diaballs to the wall

Now I’m just amusing myself with thinking of how the boys would react to it… Ayato would probably piss himself. Especially the date scene or the scene with Nikki crying in the corner watching Bear sleepz

disclaimer: okay listen, your resident law school graduate is a grade-a coward when it comes to horror movies. i am writing this based on the wikipedia plot description bc i value my sanity and sleep. if i actually watched this movie, my toes would be locked under the blanket for a week and i'd be up for days staring at the ceiling lmao

shu-

stop breathing so loudly. it's already tedious enough that you dragged me out of bed for this trash. ...ha? what am i supposed to be looking at? the cat? why are you crying over a dead animal, it’s annoying. ...wait. what is that woman putting in that bread. is that... the cat's meat? tch. disgusting. human beings are so revoltingly clumsy when they crave something. why go to all that effort just to force someone to stay? if he wanted her to leave him alone, he should have just stayed in bed and said nothing from the beginning. making a wish for love... how utterly exhausting. turn it off. the sound of her crying is giving me a migraine. it reminds me of... nothing. just be quiet and let me sleep on your lap

reiji-

i fail to comprehend why you find this unrefined display of psychological degradation ‘good’. the lack of basic domestic hygiene alone is entirely offensive. to process feline remains into a common sandwich reveals a profound lack of discipline, not to mention a complete failure of proper culinary preparation. and this "one wish willow" nonsense... human desire is always so aggressively pathetic. making a wish to force affection because you lack the capability to command it yourself? how painfully small-minded. if you ever attempted something so utterly vulgar and uncalculated to gain my attention, i would ensure the consequences were far more permanent than a clumsy overdose in a locked lavatory. now, sit up straight. your posture is ruining the tea

ayato-

hgfh? what's this guy's problem?! he's the one who made the wish, so why is he whining like a hysteric? if you want someone to belong to you, you just take them. you don't break a stupid plastic stick and cry about it. ...woah, wait, did she just smash that girl's head into a brick? over and over?! haha! awesome! ore-sama approves! see? that's what happens when you try to touch what belongs to the king. ...hey, chichinashi. why are you looking at me like that? you think i’d let some random guy hook up with you for two years behind my back? keep dreaming. you're mine. if you ever look at anyone else, a brick wall will be the least of your worries

laito-

fufu~ ne, bitch-chan, this nikki girl is quite the passionate lover, isn't she? copying the dead girl's tattoos with a sharpie... ah, how wonderfully twisted~ it’s almost romantic, the way she completely dissolved her own soul just to fill up his little cup. but that ending... locking himself in the bathroom to swallow pills? how incredibly boring. death is the ultimate climax, bitch-chan, you shouldn't try to throw it up at the last second. it completely spoils the release… though, begging him to kill her while her obsessive self was asleep... mmm, that part was almost sweet. if you ever wanted to make a wish like that on me, you wouldn't need a novelty toy. i’m already quite obsessed with breaking you~

kanato-

why are you staring at that screen instead of looking at me? teddy is getting very, very angry. this movie is completely stupid. that girl is so loud. screaming and crying and ruining her own face with a glass bottle... it’s ugly and vulgar. if she wanted him to love her forever, she shouldn't have shot his friend or made a clumsy mess with a gun. she should have just gathered his bones and turned him into a wax doll. like this *he grips your chin tightly, his thumb pressing painfully into your lower lip until it bleeds* a doll doesn't eat oxycodone. a doll doesn't whisper secrets to sarah in the park. if you ever try to leave this couch to look for someone else, i'll bake sandy the cat right into your next plate of sweets and force-feed it to you. do you understand me?

subaru-

*a loud, heavy tch, followed by the sound of him aggressively punching the back of the sofa* this is fuckin’ stupid! why didn't he just kill her the second she started lurking over his bed?! "begging him to kill her because her persona is asleep"—are ya kidding me?! she’s just making up excuses for being a toxic monster! it’s sickenin’. looking at her makes me want to rip something apart. and that idiot just sits there and lets her do it because he’s too weak to handle his own choices. ...don't look at me. if you're so scared of the blood on the screen, shut your eyes and bury your face in my chest already. idiot

Others are:

Shu is Sweden: rich and depressed (actual statistics)

Reiji is Germany or Liechtenstein

Ayato is France with all its chaos. He looks fancy from far away but gods French are not that simple.

Kanato is Norway, no explanation

Subaru is Ukraine lol bro is a fighter

It’s so sad that there’s no another characters in DL universe. Whomp-whomp

i like the way you think, my friend. at diaballstothewall, we respect the hdb supremacy laws. consider the mookamis and tsuck brahs control-alt-deleted back into the digital void where they belong. it’s just the og six diatwinks, exactly as karl ketchup man intended lmao

~shu: the northern isolationist~

shu perfectly embodies the heavy, wealthy melancholy of sweden. his vibe isn't the sunny, bustling europe of outdoor cafés; it’s lagom—the concept of balanced moderation—gone completely rotten into a stagnant, suffocating comfort. he represents the crushing weight of an incredibly affluent, highly functional welfare state that takes care of every physical necessity while leaving the individual soul to quietly starve in total social alienation. shu is the dark, silent pine forest stretching endlessly across the northern wilderness, the clinical chill of a sleek stockholm apartment where the custom acoustic panels drown out all street noise, and the blinds are permanently drawn against the blinding glare of the midnight sun. he matches that specific nordic introversion where the mere act of making eye contact with a stranger feels like an invasive psychological assault, a native frequency that relies entirely on a culture of non-confrontational withdrawal to hide his own internal ruins

yet, this exact atmosphere of frozen, wealthy stagnation is precisely why he would actually prefer to escape to italy—specifically the sun-baked, decaying villas of rural tuscany. shu would crave a country where the intense Mediterranean heat forces people to slow down naturally, transforming his paralyzing lethargy into an accepted cultural rhythm known as il dolce far niente—the sweetness of doing nothing. he doesn't want the stark, heavy darkness of the north that too perfectly mirrors his own internal void; instead, he longs for a warm, crumbling stone loggia where he can lie undisturbed in the shade of an old olive grove. there, listening to the monotonous, rhythmic drone of summer cicadas instead of the constant, critical frequency of reiji's footsteps, he could let the southern heat slowly melt away the leaden guilt of his existence

~reiji: the pristine micro-sovereignty~

forget the sprawling chaos of modern germany; reiji is the hyper-exclusive, clinical precision of liechtenstein. he is a landlocked micro-state nestled tightly between imposing alpine peaks—wealthy, intensely private, and run with the absolute, unyielding administrative perfection of an elite private bank. his presence carries the scent of mountain air scrubbed clean by ozone, the sharp chemical ink of a tightly guarded tax haven’s ledger books, and the absolute, state-enforced silence of a country where it is literally illegal to make loud ambient noises during the official lunch hour or after 8:00 pm. he is the pristine, medieval fortress overlooking vaduz, completely immaculate and unassailable on the outside while harbor-guarding an intense, defensive paranoia about territorial borders, flawless protocol, and the meticulous preservation of an artificial status quo

however, this obsession with maintaining a tiny, perfect ecosystem directly conflicts with his secret, deeply repressed craving for the uk—specifically the dark, smog-choked alleys of late-victorian london. reiji would choose the uk because he longs for a sprawling imperial society where class rigidity, elaborate industrial-era social hierarchies, and impeccable etiquette are explicitly weaponized as a psychological tool to mask widespread structural exploitation. he wants to lose himself in a massive, global empire where his meticulous, analytical nature could be utilized on a grand, systematic scale. within that world, he could completely bury his acute emotional trauma under mountains of imperial ledgers, cold parliamentary procedures, and prestigious scientific societies, entirely removed from the claustrophobic alpine cage of his father’s direct supervision

~ayato: the chaotic theatre of supremacy~

ayato is france in its absolute purest, most volatile form—not the romanticized fantasy of a chic parisian bakery, but the historic, bloody chaos of a nation chronically obsessed with its own cultural grandeur and prone to violent rioting the moment its collective pride is nicked. he looks incredibly fancy and aristocratic from a distance, but up close, he is the burning barricades of the french revolution, the sharp, uncompromising glint of the guillotine, and the exhausting, theatrical arrogance of a country that genuinely believes it is the absolute center of the civilized universe. his native frequency is the raw, unpolished noise of a crowded parisian brasserie where plates are smashed and voices scream across the room over who gets to dictate the terms of the evening—a constant, exhausting battle for social dominance that demands supreme wit and constant social maneuvering

yet, this relentless intellectual struggle for dominance is exactly why he would actually prefer to escape to spain. ayato would choose the sun-drenched, aggressive machismo of the andalucian bullfighting rings or the lawless, historical grit of old madrid. he would crave a culture where 'number one' isn't determined by complex aristocratic vocabulary, courtly manners, or fancy political tricks, but by raw, physical courage, dominance over an untamed beast, and direct, bloody spectacle. he wants a reality where he can just be the loudest, most physically dominant force in the arena, completely bypassing the complicated, exhausting layers of institutionalized french expectation that cordelia used to choke him with

~laito: the baroque voyeur~

laito is purely, beautifully italian, completely divorced from french sensibilities. his vibe offers the heavy, suffocating decadence of baroque rome—the dripping wax of a hidden confessional box in a gold-leafed basilica, the amoral, carnivalesque mask of a venetian palace during a flood, and the ancient, crumbling ruins of pompeii where pleasure, perversion, and sudden death are literally baked into the volcanic stone. he is the sharp, bitter taste of a concentrated neapolitan espresso and the unsettling, wicked grin of a marble satyr hiding in a deeply shaded garden. he represents a culture that invented the commedia dell'arte, where every single member of society plays a highly stylized, theatrical archetype specifically to hide an absolute, historic cynicism about human nature underneath the performance

but because he is so deeply trapped in this performative, hyper-sexualized italian dance, he would actually choose to live in the utter, stark emptiness of iceland. laito would crave the volcanic, wind-scoured isolation of the north precisely because that brutal northern landscape fundamentally refuses to play along with his theatrical games. in that environment, there are no crowds to perform for, no heavy velvet curtains to hide behind, and no haunting maternal figures to watch him from the shadows. he wants a freezing, godless desert of black volcanic sand and jagged basalt columns where the absolute, deafening silence would finally force his mind to match its character. it would allow him to disintegrate into a vast landscape that requires no social performance whatsoever—just a total, quiet abandonment to the world’s raw elements

~kanato: the post-mortem wilderness~

kanato is norway, and the explanation lies in the deepest, most unsettling corners of that country's cultural psyche. he is the marrow-deep, gothic chill of a medieval stave church built entirely of black, tarred wood that looks like a giant ribcage rising from the snow; the disturbing, visceral madness of edvard munch’s the scream painted under a blood-red oslo sky; and the raw, anti-human hostility of true norwegian black metal born in damp, subterranean record shops. his presence is the eerie, suffocating silence of a deep fjord where the water never moves and the sun never hits the bottom—a beautiful, static landscape that looks perfectly serene until you realize absolutely nothing can grow in the freezing dark

this frozen, dead perfection is exactly his psychological comfort zone, which is why his native country aligns perfectly with his preferred reality: he wouldn't want to leave. kanato would choose to stay within that norwegian isolation, specifically perched in an isolated cabin during the polar night (mørketid) when the sun doesn't rise above the horizon for months. he would love a reality where the entire world is forced to match his own static, post-mortem stillness, surrounded only by taxidermied reindeer, frozen sugar plums, and the northern lights humming like a distant, bleeding aria over a land that refuses to live.

~subaru: the fortress of iron and ash~

subaru is ukraine—he is a born fighter who has spent his entire existence living on a violent, heavily contested geopolitical fault line. his vibe is the heavy, defensive stone architecture of the kamianets-podilskyi fortress, the bleak, industrialized grit of an eastern european winter, and the absolute, stubborn resilience of a land that has been trampled, burned, and scarred by empires for centuries but refuses to break. he is the cold iron of a discarded t-64 tank rusting in a vast field of dead sunflowers, the sharp smell of ozone after an explosion, and the raw, bleeding knuckles of a soldier who has learned that the only thing you can trust is the strength of your own concrete wall

okay, so how would the suckamaki’s react to their s/b or s/o suddenly ‘soiled’ herself only to give birth to a baby who they believed was just a gas problem. like to set the scene: their s/o is groaning and basically trying not to cry before going to the bathroom and like suddenly popping out a child. they had no idea what happened, they’re holding the baby in shock and unsure of what the fuck to do.

be as angsty as you want, i lowkey have baby fever </3

i'll admit. i've avoided this ask for nearly a year—despite all its angsty potential—because i legitimately cannot see the diatwinks (the same folks who can tell if you are a virgin with just one sip of your capri-sun blood) being wholly unaware of you being pregnant ;;

i debated just reworking the ask to something similar thematically: a miscarriage, still-birth, or death while giving birth... but i don't think it's fair to do so without your input, dear anon-bean!

as such, i offer two options (as hopefully amendable solutions):

someone may take up this ask in my place and make up for my failures; or

if you submit another ask to the good ol'inbox, i can do another in-theme ask (e.g., miscarriage, still-birth, death while giving birth, etc.) as a suitable replacement for your baby fever

~shu~

shu belongs inherently to the melancholy sunset of the bakumatsu period, the final years of the late edo era where a two-hundred-year-old feudal isolation was violently fracturing into modernization. his native frequency matches the heavy, humid stillness of a moss-covered kyoto temple during the summer rains—the sound of a neglected koto whose silk strings have slackened from dampness, and the bitter scent of unrefined sake left out on a rotting veranda. he is the master swordsman who refuses to draw his blade while the city burns around him, preferring to let the dust of a dying world settle on his shoulders because the effort of resisting the transition is simply too loud to bear 

yet this historical atmosphere of inevitable collapse directly informs his internal craving for the heian period court lifestyle, an era that entirely removes the threat of violent change. shu would choose to retreat into that hyper-refined, slow-moving world of ancient kyoto, where the ultimate virtues were poetry-blending and political inactivity. he would find a desperate peace hiding behind multiple layers of heavy silk screens, listening to the rhythmic thrum of rain against cedar shingles while the rest of the court spent decades debating the aesthetic nuance of a cherry blossom's fall. it is an era where moving too fast or showing too much vital energy was considered a vulgar sin, offering him a historical sanctuary where his absolute paralysis would be celebrated as the highest form of aristocratic elegance rather than a symptom of an exhausted soul

~reiji~

reiji represents the terrifying precision of the turn-of-the-century gilded age, specifically the temporary neoclassicism of the 1893 chicago world’s columbian exposition. his vibe is the ‘white city’ itself—magnificent, blinding structures built rapidly out of plaster and hemp fibre to project an illusion of supreme human achievement while masking the open sewers and industrial sludge churning just beyond the fairgrounds. he matches the clinical chill of early alternating current electricity, the sharp odour of formaldehydic taxidermy, and the sterile mania of a nineteenth-century laboratory obsessed with bleaching away the erratic, unhygienic elements of human nature

this obsession with synthetic order naturally clashes with his preferred reality, which trades the grand illusions of the gilded age for the unyielding, militaristic discipline of the early prussian administrative state under king frederick william i. reiji would choose to live as a high-ranking bureaucrat within this strict eighteen-century machine, a world where the state was run precisely like a giant, ticking clockwork engine. in the prussian civil service, every scrap of paper was numbered, every uniform button was measured to the exact millimetre, and human value was determined solely through ledger entries and absolute compliance. here, reiji wouldn't have to spend his energy designing beautiful facades to cover up the chaotic decay of his household; he would find solace in a cold, mathematical reality entirely scrubbed of the emotional whimsy that defined his father’s grand experiments

~ayato~

ayato thrives in the raw, unpolished grit of the early roman republic during the punic wars, a time of survival long before the empire grew soft on marble luxury. his presence carries the scent of hammered iron shields, stale sweat, and the suffocating dust kicked up by a chariot wheel under a blazing mediterranean sun. it is the psychological state of a young, unrefined military commander who treats every campaign as a personal dare, operating within a society that genuinely believed that if it stopped expanding and conquering for even a single season, it would be utterly wiped off the map by its rivals

this constant, high-stakes pressure to dominate matches his nature, but it conflicts directly with where he would actually choose to exist: the golden age of piracy in the lawless caribbean. ayato would actively seek the chaotic, meritocratic frontier of a pirate vessel because it strips away the suffocating obligations of bloodlines and ancient names. on the sea, there are no dynastic expectations to crush him, and no one using his position for political leverage. if he wants the captain’s tricorn hat, he takes it by force; if he wins the deck, he keeps the spoils. it is a world of direct, violent transactions where his loud, unchecked arrogance can serve as currency, letting him be the undisputed predator without the agonizing weight of an aristocratic legacy holding down his wrists

~laito~

laito is the walking embodiment of the ‘bright young things’ who populated the frantic, cynical bohemianism of post-wwi london. his vibe is the scratchy, hollow hiss of an early jazz record spinning in a smoky basement flat, the numbing burn of green absinthe mixed with cheap gin, and the desperate, high-pitched laughter of a generation that survived a catastrophic trench war and decided nothing mattered but immediate sensation. he represents the theatrical self-destruction of a society that wore silk and velvet to cover the rot, throwing elaborate costume parties while the global economy collapsed around them

this inherent historical nihilism flows seamlessly into his preferred refuge: the underground cabaret scene of the weimar republic in 1920s berlin. laito would choose this brief, doomed pocket of history because it was a place where traditional morality completely dissolved into the night. in these subterranean clubs, art, sexuality, and psychological degradation were indistinguishable, allowing him to change identities like hats on a whim. he could perform his hyper-sexualized, amoral routines on a small, dimly lit stage for an audience that was far too broken to care about sin or salvation. it is the one era that matches his intellectual honesty about the dark, empty nature of humanity, providing him with a public arena to dance out his corruption without anyone ever trying to reach beneath the velvet to fix his soul

~kanato~ 

kanato aligns perfectly with the psychological macabre of fin-de-siècle paris, specifically the underbelly of the belle époque found within the theater of the grand guignol. his aesthetic is the flickering, unreliable gaslight of a cobblestone alleyway, the smell of realistic stage blood made from carmine and currant juice, and the stiff, suffocating lace of a late-nineteenth-century child's burial suit. he is the high-class horror that the wealthy aristocracy pay to watch from velvet box seats—an uncanny, beautiful spectacle that blurs the line between a living child and a porcelain fashion doll left to warp in a damp shop window

this public performance of terror informs his deep longing for a very specific historical tradition: the early nineteenth-century regency ‘cult of mourning’ in england. kanato would choose to live in a society that turned human grief into a highly stylized, obsessive domestic art form. he would thrive in a world where people spent fortunes braiding the hair of dead relatives into intricate jewelry, wearing heavy black crepe for years, and hosting solemn gatherings around post-mortem photographs of children arranged to look merely asleep. within this rigid, somber etiquette, kanato’s manic desire to keep everything static and dead wouldn't be viewed as a monstrous breakdown; it would be honoured as the highest expression of romantic devotion, allowing him to sit undisturbed in a parlour full of sugar plums and hair wreaths, entirely safe from the unpredictable movements of the living

~subaru~ 

subaru carries the heavy, defensive isolation of the late monastic middle ages during the bleakest years of the black death. his presence evokes the cold, unforgiving chill of damp granite fortress walls, the sharp glint of a silver relic hidden away in a dark crypt, and the smell of burning pitch outside the castle gates. he is the desperate psychological state of the self-flagellating penitent, or the knight who refuses to take off his armour until it literally rusts to his skin because he secretly believes his own flesh is contagious with damnation. his explosive rage is the sound of a man punching solid stone blocks to drown out the intrusive voices in his head

Shu: Sleeping Beauty

Reiji: Snow White

Laito: The Little Mermaid

Kanato: Hansel and Gretel

Ayato: Rapunzel

Subaru: Beauty and the Beast

Feel free to disagree or give your opinion on this. ( ﾉ^ω^)ﾉ

~shu: the princess and the pea~

rather than sleeping beauty implying a passive, elegant slumber, shu is defined by the acute, grinding sensory agony of the princess and the pea. in this version of the tale, the pea is not a test of royal lineage, but a curse of absolute awareness. shu’s legendary lethargy is actually a state of chronic sensory dread; he is the princess who can feel the bruise of a single grain of dust through twenty featherbeds. here, the pea is reiji’s constant, simmering resentment vibrating through the very floorboards of the mansion. shu doesn't merely sleep—he tries to drown out the frequency of a brother who has become his own shadow, a brother he loves with a paralyzing, leaden guilt that makes him want to vanish entirely so reiji can finally breathe

his headphones are his twenty mattresses, a desperate, modern attempt to dampen the sound of his own heavy heart and the echoing, calculated footsteps of a father who only values him as a flawless royal specimen for a grand design. shu is utterly exhausted by the ambivalence of his own existence; he knows reiji wants to kill him, and part of him—the part that still smells the smoke and remembers the fire of edgar’s village—wants to let him do it. he is a prince who has realized that the more mattresses you pile on to block out the world, the more the towering height makes you terrified of the inevitable fall

~reiji: the girl without hands~

rather than the passive vanity of snow white, reiji is the grimms' the girl without hands, a dark narrative where a father sells his own daughter to the devil—the ultimate indifferent architect—and systematically severs her hands to satisfy the contract. reiji is the literal child of karlheinz’s cold, experimental bargain, a son pruned, carved, and bled until he was pure enough to catch his father’s distant notice. he did not just learn etiquette; he surgically amputated his own capacity for spontaneous, uncalculated warmth simply to survive the clinical neglect of his household

he views his silver, prosthetic perfection as his only salvation, yet he carries a deep, festering resentment for shu—the brother who was allowed to keep his hands, to be lazy, unbothered, and human while reiji was forced to become a flawless machine. burning with a desperate need for karlheinz’s approval—a love that feels like a divine punishment—he bitterly resents having to play the villain in his own story just to keep the mansion from collapsing into the chaos of his brothers. this culminated in him burning edgar's village and ruining shu’s violin, desperate to force shu back into the role of the heir he envied, yet internally acknowledging shu’s more natural inclination for it under the right pressure—a pressure reiji ultimately failed to deliver. he is a man of medicine slowly poisoning himself with the realization that no amount of properly tempered tea, rigid order, or meticulous memory of his brothers’ birthdays and favorite foods can ever make his prosthetic soul feel whole

~ayato: the pancake boy~

rather than the passive seclusion of rapunzel, ayato embodies the frantic, defensive flight of the norwegian tale the pancake boy—the sentient food that leaps straight from the hot pan and rolls through the world at breakneck speed to avoid being devoured. ayato’s entire psychological framework is a desperate reaction to being handled as ‘food’ by cordelia, a woman who only viewed his chest as a vessel to store her own political ambitions and who literally threw him into a freezing lake the moment his utility faltered. his booming ‘yours truly’ bravado is the frantic, rolling speed of a child who believes that if he stops moving, stops conquering, or stops being the absolute best for even a single second, the world will catch up, pin him down, and empty him out again

he callously projects the moniker ‘pancake; onto you as a psychic displacement of his own primal terror; he must be the predator because he is terrified of being the dish. demanding absolute dominance because he has never known an interaction that wasn't transactional or predatory, he is a boy who has never been held without an unspoken price tag attached. his loud, arrogant rhetoric is designed to drown out the memory of the cold water and the echo of his mother’s laughter as he struggled to surface. he demands to be the king of the plate because he is secretly horrified of the fork; he doesn't actually want to rule the world, he just wants to be the one holding the utensils for once

~laito: the red shoes~

forget the romanticized isolation of the sea; laito is the protagonist of andersen’s the red shoes, cursed with enchanted slippers that force her to dance through mud, briars, and graveyard darkness without respite, until she begs an executioner to sever her feet at the ankles just to break the rhythm. laito is trapped in a perpetual, frantic dance of performative hedonism, hyper-sexuality, and amoral perversion. the shoes were his mother’s gift—a forced, rhythmic corruption during his childhood that turned intimacy into a non-consensual exploitation. his dance was witnessed by the eyes of his brothers before he even knew it was a sin; like kanato, laito was a silent spectator to cordelia’s trysts, learning early that love was merely a performance of flesh and pain

his sing-song voice and theatrical smirks are the grimaces of a dancer whose muscles are tearing apart but who cannot stop the music, terrified that if he ever pauses, he will face the crushing, hollow silence of his own soul. his hedonism is a form of spiritual self-mutilation; he makes the corruption his own so it feels less like a violation and more like a choice. as the most intellectually honest brother, he recognizes that their family is a godless void, choosing to dance on the very edge of the abyss to spite the silence. his shoes are red because they are soaked in the shame of being both the victim and the voyeur—a collection of stolen hats and borrowed phrases begging for the executioner's axe because he is tired of being the only one who sees the strings pulling his feet. deeply envious of subaru’s ability to isolate and wall himself off instead of being used as a prop, laito feels he has no true self left underneath the velvet but a pile of old, dusty shadows

~kanato: the juniper tree~

rather than the shared adventure of hansel and gretel, kanato represents the marrow-deep, gothic horror of the juniper tree—the triplet fundamentally separated from ayato’s and laito’s partnered dynamic. in this tale, a child is killed by a manic stepmother, stewed into a meal, and then reborn as a beautiful bird from the clean bones gathered from beneath the floorboards. kanato exists permanently in this post-mortem state of reality, a child psychologically crushed and hollowed out by his mother's unstable, transactional affection. before he became the bird, he was the child forced to sing like a captive songbird for cordelia until his throat bled, his voice treated as a decorative garnish for her affairs while he watched her trysts from the shadows alongside laito. kanato concluded that the only way to never be hurt again is to reject the living entirely

he is the bird singing from the branches, a high-pitched, exquisitely beautiful voice detailing absolute betrayal and cannibalistic consumption. he populates his world with wax dolls, sweets, and teddy because dead things do not rot, change their minds, or walk away. his violent tantrums are the frantic rattling of a skeleton trying to force the living to match his own static stillness; he wants to trap you in his wax museum because he is terrified of the messy, unpredictable fluids of life. his obsession with sweets is a desperate attempt to mask the bitter, stew-like taste of a childhood where a mother loved his voice but utterly hated his self

~subaru: the iron stove~

rather than beauty and the beast's longing for a grand ballroom, subaru is the prince from the grimm tale the iron stove, cursed by an envious witch to live inside a massive, rusted iron casing deep within a silent, forgotten forest. the envious witch in his story is his own mother, christa—her fractured, weeping ghost demanding he be a "good boy" while simultaneously handing him the silver knife to end her life. subaru genuinely believes this rusted iron casing is his true skin, forged from the corrosive rust of his mother's tears. his explosive rage, demolished walls, and jagged defense mechanisms are not born of hatred; he punches the metal to reinforce his cage, viewing his internal warmth as a dangerous, volatile fire that will burn anyone who gets too close

~shu: the walnut~

shrouded in the thick, fibrous husk of a ghost, shu is the nux basilica—the royal nut of medieval signature theory. his existence is a tiered fortress: first the bitter green hull of a calculated apathy, then the thick, flavorless wood of a name he never asked to carry, a barrier designed to ensure that none ever reach the meat inside. in greek myth, the walnut is associated with carya, a woman turned into a solid tree to preserve her soul from the devastation of grief; shu is that very preservation—a man who has willingly turned himself to wood to avoid feeling the fire of a burning village that still crackles in his ears

once cracked by force, the shell reveals a convoluted, twin-lobed structure so emblematic of the human brain it feels like an indictment. he is a mind constantly, painfully "on," buzzing with the static of a past he cannot sleep away, no matter how many hours he lies perfectly still. he offers no immediate sugary gratification—no easy fulfillment of an heir's role and process—only the heavy, oil-rich density of a thought process far too intelligent for its own peace. he is the fruit of the deep shade, growing exclusively in the damp, sunless corners of the mansion where the sun—and the warmth of another's touch—rarely reaches

~reiji: the plum~

reiji is the dark, polished weight of a cultivated heritage. at first glance, a plum is elegant, deep-hued, and perfectly smooth—aesthetic’s epitome. but a plum possesses a very specific, sharp tartness near the skin that catches the throat and burns the tongue, much like reiji's biting eloquence. more importantly, the centre of this refined exterior holds a single, large, rock-hard pit that is entirely impossible to digest, ignore, or break down. it represents the singular, unyielding obsession with his mother and his status that sits at the core of his being, surrounded by a sophisticated flesh that is far more sour than it is sweet

in folklore, the plum tree is often planted as a sentinel to ward off evil, yet reiji remains the fruit of the unhappy middle. he is the perfect embodiment of the formal garden; a fruit that has been pruned, forced, and structured to meet an impossible standard, yet he tastes inherently of the bitter effort it took to grow him. the singular, hard pit is the unyielding weight of his mother’s ghost—a seed of resentment that he can neither swallow nor spit out, sitting in the absolute centre of his being as a permanent, mathematical reminder of the love he was denied

~ayato: the strawberry~

ayato is a botanical paradox—uniquely, the strawberry is not a true berry, but an accessory fruit, a fleshy receptacle for the tiny, dry achenes (seeds) that sit, entirely exposed and naked, on its exterior skin. ayato is this exact vulnerability: he wears his deepest insecurities right on his surface for the world to see, yet he masks them with a loud, aggressive red. in medieval art, the strawberry was a symbol of perfect righteousness, but also a cautionary reminder of the fleeting, fragile nature of pleasure

it is a fruit that has no protective skin or hard rind to shield it from the elements; it is perpetually exposed to the threat of being crushed. ayato’s loud 'yours truly' complex is the desperate, bright red scream of a fruit that is terrified of being stepped on and forgotten. there is an underlying, sharp acidity to his sweetness—a stinging citric quality that flares up like a violent temper tantrum when he is bruised. he is the first fruit of spring, the king of fruits in many desserts, demanding to be picked and worshiped first, because he knows that if he is left on the vine for even a day too long, he will dissolve into a shapeless, weeping mess

~laito: the cherry~

the cherry is the fruit of memento mori—the temper of temptation and pleasure’s fleeting spoils. in mythology, it represents the absolute fragility of the human heart, beautiful to look at yet prone to splitting open after a sudden rain. for laito, the cherry is a theatrical prop. it is small, ornamental, and deepens to a color that looks dangerously like dried blood—a sweet, decorative garnish meant to distract from a profound lack of substance. he is the fruit of the courtesan and the poet, destined for the rim of someone else's glass, never the main meal or the foundation of trust

cherries almost always grow in pairs, yet laito acts as if he has been violently severed from his twin, left to dangle alone in a wind that carries the scent of salt and old sins. his amoralistic hedonism—and his absolute abandonment of god and gods—is the fruit's sugary, thin skin. but once you bite down through that performative sweetness, you realize he is mostly a cold, smooth pit that encases trace amounts of cyanide. he is a fast-acting poison that prevents the body's cells from using oxygen, leaving the soul suffocated and breathless when consumed in multiplicity. he is the fruit of the short season—a reminder that beauty is a lie and pleasure is merely a precursor to decay. to consume him is to realize that the red stain on your lips isn't juice, but a mark of his internal hollowness that you can never quite wash away

~kanato: the grape~

a pressurized vessel of liquid tension, kanato is the fruit of dionysian transformation. in myth, the grape must be violently crushed to become divine wine, or entirely withered to become a permanent raisin. kanato is obsessed with this transition; he views the world through the selective lens of the vintner or the taxidermist, believing things are only beautiful when they are caught in a state of suspended decay. he is a grape plucked from the vine far too early—sour, hard, and intensely high-maintenance

there is a dark, fermenting instability to his nature. if left to his own devices, his sweetness doesn't just rot; it turns into something intoxicating, volatile, and dangerous. he is the fruit of the spoiled harvest, the one that must be handled with silver shears and served on a tray, yet he feels the constant, psychic pressure of his own thin skin. he craves to be a raisin—dried, sweet, and immortal—because he is terrified of the fluid, messy, and unpredictable reality of being alive. he is a tiny, purple orb of ‘might-burst’, a sweetness that tastes heavily of ancient, dusty parlours and spilled wine

~subaru: the peach~

in taoist myth, the peach is the fruit of immortality, grown in sacred orchards where humans are forbidden to tread. for subaru, this immortality is not a gift but a hereditary confinement—a white-gold lineage that feels like a prison. his fuzz is a tactile defence mechanism, a prickly, irritating barrier that keeps the world at bay, but botanical history reveals that the peach belongs to the genus prunus, making it a direct cousin to the almond, a seed that carries a heavy scent of cyanide and bitterness. subaru’s rage is exactly that: a toxic, defensive coat designed to mask the immense, crushing sweetness of his core

i am an absolute sucker for sakamaki angst - so how would the boys react if they're yelling at/lecturing their s/o while moving their hands around in the air the way people do when they're worked up, so she flinches and covers her face expecting a slap?

~shu~

ha... you really are an insufferable creature. i told you to leave the headphones alone, didn't i? why do you insist on hovering around my bed like a persistent, buzzing fly after a long night? your constant, suffocating attempts to ‘mother’ me are entirely unwelcome. i don't need your pity, and i certainly don't need— *he groans, his voice raspy and dripping with raw, post-nightmare agitation. he blindly swings his arm outward in a heavy, dismissive arc to shove you out of his personal space. but when your entire frame violently recoils, your head ducking into your shoulders as you throw both hands up to shield your face in a blind, trembling panic, his hand freezes mid-air*

*he stays like that, his pale arm suspended in the quiet air of the music room. the heavy, lazy irritation in his sapphire eyes doesn't warp into anger or disgust; instead, it completely drains out, leaving his gaze terrifyingly flat, vacant, and hollow. he looks at your locked elbows, then down at his own open palm. he doesn't scream at you for overreacting, nor does he mock your fear. the sheer effort required to process your trauma—or the implication that he would possess the energy to inflict physical violence upon you—just makes him feel an ancient, numbing exhaustion. a long, slow breath leaks past his lips as he drops his arm back to the mattress, turning his face completely away from you to stare at the wall* ...how incredibly troublesome

“shu… i’m sorry, i just thought you were going to—” be quiet. i don't care about whatever pathetic assumptions you're making in that small head of yours. if you're so desperate to find someone who will gladly use their hands to hurt you, go knock on one of my brothers' doors… i want to go back to sleep. leave me alone

~reiji~

your behavioural regression is becoming entirely intolerable. i have explicitly outlined the protocol for managing the library catalog, yet you treat my instructions with complete and utter levity! *he snaps, his voice rising in an aristocratic snarl as his hand, holding a heavy silver fountain pen, whips forward in a rigid, mathematical gesture to emphasize his point. when your frame violently jerks backward, your arms instinctively snapping up to cover your temples as your breath hitches in a terrified flinch, the pen drops from his fingers, clattering loudly against the mahogany desk*

*reiji stands perfectly still behind his desk, his hand remaining suspended in the exact position it was in before you shrank away. the rigid, porcelain mask of his face remains entirely fixed, but behind his spectacles, his eyes undergo a terrifying, microscopic contraction of pure horror mixed with intense, personal offence. for a second, he isn't looking at you but his own raised hand, a sickeningly vivid memory of beatrix's cold, dismissive slaps flashing through his mind, followed immediately by the memory of his own fingers choking the life out of your throat early on when you first arrived when you dared to speak his mother’s name. he has apologized for his past severity and corrected his methods since then* ...lower your arms. i said, lower them immediately. “i’m sorry… i didn't mean to— you just moved so fast—”

do not insult my intelligence by pretending that was a natural reaction. do you honestly believe i am some unrefined, low-class brute who relies on primitive physical force to correct a failure? i am a sakamaki. the mere suggestion that i would degrade my own stature to inflict such pedestrian violence upon you is a severe insult to my upbringing—the exact sort of brainless chaos i despise in my brothers *his teeth click together behind his lips* if i require your physical submission, i will utilize methods far more elegant and absolute than a vulgar blow to the face. do not ever display such an uncultivated, pathetic display of cowardice in my presence again. it is… deeply vexing

~ayato~

hey! yours truly is speaking to you, pancake! what’s with that completely brainless look on your face?! i told you i wanted those takoyaki thirty minutes ago, not— *he snarls, his face contorting into an arrogant, loud grimace as his hand whips forward, fingers splayed as he aggressively gesticulates in the space between you to emphasize his dominance. when your shoulders violently hunch and you instinctively throw your palms flat against your face, ducking away with a sharp, terrified gasp, his booming voice cuts off mid-sentence*

*his hand hovers in the empty air, his fingers rigid. his wide, emerald eyes narrow to tiny, hyper-focused pins as he stares at the way you are trembling beneath your own hands. for a split second, a raw, suffocating shock paralyzes him—because your reaction is the exact, instinctual reflex of a child being thrown back into the depths of a freezing lake by a woman who only ever used her hands to discipline or destroy. but the shock instantly mutters into a dark, toxic pride. a cruel, mocking grin spreads across his face as he leans down, his shadow completely swallowing your small, guarded frame* hah! look at you, shivering like a wet rat! did you seriously think ore-sama was gonna slap that ugly face of yours?

*he reaches down, aggressively seizing your wrists and violently wrenching your arms down from your face so you're forced to look at him* don't get so ahead of yourself, pancake. your face, your skin, your blood—it all belongs to me, right? why the hell would i ruin my own property with a cheap bruise? if you're that terrified of my hands, it means you finally understand who rules this place. good. keep that exact fear in your head the next time you think about keeping me waiting

~laito~

fufu~ bitch-chan, your excuses are becoming as predictable as they are pathetic. did you really think i wouldn't notice you hiding those letters? you're such a naughty, dishonest little thing— *he purrs, his voice a theatrical, mocking lilt as he looms over you, his hands dancing through the air in wide, flamboyant gestures of mock-exasperation. but when your knees buckle and you sharply turn your face away, burying your features in the crook of your elbows with a jagged, breathy sob of anticipation, his playful smirk doesn't just fade—it turns into something sharp and predatory*

*he doesn't move. his green eyes narrow, tracking the way your pulse is thrumming visible and frantic against your hidden throat. a dark, twisted amusement flickers in his gaze, but beneath it, there is a sudden, sharp prick of genuine curiosity. this isn't a reaction to him; this is a ghost from your own past. he leans in until the brim of his hat is practically touching your hair, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly intimate whisper that feels like a razor blade against your ear* my, my... someone certainly taught you how to hide quite well, didn't they? tell me, bitch-chan... who was it? was it that dear, "god-fearing" father of yours who showed you what a man’s hand feels like when he’s angry? 

*he reaches out, not to strike, but to slowly, firmly pry one of your fingers away from your face, his touch cold and lingering* it hurts my feelings just a little bit that you think i'm that ordinary. i don't deal in such crude, boring pain. if i wanted to hurt you, i would do it from the inside out until you begged me to stop.  now, open those pretty eyes and look at me properly~ let's not waste such an exquisite flavour of fear on a misunderstanding, ne?

~kanato~

you're being completely unfair! teddy and i have been waiting for you for forty minutes, and you come back with nothing but stupid, empty excuses! you're ruining everything! *he violently flings his arms outward, stomping his foot as he screams, the force of his movement sending a nearby vase rocking on its pedestal. when you violently recoil, squeezing your eyes shut and locking your arms over your face in a desperate defensive shield, his manic screeching cuts off into an abrupt, terrifying silence*

*he drops his arms, clutching teddy tightly against his chest with a white-knuckled grip. his massive, dark-ringed eyes widen to their absolute limits, staring unblinkingly at your guarded posture. he doesn't look angry anymore; his expression shifts into a dark, deeply psychotic fascination. he steps toward you with slow, deliberate clicks of his heels, his head tilting at a bizarre, unnatural angle as he examines the way you are hiding from him* ...why are you doing that with your hands? look at me. i told you to look at me!

“i thought… i thought you were going to strike me, kanato…” strike you? *a high-pitched, manic giggle bubbles out of his throat, completely devoid of any warmth* fufu... what a bizarre, unhinged imagination you have! why would i ever waste a slap on you when your blood is the only valuable thing you possess? but... 

*his voice suddenly drops into a vicious, breathless snarl as he steps directly into your space, pressing teddy’s plush face against your crossed forearms. he begins to tremble, a jagged, unstable energy radiating off him as he realizes your fear has created a wall he didn't give you permission to build* ...the fact that you think i would handle you so roughly... it means you see me as something ugly, don't you? you’re treating me like a common monster! if you’re going to hide your face from me, then you don't deserve to look at me at all! don't move! stay exactly like that... stay in your little cage of hands until i say you can breathe! maybe then i’ll decide if you’re still pretty enough to keep

~subaru~

tch… get out! i told you to stay away from me tonight, didn’t i?! why the hell do you keep following me into this damn courtyard?! i don’t want your pity, and i don’t need you asking about where i've been! just shut your mouth and— *he roars, his silver hair falling wild over his eyes as he violently lashes his right arm upward in a chaotic, defensive gesture to tear himself away from your presence. but when your entire body completely fractures under the volume of his voice, your knees buckling as you violently throw both arms flat over your head, cowering your face into the dirt path in a blind, shaking panic, the words die instantly in his throat. his raised hand locks rigid in the freezing midnight air*

*he stares down at you, his palm open and hovering directly above your trembling, guarded head. the furious crimson in his eyes violently shatters, leaving his pupils small and pin-pricked with a sudden, suffocating horror. he looks at your cowering frame, then down at his own clenched fist, and the memory of the heavy silver knife in his pocket begins to burn through his fabric like liquid fire. he is his mother's son; he is the child of the silver tower who was taught that his hands were only ever meant to destroy, to bleed, and to eventually kill the things that loved him. a sickening, wretched wave of disgust for his own bloodline chokes him. his arm drops heavily to his side, his chest heaving as he lets out a ragged, trembling laugh that sounds utterly broken* "subaru... please... i'm sorry, i just thought you were going to—" "going to what?! hit you?!" *he abruptly interrupts, his voice cracking with a manic, defensive desperation as he reaches into his breast pocket and violently pulls out the silver dagger, thrusting the hilt directly against your guarded hands* “i gave you the weapon to destroy me, so why the hell are you just sitting there in the dirt?!"

"subaru… stop it… please, i don’t want to hurt you, i just…” *you sob, your hands trembling so hard the dagger slips from your collective grip, clattering uselessly against the stone. through your tears, you look up and see his face—there is no anger left, only a profound, bleeding vulnerability that looks so intensely sad it steals the breath from your lungs. despite the terror still buzzing in your veins, you instinctively reach out, your fingers hesitantly touching his broad, shaking shoulders. the moment your warmth seeps through his fabric, his entire defensive posture completely shatters; he buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his large arms wrapping around your waist with a desperate, suffocating tightness as he trembles against you*

my take? they would find themselves amongst a venn diagram of these extremes:

The mukamis reacting Azusa getting beating up by his psychopatic/sadistic gf ✌️

He may like it but is not healthy

as a die-hard devotee to angst, i truly wanted to do this request justice. however, try as i might, i am unable to shake off the feeling that the mookamis would sooner fraternize with the enemy (the suckamakis) than allow azusa to keep such a s/o…

Nice/normal (quiet, just himself, mask off, none of the whole act thing going on) laito in a long distance relationship? Like modern day au

(Idk i think he'd get clingy af in an actual loving relationship so I'd wanna know what u hc a LDR where they can't see eachother much to be like. Or idk, slowly realising the other person doesn't want him for his body/charm like everyone else and he doesn't have to perform to have them stay)

<33 much love to u and ur blog n writing <33

~cerberus~

these days and months—coffee self-dates and whatever time spent in excess—your respective theatre debuts were like ursa major and minor. the post-modern collision of ivory keys evoked elephants cavernous in memory: beasts tasked with keeping the north sky’s horizoned mezzanine from collapsing into hell and its circles—the nines, give or take. oysters, laito supposed, have bred worse pearls as fruit. yet he remains hapless—surprisingly so, and only ever when it comes to you—aspiring to a fisherman’s simple truth: to wrench fortune from a stubborn mollusk, shucked by a working man’s roughened hand. his own hands, shaped by past and nature, were somehow consumed by you—not out of forgiveness, but want. so, he finds his grip steady on his phone, calling you:

“what bakery did you hit today, bumblebee?” “why do you even ask? you know the routine. just my usual macaron and honey latte.” “that’s my favourite.” “i know. that’s exactly why i get it.” “well aware, honey pot~ i just like hearing you say it. domesticity suits you, you know~” “flattery will get you everywhere, mi perro~ ...so, have you thought it over?” “mmm, i haven’t the slightest clue what you mean—“ “you would have made a great virtuoso on the guitar. it’s a shame you settled for the piano, since you’re already a natural at plucking my heartstrings, menso~”

could he—cerberus—harken away from his guard-post at river styx, and allow the past’s cold dead and deeds to trespass on your time in new york? perhaps he had already been subdued by you—his hercules. all three of his throats—the carnivorous hummingbird, the foresightful bluejay, the lonesome loon—strangled in willing chain to hell’s third roundabout, though he will never pass the driver's exam without your voice as his eyes in the rearview mirror. because he, caressing the thumb-worn scrape on his wishbone knuckle, loved you enough to parade his devotion for onlookers. and to be lulled by bards like orpheus into deep slumber, freeing you to pursue loves other than him: to become juilliard's crown and bejeweled future, its prima ballerina.

“fufu, let’s not be hasty~ if i actually showed up in new york, you’d never make it to the stage, and then the world would never get to see its black swan. you wouldn't want to disappoint your audience, ne?" “…still, i miss you. talk tomorrow?”

I’m in a quiet light mood but always down for some twin peaks psychological horror. So may you please give us some things that Sbros do consciously and unconsciously when they’re in love (let’s imagine that they are, as I said, I’m in a good mood tonight). It can be towards the woman they’re into or what they specifically do when they’re into someone (or both wink-wink).

Love your work, happy 8th of march to you 💙

~shu~

consciously: 

he goes completely out of his way to make his presence as utterly unpleasant, draining, and friction-filled for you as humanly possible. if he hears your footsteps approaching the music room, he won't just lie there; he will intentionally crank up the volume on his headphones just loud enough for the tiny, aggressive noise to bleed into the quiet space, or he’ll deliberately sprawl his long limbs across the entire length of the specific sofa he knows you usually sit on. he will stare blankly at the ceiling with a heavy, dead-eyed expression, completely ignoring your greetings until the sheer, suffocating awkwardness forces you to take the hint and leave. he is actively trying to provoke you into a state of total resentment, wanting you to give up on him because it feels safer than the alternative

to shu, love isn't a soft sentiment—it is a ticking countdown to a burning estate. the psychological wiring left behind by beatrix’s suffocating, performance-based expectations combined with the horrific trauma of edgar’s death has convinced him that his affection is a literal localized curse. he is entirely certain that anyone he allows himself to cherish will eventually be consumed by flames, either metaphorically through his own stagnant apathy or literally by the tragic design of his life. to protect you from the inevitable fire, he treats you with a calculated, biting coldness. he forces a flat, gravelly indifference into his tone, deliberately choosing words meant to bruise your pride so you’ll walk away before things get dangerous

"don't look at me like that. your face is incredibly annoying when you're being expectant. if you're that lonely, go pester one of the others. i have absolutely nothing to give you"

unconsciously:

his internal tracking of you is completely seamless, terrifyingly hyper-vigilant, and entirely exhausting for his nervous system. he practically stops sleeping through the exact hours you are awake. while he lies perfectly still on a lounge chair with his eyes closed—resembling a beautifully carved, bloodless corpse—his ears are tuned entirely to the specific acoustic profile of your existence. he maps out the exact cadence of your footsteps on the floorboards, the precise shifting weight of your breath when you are anxious, and the distinct, metallic click of the heavy front door. if you are sitting in the same room, his body subtly, magnetic-like, tilts toward your physical warmth; his shoulders will shift a fraction of an inch to accommodate your position, tracking your location in the dark without a single blink

the absolute split second your footsteps veer toward the front exit of the mansion, or if your voice suddenly echoes from a room containing one of his volatile brothers, the lazy, heavy fog in his posture instantly vanishes. it is replaced by a rigid, ancient, and deadly tension. his eyelids will twitch, and his hands—usually buried deeply in his pockets or limply hanging over the armrest—will slightly convulse against his sides. his fingers curl inward, instinctively seeking the phantom, agonizing sensation of a small hand slipping away from his own through the thick, blinding smoke of a burning village. he is a man permanently trapped in the wreckage of his past, frantically holding onto a ghost while pretending he doesn't even care enough to look at you

~reiji~

consciously: 

he doubles down on an ironclad, suffocating facade of rigid aristocratic formality and hyper-specific disciplinary measures, deliberately engineering an environment where you are constantly set up to stumble. he will construct elaborate, impossibly demanding daily schedules for you—cataloging everything from your study hours to the exact minute you are expected to present yourself in the dining hall—solely to watch your human limitations inevitably cause you to fail. when you do, he is right there to dissect your shortcomings with a razor-sharp, clinical precision. he will harshly critique the slight tremor in your hand when you hold a porcelain teacup, the minor scuff on the heel of your shoe, or the exact, imperfect angle at which you bow your head. his voice drops into a low, terrifyingly quiet register dripping with profound aristocratic disdain, entirely designed to make you feel microscopic. by actively framing you as nothing more than an intellectual inferior, a troublesome servant, or a failing student who requires constant, severe correction, he keeps the psychological power balance firmly and safely in his hands

to reiji, affection is an unmitigated disaster—a chaotic, unquantifiable weakness that he was never granted permission to harbor. his psychological wiring is completely dominated by beatrix’s lifelong emotional neglect and her toxic favoritism toward shu. because he was only ever valued for his flawless utility and absolute obedience, he genuinely believes that to desire something for himself is an inherently punishable offense. if he admits, even for a fraction of a second, that your existence has infected his thoughts, it means he has lost complete control over his own carefully curated reality. and to reiji, losing control doesn't just mean a breach of etiquette; it plunges him straight back into the suffocating, terrifying shame of being the second-rate, invisible son who could never measure up

"you are a grotesque stain on this household's decorum, a thoroughly useless creature lacking even the basic dignity to carry yourself properly. do not flatter yourself by thinking your pathetic efforts amuse me; you are simply an administrative headache i am forced to manage"

unconsciously: 

he begins systematically altering his entire lifestyle, his meticulously cataloged laboratory, and his sacred daily rituals to quietly accommodate your fragile human biology without ever asking for your permission. his hands, driven by a hidden, hyper-vigilant desperation, will mathematically alter his private tea blends—secretly infusing trace amounts of rare medicinal herbs to combat your chronic human anemia, carefully masking the bitter, chemical undertones with expensive floral notes so your dull senses won't notice the interference. when he addresses you, his gaze will compulsively lock onto the pulse point of your throat or the soft curve of your lips, his long fingers tracing the rim of his own teacup with a desperate, rigid precision as he mentally calculates the exact distance between your skin and his fangs, fighting the primal urge to claim what he denies himself

the absolute millisecond you let out a genuine cough, a weary sigh, or a slight stagger in his presence, his spine goes completely, defensively straight. a microscopic, terrifying flash of pure panic shatters the cold, porcelain mask of his composure. his breath will briefly catch in his throat, a raw, ancient fear of unexpected loss rattling his nerves before he can even intellectually process it. the very next second, he will aggressively cover the slip by snapping open his silver pocket watch with a sharp, metallic click, checking the time with performative anger and scolding you with a venomous intensity for daring to ruin the absolute silence of his study

~ayato~

consciously:

he becomes aggressively, suffocatingly possessive, dialing up his loud "yours truly" rhetoric to a near-manic degree. he will intentionally, violently disrupt your quietest moments—dragging you around by the wrist until your skin is red, and forcing you to sit on the cold gym floor to watch him shoot hoops, or demanding you stand beside him while he eats, extracting constant, loud praise from you like a tyrant. he throws the name "pancake" at you with an extra, sharp bite of venom, mocking your physical fragility and constantly reminding you that your blood belongs exclusively to him and no one else. to ayato, love is an impossible, terrifying concept; his psychological wiring is entirely warped by cordelia’s horrific abuse, where he was only granted a shred of valuation when he was "the absolute best," and literally thrown into the depths of a freezing lake the moment he fell short

because of this deep, jagged scar, he genuinely believes that the absolute only way to keep you from abandoning him or finding a "better" option is to force you into total, broken submission. he cannot comprehend soft affection—to him, vulnerability is a death sentence that gets you drowned—so he weaponizes cruelty and dominance to ensure you know you are beneath him, keeping you firmly under his heel so you can never fly out of his reach

"hey! did yours truly give you permission to look away? you're just my food, pancake, so don't go getting ahead of yourself. your eyes, your blood, your entire pathetic life belongs to me. you don't need anyone else"

unconsciously: 

he completely stops draining you to the point of fainting, pulling back his thirst with a sudden, uncharacteristic restraint that he refuses to intellectually acknowledge. when he feeds, his fangs will puncture your skin, but they will linger in the wound far longer than necessary; his tongue will trace the torn flesh with a slow, agonizingly soft tenderness, drinking you in as if he is trying to swallow your very soul to keep it safe. the second he catches himself doing this, he'll immediately yank away, snarling at you for "squirming" to cover the slip. whenever you walk past him in the mansion, his arm will shoot out aggressively to yank your hair or pinch your ear like a bratty child, but the exact millisecond his skin makes contact with yours, the violent tension completely drains from his grip. his hand will slide down to rest heavily, solidly on your shoulder, his fingers digging into your clothes just to feel the warm, grounding reality of your weight against the empty chill of his existence

his large eyes track you across the room like a feral hound watching its only shelter, his chest tightening with a confusing, angry misery the moment you smile at anyone else. and on the rare, suffocating nights when the memory of the freezing water takes over his lungs and wakes him up gasping, his arrogant defenses completely fracture. he will drag you into his bed with a rough, clumsy violence, but instead of biting you, he will aggressively bury his face straight into your lap, forcing your hand onto his head. he will lie entirely still, letting out small, shaky breaths as you run your fingers through his messy reddish hair—needing the soft, rhythmic motion to prove that he is finally above the water, and that you haven't left him in the dark

~laito~

consciously: 

he weaponizes his perversion like a finely honed blade, playing the character of the fleeting, hollow hedonist to absolute, terrifying perfection. he will explicitly tell you to your face that you are nothing but an amusing toy—a fragile, temporary little piece of human flesh meant to be thoroughly used, broken, and discarded when the novelty wears off. he will deliberately talk about other women in graphic detail right in front of you, make excessively crude, transactional jokes about your body, and push your physical boundaries just enough to provoke a flash of genuine revulsion in your eyes. he is actively engineering your hatred; he wants you to view him as nothing more than a shallow, dirty monster who is entirely incapable of depth

to laito, love is the ultimate, most sickening joke in existence—a twisted weapon used by maternal figures to completely ruin your autonomy from the inside out until you can no longer distinguish affection from absolute corruption. because of cordelia’s horrific psychological violation, he is completely convinced that true intimacy is a trap designed to enslave the soul. he firmly believes that if you were to ever look past his theatrical perversion and see his ruined, pathetic, and hollow interior, you would either exploit it for your own amusement or throw it away in disgust. by forcing you to focus entirely on his repulsive, hyper-sexualized exterior, he keeps you at a safe distance, ensuring he stays the one in control of the degradation

"ah~ bitch-chan has such an exquisite expression when she's thoroughly disgusted with me. it's so incredibly honest, isn't it? go ahead and keep looking at me like i'm absolute filth... it suits a monster like me perfectly, and it saves us both the trouble of pretending~"

unconsciously: 

he completely stops looking at your neck and starts desperately looking at your face. when he believes you are entirely preoccupied or out of sight, the heavy, calculated smirk completely drops from his features, leaving his face looking terrifyingly blank, ancient, and deeply tragic. he will stand perfectly still in the dark recesses of the hallways, his hands buried deep within the pockets of his coat with his knuckles pressed white, just silently watching you perform the most mundane human tasks—like turning the page of a book or cleaning a windowsill. if you happen to touch an object belonging to him, like a stray piece of sheet music or a book left on a table, he will physically avoid using or even touching that item again for weeks; he treats the object with a quiet, reverent terror, as if your ordinary human warmth has accidentally rendered it holy and untouchable to a creature like him

if you happen to fall asleep anywhere near him, his hyper-sexual swagger vanishes into an agonizing, hollow pining. he will sit completely motionless for hours in the dark, his slender fingers hovering just mere millimeters away from the strands of your hair, trembling slightly but never actually making physical contact—because in the deepest, most quiet corners of his broken mind, he genuinely believes his very touch pollutes and ruins beautiful things. his speech patterns, normally a predictable, sing-song cascade of theatrical teasing, will abruptly slip into a flat, uncharacteristically low, and gravelly register the moment you offer him a piece of genuine, unprompted kindness. for a single, terrifying second, his green eyes will flash with a raw look of absolute starvation and profound loneliness, before his psychological defenses violently snap back into place, forcing out a breathless, breathless, and borderline hysterical laugh to erase the damage

~kanato~

consciously: 

he becomes violently, unpredictably erratic, escalating his behavior into a series of frantic psychological minefields designed to keep you in a constant state of walking on eggshells. he will scream at the top of his lungs over the most microscopic, perceived slights—throwing expensive porcelain teacups directly at your feet so they shatter against your ankles, and shrieking that you are a selfish, disgusting, and hollow monster who is actively ruining his peaceful days with teddy. because cordelia only ever granted him a shred of recognition when he was performing like a pretty, obedient canary or throwing a massive tantrum to disrupt her trysts, his entire understanding of affection is warped into a sick game of emotional hostage-taking

he deliberately manufactures crises—intentionally damaging his own prized possessions, refusing to eat for days, or threatening to drain you dry and turn your corpse into a permanent wax doll—specifically to force you into a state of blind panic where you are forced to beg for his forgiveness. he is consciously, systematically testing your absolute breaking point. he pushes his own cruelty and madness to the most unhinged extremes just to observe your reaction, desperate to discover exactly how much horror you will endure before you inevitably abandon him in the dark like everyone else in his life did

"you are completely useless to me! i should just rip your heart out right now so you can stop looking at me with those lying, wretched eyes! you're just like the rest of them, aren't you? you pretend to be sweet, but you secretly despise me and you're just waiting for the perfect moment to leave me behind!"

unconsciously: 

he completely integrates your fragile human existence into his deeply psychotic, terrifying worldview of permanent preservation. during his most explosive manic episodes or periods of breathless, hyperventilating weeping, his hands will instinctively bypass teddy entirely; instead, his small fingers will violently clutch at the hem of your clothes, burying his face directly into your side with a fragile, desperate trembling that completely fractures the malice of his spoken words. he begins leaving a trail of his most prized, personal possessions hidden within your bedroom—a single piece of imported candy on your pillow, a specific silk ribbon, or even teddy himself left sitting on your chair—under the aggressive, bratty defense of: "you are going to hold onto this for me because my arms are tired, and if you lose it i will kill you." it is his mind's subconscious, terrifying way of marking a territory he is far too insecure to openly claim

when you are dead to the world in a deep sleep, his frantic screaming dies out into a heavy, suffocating silence. he will sit completely motionless at the very edge of your mattress for hours, his massive, dark-ringed eyes wide and unblinkingly vacant as he lightly, barely touches the tips of your hair with trembling fingertips. he will slowly lower his head onto your chest—not to bare his fangs or seek out your pulse point, but to simply close his eyes and listen to the rhythmic, fragile warmth of your lungs moving up and down. he becomes quietly obsessed with the physical, auditory proof that you are still alive and present in his room, deeply terrified of the inevitable day that the fragile sound finally stops and leaves him entirely alone with his ghosts

~subaru~

consciously: 

he turns his explosive, terrifying rage directly onto the physical environment surrounding you, systematically demolishing walls, shattering windows, and snarling like a cornered beast specifically to keep you at a strict arm's length. the absolute second you attempt to sit down near him in a room, his entire posture stiffens; he will aggressively kick over a chair, call you a pathetic, annoying human nuisance to your face, and violently storm out of the space, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the hinges. to subaru, his own existence is a biohazard. his psychological wiring is completely dictated by the horrific trauma of growing up in a silver tower, watching his beautiful, delicate mother wither away in madness while she handed him a silver knife, begging him to end her misery

because of this crushing guilt, he is entirely convinced that his bloodline is pure, unadulterated, and destructive violence. he views himself not as a protector, but as a weapon that eventually shatters everything it touches. he is genuinely, deeply terrified that being near a fragile, mortal creature like you will physically and mentally break you, just like christa was broken. to save you from himself, he deliberately acts like an unhinged, dangerous animal—hoping his ferocious outbursts will terrify you enough to make you run away, saving your own life from the monster he believes he is

"get the hell away from me! are you completely deaf, or do you just have a death wish?! i told you to stop following me around! stay away from me or i'll seriously break you in half... just get out of my sight already!"

unconsciously: 

his entire hyper-masculine, defensive outer shell completely collapses into a soft, agonizingly clumsy, and painfully pure romanticism that mortifies his own subconscious. when you are sitting near him at a table, his large, calloused hands will visibly twitch against his knees—his fingers slowly curling and uncurling as his brain, entirely against his will, meticulously maps out the exact trajectory and movement it would take to simply reach out and softly hold your hand beneath the shadows of the table. he will lie perfectly awake for hours inside the claustrophobic darkness of his coffin, staring blankly at the underside of the lid, entirely consumed and tortured by the unbidden, deeply tender thoughts of what it would feel like to press a soft forehead kiss against your skin, murmured impassioned  things against your skin while you’re underneath him, or just hold you quietly against his chest without any teeth, violence, or blood involved

may i please request a 'serious' sakamaki brothers' scenario/reaction when they're just outside and walking somewhere, and she starts getting tired so she asks to be carried in their arms?

shu-

tch... how troublesome… if you’re tired, just lie down on the grass and stay there. i don’t care if it’s damp. your physical limits have absolutely nothing to do with me, so stop looking at me with those exhausting, expectant eyes

“what if something finds me out here?” ...ha. you really are a clueless creature. do you think i'm any safer than whatever is lurking in the trees? *he stares down at your slumped posture, his pale eyes completely vacant, flat, and heavy with a numbing boredom. yet, as you genuinely give up and begin to lower yourself onto the cold gravel, your small hand accidentally brushes against the worn fabric of his sleeve in a weak, desperate grasp for balance. a sharp, invisible jolt seems to pass through his frame. for a fraction of a second, the vacant fog in his blue eyes clears, replaced by a sudden, terrifyingly lucid flash of ancient panic—the phantom smell of smoke and the memory of a hand slipping away from his own in the dark*

*before you can even register the shift, his hand shoots out, gripping your upper arm with a sudden, rigid strength that completely contradicts his lazy demeanor. before you can even react to the bite of his fingers, he pulls you flush against his chest, sliding one arm under your thighs to lift you effortlessly. he doesn't look at you, his gaze fixed entirely on the path ahead as his heartbeat thumps rhythmically against your ear* …be quiet. your voice is giving me a headache. just stay still until we're inside

reiji-

how utterly pathetic. do you mean to tell me that your biological constitution is so poorly managed that you cannot even complete a simple walk without your lower limbs failing you? it is truly offensive how little discipline you possess

“if i pass out right here, your precious schedule is going to be completely ruined... so you might as well just pick me up.” ...ha. do you truly believe you are in a position to negotiate with me? if you lose consciousness, i will simply leave you on the dirt until the morning dew wakes you. do not look at the ground like a scolded dog while addressing me. it is entirely—

*he cuts himself off as your eyelids genuinely flutter, your weight pivoting entirely on a buckling ankle as you begin to free-fall toward the gravel. the cold, rigid mask on his face shatters into a rare, microscopic flash of pure urgency. before your knees can even hit the stone, reiji lunges forward, catching your falling frame with an aggressive, mathematical precision that rattles his own spectacles. he hoists you into his arms, pulling your limp torso securely against his waistcoat. as he adjusts his grip, his fingers twitch against your fabric, a faint, uncharacteristic softness catching in his throat as he feels the terrifying, fragile warmth of your rapid breathing against his neck* ...you are an extraordinary burden. your complete inability to communicate your physical limits before reaching a state of total collapse is exactly why i find your presence so deeply vexing. just …do not lose your grip on my shoulder. i will manage the rest of the distance

ayato-

hah? your legs stopped working or somethin’, pancake? don't look at me with those pathetic eyes. yours truly doesn't just give out free rides ‘cause you're weak. if you want me to carry you, you have to beg like you actually mean it. say “please, ayato-sama, i can’t walk another step without you.” do it, and maybe i’ll consider picking you up before you collapse on the pavement

what do you mean you'd rather just sit on the curb? hey—i didn't give you permission to ignore me! …fine. get up. you’re an absolute pain in the ass, you know that?

*he grumbles, snatching your wrist a little too hard before suddenly hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring your startled gasp entirely* there. don't think you're getting out of making me takoyaki once we get back. and stop squirmin’, you're getting hair in my face

laito-

my, my~ what a pitiful little face you're making, bitch-chan. did those soft, fragile little legs finally give out on you? it’s almost endearing how helpless you look out here in the dark. you humans are always so naive, trading your safety for a moment of comfort. if i pick you up now, i won't be carrying you to your bed. i'll be carrying you to mine. so tell me... are you still that tired?

“i don’t care where we go... just please, my feet are bleeding.” ...eh? *the teasing smirk on his face falters for a fraction, the playful glint in his green eyes dying out as he catches the flat, utterly exhausted tone of your voice. a strange, unreadable shadow crosses his features as he looks at your dusty, scraping shoes.*

*before you can even shrink away from his silence, his arms slide under your waist and behind your knees, lifting you up in a surprisingly smooth, steady motion. he pulls you so close that the brim of his fedora brushes your temple, his chest rising and falling in a slow, uncharacteristically quiet rhythm* ...you really are an idiot. saying things like that to a monster... you have absolutely no sense of self-preservation, do you?

kanato-

why are you stopping? teddy and i were perfectly enjoying the quiet, and now you’re ruining the rhythm with your complaining. your legs hurt? so what? my arms hurt from holding teddy all day, but you don't see me crying about it on the gravel. you’re so incredibly selfish

don't walk away from me when i'm speaking to you! look at me! ...why are you shivering? *his expression shifts instantly from bratty annoyance to a dark, unstable intensity as he steps closer, his large eyes wide and unblinking as he stares down at your trembling knees* if you can’t walk, then you’re useless to me like this. but... if i leave you here, someone else might take you away, and i hate sharing my things

*he suddenly drops his weight, scooping you up with an abrupt, trembling fierceness that lacks any real gentleness, burying his face straight into the crook of your neck the moment you're in his arms* don't move. if you get dirt on teddy, i’ll make sure you never walk again

subaru-

tch… are you seriously stopping right here? don’t give me that crap. we’re barely even halfway back to the mansion and you’re already whining about your feet? you humans are so damn fragile it drives me insane. just keep moving. i’m not dealing with your slowness tonight

“i really can’t… my shoes are ruined.” …hah? *his crimson eyes dart down to where your heels are visibly raw, chafed, and stained with a small smear of blood against the stiff leather. a sudden, sharp pang of a very specific, old distress hits him—the suffocating memory of seeing someone delicate and pale confined to a room, breaking down under a weight they couldn't carry. his jaw clenches* damn it! why the hell didn't you say something before it got this bad?! you're infuriating!

*before you can even recoil from his tone, he steps directly into your space, his large frame completely blocking out the night wind. he doesn't ask for permission; he just aggressively shoves his arms under your frame and yanks you up against his chest with a rough, clumsy force. his face is entirely flushed a dark, furious crimson, and he turns his head completely away from you so you can only see the sharp line of his jaw and his silver hair* ...just shut up and hold on. if you slip and fall because you're moving around, i'm not picking you up a second time

~shu~

a marine heatwave:

the driftwood and weathered glass that wash up after decades among still-time’s tumble in waves: one of many products of oceans that absorb nearly all of global warming’s highborn niceties—reservoir for energy gifted and undesired transformed into boiling inertia. his thermal stasis outgrows hypoxia: submerged anomaly that deprives oxygen from air-hungry reefs. bone-white calcium carbonates expelling natural symbiosis with algae are his guilt rich in salinity, vulnerable to disease: the past and future deceased

~reiji~

a hailstorm:

a supercell of rain run through updraft altitudes, layers of tempered chocolate on orange and lemon slices. sub-zero bicarbonates of warm weather like cocktail shakes, his ambition is concentric: the rings found in a great basin bristlecone pine east of the white mountains—years blustered in rage from etiquette and incarceration by bombardment. his ultimate vector—body of direction and magnitude—is trypophobia: the unearthing of crops, villages, and the violin symphonies of summer-time crickets

~ayato~

a cryoseism:

detached from the plates his mother threw like tectonics, displeased in creases. childhood drownings titrate like water in bedrock, consumptive in firework hydrostatics. symphonic in winter deaths like fallen trees dressed by epiphytes, the shape of its feet sutures like boys chasing spring-tide flights—most of all robins: guardians of quail eggs. in all that immediacy, there is no subsequent, only an occasioned inconvenience: the rift in an asphalt road, tension deposed from residents lost to deep rem—midnight upside to dawn

~laito~

a tropical depression:

ambrosia winds shy of three-quarters of 100 mph. names hardly suit him or those caught in shifting proximity. his identity—whatever readily found by funnelled damage—is dispersed across numbers as convention. loose-packed thunderstorms with no eye for a centre—only closed low-pressure systems—his primacy in your life is one of slowed mainland floods and mudslides: best expressed as circularized wind tempers, rainfall conclusive of wanderlust fears. most of all, his sea-body is warm, surplus in energies for and against your body in illusory and illusive connection

~kanato~

a geomagnetic storm:

the north-south of neon valences—mosses, violets, roses—prescript to the earth’s makeup-eye. singsong in solar flare disruption, its radiation is elective and electric, invasive in its scrambling of communications, power grids, and delicate instruments. throat-dry of the troposphere, his climate voids the empties of space: vacuuming implosions of oxytocin and noradrenaline—fundamentally detached from the chameleon dust that spars about, like formaldehyde, fissioning and fusing bright-dead stars in infinite finites

~subaru~

a pyrocumulonimbus storm:

~centipede~

you count the pairs of socks in your drawer like clockwork six, before infinity staved divinity—apple with pear, duck with goose, dots with stripes, card with dice. shame, black magic, and the cigarette blunts speckled across your chest and inner thighs: these spared you only two legs to tuck under the covers and eight toes for confectionary, the two other already fed to the insects—multi-legged and venomous—undertow your sunk-ship bed. perhaps that is how it was: you, forfeit to nature divisive—spider veins under your one half-good brown eye, fireworks alloyed like miasma. once satisfied, you tossed the matchless—orange with lime, rose with flies, square with dye—out the window in fits of bad luck after wiping your eyes. your mother promised you such manners offered only such—good, you thought, to be rich in inflection and nothing else.  

so long as you kept your walls yellow and gruesome, you kept no mirrors. reflections, after all, had a habit of charm, tickling your angelfish shoulder as the proletariat mars—laito, if one were forced to moniker such toothsome constellations: a planet delighted to be your plantain star. no need to know the deep seas of the moons as basaltic plains, or the rust in his strands as iron accrued as ferrihydrite—bearing water rough-tide against your lips, rather than the lit end of cork filters against your child-wrist. you had already trashed the telescope your father gave you at twelve—after turning you into a centipede, prosperous in late-night femininity while your mother was nearly asleep.

“that gaze in your eyes… ne, bitch-chan, you must really love me to hate me with such ease. oh, but it feels good when i touch you here, like so, mmm?“

he suckles your cupid-ear, needless in how he collects your sounds like gemstones—garnet this time, to match the pomegranate persephone ate to beguile her mother and world in clandestine january.

“…how else might i be?”

you promise him the contest of dying, yourself the deed of graver: minding, like a penrose staircase, three fates—his mother’s sister-lonely hands spun of his father’s recuse; your mother’s antiseptic jar-cans measured for your sisyphus bruise; his sown straw-man cutting your crowing meed as loose. 

later, you laugh at his spite to marry you. it is true—searing history with the likes of him is perverted business, nor are you better. how is it, to say i do, i do, i do—tri-star, black char, low bar—and burn babel pyres in minor key for that, and all that haunt you and he. sweaty and stripped in his bed of all but your feet-coverings, eyes bottlenecked and vicious, you wonder if you told him your first name: iris. that it was your mother’s last-minute addition at your father’s insistence. that it means message, easily pronounced in the native language—especially for church-kind facebook friends. 

me, an academic weapon? your sentiment is most appreciated, sweet bean <33

though i often fall into the habit of considering myself anything other than productive, it is messages like yours which remind me that comparison is the thief of joy. while others may have accomplished more by my age, i think i made good with my lot, whether bad, worse, or happenstance