich tapestry of history, culture, and modernity. This guide will take you through Belgium’s history, colonial past, political landscape, education system, and practical travel information, ensuring a delightful and informed visit. A Brief History of Belgium Belgium’s history is a blend of influences from Roman times to modern-day…

[fir-fireweed]

Intro Post for my new WIP, “Cantata.” If you haven’t yet read my completed IF, “Viatica,” you can find it here on itch.

A low fantasy IF loosely based on the Italian Renaissance period, with a steampunk edge.

DEMO on Itch

SYNOPSIS

The story is set in Saleste, an empire with a long history of expansionism and colonization. It is a vast, wealthy empire, very much set in notions of classism and noble privilege. And its warmongering has only grown more brazen under the current regis (monarch). Saleste is currently at a stalemate with Tinebaille, a neighboring island nation the empire has repeatedly tried, and failed, to conquer.

Within the empire, technically citizens but not, are the Iredicci. The Iredicci are as much a religion as they are a race—less like priests and more like monks or shamans. The Iredicci can hear and feel the cordis, the harmonic pulse that connects all living things, and they connect to it through song. Iredicci have excellent hearing, but their defining feature is their voice—they have an echo to their voice, a resonance of two pitches at once. The regis asked the Iredicci elders to use their unique gift to help him conquer Tinebaille, but as a peaceful people, they refused.

A simple, nomadic people, the Iredicci were traditionally welcome in all corners of the Saleste Empire. But as steam technology progressed and the push for new resources grew, a prejudice developed against them. The regis spread propaganda against the Iredicci, painting them as an inferior, uncivilized people who leeched off the empire rather than aided it. Over the years they stopped being welcome. Eventually, their travel was restricted, and the Iredicci were forced to live in settlement camps.

You are one of the Iredicci, born into such a camp. The elders sing songs of past travels and wonders you have never seen. Ever the optimists, the elders tell you to take heart. To be thankful you are among friends and family. That things can’t possibly get any worse.

Until they do.

Historians and politicians would call it The Proelium, a righteous battle against the traitorous Iredicci. What it really was, was the systematic genocide of your people. In one night, soldiers attacked every settlement camp across the empire. No one was spared—not the elders, not the children, not your mother.

It was mere whim that you snuck out of camp that evening, a mischievous escapade with a friend that ironically saved your life. You are taken in by your friend’s family and kept safe. But with survivors being hunted and killed, you must conceal your identity. So, you pretend to be deaf and mute.

Journey through the empire of Saleste and beyond. Grow from a child into an adult. Make friends, lovers, allies, and enemies. How will they react when your secret comes to light? Will you abandon your song in favor of machine? Join the rebel forces against the tyrant regis? Will you heal the wounds of the realm and restore balance? Or plunge it further into chaos?

MAGIC

There is no magic in the traditional sense, but your people are attuned to the cordis, the harmonies of the earth. Your song brings rain to drought ridden areas, quiets thunderstorms, tames wildfires, and soothes hearts. You can also attune to a specific element, which corresponds to one of the senses:

Earth/Smell

Air/Sight

Fire/Touch

Water/Taste

FEATURES

Play as male, female or nonbinary—you’ll be able to choose your pronouns independent of your body type.

Customize your character’s appearance and personality.

Choose your attunement/proficiency with the cordis. This choice will heavily influence gameplay, affecting combat, weapon specialization, character interactions, and problem-solving situations. Choose wisely!

Create 2 character names: your birth name and an alias. The Iredicci have culturally unique names, so your birth name will be limited to a preset selection. But you will go by an alias of your own choosing for most of the story.

Develop your relationship with your adopted sister. Are you friends or rivals?

Romance! Or not. Romance 1 of 4 possible love interests, or choose the platonic route with the best of friends.

Save a wild animal from a hunter’s trap and gain a steadfast companion. Because fur baby.

THE MC

The game begins with you at age 7. When you are 12, your camp is slaughtered during The Proelium. With your voice and heightened hearing identifying you as Iredicci, you pretend to be deaf and mute in order to hide your heritage. The main game occurs 13 years after The Proelium, when you are 25.

ROMANCE OPTIONS

Calliope Cato (she/her)

The inventor/artificer, Calliope can build and fix any machine. She is 2 years younger than you, petite, with gold eyes, rich brown skin and black hair in multiple braids. Her hair and clothes are adorned in rings, belts, and pins which double as tools. She carries a man’s cane sword with her everywhere, which she wields in a fight along with a hand crossbow. She’s curious, optimistic, excitable, and easily distracted by her many projects, but much of that is to keep her mind occupied. In quiet moments when she thinks no one is looking, you glimpse a profound sadness on her features.

Corinne Xenakis (she/her)

The leader of the rebels, Corinne works to overthrow the monarchy and aid the surviving Iredicci where possible. She is 6 years older than you. She is tall, with long, sandy brown hair usually worn in a messy bun or loosely braided bun, hazel eyes, and beige skin tanned by the sun. Quiet, serious and aloof, she feels a tremendous responsibility for those under her command. Corinne is a contradiction—she has the grace and manners of a noblewoman, yet fights with military precision that is uncommon for females of noble lineage. She is deadly when double wielding her flintlocks or axes. While not cold, she is not overly familiar or friendly with anyone, and very tight-lipped about her past. What does she guard so fiercely behind her armor?

Vicente Aloi (he/they)

The bastard prince, Vicente is calculating, ruthless and driven. They are the same age as you, and they, too, lost their mother the night of The Proelium, though under different circumstances. But while you were adopted into a loving family, he is the unwanted son of the regis, trained to be a lethal tool. He has long, midnight blue-black hair, icy blue eyes, and high defined cheekbones. The edges of a tattoo are barely visible on his neck above the collar of his doublet… wings, perhaps? It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful, though you’d never tell him for fear he’d take his rapier to your neck simply for looking. Will your plans align with his, or are you merely another pawn in his schemes?

Bayram Durmaz (he/him)

The son of the Aydem, the matriarchal leader of Tinebaille. Bayram is 4 years older than you. He has golden-honey skin, light brown eyes, and dark brown, tightly-curled hair that he usually wears back in a ponytail or half ponytail. He is tall and broad, muscular but not toned, with a rounded edge to his stomach and chest. A sprawling, colorful tattoo, the mosaic artwork of his people, covers the entirety of his back. He is boisterous, bold, and a shameless flirt. With his young sister bearing the weight of succession, he’s been free to explore the islands to his heart’s content, and is familiar with every bay, inlet, and harbor. He is equally skilled at wielding a spear, sailing a ship, and charming hearts.

CONTENT WARNING

This story is intended for mature audiences. Possibly triggering topics present in the story include blood, violence, death (including child death), trauma & PTSD, mature language, sexual content (optional), classism, sexism, bigotry, and the persecution of a fictional people. Be advised, you are also pretending to have a disability for at least half the story.

The music is intentionally loud in certain parts of the story. This is to mimic the noise and emotions that the MC is experiencing, as sound is an integral feature of your race. It may be uncomfortable for some readers, so please read with caution.

PINTEREST click here

[novy2sirius]

ACTING ASTROLOGY

— your fifth house planets

· your 5th house planets can tell about your acting talent and the type of films you’d do best in. if you want to know what type of characters you’d specifically play best and another acting astrology technique, click below

· types of characters you’d play well

· tw: porn (18+ only), trauma, cults, and gore

₊˚⊹☆┊5H SUN

one of the main themes in your life is putting forth your talent by expressing yourself. you naturally have a talent for entertaining others. you attract lots of attention and can be very famous. acting or entertaining others is likely a huge source of happiness in your life. you would do best in film genres such as drama, comedy, romance, action, and children’s films as well

₊˚⊹☆┊5H MOON

your soul has a natural desire to express itself emotionally and creatively through art. you have a face that makes others easily be able to read your emotions which can make you an amazing actor if you are able to feel all the emotions a character feels and fully immerse yourself into that characters energy and aura. this is also a popular fame placement in general. you would do best in film genres such as melodrama, romance, family, and indie as well

₊˚⊹☆┊5H MERCURY

you naturally have the right mannerisms for acting in such a way that when people watch your films it comes off very realistic as if they’re watching a normal video of someone. this placement can indicate starting out on social media or in short films before making it big in the film industry. often people with this placement always wanted to be the main character or take on as many roles as possible in their school plays. you would do best in film genres such as comedy, reality, and short films

₊˚⊹☆┊5H VENUS

you have a talent for all artistic careers, but this is an especially common placement among actors. you would do best in film genres such as romance, romantic comedy, musical, artistic, lgbtq, and dance films as well

₊˚⊹☆┊5H MARS

you have a talent for putting passion and enthusiasm into your expression when acting. you would especially play aggressive roles better. you would do best in film genres such as action, thrillers, horror, gore, slasher, war, medical, lgbtq, and superhero films

₊˚⊹☆┊5H JUPITER

you have an abundance of acting talent. this is a common placement among those who were in theater growing up. this can indicate gaining lots of popularity from acting and gaining success from it more easily than others as well. you would do best in genres such as adventure, thrillers, athletic, comedy, religion and action

₊˚⊹☆┊5H SATURN

this can indicate your job involves acting since saturn represents work. you may not become successful until later in life when acting with this placement though. sometimes it can also just indicate playing more serious characters though instead of a late start in your acting career. you would do best in genres such as history, historical fiction, biographical, documentaries, indie, and also silent films

₊˚⊹☆┊5H URANUS

this can indicate being in films/shows that are more popular on things like netflix or hulu rather than in theaters. people with this placement have the ability to play really unique roles. you would do best in genres such as sci-fi, thrillers, lgbtq, and pornographic films

₊˚⊹☆┊5H NEPTUNE

people with this placement have a natural talent for lying and deceiving others, so they can be really talented actors. you have the ability to put on a good illusion through your self expression. you would do best in genres such as fantasy, fiction, animation, mystery, spiritual, disappearance, and also musical films

₊˚⊹☆┊5H PLUTO

you have the ability to play really powerful characters. you’re good at transforming yourself into someone you’re not and putting on a good show. you would do best in genres such as crime, mystery, horror, action, superhero, vampire, cult, sexual, and thrillers as well

₊˚⊹☆┊5H NORTH NODE

your life purpose could involve acting and entertaining others. you have a natural talent for expressing yourself creatively in artistic ways and through the arts

₊˚⊹☆┊5H CHIRON

you have a talent for putting your inner wounds that have caused you emotional pain into your acting. the more trauma these people have the better the actors they are. you would do best in films that are more so on the sad side

© novy2sirius

[blueiscoool]

2,000 Bronze Statue Fragments Found in Turkey Ancient Scrap Yard

Archaeologists in Izmir, Turkey have made an extraordinary discovery in the ancient city of Metropolis: Approximately 2,000 bronze statue fragments have been found in a section believed to have served as an “ancient scrap yard”.

The excavations are being carried out within the scope of the ‘Heritage to the Future Project’ of the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, under the direction of Prof. Serdar Aybek, Professor of Archaeology at Dokuz Eylül University, and in cooperation with the Sabancı Foundation.

Archaeologists have discovered evidence of many civilizations, from the earliest settlements in the Late Neolithic Age to the Classical Age, from the Hellenistic Age to the Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman periods, in the ancient city of Metropolis, also called the “City of Mother Goddess,” where excavations have been going on since 1990.

In the ancient city, where many monumental structures were unearthed, these fragments, uncovered in an area believed to have served as an “ancient scrap yard,” offer a unique glimpse into the cultural and religious shifts of the region during the Late Antiquity period.

Professor Serdar Aybek stated that the bronze statue fragments were found in a corner of a space referred to as an “ancient scrap yard,” where they had been broken apart for melting and stored in bulk.

Aybek explained that the findings include statue pieces from the Hellenistic period and figures from the Roman era, describing them as “extraordinary discoveries, even for our field of work. We have uncovered approximately 2,000 bronze statue fragments,” he said.

He highlighted the significance of the bronze statues being broken into pieces, noting, “The collection and recycling of statues in the Late Antiquity provide concrete evidence in Metropolis. Among the findings are parts such as heads, eyes, fingers, and sandals.”

Drawing attention to the dismantling of these statues, Aybek said, “In the Late Antiquity, as mythological beliefs were abandoned in favor of monotheistic religions and Christianity became dominant in the region, bronze statues from mythological and earlier eras were dismantled. Although we do not yet have archaeological evidence to confirm this claim, we can suggest that a significant portion of them was repurposed for minting coins. During that period, rather than producing new materials, bronze groups, mainly consisting of outdated or damaged statues, were broken apart by the ancient scrap yard worker and prepared for melting.”

The fragments might be from the statues built to honor the benefactors listed in the “Metropolitan Apollonios” inscription, according to Aybek, who also underlined the historical significance of bronze statues in antiquity.

What makes this discovery even more remarkable is the evidence of recycling practices that date back over a millennium.

In addition to the fragmented statues, archaeologists discovered square and rectangular bronze plates that were probably used for statue casting and repair. This implies that, at its height, Metropolis might have served as a center for the creation or repair of bronze statues.

By Leman Altuntaş.

[larkingame]

play the demo | patreon | larkin is rated 18+

someone is after you.

for over a decade and a half now, you’ve traveled up, down and across the country--running schemes and hunting fiends with your mentor, con-man-by-day, vampire-hunter-by-night, Wyatt Abrams--the prolific vampire slayer and the living descendant of Gregory Abrams, founder and prophet of the Abrams Family, the nomadic vampire-hunting cult that raised you--and was wiped out years ago.

carrying the abrams name means also means carrying on it's enemies--but that isn't to say you haven't forged a couple of your own along the way. now, it seems someone is trying to make good on old threats and promises. they've placed a bounty on your head.

so you and wyatt do what you do best: you run away. to some little town, out nevada ways, where the title of town preacher is unexpectedly thrust upon you--bringing back years of trauma you thought long tucked away.

as if that wasn't enough, on your first day in town the local mine up and explodes--leaving the reclusive family that runs the town--and owns the mine--to suspect you as the main culprit.

now you're left with the responsibility of investigating the disaster to clear your name, looking into the mysterious cult just south of town, the gang of outlaws who've been wrapped up deep in a feud with larkin's patriarchal family--a group of people which you suspect to be hiding a secret most monstrous--all while dealing with the ghosts of your past, and the roots your family left behind.

larkin is a vampire western choose-your-own adventure game, with focuses on romance, religion, horror and complicated family dynamics.

play a fully customizable character [[decide upon their physical appearance, gender identity, sexuality, customize their pronouns]]

dictate a unique relationship with your mentor-turned-father-figure and his former appentice

romance any of twelve characters, five male, three female, one non-binary and three gender selectable characters.

define your characters skillset and scheming tactics, select their weapons and fighting style, elect their feelings on religion, vampires and the cult that raised them.

the doctor [male] cyrus sokolov - the quasi-mayor of larkin, cyrus sokolov also operates as the town's doctor and mortician. he's immeadiately suspicious of you, the new preacher and the reputation you comes with. even though he doesn't like it, he needs your help.

the princess [female] celina sokolova - despite the misconceptions among the townsfolk, the reclusive third sibling of the sokolov family, celina, is actually the family’s eldest. hardly leaving the sokolov mansion, it’s rumored around town that she’s been struck with some sort of sun-related illness, others seem to hold the opinion that miss sokolova simply sees herself as too good to linger amongst the common folk. whatever the case may truly be doesn’t much matter to the people of larkin, after all, it's much more fun to gossip. she's very suddenly developed a fascination with the preacher, a hunger almost. but will she eat you whole?

the mortician's assistant [male] dominic sokolov - the youngest scion of the sokolov family, dominic works as assistant mortician in larkin, though he’s much more interested in larkin’s living townsfolk then the dead ones he’s been charged with taking care of. with seemingly endless information on everyone and everything that goes on in larkin, mister sokolov might not be the worst friend to have.

the lawyer [male] jacob nash -  larkin’s only practicing attorney and resident do-gooder. after passing the bar exam, nash headed out west in the hopes of making a real difference for the people there, only to spend most of his days settling petty disputes and notarizing documents. despite his disappointment, however, nash has managed to keep a level head and his fondness for the people of larkin, even though he’s not so sure the sokolovs have the townsfolk’s best interest in mind.

the bartender [female] rose holloway - larkin’s most recent transplant, that was, until the preacher showed up. former city-girl, rose has adapted to both life out west and on her own, the only way she knows how--by pushing through it. the owner and bartender of larkin’s only saloon, the emerald, rose is a popular figure around larkin whether she likes it or not, but whether that has more to do with her occupation or the fact she also happens to be larkin’s youngest widow is still a topic up for debate.

the lieutenant [male/female/non-binary] hollis - an enigmatic figure around larkin, hollis serves as a lieutenant for the mysterious rateliff fellowship. one of the cult’s few members to make the long trek from their encampment in the desert to town more than once. talked to by few, hated by most, hollis bears the reputation of the people they represent to the town of larkin--one, that isn’t particularly favorable.

the vampire hunter [male/female/non-binary] ace zhang - vampire-hunting-mercenary extraordinaire, the last the preacher knew of ace, they were the young hot-shot on san francisco’s hunting scene. once upon a time ace was a prominent figure in the preacher’s life, the first real acquaintance they managed to make on their own, someone outside of wyatt’s sphere. growing up a member of the guild, their life is one that’s mirrored the preacher’s. maybe that’s why the two seemed to be linked so closely during the preacher’s time in california, whether that was as friends, rivals or something more, their presence is one that remains prominent in the preacher's mind.

the outlaw [male] cassidy alan ward - cowboy, outlaw, bandit, cassidy goes by many names and titles, but the one he prides himself on most is leader. protector of his people, the ward gang hides out somewhere in the hills outside larkin, looming over the townsfolk as an ever-present threat, cassidy finds the sokolovs personally responsible for the death of his sister, caroline, and he is out for blood.

the gunslinger [female] ethel jackson - cassidy's right hand, ethel is a gunslinger through and through. fancying herself the robinhood type, she's got a personal hatred for the family that looms over larkin.  with the fastest gun in all of nevada, maybe even all of the west--ethel could prove to be a valuable friend--or a deadly adversary.

the stranger [non-binary] reyes - the newest addition to ward's gang, not much is known about them or their past--what everyone is well aware of, however, is the fact that nobody whose ever decided to cross reyes has ever come out of it alive.

the vampire [male/female/non-binary] montero moreau - you've hunted down their coven, debilitating any hopes for growth they had in terms of advancing in the cut-throat world of Vampires. you've made montero look like a fool, and they hate looking like a fool. They're determined to hunt you down and take revenge.

the first man [male] - adam - he believes himself to be the mirrored man mentioned in the abrams family book of genesis--the first vampire, plagued to walk the earth--and he has long been in search of his eve.

play the demo | patreon | itch.io

[serpentface]

A braithuvi horse at rest under the close protection and watchful, scary, pale-eyed gaze of her herd's guardian, a dírgrahdain. Both are landraces developed within the Highlands. The ancestors of braithuvi (and other Highlands native horses) were brought overseas by the ancestors of the Hill Tribes, while the dogs were obtained from native livestock guardian landraces used by proto-Wardi tribes. Each have become distinct over their centuries of living in the Highlands, and dírgrahdain are have a particularly unique place in the cultural schema.

Braithuvi are a woolly horse breed (and one of many, wool horses are widespread, second only to camala in value for textiles) that are also somewhat specialized for milk production. Their meat is relatively poor (other horses are preferred), but they produce high yields of milk and thick, continuous growths of wool.

Horses are not as culturally significant as cattle to most in the Highlands, but are still highly valued animals that are critical to subsistence. Few plant-based textiles can be produced in the Highlands, and almost all in the region are made with braithuvi wool. They can eat a greater variety of forage than cattle, more efficiently converting energy intake from pastures into milk and wool. Their milk is considered to be the very best of all livestock, and is usually what is used to make the prized murre beverage.

Dogs have a very small specific place in the cultures of the Hill Tribes as utilitarian working animals (specifically for livestock and occasionally as home/village guardians), and rarely ever fill other functions. The practice of keeping dogs purely for companionship is virtually nonexistent (though affectionate bonds between people and their herding or household guard dogs will be fairly common), and their meat is considered worthless. Most dogs are not elevated within the cultural schema, and tend to be merely appreciated as useful, loyal animals. Livestock guardian dogs are an exception to this, and tend to be of more significant cultural import. They are animals that exist to protect the herds on which all subsistence depends, and thus have an elevated cultural status and roles in religion and folklore as uniquely protective entities.

Dírgrahdain are the key livestock guardian dogs in the region, and the only natively developed LGD. Their name means 'lion dog', both in reference to their maned appearance and their ability to fend off and even kill the largest of predators. The dogs are characterized by tall, long-legged builds, deep chests, a curly tail, thick hair (and a thicker winter coat), and a shaggy mane. Their bodies tend to be thinner and lankier than their fur coat suggests, but still well-muscled and powerful. Their coloration can vary wildly, but a black mask with a brown or reddish body like this is most typical. Unnerving, pale eyes are prized in these dogs, with the belief that they not only intimidate predators but are uniquely potent at fending off malicious spirits.

The dog's exclusive function is to protect livestock. They are used primarily for the defense of horses, which are small and very vulnerable to predators (lions, hyenas, king hyena, wild dogs, jackals, nechoi, and even eagles can be threats), though some dogs will usually be posted up with cattle herds to deter raiders.

Pups are most commonly born in the field among their herds. They will be carried in their master's coat while still nursing, but will be allowed to join their mother in her duties from the moment they are strong enough to follow. Dírgrahdain live with their herds day and night. Most will never see the inside of a home, and most seem to prefer it that way. They form close and protective bonds with their charges, and will thoroughly integrate themselves into the social fabric of the herd.

These dogs are not human-oriented, and will usually only form bonds with people that they have imprinted on as puppies (and will merely be cool and polite to those met later in life). They are highly aggressive towards strangers, and introductions must be done incrementally and with great care. This is desirable, as this trait makes them an excellent line of defense against livestock raids. Their loud, booming barks can alert of intruders from a great distance, and they can often successfully intimidate khait, causing some mounted raids to end in humiliating failure. Dírgrahdain are often killed in raids, either to fend off the attacking dog or to silence it before its master can be alerted. This is not outright dishonorable, but not something one will be commended for. Cattle raiding culture here values swiftness, stealth, and strategy- such smash and grab tactics are seen as brutish (and will often result in harsher retribution).

Like most LGDs, they primarily defend their herds by displays of aggression and power, using their loud bark, fearsome growl, and powerful bodies to chase and intimidate predators away without physical contact. Even so, it is necessary for all working dírgrahdain to be willing and able to physically confront predators when necessary. A well-trained, well-bonded dog will defend their herds with their very life, and is often effective in combat against even very large wild predators. Their dense ‘manes’ offer a degree of protection from wounds to the throat, and may be supplemented with spiked collars.

If a mother dog kills a predator, it is often customary to open the carcass and lead her puppies to feed on it. This is thought to teach the pups to be fearless against their enemies, and that they will grow up to be uniquely powerful and brave adults. Pups are given names upon reaching adult size, and ones who have consumed the flesh of predators will get unique names related to their mother's kill, or epithets as supplements to a given name (the exact details of this practice culturally varies). One might encounter dogs in the Highlands named things like Lionsbane, Hyena-killer, She Who Bites Jackals, Lion-Fed Shaggy (Lion-Fed being the honorable epithet, Shaggy being the dog's name, possibly given by a very small child)

The mere gaze of a dírgrahdain is said to fend off malicious spirits, and their thundering bark can scare away even the most dangerous of mountain devils. Their shed hair is needle felted into little dolls (usually into the form of dogs themselves) and placed into the cradles of infants and worn as charms by children to protect them from harm (both mundane and supernatural). Manes taken from dead dírgrahdain have uses among some of the Hill Tribes, and are typically only allowed to be used by their masters (unless recieved as a gift). The most prominent usages are being worn to fend off evil spirits and predators while traveling alone, and some traditions involve placing the manes around the necks or across the bellies of women in labor as a means of spiritual protection for mother and child during birth.

The Hill Tribes and Wardi both identify the same constellation along the ecliptic as a dog. In the case of the former, this stellar dog is identified as Mak-Urudain, a gigantic dírgrahdain with fur the color of flame and eyes as bright as stars, who is the eternal guardian of the Celestial Fields. He allows the souls of the worthy dead to pass into the afterlife and for esteemed ancestors to descend back to the land to guide the living, while preventing malicious spirits, devils, and the dishonored dead from entry.

One Bernike tale describes her attempting to fly into the Celestial Fields to steal the heavenly cattle who graze there. She took the form of a golden eagle, pretending to be an ancestor returning from a sojourn to the world of the living in order to get past the guardian hound. Mak-Urudain was not fooled for long, and led her on a long chase through the night sky before capturing her and hurling her out of the Celestial Fields.

She was never able to even touch the ground of the Fields (much less take any cattle), but had just enough time to take a single seed of heavenly grass in her beak. She returned to her mountain (missing most of her tail feathers and much of her pride) and planted the grass in her then-barren slopes. This is why the grass on Bernike's mountain is so tall and abundant and why cattle there grow so fat and healthy, like all cattle will in the afterlife. The howling winds heard from the mountaintops are playfully suggested to be the barks and howls of Mak-Urudain, calling down from the heavens to keep the witch grounded in the world of the living.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to write genius level characters? :(

One of the most reliable measures of intelligence today is the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scale—currently in its 5th edition, with an upcoming edition in the works.

Using the tool/scale, scores are converted into nominal categories designated by certain cutoff boundaries for quick reference:

Measured IQ Range — Category

145-160: Very gifted or highly advanced

130–144: Gifted or very advanced

120–129: Superior

110–119: High average

90–109: Average

80–89: Low average

70–79: Borderline impaired or delayed

55–69: Mildly impaired or delayed

40–54: Moderately impaired or delayed

To write your "genius" character, you may want them within the Gifted to Very Gifted categories.

Note: With reference to this list, Roid (2003) cautioned that “the important concern is to describe the examinee’s skills and abilities in detail, going beyond the label itself”. The primary value of such labels is as a shorthand reference in some psychological reports.

These are the factors measured by the scale, and you ideally should aim for your "genius" character/s to exhibit high levels of:

Fluid Reasoning: Novel problem solving; understanding of relationships that are not culturally bound

Knowledge: Skills and knowledge acquired by formal and informal education

Quantitative Reasoning: Knowledge of mathematical thinking including number concepts, estimation, problem solving, and measurement

Visual-Spatial Processing: Ability to see patterns and relationships and spatial orientation as well as the gestalt among diverse visual stimuli

Working Memory: Cognitive process of temporarily storing and then transforming or sorting information in memory

Or maybe your character doesn't excel in all of these areas but in a specific one, or just a few of these. Maybe they perform within the average or high average in some, but are highly gifted in other areas.

The following may also guide you in writing your genius character, based on research compiled by Dr. J. Renzulli, which can be found in the Mensa Gifted Youth Handbook:

Characteristics of Giftedness

LEARNING CHARACTERISTICS

Has unusually advanced vocabulary for age or grade level

Has quick mastery and recall of factual information

Wants to know what makes things or people tick

Usually sees more or gets more out of a story, film, etc., than others

Reads a great deal on his or her own; usually prefers adult-level books; does not avoid difficult materials

Reasons things out for him- or herself

MOTIVATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS

Becomes easily absorbed with and truly involved in certain topics or problems

Is easily bored with routine tasks

Needs little external motivation to follow through in work that initially excited him or her

Strives toward perfection; is self-critical; is not easily satisfied with his or her own speed and products

Prefers to work independently; requires little direction from teachers

Is interested in many "adult" problems such as religion, politics, sex and race

Stubborn in his or her beliefs

Concerned with right and wrong, good and bad

CREATIVITY CHARACTERISTICS

Constantly asking questions about anything and everything

Often offers unusual, unique or clever responses

Is uninhibited in expressions of opinion

Is a high-risk taker; is adventurous and speculative

Is often concerned with adapting, improving and modifying institutions, objects and systems

Displays a keen sense of humor

Shows emotional sensitivity

Is sensitive to beauty

Is nonconforming; accepts disorder; is not interested in details; is individualistic; does not fear being different

Is unwilling to accept authoritarian pronouncements without critical examination

LEADERSHIP CHARACTERISTICS

Carries responsibility well

Is self-confident with children his or her own age as well as adults

Can express him- or herself well

Adapts readily to new situations

Is sociable and prefers not to be alone

Generally directs the activity in which he or she is involved

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 ⚜ Writing Notes & References

Hope this helps with your writing. Do tag me, or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!

[chocourse]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 (𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑜)

➶ poly! ineffable husbands x angel! fem!reader ｡˚ °

-ˏ` ✎﹏ The Egyptians built one of the seven wonders of the world, the Greeks discovered philosophy, but make-up was invented by a desperate angel during the construction of the Tower of Babel, when people spoke the same language and wanted to settle in a city after the great flood. That angel was you. And you really needed the make-up when the first bite happened.

�� genre: fluff, polyamory, falling in love

: ̗̀➛ warnings: references to christian religion & lore, fashion and make-up lore, love bites/hickeys, mentions of snake poison, corruption i think

⌨ :: 2.2K words ♡ ︵ . .

⁀➷ special thanks to @honeytwo for helping me translate this into english, correcting my grammar and other mistakes. thank you for everything! °♡̷•.

⁀➷ a/n: Hi, dears! I am happy that I took the time to publish this story here after Ao3. I wrote it in January when I watched Good Omens and was looking for comfort after bawling my eyes out. Alright, that's all I wanted to say. Go and enjoy your unique history with the ineffable husbands! <3

➳ good omens masterlist

A FAIRLY LONG TIME AGO

As much as possible, you wanted to blend in with the people. You were too attracted by their nature to spend the rest of your time until Armageddon up there, among snow-white washed columns, in empty halls where nothing really interesting happens. You can deliver the reports even if you’re living on Earth and watching the humans work, you reassured yourself.

You've enjoyed watching the mortals ant-like, feverishly at work, creating wonders like the Tower of Babel.

“Upon my word, what a masterly job,” said Aziraphale, when the tower was already very high.

Aziraphale agreed with you about your intentions on earth, and you used to talk about the exciting things people can do and how exciting it will be to learn about their work and future generations.

When you were particularly engrossed in reciting your predictions, and explaining them to each other with sparkling eyes, Crowley would just roll his eyes and do it with relish, as if it was his natural reaction to your enthusiasm. He decided he'd rather be with the two of you instead of in the company of damned souls and stake-ridden demons when there was no one to tempt and lead into sin. It wasn't boring at all, especially with the fairs they held back then, the intoxicating people, the musical instruments, the delicious food. 

His favorite events were the celebrations. When the men working on the tower would take a break from work and gather in town to drink and sing. They fanned his fire, his desire to do something underhanded. Not evil, just something genuinely bad. Like what he did to the apples and Eve at the tree.

He thought deeply about the ways in which he could make others sin. That's when he heard you laugh. You were amazed at what Aziraphale had said. You sipped flushedly into your alcohol jar. You weren't wearing your halo or spreading your wings, but you looked just like an angel. Beautiful, ethereal, uncorrupted, even when you were indulging in human pleasures and getting drunk at an easy pace.

Bingo.

Crowley smiled, his eyes gleaming under his black sunglasses. He headed towards you.

“Did you try everything?” he asked.

“The dates are heavenly ,” Aziraphale agreed, putting another piece in his mouth. “You must try one, Crowley.”

“I will,” the demon promised. “Later. But first, I'm going to taste something that's inviting to my imagination…”

His fingers brushed over your shoulder. His fingertips touched your sensitive skin, then...

“Ow !" you squeaked in surprise as he sank his canines into the exposed skin of your neck. 

When an angel wants to fit in with humans, she can't walk around with a snake-bitten neck like she's fine. So you tried to use a miracle to make it disappear, but as it turns out, miracles don't work on demonic bites, which is kind of unfair, but part of the Incomprehensible Plan, so you had to resort to some other method, without blaming the Almighty for creating the demon bite the way it is.

You used paint to cover it up. It was the first make-up experiment in history. Cleopatra will use your method in dark red, but it will be a long time before then, your injury will heal and heal many times over.

In any case, Crowley grinned as he watched you walk around for weeks, neck covered in paint. He was very pleased with himself, and you often caught him looking at you with his yellow snake eyes, grinning like he was planning to do it again.

When God confused the tongues of men, you were grateful to Him. 

Now, you could send the demon to Hell in countless languages.

IN THE 16TH CENTURY

Garbo.

Garbos everywhere.

Lace, frills, colours, fancy fabrics. You were very fond of the English Renaissance under Queen Elizabeth I. Mainly because of the full turtlenecks, which usually covered your neck magnificently. You could even forgive the low-cut dresses and corsets - although when silk scarves came along, looking back, the wide turtlenecks you once wore would have looked like clown costumes.

It was further satisfying to know that Crowley hated rules by default, let alone about fashion. He really despised the Sumptuary Laws, and cursed that he hadn't invented them, because they were truly demonic. In contrast, Aziraphale, who always put a lot of effort into his appearance, was fine with the expected attire, and always looked elegant with a pleasant smile. 

Sometimes, though, his smile faltered when his turtleneck grazed the bite marks on his neck. You stroked his upper arm sympathetically at such times, and yet: neither of you told Crowley to stop what he was doing on your necks.

You had no problem with early medieval times. The tight, plain dresses were simple and, importantly, the neck was not visible, only the back of the hands and the face, and after marriage, the hair - not that you married, it was just the fashion among married women. On the other hand, the pale ideal of the early Middle Ages, when women had blood drained to make them white as doves, was disappointing. Then came arsenical powders, the cause of many women's deaths. At the time, you were ashamed of inventing make-up, and so women wanted to tamper with their natural beauty with all sorts of talc fads. You have to suffer to be beautiful, they said, and they didn't realize that there was no need for any suffering because they were beautiful from creation.

Your determination was only further strengthened when it was discovered that Elizabeth I died of blood poisoning from using white lead on her face. And you thought the sixteenth century would bring radical changes…

Actually, there has been a radical change, but not in make-up.

Crowley invented the suction mark, which didn't swell up like a snake venom-infused wound and came in a variety of colours depending on how much time Crowley put into creating them. They made him feel like an artist, so he liked to tinker with them. He'd been paying devoted attention to your necks for a very long time, so you're actually used to it, it's become a tradition. 

In fact, you both kind of loved it.

IN THE 19TH CENTURY

The rice powder is made from natural ingredients. We're finally back here, you peacefully acknowledged at every social gathering. Usually you only powdered the back of your neck, but richly. The fashions of the 1800s called for ruffles, corsets, a relatively modest neckline, no turtlenecks or neck-covering. But a thorough, ornate make-up look was something every self-respecting woman had to create, and because you only covered your neck, you were often the victim of gossip.

When Aziraphale opened his bookshop and held a small gathering to celebrate with champagne, snacks and a ball, the ladies whispered a great deal about you, hiding behind their fans. They sized up your clothes, your make-up, yourself. They guessed how much of a goer you must be. It made them angry that even though you don't wear normal makeup, men still seek your company because you're witty and good, not jealous like them.

Crowley was annoyed by the women who belittled you, the men who complimented you, the fact that you had been hiding the fact that you were his for centuries. Just like Aziraphale, only he didn't seem as desperate as you to cover his marks. Although his top hat usually shaded them well, where it was appropriate to remove the headgear, nothing covered them.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley more and more often as if he knew perfectly well what the marks meant, just as he knew that Crowley was a cruel, unrelenting demon and would not say it.

When Crowley asked you to stop covering your neck, he was actually saying it. With his eyes shining mysteriously in the moonlight through the window, when Crowley took off his glasses and all the guests had gone, leaving only the three of you and the empty glasses and the crumbs. 

Tenderness and love. This is what his words would have tasted like if you had eaten them.

It was the same way Aziraphale looked at you when you caught him gazing at you, silent and dreamy, or when you simply spoke to him enthusiastically about something that interested and excited you as people once did when the Tower of Babel was raised, and he listened patiently, as if he had nothing better to do.

When you said all right to Crowley with a smile, that meant you loved him, too. 

Them, too.

NOWADAYS

“Um, are you–” Gabriel furrows his eyebrows and tries to decipher you with a polite smile. “What is this?”

You're wearing the purest white, as befits a visit to Heaven. Obviously Gabriel would not object to that. He wears mostly white, with a faint hint of blue. What he can't make out is the fluffy white scarf wrapped tightly around your neck, right up to your nose. You stand before him like a polar bear with a neck brace. Or an almost completely covered, ethereal mummy. 

Or maybe a spool of toilet paper. 

You pull the material slightly in front of your mouth to answer. 

“I'm cold,” you report with a blush.

“It must be exciting.” Gabriel admits that you've probably spent too much time on Earth, among humans, and its somewhat dulled your angelic senses. He clears his throat. “Well, we can get down to business then, let's not waste each other's precious time.”

You nod. He is absolutely right.

In the empty, snow-white-plastered heavenly hall, a table, a folder and a pen with wings - not a bijou, strictly used for official signatures - appear. Sighing, you take a comfortable seat, and as you take the pen, you give thanks that now women can wear comfortable and practical pants too. 

And, you add with even deeper satisfaction, great scarves.

...

Ignoring the closed sign, you rip open the door and burst into the bookshop.

“Sorry, but we’re closed– Oh, it's you.” Aziraphale smiles a greeting, then notices the upset on your face. “What happened, darling?”

“It was embarrassing to show myself like this in front of Gabriel,” you reply as you begin to unravel the fuzzy covering around your neck.

Aziraphale pats your upper arm piteously, presses a kiss to your temple and promises to bring you a mug of hot chocolate to help you relax.

Long time ago you promised Crowley you wouldn't cover his marks, but when you meet your angelic bosses, it's a different story. If they find out what's between you and him, they'll make hell in heaven. That doesn't impress Crowley, especially not today. Before you left, he had so covered your neck with his special love marks that a simple scarf wouldn't have been enough to cover it. Especially since he's recently returned to biting.

You'll find him on the sofa at the back of the shop. He's got a real proud smile that makes you want to throw a scarf at him. You throw the scarf at him. He catches it easily.

"You little..." you grit your teeth.

“Idiot? Shit? Asshole? The lowest of demons? Bitter of your eternal life?” He's playing with the scarf. He doesn't look up, doesn't admire the colorful patchwork he's created on your neck. Even better. If he would do it, throwing a scarf at him would not be enough.

"Lovely sweet creature," you say in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Bleh.” Crowley scowls. “That's a thousand times worse than you swearing.”

“I know. That's why I do it.” You sit down in the armchair furthest away from him and continue to stare at him harshly.

He sighs.

“My love, you're too beautiful with my marks on your neck. I cannot help it. And every man should know those are mine. Even the angels up there.”

Except Aziraphale. He already knows full well that if the blobs on your skin were to be exhibited as paintings, the artist's name would clearly be Crowley.

And you know what these marks are called these days, and that makes you happy. You ask, a little more lightly, if he knows. Crowley shakes his head.

“Love bites,” you tell him.

“It's only natural that they call it that. I invented it, and for thousands of years you and Aziraphale have been the only ones to get it. What else could it be?” Crowley gets up, comes over to you and squats down in front of you, taking your hand in his. He’s not wearing his sunglasses. His eyes are vivid, the sky glowing yellow behind the black sliver of the moon. "It's not something I give as punishment or temptation. It is exactly what it is called. Humans are smart enough to give it such a good name.”

“Well, well, you're praising the humans.” Aziraphale arrives balancing a tray on the low coffee table next to his open book and a stack of newspapers.

“Have you heard what my creations are called?”

“I don’t think so.”

The demon tells him. The angel blushes and starts passing out mugs. Crowley admires him, then turns to you.

“Will you sit with me?”

Luckily for him, you're not overly resentful. You nod, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't warmed by the sight of his smile and his hand reaching out for yours. You end up on the soft couch, his arm around your shoulders, your hot chocolate in your hand.

And love bites on your neck.

[slyandthefamilybook]

Who is the antisemite?

I've made many a post about the nature of antisemitism, and I don't expect I'll ever stop. But I've made relatively few posts about antisemites, who they are, and why they are. I don't mean to make a list of every antisemite in the world; I wouldn't be able to finish it before I died at my keyboard. Instead I want to explore a bit into the nature of antisemitic belief and what draws people to it, in the hopes of helping people recognize their own behaviors. This won't be a thorough taxonomy, but will focus on something I believe is at–or close to–the heart of the issue.

When I tell people antisemitism can have a racial component the response I usually get is, "but Jewish isn't a race so you can't be racist against Jews!" Now it's true that "Jewish" is not (currently) one of the accepted racial categories (up until some time in the 1950s you could list your race on U.S. censi as "Hebrew"), but that's not exactly what I mean. What I mean is that there's a pattern of thought that's part-and-parcel of racism and racist ideas, even if it's not always deployed against what we would consider a race. That pattern is bio-essentialism–the belief that there are certain inherent and largely invariant differences between discrete groups of people. This, for example, explains the significant overlap between racism and transphobia, if not always in practice than in thought. If you believe these differences exist along racial lines, it's simple enough to map them onto sex as well. Bio-essentialism is not the only driving force behind racism, but it is a significant one, and one that can be reasonably used as a predictor of racist thought. In this sense, focusing on phenotypes common among Jews (prominent noses, dark curly hair, olive skin) can have a racial component, and can result in behaviors and attitudes that behave like racism, even if Jews aren't a "race".

So we have racial antisemitism, and from here we can sit around and postulate on other alchemical combinations; the intersection of antisemitism and sexism, for example, resulting in stereotypes about nagging Jewish wives, overbearing Jewish mothers, and the Jewish American Princess. The intersection of antisemitism and patriarchy, creating anxieties about weak or effeminate Jewish men. Antisemitism and classism; antisemitism and homophobia; antisemitism and anti-theism; and on and on. But what about anti-Jewish antisemitism? What do we find that makes people hate Jews for being Jews?

I'm going to lean fairly heavily on Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition by intellectual historian David Nirenberg. It's a fantastic albeit excruciating read, and I highly recommend everyone–Jewish and not–pick it up from their local library.

Much like the habits of bio-essentialism characterize much of racism, obsession with blame is (I believe) the core driver of anti-Jewish antisemitism. Specifically blame of the other, although that's generally merely step two in the process. Jews occupy a fairly unique position in the world in that in the vast majority of places where we live we don't really belong. We're treated as guests, reliant on the grace and magnanimity of our hosts to ensure our protection and survival. Part of this is our own doing; throughout the Diaspora our struggle to cohere to our identity has set us apart from everyone else. We don't like to assimilate any more than we have to. But it would be wrong to place the blame for our status entirely on our shoulders, so I will not do so. For the purposes of this post let us take it prima facie that Jews maintain a role of perpetual outsiders–among the nations of the world but not of them.

Throughout history this status has allowed our hosts to define themselves in opposition to us. Jews, who never really belonged, became emblematic of whatever ill the current society, religion, or philosophy decided was most pressing. We gave people opportunity to externalize their own faults, to shift blame from themselves and their comrades to nefarious interlopers. To recontextualize their responsibility to themselves into a Manichaean (I use the word deliberately) struggle between darkness and light. If the anxieties of the day centered around hypocrisy, Jewish Rabbis were the hypocrites you should strive to be unlike. If it was infidelity, it was the Jewess temptresses who were to blame. If it was greed, it was certainly the Jewish bankers who were at fault.

Perhaps my use of past-tense verbs is misleading; this is still the nature of antisemitism today. But this is certainly also how it began. The urge to excise culpability is a fairly common one. It crosses cultural boundaries and expresses itself in toddlers the world around. And so whither the Jews went, childish vindictiveness followed.

When we understand how antisemitism is used as a tool, we can begin to understand the work it does for those who use it. Antisemitism is the antidote to critical thought, to skepticism and self-reflection. It creates a "them", not in reality but in the mind. It explains failure not through any self-conscious rumination, but in the creation of vagrants, infiltrators, and saboteurs.

It now becomes clear why nearly every conspiracy theory is antisemitic, or rapidly hurtling in that direction. One of the cornerstones of conspiratorial thought (as expounded by Michael Barkun in A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America) is the belief that the conspiracies are composed out outside forces. When neo-Nazis compose their "Every Aspect of _____ is Jewish" flyers, they can hardly focus on the fact that the vast majority of the people they blame are American. Americans are the in-group and as such cannot be at fault. Jews are an easily accessible out-group, in part because Jewishness is so "sneaky" (you can be Jewish and not even know it! Even Wikipedia can't seem to decide when someone is Jewish or not!). When people believe that the CIA was responsible for assassinating John F. Kennedy, it's never in their capacity as red-blooded patriotic Americans; it's always the result of insiders from Russia, China, and ultimately, Jews. Even conspiracy theories that don't explicitly name Jews are engaged in antisemitic thought, so long as they seek to pin events on the actions of "them". There's a reason "they" has become memetic in neo-Nazi circles; those who are "them" are most assuredly not "us".

It also becomes clear how and why antisemitism traverses political boundaries, and infects discourse left, right, and center. The extremes–the far-right and far-left (for all the usefulness of the political spectrum, which is not much)–are more prone to antisemitic thought precisely because they are so far from the norm. The more you see wrong with society the more you seek those who are responsible. (Again it's important to note that "antisemitic thought" in this context refers to the habit of looking for outsiders to blame, and does not always map perfectly onto open bigotry toward "real Jews".) When England is close to being a perfect country, it is only through the actions of the Jews that it is prevented from becoming so. When Sovyet communism begins to collapse in on itself, it is certainly the Jews who are accused. It is never "us" or "we"; it is always "they" and "them". And in a fit of cruel irony, when antisemitism becomes un-fashionable, the "no-true-scotsman" fallacy is often deployed, assigning the use of conspiratorial bigotry to impersonators and pretenders.

So what can we do? What can we learn, and how can we change? We can start by resolving to think critically, to not take the easy answers. We can look inward, not outward, and find things to improve in ourselves, rather than assuming that our faults are not our fault. We can be skeptical of conspiracy theories, of people who want to direct our anger in ways that serve their own goals. As always, we can protect and uplift Jews and Jewish communities worldwide. We can orient ourselves toward finding solutions, instead of finding reasons for why we can't. We can unlearn the thought patterns, cliches, and habits of antisemitic thought, or that lead to antisemitic thought. We can stop trying to look for the bad people, and start trying to be the good people.

[anuspastor]

Chiss would start noticing Eli as an unique individual after Faro shows up. Before this he was The Human, so whatever he did Chiss compartmentalized as something humans did. However, then comes Faro: taller, tougher, her skin lighter, her accent sharper, her way of speaking more rapid; their perception twists. Eli rounds his words, he arranges them in a way more typical to Lysatran, he has a different diction; less direct than that of the Core worlds, willing to explain actions rather than just state them. It is most obvious when the two speak in basic--quick exchanges, court orders--whereby both finish speaking at wildly different times.

Curiosity toward his home world would spike then, and they would realize how, I'm not even sure how to put it, but that he's different. How Lysatra is different. How it is as unknown to the Core as the Core is to the Chiss. How the way he walks and speaks reflects his upbringing among humans considered aliens among other humans. I often think about that too, how humans on other planets are aliens as well--adapting to their environments, extreme or mild, possessing different religions, norms, values. How there are billions of little Earths in the SW galaxy. Imagine Eli being on one continent on Lysatra, and how wildly we differ, and how wildly he'd differ. He cannot speak outside of the places he grew up on, he cannot comment on politics other than those of his own govt. The same way Faro would not understand him, and the Chiss notice that and pay attention to it.

Eli is so comfortable in the Unknown Regions because he is from Wild Space. The scary part of space. The volatile part of space. The Bermuda triangle of the Galaxy, the Antarctica; the place of legends and curiosities.

Eli knows so much about the Core worlds because he was the aide of a highly politicized figure, so when Faro rolls around and they ask her random shit about Wild Space, she's on uncharted territory. She knows they're far away but that's about it; and this drives me INSANE

[jessamine-rose]

⋆˚♱ଘ Annular Eclipse ଓ♱˚⋆

A long time ago, I binge-watched The Ancient Magus’ Bride and that decision came back to haunt me in my Church AU…… *evil laugh*

As always, thank you to @diodellet for beta-reading this piece!! And to my dear mutuals, I hope you all suffer enjoy the sinful story of Cartaphilus! Pierro x Angel! Darling ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭

Tw:: yandere, blood, violence, death, suicidal ideation, religious abuse, MDNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 5.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Among God’s creations, His favorite is granted a special fate. Though all lives end in death, only humanity is blessed with salvation and afterlife. Those who live righteously may thus ascend to Heaven, whereas sinners are condemned to eternal suffering in Hell. There is, however, one exception—a fragment of humanity whose sins may never be forgiven.

♡ Legends speak of Khaenri’ah, the nation of sinners. Once the pride of humankind, its citizens challenged God through their creations in alchemy and technology—and the entire nation was subsequently destroyed in a sea of flames. In the wake of the Cataclysm, pollen from the Tree of Life rained down upon the survivors, afflicting them with their final punishment, immortality.

♡ Since then, Khaenri’ahns have roamed the mortal plane in a perpetual state of living. Denied a place in Heaven and Hell, they are cursed to live forever no matter what harm befalls their body and psyche. Due to their wicked reputation, they must also live in fear of their once-fellow humans, lest they face persecution. For this reason, eternity differs among Khaenri’ahns, with a unique fate reserved for the one who goes by the name of Pierro.

♡ After the Cataclysm, Pierro led a group of survivors to Snezhnaya where they established a new home. For three centuries, it was a peaceful haven hidden from the divine gaze of God and the Church…until it was exposed by a traitor and destroyed with manmade flames. In the ensuing chaos, Pierro was the sole “survivor” in the sense that he managed to escape. The rest were critically wounded, buried alive, and left to suffer for all eternity.

♡ Having lost his second home, Pierro began a search for other Khaenri’ahns, only to be further disillusioned. Many communities had also fallen to ruin, if not from persecution but by their own madness. Others, blinded by dreams of death, had resorted to violence and witchcraft in their fruitless attempts to break the curse. And several individuals had embarked on quests for the Tree of Life, only to disappear far away from their homeland. In two more centuries, Khaenri’ah was reduced to a forgotten myth, and Pierro had lost all hope for his people.

♡ So when he gets into an accident, he sees no point in saving himself. If he were younger, he’d be horrified at the thought of falling off a cliff. At best, he’d end up with more scars albeit another permanent reminder of his tragic fate. As for the worst-case scenario, he’d become paralyzed, trapped below the cliff, doomed to eternity as a living corpse. But now, hanging off the edge by his fingertips, he considers the possibility that his head takes the brunt of the impact. A coma would be the closest thing to a reprieve from his waking hell.

♡ Just as his grip weakens, a hand reaches out and catches his wrist. The action is so sudden, so forceful, that Pierro has no time to think before he is pulled up and his back hits the grass. Above him, eclipsing his view of the sun, is the face of a stranger. A tearful expression. A kind gaze that seems to pierce through his soul.

“Are you hurt? Why didn’t you call for help?! You poor thing, I’m sorry for only seeing you now.”

“I am…” He averts your gaze and instead focuses on the sky. It is the color of twilight—a harmony of blues, oranges, and reds that pale in comparison to the crimson skies of his nightmares. “...fine. Thank you for your kindness.”

♡ Once the shock wears off, Pierro takes a careful look at his savior. You have the appearance of a typical human, roughly the same age as he was when his body stopped aging. Definitely not a Khaenri’ahn, given your lack of cursed marks and star-shaped pupils. Neither are there any religious symbols on your clothing, which is a relief. As for your tears shed on his behalf…he’ll chalk it up to pity.

♡ At your insistence, you treat him to a meal at the nearest inn. When Pierro introduces himself as an ordinary traveler, you make a similar claim and suggest journeying together. It is a tempting offer—the both of you are alone with no destination in mind, and you seem harmless. So against his better judgment, Pierro accepts your proposal.

♡ Over time, he warms up to his new companion. You are kind, competent, a bright presence in his life. Traveling with you is like seeing the world with new eyes—you lead him to bustling cities, picturesque forests, places teeming with life. The only downside is your visits to the Church for prayers and chats with the local priests, but you at least seem to be an open-minded believer. You always tell Pierro that he doesn’t need to follow along but he does so anyway, if only to evade suspicion and admire the religious art with you.

♡ Other than that, you don’t reveal much about yourself. But you aren’t one to pry into Pierro’s past so he gives you the same courtesy. At times, he finds himself looking at you fondly, feeling a spark of physical attraction, dreaming of a happy future with you. But those delusions are always dashed by the fact of your humanity, so he instead resolves to cherish what little time you have left before death claims your soul.

♡ That was his goal until he begins to notice certain…oddities. It’s common for the two of you to share a tent, a room, sometimes even a bed. Neither of you are fazed by it, especially when Pierro’s main concern is concealing his cursed marks with makeup. But a few months into your travels, he makes a quiet realization: In those nights of shared slumber, not once has he fallen asleep without feeling your gaze on him.

♡ At first, he assumes that you merely sleep later and wake up earlier than him. But every time Pierro wakes up in the middle of the night, you immediately sit up and tend to him, acting as energetic as usual. Neither do you appear lethargic after nights when it is difficult to sleep. So he puts it to the test by regularly chatting with you late into the night; you always follow along, not once sounding tired nor in want of sleep. Once, he talks to you all night long and in the morning, while Pierro is plagued with fatigue, you look perfectly awake. And only when he subtly points it out do you yawn and go back to bed.

♡ Other mysteries follow. There is the time the two of you trekked through a barren wasteland and ran out of food. It took you two days to reach civilization and while Pierro was starving, you never complained about hunger. If anything, you still managed to walk and fight off beasts at your usual energy levels. And on the rare chance that Pierro is injured, you are the one who treats his wounds…and they always heal at an unnaturally fast pace.

♡ A year into your travels, he decides to look for answers. One night, he shares a bed with you and feigns sleep. For the next few hours, he just lies there and takes note of your unnatural way of sleeping—no slowed breaths, no involuntary movements, yet the persistent feeling that he is still being watched. Shortly after midnight, he pulls out a dagger from under his pillow and aims it at you.

♡ It was only a test to see if you’d react quickly and reveal your ruse. Which is exactly what you do, eyes fluttering open and your hand catching the dagger before Pierro can stop short of stabbing your chest. The look on your face is calm, utterly devoid of fear, and you make no move to leave the bed. You just stare at him with the same piercing gaze.

“Good morning,” you tell him. “Are you going to explain the sudden wakeup call? I don’t believe this is rooted in any Khaenri’ahn practices.”

At the mention of his homeland, Pierro’s grip on the dagger tightens. “So it appears that my suspicions were not unfounded. Answer me, are you a spy of the Church?”

Your answer is a benevolent smile. A soft light shines from your body as a halo—silver, pierced with nails—appears behind your head, followed by a wispy veil. Luminous wings emerge from your back, caging Pierro in a feathery embrace.

Your hand, marked with a bloodstained scar, wraps around his wrist.

“I’m your guardian angel,” you whisper.

♡ Technically, your statement is untrue. In a calm voice, you explain that Khaenri’ahns can’t be assigned guardian angels due to their immortality. Moreover, most angels harbor contempt for his kind though you are a rare exception, having taken pity on Pierro and chosen to become his unofficial guardian. The last part triggers an offended response—are you mocking him?

♡ As for your true nature, you’re the leader of the Archangels. As an angel of the Third Sphere, you are one of the closest to humanity, a divine messenger with the additional tasks of providing blessings and guiding humans towards the path of righteousness. Only, you’re currently on a ten-year “break;” it just so happened that you noticed Pierro at the start of your sabbatical.

♡ Once he is confident that you won’t smite him in cold blood, he goes to sleep—it’s been a long night and fatigue will only dull his senses. When he wakes up, he can almost believe that last night’s events were a dream…until you loom over him in your true form, wishing him a good morning. After a long conversation, he decides to continue traveling with you. That way, he can keep a close eye on you and gain some useful knowledge.

♡ Thus resumes your journey. In addition to Pierro’s distrust, there are major changes to your dynamic. You still travel in your human guise but you switch to your true form when it’s just the two of you. Since angels don’t need food or sleep to sustain themselves, you stop eating with him unless you’re in public. At night, only one bed is needed and you simply watch over Pierro, wishing him a peaceful slumber. Your gentle gaze is always the last thing he sees each day, though it takes months before he can fall asleep comfortably.

♡ He also learns about your nightly pastimes. As it turns out, while Pierro is asleep, you like to fly around the city to help lost souls. Just small acts of kindness in your human form…and if needed, divine interventions in the Church. It explains why he often wakes up to news about corrupt priests who experienced “visions of an angel” and publicly confessed their sins.

♡ Along your journey, you also stop by the homes of the humans previously assigned to you. At the beginning of each visit, you go to the cemetery and speak to their grave. Afterwards, you bring Pierro to their favorite places and reminisce about their lives. When he asks why you can’t simply see them in Heaven, you give him a sad smile and explain that the deceased reside in a realm beyond the jurisdiction of angels. In a paradise where every soul is purged of sin, what use is there for an angel’s guidance?

♡ You mourn the lives of angels as well. It comes as a shock to Pierro, the idea that even an angel is susceptible to death. To which you explain that many of your divine siblings were killed by demons. And because afterlife does not exist for spiritual beings, both species simply cease to exist once their lives have ended. As for your former brethren, they cut all ties with you after their descent.

♡ Slowly, Pierro grows to trust you again. It helps that you were able to prove yourself a year later by saving him from your own kind. Granted, he could suspect that it was merely an act but the sight of a Principality cowering before you, their cassock staked to the floor by silver nails, is quite convincing. Not to mention your cold gaze overflowing with wrath.

“So tell me. Why exactly did you attack my dear human?”

The room is silent, save for the younger angel’s whimpers. To think that a few minutes ago, Pierro had been sleeping peacefully. Now he stands beside you, blood trickling from a cut under his scarred eye, still gripping his unused sword.

“I…” Despite being a rank above you, his attacker is clearly terrified. “But ______, that man…he is one of the accursed sinners! He—”

“Now, now.” You kneel to their level but all kindness is lost in your tone. More nails appear out of thin air, all pointing towards the angel’s body. “Look me in the eye when I am talking to you.”

♡ In the end, the angel kneels before Pierro and begs for forgiveness. He accepts their apology, but not without harsh words and a swipe of his sword against their face. After they leave, you worriedly turn to Pierro and heal his injuries. Thanks to your powers, all of his wounds close up without a trace. Still, when you take your hand off his face, what he sees in the mirror is not his healed cheek but the cursed marks exclusive to Khaenri’ahns.

*✧･ﾟ

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Despite the nature of the attack, you are the one acting emotional. A tear rolls down your cheek as you trace the cursed side of Pierro’s face.

“You need not apologize on behalf of your brethren,” he mutters. He glances at his right arm, sleeve pulled up to reveal a similar pattern of blue veins and blackened skin. “...or your Heavenly Father. And I believe I’ve told you countless times not to waste your tears on me.”

“Still.” Shaking your head, you look him in the eye. “How can I not cry every time I gaze into your soul? I wish I could save you, put an end to your suffering…but it’s beyond my capability.”

“So why do you still devote yourself to me, ______?”

______. It is the false name you go by in the human realm, spoken by every person who has known you as their guardian angel. As for your true name, it remains a mystery to Pierro.

Still, he’d like to believe that he is the human who knows you best. He knows that you are the First Archangel, one of the oldest beings in existence. He knows that you were opposed to the Cataclysm but powerless in stopping it. He knows that your decade of rest was caused by an accumulation of stress, an endless cycle of giving and saving and sacrificing which will only continue in a few years’ time.

And what then? At the end of your journey, will you still have time for him? Or is he truly cursed to drift aimlessly in eternal solitude?

His half-mask rests on a nearby drawer, a relic from his second home. He picks it up, thumb pressed against a painted gold tear.

“You astound me,” he continues. “You, of all people, know that salvation is forever beyond my grasp. And yet you continue to spare me absolute grace. Anyone else would have deemed me a lost cause.”

“That is because I love you.”

At that, Pierro nearly drops his mask. He turns to you, starry eyes wide with wonder. “Can you kindly repeat that?”

But the moment he sees your face, he realizes his folly.

“I love you,” you tell him, a soft look in your eyes, “as I love all humans.”

Has kindness ever sounded so cruel?

“...I understand.” He puts down his mask, pride shattered. “Such is to be expected from a being for whom the love for humanity is inherent.”

A love which he and his compatriots are no longer beholden to.

“But of course.” At that, your countenance turns reverent. Your wings fold inwards, and you place a bloodstained hand over your chest. “An angel’s purpose is to serve God and to save His creations. Beyond that, there is no other point to our existence.”

Silence. This time, Pierro doesn’t bother to hide his judgment.

“Well, that is our initial reason,” you add, noticing his expression. “After all, what’s not to love when your kind is capable of so many wonderful things? Really, you never fail to surprise us.”

“How so?”

“I’ll confess, many of us angels were once in awe of Khaenri’ah,” you admit. “Think of it: Your people found a way to create life, sorcery, powers that were once exclusive to God. Had I met you during your days as a royal mage, I surely would have been impressed.”

Hard to say. Despite his previous status, Pierro hasn’t practiced Khaenri’ahn sorcery in years. It’s likely that his powers have eroded alongside his spirit.

“Then only a century after the Cataclysm, there was the Angel-Killer who performed miracles using our flesh. As a matter of fact…I made the mistake of assigning his first victim to him.”

Your grief isn’t lost on him. The bed creaks as you take a seat next to Pierro, adjusting the chain of mourning lockets around your waist. It bears mementos of both humans and angels.

“Thirteen angels lost their lives to him, including two of my dearest siblings. Needless to say, we were all relieved when Il Dottore finally died, though I had to be given a century’s worth of rest to recover from grief. Sohreh, Pasithea, Oizys…I still think of them to this day.”

Il Dottore. He is an infamous figure in history, a priest whose sins rivaled those of Khaenri’ah. And yet even he was granted the mercy of death.

 “And there are the humans I was blessed to watch over,” you tell him, eyes shining with tears. “I remember all of their names, their smiles, every achievement they made in their short lives. And I’m sure that there will be more in the future.”

That is the final nail in the coffin.

“You are right.” With that, Pierro leaves the bed. “As such, there is no need for you to dwell on how the world is now. I have no doubt that many souls owe their salvation to you, ______, and anyone would be a fool to dismiss your efforts.”

“...Thank you. It means a lot.”

You don’t let him leave, however. A hand around his wrist is all it takes for Pierro to stop, to yield to your embrace. In the dim room, you are the only source of light, an idol of unparalleled benevolence. Divine, beautiful, yet never within his reach.

“Eight more years,” you tell him. In your eyes, his reflection has never looked more hopeful. “That is the amount of time we have left. And until then, I will never leave your side.”

*✧･ﾟ

♡ The next eight years are content. More travels. Deep conversations. Peaceful nights. Another angelic encounter, in which a subordinate merely reported to you and avoided Pierro’s gaze. At one point, you reveal to him that the Tree of Life is no longer in the human realm, eliminating any hope of breaking the curse. His devastation is softened by your comfort, and he can only imagine the reactions of his compatriots if they knew this truth.

♡ Not that he has anyone to share it with. In the Church of Fontaine, Pierro is surprised to recognize the head priest as a Khaenri’ahn. She is only a descendant and thus spared from the curse—a blessing for Arlecchino, a tragedy for her ancestor who likely mourned the generations between them. After their chat, Pierro leaves without divulging her lineage. It’s enough to know that one of his kind is leading a fulfilling life, though he finds it ironic that a Church ended up in a Khaenri’ahn’s hands.

♡ Other than her, there is the familiar face he spotted in Inazuma. Blond hair, blue eyes with star-shaped pupils, a distinctive half-mask…but before Pierro can approach Dainsleif, you grip his wrist and enable him to see the eagle-winged demon clinging to his former comrade. In a fearful whisper, you explain that she is one of Hell’s strongest demons, the slayer of countless angels. And when she turns in your direction, Pierro feels the weight of her crimson-gold glare. In the end, the two of you walk past them, preventing what could have been a bloody reunion.

♡ As your sabbatical reaches its end, Pierro finds himself making the most of your remaining time together. He smiles at you, holds your hand first, asks you more personal questions. Your travels also end in a surprise destination—a forest near Snezhnaya, concealed with divine mist. Leading the way, you explain that it was a meeting place for you and your closest siblings until they all perished, including the Virtue who created it. And when you turn to Pierro, asking if the area suits him…he accepts the gift with full gratitude.

♡ The last year is spent constructing a humble house in the heart of the forest. On the day of your departure, the two of you enjoy a final meal together. It’s bittersweet with recollections of your travels, though the mood dampens when Pierro asks about your angelic duties. With a sad smile, you tell him that you have a lot of work to do. At some point in your journey, you even laid eyes on a young human and applied for a position as their guardian angel.

♡ At midnight, Pierro goes to bed and you wish him good night for the last time. He only closes his eyes when you disappear, when he no longer feels your gaze on him, when the residual warmth of your embrace has been chilled by the night air. When he wakes up in the morning, you are nowhere to be found.

♡ In the following months, Pierro develops a new routine in the forest. Hunting, foraging, visiting the neighboring cities, admiring the aurora-colored sky, even practicing his Khaenri’ahn sorcery. He doesn’t see you again but there are hints of your visits—a luminous white feather, seeds for fauna exclusive to Mondstadt, a wound that healed overnight. Eventually, he gets used to sleeping in solitude again.

♡ One day, he decides to visit his old home. He knows it is futile to seek out his people; after two centuries, their bodies must’ve fully decayed and mixed with the soil. Still, he might as well see what the Church did with the area…and if he can take revenge on the traitor. So he packs his bags, leaves the forest, and travels to the other side of Snezhnaya.

♡ …There’s nothing left. When he reaches his destination, he finds a glorious city built over the mass grave of his people. Only the cold of eternal winter welcomes him back, but the entire city—the devout Snezhnayans, the stories of the city’s origins, the magnificent church in place of his old house—is unfamiliar. Not even the traitor remains. Perhaps they, too, were given a coffin, forever trapped below layers of ice and concrete.

♡ He gets an answer on his way back to the forest. Near the border of Snezhnaya, Pierro is ambushed by a group of heretics…and when he demands an explanation, their leader holds up a preserved eye, the pupil shaped like a four-pointed star. As their fight continues, Pierro deduces their motives—to achieve immortality using the flesh of Khaenri’ahns. It’s pure mockery to hear those fools refer to his curse as a blessing, but his warnings fall on deaf ears as he is outnumbered.

♡ Just as he is about to lose hope, a bright light shines above him. It’s you, in all of your angelic glory, commanding the heretics to let him go. Most of his attackers fall to their knees, in awe of your divine presence, but their leader interprets it as a sign that Pierro is truly the person they’re after. They swing their sword at him…only for their entire group to be impaled by your nails.

♡ It’s a bloody sight. But once your wrath has subsided, you fly down to Pierro and check his condition. You’re incoherent, healing his wounds with trembling hands, apologizing for your late arrival. He assures you that he is fine, only to be interrupted by a sudden ray of light. But this one is blindingly bright, coming from the sky, the same holy light which shone upon Khaenri’ah during the Cataclysm.

♡ It hits him just then: In harming those humans for his sake, you’d violated one of God’s orders. Yet in the midst of His divine wrath, you muster a false smile and tell Pierro to go home. Then you fly up into the sky, disappearing above the clouds along with the holy light. He does as he is told, but not without killing all of the heretics to ensure that they won’t come after him or more Khaenri’ahns. As for the traitor…he doesn’t bother to ask for their location.

♡ The forest is the same when he returns. The next few hours pass by in a blur—unpacking,  checking the animal traps, cooking dinner, and so on. The whole time, he can’t stop worrying about you. He doesn’t know if God would listen to his prayers but he tries, anyway; it’s not like he can help you in any other way.

♡ He goes to bed early, only to jolt awake when a flash of light illuminates the bedroom. When he rushes to the window, it’s just in time to see a falling star. It shoots through the sky, outshining the auroras, a beautiful sight if not for the fact that it seems to be drawing closer to him. It disappears from his range of vision, followed by a deafening sound and a severe earthquake. Then the world falls silent, returning to its tranquil state.

♡ After a few minutes, Pierro leaves his house to investigate. Seeing how the meteor bypassed the divine barrier of the forest, he doubts it was a natural phenomenon. You once told him that the Fourth Order of angels, the Dominions, are in charge of the celestial bodies—could they have been ordered to destroy his third home?

♡ Thankfully, the destruction is limited to a crater at the edge of the forest. But instead of a meteor, he finds you curled up in pain. Fragments of your halo pierce your body. Your right wing is gone; all that remains of it are clipped feathers and sawed bone. Most prominent are the curved horns jutting from your head, covered in a mix of blood and torn skin. You became a demon.

♡ Your half-conscious cries prompt him into action. Carefully, Pierro carries you to his house and treats your wounds. When he notices your hand on your stomach, he remembers what you said about demons needing food and sleep to survive. So he heats up some soup and feeds it to you; and once your hunger has subsided, he tucks you in bed. In your delirium, you can only muster a single sentence before falling asleep.

“Pierro? I’m sorry…it’s my fault, not yours.”

“Silence. We may talk tomorrow. But tonight, you must rest.”

♡ That night, you sleep for the first time. Pierro watches you all night, checking your pulse every so often. When you wake up, the sun is high above the sky and Pierro has already cooked lunch. You’re more coherent now, able to feed yourself, though you wince in pain every so often. And when Pierro asks about your descent, your expression darkens.

♡ In a shaky voice, you explain that the heretics’ ambush had been a test from God. It was fated to occur at the same time as an important event in Heaven, the decennial meeting between God and the leaders from all Nine Orders. As soon as Pierro’s name was brought up, you were quick to defend him. And when you were informed of the attack, you stormed out of the meeting to save him, fully aware that it would bring about your downfall.

♡ And despite it all, you’re the one apologizing to him—for your late arrival, for the danger he was put through, for the “burden” of taking care of you. At the last part, Pierro finally finds the words to chastise you, to say that you won’t achieve anything by wasting your tears on Heaven.

“I wish you would not think so lowly of me. After all these years, do you truly believe that I would harbor anything but gratitude towards you?”

♡ That shuts you up. For the next few weeks, you meekly accept Pierro’s care—he cooks for you, dresses your wounds, lets you sleep in his bed. There is only one problem: Your body refuses to heal. Blood continues to seep from your wounds, and you’re in a perpetual state of pain. Still, he faithfully tends to you day and night. It’s the least he can do for you.

♡ One day, he leaves the house to pick fruit and comes back to find a dark silhouette in his bedroom window. He rushes inside, armed with a weapon, to find a demon. Only, they’re kneeling by the bed, holding your hands, shedding tears of joy. That is when he notices the bloodstained scars on their hands, their tattered veil, your kind words for them…they, too, are a fallen Archangel.

♡ All peace, however, is dashed when your former subordinate tells Pierro that they are bringing you “home,” in other words Hell. As for the matter of your health, they claim that while your divine punishment is unheard of, they should be able to find a cure…from Il Dottore of all people. And despite your conflicted expression, it’s clear that you are seriously considering their invitation. Only for Pierro to take that choice away from you.

“And what makes you believe that I would allow ______ to leave our home?”

♡ Prior to you, Pierro never would’ve dared to challenge a spiritual being. But now, after all he’s been through, he takes a step forward and tells the demon to leave. It doesn’t take long for their argument to turn physical. But before the demon can smite him, Pierro defends himself with his Khaenri’ahn sorcery. They’re a formidable opponent, however, and the fight continues until he aims a galaxy-like aura at their heart. Quickly, you protect your former subordinate with a shield of rusty nails, only for the element to refract and hit you instead.

♡ Much to everyone’s relief, however, it has a different effect on you. Your feathers take on a black tint and a deep blue iridescence. The same thing happens to your horns. Most importantly, all of your wounds close up, leaving scars identical to Pierro’s cursed marks. And when he rushes to your side, asking if you are all right, you breathily tell him that you feel so much better.

♡ That is what convinces the demon to leave, but not without promising to return once they’ve informed the Devil. With peace restored in your home, the two of you go downstairs for lunch. You still need Pierro to support you, but it’s the first time you’ve managed to walk in your new form. And your appetite is bigger, healthier compared to your previous portions.

♡ After a few days however, the effect wears off. Your body loses its blue luster, your feathers fade to their original color, your pain returns. Once you’ve fully reverted to your original state, Pierro decides to try out his Khaenri’ahn sorcery again. This time, he holds your wrist and carefully channels his power into you…and it produces the same healing effect.

♡ For the sorcery which doomed his nation to save the life of his beloved…the irony leaves him at a loss of words, on the verge of laughing. But it does explain why you landed in Pierro’s home instead of Hell, and why God allowed the two of you to reunite. The knowledge brings a dark smile to his face. You’re at his mercy now, dependent on him for all eternity.

♡ When he faces you, he can tell that you’ve reached the same conclusion. Still, you entertain the thought of moving to Hell—surely, there must be a way for you to live without forcing Pierro to expend his energy on you. That is when he grips your hands, pulls you towards him, and tells you that you aren’t leaving him. If the two of you are truly fated to suffer, then it is only right that he returns all of the love you have given him.

♡ It’s easy to persuade you. After all you’ve experienced, you’re tired so you just nod and lean into his embrace. And in the following days, you slowly adjust to your new life. You help Pierro around the forest. A new bed is built, to fit two people. At night, the two of you engage in your usual bedtime conversations but you’re the one who falls asleep first.

♡ When your former subordinate returns, Pierro stands his ground. With you asleep, he is able to fight them outside and easily subdue them; he even had the wisdom to enhance his weapons with blood from your used bandages. And with his argument that any attempt on his life is equal to risking yours, they have no choice but to accept your situation.

♡ You’re still asleep when he returns to your shared bedroom. Careful not to wake you, he changes out of his bloody clothes and leaves his sword on the table, next to his old mask. Then he takes off his glove and traces your features with his cursed hand. And when you open your eyes, the look he gives you is one of pure hope.

“Pierro? What time is it?” you mumble.

“Far too early,” he replies. “Go back to sleep. I will join you shortly, ______.”

“...All right.” Yawning, you snuggle into the pillow and close your eyes. “Can you wake me up later? I don’t want to oversleep again.”

He smiles, caressing your cheek. “If you wish.”

It doesn’t take long for you to return to the world of dreams. Your sleeping face is truly a wonder to behold—an expression so tranquil, well-rested, vulnerable to his kiss.

“And when you awake, I want you to tell me your true name.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pantalone ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving characters or dynamics not included in my masterlist.

..…Don’t ask me how Pierro ended up with the highest word count in this AU. All I can say is that it was very cathartic to make him suffer, which is a recurring theme in his fics. If y’all enjoyed his story, do let me know (๑･̑◡･̑๑)

Also, soft launch for the next couple + story!! I’m rlly excited to write for Dainsleif, and just know that he’s in for a lot of surprises <3

Tag a Pierro enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @naraven @euniveve @stickyspeckledlight @harmonysanreads @oofasleep @mistymem0ryy @lazyroseart @teabutmakeitazure

[a-whispering-echo]

Princess Killer of Velegore

(yes, i know i spelt it wrong on the image. the text version is written correctly!)

Killer is quick-witted, flirty, and sly, with a dark sense of humour and a tendency to push boundaries. He as a habit of pushing and pushing people until they snap; Nightmare doesn’t know if he doesn’t realise does he this, or its its some kind of sadism. He often tells jokes, and though many may seem dark or cynical, there’s an undertone of genuine humour in them he’s even got CROSS with the odd good one!. He gents bored VERY easily, cant sit still, cant pay attention to CERTAIN things, and has a love of telling jokes -

Initially, Nightmare is intrigued and a bit wary of Killer’s flirtatious and teasing nature, unsure if he’s being genuine or manipulative. But as time goes on, Nightmare realizes that Killer’s provocative behaviour is a shield against vulnerability. Nightmare finds himself growing fond of Killer’s sharp wit and his loyalty beneath the teasing exterior.

Killer’s relentless teasing sometimes bothers Cross, who takes things seriously, but he learns to use humour to deflect Killer’s jabs. Killer is drawn to Dust’s odd behaviour, possibly both fascinated and disturbed by his hallucinations, which he sometimes finds darkly humorous, though he never laughs at Dust directly. With Horror, Killer has a unique bond - Horror’s straightforward sweetness balances Killer’s intensity, and Killer finds himself inexplicably protective of him.

Killer, on hearing what his potential partner was like, found him quite sexy. He quite liked the idea of being bossed about by this man with all the power, and was keen to work with him. He wouldn’t say he’s DISAPPOINTED when he met Nightmare for real, but he isn’t what he was expecting.

-

Velegore is a mysterious kingdom famous for its dark, intricate art, masterful weapon craftsmanship, and elite assassins’ guilds. Its people are known for their strength and wit, excelling in strategy and subterfuge. Velegore exports high-quality armour and rare gemstones found in its extensive mines.

Customs & Culture: Velegore has a tradition of intense, often theatrical displays of strength and wit, where challenges and contests are common among nobles. The kingdom celebrates the Night of Masks, a midwinter festival where everyone, from peasants to royalty, wears masks and mingles anonymously, embracing a night of freedom and mischief.

Religion: Velegore worships the Umbral Pantheon, a group of deities representing darkness, shadows, and hidden knowledge. It’s believed that these deities protect secrets and grant wisdom to those who can navigate the shadows.

Royalty: The King of Velegore, King Sable, is known for his pragmatism and ruthlessness. His reign is secure through careful, almost paranoid control, making him wary of threats even from within his family. Killer, being one of several siblings, is the second-born son, raised in a family with many potential heirs due to the kingdom’s hazardous political landscape. Having many siblings indicates the kingdom’s need for a secure line, as heirs are occasionally lost in the internal conflicts that arise among Velegore’s cut-throat nobility.

Architecture: Velegore is known for its dramatic, imposing architecture, with squat, angular buildings that seem to meld into the shadowy landscape and slanted roofing. The buildings are constructed from dark wood and iron, with narrow, barred windows and tall, thin watchtowers that cast ominous shadows. The kingdom values defensive structures, with walls and gates hidden by thickets of thorns and barbed plants.

Clothing: Clothing in Velegore tends toward black, red, and gray, often adorned with silver. Silks and cotton are rare, so most fabrics are thick wool, leather, or flax, providing some protection while remaining lightweight for quick movement. Jewellery often includes polished iron, rubies, or garnets, and some choose to wear protective talismans made from animal bones or metal.

Climate: Velegore’s climate is cooler, with harsh, misty mornings and short, dim days. The overcast skies give the kingdom an eerie quality, with rolling fog that suits its dark forests and murky marshes.

Diet: The people of Velegore rely on game, preserved meats, root vegetables, and foraged berries.. Meals are basic but intensely flavoured, with heavy seasoning to balance the somewhat meagre diet available. Fresh food is often scarce, as they lack the agricultural bounty of other kingdoms. Killer himself is fond of strong spices, though they all come from trade, and are VERY expensive.

Fauna & Flora: Velegore’s wildlife includes nocturnal creatures like bats, wolves, and owls, all of which are symbols of strength and stealth. Local plants include wolfsbane, nightshade, and thorn bushes, often used in Velegore’s folk remedies and warding charms. Dyes from local berries and plants are used to create deep crimson and midnight hues for their clothing. All ‘black’ dye is actually a very dark blue.

this is gonna be the last post for a few days, cus like, busy time and al that lololol

[merakiui]

Hi hi mera feel free to ignore this but what r ur thoughts on a victorian era gentleman rollo???

👀 every time I think of Victorian gentleman Rollo, I immediately think of Steampianist's "The Botanist" because it's just so fitting!!! Rollo as a Victorian botanist who cultivates plants (the crimson lotus being among these), preferring to keep to himself, until he chances to look outside the window of his lab and spies a beautiful, flower-like darling!!!! >w<

But,,, if not a man of the church, I can see him being head of his household. Perhaps a man of power and nobility with his dark past of tragedy (involving his brother) that looms ever-present. He is just brooding enough to have that perfect moody charm that would put him right into the Victorian gothic. He would be very traditionally Victorian,, in that the man looks after his spouse (and children) and protects them, is always faithful to his religion, uphold a respectable, hardworking life in all aspects. Unfortunately, Rollo is not very privy to social events or anything of the sort, but he only goes to save face. He is very good at being courteous and friendly (source: glomas).

OOOHHH!!! AND HE WRITES LETTERS!!!! He writes the loveliest of letters to his beloved, each one perfumed and sealed with a special wax stamp with his household's crest. He'll enclose dried and pressed flowers in some of the envelopes. And then you meet him irl outside of exchanging letters and he's.........himself. T_T your betrothed is certainly unique in his own ways,, he's way too formal and uptight, and he's so very particular about how he appears in the public. But if he likes you enough perhaps he'll flirt with you using that Victorian handkerchief language. >:) he can be soft and sweet in private. Absolutely no PDA, though. Don't even dream of it outside of the house. (really, he probably spends more time horny gripping and forsaking the god he's supposed to be looking towards to remain sensible in his judgment than he does doing anything remotely saucy with you LOL give him time. The Catholic guilt is strong, but Rollo's horny is stronger.)

In my heart the gentlemanly persona of his is all just a front to hide the gruesome serial killer beneath. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ something something Victorian scientist studying the human body and its anatomy through unlawful dissections. I like to think no one bats an eye because he's so polite and he spends most of his days with flowers, so he must be a very gentle, upright man. They could not be more wrong.

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; ii

ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴀɪɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ - ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴛʀᴇɪᴅᴇꜱ, ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴏᴜʀʙᴏɴ - ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴀʀᴋᴏɴɴᴇɴ. ᴘᴀᴜʟ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀꜱᴛ, ᴡɪꜰᴇ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ.

word count: 8.5k warnings: familial trauma, descriptions of blood/violence, irrationality due to bad coping mechanisms, fear, Paul has one (1) almost-panic attack, switching POVs, arranged marriage, politics, not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi again <3 here with chapter two remastered of this fic. feedback very much appreciated, i rly love 2 chat :) also a little bit of smut in the next chapter ! should be coming soon. previous series masterlist

In the traditional customs of House Bourbon, the path to marriage is paved with symbolic rituals and gestures, each sacred to the planet Sabberon's native culture. Though the house may have dwindled in stature over the past three centuries, its customs and rituals remain rooted deeply in the enduring legacy of a once-great lineage, which claims to come from the root of the planet itself.

Unlike the grandiose affairs of many larger noble houses, betrothal within House Bourbon is considered an intimate and sacred process, guided by the rhythms of nature. Rooted in their own ancient spiritual religion – which has embattled centuries of change and upheaval – marriage is viewed as not merely a union between two individuals, but an acknowledgement of the ancestors who came before them, and those who will come next. 

This section reviews the process of Courtship and Betrothal for the House of Bourbon, including: 

Betrothal Gifts 

Heirloom Exchange

Harvest Festival Offering

Ceremony: Handfasting Ritual and Vows

Marriage Consummation: The Sacred Pine of Sabberon

-  “Chapter 68: Customs of Marriage,” The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad. Atreides Library. 

A skip in the audio of the holovideo playing before Paul jolts his vision. 

Gathered back to the land of the living, his head jerks in the palm of his hand, lashes sleepily knotting over the glossy page below him. 

The video does not cease its accented drone, the voice sounding eerily similar in cadence to your own Sabberovna accent; though his eyes laze along the words as they are read out to him in the documentary; a faint twitch of muscle below his eye does not give up as he blinks the syrupy remnants of his dozing away. 

"Marriage consummations are a deeply personal and intimate affair–” An innopportune time perhaps to focus; an unease pools within Paul’s stomach as his eyes flick from Thufir back to the textbook before him, fighting a sprout of resistance that blossoms into disdain as he reads the page. 

Among the more unique traditions of House Bourbon, the consummation of marriage takes place outdoors, through a path walked by many ancestors. Upon a pristine white sheet, under the House's Sacred Pine tree, this ritual symbolizes not only producing legally recognized descendants, but also the sacred union of the betrothed with nature and their ancestral lineage. 

It grows increasingly hot in the study room; Paul’s cheeks burn, his throat drying up as his ears pick up the droll words that read just a line behind his own pace. A glance to Thufir reveals an irritatingly calm expression – Paul blinks away his rising anxiety, some stirring creature of reluctance and alarm; what kind of archaic ritual culture does your house have? 

Paul can hardly imagine you practicing any such traditions on Geidi Prime – though the very thought of what your life had been like sends a wave of nausea through him. 

Words blur and dance; mocking with implications, with visions of white, with soil under grasping fingers, with soft sounds swallowed by thick brush, sharp gasps dissolved by the call of birds in the trees. 

A sunbeam penetrates his vision, and it is searing; with a sharp breath, Paul's fingers pinche the bridge of his nose.

A life guided by the words of duty and future is one too swaddled by a promise of one day – but to Paul’s horror, one day has seemingly overnight become today, and he feels the sands of time slipping through the cracks of his cupped hands, blinded by the sun. 

Noises are too loud – birds scream in the sky outside, the wind howls and wails – the hum of the holovideo has set his teeth on edge, and the quiet breathing of the tutor in the corner has caused a twitch upon his eye. 

It is all very suddenly too much. 

Here he sits, a boy in a castle; and a looming presence upon his shoulders, shadows which bend in the light and whisper the names of those who have sabotaged his family for centuries. Such small panic suddenly festers and blooms into a garden of contempt, curling with branches of sharp thorns.

A hand to keep within his own – a hand which curled around pools of shadows for years. You, who walks the halls of this very castle – who haunts his mind with the ghostly absent gaze and your very own kinds of shadows. 

It is too much. 

With a sharp sigh, he snaps. “Don’t you think it’d be more pertinent to study Harkonnen tactics, instead of this?” Paul’s voice cuts clear through the accented drone of the video, his arms crossing sharply. “She’s just as accustomed to that, I’m sure.” 

Erratic breathing takes his senses in a moment; and he is left with a sweat-stuck tunic and a panicking heartbeat. Thufir turns to Paul, eyes sage, wary. 

“Paul, she was–” 

And immediately, his voice is far too calm for the matter at hand; a Harkonnen puppet walks these halls, and yet even in the preparation for the upcoming Space Trade Referendum, Paul seems to be the only one with any such sense of alarm.

It is just as soon as Thufir begins that Paul’s rage takes hold. “–No! Nobody will listen. She was one of them for almost half a decade. She was accused of espionage, her family was proven of it – who's to say this isn't just another trap?" 

Mentat training can take a lot out of one, Paul has been told; and so Thufir lets him release his anger, with very little protestation – it serves to irk Paul further.  

There is that anger once more, the scraping hunger that claws through his chest and calls for him to pick up a blade. Abruptly, Paul rises – an uncharacteristic burst of emotion, he swallows.  “Thufir,” His heart thunders, panic rising, “I will finish my readings on Sabberon later, I swear to it. But I’d prefer to do it on my own, if it’s alright.” 

Thufir holds his gaze for a moment, though a ghost of acceptance reflects in his visage. “Very well. Though I may remind you: Your father suggests you initiate the heirloom exchange soon.” He finishes; Paul’s overwhelmed expression must bleed through the deep breath he takes.

“Sit down, young lord. Let us begin today with cause and effect–”

On Caladan, the sun casts long shadows through the windows at midday.

But hiding behind drawn clouds of moisture, it is sullen and gray this afternoon. The third day waking up within the castle has brought you news that the Duke wishes to meet with you in the late afternoon; and that you are invited to join the Duchal family for supper this evening – though besides this, your day is free. 

A daunting thing indeed. 

The morning is spent staring warily at the dark corner of your chambers, awaiting the ghost to crawl from the shadows once more; though he does not, and your dreams begin to slip away into a misty memory of a wooded forest and a sinister grin.

Despite your fears of the dark, it is serene in your chambers – natural curves of patterned wooden beams, spined arches which draw in the warmth of the sun; steaming tea and three girls who sit with you quietly, watching you move as if you’re made of porcelain. 

The news of your impending meeting with Duke Leto has settled anxiety deep within you – a foreboding thing in of itself, but the sense of apprehension has spiraled you into a restless stirring. 

It is not until you finish preparing your hair for the mourning veil that you speak – and with a voice soft but firm, you turn to the girls who tidy your space. “I'd like to go explore,” you decide, turning from your vanity to watch their looks of surprise.

You have not left your chambers much since your arrival; aside from attending sparse meals and the first morning when Paul had escorted you through the premises, you’ve remained in the dreamspace of your room, twitching at shadows and waking yourself up with hoarse screams. 

In truth, you yearn for the comfort of metal and leather curled beneath your fingers; an itch unable to satisfy, a phantom limb which looms somewhere in the depths of the castle. In a blink, you're lost to it: A glint of a blade from your dream, hands lithe and pale reaching for the hilt.

You watch the shine of the sun over the sea as your veil is lifted over your eyes, haunted by visions of metal glinting under a black sun.  

It is with mercy that you are dressed today – dark trousers and a tunic the same deep cerulean as your veil.; and your chambers are left quietly with a denial of company from the workers who clear your tea.

You slink in that way you know how; with a small smile growing on your lips unbidden as you inhale such a clean breeze that courses through the ancient place. It is, in a way, quite a solace; your lungs, so heavy and exhausted by the recycled air of Giedi Prime – a fresh breath, one that does not sting your throat. 

A freedom licks at your spine as you continue, turning corners on a whim, eyes sliding in avoidance of any other being you pass, though you bid them a good day with a nod of your head. It is peaceful in this castle, and some resentment bubbles in your stomach because of it. Beams high above your head are patterned and shaped to breathe intricate shadows over your frame; high, vaulted ceilings, old stone cool beneath your palm. Along the castle, plants burst with the fruits of healthy care; and laughter echoes somewhere far off in its depths. 

In another world, you would have felt such joy to call this your home. 

Today's clothing is more forgiving; your trousers are loose but more reinforced at the hips and waist, allowing you to move much quicker and quietly through the halls. A gentle swish comes from the cloaked veil upon your head – and you, with a moment of resistance, nearly rip the damned thing off. How easy it would be, to toss it into one of the several lit hearths in the vicinity, eliminate the evidence of it.

There still remains a small rage within you, simmering and igniting more each day you go on like this – resentment for the customs that you barely know, for your house that no longer exists; for the people lost to time and slipped through the grasp of your family’s lineage. An embarrassment, you know, to be told of your own family's traditions by foreigners.

Out the window is a glimpse of the glistening sea. Violent in its own way, it slams against the cliffside, silent to you but louder than life; it is green in the way everything is, and once more, you wish to see the planet without the veil’s tinted vision. 

But in a blink, the sea changes; it is dirt, soil acidic and unfamiliar – and a casket is lowered into it, forested and glossy; it is sand, sun glinting and white – and bodies are thrown down upon it, black blood leaking and jeweled. 

Guilt is an old friend, and you welcome its embrace with a swallow and shaky hands. 

You leave the window behind. 

The walls seem much more empty as you go further into the castle's bowels, dragging your palm along the cool stone; at the turn of a corridor, you find yourself at an ornate doorway. There are intricate carvings deep set within the wood – a man and a bull; your fingers trace the slope of the man’s shoulders, pressing gently to feel the door give way easily. 

The air is still within the room – a study, one with shelves and shelves of ancient artifacts, of tomes and scrolls. Your arm stirs the sunbeam leaking in from the high-set window; dust particles swirl and dance in your wake. A slow turn yields an understanding – several pieces of select furniture are covered with sheets, as if the room is no longer commissioned; You bite back the lingering feeling that you're somewhere you're not supposed to be. 

There is no true danger – if you were to wander somewhere you didn't belong on Giedi Prime, you'd have been punished; though in truth, you doubt the guards here would dare touch you unless you gave them a reason to. 

You walk among the forgotten room, hidden away from prying eyes; fingers over the spine of a leatherbound tome, eyes tracing over the foreign language. 

You come upon a large hawk spreading its wings carved in the window in front of you: large, proud; green and black with gold embellishments. The Atreides colors. 

And then, another book that your forefinger traces – a deep blue color, the spine is old and well-read. A few of the pages are even dog-eared, the dust deliberately swept off its pages as if it was read recently.  

Caladan: A Comprehensive Ecological Study of Biodiversity.

You pull it out gently, if only to study its contents quickly, momentarily forgetting the task of finding the armory in your piqued interest; Yet before you can explore further, you hear footsteps approaching from behind. 

Hair stands up on your neck. 

They're light, sneaking – intentionally quiet. In less than a breath, you whirl around, slipping the book into the waistband of your trousers, hidden by the train of your veil from behind. Though the presence becomes apparent, your hand instinctively goes to your hip; and you come up empty, a flash of irritation washing over you as a reminder of your absent beloved nameday knife. 

Paul Atreides stands in the doorway, expression guarded as he takes in the sight of you, stood amidst the shelves.

You flounder, having expected it to be one of your handmaidens coming to redirect you, or perhaps a member of the Duke's guard – but his stare is similar in its surprise; flecks of green turn suspicious, glancing to the desk beside you, towered with old Atreides family war strategies and tomes of battle tactics.  

“What are you doing in here?” His voice is accusatory in itself; no greeting to you beforehand to soften the blow of accusation. His cheeks are flushed, eyes narrow – he is harsh in the dim light, and you do not need to see the crazed look in his stare to know he’s agitated about something. Irritated. 

This causes no waver in your position; you lift a concealed brow. “The door was open.” 

His voice returns with its same sharpness. “This is my father's old study.” He takes another step into the room, “It's not meant for prying eyes.” 

A lurch in your heart at the implication, a rush of heat prickling your skin. You stiffen.

“I was looking for a place to train,” your voice shoots back, stubborn and defiant. No matter how thinly veiled, you bristle at his suspicion. “I didn’t intend to intrude on your father's privacy.” You continue, “You may give him my apologies when you see fit.” 

Dust swirls in a storm next to Paul; his gaze is piercing, laced with distrust despite his chivalrous facade. Your pride prickles under his narrowed scrutiny. 

“Forgive me if I’ve offended you, Lady Bourbon,” His words clip you and set your jaw tight, “Considering certain circumstances, I'm sure you understand our cautiousness in matters of trust.”

A bristle in your spine, temper heating your cheeks as he continues, “But if you're lost, then allow me to escort you.” 

Your step forward is no such acceptance of his venomous tongue. “Forgive me for assuming you’d know better than to judge based on matters of circumstance,” you retort, your voice sharp with wound, “Please don't exert yourself, my Lord, I'm sure I can find the armory without a chaperone.” 

It is a brush past his shoulders in the doorway; you leave with a burning frustration, fingers flexing for a blade – your footfall echoes in the corridor, some staccato rhythm you cannot care to hide any longer. Anger pulses through your veins, simmering your resentment; a belittling thing, to let Paul speak to you like you are the enemy. 

Paul told you just yesterday that you will one day be Lady Atreides; if he is so afraid of your so-believed connections with House Harkonnen, why has he not insisted you be cast away?

Resentment is a familiar beast clawing in your heart: Your own lineage is gone. A house as old as the planet it ruled, burnt to the ground – the other Houses Major, complacent and willing to see it happen – and they plan to use you for themselves. 

You may be betrothed to Paul Atreides, but you will never be a part of their house; your blood is the ancient blood of the Pine, of the Sword.

You'll have to be a wife to the future Duke – sire an heir, live in the castle, command the planet. 

But you will not go down easy. 

The armory is not as empty as you'd wished. 

In fact, it is one person too many; you're mistaken sorely when you storm in, chest heaving and cheeks hot with anger, to find one person standing in the middle of the floor. Hurt and anger boil dangerously within you; and the only thing that might placate you is swinging a blade. 

Your arrival is not quiet. 

“Duncan.” You greet the man icily; He faces you, blinking back his surprise with a poorly concealed expression. 

And, salt rubbed into your poorly healed wounds: He uses your first name; a gentle thing as he nods to you. "Is everything alright?" He wonders. 

A foolish question, really. 

In anger, you nearly scream; Why did you wait so long to get me? Where were you? Where were my parents?

But you already know the answer. They were doing nothing. 

You grit your teeth, instead striding purposefully towards him, tossing the book from your waistband onto the floor with a smack. “You're the Swordmaster of the Duke,” Your voice is cool, masked – and of course, this is known; He's been Duke Leto's Swordmaster since before you were born into the world. 

“That's right.” He affirms, wary of your movements as you stride towards the weapons rack.

You hum, fingers tracing over the various weapons laid out – none of which, your precious nameday blade. “I find myself missing my knife,” You muse, “If I remember correctly, you took it from me on Giedi Prime.”

It is then that you walk slowly towards the center of the sparring mat where he stands, in front of the rack of shortswords. You look up at him. “I would like it back.”  

To your surprise, Duncan nods – a flicker of something in his gaze. “Of course,” He agrees, “Would you like to spar for it?”

He reads you like a book.

You, after only a brief moment, acquiesce: “No honor without a fight.” 

And so without waiting for a response, you snatch a blade from the rack; He tosses you a shield that you activate swiftly around your wrist, assuming an offensive stance as he settles his own. 

For a moment, neither of you move; your blood sings, eager to take out your anger; eager to show him who you've become. 

To show the beast everyone expects you to be. 

You lunge at him; it is quick that you are reminded of his impeccable skill – you’ve not sparred with anyone in over a week and a half, save the weak attempt at a fight you gave to Duncan and his men when you were taken on Giedi Prime. 

In the commotion of your family's abdication, the arenas had been filled to the brim with your house's soldiers and advisors the whole week leading up to your exit from Giedi Prime; Even Feyd had been too occupied to fight with you.

It takes only minutes before your muscles are aching, screaming.

The frustration of the morning and the despair within your stomach spurs you forward, keeping your feet under your body; and soon, your panting and the clang of steel on steel fills the room, punctuated only by both you and Duncan's measured breathing. 

It’s been a lifetime and a half since you last trained with Duncan Idaho. 

There was a time that you moved together like water, even when you were just fifteen; he'd taught you how to fight like a Ginaz Swordmaster just as much as your own family did – and though his visits were sparse, he'd never miss Sabberon’s harvest festivals. 

He, arriving onto the snow-kissed tarmac and you, always with a blade in your grip and your brother's hand in the other.

You were graceful when you were young and still learning – but now you're quick, snarling like a rabid dog, lashing out with tooth and nail. It feels nothing like it used to be, and it shows in his expression. 

“Have something to say, Idaho?” you hiss – a quick gasp from you as he gets near to taking you down, ducking at the last second as he charges your right side. He lets out a breath as you slide past him, slamming your elbow hard into his side; A dirty move. 

You have little room to feel relief that he seems some manner exerted – you, however, are drenched in sweat, fatigued, and alight with endorphins. A sheen over his forehead in the light leaking into the room is all forgiven to you as you duck a blow. His brows raise. “You fight different, Little Bourbon.” 

And a pang in your stomach once more at the nickname, how easily it comes to him. As if nothing’s changed. “You already told me that.” You hiss, wiping sweat from your brow and parrying a strike to your side, “It's the veil.” 

To be fair, it could be the veil – it's restrictive, catching on corners, pinning beneath your arm, tangling as you fight hand-to-hand; simply, it is inimical to your interests.

Though he does not bite at such bait. “Is it not the years with those beasts?” 

Your blood runs cold.

“What do you know of those beasts?” You snap, heart pounding; memories of pale hands slipping over yours, of a glinting black smile – the one that'd called you pet but paraded you like a wife; Spoiled you, ruined you – haunted you, nurtured you. 

What is that old saying, about biting the hand that feeds you? 

But in a swish of the veil and a blink, Feyd-Rautha is once more in front of you; curved blades, painted chest, and a sinister smile.

Your steps stumble back in shock, your breath caught in your throat. An intimidating, lithe frame of shadow – and he laughs a mirthless, dangerous chuckle. 

Don’t worry, my pet. I will find you again.

It is all you can do: You lash out, grunting as you swipe at his face – though as your blade comes down against the shield, it is once again Duncan in front of you. 

You can't hide the gasp as you blink away the vision, heart thudding heavy between your ribs. 

His recovery is swift, tutting, “I didn't mean to imply that it is a weakness, my lady.” He blocks a blow and you struggle for a moment against his sheer strength; with a twinge of anger, you can tell he's going easy on you.

He continues on. “–Far from it. You seem to forget that I've fought them, that I know them, too.” He's momentarily distracted when he disarms you, and you use the opportunity to flip sideways, jumping gracefully over the water station to retrieve the blade. His countenance betrays a grin of appreciation at your acrobatics, smirking as the pitcher of water upon the table shakes slightly. 

Concealing a grin, you creep back around, launching into an attack that he parries quickly, dropping you on to your side. You grunt, kicking with your legs to twist, trying to force his body off of yours – you strain, muscles screaming. 

He stares down at you, raising his brows. “I'm just saying – maybe there's aspects of your training that could benefit from a balanced approach.” 

He finishes his sentence just as he bests you, your blade flipping against your own ribs as he forces your arm tight against yourself; your shield flickers red. 

He's won. 

Still fighting the adrenaline from your vision of Feyd, you hiss. “What are you implying? I'm too rabid an animal to tame?” Your head tilts on the ground, dragging your veil upon the mat.

“Is House Atreides scared of Little Bourbon?” You muse, still heated by the previous encounter with Paul this morning, by Duncan’s unremarkable reaction to your jabs, by the ghost who seems to haunt you awake and in dreams. “Or, are they just afraid I've become Little Harkonnen?” 

Once more, he does not take your bait – instead he rolls off of you, offering a hand. With a sharp glance, you take it, letting him pull your full weight off the ground as if you're nearly weightless. 

You sigh, side cramping as you move from his grip to pour yourself a glass of water. You pour a shaky one for Duncan, too, trying to fight the creeping sensation that he's talking to a stranger. He regards you, wiping sweat from his brow, “What I am saying is that I am here every day. Come train whenever you please.”

You give him the glass and he grasps the water gently, watching you from the corner of his eye. The hesitation makes your jaw clench in anticipation; You busy yourself by examining the various blades that lie before you, knowing what's to come. 

Finally, he says your name softly. You hope he does not see your spine stiffen. 

“We haven't had the time to speak about…” A gesture half-thought; he is clearly trying to put together words, but you cannot bear to hear them. You drag your finger along a curved blade, eyes squinting shut, pain swirling in your heart.

“I'm sorry. I–” Duncan starts gently but trails off as if he can't bear to say it out loud. His fingers hesitate just before your bicep, as if reaching out to you; For a moment, you almost lean into his presence – but a memory of sharp words and harsh eyes courses through you. I'm sure you understand our cautiousness in matters of trust.

You swallow down bitterness as you step away slightly, tossing the knife back on the rack with a clatter. “I'm fine,” you reply curtly, voice steelier than ever. “Nothing to do about it now.”

Duncan sighs, but does not call your bluff. You almost appreciate him for it. 

You turn to face him again, glad for the veil to conceal the glint of tears upon your waterline. 

“Now where did you put my knife?” 

It is one of the many things that strikes you about the Atreides as you sit in the conference hall that evening: They do not sit like a council, looking down at you – instead, the table is rounded, attended at all sides with only one chair unoccupied. You suspect Paul's is the body absent from the chair – he’s training with Duncan, then; you must have just missed him on your way back. 

Your newly reclaimed blade shines, restored and clean, with etchings inlaid across the hilt; you’re significantly fatigued after your sparring, though Duncan’s words have threaded unease through you. This string of angst pulls taught when your eyes land upon Lady Jessica. A relieving presence, quite welcoming – though her ability to stare through the veil and into your own gaze is rivaled only by her own son. It is a wholly unsettling talent of them both. 

A press of your finger upon the tip of your blade; it beads with a lick of crimson, and you sigh. 

After a moment, you set the blade in front of your place for all to see; a threat, or a sign of respect – you’re unsure. 

Though in the flash of your fingers upon the hilt, guards in the room unsheathe their own blades – and without a blink, Duke Leto holds a hand to halt them, signing something to them in their war-language. 

You watch on with a stilled heartbeat.  

“Lady Bourbon, thank you for meeting with us.” His voice is a deep caramel, “We understand the weight of your sudden responsibility, and it does not go unappreciated.”

There is a knot in the table before you, glistening within the polished wood; you nod rather curtly, not particularly keen to drag out the pleasantries of this meeting. Your voice comes stonily. “How may I be of service, my Lord?” 

At your deflection, he merely nods slightly. “I was told you spent the afternoon training with Duncan Idaho.”

 He speaks plainly and you are, if nothing else, appreciative of that; His eyes glance over the short sword that lays in front of you, to the signature black leather that wraps around the hilt. Once, it had served as a claim: A detested thing, one held out of self preservation; perhaps in a way it still is.  

“Yes, my Lord.” 

Brows draw over his eyes; an expression serious and dutiful, and for a moment you can see the echoes of Paul in his father’s expression.

It is not surprising to you that Paul is a well-respected figure in the castle; even the workers who tend to your quarters each morning seem to speak well of him. Hestia, around the rim of her teacup just this morning, had spoken to you of his rigorous training, the time he spends with his mother and with Dr. Yeuh, Thufir Hawat, and Duncan Idaho; and though you were less than interested in the more sentimental aspects of her recount, of some promise of intelligence, of depth, of humor – a thought you find most impossible – you can admit that he will easily assume his father’s role when the time comes. 

A voice from beside the Duke: “We’d like to reiterate that you are free to pursue your interests, to educate yourself, and to engage in hobbies that bring you joy or interest. We hope for you to consider this your home, and know that we are here to support you in any way we can.” 

In the moment that follows, you blink rather dumbly; thrown off-balance, a raft in a sudden clench of rapids – this is not how you’d anticipated the meeting would go. 

And here you sit, rigid as a board, eyes wide: It is not shocking to learn that your unease and discomfort on this planet has been rather clear – you hardly rest, you have never eaten around any others than your handmaids, you barely speak; hostility grows from you as branches of a willow weeping in summer. 

You shift within your seat, growing uncomfortable under such attention, the kindness so raw and unburdened in the room. “We’d like to know of your interests, so we may set you up with any materials you may need. I'd like to introduce to you Dr. Yueh, as well as Thufir Hawat, who have volunteered to help tutor you, should you wish.” The Duke’s words bring a rush of heavy emotion through your chest, “Duncan Idaho also wishes to help you train if you see fit. I understand you knew him when you were young.” 

Your eyes have begun to sting with the lurching sensation of emotion; For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you're being offered a taste of freedom, and it has sent you into a state. 

It is a feeling of fight or flight; your heartbeat pounds against your ribs, your hands clenching tight against the healing crescents within your palms. A mantra in your mind, some whisper of a breath leaking from your lips as your gaze bounces wetly from Duke Leto, to the knife before you, to Lady Jessica. 

I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

With a sharp inhale, you come back to life; a blossoming willow as your headchain chimes, steadying your palms on your thighs. “Apologies, I…” A weak attempt, and with a swallow of humility, you begin again: “Your generosity overwhelms me.” 

In a silent beat, it occurs to you that they await your revelations; and with a sheepish swallow, you wonder: What, indeed, are your interests? Have you any, anymore? 

You swallow the burning bile climbing up your throat. “I was educated in politics and Imperial economics for some time.” It is difficult to speak of yourself as the faces watch you – though you continue stoically, your heart thunders in your ribcage. “I've always been fascinated by cultures, by botany and ecology– I…” your mouth is incredibly dry, voice void; a tear has escaped your waterline, and you hope it does not come through in your voice. You don't know what else to say. 

“Thank you.” 

There is a small gleam of recognition that passes Duke Leto's eyes at your words, his smile intrigued. “Those are all noble pursuits, my Lady. You have similar interests to my own son; I believe you two will have much to discuss.” 

A laughable thought – and your mouth bitters at the realization; For a moment, you'd slipped away – into a world where you are their daughter, a world where you aren't tainted by the last several years, by the crimes of your House, of your blood – where you haven’t been turned into a monster that hisses at a glimpse of the sun. 

“I’m sure we will.” You echo; and in the breath following, it becomes clear there is no good will for free: 

“Though we are hesitant to put you into another painful situation,” Gurney Halleck’s voice errupts from across the table; you move to stare at him with the patience of a statue, back stiffening. “It is hard to deny just how helpful you could be to us, my Lady.” 

Your eyes snake over his pressed uniform, back prickling. You resist the urge to run, or to throw your blade at his head.

Though his following words are surprisingly delicate: “–And we hope, when you are ready, you might give us some insight into your previous arrangements.” 

It is a song and dance well-known from your time on Giedi Prime: Coercion disguised as cooperation. 

You do not by law owe the Atreides anything besides marriage to their son; though perhaps cooperating with them would be in your own interest as well as you await the upcoming arraignment. 

Faces watch you, sharp and poised; a dark green that runs nearly blue in the light, their uniforms are cerulean and pressed, and you wonder indeed how many lifetimes ago it was that you were back in the strategy room on Sabberon, surrounded by tan and green. 

Perhaps, if not just the Harkonnens, they prefer you for your relationship with your mother’s sister, the lady of House Ginaz; This thought has several times crossed your mind, but you're sure they'd be displeased to hear of how strained such relationship became when the Harkonnens started filtering your messages.

It has been ages since you heard from her – the Baron grew suspicious at such interactions, and you’re near certain almost none of your letters made it out of Barony Castle at all. Certainly none came in after only months.

A mountain grows within you – one with sharp slopes, with hissing winds – a self preservation remaining from the days of survival. You unfurl slowly, calculated. “During my time with the Harkonnens, I became privy to certain…” Your lips purse, “lateral moves.” 

Gurney Halleck's eyes fly to you, as do Lady Jessica's.

Your jaw ticks beneath the juniper fabric, “However, my interactions were primarily with Feyd-Rautha.” Your eyes flick to the blade before you before rising again to Duke Leto, “The Baron held little interest in me until my family was accused, and even though I saw him quite rarely, Glossu Rabban suspected me of being a spy long before he’d ever met me.” 

 An effort you put in to pretend not to notice the flicking of Lady Jessica’s hand’s by her side; the eyes of the Duke and War Master following the motions. 

You continue, harboring a slight upper hand that you cling to with your resolve. “I admit, I do not know much about their deals on Arrakis. But I have gathered enough about their industries on Giedi Prime.” You say, eyeing them all. Recalling Paul’s earlier mistrust, you add, “The Harkonnens destroyed my life. I have no reason to lie.” 

In the corner of the room, a sunbeam strikes through a swirl of dust; it pierces through the budding leaves of a jade succulent and casts a dappled shadow onto the table. The members of House Atreides discuss in short whispers until Duke Leto turns back to you. 

“I’d wonder if you might attend a meeting with our Strategy Council next week.” His proposal sends your brows to raise in intrigue. “As you are surely aware, there is a Space Trade Route Referendum on Kaitain during the same summit as your House's arraignment. I believe we would benefit greatly from your insight as we prepare for the drawings.” 

A wildfire of flush spreads across your cheeks; pride, that little kerneled seed, festers in the poisonous soil of your heart – and yet you must remind yourself where you are, who you are. Yes, they see your value, a mistake your last keepers have reaped; but a key is only valued for the locks in which it can turn. 

You are a rabid dog for them to muzzle; a blade to sheath. A pawn to play. 

“I’d be pleased, my Lord.” 

Melodious as it is in its Sabberovna lilt, your voice remains short of genuine in tone and you cannot effectively mask your apprehension. 

Duke Leto says your name once more, and it sends a jolt through you. “If I may.”

You wait in your evergreen stillness, and he takes your quiet as acceptance to continue. “Plans have changed quickly, as you well understand. Though regrettable, it is more than understandable if you have felt unwelcome, or alienated here on Caladan.” 

The breath out of your lips blows the veil; you bite back a bitter quip regarding his son’s willingness to chew you out for walking the halls of what is supposed to now be your castle – and instead take another breath. 

Your anger and resentment is not the Duke’s nor Lady Jessica’s to receive; no matter how distrusting or misguided their son might be – because they have shown nothing but respect for you since your arrival. 

Quarters with a view of the coastline, of rolling moors of green that shoot up suddenly in dark rock – bowls of fruit in the mornings with your tea, an offer to study any such subject you wish… you bite your lip, the gnawing pain of guilt bleeding through the bodice in your gown just as your sisters did that fated day in the black sun. 

“I regret that I have come off as ungrateful.” Your voice lands softer than anticipated, a footfall in fresh snow; you thank the void that the Atreides boy is not here to snicker at your apparent misery – though as sharp eyes turn to regard you, the self-deprecation melts away once more into a small beast of disdain towards Paul and his disrespect. “It was never my intention.”

You, calculating, choose your words carefully. “I am not unused to being treated like a spy, even in the house I am supposed to become a part of,” Your chin is tilted towards the Duke, resolved and unflinching. “Though perhaps if I were less interrogated by select members of House Atreides, I might feel more at ease.” 

And, if nothing else, perhaps a childish part of you hopes Paul will face some hand to ear for this, some chastising by his father or mother. You do not falter at the faces of men and women who have known Paul his whole life, who have known you for mere days; you will not be pushed around. 

You continue in the absence of response, folding your hands neatly before your nameday blade. “I'd like to pass along my personal apologies for entering your old study this morning when I was lost, Duke Leto,” You nod to him, “Lord Paul informed me that it is off-limits to my kind.” 

And perhaps it is worth it, the indignation, if only to see the varying degrees of surprise upon the visages before you; the Duke, however, glances sidelong to the empty seat beside him before clenching his jaw. Halleck sighs gently, hand falling over his forehead; it is evident the Duke is about to speak – though you do not wish to hear whatever excuse is provided for the actions of his childish son, your future husband, who did not even bother to attend this meeting. 

Alas, you do not dare disrespect Duke Leto, after all he’s done for you; and so you sit, knee bouncing restlessly, as he purses his lips. 

“The suddenness of your arrangement was a shock to Paul, as I’m sure it was to you. Though that does not permit any disrespect towards you. You have my promise it will not happen again, my Lady.”

 This, indeed, comes as surprise to you, having expected them to support Paul’s each whim; and you sit forward, spine still rigid, though interested.

“–As for my former study, it is now used as an archive room. I apologize if there was any confusion regarding its accessibility – I will speak with my son about the importance of clarity and respect in our household.” His words, stern – scolding, though not towards you; a silent admonishment instead directed towards his absent heir. “You are allowed wherever you wish.” 

It hits you in some dropping sensation within your stomach: Perhaps the Duke's son has his own opinions about you and your history, but that does not mean his parents feel the same. Soon grows a small spark of rebellion; could you find some new purpose within this House, despite any ulterior motives – or, perhaps, because of them? 

After all, your house was once a strong ally of theirs; and the thought, a tantalizing one, lingers for a few moments before being swiftly extinguished by the reality of your situation.  

No, you remind yourself bitterly. 

You are tainted with blood – not Atreides, not Bourbon – but Harkonnen. 

And it seems Paul will always see you as a beast, wife or not. 

Supper is called later than Paul expects.

It is past dark when he greets his parents in the room, his formal clothes dark and pressed. Paul’s stomach growls quietly in protest; though more than his hunger, he is mocked by the box he holds. 

He places it beside himself, and it will sit there until the end of dinner; It glares at him tauntingly, mockingly.

He avoids its stare. 

Words, echoed through his mind in the wake of his childish fit from earlier; and his father’s voice, then: 

You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future spouse. 

How foolish he’d been this morning – held captive by the terrene emotions in his mind: flustered, angry at the arrangement – and what awful coincidence he'd run into you, snooping around the old study. 

Paul is no fool; he knows better than to treat you in such a way, despite his apprehension. It is difficult to dismiss the knot in his stomach as his father’s gaze lingers; the tension from their earlier argument hangs heavy, but still, Paul’s path is clear. 

Whatever his doubts, it changes nothing – you will be his wife, and he your husband. Paul, with a quick glance to the dark horizon, rolls his neck; a sharp pop breaks the silence.

There is, of course, that aching sorrow he holds for you, still; he knows that whatever he is feeling, you're likely feeling a hundred times more.

So for both of your sake, he will learn to endure, to coexist; And it begins tonight.

It begins with the box at his side.

You find the dining room with a burst of doors; and despite himself, Paul’s cheeks heat rather quickly. 

Your dress is a dark forest; simple – snug around your figure, though the sleeves flow and pull low near your ankles. Paul’s lashes tangle as he blinks slow, shocked. 

Your veil, gossamer thin; it softens you in a way, though it hides less than any you’ve worn yet. Through its shroud, your eyes find his nearly immediately as you walk in – you stare, wide, unyielding.

Paul is struck with a bout of iced chill when he comprehends that he can see your stare, the fullness of your lips, the upturn of your cheeks, the line of your brows, the way you take in a quick breath; He's struck immediately with your evergreen, growing beauty. 

The sweet slope of neck, a swirling lick of hair brushed beyond proud shoulders; and Paul forces himself to nod and greet you, his palms clammy from the heat from the castle’s hearth.

You sit beside him, and still there’s that look you always have: Contained, a schooled politeness – but Paul knows better. 

A stolen glance once more – and eyes glow against dark green mesh, glinting just like the metal beads that fall over the crown of your head. Paul is struck with the strange desire to see more of you. 

Instead, he stares at the knot in the polished wooden table before him. 

Mercifully, dinner is an endeavor less strenuous than anticipated; you, more relaxed than he’s ever seen, though your voice is still calculated and stoic. Even his mother is relaxed. She asks you of the wintering sports you enjoyed in your youth; you describe stiffly the pack of wolves your family had and raced with on sleds, about the waxed narrow planks you strap to your feet to race down snowy slopes. His father, enamored with the bladed skates you'd wear upon the glacial lakes when their surfaces froze over; Paul's small huff that is met with a quick glance when you quietly recount the tale of you breaking your femur upon a tree while racing your sister.

Paul’s interest in the lifetime spent upon Sabberon is eclipsed only by the looming box beside him, watching him throughout the meal. 

By the time the dishes begin to be cleared away, his heart is hammering in his chest. It is inevitable, something tells him in his mind; the first of several of your House's courting steps – he’d kept true to his words and poured over the chapters about your culture before going to train this afternoon. 

Paul anxiously thumbs the box under the table, knee bouncing against the grain of wood –  perhaps this won't be the most traditional example of your culture's marriage customs, but most of your people are gone, anyways – he simply hopes it will be adequate.

He will no longer fight it; and he can only try his best to make you feel more comfortable here, especially after his foolish actions this morning. 

His parents excuse themselves, and you rise as well; with a jump of panic, Paul calls for you to stay, just for a moment. 

You, stilling in your cascading dress, with your stare and your coolness; you stare at him, wordless, and he lingers as his parents wish you a good evening.

When they are gone, you remain standing half-turned from him, solid in your ground, rooted in the ancient sway of your gown. Your eyes are wary; Perhaps you expect him to berate you again. 

A quick sigh, his eyes fluttering closed – and the passage flickers through his mind once more. 

Gifting heirlooms is a sacred tradition, passed down through generations, where the betrothed proudly wear the sigil of their new house as a symbol of unity and commitment.

Paul's heart races – he wipes a palm upon his tunic, straightening it before approaching you; you, a flower thorny and veiled beneath a layer of frosted snow; you, a blade sheathed in silk. 

He can see the apprehension in your gaze, now – an odd thought, one that stirs something foreign in his stomach – and with each step closer, your eyes sharpen with the glint of suspicion. One hand shifts through the skirt of your dress, as if searching for something; though you have no chance to wield any such weapon as he rounds on you, holding out the velvet box with a tremor. 

His reluctance is swallowed down with a force of duty; he flips the box open, waiting with his gaze upon the crown of your veil. 

You stare down at it, your demeanor guarded, unreadable.

And then, plush lips – partially hidden behind gauzy green – part gently; and for a moment, Paul wonders why indeed you seem completely...shell-shocked.

His brows furrow, though he brushes aside the thought – the formality of the gesture after his childish behavior earlier in the day must have brought upon some whiplash, and that he understands.

Paul chooses to go unspoken the intent of the gift; for it is your culture’s tradition, after all: “My Lady,” His voice is steady though a part of him winces internally at the tinge of nervousness, “I hope you will accept this pendant as a token of my–” Sharply cutting himself off, he clears his throat, “Of our betrothal.” 

It is a mercy to have been so trained in diplomacy, Paul knows; for he sounds much more confident than he feels. “I apologize for how I acted this morning. It was childish,” His voice is quiet in the room, and his stomach flips at the memory of your muscles tensing in the morning light, watching him; a ghost in emerald, haunting the halls. 

You stare at the necklace still within his palm. 

Your lips remain parted, your gaze likely taking in the green and gold sigil of Atreides; a hawk. 

Small, ornamental – it was his great-great-grandmother's, from her wedding day; cherished for many years. 

It took him many hours to find something that seemed fit to uphold your family's tradition; though he’d decided upon this pendant once he laid eyes upon it – the color will suit you. 

Paul awaits your response, hoping you'll see the gesture for what it truly is: An attempt to bridge the gap between the two of you; Suggested by his parents, yes, but chosen and executed by himself. 

He, in the unease of the silence, nearly says more; but soon your eyes harden and your reach moves towards the box. 

“Thank you.”

But your voice is much too cold; your eyes hold none of the shine he’d seen previously, and it is with a pang in his stomach that he recognizes your sharp glance sideways, towards the sparse workers who attend the dining room. 

Your eyes are lethal – just as lethal as the rest of you. 

You would not be as civil if it were just you and him, he is sure of it; His parents may be gone, but there are servants who watch you with the corner of their eyes as they clear dishes. 

A crawling sense of regret, some grimy dishonesty that rises within him – perhaps he should have waited until the two of you were truly alone; he’d not even considered how it may look to you.  

Your own hands shake as you reach under your veil – Paul watches warily as you clasp the necklace slowly; his lips are dry, throat begging for the relief of water – and he knows better than to recognize your tremoring hands as anything but a result of your sheer resentment towards him, towards the marriage. 

Your lips are plush as they are freed from the trappings of your teeth. 

“It is a gorgeous collar,” you utter; and with a turn to stare up into Paul’s eyes, his heart thuds, breath catching. His head tilts to hear you – and your voice comes just as it always does. 

“I shall wear it like a dog.” 

The choice of words unsettles him completely; a pang of regret within him – but you are out of the door before his lips find anything to say. 

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[ataraxiaspainting]

Chrollo Lucilfer Yandere Analysis.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, not SFW (both non-con and dub-con), the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectfully, forced tattooing, Chrollo having a god complex but that's nothing new lol, Stockholm Syndrome, stalking, parallels to religion (mainly Judeo-Christianity), implied body transformation (using Chrollo’s book), masturbation, manipulation, and violence/gore.

Word Count: 13k.

credits to @ddarker-dreams for the yandere MBTI and like everything she writes for this creepy greaseball (check her out if you haven’t already!!) <33333

another thanks to @depravitycentral for the inspiration! check them out too!!!! their general profile and nsfw profile for mr. chrollo specifically BUT everything they write is pretty good! <33333

one last thanks to @phasmophobia-territory for the ultimate yandere types list and @blughxreader for the yandere personality meme. both have inspired the unique qualities part of this analysis, so please be sure to check them out! <333

also, for quotes i tried to do something like genshin impact/honkai: star rail voicelines so i apologize if they aren’t good (ﾒ﹏ﾒ)

*~*~*~*

I look forward to living life with you from here on out. However, just know that there will be many different roads we will walk together on. Their lengths will depend on you, for better or for worse. As time goes on, however, I know that they will all end eventually.

→ Introduction.

The very definition of an empty shell, Chrollo has had his humanity stripped of him from a very young age. The only people who have ever made him feel something are all members of the Troupe or are buried underground, burning in hell or soaring above the clouds as angels, either one a much better existence than the life they all spent in Meteor City. So, when he sees you, someone who has been able to make him feel something without interacting with him at all, without the use of Nen, without even brushing your shoulder against him while running to your train in a hurry, he does not know what to do.

He feels like he is back to being a small child, roaming the streets and looking through dumpsters for anything of value trying to ignore the pain of the cuts and infections all over his body. You bring up a feeling he has not felt in years; fear. Despite this situation being far, far different from those times, his brain thinks otherwise. It sends him a fight or flight response every time he sees you, as much as he hides it, much like he hides himself among the crowds and crowds of people as he follows you home. You have resurrected a beast thought to be long dead, something innate, animal, almost carnal, without even lifting a finger.

Is this who he is, he wonders? He finally feels something, for once, a sense of belonging and identity and… humanity.

It fills him with a sense of euphoria, while you view it with dread every time his Zetsu slips for just a moment. You always look over your shoulder during those times and start walking faster, but definitely not enough to deter him, and it will never be enough.

→ Darling Character Analysis.

Creative.

Chrollo has a deep curiosity about the world and appreciates a darling who shares this thirst for knowledge and intellectual growth. The form of expression doesn't matter to him, whether it's through writing, music, or eloquent speech. What truly matters to Chrollo is that his darling can communicate uniquely and authentically.

In a concerning manner, Chrollo imitates his darling’s behaviors to an extreme degree, devouring everything they do with an insatiable appetite. It doesn't matter how his darling presents their interests to him, whether it's straightforward or not. For instance, if his darling mentions their love for playing the violin after spending days alone with only Chrollo for company, the next day a brand new violin will mysteriously appear on the table beside their side of the bed. Chrollo will secretly learn to play the violin himself, the one he purchased as well as the one he gifted to his darling, practicing when they are not paying attention or are fast asleep.

As a result, his darling may find themselves obligated to reciprocate this behavior by learning Chrollo's favorite musical pieces.

He will experience immense joy, perhaps so much that he will hold them down on the bed and shower their face with kisses while they squirm and kick. Even when they eventually stop, he will continue, disregarding their pleas for him to stop.

As always, his strength is overpowering, leaving you with no action to do other than to say no.

At least there is some form of care after it is all over and done with, although it always somehow involves blending with whatever activity preceded it. For instance, if it was playing the violin, he would play you with both your favorite pieces on the gramophone he put near the bathtub while giving you a massage and preparing a relaxing bath for both of you.

It is painful, more so than the usual ache between your legs, because he pays attention to your desires and exploits them, even when he appears to be gentle. The pain lingers, no matter how hard you try to disconnect from everything happening around you.

He gives you everything you want, and it hurts because you always know why.

Bold.

A darling who never hides their intentions and just goes for it would spark some sort of admiration in Chrollo, especially if they use their boldness on him as a manipulation tactic.

He finds it entertaining most of all, but also there is a small part of him that is grateful for it because it makes his darling seem more human to him and not just something to own.

Boldness is quite a human trait, one that he so adores, especially with those he holds close like fellow members of the Troupe. It is also quite a trait that can easily be manipulated.

If you attempt to flirt to lower his guard, he will flirt back twice as hard. 

When everything is over and done with, he will admit he knows exactly what you are doing as he kisses you again, you not kissing him back this time, as good as your acting was, much to your horror.

Resourceful.

Chrollo sees himself above the rest of man, a God in his way, so a darling who is quite similar to him he would adore.

That is not to say he could not fall for someone the complete opposite of him, someone who is impulsive and wears their heart on their sleeve and everything else he does not and cannot do, but the probability is low compared to a darling that plans everything and keeps their cards close, much as he does.

That makes escape attempts though, quite common, considering how resourceful his darling can be, like using a file to saw the metal in one of his safes or the iron on their leg keeping them in his penthouse. But he loves it, it is one of his favorite things about them.

It is endless entertainment to him, a sort of fight against himself, albeit he is much, much stronger when it comes to wits most likely. You can think on your feet as much as you want, but so will he.

He will mirror their actions until the end.

Independent.

Much like his beloved's cleverness, he derives amusement from their self-reliance. He takes pleasure in dismantling their barriers bit by bit until they have no choice but to rely on him completely.

Indeed, Chrollo views his beloved as simultaneously superior and inferior to him.

There is no equality between them, only a shifting power dynamic that his beloved will soon discover. They will never be certain if his actions, like retrieving their favorite snack from the top shelf of the pantry, are expressions of love or gestures of mockery.

At times, it may be both. At times, it may be neither.

His thoughts remain inscrutable, and he revels in it.

Cunning.

Chrollo loves it when your eyebrows furrow, when you’re deep in focus, especially when you are trying to come up with an escape plan and not noticing him right behind you, because of that expression on your face.

It’s unholy, the way he worships you with sacrifices both living and not. He wants to ruin you, yet keep you as you are. So, after a long time of pondering, he concludes. He will remake your shape, not enough to completely alter it, but just enough for your walls to tumble down and let him in. That is why while he will let you try and try again to escape, he will still attempt to get into your head. He is like a poison, a parasite, imprisoning you in your fears, insecurities, and plans that are doomed to fail sooner or later. It is what he wants to be, but he also wants to be more. 

More and more he will be, and more and more he will take from you. It is only natural to want more than what is given, correct? 

It is how Chrollo and the other Troupe members survived so long in Meteor City. They take and take, not caring who they hurt because it is human instinct to want and seize. He will argue as such whenever you try to guilt him because you will soon know that he holds no shame in whatever he does. He is selfish, and he wants to stay that way. He wants you to do the same, so he loves it when you fight him or try to run away because he knows it is only nature. Nature will run its course regardless of who wants it to not. Nature does not care, so why should he? Why should you?

But he also wants you to not be as selfish as him, despite him knowing that it most likely will not be unless you are broken down enough. But that is fine, Chrollo tells himself because that time will eventually arise.

Mature.

Maturity is an elusive quality that characterizes Chrollo, yet eludes him as well. It ebbs and flows like a breeze, carrying seeds to unknown destinations, beyond the perception of onlookers. Unfortunately, you, the observer, are an unwilling participant in the multitude of games he plays and the various disguises he dons. Occasionally, Chrollo can act impulsively, adopting yet another facade acquired from others in the interludes of his life. However, there are moments when he patiently waits for the opportune time to strike, akin to a cunning serpent. But this outcome relies on your level of vigilance or innocence. Perhaps, one day, you'll find it best to surrender to his will. Chrollo eagerly anticipates that day.

Hardworking.

Chrollo feels a mix of jealousy and a desire for control when he sees someone truly dedicated to their pursuits. He wants to replicate their passion and adopt a similar persona. At the same time, he is intrigued by their determination and ambition, as he wants to understand every aspect of their character. This admiration creates a thrilling challenge for him, as he seeks to imitate their drive while also appreciating it. He wants to both admire and exploit this trait to engage in a game of cat and mouse until they submit. Perhaps it would be good to do just that, to prevent yourself from getting hurt again.

Observant.

Chrollo finds great pleasure in the thrill of the hunt, especially when his keen-eyed darling begins to notice subtle indications of being watched. These signs, carefully planted by Chrollo himself, make his darling increasingly cautious. For Chrollo, taking risks brings great rewards. Although these signs are intentional, they still hold, don't they? A lingering footstep behind them. A faint smile on a stranger's face, an unfamiliar figure lurking in an alley near his companion's residence. These signals confirm that they are being stalked, and Chrollo is entertained by the fact that their sharp instincts assure them that this is no mere coincidence or misunderstanding.

Logical.

Chrollo's beloved should possess some semblance of logic, even if it deviates from conventional understanding. The key lies in their thought process, rather than adherence to reason. This cognitive approach, be it driven by emotions or rationality, captivates Chrollo. They meticulously evaluate facts, evidence, and outcomes, exercising caution in moments of perceived advantage, as well as during bouts of insecurity and danger, where they must think quickly on their feet. This mental calculus can either serve them well or inadvertently lead to their downfall. They carefully weigh the pros and cons, thus fueling Chrollo's insatiable desire for the fun of the chase, which hinges upon ultimately catching his beloved in the act.

A Leader.

If you hold a position of leadership, whether at work or among friends, this situation will be even more perplexing and distressing for you. In an instant, you were no longer in charge, forcibly removed from your familiar surroundings and confined. Your authority, influence, and status, which held great significance, have been stripped away. You may experience a profound sense of helplessness and powerlessness as if all your hard work has been unjustly taken from you. Chrollo, as your captor, will seek to exert even more control over you if you possess the characteristic of leadership. He finds it ironic that you are now compelled to follow him, forever robbed of the opportunity to lead while you remain in captivity.

Confident Outside, Insecure Inside.

Chrollo takes great pleasure in this particular attribute, as a mere few words, be they soothing or otherwise, have the power to manipulate you effortlessly.

You find yourself compelled to dance and sing, controlled by invisible strings or some intangible force, as there seems to be no other recourse in this predicament. After enduring prolonged isolation, you will unquestioningly revere Chrollo's words, no matter how distorted they may be, treating them as a testament to be praised. And Chrollo eagerly anticipates the arrival of that day.

It instills fear in you, as both of you are aware that such a day will inevitably arrive.

With a few choice words, Chrollo can elicit tears or smiles from you, a feat that few others have managed to accomplish.

You despise it, while Chrollo utterly loves it. Intelligent.

Intelligence encompasses a wide range of abilities, making it possible for Chrollo to be drawn to various types. However, what truly captivates him is a darling who possesses either linguistic or interpersonal intelligence, or even better, both. He desires someone who can effortlessly decipher people's intentions, using words that ignite a fire within him, even if those words are aimed at him or others.

The type or types of intelligence his darling possesses greatly influences their relationship. How he presents himself in public, whether as a kind gentleman or someone who keeps his distance, depends on their emotional intelligence and intuition. Additionally, Chrollo finds it incredibly appealing when his darling shares a specific interest that is completely new to him. This not only allows him to learn something new but also adds another mask to his ever-expanding collection.

Someone who is emotionally intelligent, like his beloved, would pose a challenge for him to manipulate. They possess the ability to understand him better than most, making it all the more satisfying for Chrollo when they succumb to his desires. After all, as Chrollo often says, the greater the risk, the greater the reward.

→ Yandere MBTI: CAMS. (Cruel, Aware, Manipulative, Strict)

Chrollo possesses great skill in dismantling individuals but lacks the necessary expertise to reconstruct them according to his vision. Unfortunately, you have become an unwilling participant in his experiments. Share with him your deepest anguish and vulnerabilities. Chrollo also portrays himself as a universal remedy, claiming that he holds the power to alleviate all your suffering and resolve your troubles, provided you heed his advice.

However, he waits until he has captured you, and your defenses have crumbled. In that moment of vulnerability, when you are cut off from the world, consumed by sorrow, unable to eat or speak, he reveals himself as a deity. He extends his hand to you, leading you along a path he meticulously constructed. This path is filled with suffering, a never-ending cycle of waiting for both of you. But at the end of this dark tunnel lies Chrollo's ultimate desire: your affection.

What is your ultimate pain, what is your ultimate wish? I can provide anything and everything for you, beloved if you do not stray away from the light.

If you happen to encounter him in public before he abducts you, it is because he willingly allows you to do so, aiming to create a favorable impression that will prevent you from suspecting his true intentions. However, if you do find yourself growing suspicious, it is not without justification. Nevertheless, he will persist in attempting to dispel your doubts by showering you with more gifts and displaying gentlemanly behavior such as pulling out your chair and kissing your hand or inner wrist. Yet, everything appears excessively flawless, to the extent of inducing nausea. Everything is so… flawless all of the time, but only when you are around him and him alone. Ironically, despite Chrollo's desire to dissuade your wariness towards him, his tender and kind gestures only evoke fear.

Chrollo effortlessly switches between portraying himself as a divine figure and a malevolent force, adapting to the circumstances at hand. On one hand, he displays an uncanny perfection, never making a mistake and seemingly possessing an understanding of your thoughts and emotions even before you do. On the other hand, he reveals his true nature as pure evil by casually initiating a bet to see who can consume the most alcohol, leaving you as an unwilling participant in this game of his. As soon as you become intoxicated, he unveils himself as the embodiment of wickedness, groaning as your clothes rip off and you cry his mouth is on yours and he keeps murmuring things into your ear that are so much more terrifying than sweet and-

Panaceas are eternal, refusing to fade away, regardless of your preferences. And so is this situation with me, my dearest.

Chrollo often repeats the phrase that he would sacrifice his life for you. However, there is doubt as to whether he truly means it. His actions, whether they be subtle or overt, inflict daily harm upon you, both mentally and physically. He disguises his hurtful behavior as casual conversation, a serious one, and everything in between. Chrollo's self-centered nature raises the question of why he would make such a claim.

You remain unaware of his true intentions, as Chrollo holds the knowledge of what is genuine and what is fabricated close to his chest. He perpetuates this ambiguity, ensuring that you will never uncover the truth. Once again, Chrollo finds himself in a position of guilt, but the specific charges remain unknown. As an impartial judge, you can't discern between deceit and honesty when you have never been taught the difference. Chrollo, determined to maintain this state of uncertainty, ensures that the truth remains elusive, no matter what lengths he has to go to to make sure it stays that way.

Chrollo possesses the ability to assume various roles. He can portray himself as a reliable partner rather than a deceitful captor, a compassionate individual rather than a mass murderer, a savior rather than someone in need of rescue... The possibilities are endless. This charade is not merely a game to him, but a necessity to maintain his façade. Even if he desired to, he could never remove these disguises, as he is oblivious to his true identity, because who is he without his lies? Nothing? It is a sorrowful predicament for both me and him, you will think someday, one that may prompt you to ponder whether it is Stockholm Syndrome or your inherent empathy for others.

At some point, you will allow him to take what he desires, whether it be when he reaches a breaking point and loses control, or when you become desperate for any form of human interaction.

Whenever you are in need, call out my name. I will be there to provide whatever cure you desire for the ailment at hand.

→ Unique Qualities.

Yandere Type: 

Possessive.

Chrollo in one word would be selfish, and he himself would not deny that it suits him quite well.

Whatever he touches turns to gold in the most metaphorical sense. Whenever he sees something he wants, he will take it. Everything Chrollo takes either has rhyme and reason to it or none at all. He turns them into gold as a sign of who owns them. Even if you have fallen or will eventually fall prey to this touch. The golden touch immobilizes you so you never ever leave him. 

Like King Midas, he is selfish, and he takes pride in it. He is never humble in anything he does. That much is certain. He holds you in his arms at night like he knows your weight in gold, that he could never lose you as he lost himself all those years ago. His kisses are gentle when he wants them to be, or they can be as aggressive as he wants them to be. You’ll come to learn that it does not matter what you want, what matters is what Chrollo wants. Does not having a say in your hell hurt? Or does not having a choice help you justify to yourself that you must escape this?

Monitoring. (Watches From Afar / Direct Contact)

Really, it is Shalnark that does most of the work here, but it is still worth mentioning, especially since what Chrollo cannot get through traditional stalking alone, he asks a very teasing Shalnark to get for him. Though, if Shalnark fails, Feitan is put to the task, much to Feitan’s quite less than subtle annoyance, not that he would ever voice it. Through this trio, the work is separated into three strategies.

Chrollo’s way of finding information is as classic as it comes. Either he is observing you go about your usual day, to that coffee shop you visit before going to work, to the library you frequent on the weekends, to a park you like walking in to see the birds and to get a change of scenery while you read, or he is inside your home, looking through drawers, sampling some leftovers even from your fridge, and making a literal list of things to buy you either later or in the present moment and things to take with him when he inevitably steals you away. Shalnark’s way comes through the internet, through placing cameras in your home and showing Chrollo the footage day in and day out, and perhaps even making an online friend of you if you are that social with other people. To him, it’s all child’s play, especially with finding family members and friends of yours for later, to perhaps ask them questions under the guise of a fellow friend of yours even. But the information that neither Shalnark nor Chrollo can get from stalking alone relies on Feitan, which is where all the finding people you know and love trickle down and puddle at the bottom of this sort of vial of differing plans. This is a last resort, sort of, because there are better things that Feitan can be doing, really, but he is nothing less than loyal to Chrollo and the other Spiders, so he’ll find people who may know the answers his boss was looking for.

He does not blame Chrollo, because if the information was something even Shalnark could not find, it is something so secretive that it could metaphorically be so beneath the waves that it is on the bottom of the ocean floor.

Feitan takes on the role of the more experienced diver because he wants to make Chrollo happy.

Thankfully for most of those you know, only a maximum of perhaps five people are flicked off before you are brought to whatever penthouse Chrollo has bought for the next month or so. The rest can continue with their lives as it was, not that Feitan cares or Shalnark cares or Chrollo cares, except for poor, poor you.

Removing Nuisances. (Murder Likelihood: 8/10)

Similarly to gathering information about you, dealing with rivals follows a similar sort of hierarchy. Chrollo follows them, albeit with far less care and perhaps even stealing a few things along the way, if the rivals are rich enough, though that is quite rare to happen. Instead, he would try to threaten them through anonymous emails or letters, perhaps even with a photo of them sleeping thrown into the mix. But if that does not work, Shalnark is up next, digging up past searches and buyings that the rival perhaps regrets or wants to remain hidden. It could be anything, really, and soon this information will start to spread like a flame until the rival’s reputation is utterly ruined. If the rival is still stubborn about wanting to be romantically involved with you, Feitan is last, burying a corpse underground that looks far from the human it once was by the end of it all, and Feitan, unsurprisingly, likes this sort of business rather than simply lying in wait for a friend of yours to unfortunately cross his path.

Perhaps even Chrollo will join Feitan in this session or sessions. It sometimes happens, when Chrollo is too pent up or feeling especially angry, although he hides it well with a smile that is a bit too wide, at this rival in particular. By the end of it, when both he and Feitan look like they took a bath in blood with their clothes on, Chrollo laughs, and Feitan snickers. He feels good, both of them do. Maybe this is why Chrollo is so taken with you, Feitan wonders. The power and control that comes with you… it’s utterly addicting, isn’t it?

Adam and Eve. (Absolute Isolation) (Kidnapping Likelihood: 10/10)

Before he takes you away, Chrollo makes sure that whatever he cannot replace he takes with him. This includes memorabilia, photos, family heirlooms if you have any, and even annotated novels you have on your bookshelf with notes sticking out of them like sore thumbs. He manages to take it all away easily, just like he does with you. Chrollo, despite how selfish he is, still wants in some capacity to make you happy. In your “adapting stage”, you may be able to hide away from him in the bathroom and lock the door, but at least you will have the choice to continue whatever hobbies you had before that Chrollo allows you to do while you are self-isolating. 

He sees this small reason for you not to hate him entirely as a win. A triumph followed by many others to come.

Collector’s Habit. (Comfortable Imprisonment / Chains + Cages)

Chrollo’s penthouse is lined with things both of significance to him and you. Almost all of it is stuff that he has stolen, however, not that he cares. The paintings lined up in the dining room, the many pretty dresses put in your closet and you are forced to wear, the jewelry that he clasps onto your neck and fingers and wrists like chains, all of them are stolen in some capacity or another. 

The things that he had stolen from your home all look like they belong there, almost. Your favorite pink beret placed next to a porcelain plate of macaroons and fruit a note telling you to get ready for a date later in the evening, an old photo of you placed in a frame that ought to be at least three hours worth of your salary, your most cherished books all lined up next to Chrollo’s own, all the covers and sizes somewhat similar to one another that it almost drives you mad. It brings Chrollo comfort, while it brings you ire. 

Possibly, you’ll read one of his Dostoevsky pieces when you think he is gone, or you’ll try on one of his many fur coats when it gets too chilly or when you are curious. But curiosity always finds a way to kill the cat, because when you think you are not going to be caught, Chrollo finds a way to sneak up behind you and simply observe, smirking, even when you see him.

Attention-Seeking.

Chrollo has always been one to utterly enjoy being in the limelight. He loves acting parts, playing parts as classy as a Prince Charming to a part as scheming as a villain that has locked the princess in a tower. You get both, the unlucky person you are. He gives you roses and proclaims poems and confessions of absolute love and undying loyalty, but you then remember that he is the one that trapped you here, to begin with.

This life that was forced upon you is a fairytale very close to cracking and falling apart, but never does.

You are forced to be a helpless maiden waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue her, but unfortunately for you, that knight is also the very evildoer in this story. So, you try to be your own knight, your own prince, but it will never be as close or as real as an actual hero. So, your attempts fail, regardless of how long they were in the making. You are not strong enough, not fast enough, and you simply cannot write your own ending in this whimsical tale if Chrollo is always aware of them.

But you come up with a plan that takes weeks upon weeks and months upon months for it to bear fruit. 

You'll comply with his desires and make your getaway when he least anticipates it. Thus, you're compelled to dance with Chrollo, flawlessly and without objection, to safeguard your plan. However, with each movement, it feels as though nails are penetrating your foot, for you're uncertain if Chrollo is aware of your actions, and it fills you with immense fear.

But it is too late to back out of this, so you keep on doing this waltz.

Eliminating Rivals. 

The basement, as always, is filled with dust and dirt with insects both alive and dead scattered on the floor next to Feitan’s equipment. Chrollo does not mind it, though, despite him still wearing the suit he wore when he was following you to the train station, the route you usually took to get back from your best friend’s house to your place. He does not like her, but he decides to let her still do whatever with her life as she pleases, unlike the person currently zip-tied to one of the rusty chairs with broken legs. As long as she does not try to seek to be more than friends with you, she’ll be safe from harm. Even though Chrollo’s gut is telling him that she will try, that she will kiss you, say “I love you” to you and maybe go on top of you in bed and-

He tries not to think about it, he is already behind schedule enough as it is, though he could just make Feitan do the work by himself. He tries not to think about it because he has to start preparing his penthouse for your arrival soon to come. He has already purchased some new comforter sets for the bedroom, along with some of the skincare products he knows you use in the bathroom. He’s busy, too busy to involve himself with something other than torturing this man and getting back on track. He focuses on the scene ahead, trying not to think about that friend of yours or the barista who always looks at you for a tad bit too long. If he let his emotions and not logic control him, he would have murdered half this town already and left love notes on their headstones.

He looks at the man, covered in his own blood, his own vomit, his own feces from being confined there for days before Chrollo arrived, deathly thin from starvation and dehydration. From what Feitan told him, Feitan gouged out one eye one day and the other eye the next day, leaving him blind and weeping, his vocal cords far-reaching past their limit, crying out gibberish like some sort of animal, something not too conscious enough of its surroundings to be anything considered even near human.

“Fei, do you hear that?”

“...I do.”

Sexual Drive: 5/10.

Chrollo knows most of what there is to know about sex, but not for his own pleasure. He uses this knowledge mainly in intelligence gathering, when Shalnark, Feitan, and even Pakunoda are not able to get the information the Troupe needs for their next heist. He holds sex with little to no emotional value because of this, since his love for the other Troupe members is high above what little admiration he could possibly hold for those people that he subtly interrogates while fucking them as gently or as hard as they want him to, whispering in their ear when they are feeling their most euphoric, asking them what dons are trading with each other and with what, asking them how the president of this company makes so much when the value of their imports and exports don’t exactly match up, asking them how exactly many secret passageways this mansion has… it’s endless, really, how much information he can get out of them. The human body is so vulnerable, especially when pain mixes with pleasure or pleasure mixes with pain or pain is alone or please is alone. Chrollo is grateful for it.

But when it comes to sex with you, Chrollo then finally sees the emotional side of this spectrum. Your bodies bond and become one, melting into one another as you both moan out each other’s name, lovingly yours and lovingly his.

This development does not surprise him because he does want an emotional bond with you in some sense of the word, he wants you to worship him just as much as he does with you.

Let us go, shall we? Before you could answer, his hand grabs your wrist, his grip making it impossible for someone like you to break away. We… have plenty to talk about and do, correct?

Violence Towards Darling: 3/10.

Don’t take this as a sign that he will not use violence on you at all. Believing that Chrollo's violent tendencies towards you are limited to slapping or ignoring you is a naive assumption. You soon realize that attempting to strike him is futile due to his lightning-fast reflexes. Fighting back against Chrollo will not resolve anything. Instead, you come to understand that he wants you to be like a pet, constantly performing tricks and obediently following his commands.

You wonder if he would also display you like a trophy. Uncertain, you contemplate whether or not you want to find out. Eventually, a few nights later, you dream of a life without Chrollo's constant control, where he does not touch you possessively and parade you around expensive events. You recognize that you are nothing more than his lapdog, his pet, his trophy.

However, Chrollo claims to see something more in you. Is he being genuine in his belief? Do you really desire to uncover the truth?

Violence Towards Others: 8/10.

In his search for you, he maintains his usual calm demeanor, though his eyes reveal his inner turmoil. Anger fills his vision, overshadowing any light. Surely, you couldn't have gone too far. He frantically scans the penthouse until he finds you on the balcony... in the company of someone else.

“Feeling intrusive, are we?”

He pays no mind to the identity of this person, although it's likely they are a former lover or at the very least, a love interest. Your declarations of love and reciprocated kisses leave no room for doubt. How they managed to reach this height is irrelevant to him.

Without uttering a single word, he opens his book, channeling an unseen force from his hands to your ill-fated companion, causing them to plummet to the ground amidst screams from both of you.

After a few moments of tears, mumbled apologies, and the utterance of their name, he informs you that a serious discussion will take place later. With that, you silently follow him back inside. He will contact Shizuku to handle the cleanup of the body in due time.

Vanilla / Kinky

Favorite Kinks:

Begging.

Both inside and outside the bedroom, Chrollo likes having you beg, from you begging him to let you orgasm to you begging him to get you that new book in that series you were quite interested in before you got stolen away. It’s a power dynamic no doubt, it makes him feel wanted by you, needed by you, loved by you. That’s all he wants, really, your love and devotion and for you to promise to be his sun and moon and stars, for you to say he is bigger and more important to me than the sky, for you to hold him, for him to hold you.

No matter how much time passes, how many different places you both stay in and leave, how many countries you visit for leisure or for Chrollo's next big scheme, he refuses to break this unhealthy pattern, even for your sake. He enjoys this routine, so why would he alter it? He will occasionally tease you for being rather selfish, even as you both grow older and wiser and your hairs both white and your skin wrinkly. He will even say it to you when your corpse is resting peacefully in its coffin, as he sheds tears for the first time in many years.

Every time please, Chrollo, please, I… comes out of your mouth, it sounds like to him, the most beautiful martial vow. 

He locks each and every one into the deepest crevices of his heart like unwilling prisoners, despite how small and cold and dead his said heart is, at least to you. They don’t want to stay, but they have to because I want them there in remembrance. Just like you. Poetic, is it not?

Voyeurism. 

The screen in front of him showed you coming out of the shower, your body dripping with soapy water with a towel on your body that barely covered anything and a smaller towel covering your hair that was put up in a clip. Shalnark placing cameras all around your place made things much easier to know things about you that he could not find out through traditional stalking alone. He is grateful for him.

Slowly, as he smiled, one of his hands went into his pants, then his boxers as he caressed the half-hard thing beneath them both. He kept groaning as it got harder and harder, his breathing getting faster and faster. He is not sure how much time had gone by, but he knows that there was now liquid, slow and warm, running down his legs and is all over his hand, and as always, you were none the wiser.

Oral. (Receiving)

Your knees are on the floor, having been there so long it hurts. Your neck is curved backward and your mouth is in pain from his large manhood in there like an unwanted intruder, as you desperately gag and choke and cry. The only reason you have not successfully gotten away is because one of his hands is grabbing the back of your head and pulling you every time you pull, hopelessly still trying to fight.

Your hands are tied behind your back with silk to not damage the skin of your wrists, while you desperately try to claw your way out of them.

You’re in the clothing that he wants you to wear, as usual, though calling it clothing would be an overstatement as it hardly covers anything. A black thong with a short skirt, along with a low-cut bralette. As always, you have no say in the matter, and even though you are unable to utter a word, he showers you with affectionate words, as fake as they seem.

Favorite Parts:

Your Thighs.

It is more of a comfort thing than anything else, really. The way that it is one of the softest parts of you, one of the meatiest parts of you, and, most of all, the easiest parts of you to grab and hold and kiss and press hickeys into and fuck.

It’s only natural for a thief to want to keep their prized possessions close to them, is it not, my darling? 

While Chrollo still places you all of his mementos and diamonds and paintings among the many, many other things he has hidden away in his current penthouse, seeing you as better than all of those things combined, he still sees you, in some ways, as something to be sanctioned, whether it be for your own safety or just his pure, unadulterated selfishness, or perhaps both.

So, he holds onto your thighs at all times pretty much, squeezing the flesh for either attention or just because he needs some security that you are still there with him, no matter how close you physically are to him.

He will occasionally rest his head on your lap, reciting his book aloud while you are obliged to listen. He never dozes off because he is too cautious for that, although he yearns for it. His desire to lie down and have you run your fingers through his hair as he gradually drifts to sleep almost surpasses all his other needs. It may sound like a fantasy for him, no pun intended.

However, it would be a nightmare for you, whether he falls asleep or not. But as always, Chrollo hardly cares. If you dare to object, your longer skirts, shorts, and one pair of sweatpants will vanish for approximately a month, only to be replaced by outrageously short clothes that barely qualify as attire.

They’re soft, just like your lips, your voice, just everything else about you, you, you. It’s the parts that most perfectly describe you, he’ll say, forcing you to tolerate all his touches because his hand is not going anywhere, just like the rest of me, sweetling.

Just stay still and let me see how plush you are just for me, alright?

If he ignores all the goosebumps and the shivers, he can assume that this is what heaven feels like. It must be, right, dearest?

Your Collarbone.

Despite everything else about him, Chrollo can be a sort of traditionalist when he wants to be. This applies quite rarely though, only really affecting the relationship he has with you, both inside and outside of the bedroom.

He likes how the bones stick out, the crevices just so perfect for him to slide the tip of his fingers across, just so perfect for him to kiss and bite, just so perfect to hang necklaces from so they are on a sort of diagonal and reflect the light, making them shine and making them highlight the hickeys that have been pressed into them, right below them, and right above them…

He forces you to wear all kinds of accessories and low-cut shirts that he can find, not caring how much money it would cost, just to see some diamond-encrusted choker on your neck. He says in the calmest voice he can muster that it is no big deal, darling, just trust me and I got this for you and you alone, now why don’t you be a sweetheart and put it on? You might think that a choker and a collar are essentially the same, as they both tightly grip the neck like a suffocating hold. However, Chrollo pays no mind to this, as owners don't concern themselves with their pets realizing they're wearing such a sign of possession.

Your Feet.

Chrollo appreciates art in his own unique way, specifically when it comes to sculpting and realism. He finds your feet to be truly exquisite, along with the rest of you. Despite your attempts to ignore it or cover them up, he has a clear fondness for your feet. Your toes are round, your heels are perfectly shaped, and your soles fit perfectly in his hands when he places heeled shoes on them. In secret, he also enjoys the scent of your feet, although he would never admit it. He would rather die than confess. 

Your feet are cute and can become sweaty and sticky, making them easy to hold onto, just like your thighs. 

Those traits really remind him after you orgasm, with you of course begging repeatedly for it a few moments before he lets you.

It's a hidden pleasure for him, even if you were to discover it, he would keep it to himself. You won't be able to get any information from him. If you do happen to find out, don't be surprised when a substantial portion of your jewelry drawer is filled with anklets.

His Fingers.

Chrollo admires his hands more than most other parts of his body. He trims his fingernails every two weeks, putting hand cream every time he steps out of the bath, never skipping this routine of his. The reason he admires his hands so much is that despite all the bloodshed and other dirty acts he does with them, they remain on the outside clean. It boosts his ego, in a way.

There are just so many uses for them, he loves flipping the pages of his favorite novels with them, he loves cutting food for both you and himself with them, he loves squeezing your thigh as either a warning or a sign of love… there are just endless possibilities, at least from his perspective.

But his new favorite thing is to fuck your clit with them, and yours alone.

Is it a privilege, then, that only yours can bring him such joy? Whether you believe it to be so or not, it holds no significance, for Chrollo finds pleasure in this, and only his satisfaction matters, given that he is the one who has taken you captive.

Please, Chrollo, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, I can’t take this anymore I-

His movements are flawlessly executed, almost unfairly so. They are deliberate yet unhurried, demanding your submission. However, he will only grant you this pleasure if you plead for it. The act of begging will consume several minutes, perhaps even a minimum of two, leaving you in a state of desperation. Meanwhile, he will revel in your discomfort, relishing the power he holds over you. This perverse satisfaction is what he adores the most.

As you wish.

Inevitably, you will find yourself succumbing to your desires, unable to resist the overwhelming pleasure he provides. Despite your stubbornness, your willpower will eventually crumble under the weight of his expertise.

He derives immense pleasure from knowing that he alone possesses the ability to bring you such ecstasy. This knowledge fuels his ego, heightening his sense of self-importance.

His Words.

Chrollo has an insatiable thirst for knowledge, but he also derives great pleasure from imparting knowledge and amusingly embarrassing others. And when it comes to you, he takes it to another level.

He constantly showers you with compliments, comparing you to famous heroines like Juliet and Ophelia from classic literature. He insists that you possess the same beauty as any damsel in distress from those timeless tales. To prove his point, he even offers to acquire paintings of these fictional princesses and damsels for you to admire and compare yourself to.

Wanting a break from his constant attention, you agree to his proposal. Besides, you get the bonus of owning some exquisite artwork. What could go wrong, right?

Well, it turns out to be a colossal mistake.

Upon waking up, you find yourself surrounded by what feels like an entire museum filled with paintings of fictional damsels, duchesses, princesses, and queens. The overwhelming presence of these artworks threatens to suffocate you. And to make matters worse, Chrollo insists on meticulously going through each painting one by one, forcing you to endure this ordeal that could very well last for days.

Your legs resemble hers, your lips resemble hers, your feet resemble hers... every aspect of your physique and the muse's physique that he remarks upon, leaves you feeling incredibly exposed, more so than ever before.

The duration of this process is absolutely exasperating. It leaves you feeling as defenseless as a lamb anticipating its fate in the hands of a butcher.

His Knowledge.

Chrollo truly treasures his knowledge, viewing it as divine nectar from the heavens, if indeed it exists. This belief is so strong that he occasionally overestimates it, taking every opportunity to display it in a way that impresses you more than anything else he does, both inside and outside of the bedroom. Whether intentionally or not, he will state the obvious, like pointing out that the creature you're observing in the rose garden during your “date” is not a slug, but a snail. 

It frustrates you, but you acknowledge that it could be worse–he could forbid you from venturing outdoors altogether. 

Surely, that counts for something, doesn't it? 

…Doesn’t it?

Fantasies. (Consent / Non-Con) (Coercion / Brute Force)

If one were to make a comparison, they would compare you to a piece of art so beautiful, that it is instinct to witness, praise, and worship until their bodies all turn to mere dust, in which they will be swept away by those alive who do not want your refinement to be stained by those who have passed on. For what is a beauty without a beholder? Chrollo will gladly take up that role, as he is the only one worthy of seeing such a piece. You, leaning on the pillows, legs crossed, hair put up in a neat bun, wearing makeup that he has said he likes on you before, looking up at him like he has come to bless you with a mere glimpse of the divine power he holds, wearing the black lingerie he chose for you to wear this evening, made of lace with patterns of roses scattered about.

This is his welcome home gift, from both himself and you. He may have requested that you could partake in this, but since you are doing it without any complaint but instead loving doing the task at hand, he could consider him soon becoming one with your body for the evening to be an award from you for all the work he has done for the Troupe these past few days.

If such a prize is laid before him, ripe for the taking, why wouldn’t he? So, without so much as uttering another word, he starts to undress as you watch, a mix of genuine joy and interest laid out on your face. He hasn’t even touched you yet, and with this simple act, you are bound to him with the invisible thread of lust.

When his boxers are all the way down, he approaches, and you don’t blink, wanting to take it all in. Shall the fun start? When your lips meet, all reservations that you once had dissolve, as few as they are now.

(But don’t think Chrollo respects your boundaries completely when it comes to sex; if you deny him enough, over the course of months and months, he will break his composure and show you where you belong; underneath him.)

→ Strengths.

Realities. (Your Own, His Avow) (Patient / Impatient)

The being that is above you in this bed is unlike any human you have ever met before. His looks and personality are all artificially crafted, like some automaton made to resemble actual living things, but do not stray far from their roots, what they were made for, and what they were made of. I’m real, you think, I’m real. Chrollo is not.

He’s aware of everything you do. Every step you take. Every word you say.

He is aware. He possesses knowledge of all things, much like the god he feigns to be. His understanding of emotions is as keen as his logical reasoning, resulting in a situation of dread that pertains solely to you.

It instills fear within you because he holds the key to all knowledge, while you remain in not-so-blissful ignorance.

→ Weaknesses.

Lotus Eater. (Dreamy Idleness)

Chrollo, despite his attempts to appear superior to others, is not without his flaws. If those around him stroke his ego, he becomes overly confident. Yet, if one were to try the opposite approach, it would have the same effect as boosting his ego. He is cursed with arrogance, always believing he is superior to others, even some members of the Troupe. Perhaps you can use this knowledge to your advantage. Faking affection could lower his guard and further inflate his narcissism. It is a strategic move, preferable to engaging in a physical fight that you cannot possibly win. 

Therefore, when you believe you have the opportunity to escape when his guard seems lowered enough that he won't immediately pursue you, you run. At that moment, his facade will crack, his eyes will grow emptier, and the hollow husk chasing after you will not resemble the Chrollo you once knew.

→ Daily Life.

Welcome. (Day One)

Chrollo remains a mystery begging to be left unsolved.

He rises at his usual hour each morning, and it's a rarity to witness him actually sleeping. His breakfast consistently consists of sausage and eggs, seasoned solely with salt and pepper, as he avoids other spices. He purchases fresh bread from whichever local bakery happens to be closest for the week or a few days ahead. Occasionally, if you're fortunate, he may bring back something sweet while out and about, such as a chocolate-filled croissant or a cherry jam-filled danish. However, trust, whether in platonic or romantic relationships, is something that must be earned.

Interestingly, it appears that regardless of the circumstances, Chrollo seems to possess a certain level of trust that you won't make any foolish choices. On your initial day in this penthouse, he simply greeted you, patiently waiting until the effects of the drugs wore off, allowing you to cry on the bed until your tears ran dry. He comforted you, softly shushing you and gently caressing your cheeks with his thumb.

Yet, he never becomes too intimate.

Was that his motive? Is that why he opted to masquerade as a compassionate gentleman rather than a captor? Instead of asserting his authority, he chose to console you, demonstrating that such solace could be snatched away in an instant. You were oblivious to his true intentions. On that initial day, you wept more than any other day, the taste of mint on Chrollo's breath and the aroma of coffee still etched in your memory. He would inflict further harm, and for the sake of your sanity, you believe it is preferable for him to remain an enigma, shielding you from the repulsive monster lurking beneath his attractive facade.

What Could Be. (And What Is)

Strangely enough, there are still parts of your life after Chrollo has captured you that would still sort of count as normal enough that you could turn the other way and ignore all other cosmic horrors that are happening in the general vicinity. You could still decide what you want to eat and drink that day, what to watch, what to read, what time to wake up and what time to go to bed, what to write in your diary (that not-so-strangely has its lock missing now), listen to the morning birds or to the music that Chrollo allows you to listen to (which is most of it, shockingly)... the list really is endless, really, aside from a few things that you forget sometimes, much to future you’s horror.

But sometimes you forget on purpose, to divulge in the fantasy Chrollo has carefully crafted for both of you, either to fool him or your walls really are as broken down as he wants them to be.

He finds it nice when you ask him questions about whatever place he has rented for the two of you for the time being, the location at hand most likely being related to the Troupe’s plans to steal whatever is of value. He likes to show off, and to listen to him talk for hours requires the patience of a saint.

→ Punishments. (No Punishments / Tortuous Punishments)

Welcome Again. (Failed Departure)

The penthouse looked to be the same after you ran out the entrance door that you lockpicked. The fireplace was still lit. There was still a smell of peppermint in the air along with some scent of coffee, lattes maybe. Everything looks the same, just as it always has. It nearly scares you more, how calm and warm this place is, than the hand that has a grip on your wrist so tight that you feel like he will dislocate it in the very least.

But he does not look angry, but that smile is not good at all either.

He does not say anything as he closes the door behind him, turning the lock on the door so it will remain that way. He does not say anything as he continues to drag you, albeit a bit more tight in his grip now that you are within his grasp once again. Whatever you say goes in one ear and out the other, and you know better than to struggle and scream, because you do not want this day to result in yet another bloodbath, and it would be useless anyway, even if someone came to rescue you. That is why, like the sort of pet you were trained to be, you bite your tongue and obey. He seems to not be angry now, but who knows what awaits you once you are in the bedroom, where most talks and actions are the consequences of your supposed crimes. You can’t really breathe, but that is alright. Chrollo will help you every step of the way after all, as the dutiful owner he has come to be.

Perhaps a pet is all you will be.

He wants you to look up at him like some god, some deity that you worship with all your being. But you can’t, not yet, and Chrollo knows that. Perhaps some methods unknown to you but known to him can help, can’t it?

He hopes so for your sake, but what do you hope for, wish for? You don’t know, and maybe never will.

Venus Fly Trap. (Temptations of a Liar)

Chrollo is well aware of the diverse array of predatory flowers, each manifesting in its own unique way. Perhaps you too possess such characteristics, with your alluring fragrance and honeyed speech, deceiving him into a false sense of security before stripping it all away. However, there is one crucial detail you seem to have overlooked. What transpires when a venus fly trap ensnares a prey that surpasses its own size and devours its own kind and others, rather than the typical fly it ensnares?

Undoubtedly, they suffer. Yet it appears that this lesson has eluded you thus far, hasn't it?

You have displayed kindness, sweetness, and a willingness to comply, within certain limits. Undoubtedly, you possess some degree of skill, though not enough to deceive him, the enigmatic masked orchestrator of this theatrical production.

Therefore, it is without much remorse that he renders you motionless with delicate silk and persuasive words that possess the potential to sting, should you ever dare to push him too far.

However, deep down you are aware of the truth, just as he is aware too. If he doesn't take a firm stance, what other undesirable situations will you find yourself in? With a single hand, he flips open the book, while using the other to shush you.

“A shame,” He says, turning the pages. “A crying shame, really. The sky is so lovely tonight… Who knows when we will get this scenery again, hmm?”

You don’t know what he will do to you. 

…Does he?

→ Quotes.

Hello.

Greetings. It is truly an honor to meet you face to face like this at long last, [First]. There is no need to introduce yourself to me as I already know who you are. That, and… hmm. That, and I think you are not all there right now. Please, I recommend relaxing and listening to what I have to say. But just to make sure, try to speak to me… as expected.

Chat: Ballet.

All dancers must put themselves fully into whatever moves they do. I suppose that can be the same thing for you and me.

Chat: Athenaeum.

Libraries and archives are some of the places I enjoy going to the most. Maybe if you continue behaving, I’ll take you to one nearby.

Chat: Reimbursement. 

Quid pro quo, darling; I assume you know the best ways to compensate me for the broken locks?

When It Rains.

The rain is perfect for a day of staying inside. Though, hehe… you’ll be indoors no matter what, right? Good thing you have me as company today. …What do you mean? I leave sometimes, mainly to get you things might I add. I suggest being more grateful if you don’t want that koala plush to disappear.

After It Rains.

Sigh… the smell of morning dew and the sounds of birds chirping… simply marvelous. Let’s go dance on the balcony, but be sure not to get your new shoes wet and slip. I would hate to have to bring Machi again.

When Thunder Strikes.

Aw, are you going to cling to me so cutely whenever there is a storm? I wouldn’t mind that, I’ll even give you more blankets to hide in if you wish. …Wait, dearest, come back… sigh… of course she hid under the bed again.

When It Snows.

So cold out there, isn’t it? If you ask nicely, I’ll give you back your socks and slippers. Go on.

When the Sun Is Out.

Let’s go on a walk tonight when it’s not so hot out. The sunset’s beauty will only be second to your own.

Good Morning.

Good morning, love, I made coffee. Feel free to use one of the creamers I got you, and there is oat milk near them somewhere in the fridge… Hm? I have never really been a fan of sweet drinks, so black coffee tastes good to someone like me. 

Good Afternoon.

Sure, you can cook lunch. But allow me to cut the ingredients and heat sources. We know how you used them last time.

Good Evening.

It’s so quiet you can only hear the crickets chirping. It’s quite a romantic atmosphere, isn't it?

Good Night.

Ah ah ah. No bed for you yet. Give me a goodnight kiss first. No, you can’t sleep on the couch either. Or the floor. If you keep refusing, I’m going to ask you more questions than yesterday. …That’s better.

About Chrollo: Tattoos.

There is something comforting about them, I think. No matter what the person does to reject it, it will stay. The permanence of such an act should also be what you should be. Now, bite me again and you will sooner than later find yourself in a tattoo parlor. Am I understood?

About Chrollo: Lies.

Don’t say that, my love. I’m not lying to you, I’m just picking what parts of the truth to show and hide. There is no harm in that, I think. 

About Us: Home.

This place is much more human with you in it. Do with that as you wish.

About Us: Cull.

Life and death have a sort of agreement. A contract if you will. The more lives taken by your hands, the more your own life is put at risk. Quite poetic. Like everything else in life, there must be balance.

About Us: Matrimony.

Being bound by just a few words… The very idea is beautiful in my opinion. If you want, we can get married. It is not like anyone else is going to put that pretty ring finger of yours to good use, anyway.

About Us: Panoply.

Anything you want you shall receive. Just say the word. Unless it is already here, which is a possibility.

About You: Humanity.

The human psyche is truly fascinating, don’t you agree? All it takes is a few words or a few actions and it all comes crumbling down. Like you.

About You: Epiphany. 

Not a man, not ten men, not a hundred men can ever provide me with the same joy you give me. You’re special, you know? You make me feel… alive.

Something to Share.

“Be glad as children, as birds in the sky.” A quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky. But… birds are constantly migrating to better places, so really, are they grateful and glad for the gift of life?

Interesting Things.

I see you are doing experiments with pH again. Just be sure to not use all of the vinegar, please. And no, vinegar cannot melt a door, for the final time. 

About Nobunaga.

He thinks more with his heart than his head. But he means well for the Troupe. Or himself when he makes someone call to order takeout for him. 

About Feitan.

I learned a lot of torture methods from him. He truly is the best at what he does. As for social skills… not so much. But everyone has their ups and downs, and that is Fei’s.

About Machi.

One of the most loyal people I have ever met. Also one of the most in tune with their wants and needs. If she thinks of something to say, she’ll say it without a doubt. She is very transparent when it comes to that kind of thing.

About Hisoka.

Hisoka… he is very… out there, isn’t he? But he is valuable to me, so I give him free rein to do whatever he wishes.

About Phinks.

One of the physically strongest. Though also one of the only ones to ever get a laugh out of me. Shizuku once asked him why he did not have any eyebrows, and the way he stopped talking and stared at the ceiling caused us all to snicker. Feitan did earn a blow to the head by the end of it because Phinks does not hit women… He is much more gentlemanly than he appears.

About Shalnark.

When it comes to computers and such, Shalnark is the person to do it. He was the one to convince me to get a newer phone model and taught me how it worked. He kept chuckling as he did, and every question I had asked earned a wide smile in response but no actual answer. He says I am an… “old man at heart…?”

About Franklin.

He is not the most talkative one out there, but if ever comes to games to decide matters, he is the one for the job. Once, Uvogin betted fifty thousand Jenny if he ever beat me in chess. Franklin managed to almost win in the end, but he gave up at the last moment. He said he couldn’t bear to do that to me.

About Shizuku.

At long last, she at least remembers my name. She is quite charming in her own way… I see why Franklin took on a sort of caretaker role for her.

About Pakunoda.

Paku… Paku is one of the sweetest people I know. Whenever I didn’t feel well, she was the first one to come and help me feel better. She even fed me her rations, regardless of the tough times we were put through. I should ask her to make me soup again, I have missed the taste of it…

About Bonolenov.

When he trusts you enough, he has quite a humorous and proud side. He is very proud of his culture, and as someone who did not have one as a child, I find it very admirable.

About Uvogin.

I swear he could drink enough beer to kill a whale and still not be satisfied. The same goes for fights. Any challenge goes, whether that is an eating or video game contest.

About Kortopi.

His copying ability is quite useful, and Nobunaga wanted to give him a haircut using his sword. He declined of course, much to Nobunaga’s disappointment. …Hm? A copy of you? No, you are priceless, and nothing can ever compare, even a version of you that does everything I ask. There is a charm to your disobedience. That, and Kortopi cannot make living copies.

More About Chrollo: I.

Come. I got you some books for us to read together. But before you touch them, I must tell you that you can only read them while on my lap. Isn’t that such a great deal, dearest?

More About Chrollo: II.

“Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven…” Yes, I can see the parallels between this line and myself. Is that why you decided to show me this? …Oh, you just wanted an excuse to call me Lucifer again. Do what you wish, I suppose. But please put that book back on the shelf where it came from when you are done. You know I hate it when you mess up the categories. …Hm? Don’t do that, or I won’t get you any more mochi. …You know my threats aren’t empty, my dear.

More About Chrollo: III.

…Do you need something from me, dearest? No? …Why am I asking? So you just happen to be pressing your chest against my arm for no apparent reason? …I see. Well, if you want my attention so badly, who am I to refuse?

More About Chrollo: IV.

Yes, that note is from me. That gift is also from me. Open it, please. …You should try wearing that set next time. Your thighs will stand out better. You were the one that was asking last night, not me. Ah, you are feeling rather adventurous these past few weeks, aren’t you? …Looking for something? Is this it? You know, I’m disappointed in you, to put it frankly. I thought you were coming around. You know what happens now, don’t you?

More About Chrollo: V.

Time has certainly sped by, hasn’t it? Let me give you a word of advice. No matter what happens, always remember those who have gotten you to where you are now. As a result, your situation can prove to be much less isolating that way. …Yes, that includes me. For when you are alone, my dear, your mind always finds a way to eat you whole.

Chrollo’s Hobbies.

Leading an orchestra and executing a grand theft operation share fundamental principles. It is imperative to maintain a commanding presence, ensuring that others adhere to your lead. Collaboration becomes the pivotal factor in achieving triumph during such endeavors.

Chrollo’s Troubles.

I find it perplexing how some individuals effortlessly navigate life with a serene demeanor, rooted in their unwavering sense of self. Maybe it stems from a twinge of envy, or perhaps there's another elusive element at play. But being envious is part of being human, is it not?

Favorite Food: Black Squid Ink Carbonara.

It is briny, and salty, like the sea. Quite refreshing as well, especially paired with homemade pasta. Only the best quality is allowed. …I am not being too picky. Do you know how many children in Meteor City have grown up never eating from a fast food place, much less a local restaurant? I simply am greedy because I can now. I couldn’t before, and that is why I do so as an adult.

Favorite Food: Opulence. 

As an adult, my current ability to indulge in greed is a newfound privilege that I couldn't have experienced previously. Hence, I find it impossible to resist the temptation of adding an extra serving of truffle or caviar to my plate.

Least Favorite Food: Canned Cabbage.

One of the very few foods I refused to eat unless absolutely necessary was canned cabbage. It was slimy and always came in watery vinegar with mostly moldy parts… I was desperate, but not desperate enough to eat that. Machi, Nobunaga, and Phinks all agreed. Feitan didn’t, much to everyone’s annoyance.

Least Favorite Food: Waste.

Paku, Machi, and Feitan had a sort of pact that they forced on the rest of us to never throw away things that were still edible. According to Shalnark and Uvogin, moldy food is still edible. Phinks and I disagreed but… we got outvoted. 

Receiving a Gift: I.

Indulging in scrumptious meals truly possesses the power to alleviate all worries. So, how can I express my gratitude?

Receiving a Gift: II.

Oh? Thank you, dearest. …For your own good, you better not have put salt instead of sugar this time.

Receiving a Gift: III.

Ah... considering you seem to have a moment to spare, would you be interested in sitting down and enjoying a shared reading session? The choice of material is entirely up to you, of course.

Chrollo’s Birthday.

You are such a prize, you know? You’re in an outfit worth its weight in gold, actually, now that I think about it, diamonds. Autumn has set in, the weather gets colder, and the food gets warmer. Perfect time for spending quality time with someone, wouldn’t you say so? Please, allow me to do this with you, [First]. I have never really cared for this day if I am being honest, but… now that you are here, I feel like new opportunities are around every corner.

Birthday.

Happy birthday, [First]. Within reason, I would like to treat you to whatever your heart desires. Food, art, wine; anything, just tell me, alright? I will see to it. …Heh. I’m afraid a fall from this penthouse will not be enough to kill me. …No, I am not going to put it to the test, since I am certain about it. Please think of something else. The world is your oyster, dearest. But… remember that I can always close it before you can get to the pearl.

Feelings About You: Ethereal.

This feeling… I haven’t felt something like this since… Hmm? Am I? Quite the observation.

Feelings About You: Euphonious. 

…I miss your voice, you know. I always like it when you get caught up in a topic that interests you, no matter what it is. …But last time I took the gag off and took you out, you behaved quite terribly… Here, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take the gag off, and I’ll get you something related to your interests, and then we can talk about it. Does that sound good to you?

Feelings About You: Eternity.

We shall be together forever, bonded at the hip if we must be. I promise you. Do not worry about the details. It does not matter if you like it or not, because I will take care of whatever obstacles get in our way. Whether that obstacle is you or any… outsiders.

Feelings About You: Elision.

Do know that I do mean it when I say that I do want to make you happy. Yes, our relationship is less than ideal, but in the end, just know my feelings for you are indeed sincere. …I’m not exactly willing to take criticism, but I could try, perhaps. If you like to do so, I am willing to compromise, though.

→ Conclusion.

You never hear Chrollo in his movements, but you do in his actions when he wants you to.

He puts far more effort into the little things, the details than outright saying his feelings for you, or just telling you his threats. That mysterious gift that appeared on your bed while you were away at work, that just so happens to contain some of your favorite sweets? 

The bouquet on your kitchen table that was placed while you were asleep? The box of dozens if not at least a hundred pictures of you by your mailbox when you tried to file a police report? 

Chrollo is patient to a fault. You will never know what is happening, at its fullest, until it is far too late.

You can put as much blame on yourself as you want, and hate yourself as much as you want, for not realizing how dangerous this entire situation is. But this position under Chrollo’s thumb is so much more horrifying than you could ever imagine, so do not blame yourself for not noticing everything at once.

That is not to say Chrollo won’t try to degrade you into thinking this is all your fault.

Your walls will be as good as broken and crumbled down sooner than you think.