„ man erreicht sein zuhause nie wirklich. doch dort, wo sich wege kreuzen, die eine affinität 𝘇𝘂𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 haben, erscheint die ganze welt für eine gewisse zeit wie ein 𝘇𝘂𝗵𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲. “
──── 【 瑞伊 】 𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐈 ✦ 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂 ・ any prns except feminine ・ local emil sinclair enthusiast deluxe ｡
📌 ★ ꒰ request ｡ closed ✦ commission ｡ open ꒱
─ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS 、 my works may contain triggering or sensitive topics such as self‑harm, suicidal ideation, pill usage, and similar themes - whether implied or explicit. if these subjects cause you discomfort, please avoid this blog for your own well‑being.
─ DNI ノBYF 、
➥ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ― 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ― 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 ｡
⊹ ࣪ ˖ others. art acc・carrd・miwa.lol・f/o & kin list・creds 1 & 2・psd 1 - 2 - 3
❝ a very so merry night we hold dear ❞
❝ so many, so many regrets bring me to tears. . . ❞
ⓘ an 、 halfway through writing this. checked the wiki. holy shi i made faust way too hostile it’s so ooc n it made me cringe. but after spending some hours on it. i can’t just toss it out. so suffer.
➤ FAUST
— faust herself is known as the most intelligent sinner among the group - perhaps, by her own account, among nearly the entirety of the city itself. both her constant proclamations and the records in her sinner profile support such a claim.
— thus, naturally, she takes immense pride in the vastness of her knowledge.
— it’s precisely that pride which forged the sharper edges of her personality: the competitiveness she makes no effort to conceal, the deliberately condescending cadence in her speech, and the near‑unshakable confidence she places in her own intellect.
— until she meets you, that is.
— reasonably speaking, faust dislikes you almost immediately.
— perhaps ‘dislike’ is too restrained of a word for the peculiar irritation curling beneath her ribs each time you casually correct one of her statements - not rudely, nor arrogantly, but with enough accuracy to leave no room for dismissal.
— at first, she perceives your interjections as little more than an unpleasant habit. an attempt to challenge her authority. a needless inclination to chime into matters already settled by her conclusions.
— yet the issue lies within one inconvenient fact: you are correct - consistently so.
— not always in grand, dramatic ways, no. sometimes it’s merely a minor adjustment to a calculation she overlooked; other times, a clearer and more comprehensive reinterpretation of a phenomenon she thought she already fully understood. insignificant details, yes, but they accumulate.
— and faust notices every single one of them. of course she does - these matters concern her expertise, after all.
— it never fails to make her brows twitch for what feels like the tenth occasion of the day.
— however, there exists something far more irritating about this entire ordeal - something that makes her skin crawl ever so slightly beneath that composed exterior of hers. a feeling she hardly ever - if ever at all - experiences.
— even people, or the countless intellectuals she had crossed paths with before, had never occupied her thoughts in quite this manner. howbeit, somehow, you manage it effortlessly - so unchallengingly, in fact, that several sinners have already begun noticing the subtle changes in her behavior around you.
— is it because you are her colleague - someone she is forced to remain around for extended periods of time ? perhaps it’s because your corrections are never delivered with arrogance, nor mockery, depriving her of any reasonable justification to dismiss them outright ?
— or perhaps it’s because, somewhere along the line, faust began experiencing something she had only ever truly felt once before - during that incident aboard the warp train - uncertainty.
— the longer this odd game of intellectual one-upmanship continues, the more irritation begins intertwining itself with something far uglier beneath the surface.
— insecurity.
— faust possesses immense pride - that much is undeniable - yet such confidence was never built upon arrogance alone. she has gesellschaft - an incomprehensibly vast collective of knowledge standing behind her, supporting her conclusions, refining her understanding, ensuring she remains ahead of nearly everyone else within the city.
— and yet, even with that advantage, you still manage to outpace her. again. and again. and again.
— it leaves something bitter festering beneath her ribs. growing moment by moment like a stubborn seed slowly forcing its roots deeper and deeper into soil unwilling to reject it.
— because if even the knowledge she prides herself upon proves insufficient before you, then what exactly does that make her ?
— no, that can't be the case. that must not be the case. no. absolutely not.
— faust, counting herself alone, wouldn’t be this degree of aggressive - irritated, certainly, but not enough for such ugly emotions to fester this deeply beneath her composure. however, the factor belonging to gesellschaft sure does trigger such. to an extent.
— their presence lingers constantly behind her thoughts, whispering into every moment you manage to outplay her once more. telling her - a genius - why is she being driven so downhanded by such an individual - someone they are quite certain does not possess a technique akin to theirs on their back, but merely their own knowledge alone.
— before long - or perhaps for far longer than she would ever care to admit - faust attempts to rationalize it. surely there must exist a logical explanation behind your capabilities.
— maybe your field of expertise merely overlaps with hers more often than anticipated ? maybe your conclusions are aided by information inaccessible to others ? maybe your thought process simply differs enough from conventional patterns to produce more efficient results in certain scenarios ?
— with that being said, the issue with such reasoning lies within one simple, irritating truth: your intelligence does not appear limited to a singular field.
— whether it concerns calculations, abnormalities, combat strategy, linguistics, mechanical systems, or phenomena even some certain parts of the city itself struggles to properly categorize - you adapt with infuriating ease. worse still, you do so without carrying the same air of superiority she has come to expect from intellectuals of your caliber.
— you simply. . understand. as though the conclusions she spends precious seconds refining had already existed within your mind long before the discussion even began.
— there are moments where she catches herself watching you silently from across the bus. staring - bordering closer to glaring, if anything - while you spend your time conversing almost jovially with your colleagues. not out of fondness - certainly not that - but observation. analysis. an attempt to uncover the mechanism behind your thought process.
— soon afterwards, with those tendencies gradually growing more accustomed to gesellschaft’s constant words alongside the very nature of faust herself - whose hostility was never born purely from arrogance, but rather from an incessant desire to understand the city wholly - she eventually comes to accept one undeniable truth.
— yes. you are indeed smarter than faust herself.
— surprisingly, that realization merely drives her to learn more about your knowledge - about yourself - instead.
— she begins lessening those habitual tendencies to glare toward your direction whenever discussions arise; especially after you once remarked, rather casually, that such glaring would “eventually ruin her pretty eyes” - an absurd statement, frankly.
— yet ever since then, the twitch of her brows whenever you present a significantly more comprehensible plan for the sinners has noticeably softened.
— rather than immediately opposing your conclusions internally, faust slowly begins learning from them instead. from your words. your thought process. the peculiar ways your mind reaches answers before anyone else can fully piece the question together.
— however, to accomplish such a thing, she ends up following you around far more often than intended - to the point where the two of you are now, apparently, attached nearly hip to hip.
— the other sinners find this development utterly hilarious - despite faust herself not quite sharing their enthusiasm. after all, watching her shift from glaring daggers at you to quietly absorbing your explanations like a student listening to their instructor within such a short span of time is, admittedly, rather amusing from an outside perspective.
— nowadays, the two of you resemble that infamous pair of exceptional students within a classroom - constantly discussing matters no one else understands, nor particularly wishes to understand after a certain point.
— albeit faust remains noticeably competitive at times, the aggression behind it has lessened considerably beneath the surface. not entirely gone, certainly not, yet healthier now - more constructive than hostile.
— and perhaps most surprisingly of all, even gesellschaft itself gradually comes to embrace your presence.
— after all, you prove to be yet another remarkably plentiful source of knowledge now placed well within their - lcb faust’s - reach.
➤ YI SANG
— in contrast to faust, yi sang initially takes a rather passive - if not outright unresponsive - approach to your intelligence, particularly prior to his canto.
— after everything he has endured, the fact that someone happens to be exceptionally clever hardly seems important in the grand scheme of things. if anything, he occasionally regards you with a quiet sort of melancholy.
— your brilliance reminds him, perhaps unwillingly, of his own past - the days when he was praised as a genius, only for that same path to lead him toward mistakes and regrets he still struggles to fully leave behind.
— yet the more time he spends around you, the more those feelings begin to change.
— there is something oddly grounding about your presence. a difficult thing to explain, really, but perhaps it stems from the fact that your intelligence resembles his own in a strangely familiar way.
— and perhaps - just perhaps - it is comforting, too. a faint reminder of better days. of conversations shared with people he once cherished. a distant warmth lingering beneath memories that otherwise ache to revisit.
— though even yi sang himself would hesitate to admit that aloud.
— this develops far more noticeably after his canto - without the weight of the past dragging at his heels quite so heavily, yi sang becomes much more observant than most people realize.
— he notices everything - the way you already know the outcome of an argument before it reaches its conclusion, the way you subtly steer conversations, the way your plans always seem to contain three more plans hidden beneath them, the way your conclusions arrive through routes entirely different from his own.
— he finds himself. . . becoming invested in these things in more ways than one.
— now that he thinks about it, it's surprisingly rare to encounter someone capable of matching him intellectually while remaining so approachable and jolly. unlike faust, conversations with you rarely feel like a contest of superiority - they feel natural. comfortable. like speaking with a genuine friend.
— and it's a comfort he grows increasingly fond of - he lets you know as much from time to time, though not always in a particularly direct manner.
— before long, conversations between the two of you can probably last for hours - one hypothetical leads into another, which leads into three more, until everyone else has long since given up attempting to understand what either of you is talking about.
— unlike faust, yi sang experiences no bruised pride whenever you outsmart him. if anything, he becomes more interested and curious.
— the moment you arrive at a conclusion he failed to consider, his eyes seem to brighten ever so slightly. as though you've presented him with a puzzle he hadn't realized existed.
— he enjoys being surprised by you, really.
— yi sang also becomes noticeably more talkative whenever you're around as time pass. granted, "talkative" remains a relative term.
— he still speaks in strange metaphors, still drifts into abstract observations, still somehow turns a simple discussion into something resembling philosophy.
— and if you happen to enthusiastically follow along with all of it ? well. it quickly becomes heaven for the two of you and absolute hell for everyone attempting to decipher the conversation from the outside.
— though he rarely admits it, yi sang can become uncharacteristically and surprisingly competitive when the mood strikes.
— it’s not all that subtly aggressive or open, but still the two of you have absolutely spent entire evenings attempting to outmaneuver one another through increasingly absurd thought experiments, neither willing to concede and neither willing to stop.
— and somehow, both of you leave the conversation feeling victorious anyway.
— speaking of mental games, he grows particularly fond of playing chess with you. not simply because he expects to win - quite the opposite, in fact.
— he is fully aware that you will likely defeat him most of the time - and that on occasion you are probably allowing him a victory out of kindness.
— still, he enjoys it - because to yi sang, the game itself is secondary. what matters is spending time with someone whose mind he genuinely admires.
— as your friendship deepens, you gradually notice him developing the habit of seeking your opinion - not intentionally nor consciously. it simply happens, like a plant naturally turning toward sunlight.
— whenever a problem arises, whenever a theory is proposed, whenever some unusual phenomenon catches his attention - his gaze drifts toward you almost automatically.
— waiting. curious about what you'll think. what you'll notice. what angle he'll inevitably miss.
— another thing worth noting is that yi sang is actually rather easy to impress - not through grand achievements or impossible feats all the time; rather, through perspective such as a single observation he never considered, a new interpretation, a different angle, and that is often enough.
— and those moments remain with him for a very long time afterward.
— similarly, he develops the habit of quietly remembering your ideas, your comments, and your observations.
— weeks later, he may casually reference something you once said, nearly word for word. not because he deliberately memorized it, but it simply stayed with him.
— your thoughts gradually become part of the collection of ideas he carries with him wherever he goes.
— if you're particularly good at reading people. . . . yi sang appreciates that more than he can properly express.
— despite appearances, he is not as passive as many assume. when circumstances demand it, he is fully capable of standing up for both himself and the people around him.
— that said, he is grateful whenever you notice the smaller things like the subjects that make him uncomfortable, the situations he'd rather avoid or the moments where he begins withdrawing into himself - it makes him feel understood.
― he finds your thought process beautiful - not necessarily because it's correct, but because it's yours. distinct, unpredictable and entirely separate from his own.
― there's something deeply comforting in discovering a distant mind he can't completely predict. no matter how much he observes, no matter how many conversations the two of you share, there always seems to be another layer waiting beneath the surface - another thought process, another perspective, another conclusion he never quite anticipated.
― thus, the habit of stealing glances in your direction develops all on its own. absentmindedly at first, then with increasing frequency. likewise, his smiles become more common whenever you're around - they may be faint and subtle, but undeniably there.
― and though your intelligence certainly plays a part in that fondness, it's not the sole reason. somewhere along the way, he found himself appreciating your presence just as much as the thoughts you bring forth.
― perhaps it's because a friendship built upon mutual understanding and shared curiosity has gradually begun to bloom into something more. something softer. something neither of you can quite name yet.
― to yi sang, discovering something beyond his expectations has always been one of life's greatest joys - and somehow, no matter how much time passes, you continue giving him new things to discover.
a failed skill check lands you directly in DYLE’s path. instead of tearing you apart, however, the twisted seems to recognize you - and refuses to let go.
・・・(twisted.dyle x gn.toon.reader)
ⓘ content warnings 、non-graphic violence , pain and injury descriptions , mentions of death , typical ooc
ⓘ wc 、1, 368
ⓘ an 、 writing so horrendous i need to remove it from my google doc before it starts lowering the property value.
you don’t quite know how you ended up in this . . . peculiar situation.
one moment, you’re diligently extracting ichor like any other toon would during a run and the next, your hand slips - a failed skill check rings through the floor with an almost mocking chime, loud enough to make your stomach immediately drop.
under normal circumstances, it wouldn't be the end of the world. a little embarrassing and inconvenient, perhaps, but that would be the extent of it.
unfortunately, fate seems to possess an outstanding sense of humor - because of all places, it simply had to happen on dyle’s floor.
a floor where mistakes are rarely afforded the luxury of remaining mere mistakes; a floor where a single failed skill check - or being spotted even once - can turn an otherwise uneventful run into a desperate struggle for survival within seconds.
and as though eager to prove that very point, the consequences arrive in the span of a blink.
a monstrous beast covered in dark, uneven patches bursts from the distance with a speed so absurd it borders on incomprehensible. one moment, it’s little more than a vague silhouette lingering at the edge of your vision; the next, it’s already charging directly toward the source of the noise, bearing an unsettling resemblance to a ravenous predator closing in on its prey.
every survival instinct within you erupts into a frantic chorus, every nerve in your small body screams the same message with overwhelming urgency: move.
run - run as far as those admittedly short legs of yours can possibly carry you.
yet dyle, in his twisted and barely coherent state, is no laughing matter. his reputation as a lethal did not earn itself.
you scarcely manage to put a few meters at best between yourself and your original position before something catches up - a force crashes into you with unimaginable ferocity, so overwhelming that it feels less like being struck by a living creature and more like being caught beneath an industrial crusher.
and before your senses can even begin to measure the extent of the damage inflicted upon your back, your entire body is already being hurled aside as though it weighs no more than a squeeze toy.
“kgh-” the sound tears from your throat despite the fact there is scarcely any air left within your lungs to support it.
the world spins.
everything hurts.
for a fleeting moment, you can’t even tell which way is up or down as your body collides against the floor and skids across its unforgiving surface.
the pain spreads through your back with such vicious intensity that it nearly forces another cry from your throat. you can feel it - no, know it with dreadful certainty - that several of your vertebrae have broken upon impact.
every attempt to move sends fresh waves of agony shooting through your body, while your nerves scream in protest at even the slightest shift of your weight. your vision blurs at the edges, spots dancing across your sight as your mind desperately struggles to remain conscious through the overwhelming pain.
and yet, even through all of that, one horrifying realization remains painfully clear.
dyle has not stopped moving, nor has he finished with you.
the serpent-like twisted now advances at a noticeably slower pace, as if the kill is already set in stone and there’s no longer any need to hasten the hunt.
with each step he takes, your heart tightens within your chest. the sound of his approach falls into a dreadful rhythm, one that resembles a funeral march more than footsteps. a rhythm you no longer possess the luxury of dismissing.
but as it turns out, death doesn’t seem particularly eager to claim you just yet.
because despite the pain creeping through every muscle and bone in your body, your senses remain frustratingly intact - intact enough to keep track of the time passing, at least.
and the longer this strange standoff continues, the more questions begin to surface - namely, why hasn’t he killed you yet?
surely enough time has passed by now.
carefully, you gather what little strength and courage remain within you and force your eyes open - only to nearly stop breathing altogether.
dyle is close.
his clock face hovers mere inches from your own, eyes fixed upon you with unusual intensity. rather than the mindless aggression you had anticipated, his gaze seems almost. . . searching. studying. as though he is trying to find something, or perhaps remember it. even his brows are drawn together in a noticeable frown.
right.
you used to know him - used to be rather close, in fact. perhaps - just perhaps - that connection still exists somewhere beneath the twisted creature standing before you now. perhaps there’s something left to recognize - something left to save your life.
the fragile hope quickly sparks into an idea. a foolish, meaningless idea.
but considering the alternative is being torn apart where you lie, you can’t exactly afford to be selective.
if there is even the slightest chance it might work, then you have to try.
thus, ever so slowly, ever so carefully, you lift your uninjured arm from the cold ground.
every movement sends fresh agony lancing through your body, but you grit your teeth and continue nonetheless until your trembling hand reaches him.
then, with all the strength you can presently muster, you lightly push against the massive twisted - a weak, hesitant gesture; one thoroughly coated in fear.
yet perhaps it rings a bell somewhere within the haze of his fractured memories - because instead of immediately chomping your arm off for daring such a thing, dyle simply follows the silent signal and leans back.
not too much or too little, merely enough for you to realize you've been holding your breath this entire time.
still, before long, you barely manage to taste that small patch of relief upon the tip of your tongue when he suddenly moves again - toward you.
the next thing you know, your vision lurches.
“what-?” the word leaves you in a bewildered blink - then another. and another - before awareness finally catches up with reality.
you are, indeed, trapped between his arms. neatly tucked against his chest - though ‘comfortably’ would be a rather generous description - as if you’re some treasured object he has abruptly decided to keep. or perhaps a favorite chew toy.
the sudden movement immediately sends pain flaring through your injured back all over again, earning a strained sound from your throat before you can stop it.
dyle stills.
and for a brief moment, he almost looks. . . guilty?
his eyes remain stained the same unsettling shade of red, yet something beneath them feels familiar. a fractured remnant of emotion. a glimpse of the dyle you once knew.
it seems he cannot speak in whatever state he currently occupies; so instead, he settles for actions - the tip of his tail slowly enters your field of vision, curling its way toward you before gently brushing against your cheek.
then, without haste, it winds itself around your arm - loose enough not to hurt, and firm enough not to let go. like he is afraid you might leave.
in spite of the fact that you are already safely - and very much thoroughly - trapped within his embrace.
there isn’t much you can do about the situation, admittedly. It’s not like you can suddenly summon enough strength to break free from the arms of a lethal - much less when said lethal has you wrapped up like this.
at the very least, dyle no longer appears interested in tearing you apart. that’s a comforting thought, somewhat.
besides, if fortune decides to be merciful for once, perhaps your teammates will eventually come looking for you and sort this whole mess out themselves. hopefully sooner rather than later.
until then. . . well.
you’re exhausted.
your entire body hurts, your spine feels as if it has been put through a grinder and the lingering adrenaline has long since begun giving way to fatigue.
therefore, you suppose a quick nap - just a very quick one - wouldn’t hurt either.
calling the BAD END IDENTITIES "pretty boy / girl"
・・・(gn.manager.reader)
ⓘ content warnings 、light self‑deprecation in gregor’s part, very likely ooc for certain ids (e.g. ryoshu), no proofreading
ⓘ wc 、718
ⓘ an 、 moot joining this fandom boosted my motivation big time.
➤ EFFLORESCED E.G.O:: SPICEBUSH YI SANG
— overall, he doesn't give much of a reaction beyond his customary blank expression and a quiet "ah."
— however, from time to time, you'll catch him repeating the phrase under his breath later on. whether it's an attempt to commit it to memory or simply to better understand such a peculiar choice of words remains difficult to tell.
➤ THE MANAGER OF LA MANCHALAND DON QUIXOTE
— scoffs at you with her brows drawn together so tightly you'd almost think she genuinely despises being called pretty. she'll likely tell you to cut it out, too.
— in reality, however, it's less annoyance and more a poorly concealed attempt at handling her embarrassment. she simply doesn't know what to do with a compliment like that, especially when there are far more pressing matters demanding her attention.
— in short, she. . . kind of likes it. unfortunately that's a fact she'd sooner carry to her grave than admit out loud.
➤ BLADE OF HOUSE OF SPIDERS RYOSHU
— gets flustered for a brief moment, perhaps - just perhaps - even stopping dead in her tracks. it's almost amusing when compared to the composed, full-of-hatred image she usually carries herself with.
— fortunately for her, the lapse doesn't last long - she quickly regains her composure and firmly tells you not to say such things again, regardless of whether she enjoys hearing it or not.
➤ THE LORD OF HONGYUAN HONG LU
— if you happen to say it while he's in a particularly good mood and free from work, he'll simply flash you that infuriatingly smug smile and tease you right back and forth.
— however, should you catch him during one of his more serious moments - or before the two of you haven't grown particularly close yet - he'll merely tell you to stop spouting such absurd nonsense and focus on whatever task requires your attention instead.
➤ WILD HUNT HEATHCLIFF
— genuinely wonders what force in the universe compelled you to utter those words aloud, and to him of all people no less.
— surprisingly, the feeling it evokes is less embarrassment and more sorrow. in some distant, unpleasant way, it reminds him of her.
— as a result, he'll either fall completely silent - lost somewhere deep within his thoughts and regrets - or bluntly tell you never to call him that again.
➤THE PEQUOD CAPTAIN ISHMAEL
— repeats the phrase beneath her breath for a moment before letting out an amused laugh.
— she'd much prefer being called "captain" over "girl," but she'll let it slide this once.
— regardless, she finds the whole thing oddly amusing. in fact, despite herself, she has a surprisingly difficult time disliking the thought of hearing you say it again.
➤ THE ONE WHO SHALL GRIP SINCLAIR
— despite everything he's endured, sinclair would still be caught off guard and flustered much like his base self. after all, he's spent far more time being ordered to purge heretics than being called. . . whatever it was you just called him.
— he does try to process it - emphasis on try. as much as he wants to tell you to stop; to insist that of all the people deserving such a compliment, he certainly isn't one of them - the words never quite leave his mouth.
— because despite knowing full well he doesn't deserve to be called that, despite believing he shouldn't want to hear it - he can't help but let it happen.
— much to his own shame, he finds himself waiting for the next time you'll say it again.
➤ G. CORP MANAGAER CORPORAL GREGOR
— you? saying that? to him? him specifically?
— you really ought to get your eyes checked. or perhaps you're simply that much of a sadist, intent on rubbing salt into that bleeding and rotting wounds of his.
— because as far as he's concerned, being called a "repulsive pest" would make far more sense than whatever this is. there's no need to play tricks on him like that.
— and if you insist you're being genuine, he'll only laugh awkwardly and look away. perhaps some things are simply easier to dismiss as a joke than to hope might be true.
a single ‘hypothetical name combination’ is all it takes to reduce SINCLAIR into a blushing, stammering mess.
“your full name’s emil sinclair, right?”
sinclair blinks, visibly caught off guard by the sudden question. the two of you had merely been having an ordinary conversation moments ago, so the abrupt shift leaves him scrambling slightly for context.
did he say something wrong? misspeak somewhere earlier perhaps?
“. . .yeah?” he answers after a second, giving a small nod. “why?”
you hum thoughtfully for dramatic effect before flashing him a thumbs-up.
“nice name.”
“huh?”
“i was just thinking,” you continue far too casually for whatever direction this conversation is apparently heading toward. “if our names were put together, would it sound good?”
sinclair stares at you with a completely dumbfounded expression.
“something like, emil [name].” you suggest ever so innocently. “doesn’t that sound kinda neat?”
for several seconds that feel equivalent to an eternity itself, sinclair genuinely forgets how to respond.
in reality, however, his face is rapidly adopting an alarming shade of red, conveying quite effectively that he is, in fact, internally combusting on the spot.
“what?!” he blurts out far louder than intended, eyes widening as he blinks frantically. “w-wait, why are you saying it like that all of a sudden?!”
“what’s the problem?” you ask innocently, as though you hadn’t just casually and passively proposed marriage in the middle of a conversation. “you don’t like it?”
“n-no, that’s not what i mean-”
the poor boy completely short-circuits halfway through his sentence, his entire system seemingly shutting down as both hands immediately fly up to cover a face now bearing an uncanny resemblance to a tomato.
meanwhile, you can’t help the amused grin tugging at your lips as you watch him struggle this hard over a single hypothetical name combination.
“. . . you’re doing this on purpose. .” sinclair mumbles weakly from behind his hands, unable to meet your gaze anymore.
“maybe,” you simply shrug.
“that’s so unfair.”
“and yet you still haven’t answered my question.”
the champagne-haired man lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine.
“. . i-i think it sounds nice.”
“aw, really?” you giggle, absentmindedly poking at the makeshift shield of hands he’d raised in a futile attempt to hide his overly flustered state.
♡ :: Short drabble for Lucio, mentions of abuse and contains a mild depiction of violence.
. . . ♪
Lucio had already lost track of the amount of times he had been put into this same position. Him, quietly sitting inside the lounge, and you, treating his wounds. Was it 5? Or could it have been over 20? It didn’t matter, considering his master could very easily add to that count at any moment.
He had entered the Thumb’s Corridor at the wrong time—not like there had ever been a time where it wasn’t—and incited her wrath by merely entering the corner of her peripheral. She had been hunched over the counter when Lucio entered, yet not one moment later, she had immediately begun hurling insults towards him, and the verbal onslaught wasn’t the only thing sent flying in his direction.
A square glass bottle of Old Parr that was in her hold just seconds prior had been aimed straight at his head. Luckily, she had grown so tipsy that she just so happened to miss his skull, causing it to smash against his arm instead. Its dark amber glass shattered immediately upon impact, with some broken shards stabbing his skin and drawing blood. She would’ve thrown another bottle at him if she wasn’t too preoccupied by immediately popping open and downing another glass of whiskey. Lucio, naturally, vacated the area immediately.
He winced as you applied the layer of antibiotics on his skin, the stinging sensation hurting far more than when the glass shards pierced his skin. Perhaps it was because he had already long grown accustomed to the sharp burning pain of the glass shards lodging themselves deeper and breaking past his skin’s epidermal layer. Or perhaps, it was because of the knowledge that you cared more about him than you ought to have. His master had taught Lucio that his role in life was to become a ‘Textbook’, to become a perfectly tailored textbook for Yoshihide’s sake, so that she may re-learn from him the forms of swordsmanship she had neglected.
“As always, take care to change the bandages at least once per day.”
Your reminder snapped him out of his thoughts, causing his gaze to drift upwards. “Or, if it ends up dirty or wet.”
Your words elicited an immediate nod from the man as he remained silent—not like he could say much else. You made sure to remind him of such a fact every time he got injured, but it was almost guaranteed that he would not listen unless you told him to. That knowledge, at first, prompted you to chastise him once more each time, but over time, you grew to learn that it wasn’t an intentional habit of his.
He was a ‘Textbook’, one who did not need to care so much about the condition of his body. No matter if it was covered in bloodied bruises or open wounds, wear and tear were signs a book was well-loved, after all. When one has opened its cover countless times, reading through its contents over and over again, no matter if it was treated with all the gentleness a mother would have to her own child or handled by someone who despised that same child with their whole heart, it was bound to form. Creases, bumps, chips in its cover, or even its color fading as a result of unavoidable circumstances.
Precisely because of that knowledge, Lucio did not care to take care of his body as a human should. He allowed Valencina to tear into him with both words and physical blows, as long as it would be able to impart upon him deeper knowledge of every form she wished for him to perfect. It was all for the sake of becoming her perfectly tailored Textbook. Maybe it was because of that, he has forgotten that he’s more than that.
…Or at least, that’s what you believed he could be thinking at this moment as he stared absentmindedly at the bandage wrapped firmly around his arm.
Suddenly, the door slammed open with the vigor of the one who stood before them. “Lucio!” Valencina bellowed out. Her face was still flushed, making it abundantly clear that she had been drinking—but really, when was she not?
“Get your lazy fucking ass off the couch and get back to training!” She ordered him, leaving the room not a moment later with a loud ‘bang!’, leaving the room in utter and total silence.
A brief moment of silence passed before Lucio finally spoke. “...I’m thankful for your help as always, [Name].” He directed towards you a quiet murmur, pushing himself off the cushions. “I regret to say that I must depart now,” He gave you one last glance before heading towards the door. “Let’s.. talk again later.”
And thus, the door clicked shut.
..
…Ah, you hoped he would just care a little more about himself.
how does fishy react (or perhaps crashout) when her beloved distorts because Certified Canto Trauma
this was delectable anon ty. wrote this as more of a scenario but i may revisit the concept as a oneshot one day 👀
ishmael with a distorting s/o
She can fix this.
Through the blood roaring in her ears and her mind going a mile a minute, there is one thing that Ishmael grapples to latch onto over and over. She can fix it. It is reversible. And she has helped reverse it before, numerous times.
Back then, it didn’t feel so painful. She didn’t care if she gave the other distortions a good thrashing to get through to them; it was for the best. It helped them, in the end. But you? She didn't want to do that to you. You're the last person she'd ever want to beat back to their senses, but it's too late now. Kissing it better wasn’t an option.
“I should've done something.” Her jaw hurts from how hard she's been clenching her teeth by the time she finds her voice, each word gritted out.
Yi Sang, miraculously still alive after how hard he'd hit the floor a few moments ago, drags his sleeve across his forehead, smearing blood across his pallid skin. “You could not see the depths of their suffering. Many times, it eludes us until–”
“It shouldn't have. I know them.” She snaps. Her grip on her mace tightens until her fist shakes, her knuckles turning white. Her left arm feels all sorts of wrong– something is very off about her shoulder– but she can't bring herself to care as she forces herself back to her feet.
“I know them, and I didn't see it.”
Oh, but she'd seen the way you shook, how you retreated to your room to hide every evening as Mephistopheles drew nearer to your home District. The dread painted plain as day across your face as they crossed the border, how tense you were, your nerves pulled taught until they'd inevitably snap. She did try to be there; tried to reach out, tried to help. Maybe her suggestions hadn't come out quite right, maybe they weren't good enough at all. Drawing from her own experiences, so very different from yours… perhaps that did more harm than good.
And right before you distorted, she saw how tired you were. In an all encompassing, deeper-than-bone sort of way. The Bough was right there, across the ground that was drenched with blood and littered with your shattered memories, and you could scarcely move. She couldn't get through to you then, with your eyes glazed over and your legs long since fallen out from under you, words and fleeting touches no longer enough to ease your suffering.
Ishmael looks to Dante, positioned at the edge of the battle and already facing her, and her message is unspoken but heard as they nod their prosthetic. She's going all out, and she expects backup. You're decimating everything around you. Hurting the others– your friends. Some are dead, some are favoring certain limbs and calling out your name and platitudes like that'll be enough, and she can't quite get herself to scoff because before, it might have been. The thought only makes her heart ache worse, because she can already hear your apologies now. She can feel your guilt, palpable as you hang your head, shielding your eyes from the damaged bodies of your colleagues.
Dante's going to pick them all up, though. Again and again. And they are going to drag you back from the ledge, kicking and screaming, no matter how hard you make it. You won't be swallowed up by your past, they're not going to let you. Ishmael can't let you.
She couldn't get through to you before. Couldn't get through the defenses you'd built up, nor the remnants of her own. But she hefts her mace, and makes one thing very clear as her shield lies discarded in the dirt.
She will this time.
i eat ishmael angst for breakfast lunch and dinner
could you do lcb sinners x reader who can purr like a cat? ty!
purr 。
LCB SINNERS with a reader who can purr.
ⓘ content warnings 、none
ⓘ wc 、1,151
ⓘ an 、 that is an excellent idea anon. i appreciate the concept of having 2 works connected to cats - one titled “meow” and the other “purr”
➤ YI SANG
❝ it is. . . a rather pleasant sound. one finds themselves wishing to hear it again before long. ❞
he’d be startled enough at first to genuinely assume the sound was merely another product of his imagination, though he quickly comes to acknowledge it after a few blinks of confusion.
yi sang doesn’t comment on it much afterward either, yet before words could even form, you’d already notice the subtle tug of a tender smile resting across his lips.
over time, your purring simply becomes something he quietly treasures - a soft background hum oddly grounding to listen to whenever his thoughts drift too far. and though he’d never ask for it outright, yi sang gradually finds himself lingering closer beside you in hopes of hearing it again.
➤ FAUST
❝ an intriguing phenomenon. faust was previously unaware a human could vocalize in such a manner. ❞
faust’s reaction is less surprise and more immediate analysis.
rather than making a significant deal out of your. . . purring, she instead focuses on understanding how exactly you’re capable of producing such an unusual vocalization - especially considering no ordinary human should realistically be able to replicate a sound of that nature so naturally.
once she reaches a satisfactory conclusion, however, faust quickly relegates it into the category of harmless background noise and moves on without much further fuss.
➤ DON QUIXOTE
❝ most marvelous ! thou soundeth akin to a contented feline creature !! ❞
needless to say, she’s absolutely fascinated.
don quixote reacts as if you’d just unveiled some legendary hidden technique spoken of only in ancient tales, eyes practically sparkling with excitement the moment she hears the sound.
before long, she’s already asking you to do it again. and again. and perhaps one more time for confirmation.
whether you indulge her curiosity or refuse outright, the aftermath usually consists of don attempting to mimic the sound herself - with results ranging from terribly inaccurate to outright concerning.
➤ RYOSHU
❝ hmph. C.L. ❞
initially raises a brow, briefly wondering whether the sound had simply come from elsewhere before realizing it originated from you.
while she’d never openly admit it in plain terms, she does find the trait aesthetically appealing in its own strange way. enough to occasionally give your head a brief stroke if the mood strikes her.
unsurprisingly, she also ends up assigning you some cryptic cat-related nickname afterward and continues using it whenever referring to you.
➤ MEURSAULT
❝ empirical observation: you emit such sound 4.7 times per minute during affection, ±0.3 with hand placement. ❞
maybe he offers a short observation regarding the unusual sound. maybe not. either way, meursault ultimately treats the matter with the same level of neutrality he approaches most things with.
that said, due to his remarkably precise memory. should any of the sinners ever question when, why or under what conditions you tend to purr, meursault is capable of answering almost immediately - often with enough accuracy to make it seem as though he’d been silently documenting your behavior for research purposes all along.
➤ HONG LU
❝ ah, there’s that lovely sound again. ❞
he reacts rather similarly to don quixote, albeit far less explosively energetic about it.
and instead of confusion, hong lu accepts your purring surprisingly naturally. if anything, he seems amused and charmed by it more than anything else.
before long, he starts subtly encouraging the behavior too; resting beside you more often, absentmindedly playing with your hair, or speaking in that soft, gentle tone of his simply because he enjoys hearing the sound return afterward.
➤ HEATHCLIFF
❝ oi, knock it off already. ❞
definitely throws him off here and there at first, though heathcliff eventually reaches a point where he simply accepts it as another one of your strange little harmless habits, especially compared to the several far more concerning habits possessed by the rest of his colleagues aboard the bus.
that said, he still gets visibly flustered whenever you start purring because of him specifically. every single time. he’ll grumble and tell you to quit it already, regardless of whether he actually dislikes the sound or not.
➤ ISHMAEL
❝ wait, seriously ? humans can actually do that ? ❞
looks around. stares at you. then glances around the surroundings once more before narrowing her eyes at you again - visibly trying to process and confirm what exactly she’d just heard.
once she realizes the sound is genuinely, really, truly coming from you; however, her confusion gradually melts into reluctant fondness alongside a noticeable hint of bewilderment.
although she’d never openly make a huge fuss over it, she does slowly begin associating your purring with quieter, safer moments aboard the bus. maybe even coupled with a faint smile of hers that ishmael herself isn’t aware of.
➤ RODION
❝ aww, there it is again~ c’mon, lemme hear it one more time ! ❞
absolutely adores it from the very start.
the second rodion realizes you tend to purr whenever comfortable or affectionate, she immediately starts trying to coax the sound out of you on purpose - especially whenever she has nothing better to do. this usually involves excessive cuddling, cheek squishing, playing with your hair and invading your personal space with absolutely zero shame whatsoever.
and unfortunately for you, your reactions only amuse her even more afterward.
➤ SINCLAIR
❝ o-oh. that means you’re. . happy right now, right ? ❞
poor sinclair nearly short-circuits the first time he hears you purr.
he freezes completely for several seconds, a soft blush spreading like petals across his face - all the more once he understands it’s born from your comfort in his presence.
soon enough, he grows noticeably softer whenever it happens - partly because the endearing sound reminds him of normalcy, partly because it’s simply soothing to hear - though most of the time he’s far too flustered to mention it directly, of course.
➤ OUTIS
❝ you seem. . rather prone to making that sound around me lately. ❞
maybe a little mildly surprised at first, but that’s about the extent of it. you being able to purr isn’t exactly the end of the world or anything, is it ?
but you may catch those same subtle little reactions whenever you purr near her - or because of her purposefully - if your eyes happen to be sharp enough for it, though discerning whatever thoughts lie behind them remains practically impossible as always.
➤ GREGOR
❝ hah. . . guess that means you’re comfortable around me, huh? ❞
somewhat caught off guard the first few times he hears you purr just like the rest of the sinners, and he adjusts to it in a short time too.
before long, he starts finding the sound oddly soothing - enough for your presence itself to gradually become something nice to have around from time to time.
✿ these are a list of prompts (?) that I use whenever I want to write for a character but I'm out of ideas on what to write. anyone is free to submit whatever prompts they may have and I'll add them to the list with credit.
✿ you can additionally use this to send in requests. other authors are also free to write for these headcanons if they so wish.
Flower jam was once something you were fond of, so much so that the Lord you tagged along with would buy you one every now and then. You never got to eat anything sweet or sugary due to growing up poor and flowers were a rare sight within the Backstreets, so it wasn’t a surprise to anyone who knew you that you ended up liking flower jam so much.
Yet the taste of flowers slowly became something you detested as more and more flowers of various colours forced themselves out your body; leaving their taste to linger on your tongue together with the taste of iron as wedding bells tolled outside.
₊✦Limbus Company | Lord of Hongyuan!Hong Lu x Gn!Reader | No spoilers!✦₊
During your time within Daguanyuan, the bathroom in your room had become a sanctuary of some sort.
Blood and petals covered the tiles and there were noticeable stains of blood on the sink as well. You didn’t let anyone come in to clean the mess in fear that your unrequited crush would find out about it, nor did you clean it up yourself.
What would be the point in doing that when you were going to die soon anyway?
The sun shined brightly outside your room. Tried as you might, you couldn’t shut out the sounds of the celebration going on outside. Not the singing, not the cheers, not the music. If you had the energy left for it, you’d be able to see all the decorations put up all over Daguanyuan just outside your window.
Hong Lu’s… No, the Lord of Hongyuan’s wedding was a special occasion after all. It didn’t matter to the people if he was a tyrant so long as he got to give them something to celebrate about.
And who else was his bride to be? None other than Xue Baochai, of course. The very woman who he was betrothed to since the two were young and the very one who insisted on calling him Jia Baoyu, like it was a symbol of their special, intimate connection that no one else could replace.
That you could ever hope to replace.
Nausea washed over you just as the thought of it. Of them being together from now on.
You shouldn’t be jealous. You didn’t have the right to be. You were just some street rat that Hong Lu saw off the road and decided to nurture because he saw how useful you’d be to his goals. Your love for him was one-sided — unrequited from your end — that you’ve always known.
You thought his love for Lady Baochai wasn’t anything special either. His actions always felt forced when it came to her, so you were able to divert your eyes whenever you caught him seducing her and that his feelings were nothing more than an attempt to seize control. You thought that all he wanted from her was the leash of the si heishou and that he would throw her away after he was done.
You thought wrong.
The bed you were lying in felt a lot more like a coffin than it did a bed. The taste of the flowers that you coughed up a little less than an hour ago lingered in your mouth. Your throat hurt. Your chest did, too. You couldn’t tell if it was from the heartbreak or from the flowers blooming in your lungs and pressing against your heart. Probably both.
The blanket covering you was nice and warm at least, a real coffin would be uncomfortable and cold to be in… If you ever ended up in a coffin. In truth, your corpse would end up in the backstreets and left there until the sweepers got rid of it. That was what was going to happen to you if Hong Lu didn’t save your life that day.
Knock knock.
You glanced at the door from your spot. You had no intentions of getting out of your bed, especially when the flowers inside you were going to finish you off sometime today, so whoever it was on the—
“It’s me.”
The Lord of Hongyuan’s — your Lord’s — voice came from the other end, causing you to freeze up. You didn’t know what he was here for but how could you even begin to explain yourself if he asked about your absence for his wedding?
Without giving you the chance to respond, he opened the door — which you were sure you locked — and walked in. His expression was stoic as always, leaving you to wonder what he could be feeling or thinking about as he looked at you.
“M- My Lord!” Two mere words yet they hurt to say all the same. You sat up on your bed and forced a smile as your throat burned and threatened to spill everything out. “What brings you here?”
His eye narrowed as he took a good look at the state you were in. “Are you sick?”
“You could… say that.”
He didn’t look convinced.
At least you cleaned up after your previous coughing fit so he couldn’t ask you about why you were covered in blood. Explaining that would be hard. Regardless, you had to get him out of your room as soon as possible. The longer he was in here, with you, made your heart ache all the more and caused your stomach to twist and churn.
“But why—” You hastily covered your mouth with your hand as you coughed, frowning when you felt a familiar wetness on your palm. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out there?”
He glanced at your hand before looking you in the eyes. “You were missing, that’s why,” he answered as he walked over to you. “Can’t have a wedding without my right hand, can I?”
Your chest tightened at his words.
“Right.”
You moved your hand away and made sure he didn’t see the blood on your palm right as he stopped by your side. He reached forward and moved his hand to your forehead, frowning a second later. “You don’t have a fever.”
“That’s… um, probably because your hands are… warm?”
Hong Lu didn’t look like he believed you. Nonetheless, he let out a sigh, “Let me check again then,” he said before moving his hand to your cheek.
Your face warmed up under his touch. “M- My Lord?”
He leaned down and pressed his lips against your forehead— not a proper kiss, but the closest thing you’d get to it from him. Barely a second later and he pulled away, much to your dismay. “You certainly don’t have a fever.”
You’d think that you blushing would fool him into thinking that you did in fact have a fever. “Guess I’m fine then! You should get back to your wedding, I’ll stay here and rest in case my cough gets worse.”
“The wedding isn’t starting until evening so I have time to spare,” he replied. “Besides, this isn’t just about your cough.”
“It isn’t?” you repeated.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Those were the words that you were hoping to avoid. Words that you hoped would never be spoken, as you hoped that Hong Lu would be far too worried in his work to notice your absence.
“…I’m just sick, that’s all,” you excused, your words half lie and half truth.
“Are you?” His eyebrow furrowed. “Why haven’t you called a doctor to help you then?”
“I- I…”
Because you couldn’t allow anyone to find out about the flowers.
You can’t let them know about your unrequited feelings. Not when Hong Lu loved another.
“Tell me.”
“…I wasn’t sure if it was anything serious, that’s why,” you said, avoiding his eyes. “But I didn’t want to get you sick either.”
The corners of his lips twitched and quirked up. His smile was both annoyed and mocking. “After spending so much time with me, I thought you’d know better than to lie to me.”
“My Lord, I—”
“Stop talking.”
You flinched. Did you mess up somewhere? “But—”
“Your throat is parched,” he interrupted you with a sigh. “If you’re going to insist on talking, then at least drink water first. Wash up too while you’re at it.”
A sigh of relief escaped you at that. So you didn’t mess up anything…
“Come here.” He extended his arm to you and you found it hard to refuse both his touch and his help, letting him pull you up and hold you up right against his side. Unfortunately, instead of walking towards your kitchenette, he walked towards your bathroom instead.
“My Lord, wait—!”
Too late.
You couldn’t stop him with what little strength you had left, resulting in him not even noticing your attempt at stopping him — and ignoring you telling him to stop — from opening your bathroom door. He paused the moment he saw the mess inside. He didn’t say anything as he looked at the tiled floor. He didn’t let you go either as he stepped inside; bringing you in with him.
Your head started to spin.
How were you going to explain this?
He let go of your torso in favour of grabbing your wrist so you couldn’t run away. Then he knelt down and grabbed one of the many petals littering the floor.
“…What is this?”
His voice didn’t give anything away either.
You stayed quiet, unsure of how you could respond to this without troubling him even more.
“I asked you a question, didn’t I?” He looked up from the petal and at you, meeting your gaze with a glare. He sounded both angry and worried. “What is this?”
“A… petal…”
“Good, you can answer that much.” He stood up and took your other hand in his. “Now care to tell me why your bathroom has so much blood?”
You looked away.
“I…”
You could feel a phantom hand grab your heart and squeeze it tightly, leaving your breath to stutter as you failed to come up with an excuse.
“Your— Your wedding—” you managed to let out.
“Who cares about my wedding right now?!” he snapped back.
“Lady Baochai will—” A cough escaped you.
Then another.
And another.
Hong Lu let go of you as your hands shot up to cover your mouth; coughing over and over again to rid yourself of the flower that lodged itself in your throat. Hong Lu shouted something, you couldn’t really hear it, before a pair of arms wrapped around you and your coughs grew until a flower covered in blood escaped past your lips. One that looked a little too big for your comfort and left you heaving.
He muttered something behind you — a curse, maybe — and lowered you onto the floor, sitting you on his lap as comfortably as possible. “Listen,” he began, placing one hand on your cheek and making sure that you were looking at him. He looked so worried. “I don’t care about what that woman thinks and I’ll postpone the wedding if I have to. I’m not letting you ignore whatever this is any longer, understand?”
His words filled you with the smallest amount of hope…
“W- Why…”
“Because you’re my right hand. I can’t afford to lose you.”
…only for that hope to be crushed immediately after.
Right hand.
“…Yeah.”
Hong Lu would never return your feelings. He would never love you the way that you loved him.
“Can you stand or do I have to carry you?”
The phantom hand continued to squeeze your heart in its fist, but at least now you had to knowledge that he didn’t love Lady Baochai either to alleviate some of that pain.
“I- I can…”
“Forget it, I’ll carry you.”
You believed that he didn’t love her anyway if he was willing to postpone his wedding for your sake.
<- Back to the masterlist?
tag list: @rosaberrii, @yuri678, @existence-is-a-pain87, @successfulthinkgirl, @rainachain, @ao3master2000
tag list:@rosaberrii, @yuri678, @existence-is-a-pain87, @successfulthinkgirl, @rainachain, @ao3master2000
₊✦Limbus Company | Paula x Gn!Reader | No spoilers!✦₊
Paula’s familiar with dysphoria herself for one reason or another. So whenever you're feeling dysphoric, you can expect her to drop — almost — everything and come running to make you feel better.
She’s not the best at it since she never got any affirmation when she was figuring out her gender and had to deal with dysphoria, but she certainly does her best because she doesn’t want you to deal with what she had to go through on her own.
She’ll reassure you that you are the gender that you feel you are and do activities that helps you feel gender euphoria— or anything that would help you feel happy and cheer you up, really. Paula’s also not one for nicknames, but if it’s for your sake, then she can struggle to use a nickname or a petname of your preferred gender for you.
Hi !! Good to know you're opening up your request again.
Also, can I request some jealous sinclair hcs? I yearn for more sinclair contents 🤤🤤
sinclair jealousy headcanons
🫧he really doesn't get jealous that often. but when it happens, he mostly just feels undeserving of your love and attention, and he tends to get into his own head about it. the whole thing feels surreal to him, that you chose him. sinclair's jealousy is born from feelings of inferiority; he worries that he isn't good enough, isn't strong enough. that you're going to find someone better, who can offer you safety and stability that he worries he can't. he also fears abandonment, that inevitable ache he expects when you realize how many better options there are out there. compares himself to others a lot, which really doesn't help the situation at all.
🫧at least self aware enough to know that this is a him problem. you likely haven't even done anything wrong, so he isn't going to take it out on you directly, and the last thing he wants is to drag your mood down with his. so he will sulk and get really quiet, but he'll also be torn between distancing himself and staring after you like a sad puppy left in the rain. now the same can't be said for the menacing glares he shoots at the offending party; he may even get short with them, bordering on hostile. he'll be embarrassed about it later, but in the moment he thinks he's doing a really good job at hiding his feelings
🫧you'll notice that he's a lot more aggressive in the next battle. not quite unhinged, not trying to get himself killed or anything, but it’s obvious that he has something going on from how brutal he's being. emil that is not the intended way to fight with a halberd-
🫧if you do try to make him jealous on purpose, he hates it. it feels awful. it's not fun or exciting to him, and it will take a serious toll on your relationship. he doesn’t like mind games like that, nor does he like his vulnerabilities that he trusts you with being used against him
🫧he mostly just needs reassurance, even if its only in the form of being beside him. resting your head on his shoulder, reaching for his hand in a crowded room so he can't wander away, wrapping an arm around him as you talk to another person. not typically a huge PDA fan, but when he's jealous like this, he loves the kisses on the cheek that you give him in front of the others no matter how much he protests any other time
🫧another quick way to snap him out of it is to tease him, pointing out his sour expression, less than stellar battle strategies, and moping. he'll get all red in the face, stuttering apologies and explanations until he eventually confides in you about how he's feeling. it isn't hard to comfort him on the subject, really. he trusts you and tries his hardest to take your word for it (bonus: i can see him taking a little bit of teasing from rodya on the subject, but anyone else besides you is just getting mean mugged)
🫧he's very grateful for your patience. assure him that you know who you chose to be with, that you don't feel like you're missing out on anything with everyone else. he's working on building up his confidence, to where this isn't something he feels he has to worry about anymore, but it'll take time
my fav thing about writing sinclair is him tiptoeing the line between sopping wet and pathetic and just genuinely being a very disconcerting person. he's a very complex little dude
forget being flat broke i’ve decided to purchase the sinclair plushie and standee. yes, it will cost me nearly 8 months of savings. yes, i believe it’s worth the expense.
