#cislo tpn

[promised-daisy]

Lambda squad doodles, I love this weird little family

I need them to be happy in the human world so badly

[aspec-ray]

Compilation of tpn textposts I've made and stuff because I was bored. I'll make another post if I make more of these, it's fun lol

[s8fingracefield]

Thinking about the Lambda Survivors group is so funny because their coping mechanism heavily relies on a 14-year-old with a god complex.

Go Barbara have fun with your distorted understanding of love and reciprocity.

Go Cislo have fun having cognitive empathy AND cognitive dissonance.

Go Vincent have fun with living vicariously through your boss while having imposter syndrome.

Go my Zazie have fun with your selective mutism and sensory overload while being used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Honestly, the fact that nobody else uses the name “Norman” is a whole ‘nother topic of dissection on everyone’s part, not just Norman. Like that speaks VOLUMES. Kaiu Shirai you are a fascinating individual for being able to display such disturbing children while not losing sight of their humanity. Very inspiring indeed.

Honestly I could do a whole character analysis for each and every one of them lmao. Maybe when I have the time.

[technicallyburningfury]

The Weight of Almost — Caring for an Injured Reader

Summary/Warnings: Heavy angst, graphic description of injury (demon attack, blood loss, near-death experience), hurt/comfort, established relationship. Reader is injured protecting a child during a mission. The trio each react in their own way to nearly losing the person they love. Normal versions feature gentle care, emotional vulnerability, and promises of protection. Yandere versions include obsessive protectiveness, dark guilt, possessive undertones, and an almost feral desperation to keep the reader safe at any cost. Each character is written separately.

Requested by anon!!

EMMA — NORMAL VERSION

Emma was in the middle of debriefing a supply run when the doors burst open.

The first thing she registered was Barbara's face—pale, streaked with demon blood, her eyes wide with an urgency that made Emma's stomach drop. The second thing she registered was Cislo, staggering under the weight of the limp figure in his arms. The third thing she registered was the blood. So much blood, soaking through the fabric of your shirt, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the stone floor.

It was yours. That was your blood.

"Medic!" Barbara shouted, but Emma was already moving, her feet carrying her across the room before her brain caught up. She reached you just as Cislo lowered you onto a cot, and the sight of your face—ashen, slack, your lips tinged blue—sent a bolt of pure terror through her heart.

"What happened?" Emma's voice came out sharp, steadier than she felt. Her hands were already pressing against your stomach, trying to stem the bleeding. The wound was deep. Too deep. She could feel the heat of your blood pulsing against her palms.

"Demon attack," Barbara said, her voice tight with guilt. "We were escorting the kids back. One of the demons broke through the perimeter. She took it down before it could reach the children, but there was another one behind her. She didn't see it. It got her in the stomach and threw her. Head trauma too. She's been unconscious since."

Emma stopped listening. The medic arrived, pushing her gently aside, and Emma let herself be moved because she knew she was no use standing in the way. But she didn't leave. She stayed right there, her bloodstained hands hanging at her sides, her green eyes fixed on your face as the medic worked.

Hours passed. The bleeding was stopped. The wound was stitched. The concussion was assessed and monitored. Through all of it, Emma sat beside your cot, her elbows on her knees, her chin resting on her clasped hands. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. She just watched the slow rise and fall of your chest, counting every breath like a prayer.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, the first thing you saw was her face.

"Hey," you croaked. Your voice was barely a whisper. "You look terrible."

Emma let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She reached out and took your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours with a gentleness that belied the terror still churning in her gut.

"You're one to talk," she said. "You almost died. You almost—" Her voice cracked. She pressed your hand to her cheek, her eyes squeezing shut. "I was so scared. When Barbara carried you in, I thought—I thought I'd lost you."

"'M sorry," you murmured. Your fingers twitched against her skin. "The kid. Is the kid okay?"

Emma's heart clenched. Even now, half-dead and barely conscious, you were worried about the children. "The kid is fine. You saved them. You're a hero."

"Don't feel like a hero. Feel like I got thrown into a wall."

Emma laughed again, wet and shaky. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Don't ever do that again. Please. I can't lose you."

"You won't," you said, and despite the exhaustion dragging at your words, there was a certainty in them that made Emma believe you. "I'm not going anywhere."

She stayed by your side through the night, through the fever that followed, through the long, slow weeks of recovery. She brought you soup and books and stories to keep you entertained. She helped you walk when your legs were too weak. She held you when the nightmares came—hers as much as yours.

"I'm going to get stronger," she told you one night, her voice fierce and quiet against your hair. "I'm going to get strong enough that no one can ever hurt you again. I promise."

You smiled and kissed her cheek. "I know you will."

EMMA — YANDERE VERSION

Warnings: Obsessive protectiveness, dark guilt, possessive behavior, Emma's trauma manifesting as an almost feral need to control the reader's safety, threats of violence toward anything that might harm the reader.

The moment Emma saw your blood on the floor, something inside her broke.

It wasn't a clean break. It was a shattering—violent and total and irreversible. The world tilted on its axis, and when it righted itself, everything looked different. The base was no longer a place of safety. The mission was no longer a noble cause. The only thing that mattered was the limp, bleeding figure on the cot, and the terrible, howling emptiness that had opened up in Emma's chest.

She didn't leave your side. Not for a second. She sat rigid in the chair beside your bed, her hands gripping the armrests hard enough to splinter the wood. The medic worked around her, too intimidated to ask her to move. Barbara tried to apologize, to explain what had happened, but Emma cut her off with a single look—a look so cold and so sharp that Barbara flinched and retreated.

When you finally woke, Emma was the first thing you saw. Her face was too pale, her eyes too bright, her smile stretched thin over something raw and desperate.

"You're awake," she breathed. "You're awake, you're okay, you're—" She grabbed your hand, her grip almost painful. "Don't ever do that again. Don't ever scare me like that again. I thought—I thought I'd lost you. I thought you were gone. I can't—I can't do this without you. I can't."

"Emma," you rasped, your throat dry. "I'm okay. I'm right here."

"No." Her voice sharpened. She leaned closer, her forehead nearly touching yours, and you saw the wildness in her eyes—the same wildness she'd had in the heat of battle, when survival was the only thing that mattered. "No, you're not okay. You almost died. You almost left me. And I can't—I won't let that happen again."

She pulled back and took a shaky breath. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, but the intensity hadn't faded. "I'm not letting you go on missions anymore. Not without me. Not ever."

"Emma, that's not—"

"I don't care if it's not practical. I don't care if it's not fair." Her eyes blazed. "You're mine. You're my person. And I refuse to sit here and wait for you to come back in pieces ever again. If you're going to put yourself in danger, then I'm going to be right beside you. Or better yet, you're not going at all."

She cupped your face in her hands, her touch trembling. "I love you. I love you so much it scares me. And if anyone—demon, human, I don't care—ever tries to hurt you again, I'll kill them. I'll tear them apart. I'll make sure there's nothing left."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You believe me, right?"

You looked into her eyes—those bright, fierce green eyes that had always been so full of hope—and you saw something darker underneath. Something that had been born the moment you stopped breathing in her arms.

"I believe you," you said quietly.

Emma smiled, and it was almost her normal smile. Almost. "Good. Now rest. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll always be here."

She didn't leave the chair for three days.

RAY — NORMAL VERSION

Ray was reading when they brought you in.

He didn't remember the title of the book. He didn't remember what page he was on or what the last sentence he'd read had been. The moment he heard Barbara's shout, the moment he looked up and saw the blood, everything else ceased to exist.

He moved before he thought. The book fell to the floor, abandoned. He crossed the room in quick, silent strides, his dark eyes fixed on your face. He barely registered Barbara's explanation or Cislo's apology. He just looked at you—at the wound in your stomach, the bruise spreading across your temple, the terrifying stillness of your body—and felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest.

"Get the medic," he said. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that made Cislo flinch. "Now."

The hours that followed were the longest of Ray's life. He didn't pray. He didn't bargain. He just sat beside your cot, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, and waited. His eyes never left your face. He counted your breaths. He tracked the pulse in your throat. He catalogued every twitch of your fingers, every flutter of your eyelids.

He had spent his whole life preparing for loss. He had built walls around his heart, steeled himself against grief, learned to expect the worst so it couldn't surprise him. But you had slipped through the cracks in his armor. You had made him care, made him hope, made him believe that maybe the world wasn't just a series of calculated sacrifices.

And now you were bleeding on a cot, and Ray couldn't calculate his way out of this.

When your eyes opened, he didn't smile. He didn't cry. He just let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours.

"Took you long enough," he said.

Your lips twitched. "Sorry. Traffic was terrible."

Ray snorted. It was a small, almost imperceptible sound, but you caught it. You always caught it. He reached out and took your hand, his fingers cool and steady. His thumb traced slow circles over your knuckles.

"You scared me," he said quietly. "Don't do it again."

"I'll try."

"Try harder."

You squeezed his hand weakly. "I will. I promise."

He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. Ray had never been good with words, had never known how to translate the chaos of his emotions into something coherent. But he knew how to stay. He knew how to be present, how to sit in the quiet and hold your hand and let his presence speak for him.

Over the next weeks, he became your shadow. He brought you books and read aloud when you were too tired to hold them yourself. He argued with the medics about your medication schedule. He watched you like a hawk, tracking your recovery with the same meticulous attention he'd once devoted to escape plans.

One evening, you caught him staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing." He looked away. Then, after a pause: "I thought I was going to lose you. I've thought about it a lot. What I'd do if you didn't wake up." He met your eyes again, and there was something raw in his gaze. "I didn't like any of the answers."

You reached out and touched his cheek. He leaned into the touch, his eyes closing.

"I'm still here," you said.

"I know." He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your palm. "I'm not letting you go."

RAY — YANDERE VERSION

Warnings: Obsessive monitoring, emotional manipulation through guilt, cold possessiveness, Ray's trauma and self-hatred manifesting as a need to control the reader's safety, subtle threats toward anyone who enables the reader's risk-taking.

Ray didn't scream when they brought you in. He didn't cry or curse or lash out. He just went very, very still.

The stillness was worse than any outburst. It was the stillness of a predator assessing a threat. The stillness of a mind that had spent years calculating death and survival and every dark possibility in between. Ray looked at your blood-soaked shirt, at the wound in your stomach, at the bruise darkening your temple, and something behind his eyes clicked into place.

He didn't leave your side. Not for food, not for sleep, not for anything. He sat in the chair beside your cot, his dark eyes fixed on your face, his hands folded in his lap, and he waited. The medic came and went. Barbara tried to speak to him and retreated under the weight of his silence. Even Emma, who could usually break through his walls, took one look at his expression and decided to give him space.

When you finally woke, the first thing you saw was his face. It was expressionless, but his eyes — his eyes were burning.

"Ray?" Your voice was a dry rasp.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was flat. "Good. We need to talk."

You blinked, still groggy. "About what?"

"About the fact that you almost died." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze boring into you. "About the fact that you threw yourself in front of a demon without backup, without checking your surroundings, without thinking. You're smarter than that. You've always been smarter than that. So why —" His voice cracked, just for a moment, before he regained control. "Why did you do it?"

"The child —"

"I don't care about the child."

The words hung in the air, cold and absolute. You stared at him, and for the first time, you saw past the mask. You saw the terror underneath, the grief, the desperate, clawing fear of a man who had already lost too much.

"I care about you," Ray said, his voice dropping. "You're the only person who makes any of this bearable. You're the only person I've ever let myself love without calculating the cost. And you almost died. You almost left me alone."

"Ray —"

"No." He stood up, pacing the small room. "No. I've spent my whole life planning for the worst. I've spent my whole life expecting to lose everyone I care about. And I accepted that. I made peace with it. But I can't —" He stopped, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. "I can't lose you. I won't. So from now on, you're not going on missions without me. You're not putting yourself in danger without me. I don't care if that makes me controlling. I don't care if you hate me for it. At least you'll be alive to hate me."

He turned back to face you, and his expression was still calm, but there was a desperation in his eyes that made your heart ache.

"I can't do this without you," he said quietly. "I won't. So please. Let me protect you. Let me keep you safe. Because if something like this happens again—if you die—I won't survive it. And I mean that literally."

He walked back to your bedside and took your hand, his grip almost painfully tight.

"You're mine," he said. "And I protect what's mine. No matter the cost."

You looked up at him—this boy who had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders since childhood—and you understood, maybe for the first time, how close he was to breaking.

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay."

Ray closed his eyes. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips cool and lingering.

"Thank you," he breathed. "I love you. I'll never stop loving you. And I'll never let anyone hurt you again."

NORMAN — NORMAL VERSION

Norman was in a meeting when the door opened and his world tilted on its axis.

He saw you before he heard the explanation. The blood. The pallor of your skin. The way your head lolled against Cislo's shoulder, utterly limp. His mind, usually so quick to analyze and strategize, ground to a complete halt. For one terrible, suspended moment, he couldn't think at all.

Then the moment passed, and he was moving.

"Get the medical team. Now. Barbara, I need a full report. Cislo, put her down gently—support her head, there's likely a concussion. Someone get me clean towels and hot water."

His voice was steady. Calm. Authoritative. The voice of a leader who had faced worse crises and prevailed. But his hands, as he pressed them against your wound to stem the bleeding, were trembling.

He stayed calm through the medic's arrival. He stayed calm through the stitching and the bandaging and the tense hours of waiting. He stayed calm when Emma came in with red-rimmed eyes, when Ray stood silent in the corner with his fists clenched, when Barbara broke down and apologized for the third time.

He stayed calm until everyone else left, and then he sat down beside your cot, took your hand in both of his, and let himself fall apart.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice was barely audible, cracked and raw. "I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I should have anticipated this. I should have sent more backup. I should have been there. I should have—"

He stopped. Pressed your hand to his forehead. Breathed.

"You're going to be okay," he said, as if saying it could make it true. "You have to be okay. I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. You're the only thing that makes any of this worth it."

When your eyes fluttered open hours later, the first thing you saw was his face. Pale. Drawn. His blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

"Norman," you murmured. "You look worse than I feel."

He laughed—a soft, broken sound. "That's not possible. You took a claw to the stomach and a wall to the head."

"Still." You managed a weak smile. "You should get some sleep."

"I'll sleep when you're better." He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, his touch feather-light. "I was so scared. When they brought you in, I thought—" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. You're alive. That's all that matters."

"'M sorry," you mumbled. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"Don't apologize." His voice was firm but gentle. "You saved a child. You were incredibly brave. Stupidly, recklessly brave, but brave." A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's one of the things I love about you."

"One of the things?"

"Mhm. There's a list. It's very long."

You laughed, then winced as the movement pulled at your stitches. Norman's smile vanished, replaced by immediate concern.

"Don't make me laugh," you complained. "It hurts."

"Then stop being funny." But he was already leaning forward, checking your bandages, his brow furrowed. "Do you need more pain medication? The medic said you could have more in a few hours. I can time it."

"Norman."

"Or I can adjust your pillows. You're probably uncomfortable. The cot isn't ideal. I can have a better one brought in. Or—"

"Norman."

He stopped. Looked at you.

"Just hold my hand," you said. "That's all I need right now."

He exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding from his shoulders. He took your hand again, his fingers interlacing with yours, and settled back into his chair.

"I can do that," he said quietly. "I can definitely do that."

He stayed by your side through the night and through the long days of recovery that followed. He brought you tea with honey, read you reports to keep you updated, and sat with you through every painful physical therapy session. He never wavered. Never complained. Never let you see the fear that still lurked behind his calm blue eyes.

One evening, as the sun set through the window, he looked at you with an expression that made your heart ache.

"I'm going to build a world where this never happens again," he said. "A world where you don't have to bleed to protect anyone. A world where you're safe. I promise."

You reached up and touched his cheek. "I know you will. But until then, I'll be right beside you. Bleeding and all."

He turned his head and kissed your palm. "I love you."

"I love you too."

NORMAN — YANDERE VERSION

Warnings: Dark possessiveness, obsessive control masked as care, subtle psychological manipulation, Norman's strategic mind applied to eliminating any threat to the reader, cold fury toward those who allowed the reader to be hurt, implied consequences for anyone who puts the reader in danger again.

Norman's smile didn't waver when they brought you in.

That was the first sign that something was wrong. Barbara saw it—the way his expression remained perfectly pleasant, perfectly calm, even as his eyes tracked the blood dripping from your body onto the stone floor. The disconnect was jarring. His face said everything is fine. His eyes said something else entirely.

"Thank you for bringing her back," Norman said, his voice warm and even. "Please, go rest. You've done enough for today."

Barbara hesitated. "Boss! I'm so sorry. I should have—"

"You should have," Norman agreed, still smiling. "But we'll discuss that later. Right now, I need to focus on her recovery. Goodnight, Barbara."

The dismissal was polite. It was also absolute. Barbara retreated, and Norman turned his attention to you.

The smile dropped.

He stood over your cot, looking down at your ashen face, at the bandages wrapped around your stomach, at the bruise darkening your temple. His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were cold.

"This is unacceptable," he said quietly. Not to anyone in particular. Just to the room. To the universe. To whatever cruel force had tried to take you away from him.

He sat down beside you, his movements slow and deliberate. He took your hand, his fingers cool against your clammy skin. And he waited.

Hours passed. The medic came and went, updating him on your condition. Norman listened, nodded, asked precise questions about your prognosis and recovery timeline. He was the picture of composure. But he never let go of your hand.

When your eyes finally opened, he was smiling again. A soft, gentle smile. The smile of someone who loved you.

"There you are," he murmured. "Welcome back."

"Norman?" Your voice was a dry whisper. "What happened?"

"You were injured on a mission," he said, his thumb tracing gentle circles over your knuckles. "A demon attacked you from behind. You have a severe laceration to your abdomen and a grade two concussion. You've been unconscious for approximately seven hours."

"Oh." You blinked slowly. "The kid?"

"Safe. You saved them." His smile widened slightly. "You're a hero. Reckless and self-sacrificing, but a hero nonetheless."

You tried to smile back, but something about his expression made you hesitate. He looked... calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that preceded a storm.

"Norman, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just glad you're alive. When I saw you—when I saw the blood—" He paused. Took a breath. "I realized something. I've been too lenient."

"Lenient?"

"With you. With the missions. With the danger I've allowed you to be exposed to." His grip on your hand tightened, just slightly. "That ends now. From this moment forward, you're not leaving the base without me. In fact, you're not leaving the base at all unless I deem it absolutely necessary."

You stared at him. "Norman, you can't just—"

"I can," he interrupted, his voice still soft, still gentle, but with a core of steel. "I can, and I will. I've dedicated my life to protecting the people I love. I've sacrificed my health, my innocence, my soul for that goal. And I will not—I refuse—to sacrifice you."

He leaned closer, his blue eyes boring into yours.

"Do you know what I would have done if you had died? Do you have any idea?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I would have burned everything. Every demon, every collaborator, every person who let you go on that mission without adequate protection. I would have razed this entire world to the ground and salted the earth behind me. Because without you, none of it matters."

"Norman—"

"I love you." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips cool and lingering. "I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. More than the promise, more than the plan, more than my own life. And I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Even if that means locking you in this room. Even if that means becoming someone you fear."

He pulled back and smiled again, and this time, it reached his eyes. But the warmth didn't comfort you. It chilled you.

"Luckily, it won't come to that," he said. "Because you're going to be smart about this. You're going to let me protect you. You're going to follow the new protocols I've already begun implementing. And you're never—" His voice hardened. "Never going to scare me like that again."

He lifted your hand and kissed your palm, his lips brushing the sensitive skin.

"Rest now," he murmured. "I'll be here when you wake up. I'll always be here. Whether you want me to be or not."

You didn't know what to say. So you said nothing. You just let him hold your hand, let him stroke your hair, let him whisper soft reassurances into the quiet of the room.

And as you drifted back into unconsciousness, you heard him speak one last time, his voice barely audible.

"I'll find the demon that hurt you. And I'll make sure it suffers before it dies. That's a promise."

[tyuucas]

a few more of these things blehhh.. not really a noremma shipper cuz i prefer the main trio but i have started to dabble. In what ,youask? I don't know

[smeekssneaks]

kids drink sprite for first time

[graphx]

not currently relevant rant but i wanna clear out my drafts

the Lamba Squad hate is UNJUSTIFIED and quite frankly fills me with a rage I am unable to express very eloquently.

Emma needs opposition to her ideals for the story to continue and I have seen many essays from people smarter than me on how this could’ve been accomplished despite the rushed ending, but I still love this story and wouldn’t change anything that we got.

Some people dislike that Barbra and Cislo specifically were almost “dumbed down” to make Norman feel smarter but I don’t think that’s the case at all

in fact i love how childish and immature they are because it shows the difference in how Norman and the others handled trauma.

Norman saw his inner child as weak, not able to do what needed to be done, and an obstacle to overcome to become Minerva, the person he needed to become to change the world.

however Barbra and Cislo are unapologetically child-like compared to other characters and they are entirely justified in BEING CHILDREN.

It’s almost like they are so childishly happy and silly and bashful in spite of everything that’s been done to them because they still see being a child that survived as something to be proud of. Norman wants to seem like an adult because all his life adults have had power over him (see isabella, peter, ect.) even Minerva who had the power to help them was an adult. No matter how you look at it Norman saw being the child he was as a bad thing which is exactly why I love that Emma and Ray use that acceptance to get through to him.

i love that the theme is it’s okay to be a kid which is why Barbra and Cislo are almost static characters but they still fulfill their role so well in the story.

[lopapple]

got the sketch done for a collab I’m in!!!