Matthias Czernin COa

What's making him smile like that all the time?

I still have no idea how tumblr works lmao..

have nikolai!

Yandere Norton Hcs

Content warnings: Constant gaslighting, social manipulation, death/it’s all your fault thoughts abt reader, Norton fractures ur bones sometimes, and forced hair alteration

Important note: This is a two part commission that my client would like public! Y/n format, but they are upbeat and happy with friends and all. 5.5k words.

Yandere Joseph pt.2 (coming soon)

Norton

Didn’t trust you at first

He’s wary of everyone, but even after you had learned the horrifying truth of the manor, you had high spirits for everyone including yourself

Of course you were scared shitless just like every other newbie, but unlike him, you didn’t shield yourself away from people

How envious he was of that natural click of yours

Introverted or not, you were still friendly and approachable when the atmosphere was right

His stoic stare and large build intimidated people. Great attributes for scaring off unwanted trouble back in his part of town, not so great for making potential friends in a never ending death game.

Even the nicest ones hesitated to talk to him from time to time

It’s not like he wants everybody to be buddy buddy with him all the time. All Norton wants is something to ease his loneliness.

The only time where you could’ve interacted with him as a rookie was in matches

Sitting next to him, slightly panicking and asking him for tips, staying near him in the beginning of the game, etc.

“Don’t wait at every pallet, but don’t be scared to put one down if you need to. With some hunters, it’s better to keep a decent distance.”

Keep reading

How do you think norton and a shy s/o would become friends in the first place? Or start talking in general? (if this counts as a request ignore me pls🙏)

I think it would partially depend on what the setting is! Ironically, I think a modern Norton would be the hardest to get close to. He's a loner, defensive and self-reliant. There's much less reason for any kind of forced cooperation.

In the manor setting I use, a certain level of cooperation and understanding between survivors is necessary. You HAVE to understand each other's communication styles. It helps that Norton's introverted ness gives him perspective into what other people see as "shy." Like he gets not wanting to talk, and that makes it easier for him to say "alright let's get this over with" and approach you to build a base-line rapport. And after that it just builds slowly! There are plenty of opportunities when you're stuck in timeless not-hell.

In a modern setting, you'd have to either work together or have some REALLY specific, like rom-com level divide intervention stuff going on. Work is similar to the manor, you HAVE to communicate and that forces him to get to know you. With the other one...idk I guess fate and soulmates exist LOL

Found you ❣️

Yandere Nikolai??

Midori doodle!

game 10 silly doodles

You know those illustrations from the old times where people predict what inventions will be made in the future? Like when people think we would have flying cars?

Imagine the survivors/hunters questioning you things like "is there a robot broom? A self making coffee machine?" All the other shenanigans

(just search and you'll see)

i took way too long to answer your ask Seth oooh my bad 😭😭 I think you're talking about retrofuturism, or maybe just the instinct that humans have of thinking about the future.

I think that player would be bombed with questions, there is at least 10 fucking dm's on their game, now if they get into the game? Oh, the most organized way to answer all of their questions would be to arrange a meeting where they take turns to ask you questions. Some of them have high expectations, while others are subtly interested, it's a subject that everyone has thought about and so that brings a lot of the residents to chat with you. Expect a few disappointed sighs when you tell them that no, flying cars do not exist but at least we do have coffee machines.

—

You don't know how you got into this situation, answering 101 questions in the main hall while you were supposed to be asleep, while everyone else is in their 5th sleep but you are stuck with the rambling Luca Balsa that runs his mouth like you're a celebrity and he is the interviewer with 5 minutes to have all his questions answered. And as much as you should be annoyed by him keeping you awake for so long, you can't. He is shining, reveling on the million possibilities and ideas, eyes gleaming with the newfound knowledge and a smile that just seems to remind you of how charming he could be if he wanted.

He has been sitting on the opposite sofa until now, crossed leg dangling back and forth as he glances at you to ensure that you're listening. You blink once, twice, and there is additional weight on your right side. Although in a safe distance, he remains with you, his voice clearly overfilled with enthusiasm yet so calm. He interrupts himself with a small "oh," before you hear his next words.

"My apologies, perhaps I talked too much! Mind if I walk you back to your room? You can get lost. Please, I insist. Under this prisoner uniform I'm still a gentleman."

is this how you write for luca balsa cuz im clueless as fuck

Something meh I wrote for luca, def not my best work due to stress lol

Rated Explicit | Warning: oral (reader receiving), light (very) electro stimulation

Silence. Late evening it usually is quiet in the dormitory area of the manor. The occasional sound of Luca tinkering though but nothing else. Dark and silent, you creep towards the door before you go still in front of the door. He told you if you ever could not sleep, you could join him in his room.

Usually, you stay there listening to him work. The ambiance of an inventor at work is rather soothing and amusing when shouts “Ow!” when he messes up a wire or two. Luca is tenacious and ambitious, though he does not remember much and often forgets to the point he has to journal everything important, he is like the spark of electricity fighting to find a connection.

Currently, though, he is not working when you come to visit. After an intense match with the new hunter Ivy, he had just finished bathing and greeted you with only his pajama pants on, hair wet, and for the first time, you see the scars of what electricity can do to the body.

The Decoder lets you in though it is inappropriate given his both lack of clothing and how late it is, something you both never cared about like some others do.

He sits on his bed and resumes drying his hair with a damp towel, idle chatter as you sit on the poorly maintained couch. It is not uncomfortable but definitely has seen better days. You lay on it while talking, him keeping the conversation going as you expect of a former aristocrat.

Though he was from a family of wealth, and clearly educated, you never felt how you do around Frederick or Edgar… Uncomfortable. The sort of peacock-ness air about them that often makes you not acknowledge even when waiting for a match. In the matches, of course, you help but post you are immediately getting away from them. Luca does not give you that feeling and maybe it is because he has “fallen from grace” sort of speak, or maybe he is just likable.

“You stare a lot these days.” Teasing, he likes to flirt when in the mood.

“Can't help it,” As your eyes shift to his face, “Does It hurt?”

He looks at his chest, his eyes staring hard, “It gets irritated but not so much hurting.” Then looking up, then pointing at the table near the couch, “Those usually help.” Bandages with a bottle next to them.

“Can I help?”

“If you want, you don't have to.” The shyness is unlike him yet you figure it is because no one has seen him like this.

It was unexpectedly intimate, you did anticipate being so close to him using the ointment and applying the bandages would create a new situation. You have been close to both dancing, patching each other during matches, hell, sharing the same bed when you both could not sleep. It was like you are seeing the vulnerable Luca Balsa, not the inventor but a man who is fragile and lost trying to achieve something beyond himself.

When you kiss him it is funny the shock of low-grade electricity that zaps you both, the laughter is sweet and silly.

Luca does not want that to end the moment he has thought of for many days and is trying to build the nerve to get here. He ushers you lay on the bed, his thin frame on top of you. The partly wet brown hair is like curtains blocking your peripheral vision, you can only see Luca and his smiling face. Kissing your lips, face, neck, and a few hickeys on the way down to your chest; the second to remove your shirt before he is on you again.

By the time he is between your legs, your body feels a buzz from his uncontrollably electrical minor shocks and his skillful hands and mouth. Your hands in his messy hair gripping it with one hand as your other hand grips the pillow behind your head.

― interlude

norton campbell x you he finds you crying in your room out of anxiety

(this was requested here)

As you slip out of the manor’s ballroom, the sound of lively conversation follows behind you. Voices blend together the further you go, dulled by the winding hallways, and soon you can’t tell them apart anymore. Once in a while a hearty laugh will ring out, shrill and distinct above the rest—a laugh you can usually identify as Demi’s, her self-restraint long lost to copious glasses of wine.

By the time you reach your room upstairs, the chatter is still thrumming through the floorboards. That rhythm is all you can focus on: the pulse of the party, the drum of your heart. You shut your bedroom door behind you before sinking to the floor. All night you’ve felt like an anvil has been weighing down your spirit, and it’s finally snuffed out the last of your strength. With shaking fingers, you clutch your mouth and choke out a staggered gasp, no longer able to stifle your cries.

The manor’s walls are thin, you know that well. Maybe you should feel lucky that the party under your feet will drown out any noise you make. But you still feel the need to make yourself quiet as a ghost, afraid a single sound might hush the entire downstairs into curious silence. As if they’d be climbing over each other to press their ears against the ceiling, eager for a chance to hear the crying guest upstairs. But the party goes on, and your tears go unnoticed.

Time starts to blur in the dim confines of your room. You don’t care to count the minutes, but enough time passes that you rub your nose raw. Before long it starts to feel like you’re teetering on the edge of sleep: swaddled by the pitch-black room, with the neverending song of muffled laughter and clinking glasses as your lullaby. If you shut your eyes long enough, maybe you’ll really fall.

All of a sudden a foreign sound cuts through your haze. Heavy footsteps, like that of a pair of boots. As they drag down the hall your ears prick up, the entirety of your body freezing over. They trudge along slowly, then stop in front of your door.

It’s Norton. He doesn’t announce himself, but he doesn’t have to. You know it’s Norton from his weary gait and the faint whistle in his breath. He pushes open your door without bothering to knock first. It’s clear he’s not expecting anyone to be on the other side of it, because he loudly clicks his tongue when it jams into you, and keeps trying to force it. The wood thuds against your back a few times before he releases the knob with a scoff.

“It’s me,” he says, striking the door twice with the flat of his hand. “Move whatever’s blocking the door.” His knocks feel urgent, but careful. Even when pressed flush against the wood, you don’t feel the jolt of his usual aggression. Still, your eyes squeeze shut. There’s no strength left in you to muster an answer.

Norton himself isn’t what concerns you. It’s having to show him the state you’re in. He’ll have nothing sensitive to say about it, and you’re not in the right mind to brave through that callous indifference of his. Honestly, the thought of addressing anything feels utterly impossible. You’ve been holding your breath ever since his footsteps came trudging down the hall, wishing you could just disappear.

“(Y/N),” he presses.

I’m sorry, you think.

There’s nothing you can offer him that he wouldn’t be able to find at the party. It doesn’t matter what he wants or if you let him in—your answer won’t change from a mortified I can’t help right now, sorry I’m so useless. At least staying in here eliminates the need to say it to his face. He’ll get the memo eventually.

. . .

. . . .

. . . . . .

When you’re certain he’s not fussing with the door anymore, you lean back into it, waiting for the click! of its close. Then you exhale, shallow, shaky, but quiet still. The fresh air tastes sweet in your lungs. It’s your own fault for holding your breath so long, but you’ve never been kind to yourself, especially not in moments like these.

You decide to wait a few seconds before locking it. Every sound you make is another tick on the time bomb, after all. Counting down to what exactly, you wouldn’t know; that’s a detail you’d rather not uncover.

Right when you’ve decided enough time has passed and you fumble for the lock, the door bursts open again. The force catches you off guard, practically sweeping you across the floor, and Norton strides in before you have the chance to push him out again. His eyes lock on you, shadowed by the dark of your room.

It’s an odd, silent reunion. You almost feel like you’re in trouble for something. He doesn’t even greet you before he tears his gaze away, peeking around your bed and bookshelf. Perhaps he thought you’d snuck off with someone.

“N-No one else is in here,” you croak.

“Where are the matches?” he asks, brushing off whatever you were insinuating.

He digs around your drawer until he finds a matchbox, then lights your bedside candle. From your spot curled into your knees, you gaze at his large figure, backlit by the candlelight. You’re still not sure what he came in here for. Though Norton isn’t exactly known for his transparency, not even with you. While he’s occupied at your nightstand, you try to wipe the puffiness from your eyes. It still doesn’t stop the next wave of tears from welling up.

“I’m sorry…” you murmur. He glances over his shoulder, waving out the match.

“For what?”

For crying. For leaving. For shutting him out. But with your words failing you, all you can do is shake your head — ‘forget it’ — and nuzzle deeper into your knees. It’s embarrassing to be the only one who’s ever crying between you two. Norton closes off his heart so stubbornly that you can’t even imagine a tear in his eye. You’re sorry for that, too. For burdening him and not extending the same care in return.

He doesn’t say anything for a while. Stillness overtakes the room — with him standing by your bed, watching you; with you buried into yourself, soft sniffles leaking through. Finally you hear him approach. He crouches in front of you, bringing the candlestick holder with him.

“Hey.” His tone of voice always has a biting edge to it, even when he’s trying to be gentle. He takes your hands, guiding them away from your bloodshot eyes. “Stop crying.”

I’m trying.

“Why didn’t you come get me?”

You shake your head again. “I’m okay,” you insist between snivels. “You didn’t have to come up.”

What use is there in saying that? One look at you gives the truth away. Norton would never take the bait that easily. He reaches a hand for your cheek, wetting his thumb as a stray tear falls.

“You’re a lousy liar,” he says. His hand is warm. Rough, but warm. It tempts you to lean into it, to rest in its gentle hold for a little while. But even with him wide open in front of you, your lingering guilt anchors you in place. You meet his brown eyes, the flickering candlelight reflected within them. Come here, they say. You’re sure you’re just imagining it.

Seeming to sense your hesitation, Norton makes the decision for you. He scoops you up effortlessly, and as you’re raised into his arms another rush of tears floods through you. At the same time, the heaviness you felt before begins to lift. It’s as if you’ve finally been given permission to cry, no longer weighed down by the shame you felt previously. Or maybe you’re just too relieved to care about that now. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders.

“You never have to ask,” he murmurs to you. It’s a reminder you’ve ignored too many times before. He lays you gently on your bed, and you refuse to unhook your arms from around him. He slots himself beside you. You think you mumble out a reply, but you can’t remember what it was before the cloak of sleep comes over you.