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 💙
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"
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
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"
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
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"
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
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~"
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
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!"
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
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!"
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
the absolute millisecond you accidentally slip on the gravel, lose your footing, or even shiver slightly from the midnight breeze, his body completely bypasses his stubborn pride and violently reacts on pure, protective instinct. before he can even think to stop himself, he will aggressively rip off his own jacket and shove it roughly at your chest, or wrench your arm with an intense, iron grip to stabilize you. the very next second, his entire face will flush a violent, furious crimson all the way to the tips of his ears. he will violently wrench his head completely away from your field of vision, his jaw clenching tightly so you can't see the sheer, vulnerable panic in his red eyes or how badly his lips are trembling from the terrifying realization of how desperately he wants to keep you safe
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