#about ace

Riddle Rosehearts does not fall in love the way others do. There is no spark, no sudden heartbeat, no conscious poetry. His is slower, more dangerous: he gets used to it. His love is born from habit, from constancy, and when he realizes it, it is already too late.

At first, Yuu is just a tolerable anomaly. A presence without magic, without clear internal rules, without the weight of lineage or duty. Riddle observes them with the same attention with which he examines a poorly formulated problem: something does not fit, but it does not threaten order either. And that alone is strange. Too strange. Because in Riddle’s world, everything that does not fit must be corrected… or disappear. And Yuu does neither. They simply remain.

Riddle never thought he would fall in love with Yuu, especially after how he had treated them before his overblot, but afterward, Yuu becomes a constant in his life. Not directly, really—only unconsciously related to him through Yuu’s two friends. Ace and Deuce, the two troublesome boys who turned out to be students from his dorm.

Yuu is the center that keeps both problem boys under control, yet they come to Riddle to ask for advice or help with these two unruly youths. Riddle respects that, because in their own way Yuu is someone who keeps an eye on others when it is not their duty to do so; they do it simply out of the simplicity of friendship. The recognition of one being by another, and that is enough to be there, present.

What Riddle does not notice is that, unconsciously, he begins to seek Yuu’s presence. Not with anxiety, not with urgency, but with a quiet need. Yuu is there when the rules weigh too heavily. When the dormitory’s silence becomes rigid. When the effort to be correct tightens his shoulders and makes his chest ache. Yuu does not judge him. Does not evaluate him. Does not correct him. They simply look at him as if Riddle were not a project that must function, but a person who already exists.

That leaves Riddle feeling strange.

Riddle confuses that sensation with gratitude. Then with appreciation. Then with something he cannot define, but that begins to hurt when it is absent. Because love is not a terrain he knows: no one explained to him how it feels, how it is measured, when it begins. Much less how to handle it. And when love arrives without warning, without rules, without structure… Riddle does not recognize it as love. He recognizes it as emotional necessity.

That is where the yandere is born.

Not one of blood or knives. Not one of violent impulses. Riddle is an emotionally greedy yandere, silent, deeply naive in his danger. He loves like a child discovering something warm for the first time and never wanting to let it go. He loves with hunger, but without cruelty. He loves without understanding that what he feels can be suffocating.

Because Riddle does not think “Yuu is mine.” He thinks: “With Yuu, I feel good.”

And that makes him indulgent in an unnatural way.

The rules still exist, but with Yuu they become soft, almost symbolic. If Darling forgets a Queen of Hearts rule, Riddle does not raise his voice. He does not punish them. He only furrows his brow slightly, sighs, and corrects them with a patience no one else receives. His tone is not that of a king, but of someone who fears hurting without meaning to. “Next time… remember to do it like this.” It is not a scolding: it is clumsy care, almost shy. Because in his mind, his beloved cannot do wrong. Not out of idealization, but because Riddle associates Yuu with the absence of harm. Because his beloved was his savior at his most vulnerable and darkest moment, because Riddle sees Darling as someone who saw the worst of him and is still able to look him in the eye and smile as if he deserved it.

And that is profoundly dangerous.

Because Riddle begins to justify everything his beloved does. If someone complains, Riddle listens… and then discards it. Not with anger, but with calm certainty: “It wasn’t their intention.” “They didn’t do it maliciously.” “There’s no need to exaggerate.” It is the first time Riddle breaks order… for love. And the poor boy is not even aware of it. Riddle respects Yuu as an individual, genuinely. He does not want to lock them up, does not want to possess them, does not want to erase them. He wants something more subtle and more unsettling: to be the safest place Yuu can always return to. He wants to be indispensable. He wants to be reliable. He wants Yuu to choose him.

And that need becomes voracious.

That is why, when Darling pulls away, Riddle does not explode. He grows uneasy. Loses focus. The rules start to feel unstable again. The world regains that cutting edge. And then Riddle understands that he needs that warmth as much as he needs order. And if he needs something, he must protect it. Care for it. Preserve it.

There, love becomes darker, but without turning cruel.

Riddle does not think of harming others… but he begins to think that some influences are unnecessary. That some people tire Darling. That certain environments are not appropriate for his beloved. He does not forbid: he suggests. He does not command: he advises. All with impeccable logic and a sincere concern for his beloved’s well-being. Riddle does everything with a gentle smile that did not exist before. Yuu is not locked in… but the world around them becomes narrower without anyone noticing.

If Yuu shows Riddle affection—a sincere, intimate, clean friendship—Riddle becomes almost childish. He seeks that closeness with clumsy devotion. Riddle allows himself small emotional whims. He wants time. He wants attention. He wants that warmth again and again, because he never had it. And he does not understand that asking for it always… is also a form of suffocation.

Riddle does not lose his mind. Riddle does not know that he is losing it.

Riddle loves with everything he was denied. He loves without malice, without intent to harm. He loves believing that absolute care is kindness. He loves without distinguishing where affection ends and dependence begins. And in that confusion, he becomes a different kind of yandere one who grips something fragile too tightly… believing that is how he protects it.

And if one day his beloved were to realize how suffocating that love can be, Riddle would not react with anger. He would react with silent panic. With a childish, but devastating question:

“Did I do something wrong…? I was just trying to love you.”

Trey realized too late that it was no longer just care. At first it was the same as always: making sure Yuu ate, that they did not get lost in the absurd corridors of the college, that they did not carry alone the invisible weight of being a fragile human among humans and magical creatures. No one suspected anything, because Trey had always been like that. The big brother. The support. The one who was there when everything trembled. But something changed after Riddle’s Overblot: he was no longer protecting the dorm, he was protecting a person. And that difference, minimal in appearance, was an abyss.

There was no sudden internal confession or racing heartbeat. It was subtler, more dangerous. Trey began to think of Yuu not as “someone to take care of,” but as someone to stay with. Not beside, not above, not trapped: just be present. Remain.

His protection, which had once been horizontal, became directional. Every decision passed through a silent question: Will this make their life safer? And when the answer was doubtful, Trey intervened. Gently. Logically. With that calm that disarms any outside suspicion.

To others, he remained the kind vice-garden, that reliable and attentive big-brother figure. To Yuu, he became something harder to name: a constant presence that did not suffocate, but did not leave either. Trey never demanded love. Never asked for it. Never would. In his mind, loving Yuu did not mean possessing them, but guaranteeing their happiness even if that happiness did not include him.

That was the deepest trap of his affection: it justified itself as altruism. “Darling deserves to be happy,” he thought, and he truly believed it. If Yuu chose someone else, Trey would smile, help, support… and watch. Not out of jealousy, but evaluation. No one was careful enough. No one understood danger like he did.

Because Trey had learned something fundamental: the world breaks when no one is paying attention. He saw it in Riddle. He felt it in Heartslabyul. So he decided never to allow it again. His beloved became his fixed point, his reason to keep his feet on the ground. Not from the shadows, but upfront, visible, present. Trey did not want to be a secret; he wanted to be a certainty. The second option. Always. The option that does not fail, that does not hurt, that does not disappear when things get complicated.

Psychologically, Trey’s love structured itself as a refuge. Not one that traps, but one so comfortable, so safe that leaving seems truly unnecessary when you have everything there. Trey made sure that every time Yuu stumbled into the chaos that was the college, he was there to cushion the fall. Precise advice. Timely silences. Decisions made before danger could materialize.

If someone hurt Yuu, Trey did not explode, but reorganized the environment so that person would cease to be a threat. All with a smile. All with impeccable reasons.

And the most unsettling part is that Trey would be at peace with not being chosen. His yandere does not stem from desperation, but from conviction. He could wait. Years, if necessary. He could love without being loved, as long as Yuu was safe. Because, deep down, Trey did not want to be the center of Yuu’s world… he wanted to be the firm ground one always returns to when everything else collapses.

And if one day Yuu looked back, tired, hurt, searching for a place where existing did not hurt, Trey would be there, exactly as always: calm, open, prepared.

Not to claim. Not to impose. But to say, with the most dangerous calm of all: “It’s okay. It’s over. Now you’re safe with me.”

Cater falls in love with Yuu without realizing it, as always happens to him with important things. There is no exact moment, no cinematic click; there is a slow, sticky, almost invisible accumulation. At first Yuu is just that: someone who does not look at him like a display case or a trend, someone who does not ask how many followers he has or which version of himself he is showing today. Yuu does not consume him. Yuu accepts him. As if Cater, for the first time, did not have to be interesting to exist.

And that disarms him.

Cater has always been shine: quick laughter, pretty words, constant presence. A constellation of versions of himself orbiting others. But Yuu does not orbit him. Yuu is fixed. Silent when they want, curious when something interests them, indifferent to hierarchy, oblivious to the symbolic weight of that world. They come from another place—not just another world, but another way of being alive. And Cater feels it the way one feels warmth on the skin after having been cold for too long.

That is why the metaphor is born on its own, inevitable: Cater is a moth. Yuu is the light.

Not a blinding or violent light, but one of those that promise nothing and yet attract. Yuu does not try to save anyone, does not correct, does not classify. They observe, test, accept. And that, for Cater, is dangerous. Because Cater has spent his entire life adapting to others’ desire, reading expectations like survival maps. And suddenly someone appears who does not care about the role he plays, someone who approaches simply because it is him.

Cater does not want Yuu’s body. He wants the emotional space Yuu creates.

He wants that warm place where there is no need to perform, where there is no need to split, where there is no need to be funny or useful or popular. And without realizing it, he begins to settle there. At first like someone who stays a little longer than they should. Then like someone who reorganizes their day to coincide. Later like someone who needs to know if Yuu is okay before he himself can be okay.

He does not call it possession. He calls it care. He does not call it dependence. He calls it affection.

But it is greed, even if it is sweet as honey, it is still greed.

Cater begins to ignore the rest of the world when he is with Yuu. Not because he despises it, but because he no longer needs it. Others’ attention is noise compared to that constant light that demands nothing. Yuu does not admire him as an idol nor desire him as an object; Yuu simply lets him be. And Cater, who has always lived fragmented, begins to grow whole around that sensation.

Like a soft parasite. Like a symbiosis that does not hurt.

Cater does not want Yuu to leave. Not because he would lose them, but because he would scatter again. Because without that light he would have to multiply again, to divide himself, to be loved by many so as not to be seen by anyone. So he stays close. Always close. He smiles the same. Talks the same. No one notices the change because the change happens inside: Cater no longer seeks attention, he administers it. He no longer offers himself to everyone, he reserves himself. And if someone gets too close to Yuu, Cater does not attack; he simply steps in gently, with charm, with constant presence. He does not lock in. He isolates without it being noticed.

Yuu does not realize it. Why would they? Cater is kind. Affectionate. Sweet. Always there when needed. Always attentive. Always willing to listen. How could one suspect something that does not hurt?

That is the most dangerous thing about Cater, his yandere does not shout, does not threaten, does not bleed. It looks too much like love.

Because Cater does not want to possess Yuu. He wants to inhabit them.

To grow in that emotional world where he is accepted without conditions, to drink from that pure attention, to ignore the rest until only that light remains and him orbiting around it, happy, dependent, whole for the first time.

And if Yuu notices something strange… Cater smiles. He denies nothing. He only asks, lightly, almost hurt: “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m just worried about you, right?”

Ace Trappola does not fall in love as one falls: he realizes it. And that realization is fast, indecent, almost insulting to his own pride.

It all starts before it has a name. Before Riddle. Before the rules break. Before Night Raven College even feels real. It starts in the prologue, when Ace, Deuce, Grim, and Yuu get trapped together in the mine in a situation that is not a game, not a school prank, not an absurd rule: it is real danger. Life or death. Magic out of control. Genuine fear. The kind of fear that allows no masks.

There, Ace sees something that does not fit. Yuu has no magic. They should not be there. They should not endure. They should not advance. And yet they do. Not like a grandstanding hero, but like someone who does not run when they should, who stays when the sensible thing would be to flee. Ace, who has always lived by getting ahead of the blow, improvising, laughing at danger… feels something uncomfortable for the first time: someone else has his back without boasting. Without claiming anything.

That lodges itself in him.

Afterward, when everything “returns to normal,” Ace classifies it as friendship. Of course. Friendship born of chaos. Companions in misfortune. First allies. Nothing strange. Nothing deep. Nothing dangerous.

Until Riddle happens.

The Overblot does not just break the leader of Heartslabyul. It breaks the illusion of stability. It breaks the idea that order is safe. Ace sees someone powerful collapse, sees rules turned into weapons, sees how close everyone came to losing everything. And in the middle of that disaster, Yuu is still there. Without magic. Without rank. Without authority. But steady. Holding on.

And that is when Ace’s brain—fast, sharp, cruelly honest—slaps him internally.

It is not friendship. It cannot be.

Because Ace does not worry like that about his friends. He would not hit someone just because they insulted a friend’s parents, whom he does not even know, nor knows if they have. He would not watch their silences. He would not tense up when someone got too close to them. He would not feel that low, animal irritation when Yuu trusts others. He does not need to always know where they are, what they are doing, who they are talking to.

And the worst part. Ace realizes it too quickly. Embarrassingly quickly.

The problem is not recognizing the feeling. Ace has always been good at reading the truth, even when it hurts. The problem is accepting it. Because accepting that he is in love with Yuu means accepting that there is something he can lose. And Ace hates losing.

So he rationalizes it.

He tells himself it is normal to be protective. That he was there from the beginning. That he and Deuce were the first students to help Yuu. That they went through the initial hell together. That that right, the right of arrival, of first witness, of first ally, matters. And deep down, he truly believes it.

Ace becomes, almost without realizing it, a constant. He is always by Yuu’s side. Always has an excuse. There is always something to explain, something to comment on, something to solve together. His closeness is so natural that no one questions it. He is “that troublesome friend,” the one who jokes, who provokes, who acts fast when everything goes to hell.

And that gives him power.

A power Ace does not ignore. A power he takes advantage of.

Because Yuu trusts him. Trusts him because Ace was there when the world was hostile and they nearly got their heads blown off. Trusts him because Ace watched their back. Trusts him because Ace does not treat them like a genius or like a burden, but like someone real. Trusts him because Ace tells the truth, even when it is unpleasant. And that pure, open trust, without defenses, is fertile ground for something twisted.

Ace becomes fiercely loyal.

But that loyalty is not clean. It is possessive.

He does not control Yuu with orders or threats. Ace is not like that. He would never be. He controls with presence. With closeness. With humor. With everyday intimacy. He sticks like gum, yes, but always with a smile, always with a logical reason. “Let’s go together.” “It’s easier this way.” “I’ve got you, but you owe me lunch.” “Let me help you, you big idiot.”

Yuu sees no danger. Why would they? Ace has always been like this.

But something changes in Ace’s gaze when someone else tries to occupy that space. When another becomes a confidant. When Yuu laughs with someone who is not him. Ace does not explode. Does not confront. He observes. Evaluates. Adjusts. He starts marking territory in subtle ways: interrupting, getting closer, touching Yuu’s shoulder familiarly, speaking for them when he can.

He flirts shamelessly. Not as a declaration, but as a habit. As if affection were his by default. As if Yuu’s body, their space, their attention already belonged to him by emotional seniority.

And the most dangerous thing: Ace feels justified.

Because he was there first. Because he helped them survive. Because he understands this world and Yuu does not. Because he is the one who knows when danger is real.

Ace tells himself he is just protecting. That Night Raven College is a nest of monsters with pretty smiles. That someone has to protect Yuu from manipulators, tyrants, dark princes, and broken leaders. That he is the necessary evil, the brazen guardian, the only one who does not pretend to be something he is not.

But deep down, in that place Ace does not usually look, there is a simple, brutal truth:

He does not want to share Yuu. He does not want them to leave. He does not want to be alone again when everything calms down.

Ace as a yandere does not lock up or threaten. Ace stays. Ace takes up space. Ace never leaves.

And if one day Yuu asks him why he is always there, why he always accompanies them, why he always seems to know when something is wrong… Ace will smile, tilting his head, with that light expression that never fully shows what he feels, and say:

“What? I just care that you’re okay. Is that wrong now?”

Deuce Spade in love with Yuu is not a fantasy of hysterical possession nor a melodramatic explosion of jealousy. It is something older, more animal, more unsettling precisely because of how right it feels. He is the puppy who, for the first time in his life, found a steady hand that does not strike, a voice that does not shout, a gaze that does not disappoint. And when that happens, Deuce does not fall in love—he anchors himself.

Because Deuce does not love from desire, but from existential gratitude. Yuu did not enter his life as an object of attraction, but as a living compass. Someone without magic, without power, without status… and yet capable of guiding him through literal darkness, through a mine that was ready to swallow them alive. Down there, beneath the ground, with the air thick and death breathing down their necks, Deuce learns something that brands itself into his nervous system: following Yuu means surviving. Not through strength, not through authority, but because Yuu thinks clearly when everything breaks apart. Because Yuu does not abandon people. Because Yuu chooses to stay.

That cannot be forgotten.

Then comes Riddle. Perfect order collapsing, authority turning monstrous, a leader falling apart. And once again, Yuu is there. Not as a judge. Not as an executioner. As presence. As someone who sees horror and does not run. For Deuce, this seals something irreversible: Yuu does not just know what is right—they know how to hold onto it even when it hurts. And for a boy who lives terrified of becoming “bad” again, that is sacred.

This is how Deuce the yandere is born: not from fear of loss, but from the certainty that he has found something that must not be lost.

Deuce is, by nature, gentle. He has a heart. He has ethics. He has a surprisingly solid moral compass for someone with a delinquent past. He trusts that Yuu can take care of themself; he trusts their judgment, their independence. He admires them for it. He finds it incredible that someone without magic can walk among monsters with their head held high. But that admiration coexists with a brutal truth: Night Raven College is not a safe place. It is full of egos, trauma, dangerous magic, and boys who do not know how to measure their cruelty. And Yuu has no magic.

That detail is the trigger.

Because when Yuu is involved, Deuce’s compass bends. It does not break—it redirects. Everything that used to be “right” gains a single, absolute condition: does it protect Yuu, or does it endanger them? If it protects them, it is good. If it threatens them, every other consideration stops mattering.

Deuce does not seek fights. He does not threaten for sport. He does not intimidate for pleasure. But if someone looks at Yuu the wrong way, if a hand lingers a second too long, if a word sounds off… something in him reverts to a primal state. The body remembers before the mind does. The old Deuce—the one with quick fists and hot blood—wakes up without guilt. Not with hysterical rage, but with a clean, almost professional coldness. Like a guard dog whose human has just been touched.

And the most disturbing part is that he does not feel bad about it.

Because Deuce is convinced, down to the bone, that Yuu is good. He cannot conceive of malice in them. If Yuu hurts someone, it is because they deserved it. If Yuu lies, it is for a greater good. If Yuu forgives, Deuce forgives. If Yuu condemns, Deuce carries out the sentence—emotionally or physically, it does not matter—without questioning it. Not because Yuu orders him to, but because to Deuce, Yuu does not need excuses.

The intimacy he feels is not sexual or demanding; it is territorial. Deuce was there from the beginning. From the initial fear, from the chaos, from shared survival. In his mind, that cannot be replaced. It cannot be negotiated. It does not fade with time. Like Ace, yes, he feels entitled to closeness—but while Ace demands it openly, Deuce lives it with silent certainty. He does not claim attention: he waits for it. And when Yuu gives it to him—a kind word, a smile, an awkward pat on the head—Deuce melts. He becomes warm, clumsy, affectionate, happy to be a “good boy.”

And that reinforces the cycle.

Because Deuce does not want to dominate Yuu. He wants to be beside them. He wants to follow them. He wants them to look at him when they hesitate, to call him when something is dangerous, to include him in their plans. He cannot conceive of a life where Yuu leaves, where they no longer need his protection, where they are no longer his example. Unconsciously, the idea of Yuu abandoning him is unbearable—not because of romantic jealousy, but because without them, he loses direction.

What would he do without their guidance? Who would he become without that embodied moral standard?

Thus, Deuce becomes gentle with those Yuu accepts—almost docile. He laughs with them. He lowers his guard. But with anyone outside that circle… he turns opaque, distant, dangerous. He does not need to attack immediately. It is enough to mentally record names. Gestures. Looks. The blacklist exists, silent, and it is only erased if Yuu forgives. Only then can Deuce forgive as well.

Deuce Spade as a yandere is not a monster in love. He is something more tragic: a boy who found goodness incarnate in someone… and chose to become their shadow, their shield, their fangs.

A loyal dog does not ask whether he should bite. He simply protects.

And when Yuu questions him about his protectiveness, Deuce would simply say—without drama, almost like someone commenting on the weather, in that honest voice of his that doesn’t quite know how to lie:

"Don’t worry, Yuu… if someone tries to hurt you, I’ll take care of it. Trust me."

Wow, this was definitely an experience. It’s been a long time since I wrote this much and actually took the time to analyze characters in order to write. I feel like..I did well, actually; however, I also think I managed to write better characters than the ones I thought I wouldn’t know how to handle (Trey and Cater). Even so, as I analyzed them and started writing, I realized they were very pleasant and interesting characters to write, I absolutely did not expect that!

On the other hand, I feel that my writing was very mediocre and bland for Deuce, and I didn’t do him justice. I love his character, but my brain seemed to dry up as I wrote and in the end it felt like I ran out of ink… and the touch in the writing disappeared. It’s not necessarily bad, but I feel it doesn’t convey as much emotion as the other characters, and it hurts my heart not to have done him justice, though I feel it’s good enough to publish. I’ll probably fix it another day if I get a request about Deuce, but for now, I’ll leave it as it is.