#i also know he's never getting convicted

[lewishcmilton]

whenever billionaires are under investigation and don't get convicted you should just assume they're guilty bc no one with that much money and power gets flagged unless they did it

[britcision]

Dungeon Meshi omegaverse headcanons because I can

1) the different human folks have different versions and different degrees but we’re gonna focus on the elves because I want to

2) afab alphas and amab omegas are just a thing that happens, it’s pretty normal and not considered worth commenting on unless you’re really insular, so while there are some sexist stereotypes (like that afab alphas are more attentive parents, although not as good as any omega) it’s not on the “male omega bad” side

It’s about 20% of the alpha/omega population (and betas make up about 60% of the human population so 8% of people total), so not hugely common but way more common than red hair and only a little less than being left handed

Some amab omegas can carry children (especially with magical assistance) and it’s actually a little easier for afab alphas to sire children, since that’s a one time output rather than a prolonged physical process

You also get things like secondary sex homosexuality (alpha-for-alpha gay, ditto omegas) which are basically ignored anyway unless someone’s fussing about bloodlines, and difficult cases like alpha-presenting-omega; an omega who reads like an alpha in scent and all other aspects except when they’re on heat

That’s hard to detect before the cycle actually starts and causes rampant excitement every time, but since alphas being with other alphas isn’t considered noteworthy except in high society, it’s also only a problem around the cycle

3) just like they don’t have sexual dimorphism, there’s no visible external differences between elves in secondary sex either

They’re more about magic than physical force, so you might be able to tell the difference based on their magical specialties (that’s how elves claim they do it but it’s bullshit they are lying)

This often confuses other folks who do; tallmen alphas are physically larger and more muscular (Falin’s an alpha) and omegas are smaller and slimmer, but all the elves are small and slim so tallmen often think they’re all omegas this is not helped by

4) almost all the Canaries are omegas; service is a doubly beneficial arrangement for noble families, who offer their children to show their loyalty just like canon… and to keep inconvenient extra bloodlines from cropping up if those extra omegas have kids

All of the wardens are omegas (except possibly Flamela; this is actually another reason why she’s not allowed into dangerous dungeons) and most of the prisoners are too, although occasionally alphas are allowed to serve

This is not considered a risk because while alphas are more aggressive, elves also consider them less capable leaders since they’re more likely to lose their heads and act rashly when riled up (like when Izutsumi was a kobold from the changelings and had to be stopped from fighting til she died) and just generally less capable, so an alpha convict with their magic bound isn’t considered a serious threat to a capable omega warden

Alphas also don’t necessarily fight to the death, since there’s all the posturing and fighting for position

Elf omegas, on the other hand, will tear your fucking throat out at the first sign of violence because if a fight gets to them it needs to be ended immediately to protect the babies

They have absolutely weaponized this against the demon and the dungeons by intentionally putting their omegas in combat situations

Alpha prisoners are usually only assigned to a single warden for the duration of their service, because they tend to get overprotective of their omega squad-mates and don’t handle personnel shifts well

5) The wardens get sterilized as part of their training, the prisoners are required to be on birth control for the duration of their service but can also request sterilization - birth control’s usually by magical implant so it’s not a huge inconvenience but listen if you want that ute yote it’s yoten

6) Heat cycles absolutely do sync up between themselves and with rut cycles, and the squads get mandatory downtime for a month on either side; luckily they’re elves so they’re on multi-annual cycles rather than seasonal

(Elves who find out how often short-lived omegas go into heat tend to react with shock and sympathy and an immediate “ooooh this is why you die so early”)

(More than one squad have accidentally maimed their alpha if they have a surprise heat)

How a squad handles group heat is up to them, suppressants are part of the basic gear, as are knotting toys, and there’s a whole industry of “heat hotels” where any human single omegas can go to ride out a heat safely either alone with toys or with vetted beta staff (on birth control) of their choosing - the Canaries semi-regularly take them over and occasionally incite orgies because while the heat demands a knot what elves accept as dominance is magical power, not position, so the strongest arcanist in a squad usually reads as an “alpha” to other humans despite their actual sexes

And since there’s no actual rules that omegas can’t hook up for a cycle at the heat house, so long as everyone arrives and agrees before they go into heat it’s a “the more the merrier” situation

They also sync up between different types of humans, but elves sync very slowly and have such long cycles almost no one notices

For no godly reason gnomes sync the fastest but they have relatively mild cycles and don’t seem to mind

Fuck it cycle table:

Dwarves - 6 month cycle - 1 week rut/heat

Elves - 2-3 year cycle - 2 weeks rut/heat

Gnomes - 4 month cycle - 5 days rut/heat

Half-foots(feet?) - 2 month cycle - 3 days rut/heat

Oni - 2 month cycle - 5 days rut/heat

Tall-men - 2 month cycle - 5-7 days rut/heat

7) Mithrun’s squad are extra goddamn protective of him because his cycle also got broken and doesn’t sync properly, but he deadass will not notice when he’s on heat and just continues as usual, while radiating pheromones. He also will not take suppressants any more than he’ll drink or eat

Luckily he also almost never actually goes onto heat, so he just vibes and trains while everyone else is on their heat break and occasionally gets impatient and starts bar fights

Lycion’s been a permanent squad member despite not being an alpha (he’s a beta but the werewolf gets a knot anyway sooooo he’s busy on heat breaks) because he can smell when Mithrun’s going onto heat ahead of time, way before anyone else can

Mithrun’s gone into heat twice since rejoining the Canaries. Cithis, Otta, and Fleki bitch about this constantly with varying degrees of envy, right up until the next time it happens out of the blue and they have to drag his dumb ass out of a dungeon because literally no one was prepared

Otta’s not even an omega she’s a beta too so she uses their heat breaks to flirt with half-foot women which is why she has enough time to date despite being a convict death squad member

(And yeah she’ll “help out” any half-foot lady omegas if they’re not actually already in heat when they arrive at a house the squad’s taken over and can hold a conversation first cuz while technically everyone else can still go through their heat alone and ignore the elves…

Well they’re loud, they’re expansive, Fleki is allergic to personal space, even in heat Cithis has enough top energy to dominate a city block, and Lycion only has one knot and will occasionally need to sleep - more than the heated omegas. They like sharing and there are no consequences provided the hotel has a room big enough)

Fleki will absolutely still use her familiar while she’s on heat and she will not remember to tell anyone she’s doing it, but since she basically just flies away until the next wave demands she get fucked again it’s not all that different from taking a nap from anyone else’s perspective

(Flying in heat is nowhere near as good as flying on shrooms but it does still beat reality)

(Everyone. Everyone has asked her if she’s fucked in the bird. Absolutely everyone. And she never specifies but makes absolutely filthy and biologically unlikely insinuations.

She absolutely did try it once. And since her familiar has genitals at her own discretion, and didn’t google bird genitals before hand, results were Mid)

Cithis has been denied access - or have had people attempt to deny her access anyway - to more than one heat house because absolutely no one who is not an elf believes she’s not an alpha without proof

All the elves have Elf Twink Disease so their alphas aren’t buff and macho anyway and everyone knows it, so her sheer Step On Me Please energy has gotten the whole squad into trouble

(She blatantly refuses to do anything about this and will often make the situation worse for fun or profit until Mithrun tells her to stop)

8) half elves like Marcille have the extremely exciting and unfortunate bonus of potentially being crosses in secondary sex too, just like the non-linear aging - something about the long-lived/shorter-lived magic combo and the elves’ own permutations in particular mean that other human-alpha and elf-beta/omega sometimes happen on the same gene, and other human-omega and elf-beta/alpha is also more likely than elf-alpha and other human-alpha coming together

Some half elves get lucky and get double beta, Marcille did not and got beta-omega (which is at least easier than alpha-omega, the rarest combo but hey if you’re flexible or magically inclined with that one you can kinda just go fuck yourself)

This is why she gets super over-protective of the people she cares about (see: get back in the kitchen while I take over the world), but doesn’t really have any kind of self preservation instincts or a desire not to run face first into danger and explode it

She’s never had a heat cycle and if she’s lucky she might never get one, so long as the beta side stays dominant

But Falin’s an alpha and possibly the person who activated Marcille’s omega side to get that over-protectiveness in the first place, so if (when) they do mate Marcille is gonna learn some fun and exciting things about her body

(Toshiro’s an omega, but his family insisted on raising him like an alpha anyway because Oldest Son. Falin was the one to actually tell him he was an omega, because Maizuru was ordered not to

This is part of why he’s so incredibly jealous of Laios, who is an actual alpha as well as autistic as hell, so Shuro’s not only jealous of his complete disregard for social rules, he’s also exceedingly jealous that all of the “alpha” stuff he has to work incredibly hard to fake comes to Laios completely naturally

Laios had no idea Shuro was an omega at all (possibly Nakamoto family scent blockers, possibly Laios Not Paying Attention) and has actually been idolizing Shuro as the Manliest Best Alpha To Ever Alpha - like all them flashbacks of Shuro standing between downed Laios and danger

Maybe Laios doesn’t find out until after Falin’s revived successfully. It blows his mind. Toshiro weeps in frustration.)

9) fuck it it’s official, alpha Flamela, that’s why her twin was taken (twin was an omega, elves still think alphas are too impulsive and hot headed to rule) and Flamela wasn’t stopped from running off to join the Canaries

They did try to skip the sterilizing step with her, cuz while the coal black skin definitively doesn’t reliably pass from parent to child there’s still a chance her kids would have better odds of inheriting it

Flamela lost her shit when she found out she was being treated differently from other wardens (doing other elven alphas absolutely no favours about that “too impulsive” thing because she genuinely didn’t even notice that what was happening was that she wasn’t being given invasive and permanently life altering often nonconsensual surgery) and threatened to do it to herself if they wouldn’t do her

Someone suggested they fake it, put her under, make the cut, leave everything alone so she just got a scar, someone else pointed out she might be slightly less knife happy afterwards, the smartest person in the room pointed out she would be Exceedingly Fucking Knife Happy if she ever found out and possibly kill them all

She was sterilised at her own insistence but her genetic materials (eggs and sperm why not) were stored rather than discarded in case she changes her mind

This has also alienated her from the other wardens because not only is she the only one who actually volunteered to be a Canary, she volunteered for the whole thing and genuinely doesn’t get why any of them are unhappy about it

Rut isn’t all that fun and she doesn’t think heat sounds good either, since her default position with people is distrust and keeping them at arm’s length, so she always rides hers out alone and assumes others will too - but both sound way way way better to her than having to carry or raise a child

She’s not cruel or aggressive about it but she’s about as tactful as a rhinoceros and just gets loudly confused, so it’s not worth trying to confide in her or bond over the extra level of being discarded by their families

(And since she hates gossip and will aggressively curtail it, she only finds out what anyone else on her squad does for heat if she actually has to help arrange it)

She was so offended to find out she’d still have rut cycles after surgery. The one thing absolutely every other warden can agree with her on

Most elf alphas are actually significantly more level headed and stable than Flamela, she still has her entirely independent emotional baggage but she is what all the elven stereotypes say an alpha is

There’s some real world racist bs about Black women and especially darker skinned Black women being less feminine, but it’s bullshit and fuck that it’s illegal here, alpha women are just a thing that happens and it has nothing to do with gender

Flamela’s not especially feminine either by elf standards, but that’s her decision and she is beauty, she is grace, she will stab you in the face and you’d deserve it if you commented

10) communication pixies are affected by their maker’s heat, but not by getting anything similar themselves; it’s an intentional part of the spell, the pixie gets all sleepy and “drunk” and will not connect any calls without a specific code word, because absolutely no one wanted heat-sex pixie butt dials

This isn’t just an elf thing but it is in the elf-magic version of the spell; if you make a pixie with gnome-magic instead there’s a 75% chance it will also go dozy during your heat buuuuut a 25% chance it just keeps going as normal

General consensus is that the ephemeral will of magic either can’t tell when humans go into heat or considers the occasional magic butt dial necessary to the balance of the universe

A lot of older gnomes just plain don’t care about any of it and think it’s a bit funny when anyone else makes such a big fuss, since it’s just another part of life

(If Falin ever makes a pixie you KNOW it stays active during her rut you KNOW Marcille gets a butt dial dear gods is this how the Farcille confession happens in this AU)

11) orcs and kobolds don’t actually have secondary sexes by dint of not being human (wrong number of bones) and tend to consider the whole thing a little weird, but not their problem

Some orcs suspect the whole alpha-omega thing is why humans get violently territorial for basically no reason, and the sympathetic ones tend to be very gentle with someone once they learn they’re an alpha or omega

Big “oh you poor thing that sounds so difficult, let’s make sure you don’t get over excited” energy

———

I’ll add more later if I come up with anything else, but by all means hop into my sand box and play with anything you like!

A bunch of other characters and their alignments in no particular order:

Kabru - beta, but one of his only decent spells is to fake either alpha or omega pheromones at will. He’ll play any of the roles to get what he wants and what he thinks will serve him best

(He almost always plays omega with elves because 1) they don’t respect alphas the way most other humans do and 2) they’re gonna read him as a child anyway, so having specific “adult” pheromones might occasionally sway them to respect him a little more, but they’re also more likely to subconsciously protect him

He tried alpha on Mithrun when they were alone in the dungeon for all of 15 minutes before determining Mithrun couldn’t tell the difference

(Mithrun could he just doesn’t care))

Namari - alpha, works well with usually being the party tank, but as a dwarf her instincts are more “provide for needs” than “fight off enemies” which is why she loves armour and wants other people to wear it

Senshi - omega, he’s going to see the babies fed by any means necessary (but yeah it’s part of why his mining crew didn’t let him fight the griffin, he hadn’t fully hit his second puberty but they Had Suspicions)

However, since he lived alone most of his life (and was surrounded by alphas before that) he presents almost entirely as an alpha, and unless he hits heat no non-dwarfs will ever notice he isn’t

There’s not a huge difference between dwarf alpha, beta, and omegas anyway, but the alphas tend more towards crafts and making or procuring physical items to see to their loved ones’ needs while the omegas are more focused on acts of service

(Physically they’re just all Like That, like the elves)

Every dwarf who has ever met Senshi clocked him as an alpha in the first five minutes, and clocked him equally hard as an omega ten minutes later and had some mild cognitive dissonance. None of them mention it because that’s Rude

Izutsumi - alpha cat, hates you all

Chilchuck - tallest skinniest half foot omega you ever did see. Has adopted his entire union since he doesn’t see his girls anymore. His wife was a beta and the only reason she got them in the “divorce” was the girls had already moved out

(She moved in with Puckpatti)

Chilchuck is constantly low-grade losing his shit about it

Maizuru - omega, deeply dislikes how Toshiro’s father has treated him and does genuinely believe deep down that an omega like Toshiro might be a better leader specifically because he’s more empathic and considerate than their society’s demanded alpha behaviour

She will be miffed to be told the elves agree with her though

Rin - beta, accidentally presents as an omega because she picked it up in self defence while living with the elves. She does not like it but she does tend to keep herself closed off, avoid skin contact, and comes off as trying too hard not to seem meek, so people with opinions on strangers’ sexes assume she’s an omega who escaped a bad situation

(They’re not fully wrong, she hates that they’re not)

Kaka and Kiki - Kaka’s an omega, Kiki’s a beta but she intentionally presents as an alpha to keep anyone from noticing or saying shit about her brother

If she’s loud and noticeable, they won’t wonder why he’s shyer and quiet

(Kaka 1000% imprinted on Namari the first time she saved his life she is his big strong alpha he is a helpless fucking puppy so even though he’s self conscious about his height he can’t help wanting her to like his legs

Unfortunately for him Namari’s gay as hell and Kiki’s extremely into her as well and he wants his twin to be happy so he’ll be pining forever and make do with a familial alpha bond)

(Namari will never know she coulda had her pick)

Mikbell - beta cuck and a scab

Holm - the only actual alpha on Kabru’s team, has definitely noticed him switching up the pheromones and he mostly doesn’t care, he thinks that secondary-sex-fluidity is actually a really good quality in a leader (it shows he respects all of them and acknowledges the strengths they all have)

But when it comes to his sister Nope Nope Nope buster don’t you dare seduce her with some mocked up alpha juice

His sister is also an alpha but she’s alpha-for-alpha gay and gender bisexual and he’s not having it

Daya - omega, but prefers to present as an alpha because she’s actually just not that comfortable with the stereotypical omega “role”

(Again for dwarves, it’s mostly “will do caretaking” over “will procure necessary items”, but her birth clan were heavy traditionalists who considered an omega’s primary job to be “be pregnant” so she’s tossed the whole situation)

(Her partner is an alpha and oh boy did he have to work to prove he was nothing like the boys back home. He’s fully happy to be the caretaker while she brings home the bacon and she loves him for that

Most dwarves will assume he’s the omega unless told otherwise, and they’re both very comfortable with that on the extremely rare occasion that it comes up since Island dwarves usually don’t care anyway)

Kuro - kobold, not his problem, but oh boy he’s adopted Mikbell as his puppy and is gonna do his best taking care of this man

He’s fully aware Mik’s a mature adult (despite how often he pretends to be a kid to fuck with people), he can smell his pheromones, he just believes Mikbell needs a father or at least older brother figure to guide him more than just a buddy

(He and Kabru also suspect Mik might be into non sexual (probably?) age play, since he claims he acts like a kid to fuck over assholes who assume half-foots can’t be real adults, but he does it A Lot and with joy and fervour)

(Mikbell can never learn this)

Grandpa Tansu - cranky lil alpha gnome

Granny Floke - also a lil alpha gnome, they’re also alpha-for-alpha gay, but she likes watching her husband get all loud and up in arms so she doesn’t bother getting involved much

(Full Madame Giry from the good Phantom of the Opera productions, she only has to say one word to put her foot down but she actually is a nice smiling little old lady… which makes it scarier when she does it)

Tade - alpha oni, but in oni omegas and afabs are actually much bigger so she’s still pretty small for an oni (bigger than amab alphas though)

This does tend to confuse pretty much everyone else but those little buggers come out BIG and HORNED and it’s just better all around to have more space for the lil niblets

This is why Marcille’s oni form was head and shoulders too big to be seen standing next to her party she’d’ve been around a foot and a half taller than Tade because I said so

Thistle - oh the saddest most broken lil elf omega, he was in a bad way before Delgal’s dad died and then when Delgal did the “only you can save us we’re all gonna die” Thistle reverse-pioneered the Canaries by going into omega-murder-mode so hard he dungeoned an entire kingdom

And since there was not a single alpha older than him anywhere to be found he just never got to turn that off (if only someone scruffed the little bastard idk if that’s an omegaverse thing but the imagery is peak)

Imma headcanon he never actually had a cycle by dint of not finishing elf-puberty before he went Kingdom In A Bottle and stopped aging but honestly any flavour of fuckery and whenever you think he stopped aging is all good

(Since not only was Yaad born post dungeon, he grew to young adulthood and other people did age, they just didn’t die, so aging was for sure happening for like 20 years post dive)

Winged Lion - the alpha and the omega solely for the joke

If you can think of anyone else or if you have any questions lemme know and I’ll spin something off the dome for ya! (This totally wasn’t prompted by me nearly having the first full chapter of. Something. Ready to go. 👀)

If anyone else wants to chop and screw with any bits of this for any reason go wild and all I ask is a tag in because I like free candy as much as anyone else. Despite Farcille commentary it’s technically ship agnostic because honestly that’s the least interesting part of an omegaverse AU for me I’m here to get weird with sex and gender roles and cultural variance

I haven’t actually played in this sand pit much before so we can all thank/blame Omega Jason Todd week for finally tipping my interest over by giving me new levels of fuckery, we stan a 6’ omega built like a tank

[that-spider-fan-over-there]

So uh, do you guys ever think about how Tenko grew up with a man who had the capacity to take away his Quirk - the thing that ruined his life, took away his family - yet seemingly never once took his? That was probably a way to make him internalize he truly wished for destruction the moment he was born?

And Tenko probably questioned it but never dared ask because he was the one who accepted him, and sure he gives you a sinking feeling in your guts to the point you scratch your neck at the mere idea of talking to him (when was the last time you've had a doctor's consult? Or a simple ointment to relieve the pain? Isn't he friends with a doctor?), but he picked you up from the streets (because you don't deserve gentle touches when you're followed by the dust of death. your name is defined by it how do you know the name of that kid who wanted to be a hero) he gave you a place to stay (because your home was based on silent rejections and lies on the very ground you decayed), he accepted you even though you're only an individual born for destruction (and so is the crafted garden you're rooted on, but you could've thrived in another garden, another life.)

And maybe, you're just ungrateful. Your sensei is the only one who can understand the lonely traces of death that follows you, unnervingly so. Even though he's the one who can take that away from you with a mere touch.

(just like you can. just like you did. why can't you feel joy with that? you were born in from for destruction.)

(you could decay your allies with one single touch. they're irrelevant to your goals. why does your heart stop you from fulfilling that now? you had it in you back then. it never mattered before.)

(you tried to help someone ungrateful, once. he was killed by his your hand. they've helped him. why weren't you offered the same?)

(isn't this why you reject the hand that wants to save you? you could've killed him. and he still held your hands. the denied reality you had since you were a child.)

(do you still want to be a hero, shimura tenko?)

(... why can't you start now?)

But then again, how do you know you deserved better when you were nothing but a puppet- and now, with his goals destroyed, a very useless one?

Just thinking about Shimura Tenko.

[rynliadon]

i don’t know how i’m going to keep going in a world where you’re gone. it feels so cruel, and completely random, that you were just taken away out of nowhere during a time that’s supposed to be joyful or whatever the fuck. i don’t know how i’m supposed to act like this is normal when it’s not. you are so smart, and vibrant, and full of life. i don’t want to live in a world where any of those statements are written in the past tense, and yet i have to. rest easy, cousin—i love you & i miss you.

[surgepricing]

I think about Azula shooters often and their common refrain of "if Azula hadn't had a mental breakdown, she would've won" and I'm here to tell you that no, she wouldn't have.

There is no universe in which Azula was winning that fight with Zuko (or Katara, for that matter).

Azula spent so much of Book 2 being built up as this deadly terrifying force against whom the heroes are badly outmatched that it can be difficult to catch exactly how quickly Zuko is advancing.

Back up a bit to Book One. For the fearsome exiled crown prince of the Fire Nation, Zuko's not that impressive a firebender. He's not bad by any stretch, and he's able to lay the untrained Sokka and Katara flat pretty easily. Then he gets in the ring with Aang, who is an airbending master, and the difference between a regular bender and a master becomes apparent when Aang literally puts his ass to bed:

People have attributed this to the fact that no one's fought an airbender in 100 years, but I think it's also worth noting that Aang (a 12 year old from a pacifist nation) has probably never fought anyone before. Like, ever. And yet the second Aang thinks "okay, I'll attack back", the fight's over.

Zuko's got the same genetic predisposition for firebending talent that Azula does, yet it never seems to manifest because of his mental blocks. At the beginning of the series, he's already so beat down that all he really has is conviction, pride, and anger, so even with training from Iroh (the firebending master, thank you very much), he struggles. Yet throughout Book 2, when he has no time to train because he's on the run, he actually seems to advance faster. The fact that his bending is literally tied to his character arc (as his morals become tangled and he has to fight off aforementioned mental blocks) is pretty brilliant. Like, by the time of the Crossroads of Destiny, Zuko getting his ass handed to him by Aang is a pretty consistent feature of the show--he just can't match wits with him.

Hell, at the beginning of the series, he and Iroh (again: the actual firebending master) launch a combined power surface-to-air attack...which Aang casually swats away into a nearby ice wall. Come the Crossroads of Destiny, however, and Zuko by himself launches this bigass fireball that blows through Aang's defenses.

Zuko advances so quickly that it's scary. That prodigious talent is in him even if it doesn't come through as cleanly as with Azula. Who, by the way, was busy about to get flattened by Katara some few dozen feet away, until Zuko took over and then effectively stalemated her himself.

All of this in retrospect makes it abundantly clear why Zuko's firebending seemed to skyrocket so much when he learned true firebending from the Sun Warriors: it was really the only thing left. He's hard a hard road learning how to fight waterbenders, earthbenders, and airbenders, and even if unconsciously, he's applying the philosophy Iroh taught him about augmenting his bending style with aspects of other styles (see also, the waterbending-like fire whips he uses in the above gif). Once he actually understands fire and how it works, he's got it mastered. Hence why any gap between him and Azula effectively disappears as soon as their next fight--before her friends have betrayed her and her stability goes out the window. There's no real sense of urgency to their fight at the Boiling Rock prison. True, Sokka's presence with the sword helps, but Zuko doesn't look remotely worried and he counters Azula's every attack perfectly.

All her life, Azula only ever learned fire. She was taught by the best people the fire nation can employ, so she knows all the cool tricks, but she's still poisoned by the corrupted firebending practiced in the modern ATLA timeline. Unlike Zuko, who managed to get the basics if nothing else from Iroh (fire comes from the breath, and can be used to survive as much as to kill), Azula has always used fire as a weapon and a means to hurt others. She has no true knowledge of the craft, meaning she's got the same weaknesses as Zhao, she's just better disciplined to the point she can make up for it.

Zuko's victory was a given considering Azula's complete loss of control by the time of Sozin's comet, but even had she been in a perfect mental state, she'd have lost, because in many ways Zuko is simply the better firebender.

And that's the truth of it.

[theflashjaygarrick]

Cass is so fun as a character because she fulfils the 'gruff but with a heart of gold' trope in a way that normally is exclusively used for male characters. Cass can be abrasive, and asocial, and off-putting. She is better than everyone, knows it, and she is not afraid to say it loudly to your face. She tried to help Babs feel better after seeing her cry, and decided the best way was to simply throw Nightwing out of a window (it's okay, he was fine).

But Cass is also someone who loves deeply and cares so much. About everyone. She has strong moral convictions to never kill not because she's scared it would push her over the edge but because she values people's lives so much. Because she believes everyone can choose to be better, and they deserve the chance to make that choice.

She isn't sweet and friendly and someone who always manages to get on with people, but she also isn't a cold ruthless assassin. She is a tough, broken person who finds something to protect in everyone. Someone who can frankly be a jerk (and can be difficult for some people to get along with) but who would risk her life time and time again if it meant helping someone. Cass is a hero through and through.

Anyway, I just love Cass.

[starboundsingularities]

good lird they did not make a gimmick blog about a real life murder

#someone fucking DIED but whatever who gives a shit it's funny i guess

7 notes

🥚 eggvidenced Follow

honestly with how suspicious and confusing everything on the dl-6 case was i wouldn't be surprised if it came out that it was that prosecutor guy tbh

🌟 rockliker270 Follow

date posted: june 23, 2010

1,834,853 notes

⚖️ courtofpublicopinions Follow

🌟 rockliker270 Follow

ok hear me out. what abt winston payne though

🧊 just--ice Follow

okay now they're just making lawyers up

#also didn't mvk die or something?

28,932 notes

🔥 triedbyfire Follow

why the fuck are you people still posting about the gavinners as if theyre not copaganda. didn't the guitarist get convicted of murder

🎸 guiltiest-lovers837 Follow

so fucking tired of this "um um didn't daryan get convicted of murder" YEAH AND HE'S LITERALLY NOT IN THE FUCKING BAND ANYMORE. dipshit

🔥 triedbyfire Follow

are you gonna address the copaganda thing or

1,092 notes

🌻 attorneybout Follow

he's so. 😳

📂 trialanderror Follow

why is he defending

📂 trialanderror Follow

OP WHY IS HE DEFENDING???

24,374 notes

🦈 giantlakemonsters Follow

i just wanna hear about another gourdy sighting thats all

🥜 liberdeez Follow

op. i'm so sorry op. gourdy isn't real you have to let her go. they had a whole trial about it.

🔐 wrightorwrong Follow

hi!! so this isn't actually the case as while gourdy was briefly mentioned in a trial, said trial had nothing to do with whether or not gourdy was "real" per se as much as. well. murder, actually. while gourdy WAS found out to be an inflatable steel samurai this was not brought up in the case at all as the veracity of gourdy wasn't really as relevant as the fact that the witness was looking for gourdy rather than at the murder she claimed to have seen. plus this was also a relatively small part of a MUCH larger trial which for those interested not only solved the dl-6 case but ALSO marked the end of prosecutor von karma's ~40 year long record and the court records are really a fascinating read through!!

🦀 mad_libz_87 Follow

net 0 information post

#thanks again lawblr

94,834 notes

🍒 cherriescoola Follow

btw i was at the park the other day and klavier gavin (of gavinners fame) was there and obv there was a huge crowd but this guy was there with him and at some point he (the other guy) waved to the crowd and someone still screamed like it was klavier??? who was that guy ive never seen him before in my life

2,284 notes

🩸 has-dl6-been-solved-yet Follow

December 28, 2016

YES!!!

702,947 notes

🪙 tellerlikeitis Follow

guys help i'm a bank teller and this guy just introduced himself as robin banks what do i do

🔪 violencekilling Follow

you gotta let him rob you that's the law

302,948 notes

👻 ghostesswiththemostest Follow

look if i ever get convicted of murder im just hiring the lawyer with the coolest sounding name

💼 courtofwaw Follow

bestie if you already got convicted it is Too Late

62,193 notes

📋 lawandwhoreder Follow

guys i know it's real fun to think people just can predict whatever but if you look at the earliest reblogs of that post that "guessed" the true killer in the dl-6 case it was actually a post about how they didn't want to go to the store. clearly edited

#stg nobody bothers to factcheck anything anymore

7,293 notes

🐺 lawnewolf Follow

i am NOT homophobic or whatever the fuck you guys are saying now i just think its weird to write fanfiction about realass people?? go touch grass ffs

🌈 lawsbian Follow

the fun police (this guy) putting me in yaoi court but the lawyers (phoenix witrght and miles edgeworth) just keep trying to make out (real court is like this too btw)

🐺 lawnewolf Follow

YOU HAVE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU.

#look idc what your enemies to lovers fic bullshit says #they're straight. and more importantly REAL PEOPLE. #there's TENSION because they are in COURT and there are LIVES on the LINE. #not because they wanna fuck. god.

12,293 notes

🔮 inhighspirits Follow

why dont they just ask the spirit mediums to ask the victims who killed them this law shit is easy

837,495 notes

💞 lawveyourself Follow

seriously i cant believe they gave this guy a law degree

💞 lawveyourself Follow

what do you mean evidence fraud

503,893 notes

🎧 instrumentalillness Follow

fuck you *unguilties your love*

384,568 notes

🎀 copiicat Follow

perjury isnt illegal btw in fact if youre one of tge witnesses youre legally required to lie on the stand. thats why everyone does it. trust me

[mia-fey-needs-a-drink]

It's so annoying that to so much of the fandom Mia is just "boobs" or "girlboss", she's got so much more going on:

-She really struggles to remember people's names which often causes people to doubt her engagement despite genuinely caring and engaging with their situation and the case (she's just like me fr I really struggle with names (for probably autism reasons) and people really don't like that).

-She has a tendency to just not talk to people about things, especially about herself or her life. depending on when you think Mia actually started mentoring Phoenix he was a significant part of her life for at least a year and probably since 3-1, yet he only meets Maya and learns about spirit channeling after Mia dies, she never mentioned Lana either, or Diego, or DL-6, and this isn't just to Phoenix, she never told Maya about Diego either and it's vague how much Lana actually knows about her, hell it's vague how much Diego actually knew about her, maybe Grossberg only told him about DL6 and the Fey clan after he wakes up from his coma. Ultimately she isolated herself from everyone in her life to some extent and it's kinda part of how she died, no-one knew the danger she was in and she didn't want people to know.

-Her ineptitude with technology. Phoenix and Maya also have this, but I feel like Mia's and Maya's are so linked to their background in the fey clan, they were raised in a society and culture where they didn't have access to these things and integrating into broader society comes with difficulties.

-Her entire life and career is just things repeatedly going wrong and her being fucked over: DL-6, her disaster of a first trial, Diego being poisoned and just as she's about to try and finally put Redd White behind bars he finds out and kills her. She had shit hand after shit hand and was basically doomed from the start, but yet she persisted and she fought for what she believed and for the people she cared about and to make the world a better place, and everything good that Phoenix manages to do throughout PWT is thanks to Mia and everything she worked for, she laid the foundations for a better world for the ones she loved that she wouldn't get to live in and yet I think if she knew that it would all end this way from the start she'd do it all over again. I think a little part of me thinks that some part of her hoped White would kill her so there was something definitive to pin him with (which comes with some darker implications for how well she was dealing with life).

-Mia has such an interesting relationship to the legal system and her own sense of justice. So much of her experience with the law is with it failing her, repeatedly. DL-6 is a disaster that stripped her mother from her, her first trial ends in the clearly guilty party that murdered her client getting away with it, her boyfriend's murder goes unsolved from the same murderer who she dedicates the next 8 months to taking down, and then there's 1-2, her own murder trial. Mia has again worked for years to try and get this man convicted, the deeply corrupt legal system making it a near insurmountable task, then in the last stretch he murders her. The police immediately just try to brush it under the rug, blame her sister and get the trial over with. Grossberg is too afraid of White to defend Maya and Edgeworth is a slimy piece of shit the entire trial. When Phoenix finally finds the clearly guilty White, he simply makes a few calls and her understudy is the prime suspect. White goes up on the stand and just repeatedly comes up with any old blatant nonsense and excuses and no matter how many times and how much work goes into Wright picking apart every mistruth and detail and how many pieces of evidence he shows nothing will convict White, the court is completely corrupt, you'll never be able to defeat him within the system. So, what happens? Mia and Phoenix have to work outside the established rules, even working outside the rules of death itself. White is only defeated after Mia straight up blackmails him into confessing, and yet this is more justice than working within the law ever would allow them. Mia also only gets Dahlia through pushing the law to it's breaking point, she was a step away from being disbarred. I feel like it's easy to see her as a strong believer in the law but if you really look at it, to her, the law is not sacred or worthy of much reverence, if something is unjust, to hell if it's legal, she will try and reach justice no matter what.

-Look I may be projecting my woke onto the game a little bit but I can't help but feel the routine misogyny Mia faces in both the cases we play as her in T&T is more than just "a product of it's time" and more showing misogyny as an extension of the system being rigged against her.

Loooong post but there's so much going on with Mia.

[goodluckeddie]

eddie’s fucking fascinating dude. he’ll do everything in his power to show what kind of place buck occupies in his life - bringing him christopher after the tsunami, putting him in his will, bringing him comfort and family when he needed it most. he’ll say the most casually romantic and adoring things - there’s nobody in this world i trust with my son more than you, you act like you’re expendable but you’re wrong, i know this whole thing between us has been messy and hard but i hope you know i do care about you. the way he talks about buck to other people, my personal favourite being the concise yet telling “Buck helped” in the lone star crossover episode. eddie will do everything he can to cement buck’s place in his life except call it what it is. and sure, buck’s not calling it what it is either, but when you think about the genuinely insane things eddie says and does it’s bewildering that he hasn’t confessed yet.

and also because - and this is only like half-related but i’m gonna make it work hang on - when eddie does say all those crazy romantic things, a) they’re essentially mini-confessions and b) he’s never once been uncertain of any of it. when he makes those beautiful little declarations, there’s no “i’m sorry if this is too much” or “you can tell me if i’m wrong” or any kind of get out. what there is instead is certainty, conviction, “my attorney said you could refuse […] i knew you wouldn’t.” (<- wild btw)

connecting the dots. what i’m SAYING i think is that once eddie makes his mind up about something then that’s it. and he made his mind up about buck’s place in his life a long long long time ago. eddie decided that they were essentially life partners years ago and has just been acting like that’s the truth without actively doing anything about it. except he HAS been doing something about it, he’s been saying it in bits and pieces this whole time. his declaration of love is endless and ongoing and implicit, does this make any sense at all can anyone hear me

[wvyik]

QUIT POUTING, WINCHESTER.

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: dean gets all jealous over something super dumb (he’d never admit it though), and ends up pouting until you kiss him to make him stop being so ridiculous.

♯ warnings: a hint of possessiveness, jealousy with unreasonable doubts, (duh) make out sesh, but other than that — just pure fluff, because this man is soft for you no matter how much he tries to act tough. don’t kiss and drive kids!!

♯ notes: this is my first fic ever!! send some love. thanks so much for reading through my yap sesh. ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

Dean Winchester is pouting.

And, yeah, he’d probably rather die than admit it, but it’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Arms crossed, jaw tight, barely sparing you a glance as he sulks in the driver’s seat of the Impala. You’d think you just crashed Baby into a brick wall with how pissed he looks.

“De.. what is wrong with you?” you finally ask, leaning against the window to look at him.

“Nothin’,” he mutters, gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him. Nothing, my ass.

You narrow your eyes. “Dean.”

“Nothin’, i already told you.” he repeats, this time with even less conviction.

You huff, shifting in your seat so you’re fully facing him now. “Oh my God, you are such a bad liar.”

He scoffs. “I’m a great liar, trust me.”

“Not to me.”

And, that shuts him up for a second. His fingers tighten on the wheel, his mouth pressing into that stubborn, self-righteous little frown he gets whenever he knows he’s losing but refuses to admit it.

You smirk, slowly realizing what could be the cause of his state. “Oh my God, you’re jealous.”

Dean’s head snaps toward you so fast you think he might give himself whiplash. “What?”

You lean in, grinning now. “You totally are.” you say with a soft chuckle, as if the thought of him being jealous is the most hilarious thing in the whole world.

He rolls his eyes, trying so hard to play it cool, but his ears are so red. “Pfft. Yeah, right.”

“You so are.”

Dean exhales sharply, turning his attention back to the road like the empty highway is the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out how to dig himself out of this one.

“You’re acting all weird,” you point out, watching him squirm. “You’ve been quiet for the last hour. You barely even yelled at that dude who cut you off.”

Dean clenches his jaw. He knows you’ve got him.

“So,” you press, “what’s got your panties in a twist, huh?” As if you already don’t know.

He grumbles something under his breath. Oh, he’s embarrassed. You could tell.

You blink. “What?”

More grumbling.

“Dean.” you repeated, hoping for him to finally speak up.

He exhales roughly, hands flexing on the steering wheel. Then, finally, he mutters, “Nothin’. Just— dude was flirting with you, ‘s all.”

You blink. Then blink again. “Are you talking about the gas station cashier?” Dean says nothing. Which is an answer in itself. Oh, this is too good.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, Dean, he barely said two words to me.”

“Yeah? And he was lookin’ at you like a damn puppy,” Dean grumbles. “Like he had a shot.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile. “That is so stupid.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, jaw still tight. “‘S stupid to you.”

And okay, yeah, now you kind of feel bad, because he’s being ridiculous, but also kind of… sad about it? Not that he’d ever admit it, but the way he’s gripping the wheel, the way his lips are pressed tight like he’s trying to keep everything in—he actually cares about this. About you.

Which means he deserves to suffer just a little longer.

You scoot closer, pressing your chin to his shoulder. “You know you’re the only one I want, right?”

Dean stays silent, but you feel the way his grip on the wheel loosens. His jaw twitches when you press a slow, lingering kiss to his cheek. You smirk. Oh, he’s melting.

So, you push further, brushing your lips along the sharp edge of his jaw, taking your sweet time. You can feel the tension in him shift— not gone, but different. Like he’s holding his breath, waiting for what you’ll do next.

He clears his throat, but his voice comes out rough. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

You hum, letting your lips trail just a little lower. “Then quit pouting.”

“I ain’t—”

You shut him up with a proper kiss.

And at first, he barely moves—like he wasn’t expecting it, like it takes him a second to catch up. But the second he does, oh, you’ve got him.

Dean exhales through his nose, tilting his head to meet you fully, and then he’s kissing you like he’s making up for lost time. His hand finally lets go of the steering wheel, landing firm and warm against your thigh, fingers flexing like he’s grounding himself.

You don’t hesitate to deepen it, shifting in your seat to turn toward him, your hand moving up to cup his jaw. He’s warm, rough with stubble, and you take your time exploring it, feeling the way his breath stutters when you scrape your nails lightly along the edge.

Dean groans— low, quiet, but wrecked— and then he’s pulling you closer, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck. The Impala swerves slightly.

You pull back just enough to whisper, breathless, “Dean, focus.”

“Tryin’,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “You’re makin’ it real hard, sweetheart.”

You grin, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Ain’t that the point?..”

Dean exhales sharply, like he’s trying so hard to keep his cool, but he’s losing. And you? You’re having the time of your life watching him come undone.

You lean in again, kissing him slow and deep, dragging it out just to make him suffer. He sighs into it, fingers pressing just a little tighter into your skin, like he doesn’t want to let go.

Eventually— reluctantly— you pull back, just enough to look at him. His pupils are almost brown in this lightning, lips pink and kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling a little faster than before.

You smirk. “Told you you were pouting.”

Dean exhales, shaking his head with a grumble—but the way he looks at you? The way his thumb traces absently against your knee, like he’s memorizing the shape of you?

Yeah. You definitely won this one.

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[arminsumi]

THE HORNIEST

↳ GOJO さとる + fem!reader

Summary : Horny!Gojo needs you so bad, he's insatiable. A menace.

Warnings : minors do not read/interact : smut/explicit content, it's very horny lol, not proofread, c*mshots and creampies, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, implied drunk sex

Note : lmk if you want more horny gojo lol 👍 reqs open!! anyways lol the title cracks me up. he ain't the strongest he's the horniest :(

Horny!Gojo introduces himself to you in the flirtiest way possible, cooing a sweet and drunk "Who invited the goddess?" into your ear. He's sat on the couch with you, one night at a stupid frat party. Starstruck by you. And your reciprocation made his chest feel fluttery for the first time in years. It also made his dick stand up in his pants.

Horny!Gojo leans into you for the whole night, whispering flirty things and dirty jokes into your ear like his mind is a factory pumping them out. You match his playful energy so well, he says "I think we're made for each other."

Horny!Gojo has his sharp eyes wandering to your thighs, then your shoulders, then your lips as you speak — and he licks his lips to wet them.

Horny!Gojo showers you in compliment after compliment, relishing in your reactions and getting greedier; he needs to get you alone. "Wanna go someplace quieter?" he has to shout over the music to ask you.

Horny!Gojo assures you with cocky confidence, "Yeah, I could make you cum. Aw, don't give me that eyeroll, it's turning me on. I know for a fucking fact I could make you cum. I could make those eyes roll back. I could make your legs shake."

Horny!Gojo squeezes your hand tightly when he leads you upstairs, and giggles with you as the two of you escape into a quiet, empty bedroom. His heart is panging so hard in his chest. His body feels electric. He's so horny it's the only thing he can focus on.

Horny!Gojo whimpers when you crash your lips into his. He starts making out wildly with you like he's a sex-deprived loser. Because he is. A sex-deprived, touch-starved college boy.

Horny!Gojo hits those deep, hard strokes with no breaks just to destroy you. He never lets up. Never stops to have a breather or lets you catch your own breath. "Working up a sweat b—abyyy? Too much dick stuffing your little cunt? Yeah? Is it too much? Too big? Too deep? Fuck, you're gonna squeeze my dick off, haha, calm down. It's just a little dirty talk."

Horny!Gojo murmurs into your ear, "All I wanna do is make you finish over and over again." desperation and conviction in his voice. He really just wanted to fuck you into bliss, have you dumb on his fat cock, have you squirming and whimpering and going feral for him.

Horny!Gojo pins you down like a beast but also pounds into you like he's the bitch in heat. "Oh my god oh my god yes yes yes fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckkkk that pussy's so fuckin' gooooodddd" he's a mess, just swearing and moaning like a broken record.

Horny!Gojo almost sobs your name into your mouth when he cums, draining every drop of cum that he's worked up for you in the past hour.

Horny!Gojo turns his creampies into whipped cream with his thrusts, smacking his hips so hard into you that you feel his balls slap against your ass. They're so heavy and full, makes you think that if you weren't on birth control you'd definitely get knocked up with just one of his fat nuts.

Horny!Gojo goes round after round, becoming a melting sweaty mess of a man and feeling his muscles tire out. He pins you to the bed with his whole weight, and gives you his all just to show off a little.

Horny!Gojo has such a strained but enthusiastic voice after fucking you into next year with his dick. "Wow... that pussy's so fucking creamy." he grins toothily. A sweat drop beads off his cheek. His bangs are stuck messily to his forehead, some brushed to the side.

Horny!Gojo is insatiable, he calls you long after the party, over and over, shows up at your door and relishes in how his horniness rubs off on you. He's always a giggly mess in bed with you.

Horny!Gojo needs you so bad some days that he comes to you straight after his workout at the gym, no shower just sweaty gym boy abs, and fucks you as a way to "push his limits" for like three hours.

Horny!Gojo needs to cum everywhere he can. It's like he has a cumshot checklist. Thighs? Yes. Tummy? Yes. Ass? Yes. Chest? Yes. Face? Yes. Pussylips? Yes. Hands? Yes. In your panties? Yes.

Horny!Gojo is so fucking cute when he kisses you after sex, nuzzling your neck like a cat and telling you how good you treat him with that five star pussy.

Horny!Gojo jerks himself alone when you can't come over :( always to you, of course. Sexts like a menace. He's a bit too good at it.

Horny!Gojo gets so pussy drunk sometimes that he begs you to become his wife. His dick feels so raw and sensitive but he keeps squeezing it into that tight hole of yours.

Horny!Gojo is obsessed with you, mind body and soul. Just the sight of you and sound of you makes his dick stand up. And then he's whisking you off your feet and frantically throwing you onto the bed, and you're giggling at your horny boyfriend— oh... when did that happen? Hm. Well now he's your boyfriend.

© arminsumi

Do not plagiarize / repost / translate / copy layouts / etc.

Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

[uisceb]

Endlessly baffled every time I see people water down Glinda’s actions in Defying Gravity to “oh she was too cowardly or too selfish to stand by Elphaba,” as if she didn’t spend that entire sequence from Chistery’s transformation onward doing everything in her very limited power to keep Elphaba safe.

Like the second things start going wrong, Glinda’s entire focus switches to “keep Elphaba safe at all costs.” This girl does not have any magic. She does not have any physical survival skills. She probably has no idea how to throw a punch. She can barely run in those heels. Her one power is her charm and her ability to work a crowd. She is desperately trying to get Elphaba to come back with her not because she agrees with what the Wizard and Morrible are doing, but because she thinks maybe if she can just smooth things over, Elphaba will be forgiven, and she’ll be safe. 

In that regard, there’s a very obvious selfishness to Glinda’s actions - she lacks perspective; she lacks scope; she prioritizes Elphaba over what we as the audience would understand as the “Greater Good” and over her own morals about what’s going on with the Wizard’s agenda; she’s visibly horrified by what happens to Chistery but her first instinct is to comfort Elphaba above all else, despite having no understanding of what's happening.

I am the last person who’s ever going to argue that Glinda isn’t selfish, because she very clearly is, it’s one of her defining characteristics, and it’s one of the main things she has to learn to overcome in order to actually become “Glinda the Good.” This is in no way me trying absolve my very selfish girl who very much made the wrong decision.

But it does kinda boggle my mind when I see the argument that Glinda betrayed Elphaba or is a “fake friend.” Especially because ultimately she comes to the conclusion that the best thing she can do for Elphaba in this moment is to let her go. She knows she would only hinder Elphaba if she were to go with her, she knows there’s no happy ending for them if she tries to run away with her (I think in that moment she might even suspect there’s no happy ending at all). Elphaba is going through her own personal revelation which is beautiful in its own right, but it’s also impulsive, and there’s a certain level of unsustainable grandiose fantasy to it. Glinda almost lets herself be swept up in it for a moment, but her rational side kicks in, because, of the main trio, Glinda really is the most grounded in reality.

I’ve seen a lot of weirdly smug people out there proudly saying if Fiyero was there he definitely would’ve gotten on the broom with Elphaba - and honestly, I think they’re probably right. But it’s not because he’s somehow morally superior to Glinda, or that his love for Elphaba is more pure. Our boy is depressed, he’s nihilistic, he’s lost, and truly doesn’t have any attachments to anyone.

He was genuinely moved by Elphaba’s fearless convictions and he fell hard and fast for her, so I agree he’d be on that broom in a heartbeat, he quite literally has nothing to lose, and everything to gain. He’s found himself wanting to believe in something for the first time because Elphaba brought that out in him, his whole world revolves around her. And that’s very romantic, but because of that, the stakes are much lower. For him, leaving everything behind wouldn’t be a sacrifice, it would be freedom.

Glinda’s gone through the world much differently, much more carefully. She doesn’t have Fiyero’s sense of nihilism or detachment, she’s lashed herself tight to the reality of the world around her. Where Fiyero has been regularly kicked out of schools and freely wandered from place to place experiencing new things and getting into trouble on purpose, Glinda has never stepped outside the predictable comfort and safety of her bubble until meeting Elphaba. She lives in constant fear of failure and being looked down on. She is forever clinging to this persona she’s created because she’s terrified of what will happen if she’s anything less than perfect.

She has constructed her entire existence around being an icon rather than a person - in the beginning, she literally doesn’t know how to be her own self, she’s just barely learning, because of Elphaba. And it scares the shit out of her. 

Fiyero would likely play action hero if he was there for Defying Gravity, and that’s great, but Glinda is weighing a million things in her head, not least of which is “holy shit the person I love most in the world is in imminent danger and I have no magic and no strength to keep her safe, so I will beg and plead and insult and fight her tooth and nail to keep her with me inside my privileged bubble because maybe I can smooth this over, maybe everything will be okay if I just do what I always do and use my privilege to get my way.” She understands the rules of her world, so she’s going to play by those rules because that’s how you win the game.

Elphaba, of course, refuses to play a corrupt game at all, and Glinda gets angry - she lashes out at Elphaba because Elphaba has just put herself in such a dangerous situation, and Glinda is completely powerless to change it. Every little bit of control Glinda is used to having is obliterated.

Her “Maybe you’re not as powerful as you think you are” when Elphaba doesn’t grow wings is so desperate - the words border on cruel, but her tone is both painfully apologetic and above all filled with RELIEF because while her heart hurts for Elphaba, she’s terrified that Elphaba would hurt herself the way Chistery was hurt, and she’s cleaving to the hope that maybe if Elphaba isn’t as powerful as she thinks she is, Glinda stands a chance at undoing the damage, and protecting her. 

Glinda’s selfishness is just so fascinating to me because it’s so rich and so contradictory - she loves Elphaba so deeply and destructively that she fully paralyzes herself when the chips are down and it breaks them both. She fails to be what Elphaba wants her to be, and she fails to be a good person, but there’s no “fake friend” about her actions - she is acting on pure desperation to keep this person she loves safe in literally the only way she knows how, at the cost of everything else, including what’s right, which is something Elphaba could never abide by. Elphaba would never compromise her own morals, but at this point in the story Glinda is willing to compromise everything as long as Elphaba is tucked away in her bubble with her, and that difference in values is irreconcilable to both of them. 

So, realizing this, Glinda does the one last thing she can think of to protect her at this point, and wraps a cloak around her shoulders to keep her warm. That’s all that’s left.

She’s selfish and she’s cowardly and she’s brave and she’s loving and she fails Elphaba and she fails herself and she regrets her decision for the rest of her life and yes I am writing all this with glass under my tongue and between my teeth, she makes me insane.

[r1elle]

desperate male lead syndrome is making a strong comeback in 2024 and i’m here for it!! so i wrote about this annoying loser (your honour i love him so much)

husband atsumu drabble because this is what the people want ^^ (i’m people)

“baby, don’t go looking at yer’ poor husband like that..” atsumu pouts, poking your cheeks at the sight of your evidently disdained face.

okay. you could go do that. you could also just forget the broken ceramic on the floor, still not cleaned up because atsumu would rather make amends with you first than cleaning up the potential risk that was right infront of you both.

honestly, you couldn’t tell whether you should be glad, or concerned.

“i’m not mad at you,’ you say, the expression on your face clearly betraying your words. “don’t worry about it, atsumu.”

you thought that maybe your words would ease the blonde man’s resolve, however it seemed to have only made it worse for him.

“atsumu?! no baby, no love, no ‘tsumu?!” he stresses, hands going up to his mouth.

you stare at his rather dramatic delivery,—and was that the life in his eyes flying away?? he looks like a modern rendition of casper the ghost.

“i’ll do the dishes for a week, no,—a month! i’ll buy ya’ those heels ya’ told me not to buy at the mall!!” atsumu frantically spouts, saying anything he could think of as he continues to cling onto your figure, his face mushing onto your neck and shoulder area.

you shut your eyes. just.. how could you stay annoyed? look at his pouty face, how his ears seemed to be more red than the rest of his skins current complexion. he practically made it impossible for you to even be the least bit mad, and you would’ve felt as guilty as a convict for even attempting to do so. that’s the kind of effect he had on you.

in response, you merely sigh. but there wasn’t any bark to it. “or, you could clean up the shattered pot on the floor.” you say, making sure to bring your tone to a more gentle and reassuring one.

atsumu turns to at you once again, his blonde locks tickling your skin as he moves.

“yer’ not mad anymore?” he beams. “i mean, we could always make another pot, right? how ‘bout it?” he says, hopeful eyes staring directly to your orbs.

in all realness, you genuinely weren’t mad at him, —(as much as he would sulk and say you definitely were), no. you were just sad at the fact that you and atsumu’s ceramic that you both had worked so hard to sculpt and paint on your first date was now shattered on the floor, all but beyond repair.

“i was never mad at you, promise.” you say. “just a bit disappointed. i liked that pot a lot, you know.” your hand reaches for atsumu’s cheek, pinching it slightly. physical touch always seemed to reassure him more than anything else.

atsumu mentally notes that he should make you breakfast in bed the following morning as he stares at your affirming expression. he plants various of pecks on your face after doing so.

“i’m sorry, princess.” atsumu coo’s, his hand pushing away the little hairs on your forehead as he plants a kiss on it.

“i’ll make it up to ya’, i promise.”

— • —

now, you know that you most definitely shouldn’t be all too surprised, considering that, well, —this was miya atsumu we were talking about,

but seriously….

you stare at the little bundle of fur politely sitting on your lap as you rub your eyes, just having come out of your nights sleep. you also happen to notice the smell of pancakes and hot chocolate coming from the bedside table.

“ ‘tsumu, where—?..no, when did you get this dog?”

“i have my ways.” he proudly grins. “but look, it’s yer’ favourite breed!”

“….yes, i know. but where did you—“

“we have a daughter now, hehe.”

“since when did i agre—“

“so adorable, definitely takes after her mommy and daddy. look at the bow on her head!”

“ ‘tsum-“

“i love you.”

“dont change the subject!”

——————————————————————————

atsumu brainrot is real and clocking me out (kageyama i can explain)

update: TYSM for 1k+ notes omg ??!! thank u all for loving this loserboy with me i feel so heard 😢😢🙏🏽

[puppysuh]

so… we all know how i feel about meanie!haechan, but what about nerd!haechan who’s never seen or touched a pussy in his life but is surprisingly really freaky?

if you’re wondering why i’m so obsessed with him, just watch a couple of clips of him from the university festival performance. those glasses… ouh get him in me NOW!

you approach him because you feel bad for him. he’s always alone, nose in a book or fingers tapping rapidly at his laptop, and whilst your girlfriends like to make fun of him for being such a loser, you’re surprisingly quite intrigued by him.

when you approach him the first time, you begin to see what your friends mean. he’s shy, his glasses falling down his nose as he avoids eye contact with you like the plague. he’s right to be cautious; what are you, the campus sweetheart, doing talking to him, the guy who’s rumoured to only shower once a week and lock himself in his room to jerk off to cheap porn?

you should be laughing in his face, ridiculing him for being such a freak of nature but no, instead you stand in front of him, voice sweet like honey whilst you twirl your hair and await his responses with bated breath. and when he finally looks up at you, into those beautiful eyes he spent so long avoiding, he’s completely gone, and he decides that he must have you.

nerd!haechan would overthink your interaction for the next week. seriously, why were you talking to him? did you like him? did you want to get to know him better? or worse… did you just want sex? that’s what most people are after nowadays anyways, so he begins to train himself up for the next time he talks to you.

instead of avoiding your group like a disease, he begins following you discreetly, taking note of everything you like. that coffee shop just opposite your dorm? he’s memorised your order. your seat in the library? he scares off anyone who tries to sit there by sitting directly opposite it, only moving when he sees you come through the door. and he’s stalked your social media too; all of your highlights are screenshotted and placed into a special album in his phone, reserved solely for you.

he also has another album, a hidden one, full of… other photos.

at first glance, it looks normal. a picture of you at the beach holding an ice cream, or another of you posing in a party dress. all standard highlight posts, posts nobody would suspect nerd!haechan would jerk off to almost every night, glasses fogged up as he memorises every curve of your body, toes curling as he focuses on the way your tongue flicks out to lick the top of the ice cream, a dribble of white cream running down your chin.

he doesn’t know how he manages to face you at school, but he does anyways, and when you finally ask him for some ‘tutoring’, he happily accepts, pushing his glasses up on his nose and trying to divert his eyes away from the cleavage displayed by your dangerously low cut top.

he’s surprised how quickly you jump on him the moment you get through the door of his apartment. you probably think you’ve caught him off guard, slamming your lips into his and grinding your hips forward against his crotch. you think you’re doing charity work, fucking the college loser so nobody else has to.

you couldn’t have been more wrong.

you see, along with his extensive jerking sessions to your instagram posts, haechan has been doing some studying, and not the academic kind. he knows how to make you feel good despite never having a chance to, and when he lifts you up against the door and presses your back flat against it, you’re nothing short of shocked.

“you thought i didn’t know?” his voice is quiet, and whilst his tone carries little to no conviction, it travels straight to your core. “i’m your little passion project, right? fucking the loser so you can feel less bad about yourself.”

before you can open your mouth to answer, he’s pushing his hips upwards into your clothed core, and any protests are replaced by a soft whine. “haechan, that’s not—”

“shut. up.” he thrusts forwards again, and the back of your head meets wood, arms wrapping around his neck as shocks of pleasure roll up your spine. “i’m not some fucking charity case.”

it’s safe to say he’s rendered you speechless. you look down at him, and where before you saw an unkempt loser, now you see someone hungry with lust, and you like it. “kiss me,” you breathe, and he complies, his mouth crashing into yours as he carries you across his living room.

you’d always wondered if he would keep his glasses on during sex, and that night, you got your answer. they slide down the bridge of his nose as his rams his cock into your cunt at a dizzying rhythm, one hand clasping your wrists together above your head, the other rubbing at your clit furiously.

“say you were wrong,” he grunts, sounding almost pained as he repeatedly bumps the tip of his cock into that spot that makes you squirm. “say i’m good, better than anyone you’ve ever had.”

“you’re s-so good!” you can barely speak— barely even breathe, not with the way his hand moves from your clit and to your throat, forcing your chin upwards to look at him. “f-fuck, ‘m sorry, haechan.”

and for the first time since you met him, he smiles a genuine smile, one that almost seems deranged, obsessive. “that’s right,” he says, “the best you’ll ever have.”

a/n : i’m so obsessed with the idea of him being borderline evil its insane. please feed me more haechan delusions guys i think i might love him 💔💔

edit : I MADE A PART 2 check it out if you love me (or nerds)

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃 

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men, Hot Things They Do + Their Attachment Styles! Oh yeah—we’re so back, babes.

A character breakdown of the four dangerously compelling men—Crowe, Geo, Hyugo, and Sol—sorry, no Deryl this time, there’s a reason why. through the lens of attachment theory and the chaotic behaviors that make us scream into the void, spiral, and convince ourselves we could "help."

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Yes, I know, I disappeared. Yes, longer than planned. Yes, you missed me—don’t lie, and yes—I missed you more. Plot twist: I wasn’t just napping after exams. I’ve officially committed to Ivy League—pause for applause, or choking, your choice—where I’ll be doing medical psych research this summer. Fancy, I know.

So yeah, I’ve been deep in research—now I’m back to apply it to fictional men who absolutely ruin lives. 

Let’s get feral… intelligently.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’ve known Crowe for years.

He was never loud about it—didn’t sweep in with fireworks or fall from the sky or pull any rom-com-level stunts. Nah. He just… showed up. And stayed. Quietly inserting himself into your orbit like some well-dressed glitch in the matrix who smelled faintly of jasmine and self-restraint.

People call him Prince Charming.

In your head? You call him Princess Crowe, Supreme of Serenity and Sass. Because yes, sure, he’s got that calm, regal aura—but look at him. He’s too pretty to be real. More beauteous than handsome. Delicate bone structure, elegant fingers, eyelashes that probably violate human rights laws. Honestly, he looks like if moonlight and sarcasm had a baby.

And don’t get me started on the braid.

He wears his dark hair tied back into this loose braid that hangs over his right shoulder, with stray strands escaping just enough to suggest he definitely read about brooding male leads in novels and took notes. It’s the kind of look that says “I could emotionally devastate you and then tuck you in.”

And that’s the thing about Crowe—he looks like a polite heir to a forgotten kingdom, but you just know he could get messy. Like, “trip you with a smirk and gaslight you into thinking it was romantic foreplay” messy.

But he’s also your best friend. 

Well, technically. In theory. Because let’s be real: Best friends don’t have crushes on you. Actually… It depends…

Hot Thing #1: The Thumb Tracing

Let’s get one thing straight before we proceed:

Holding hands is not supposed to be an arrestable offense.

It’s supposed to be harmless. Sweet, even. A little contact to say “Hey, I like being near you.” You’re supposed to feel a flutter—maybe blush a little, maybe squeeze back. Normal stuff. Manageable.

But with Crowe?

Crowe turns hand-holding into a transcendent event. A full-body experience. The kind of moment that rewires your nervous system. He doesn’t touch you like it’s casual. He touches you like your skin once whispered a secret into his palm and now he’s obsessed with decoding it again and again.

It starts innocently enough. You’re across from him, probably mid-rant—something petty that feels righteous and holy in your bones. Maybe it’s about that girl in class with her overpriced pens and her attitude that drips superiority like perfume.

You’re waving your hands, voice sharp with conviction—“And then she had the audacity to roll her eyes at me, Crowe. Like I was just supposed to accept that level of delusion and keep going? I mean—”

And then he does it.

He takes your hand. Just—gently folds it into his, like it’s nothing. And while you’re mid-sentence, he starts tracing.

It’s soft. Thoughtless, almost. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, as if your hand was always meant to be read like braille. He’s not even looking at it.

He’s looking at you, steady and focused, with those impossible, thoes blue eyes that see straight through the noise and into the marrow. But that thumb? It keeps moving. Drawing soft spirals, lazy loops, idle figure-eights like he’s memorizing every line and vein and secret under the surface.

You lose track of your rant. Your brain glitches. You blink, like you’ve just slipped through reality. “Crowe,” you whisper, trying to anchor yourself, “what are you doing?”

He blinks, serene. “Listening.”

“With your thumb?”

His lips curl into that maddening little half-smirk. The one that ruins lives. “It’s a multitasking thumb.”

And you—you are so done.

Because it’s not just the tracing. It’s the intention. It’s the quiet. It’s the fact that his touch isn’t demanding—it’s remembering. The kind that leaves echoes long after it ends.

The Tracing Catalogue™ isn’t just a list of idle gestures—it’s a tactile love language, a slow-burning monologue spoken in skin and silence. He doesn’t rush. Ever. His thumb glides in these almost sacred patterns: a long sweep up your knuckles, a subtle line drawn from the base of your wrist to the dip beneath your thumb. Sometimes he taps lightly in rhythm, syncing with the subtle beat of your pulse like he’s grounding himself to your heartbeat.

And then, there was that time.

The moment that took your breath hostage. You were talking, something lighthearted—something forgettable—and without warning, he traced a tiny heart on the back of your hand. Just once. Barely there.

You felt it like a confession, so tender and raw that it short-circuited your ability to function. You didn’t react. Couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling like the truth might be hiding in the cracks of the drywall. How do you respond when someone says everything without saying a word?

And then there’s the other touch.

When his arm slips around your waist.

That’s when it’s over.

Maybe it happens when you’re curled beside him on the couch, the room hushed around you, warm with lamplight and the low hum of music in the background.

Or maybe it’s in public, in a tucked-away café corner where no one’s watching but the air still feels charged. His hand slides around you—casual, like it belongs there—and then his fingers find the sliver of skin where your shirt lifts just slightly.

And it begins again.

Not teasing. Not rushed. Slow, reverent circles. His fingertips graze like they’re trying to calm something unnamed—like he’s writing protective spells in invisible ink. His thumb draws down, curves back up, sketches soft, looping sigils that feel like promises.

He’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s listening to you talk about something else—art, ethics, the gray morality of your favorite villain—but his fingers stay, moving as if they’re tethered to the rhythm of your voice.

And you try to keep speaking. You try.

But inside?

Nothing but white noise. Static. A gentle, chaotic implosion.

Because it’s not just physical contact. It’s presence. It’s intimacy without demand. It’s the comfort of being seen and held in the same moment. It’s him saying, I’m here. You matter. I won’t rush you. But I’ll stay.

Crowe doesn’t touch to take—he touches to witness. To remember. In a world that constantly demands volume and noise, he listens in quiet motion. His hands say what he’d never admit aloud. You don’t have to ask for softness here. You don’t have to earn it. I’ve already chosen to give it.

And the worst part?

He has no idea what he’s doing to you. He does.

Your heart is scorched earth. Your sense of self? Crumbling. Emotional independence? Weeping silently in the back of your mind. He thinks he’s just being thoughtful. Just being there.

But you know better.

That mf does know, he ain’t slick.

Hot Thing #2: Mind Reader Tendencies 

It’s like being escorted through life by a god disguised as a gentleman.

And honestly, at this point, you should be filing some kind of formal complaint with the cosmos, because how is it even remotely fair for one person to be both emotionally literate and devastatingly attractive?

Crowe isn’t just observant—he’s clairvoyant in that maddening, quietly devastating way. He reads you like you’re a well-loved novel: cover softened, margins scribbled with thoughts only he seems to understand. He’s memorized all the dog-eared pages—the ones you thought you kept hidden, folded deep between layers of defensiveness and polite silence.

You never have to ask for anything. Hell, you barely have to think.

You’ll walk back to the table after a miserable ten-minute brush with reality—maybe you just had to talk to someone fake-smiling through fangs, or maybe you stepped in a puddle and questioned every life choice that led you to this point—and there he is. Crowe. Already pulling out your chair like it’s instinct, his hand a steady warmth between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t look up when he murmurs, “Sweet or salty?”

You blink. Confused. You hadn’t said a word.

But he’s already halfway through ordering the pastry. That pastry. The one you always break down for when your mood drops below murderous. The one that tastes like forgiveness and poor coping mechanisms. You sit, stunned, and he just continues his conversation like nothing happened—like he didn’t just read your entire emotional forecast with a single glance.

And that’s not even the most criminal part.

There was this other time, in a crowd—people pressing too close, voices rising in static, the air too hot and full of demand. You hadn’t even reached the edge yet, hadn’t even panicked, but then—

Something cold. Slid into your palm.

You glance down. A bottle of water. Cold, unopened.

You look up. Crowe doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t crowd you further. He just raises an eyebrow in that maddening, knowing way—like he already knows how close the walls were getting. Just holds your gaze, steady and calm, a silent: You good? And you are now. Against all odds, against the crushing weight of existence—you’re good. Because he is.

But the real breaking point? The moment that tilted the axis of your whole internal world?

You’d once—once—mentioned this keychain. Half-asleep during a late-night call, your voice drifting between dreaming and real. Something small. Dumb. A fleeting detail you’d forgotten the second it left your lips.

He didn’t.

The next day, it’s there. Nestled into your bag like a secret. Two of them. Matching. Of course they match. Like some quiet offering you weren’t supposed to find. You pull it out, staring, heart lurching in that awful, beautiful way that says this is love and you are not ready.

You clutch it to your chest, stunned. “Crowe,” you hiss, heart glitching. “Did you…?”

He shrugs. Barely looks up. Doesn’t even try to act guilty. “You liked it.”

“You remembered that?”

That damn smirk. That slight tilt of his head. “I remember everything you like.”

You stare at him, torn between awe and emotional cardiac arrest. How dare he. How dare he weaponize that voice, that calm, unbothered presence, and make remembering you feel like the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part? It’s not one-sided.

Because somewhere along the way, you started doing it, too.

Noticing the way his shoulders ease when there’s jasmine in the air. Remembering how he always drinks tea when he’s tired but won’t say it aloud. Memorizing the exact pitch of silence that comforts him—and the precise song to hum when his gaze turns distant.

You know which hoodie he’ll actually wear when he’s cold, which movie pulls him out of bad days without needing a word.

It’s not grand gestures. It’s not declarations. It’s presence.

Mutual fluency in one another's unspoken needs. You start anticipating him the same way he’s always read you: sliding your dessert slightly toward him without a word, answering questions he hasn’t asked out loud. Exchanging glances in a crowded room and knowing. Speaking entire sentences with a look, a shift of posture, a barely-there smile.

And it’s terrifyingly intimate.

More than any kiss. More than any vow.

Because this isn’t about touch or words. It’s about the fact that Crowe lives beside you like he belongs there. Moves through your life like he’s always known the layout. 

Like he found your soul half-abandoned on a shelf somewhere, dusted it off, and said I know how to carry this without breaking it.

And what’s even more impossible? You belong beside him, too.

Whether either of you says it or not—you know it. And knowing someone like this? Being known like this? It’s dangerous. Addictive.

And utterly irreversible.

Hot Thing #3: Unreachable Vulnerability

aka “He Protects Everyone but Who Protects Him?”

You give. Crowe protects.

That’s the rhythm of it. The unspoken contract. The magnetic balance between the two of you. But the cruel twist—the part that breaks you open again and again—is that he never lets you protect him.

And gods, you’ve tried. With gentle words and even gentler silences. You’ve laid out your heart like a map, offered him little bridges of safety to cross at his own pace—whispers disguised as jokes, late-night check-ins wrapped in casual tones, a hundred soft invitations hidden in the way you say his name when no one else is around.

“Are you okay?” you ask one evening, your voice almost lost beneath the hum of the streetlight spilling through the window. The room is still. Dim. Crowe’s leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far away. He doesn’t look at you.

Just exhales. Quiet. Controlled.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmurs, like it’s a favor he’s offering you. Like your concern is an unnecessary weight he’d rather carry himself.

But you do worry.

Because you see him—not the practiced version the world gets. Not just the dry wit, the strategic calm, the way he stands just slightly in front of you when a room turns sharp. 

No, you see the tightness in his jaw when something bruises beneath the surface. You see the tension in his shoulders after a day spent holding up more than anyone should. You see how he goes still sometimes—how his gaze drifts far, inward, haunted by thoughts he won’t share.

You see it, and it kills you. 

Because you’d take it. Every burden. Every wound. You’d carry his ghosts if he’d only let you. You’d hold his pain like relics, polish the sharp edges until they stopped cutting him open from the inside. You’d make a home for the parts of him he hides away.

But he never lets you in far enough to touch them.

Once—just once—he let the exhaustion catch up to him. The armor slipped. You sat close, your bodies almost brushing, and when the silence stretched too long, he let his head rest against yours for a moment that lasted longer than it should have. It felt like a confession.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

And he smiled. That awful, beautiful smile. Half-ache, half-apology. The kind of smile that means thank you and please stop all at once.

“I want to be,” he said. “For you.”

And that ruined you. Because it was honest. Honest in a way that was almost cruel. It told you everything—how he sees you, how much he values your faith in him, how terrified he is of shattering the version of himself that makes you feel safe.

Because loving Crowe is like holding fire in your bare hands. He warms you. Protects you. Lights the way through every storm. But he never lets you get close enough to touch the part that burns. The core. The vulnerable flame. He shields it not to punish you, but to protect you—from the heaviness of him, from the fear that if you really knew, you’d run.

As if your love is some fragile thing. As if it wouldn’t survive the truth of him.

So when he places that grounding hand on your back, when he steadies you with that quiet certainty, when he shields you like you’re made of something fragile and divine—you say nothing. Not anymore. Not today.

You swallow the ache. Smile through it. Match his silence with your own. Because this is how he lets you love him: not in grand rescues, but in the quiet presence beside him. In noticing. 

In remembering. In never leaving. You guard him in the only way he allows—without confrontation, without demands, without pushing past the line he draws so carefully around himself.

You wait.

Because one day—when the dam finally breaks, when the weight becomes too much, when his walls crack just enough to let the flood through—you’ll be there. Steady. Ready. Not to fix him, not to pull him back to the version he thinks he has to be, but to rebuild with him.

Softer. Truer. Armor made not of silence, but of trust.

Until then, you love him the way he lets you. Quietly. Constantly.

You always notice. You always will.

Attachment Style: 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓊𝓇𝑒 

Confidence. Self-worth. Accepts Supports.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship.Crowe isn’t just a man—he’s a case study in secure attachment dressed like sin and serenity had a child.

Everything about him moves with intent, like he was carved out of composure and gifted to a world too loud for his quiet strength.

The paradox is real: he’s distant without being cold, intimate without being invasive. He looks like he doesn’t need anyone, but loves like someone who deeply values connection. And the truth? Crowe is secure. 

Not just emotionally available—emotionally anchored.

He is the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.

Out of all the men in TKATB, Crowe is the most stable. Other than Deryl, heance she the reason why I don’t write him because he’s like a mix between Crowe and Hyugo—look, I just don’t wanna write that much, man T-T.

Not in the sense of boring or predictable—no, Crowe is terrifying in the way gentleness becomes power when wielded with unwavering intent. His love doesn’t crash or spiral. It doesn’t demand to be witnessed through chaos. It simply is—a steady, grounding hum beneath the noise of the world, the kind of presence that calms your trembling hands before you even notice they’re shaking.

He doesn’t love to be impressive. He loves because it’s who he is.

Not possessive. Not performative. Just… quietly devoted.

A man who nurtures love like it’s a fire he’s been entrusted to tend: brick by brick, breath by breath, never smothered, never forgotten.

From a psychological lens, again, Crowe is the embodiment of secure attachment—a rarity sculpted not from trauma responses or codependent patterns, but from inner clarity. This is someone who knows himself. Who doesn’t run from discomfort, but also doesn’t manufacture it for sport? Who expresses his needs without guilt. Sets boundaries without cruelty. Listens without waiting to speak.

He doesn’t play games. Emotional safety isn’t a performance for him—it’s his baseline. He can sit in your silence without assuming it’s about him. He can watch you spiral without trying to fix you. He’ll just be there—a shoulder, a breath, a hand on the small of your back that wordlessly says, I’ve got you.

Where the anxious chase and the avoidants vanish, Crowe stays.

And that? That is rare.

He is safe. But not in the bland, beige, Hallmark-movie way. 

He’s safe in the holy shit, I can finally exhale around you kind of way. You could fall apart—shattered, incoherent, undone—and he would catch every piece with reverent hands. Not to glue you back together in his image. Not to fix what he thinks is broken. But just to witness you. To hold the fragments. To let you come home to yourself while wrapped in the kind of presence that never once wavers.

Because Crowe knows that love isn’t about control. Or urgency. Or possession. Love, for him, is about unfolding. Slowly. Deliberately. Willingly.

And he unfolds you in the most devastatingly mundane ways. Tea waiting by your bed before you realize you need it. His jacket slipped over your shoulders before you can pretend you’re not cold. The smell of laundry detergent clinging to your favorite hoodie—the one he washed and folded while humming under his breath. Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. Just devotion stitched into the fabric of the ordinary.

But don’t mistake this softness for perfection.

Crowe still has his own shadows.

He gets tired. He burns out. Sometimes he overfunctions, taking on too much, because rest still feels suspiciously like failure. He’s the pillar in every room, the one everyone leans on, and sometimes he forgets he’s allowed to lean back. He doesn’t show it often, but he craves reassurance in quiet ways—needs to hear that he’s appreciated, even if he’ll never ask.

Even the most securely attached hearts carry wounds.

Crowe’s just learned how to hold his with grace.

That’s what makes him magnetic—his strength isn’t rigid. It’s fluid. Adaptive. His masculinity is never threatened by tenderness. His confidence is not armor—it’s foundation. And that’s what ruins people for anyone else. Because once you’ve been loved by someone like Crowe?

You stop mistaking chaos for passion.

You stop chasing the highs and lows and learn to worship the steady middle. You crave peace because he teaches you that it’s anything but passive.

You’ve thought about what kind of person Crowe could truly open to. The one he’d actually choose to give that rare, inner part of himself to. It wouldn’t be someone who demands a performance. Not someone who needs him to be impressive, loud, or invincible. It would be someone emotionally mature. 

Grounded. 

A person who can walk beside him, not behind. Who sees consistency as a love language, not a limitation. Someone who understands that passion, when paired with safety, doesn’t burn out—it burns deeper. Crowe needs someone who understands that intimacy is built in small, sacred rituals. That calm is not boring—it’s divine. Someone who knows the difference between being claimed and being chosen.

And you? You see it.

You don’t need him to shout his love. You feel it in the way he breathes around you. In the way he touches your shoulder like he’s checking you’re still anchored. In the way he cooks for you, like he’s crafting something sacred. In the way he smiles at you across a crowded room, like he’s proud that you are his still point in the storm. 

So yes. You’re already doomed. 

But it’s the kind of doom you walk into willingly. Reverently. Because there’s no falling here. No cliff. No crash. There’s just the quiet, terrifying comfort of being seen. Of being safe. Of being held in a love that doesn't ask you to shrink or rise—just be. Because Crowe doesn’t love like a storm. 

He loves it like home. And once you've felt that?

You won’t settle for anything less ever again.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Ugh. Alright, but just so we’re clear—I’m writing this with the same energy one uses to approach a beautiful, haunted cathedral that might also house a ghost with a knife collection.

Because Sol?

Sol is… a fucking mess. 

Of course, you wouldn’t know after ONE thing after hanging out with him, or you peek at it at the start of the game. Not the loud, unhinged, obvious kind of mess. No. He’s the kind of mess that hides in the corner of a nearly empty room, eyes locked on something no one else can see, sketchbook clutched in ink-stained fingers, and a look that says, “If you talk to me, I might vanish into smoke.”

You noticed him before you met him. How could you not? Why would you?

He didn’t fit. Not because he tried to stand out, but because he tried so hard not to be noticed that it was impossible not to notice him.

Black hair streaked with poisonous green, tied back in a loose half-up-half-down way that screamed “I didn’t try” but looked suspiciously intentional. Bangs in thirds, one long streak falling dead center down his face, the others framing his cheeks like curtains to something sacred. Crimson-red eyes with burning orange centers like the last flare of a dying sun—central heterochromia, you’d later learn, but at first? You just called them unholy.

Sol didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t even seem to see anyone. Sat in the back. Always sketching. Always watching. And dressed like he rolled out of a shadow realm thrift store and won. 

Ngl he has that shit on—like the best fit out of everone in that damn game because eveyone shit lowkey kinda basic asf.

He wasn’t trying to intimidate. He just wasn’t trying at all.

And still, somehow? He was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. 

Pretty, and pathetic, in the way haunted things are when they’ve been alone too long. You didn’t approach him like you would anyone else. Not with easy words or a smile. You approached him like someone inching toward a sleeping wolf. Careful. Curious. Fascinated.

Like maybe… maybe... You could stay.

Hot Thing #1: His Hands

Let’s just start with the obvious. His hands. His hands.

They should come with a warning label. Or maybe an art exhibit placard: “Do not touch—unless invited. Hazardous to rational thought.”

Sol’s hands are absurd. Long-fingered, precise, a strange contradiction of delicate and dangerous. He moves like someone who creates for a living and destroys for fun. The faint ink stains along his knuckles and fingertips don’t fade—they’re permanent, like tattoos of sleepless nights and compulsive inspiration. 

Calluses rest along his inner fingers from pencils and brushes and god knows what else, but there’s still something careful about the way he moves, something intentional. His hands tremble when he’s lost in thought—not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of whatever storm’s going on in his mind.

And the veins. God. The veins.

Prominent and winding, twitching subtly whenever he flexes or grips something a little too tight—like he's constantly at war with himself. You could map out your descent into insanity with them. Watch his hands tighten around a paintbrush, or twitch when he's gripping a mug too tightly, or the way his fingers hesitate before brushing against your skin—and every time, you swear you feel it in your lungs.

But it’s not just the aesthetics. It’s the intention.

The first time he cupped your face—with those artist’s hands, rough with talent and gentle with fear—you actually forgot how to breathe. He held you like you were something sacred. Breakable. Like he’d spent years drawing you in his mind before he ever touched you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, and he was terrified that touching you might undo the illusion.

And you?

You're long gone.

Because when Sol touches you like that—with those graceful, twitchy artist hands, a breath away from trembling—you forget your name. You forget his name. You forget why this is such a bad idea. All that remains is sensation: the calloused pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, the unspoken question tucked inside the drag of his knuckle, the ink-smudged tenderness of someone who holds fragile things like they matter.

You’re not immune. Not even close.

So—maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of pure chaos—you take one of his hands. Just… gently. As if you’re studying it. Turning it over in your palm. Tracing a fingertip along the long lines of his veins. You hear his breath hitch. Not loud. But enough.

And for someone who blends into the background so effortlessly, Sol is terrible at hiding how flustered he is.

His ears were pink first. A soft, creeping flush like a sunrise over frost. Then the edge of his jaw tightens—not from anger, but restraint. His fingers twitch under yours like he’s trying so hard not to pull away… or maybe not to pull you closer. His gaze darts anywhere but your face: the floor, the table, the sky. 

Anywhere safer than your expression right now.

“...You're doing it again,” he mutters. His voice is lower this time. Rougher.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence as your thumb brushes the back of his knuckles. His pulse leaps beneath your touch.

“That thing. Where you look at me like I’m—” he pauses. Swallows. “Like I’m not a disaster.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe I like disasters.”

His eyes flicker to yours—just for a moment. Something vulnerable flashes behind the crimson and gold, something fragile and aching. It vanishes just as quickly. Replaced by that familiar, distant calm he wears like armor.

“…Okay,” he murmurs. Only quiet disbelief. His hand curls slightly around yours, just enough to hold on. Just enough to let you know he doesn’t want you to stop.

And you don’t. You can’t.

Because touching him like this—softly, reverently, like you’re handling some ancient spell-bound relic that might just whisper your name back if you get close enough—it completely undoes him.

Every time your fingers drift along his palm or ghost over the curve between his knuckles, Sol’s composure does this little glitch. Like a frame skip in reality. He tries to act unbothered—muttering under his breath, faking a yawn, suddenly very interested in the corner of the room where absolutely nothing is happening—but his hands? They give him away. Always. They stay exactly where they are. Still. Open. Waiting.

And okay. Fine. Maybe your interest isn’t entirely innocent. I mean, have you seen those hands? Long fingers, all twitchy with tension and stained in ink like a promise. Veins like lightning strikes. That subtle strength in the way he handles a paintbrush, or tightens the strap of his sketchbook bag, or, god forbid, cups your jaw like you’re something he’s afraid to break but dying to know.

Let’s just say—if you ever asked him to do something a little less wholesome with those hands?

You’re pretty sure he’d be excellent at it. Like, overly excellent. Like "I’ve read too many dark romance novels and now I know too much,” excellent. Not that you’re saying that out loud. Yet. Because Sol? Sol would die of embarrassment. Blush to his ears, probably knock over three books and his mug of tea in the process, and then immediately act like you were the one being inappropriate.

But his hands would stay. Still. Open. 

Just in case you wanted to hold them again. Or trace the lines. Or test a theory or two about how good he really is with them. Sol won’t say it. He doesn’t need to. But every little movement-every—every twitch, every stillness, every time he lets you touch—It’s him saying: I’m yours, if you ask.

And maybe, someday soon, you will.

Hot Thing #2: His Jaw Tenses

See, Sol is the kind of person you don’t notice until you do—and by then, it’s already too late.

He doesn’t command attention, he slips past it, folds himself into the edges of the room like a shadow that’s always been there. Not because he lacks presence, no, not even close. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Sol’s the ghost behind the curtain, the silent observer whose gaze lingers a beat too long and whose silence says more than most people’s entire vocabulary.

He watches. And remembers. 

But then. Oh, then—there’s the jaw thing.

It happens when he’s angry. Or jealous. Or both. And because he’s so quiet, so eerily unreadable most of the time, the first time you catch it, it hits like a freight train.

You're talking to someone else. Just a little too long. Laughing, maybe. Leaning a little too close. You glance over—and there’s Sol, sitting there like a portrait halfway finished in chiaroscuro, face calm but jaw tight. So tight you can see the muscle working beneath the skin, flexing like he’s biting back something vicious.

His pen is still in his hand, but it hasn’t moved in minutes. His heterochromatic gaze finds yours—and holds. Searing. Like the air just got thicker between you.

You shift in your chair, and just like that—scrrrrk—he reaches out, grabs the leg of your chair, and drags it closer to his. Effortlessly.

Your breath stutters. His arm lifts—casual, practiced—and drapes across the back of your chair like he’s staking a claim. You can feel the tension still thrumming in him, that fire he’s trying so hard to tamp down behind his quiet facade.

"Keep talking," he murmurs, barely glancing at you. His lips twitch—half smirk, half warning. "I was listening."

Your face? Absolutely volcanic. Your brain? Static. You try to refocus, try to pretend you're not being slowly incinerated alive by one (1) jealous gremlin masquerading as a sad poet.

But he doesn’t move.

And even with the jaw still clenched, that tension coiled in his shoulders, his hand brushes your back. Soft. Steady. Anchoring.

You don’t know if he’s trying to calm you down or himself.

Either way, it works. Because even when he’s mad—even when that jaw is practically grinding his teeth to dust—Sol doesn’t push you away. 

He pulls you closer.

Hot Thing #3: Well.. his Voice

Of course his voice is unfair. Of course it is.

We don’t even get voice acting in the game—but somehow, somehow, I can still hear him. It's one of those cruel little mysteries of the universe, like how your favorite characters linger in your mind long after the screen fades to black.

I remember the creator, Fantasia, once posted what each character’s voice would sound like—just a passing comment, buried in an old post—but it stuck. And among all the characters, Sol’s voice is the only one that doesn’t overwhelm you.

Everyone else? Yeah, they have presence. Energy. Volume. Some sounds normal. Some are… well—Geo. And listen, I say this with love and concern, but that man’s voice sounds like it was designed to haunt your dreams and threaten your ancestors. Geo speaks, and you flinch like someone just unsheathed a cursed weapon. He sounds like vengeance???

But Sol? No. Sol’s voice is different.

It's quiet, careful—like he’s tasting each syllable before deciding it’s safe to say out loud. It’s not sharp or commanding. It doesn’t need to be. His voice is a hush at the edge of the storm. A late-night radio broadcast meant only for you. It’s not there to startle you into attention—it coaxes you in. Warm. Thoughtful. A little hesitant, like he doesn’t speak often, but when he does, you listen.

And that makes it worse. Because he’s not trying to get under your skin.

He just is.

Like, Sol’s voice starts soft, low, breathy, like he’s never quite sure if he’s allowed to speak out loud. Sol talks like he’s unspooling thought directly from the inside of his mind, like every word he gives you is something private, meant to be kept.

His tone curls around your spine like smoke from an incense stick: barely there at first, but then suddenly all you can smell, feel, breathe.

But when he’s immersed? When he’s talking about things he actually loves—books with frayed spines and marginalia scribbled in the corners, the myths he collects like bones, the difference between gouache and oil paints, or how watercolor red bleeds like veins under wet paper?

That voice? Changes.

It deepens. Warms. Sharpens into this low, smooth, hypnotic hum that’s too much and not enough all at once. He leans over his sketchbook one afternoon, humming absently as he touches a brush to the page—burnt sienna fanning out in delicate, crimson rivers.

"The reds always bleed like veins when I paint with them,” he murmurs, his mouth entirely too close to your ear, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You forget to breathe. You forget your own name.

“I—what?” you stammer, blinking like you just came out of a trance.

He doesn’t even look up. Just smirks, barely, and dips the brush again. “You weren’t listening,” he accuses gently. “You just like my voice.”

“I don’t—!” You clamp your mouth shut, cheeks burning.

His eyes flick toward you, crimson ringed with gold, dark lashes brushing his cheek. “You do.” A pause. Then softer: “It’s okay. I like how you say my name, too.”

You malfunction. Completely.

But it’s not just the tone. Not the warmth, or the drop in pitch when he’s tired and his words come wrapped in sleep. It’s the way he speaks—how he always sounds like he’s choosing each syllable with intent. Like he’s afraid of wasting a single one. Like language is sacred. Like you are.

Even when he’s quiet—especially when he’s quiet—there’s so much in it. You can hear care in the way he says your name. You can feel longing in the way he pauses before speaking, like he’s gauging whether he deserves to say something that touches you.

And underneath all the odd, unnerving stillness… there’s sweetness. A tenderness that never needs to announce itself.

He lingers longer than necessary when he brushes your hand. He touches your wrist like it’s something fragile he might break if he’s not careful. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you’re not paying attention, then pretends he didn’t. He scribbles quotes and folds them into tiny shapes—leaves them tucked in your books, your pockets, under your pillow. 

“You’re not strange. You’re just the only language I haven’t learned how to read yet.”

You don’t tell him, but you keep everyone.

And when you dream, sometimes it’s not his face you see—it’s just the sound of his voice. Low, reverent, a whisper carved into your ribs.

Saying your name like it’s a poem. Like it’s a spell. Like it’s his.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓃𝓍𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 

Clingy. Highly Emotional. Seeking Reassurance.

Alright, let’s get something straight right off the bat: You guys know I don’t get the hype with Sol. Like, I see all of everyone on TikTok and Tumblr losing their minds over him like he’s some rare cosmic phenomenon, and I’m just here blinking, trying to figure out what’s so special about him.

He’s a yandere base character with a lot of character, he’s well written, I’ll give you that, because out of all the yandere

Because honestly? Again, visually, Sol looks like half the guys I see on campus every damn day. Long, disheveled bangs shadowing those stormy eyes, a kind of vacant, distant artist stare that’s been milled into the indie aesthetic.

The kind of dude who smells like burnt cinnamon and acrylic paint, like he’s perpetually stuck in a thrift shop or art studio. If you threw a rock into a random thrift, I’d bet it’d hit five Sol lookalikes before it hit you.

Let’s get something straight. 

Sorry, you can clearly tell one fucked me up so bad.

Sol is not romantic. He’s not the fantasy.

He’s the delusion dressed in aesthetics so sharp and lyrical that people forget to flinch before they bleed. And I’m sorry if that breaks hearts. 

Actually, no—I’m not. 

Because someone has to say it. Someone has to be the older sister standing between fantasy and reality with a tired look in her eyes and a warning in her voice: Don’t crave men like Sol.

Don’t mistake his obsession for intimacy.

Don’t confuse his emotional starvation for depth.

Yes, Sol is beautiful—haunting, even. He doesn’t ask to be adored. He doesn’t perform desire. He simply exists in a way that makes your chest ache, like looking at a painting you don’t understand but can’t stop staring at. He’s the kind of character who crawls into your veins and sets up shop in your most vulnerable thoughts.

But that doesn’t make him safe.

In fact, he’s the most dangerous man in TKATB. 

Not in the "knife-to-throat" way, but in the "I will latch onto you so completely that you forget where you end and I begin" kind of way. He’s a yandere.

Let’s not romanticize what he really is:

A walking case study in anxious attachment, trauma-coded intimacy, and emotional dysregulation. Sol doesn’t love with boundaries. He loves with abandonment issues and fever dreams. He doesn’t have a type. Not in the curated, preference-based sense. He doesn’t fall for “someone special.” He falls for whoever offers him a drop of attention in a lifetime of drought.

You texted him back twice? He’s writing odes.

You laugh at one of his jokes? He’s dreaming about your wedding.

You touch his arm casually? He’s ruined.

That’s not love. That’s fixation.

That’s attachment disorder dressed up in pretty metaphors and mournful gazes. Sol would bleed himself dry to prove he matters to you. He would carve your name into every corner of his mind, begging the memory of you to stay because he doesn’t know how to hold himself without an anchor, and you are the anchor. You, who smiled at him that one time. You, who didn’t run away fast enough. You, who made the mistake of seeing him.

And gods help you if you ever return that affection.

Because once you do?

He’s yours—entirely. Obsessively. Apocalyptically.

Not in a cute, flowers-and-sappy-notes kind of way.

But in the “I’d rather be miserable with you than happy alone” kind of way. The “I will shrink myself to fit in the cracks of your life” kind of way. The kind of devotion that doesn’t feel flattering. It feels suffocating. And yeah, he writes you poems. He makes you art. He memorizes your favorite songs.

But all of it is built on the trembling foundation of please don’t leave me. He gives you his soul—but not because he trusts you. Because he’s afraid you’re the only one who’ll take it.

Sol is scarcity in a human body.

He’s love-starved. He’s lonely. And that loneliness warps him into something too much and not enough all at once. He doesn’t want you to love him for his talents. Or his personality. He just wants to be chosen. Not out of logic. Not out of reason. Just out of that irrational, terrifying instinct that says, You. You’re mine.

And for anyone who’s ever felt unwanted, unchosen, or overlooked… That kind of love is magnetic. It feels holy. It feels like finally being seen. But it’s not holiness. It’s hunger. And hunger makes people desperate.

Now, listen closely. Because this matters:

Sol will make you feel special.

But that’s not because you’re the only one. It’s because he doesn’t know how to feel okay without someone—anyone—to fixate on. He’ll watch you sleep like you’re the sun and the end of the world. He’ll spiral at the thought of losing your attention. He’ll say he’s fine and then quietly implode when you don’t text back in time.

And the truth is: He’s not ready for love.

He doesn’t have the tools. He has poetry instead of communication. Passion instead of boundaries. And yes, he will ruin you with how beautiful he is when he’s desperate.

But he’ll ruin himself even faster. So please. Don’t aspire to love a man like Sol. Understand him? Yes. Empathize? Absolutely.

But don’t confuse him with a goal. Don’t glamorize his pain. Don’t make a home in someone who’s still setting fire to every place they enter just to see if anyone will stay in the flames.

Sol is not a villain. he kinda is...

He’s just... unfinished. Raw. Beautiful in that tragic, self-destructive way that makes you want to hold him and scream at him at the same time. But love should not be built on survival instincts and panic responses.

And if you’re a younger reader, especially, because I was once your age and I know SOME minors read my work, you're just playing it smart not to show your real age on the internet, so please listen:

This is not what love looks like.

This is not the kind of man you want to save. This is the kind of man who needs to save himself first. And you are not the cure. You are not a salve. You are not responsible for holding someone together just because they’re afraid to fall apart alone.

So no. I will not write him as some perfect tragic prince.

Because he isn’t.

And you deserve better than the fantasy of someone who would rather burn with you than heal beside you. Sol is poetry. But not every poem should be read like a promise. Some are just warnings dressed in beautiful words.

And this? This is yours.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Ah, finally. Geo.

God, I’ve missed writing this man like a bad habit I refuse to quit.

Let me tell you something real—there’s something infuriatingly addictive about Geo. He’s not just tall; he’s annoyingly tall. The kind of tall that makes your posture worse just standing next to him.

He’s the exact height where, if you asked him to grab something from the top shelf, he’d just look at you, expression flat, silently judging your weakness while reaching for it anyway. Like some quiet, reluctant guardian deity who hates your incompetence but takes care of you anyway.

He’s broody. Of course he is. Broody, serious, emotionally constipated in the way only someone raised under an oppressive cocktail of expectations, trauma, and tactical training could be.

He doesn’t “glare”—he assesses, and the moment his eyes lock onto you, you feel like you're being psychologically dissected and filed into a threat matrix. He doesn’t just walk into a room. He occupies it. Quietly. Commandingly. Like a ghost who’s also your landlord.

And yet?

No one knows a damn thing about him. 

He’s the human equivalent of redacted classified files. He’s got the kind of presence that screams: If you think you know me, you don’t. Geo’s not mysterious for attention—he’s just actually private. Like "burned his own childhood photos" levels of private. 

If you ask where he’s from, you’ll get a clipped “overseas” and a look so cold you’ll suddenly forget what the question even was. He’s not hiding anything in the way someone guilty might—he’s hiding everything because he can. And because of him, your curiosity is noise.

Geo’s rich, obviously, but not the new-money, “look at my luxury watch and hypercar” kind of rich. No, he’s old moneyrich—the kind where generational power moves in silence. His taste is curated, not expensive for the sake of expense, but because he understands precision. Geo’s wealth feels like legacy and bloodlines and something cold passed down through hands that never knew softness.

Now here’s the thing: he is not approachable.

Geo radiates this “do not engage” energy like a psychic wall. Trying to be friends with him cold? Suicidal. You don’t meet Geo—you get vetted by him. If you somehow worm your way into his orbit, it’s not because you charmed him—it’s because he saw something in you that wasn’t a liability. And even then, he watches. Always. Like he’s trying to solve you before you solve him.

Honestly, you’d need Crowe to run interference, several bribes, a six-month campaign of micro-interactions, and a willingness to have him ignore 90% of your existence before you even get a nod of recognition. And when you do get that nod? Oh, congratulations. You now mean slightly more than nothing to him. That’s progress.

And yet—yet—that’s what makes him devastating.

Hot Thing #1: His Useful Height

Geo’s height is not just a trait. It’s a threat.

A walking hazard to your sanity. A full-body reminder that evolution had favorites. Because it’s not just that he’s tall—it’s that he uses it, casually, instinctively, infuriatingly well.

Even when you can reach something on your own, he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t even hesitate. You’ll be mid-reach, fingers brushing the top shelf like a responsible, self-sufficient adult—and suddenly, he’s behind you. Close. Solid. His hand effortlessly sliding past yours to grab the exact item like he was summoned by the gods of smug utility.

“You were struggling,” he says mildly, placing it in your hands like some kind of benevolent height deity.

“I was not,” you grumble, trying not to combust from how his chest just barely grazed your back.

He doesn’t argue. Just scoffs. That very specific Geo scoff. The kind that’s 60% dry amusement, 30% mischief, and 10% 'I know I’m hot, but I’m going to pretend I don’t.'

And sure, maybe he likes being helpful. Maybe he enjoys the way your flustered silence lingers in the air afterward. But mostly? Mostly, it’s the excuse it gives him to lean in.

Because every time he reaches up to grab something, he does it deliberately close—his body brushing yours, his arm stretching just overhead, his torso turning ever so slightly so you can catch the shift of his muscles beneath that stupidly well-fitting hoodie.

You try not to look. You fail. Every single time.

Then, just as casually as he appeared, he steps back and returns to whatever he was doing like nothing just happened. Like you’re not standing there, gripping a box of cereal like it’s a loaded weapon, heart trying to escape your ribcage.

And always—always—he leaves with a scoff.

“You’re good?” he says once, catching the color on your cheeks/facial expression.

“I’m hot,” you lie flatly, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Geo raises a brow. “Mm. Sure. That explains the staring, too, I guess.”

You want to throw something at him. You also want to kiss him. Which is a real problem.

And let’s talk about doorframes. There should be an international crisis summit about the way Geo leans on them. His arm stretched casually overhead, braced against the frame like it was built to accommodate his wingspan.

That lazy, lopsided posture—the kind that says I’m comfortable in every molecule of my body. Shoulders relaxed, shirt rising just enough to hint at skin, and his head tilted with that quiet, unreadable expression like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

It’s a war crime. It’s inhumane.

Especially because it’s not on purpose. It’s never on purpose. It’s just him—tall, composed, stupidly attractive Geo existing in your general vicinity while your brain decides to restart its operating system like a cheap laptop trying to load a full RPG on dial-up.

And when you finally point it out?

He has the nerve to look confused. 

“…The lean?” he repeats, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you snap, practically frothing. “The lean, Geo. You do it every time you want to ruin my life.”

“I was just standing,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to do when your arm is flexed, your bicep is straining against cotton, and your stare could melt glaciers.

You want to scream. Instead, you mutter, “There should be laws.”

And Geo? He scoffs. God help you.

But the absolute worst—the final nail in the coffin—is when he drives.

Because, of course, Geo reverse parks like a man who has conquered past lives. Of course, he shifts into gear with one hand on the wheel, the other slung casually over your seat, twisting with effortless control as his eyes flick to the mirrors. The car glides perfectly into place like it was drawn there by divine magnetism.

“Why,” you whisper hoarsely, “are you parking like we’re in a heist film?”

He glances at you. Calm. Confident. Zero shame. “Didn’t want to mess up the angle.”

You’re short-circuiting. You’re heat-flushed. You’re considering marrying this man solely out of survival instinct.

“I am the angle, Geo. You are messing me up.”

And it only gets worse when he responds with a small, smug chuckle—and goes back to adjusting the rearview mirror like he didn’t just hand-deliver your soul to the afterlife.

And the truth? You’d let him do it again.

Hot Thing #2: The Outfit Combo

aka “Domestic Geo Is a Public Threat to Your Sanity”

There’s a sacred kind of violence in the way Geo dresses when it’s just the two of you—no witnesses, no performance, just private comfort tailored for your psychological destruction. It's not a calculated seduction. 

It's worse. It’s instinctual. Organic. The kind of unintentional torment that comes from a man who has no idea what he looks like in grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt… or worse, knows exactly what he looks like and chooses violence anyway.

Let’s start with the setting: your apartment, a lazy Sunday, maybe a storm tapping against the windows while something warm simmers on the stove.

You’re the one bundled in his oversized sweatshirt—because, of course, he insists you wear it, mumbles something about you needing to “stay warm” while he eyes you like you’re the coziest thing he’s ever seen. You know the truth: he just likes how it looks on you. The drape of the sleeves. The way it smells like him. The fact that it’s his.

But him?

Geo’s at the counter, yawning, stretching, completely unaware (or pretending to be) of the absolute crime scene that is his outfit.

Nothing but sweatpants. And not just any sweatpants.

Those cursed grey ones. Worn soft. Hung dangerously low on his hips like they’ve got something to prove. They cling in all the wrong-right places, and somehow manage to reveal more than they conceal—each motion sending a silent, godless prayer into the air. And paired with that black t-shirt? Tight. Sinned against. Fitted like it’s trying to stay decent but failing gloriously.

Every muscle on display. Every line etched by fire and cruel genetics. You swear the shirt wasn’t that tight before he washed it, but now? It hugs his chest like a second skin, riding just slightly higher in the back, lifting just enough to tease a sliver of toned waist with every step.

And his hair. Messy from sleep. Tousled in a way he hates, muttering under his breath while running a hand through it like he’s offended by his hotness. You watch him move across the room like gravity is just a concept that chooses to worship him. His voice, still raw from sleep, is a low rumble when he finally breaks the silence:

“Did you eat yet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain has fully exited the chat. You’re busy wondering how one man can look like he bench-pressed your emotional stability and then dropped it on purpose.

Geo glances at you, takes in your dazed silence, and arches a brow. “...What?”

You blink. Realize you’ve been staring at the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s a holy relic. “I—uh. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”

He leans on the counter, arms folded, veins flexing with a casual, effortless threat. “Ha, simp.”

“I WAS NOT.”

“Sure.” And then the smile. That evil, knowing little quirk at the corner of his mouth like he knows. Of course he knows. He just won’t admit it. That’s the true hell of it all.

But if the home fits are emotional warfare, then gym Geo is a full-scale psychic assassination. You’ve tried working out with him. Honestly, you gave it a noble shot.

But it’s hard to focus on form when he’s three feet away doing pull-ups like gravity personally offended him. Back muscles rippling. Shoulder blades flexing with each movement. And you? Struggling to breathe like an asthmatic Victorian maiden watching a gladiator fight.

There’s sweat. So much sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest in a way that makes you question if cotton was ever ethical to begin with. His arms are a living map of divine punishment. The way he pushes up his sleeves before spotting you? Fatal. Intentional or not, it’s like he’s loading a gun and handing it to your libido.

And then… life intervenes. Work. Time. Distance. You’re stuck at home, haunted by the ghost of Geo’s muscles and the memory of how low those sweatpants really sit when he's stretching in the kitchen.

So you beg. Not even with dignity.

“Geo, I’m serious. I need this. One gym selfie. Please. I'm losing my mind. Just—just one flex. For my health.”

His reply is a single, soul-crushing word: “No.”

You spiral. You threaten to write poetry. You do write poetry. Terrible, desperate haikus about forearms and jawlines. You light candles. Curse his ancestors. Offer sacrifices to whatever cruel deity decided to gift that body to a man who refusesto let you thirst in peace.

Then, just as you’re giving up hope—ping.

Message from Geo.

You open it expecting a meme, maybe a gif. Instead?

It’s him. Shirtless. Standing in front of the mirror. Every muscle gleaming with sweat and sin, carved like living marble. Obliques deep enough to drown in. That cruel V-line disappearing into those same grey sweatpants now riding even lower, like they’ve lost the will to restrain. The angle? Cinematic. The lighting? Demonic. His face? Calm. Expression flat, like this, is nothing. Like he’s nothing. Like he didn’t just destroy your week with one jpeg.

The caption? “Thought you’d like this.”

You did. You did, in fact, like that.

You screamed into your hands. Threw your phone across the room. Whispered “Geo, I’m literally at work” like he was there to hear you. Which he wasn’t. Because he was probably drinking water like a smug bastard while you mourned your innocence and tried to remember how to function in a world where that image now existed.

To this day, you can’t look at grey sweatpants without blushing. And Geo? He still wears them around the house like it’s nothing. Like he is nothing. Like he’s 

not the physical embodiment of your final brain cell waving a white flag.

And the kicker?

He’ll ask why you’re so quiet, shirt clinging to his chest, waistband teasing danger, voice low and unbothered.

“You okay?” No. You are not okay.

Geo: 1. You: deceased.

Hot Thing #3: The Scent of Him

Geo smells… divine. 

There’s no other word for it. It's not loud or obnoxious—he doesn't storm your senses like some overcompensating cologne ad. No. Geo’s scent is subtle. Discreet.

The kind of fragrance that lives in the air between words, like a secret only meant for you to discover. It’s private, restrained—something you have to earn the right to know. And once you know it? You're ruined. Addicted. Held hostage by it in the best, most unhinged way.

It’s hard to describe exactly. There's something warm and grounding in it, like clean skin kissed with cedar and maybe some barely-there spice—soft but masculine, clean but not sterile, a whisper of danger dressed in warmth.

It lingers like a ghost, clinging to his clothes, haunting your pillows, hanging in the folds of his hoodie long after he's gone. You’ve tried describing it to someone once and failed spectacularly. Ended up mumbling something like, “Imagine if safety and sin had a baby.” That about sums it up.

You pretend it's nothing. But your body reacts like it is everything.

It starts innocently—like the way you always end up seated beside him when you're out with friends. You don’t say why. You just... do. Your hand brushes his arm as you sit, your shoulder brushes his when you lean. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do you.

And that scent—it just exists, subtle and quiet and infuriatingly Geo. You find yourself pretending to reach past him for something, stealing half a second of inhaling him like you're not building a shrine to his laundry detergent in your soul.

Once, he caught you zoning out mid-conversation, eyes soft, brain mush.

“...You good?” he asked, deadpan, brow barely lifted.

You blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Tired.”

LIESSSSS, YOU LIE. You were high off his hoodie. No regrets.

But it’s at his place, where the scent becomes something else entirely. Something sacred.

You and Geo walk in from classes, kick off his shoes, shrug out of his hoodie, and suddenly the air feels warmer. You don’t even realize how bad your day was until he’s next to you on the couch, stretching with a quiet sigh, and that smell hits you—comfort layered in human form. Not strong. Just... there. Softly invading your lungs until the ache in your chest unwinds.

He doesn’t talk much at first. Just sits with you, occasionally resting a hand on your knee or brushing his fingers along your arm. He doesn't have to ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t even need the details. He just exists—radiating presence and calm—and that scent does more to soothe your nerves than an hour of therapy ever could.

And then, the nap.

You weren’t even planning on sleeping. Geo was working on something beside you, laptop open, brows furrowed in concentration, and you were scrolling mindlessly on your phone, your head drifting toward his shoulder more with each breath.

He smelled good. Not in-your-face good. More like ambient-good. The kind of scent that makes your muscles go slack without realizing it. Something herbal and clean and goddamn intimate.

Next thing you knew, you were waking up. Still on the couch. Room quiet. Phone forgotten. Blanket half-tangled around you, and—wait.

Geo. On top of you. Dead asleep.

Sprawled across your chest like a human furnace, one leg tangled with yours, his arm slung protectively over your stomach, his head tucked into the curve of your neck like you were built to hold him.

His breath was slow, steady, warm against your collarbone. His hair tickled your chin—messy, soft, smelling like his conditioner and his shampoo and him. And all you could do was breathe.

You didn’t dare move. Not because of the weight (though, good lord, the man sleeps like a stone statue), but because the moment was too precious. Too tender. You threaded your fingers through his hair slowly, reverently, breathing in that scent like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. He sighed in his sleep.

A little exhale, a subtle curl of fingers against your side. You almost cried. It wasn’t just about how good he smelled—it was what he smelled like. Comfort. Safety. Something yours.

And then there’s The Hoodie Incident.

You had one of his sweatshirts. Accidentally—Not really, he left it at you plce and you never said anything about it.

You wore it to bed one night because the scent of him helped you sleep better. Wrapped yourself up in it like armor. He noticed it missing after a few days and asked.

“That mine?” he asked casually, brow raised.

“Nope,” you said, already wearing it again, sleeves tucked over your hands.

He stared at you, then walked over, stopping way too close. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your hair as he murmured: “Keep it.” A beat. Then softer, with that deadly smirk: “Smells like me, right?”

You froze. Brain stopped. Oxygen left the building. He knew. 

He fucking knew. And he weaponized it. Now you own that hoodie. Officially. And every time you wear it, you remember the way he said those words. You remember the scent. You remember how it makes your shoulders drop and your thoughts still. And on the days he’s away, when your chest feels a little hollow and the world a little louder, you curl up in it, close your eyes, and breathe deep. It’s not just a hoodie. It’s a promise. A presence. A reminder that Geo might not always be in the room, but he’s still there.

In your space. In your breath. In the fabric of your comfort.

And he always will be.

Hot Thing #4: Incredibly Patient

It’s not something you notice right away—not in the obvious, neon-sign kind of way. Patience doesn’t announce itself. It creeps in slowly. Quietly. Steadily.

But once you see it in Geo, once it sinks in that he’s never rushed with you, never irritated, never short-tempered, you’re done for.

Geo is incredibly patient with you.

And not in the condescending, pretend-nice sort of way either. It's not a performance. It's just how he is with you. Whether you’re fumbling through something new or spiraling emotionally, he doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t tap his foot waiting for you to get your act together.

He waits. Silently. Solidly.

Like a fortress with a heartbeat.

It shows in the little things first. Like the way he teaches you archery—because he’s your man, when you not never gonna touch archery. He never rolls his eyes when you mess up. Never sigh when you get the same move method four times in a row. You’ll be sitting on the floor, half-focused, frowning at the bow like it insulted your bloodline—and then his hand will appear, warm and massive, curling gently over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, and his voice is always so low when he talks to you like that. Patient. Measured. Soft in the way gravity is soft—subtle, but you feel it everywhere.

He shifts your fingers gently, adjusting the angle of your hands, the way you’re holding the bow. And he leans over just slightly, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest barely brushing yours. His breath ghosts past your ear.

“Try again.” But you can’t. Not really.

Not because you’re incapable, but because your entire nervous system is buzzing—not from the game, but from the feel of him. The way his touch isn’t rushed. The way he doesn’t even seem bothered that you’re not paying attention.

The way he notices, of course—but says nothing. Just lets you pretend like you’re actually trying to win when really, your brain is too busy short-circuiting over how gentle he is with you.

And it’s not just with archery practice.

There was one day—you were completely unraveling inside. Stress eating you alive, too many things happening all at once. You’d come over without warning, didn’t say much, just let yourself in with a weak excuse and sat stiffly on his couch. Geo looked at you—really looked—and didn't ask anything.

Didn’t push for an explanation. You could feel his gaze settle on you from across the room, could feel the weight of his silence, but it wasn’t judgment. It was presence. Waiting. Quiet support.

You didn’t want to talk. You couldn’t. So instead you got up, walked over without a word, and folded yourself beside him on the couch. Head on his chest. Nothing else.

Now, Geo isn’t one for touch. He doesn’t cling. Doesn’t really do hand-holding or snuggling or any of the cutesy, high-friction affection. But when it’s you? When you come to him looking tired and wrecked and saying everything in your silence?

He shifts wordlessly to make space for you. Tilts his body so you can settle into him. One of his arms slowly, carefully, finds its way around your shoulders—tentative at first, like he’s not sure if it’ll help.

It does.

You stayed like that for a long time. His shirt smelled like him—clean skin and woodsy soap and something faintly sharp, like wind on cold steel—and you buried your nose into it like it was oxygen. He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just kept his hand loosely resting against your back, his thumb brushing a lazy, quiet rhythm there. Over and over. Like he was grounding you without even meaning to.

At some point, you must’ve whispered, “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked slowly, tilted his head so his jaw brushed your hair. “What for?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You didn’t have the energy to explain how your emotions had knotted themselves too tightly to speak. But he didn’t press. Didn’t sigh or pull away or make it about himself.

He just let you exist. In your mess. In your silence.

And later—after you’d dozed off and woken again with a sore neck and a clearer head—he asked, voice calm and unreadable: “You wanna talk about it now?”

You didn’t. But the way he asked? The way he waited for you to say yes or no, giving you full control of the moment—it made your throat ache. Made you feel safe. Like no matter how messy things got, Geo would be there. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to change you. Just staying.

And that’s what patience looks like with him.

It’s in how he watches you wrestle with learning something and never gets annoyed. How he lets you take your time, even when you’re being difficult. How he gives you space when you don’t want to talk, but also makes room for you to collapse wordlessly against him. 

How he listens to you ramble about some obscure obsession for fifteen minutes and never once checks the time. It’s how he trusts your pace. Waits for you to come to him. And when you do—when you finally reach out with hands shaking and words unspoken—he’s already there, steady and silent and yours in the kind of way that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

That’s Geo. Incredibly patient. Almost unfairly so.

And when it’s just the two of you, and you’re fragile in a way most people don’t see? It doesn’t feel simple anymore. It feels sacred. Like maybe love isn’t always fire and fury. 

Sometimes, it’s just a man letting you fall apart against his chest—and waiting quietly while you stitch yourself back together.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉

Distant. Unemotional. Avoids Closeness.

GEO. GEO. GEO. MY MAN. MY MAN.

MY. MF. MAN. GEO. GODDDDD I MISS WRITING HIM.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Geo’s Attachment Style: Dismissive Avoidant, But Not Entirely Heartless, an intimate autopsy of the man who flinches from closeness but still finds himself soft for you.

Let’s set one thing straight: Geo isn’t cold. He’s controlled.

There’s a difference—and it matters. Most people see the first layer: the distant, unreadable expression, the measured movements, the voice that rarely shifts tone unless absolutely necessary.

They call it stoic. Or maybe “chillingly calm.” They don’t realize it’s not for their benefit—it’s for his. A shield built over the years of knowing that needing people often ends in being disappointed by them.

Geo’s attachment style is avoidant, yes.

But not in the obvious “get away from me” kind of way. It’s more subtle. More surgical. He doesn’t avoid you physically; he avoids the implication of you. He’ll let you sit close. He might even make room for your leg to rest against his. But try to ask him what he’s thinking? What he feels?

And you’ll get a blank look. A pause that lasts just a beat too long.

Then something like, “Nothing important.”

That’s Geo. Dismissive to the core. Not because he doesn’t feel—no, that’s the real tragedy. He feels so much it becomes necessary to compress it all into a vault behind steel and smoke. Emotions are like open circuits in him. Dangerous. Hot. Always at risk of shorting out the entire system.

So he doesn’t express. He manages.

And the irony? Despite all this—despite the fact that he moves through the world like emotional intimacy is a sniper’s red dot aimed at his head—he’s still so incredibly patient with you.

That’s the paradox. That’s where the spell gets cast.

You’ve seen it. The way his brow never creases when you stumble through explanations. When you’re in a mood and don’t want to talk, he never pesters you with questions. He just makes space for your silence like it’s another language he happens to be fluent in. He teaches you things—like his likes and dislikes, his routines—with a steady hand and zero judgment. You fumble? He guides. You panic? He grounds.

He’s never unkind to you.

Even when you’re emotionally volatile, even when you show up unraveling and say nothing at all—he’s calm. Distant, yes. But never cruel. He lets you lean your head on his chest when you’re done pretending to be fine. He stiffens, sure, like physical closeness is a language he doesn’t quite speak fluently. But he doesn’t pull away.

And that’s the difference.

He doesn’t push you out.

He just… doesn’t know how to pull you in.

It’s funny in a way—how you might joke about showing up as a cat to get his attention. You’d think he’d roll his eyes or walk away. But no. He’d freeze. Horrified. Because of affection in feline form? That’s too direct. Too raw. But then he’d let you stay anyway. Make a space for you to curl up beside him without ever acknowledging what it means.

And once you’re in, even as a metaphorical cat? He’ll keep you.

He won’t say it. Won’t dare speak it out loud. But he’ll start moving differently. Making room for you in his routines. One night, he’ll throw you a hoodie without comment. Another time, he’ll share his charger before you even ask. And one day, when you’re bone-tired and thinking you might just break, he’ll make you tea—perfectly how you like it—without asking if something’s wrong.

Because he already knows. He always knows.

Geo doesn’t love declarations. He loves recognition. In presence. In survival. And his avoidant tendencies? They don’t disappear. But they bend—just a little—when it comes to you.

And the real kicker? Warning, I got into my feelings too much here.

You like him. You really do.

Not in the flippant, surface-level way you’ve liked others before—no. This is different. He is different. The attraction didn’t hit you all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was erosion. 

Soft, steady. A slow collapse of every defense you’d so carefully built, worn down by quiet eyes, dry wit, and the kind of patience that made you want to shatter in his hands.

Here’s the unkind truth—the one I’ve had to accept without romanticizing, without making excuses or reading too deeply into things that aren’t there: when it comes to Geo, there are rules. Unspoken, razor-sharp boundaries written in the fine print of his presence.

And at the top of the list is this: I would never tell him.

Tell him I like him? Hell No. That’s not part of the plan.

The plan, instead, is quiet. Strategic. I’d start by getting close to the others—Crowe, the rest of the friend group. Make myself a part of their ecosystem. Not to deceive, but to anchor myself. To become a steady fixture. And then maybe, if I’m lucky, I can learn to be friends with him—Geo. That would be enough. That has to be enough.

Because unless I knew—absolutely knew—that he was ready to open that gate on his own, I wouldn’t risk it. Not a single word. Not a glance too long or a comment too soft.

Because the moment I confess, even slightly, even subtly… he will disappear. Not in fury. Not with cruelty. Just—cool, detached vanishing. His eyes would dull, his tone would shift into something polite and flat. And I’d feel the connection we built snap like a tripwire I never meant to cross.

The worst part? He wouldn’t even leave. He’d still be there—still at group hangouts, still responding in the same dry, measured cadence. I’d still see him because I’d still be friends with Crowe. But the closeness? Gone. Just like that. A line drawn. And I know—I know—I’d feel the change before I even understood what I did wrong.

He’d move me into the mental drawer labeled “Admirer.”

Fan. Supporter. Background character.

And once I’m in there? I never get to come out. Not to him. 

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about him.

Because I get it. I understand that avoidant armor better than most. As a writer, I’ve lived in that space between longing and fear for years. I’ve crafted entire relationships on writing—made people fall in love with characters who could never abandon them, because they weren’t real. Because fantasy doesn’t leave you unread or misunderstood. Fiction is safe. 

It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like love could be controlled.

In real life, intimacy terrifies me. Emotional closeness is a risk I struggle to take. It’s not just nerves—it’s a deep, gut-level dread of what happens when you let someone see all of you. So I keep my distance. I withdraw. I rationalize the silence. I bury the truth under sarcasm or detachment. And yeah—maybe that’s why I see so much of myself in Geo. Maybe that’s why I care.

Because when I look at him—through the cracks he doesn’t know are showing—I see someone doing the exact same thing. Someone who doesn’t reject connection because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared of what it could do to him. Of what it’s already done.

There’s something deeply human about that. Something raw. And I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. What shaped him into this version of himself—this reserved, unreadable, emotionally armoured man. Because no one just becomes that way. No one is born closed-off and analytical to the point of silence. That kind of detachment is a defense, not a default.

So no—you can’t blame me for wanting to know. For wanting to understand him, even if I never get to hold him.

And that’s the truth: if Geo were real, I’d want to be his closest friend before anything else. I wouldn’t push. I wouldn’t prod. I wouldn’t ask for more than he can give. I'd just stay. Let him learn that I won’t vanish when he goes quiet. Let him realize that I’m not afraid of his silence, his avoidance, his walls.

I know what lives behind them.

And if that friendship turned into something more—if, one day, he looked at me and chose us—then yes, I’d be ready. But only if he reached first. Only if he let himself want me out loud. Not because I asked, but because he couldn’t not. 

Until then, I’d watch from the background. Not as a fan. Not as a dreamer.

But as someone who sees him. Truly. Quietly. Completely. And waits.

So all is recommended is to just stay silent. Carefully. Strategically. You become a student of him—his moods, his tells, the way he pulls slightly at his sleeves when he’s agitated but won’t say so. You learn to read silence like a second language. You hold your feelings like a loaded weapon—safety on, never raised. Never fired. 

Because love, to Geo, is risk. And risk? He does not do it lightly.

He’s avoidant. Profoundly. Not because he doesn’t crave closeness—but because he fears what comes with it. Intimacy, to him, is exposure. Vulnerability. Leverage. A soft belly in a world of blades. So he compartmentalizes. He controls. And when things get too close, he doesn’t snap—he disappears behind the steel doors of practiced emotional restraint.

You’ve been on the receiving end of that vanishing act.

You’ve seen how quickly his warmth can turn to winter.

And that’s when you realized—Geo isn’t cold. He’s guarded.

There’s a difference. 

He’s spent so long building walls that sometimes even he forgets what they’re keeping out. But every now and then? He slips. Just for a moment. A flicker. A look. A comment too tender to be accidental. And then—just as fast—he seals it up again. Buried. Archived.

He feels deeply. That’s the problem.

Geo has the heart of a poet locked inside the armor of a tactician. He observes everything—stores it all. He doesn’t forget the things that matter. Not your allergies. Not your favorite song. Not the way your voice catches when you’re trying not to cry. He just doesn’t know what to do with that tenderness.

Because he doesn’t trust people to hold it gently.

So he plays the long game. He tests. Watches. Waits.

And if you pass—if you’re patient, steady, real—then maybe, maybe, he’ll let you stay. Even then, the intimacy doesn’t come in big, sweeping declarations. You won’t get love letters. You won’t get flowers on your doorstep. What you will get is him moving silently through your life in ways no one else notices. 

He won’t say, “I care.” But he’ll quietly correct your posture when you’re standing too long, press a water bottle into your hand when you’re too distracted to hydrate. He’ll edit your work without being asked. He’ll walk on the sidewalk. He’ll memorize your routines and build himself around them without ever needing acknowledgment.

That’s the paradox of Geo’s attachment style:  

He avoids love like it’s a battlefield. But once he lets you in? 

He loves like war. Strategically. Completely. Without retreat. And it’s never loud. Never boastful. But it consumes everything quietly, from the inside out. The only evidence left behind is how much softer the silence feels when he’s next to you. How even his presence at rest feels like protection.

And still—he flinches when it gets too real. He’ll pull back at times, without warning. He’ll retreat into logic, shift into disinterest, claim to be fine when he isn’t. But if you know him—truly know him—you’ll see the tension in his jaw. The pause before he looks away. The way his fingers twitch, wanting to reach for you and stopping short.

That’s the part most people miss.

Geo doesn’t fear connection. He fears being seen and discarded.

So he’d rather be unreadable. Untouchable. Unloved… than unloved after being known. But you stay. Quiet. Consistent. Not asking for more than he can give, but never letting him forget you’re there. And in time, he stops scanning the room for exits. He starts planning with you in mind.

 He doesn’t say, “I love you.” But he changes his route to walk you home. He remembers your comfort shows. He lets you rest against him, even when he doesn’t know what to say.

Because you made it. You got past the gate.

You are no longer a threat. You are no longer a risk. 

And Geo? Geo is not good at love. But he’s brilliant at loyalty.

Once he lets you in, you’re his. No conditions. No expiration. He won’t say it. But he’ll mean it. And in a world where most love burns bright and fast and dies in the ashes— Geo’s love is something else entirely. It’s forged. Tempered. Cold to the touch, but unbreakable. And if you’ve ever known a love like that?

You never forget it. Because no one else ever comes close.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ah, yes. Hyugo. Such a sweet paradox!

Let’s talk about this baby boy—because honestly, even with all the chaos and brilliance dripping off the others, Hyugo holds his own in the pantheon of personal favorites. And somehow, the fact that he and Geo sit at the top of that list together just… says something dark and poetic about me, doesn’t it?

They’re complete opposites—Hyugo with his golden-retriever chaos, Geo with his stone-faced elegance—and yet, I adore them both with the same violent fervor. But today isn’t about brooding silence and suppressed emotion.

It’s about Hyugo. Our menace. Where do I even begin?

He’s sweet. So sweet.

Unreasonably kind in a way that makes you pause and side-eye the situation because you don’t trust people who smile like that and mean it. But Hyugo does. He’s genuine.

The type who holds doors without making it weird. Who notices when you’re off and asks if you’ve eaten today. Who has the emotional intuition of someone twice his age but hides it under playful sarcasm and that boyish grin.

Also: top student. One of the best on campus.

And yet? He misses class like it’s a sport. Like he’s actively trying to test the limits of how many absences a professor will tolerate before snapping. He'll stroll into class after ghosting for a week, turn in some god-tier assignment, and walk out again like an academic cryptid.

I wish I had that kind of university dominance. That’s not student behavior. That’s political power. It’s infuriating. It’s iconic. It’s Hyugo.

Now, depending on who you ask, he’s either a delinquent in disguise or a straight-laced prodigy. But no one denies one thing: he’s reliable. When it counts, when things get serious, when someone’s in real trouble, Hyugo shows up. Always. No drama. No noise. Just a quiet, steady presence and the kind of help that doesn’t need to be asked for.

And can we talk about how cute he is? No, like—actually cute.

He’s got that youthful glow, the kind that makes people go, “Aww,” before realizing he’s capable of absolutely unhinged behavior when provoked.

Oval-shaped face, soft features, maybe a bit baby-faced still, but it works. It works so well that when he does something unexpectedly hot—like cracking his knuckles while solving a logic puzzle, or shooting someone a sharp look mid-fight—you’re thrown. You're blindsided. You're clutching your metaphorical pearls like, “Oh???”

Because Hyugo is that rare, lethal mix of adorable + competent + quietly dangerous. A walking contradiction: he’s the storm and the rainbow. The mischief and the method. He’s playful, sometimes reckless, always charming—and he masks his depth with lightness. 

But it’s there. Oh, it’s so there. Underneath the jokes and casual demeanor is a razor-sharp mind that doesn’t miss a thing. He knows more than he lets on. And you feel it. Every time he tilts his head just so and gives you a look like he already knows what you’re about to say.

That’s the Hyugo effect.

You go in expecting chaos, and somehow, you walk out with your heart rearranged. He’s not the loudest. Not the darkest. Not the flashiest.

But he stays with you.

Hot Thing #1: That Damn Sliver Tongue

There’s this thing Hyugo does—this unholy, maddening, absolutely criminal little habit that should honestly be banned by every institution of higher learning. And God help you, it’s never on purpose. That’s the worst part. It's not like he knows he's driving you to the brink of cardiac arrest. No. This man, this deceptively innocent-looking menace, just casually, absentmindedly… pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

Or, if he’s feeling particularly destructive to your well-being, he’ll drag it slowly along the back of his teeth—like it’s just a casual muscle memory, no big deal, nothing to see here. Meanwhile, you're across the room calculating the odds of surviving your own attraction.

It happens at random. No warning. No preamble. 

You could be hanging out in the lab, watching him bend over a desk, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he messes with a disassembled drone that looks like it was stolen from Area 51. He's muttering to himself, utterly immersed in his task, hair a little messy, one hand balancing a screw between his fingers. Then—bam. Tongue in cheek. Subtle. Smooth. Like he’s tasting a secret only he gets to enjoy.

And your body? Instantly betrays you.

You feel heat crawl up your neck like a virus. Your pulse jumps. You suddenly forget how to breathe through your nose. And Hyugo? He’s just there. Fixing wires. Completely unaware that he's spiritually assassinated you with a single, lazy tongue movement.

“Hmm,” he murmurs under his breath, squinting at the circuit board like it personally insulted his mother. Then there it is—the soft swipe of his tongue over the bottom of his front teeth, slow and focused, as if he’s savoring the flavor of his own brilliance.

You? Dead. Absolutely spiritually slain.

The first time it happened, you choked on your drink so violently Hyugo actually looked up, concern flickering across his face. “You good?” he asked, brow arched, voice low and calm—like he wasn’t just casually making the most pornographic expression of the week by accident.

You nodded, hacking into your sleeve like a dying Victorian orphan. “Y-Yeah,” you wheezed. “Fine. Just thinking about... gravity.”

“Gravity?” he echoed, amused.

“Yeah. It’s the only thing keeping me from lunging across this table and committing multiple crimes.”

He laughed. The audacity. Laughed. And then had the nerve to go right back to what he was doing—eyes sparkling, tongue flicking out once more like he wasn’t a walking biohazard to your sanity.

It’s gotten worse with time. You start seeing it everywhere. He does it when he’s sketching, scribbling down blueprints with that focused look in his eyes and one earbud hanging loose.

He does it while reading, posture all lazy and slouched, legs wide open like a throne he doesn’t even know he’s sitting on. He even does it while playing with your hair absentmindedly during movie nights, gaze distant, and tongue pressing into his cheek like the scene unfolding on screen is somehow arousing to his neurons.

You swear to god—one of these days you’re just going to lose it.

You’ve already started imagining what else that mouth can do. Not even in a sinful way (okay maybe a little sinful), but in a deeply curious way. Like, surely no one’s allowed to have that much dexterity in their face for free. Surely it’s your moral duty to conduct an investigation. For science.

But no. You behave. Barely.

Because when it comes down to it, Hyugo doesn’t mean to be sexy. He’s not smirking on purpose. He’s not trying to fluster you or steal your soul with the ancient forbidden technique known as “tongue teeth cheek combo.” He’s just being himself. Just that kind, clever, infuriatingly focused version of himself who does hot things without realizing they’re hot.

And that’s what kills you most of all.

Because it’s natural. It’s honest. It’s so damn pure that it makes your crush feel one hundred times worse. Like, how dare he? How dare he sit there looking like that, doing nothing but existing in a hoodie and rolled sleeves, and somehow awaken thoughts in you that belong in a fanfiction archive under “E” for “Explicit and Emotionally Compromising”?

So now you live in fear. 

Fear of the next time he’ll do it again—right in front of you, tongue dragging lazily, eyes lost in thought—and you’ll be expected to act normal, sane, rational. You won't, of course. You'll blink slowly like you're buffering in real time and mumble something about kinetic energy or friction or divine punishment. 

“You're staring again,” he'll say, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a knowing smile.

“You’re the one doing… things with your mouth,” you snap defensively, then pout.

He blinks, confused. “...I’m literally fixing the game system.”

Yeah. Exactly. Send help.

Hot Thing #2: His Eye Contact Is Dangerous

Let me tell you something about Hyugo’s eye contact, and I need you to really listen—because this isn’t just any look.

This isn’t your average glance-across-the-room, polite-nod-of-acknowledgment kind of thing. No. This man stares like he was born to emotionally undress you using nothing but two annoyingly pretty eyes and a terrifying level of focused attention.

It’s not accidental. It’s not fleeting. It’s not safe. When Hyugo looks at you, it’s like he’s reading a page only he can see—in your brain. He listens to you talk like he’s decoding scripture, like every word out of your mouth might be the key to the universe. And you’re just there, talking nonsense about some random childhood movie that definitely shouldn’t be this deep, and he’s—

“So you’re saying… your favorite movie was Shrek 2 because it helped you process betrayal?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Struggles. “…Yes?”

He nods thoughtfully, eyes still locked on you like lasers made of warmth and unsolicited emotional insight. “That makes a lot of sense. The way the narrative reframes traditional heroism and confronts ego through the lens of ensemble character development—”

STOP. Why is he validating you? Why is he intellectualizing your brainrot? Why is he making Shrek 2 sound like a groundbreaking psychological thesis?

And the whole time, his eyes—those infuriatingly warm, soft brown eyes—stay locked on you like you’re the only person in the known universe. They don’t flicker away. They don’t bounce awkwardly to his phone. They stay. Steady. Present. Intentional. And it should be illegal, honestly, how good that feels.

You try to keep talking, you really do. But there’s a moment—a small, barely-there tilt of his head, the way his brows knit ever so slightly like he’s really invested in what you’re saying, and suddenly your brain starts buffering.

“Wait—what were you saying again?” you blink, face hot, internally screaming.

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t laugh. He just smiles—gently. “You were talking about that dream you had,” he says, tone calm and so stupidly nice it hurts. “The one with the haunted blender and the French goose?”

You nod like you remember. You do not remember.

“Right. Yeah. Haunted goose. Totally. Goose… blender…”

And he just sits there. Watching. Listening. Still tuned in like you’re not spiraling into existential embarrassment. Like your voice is honey and your rambling is holy. And what’s worse—he’s not even trying to flirt. This isn’t a seduction technique. This is just how Hyugo operates. Fully attentive. Ridiculously warm. Dangerously real.

He’s so earnest. So genuinely interested in what you’re saying. It makes you feel important. Like you matter. And that’s the problem. Because somewhere between his steady gaze and the way he tilts his chin like he’s trying to memorize your facial expressions, you start to think maybe you actually do matter.

And that’s how he gets you.

You don’t just get flustered. You get possessed. Your ears go hot. Your fingers start fidgeting. Your thoughts fall apart like poorly constructed IKEA furniture. You start using words like “haunted goose” in casual conversation. All because this boy had the audacity to look at you like your voice was the sun coming up.

Sometimes, when you're across from him—say, at a café table, knees accidentally brushing, his sleeves pushed to the elbows and his chin resting on his hand—you’ll glance up mid-sentence, and he’s already watching you.

“Don’t stop now,” he’ll say, soft grin tugging at his lips. “You were lighting up.”

Lighting up??? Sir. Please. Have some decency. You can’t just say things like that and expect people not to fall in love with you. That’s entrapment.

So now every conversation with Hyugo is a dangerous game. A tightrope walk between “casual chat” and “oops, I just imagined us getting married because you looked at me too long.” Because when he’s got his full attention on you—arms folded, head tilted slightly, eyes glowing like he swallowed a candle—you don’t stand a chance.

There should be a warning label on his forehead. Something like: “May cause heart palpitations, blushing, full-body stuttering, and immediate longing.”

And yeah, it’s a little pathetic how weak you are for it. But you don’t care. Because when he looks at you like that—and you feel seen, not just noticed but understood—you'd willingly melt under that gaze for the rest of your natural life. No regrets. Just vibes.

And possibly a haunted goose.

Hot Thing #3: That Parting Kiss

There’s something so stupidly, unfairly romantic about the way Hyugo never forgets to kiss your cheek goodbye. Every. Single. Time.

It doesn’t matter what the situation is—doesn’t matter if he’s late for something—knowing damn well it isn’t classes, mid-conversation, or if you're standing in the middle of a crowded station with fifteen people brushing past you. Hyugo always makes time. Always finds that one sacred second to pause, lean in, and brush a warm kiss against your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re his home base. His starting point and endpoint, and everything between.

And it’s not just a quick peck and run. No. There’s intention in it. His hand usually finds your waist—or sometimes your wrist, if you’re holding something—and his head dips close like he’s shielding the moment from the world.

“Later, baby,” he’ll murmur, lips just barely grazing your skin, voice stupidly soft and low like you’re the only one he ever speaks to like that. Then he pulls back with a half-smile, eyebrows raised. “Don’t miss me too hard, yeah?”

And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Like, he didn’t just casually throw a whole intimacy bomb at you and walk away with zero consequences. You, meanwhile, are left standing there blinking at the air where he used to be like:

“Okay. That happened. That’s fine. I’m fine. My heart is not skipping and my stomach is not flipping and my entire face is not turning to lava. That’s just your average Monday goodbye.”

It’s NOT. Even worse is when it’s done in front of people. 

Because he doesn’t care. He could be surrounded by teammates, strangers, actual cameras—it doesn’t matter. He still leans in, still whispers your nickname like it’s sacred, and plants that soft kiss on your cheek like you belong to him and everyone should know it.

One time, you tried to beat him to it—get a quick hug and duck out before he could do the whole goodbye routine. Rookie mistake. You barely got three steps away before you felt fingers wrap gently around your wrist and pull you back in. Not hard, not demanding—just firm. Certain.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head like you’d forgotten your keys. “You trying to skip my kiss?”

“I—wasn’t,” you lie, poorly, as he slides an arm around your waist and leans in again, closer this time.

“Mmhm.” He kisses your cheek, slower than usual. “Thought so.”

And then he goes. Again. Leaving you looking like a malfunctioning Disney animatronic with a brain full of nothing but soft lips and the smell of his cologne. What makes it worse—better? worse—is how casual he is about it. Like the kiss isn’t even the thing. Like it’s just… part of the ritual. Something unspoken and sacred that says:

“You matter.”

“I see you.”

“I’ll come back.”

It’s the consistency that kills you, really. Because it’s not some big dramatic gesture saved for special occasions. It’s every time. Whether it’s a ten-minute errand or a three-day trip, Hyugo never skips the goodbye kiss. And over time, that steady little act becomes something you crave. Something you wait for.

And when he forgets? Oh wait—he doesn’t.

Not once. Not even when he’s flustered or exhausted or running late. You’ve had mornings where he’s scrambling to shove on one shoe while chewing toast, and he still circles back, grabs your face in both hands like he needs it, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s oxygen.

“Sorry—almost forgot,” he’ll say, breathless, smiling like he’s teasing but means it more than anything. “Can’t leave without this.”

And how are you supposed to survive that?

How are you supposed to live a normal life when this man drops a kiss on your cheek like a love letter, like a promise, like a damn curse you never want lifted?

Short answer: You’re not.

You’re simply going to blush, melt, and wait for the next time. Because that parting kiss? That quiet, consistent, soft little thing? It’s the hottest form of affection there is.

And you’re absolutely, irreversibly, deliciously ruined by it.

Hot Thing #4: That Damn Smirk 

Genuinely, someone needs to take this man—Hyugo, to court and file a class-action lawsuit for emotional damage. You’re just trying to have a normal, casual, totally-not-deranged conversation with Hyugo. 

Maybe you’re recounting your day. Something safe. Mundane. Like the time you tripped over a wet floor sign and tried to play it off like you meant to launch yourself into a wall. But it’s impossible to keep your thoughts straight because Hyugo is sitting too close.

Not in a socially acceptable “we’re just friends” way either. No. His thigh is grazing yours, warm and solid. His shoulder keeps brushing your arm every time he shifts.

His arm is slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching you, but close enough to brand awareness into the skin of your neck. He’s giving the illusion of casual distance while actively breathing your air.

And then there’s his face.

His cursed, unfair, drop-dead criminal face.

More specifically: the smirk. That slow, knowing, devastating smirk that shows up right when your brain is at its weakest.

You’re mid-sentence—something about your embarrassing run-in with a poorly-placed caution sign—and then his eyes flick to your lips. Just for a second. Barely there. But it’s over. Your tongue ties itself in a knot, your thoughts scatter like startled birds, and suddenly you're blinking at him, completely blank.

“—and then I tripped over the sign, because I thought it was a—uh…” You trail off. “…What was I saying?”

You can feel the moment he chooses violence.

Hyugo shifts again, slouching even lower into the couch so that he’s all lazy limbs and confident calm, stretching himself out like a cat who knows damn well it’s the center of attention. He tilts his head slightly, that dangerous smile creeping onto his lips—not even a full grin, just a pull at one corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Take your time,” he says, voice soft and stupidly smooth. “I’m listening.”

No. No, he is not allowed to be that close and that hot and that patient. It’s too much. You are not emotionally equipped for this level of concentrated charm. You blink at him. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Nope. But if I did, would you stop me?”

Touché. He leans in, just slightly. His fingers ghost along the couch behind your back, not touching you but so close you can feel the heat. His breath brushes your cheek, and now you’re fairly certain your soul has left your body and is watching from the ceiling like, “Oh no. I’m going to fold.”

“You sure you’re not nervous?” he asks, low and teasing. “Your voice gets all high when you’re flustered.”

You scoff (weakly). “I am not flustered.”

He doesn’t argue. He just smiles wider—that smile, the smug one—and lets the silence stretch. The longer it goes on, the more it eats you alive. He’s not talking. He’s not moving. He’s just looking at you with those warm, rich eyes, with that maddening smirk that says, you’re mine, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

“Say something,” you mutter, your voice barely there. “Anything. I’m about to crawl out of my skin.”

And he does. 

He says, “You always look at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like I’m the problem and the solution.”

You don’t even have a response. You just stare at him, mouth slightly open, breath uneven. And then—because he is made of sin and silk—he lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles against your jaw, and tilts your chin just slightly. You don’t remember leaning in. You don’t remember closing the space. But suddenly his mouth is on yours.

And oh, it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s intentional.

He kisses you like he’s thought about it. Like he’s planned it. One hand settling around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

His lips move slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s savoring you—tasting every syllable you’ve ever stammered in his presence. When your fingers clench in his shirt, when you make a tiny sound against his mouth, he smirks into the kiss and pulls you closer, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

And when you finally pull back—barely, breathless, dazed—he’s looking at you like you’re the one who started it. “You were saying something about a sign?” he murmurs.

You blink, lips swollen, heart in your throat. “…What sign?”

He grins. Full-on. Smug and satisfied. Absolutely insufferable. “Exactly.”

So no. It’s not fair. It’s actually unethical. Because that damn smirk? That sly, quiet little upturn of his lips that always comes before he ruins your day with a single look or kiss or whisper? It’s a death sentence. A promise. A challenge.

And you’re failing. Beautifully. Voluntarily. Every. Single. Time.

Attachment Style: 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Hyugo’s attachment style? Disorganized as hell. Capital D. Italicized. Underlined twice in red.

It’s that rare, volatile cocktail of craving closeness and fearing it—of pulling someone in just to push them away the moment it starts to feel too real. It’s intense. Inconsistent. Unstable in a way that feels like whiplash and poetry at the same time. Hyugo: A Study in Disorganized Attachment and Devastating Presence.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—Hyugo is a mess. 

Not. Not like Sol, he's—ugh, that man is whole other level.

Not the cute, quirky kind of mess you can fix with a night in and some chamomile tea. No, Hyugo is chaos wrapped in silence. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve just uncovered a secret, only to realize it’s already falling apart in your hands.

Disorganized attachment fits him like a custom-tailored curse. One minute he’s with you—so present, so tender, so there—and the next, he’s vanished like smoke. No call. No warning. Just gone.

And the wild part? Everyone’s used to it. “You’re in Hyugo’s class? Good luck catching him.” or “Mister MIA strikes again.” or “Does he even go here?”

But the truth is, he does. 

Just not in the way that fits a schedule. Hyugo is everywhere and nowhere, running errands for professors, covering hush-hush matters for the administration, disappearing into side jobs he won’t talk about. He’s useful—too useful. The kind of guy who shows up when no one else can, handles what others won’t, and quietly earns the kind of backstage immunity that keeps him off the radar and still in the system.

He's a ghost with credentials.

And yet, when he's with you? He's with you. Fully. Deeply. Intensely. He speaks low and soft like your words are sacred, like you’re a language only he understands. He doesn’t touch often, but when he does, it’s deliberate. The brush of his fingers on your wrist. A palm between your shoulders when you’re tense. Barely-there moments that land like thunder.

And then—he’s gone again.

Hyugo is affection wearing armor. Intimacy holding its breath. He wants to love, to be known, to be seen—but he doesn’t trust it. Not really. Not fully. He’s lived too long managing expectations, compartmentalizing emotion, prioritizing others’ needs over his own. Somewhere along the way, closeness became a threat. So when you get close? He panics. He disappears. Not to hurt you, but because he doesn’t know how to stay.

He’s full of contradictions. He ghosts your texts but brings your favorite snack without you ever asking. He disappears for days, then returns with that tired smile and eyes that say, “Please don’t give up on me.”

He won't explain himself. Won’t offer apologies the way you might want. But he’ll show up with little offerings, hoping you understand the subtext:

“I’m still trying.” or “I care.” or “This is all I know how to give.”

And you believe him.

Because Hyugo isn’t manipulative—he’s terrified. Torn between the craving for connection and the deep-seated fear that he’ll ruin it the moment he touches it too hard.

That’s the heart of disorganized attachment: love feels like danger. So he pulls you close and pushes you away, hoping you’ll read the space between as loyalty. Hoping you'll stay, even if he doesn’t always know how to meet you halfway.

Hyugo’s affection feels like gravity—irregular, relentless. You orbit him without realizing you’ve started to. You excuse his absences. You memorize the cadence of his quiet. You forgive him, even when he hasn’t asked.

And that’s the trap.

Because when he does choose you—when he lets you into his emotional bunker—it’s like watching winter thaw. A slow, rare, aching thing. He’s still messy. Still inconsistent. But for once, he’s trying not to vanish. That effort is real. And when Hyugo tries, it’s the bravest thing he does.

So no, Hyugo isn’t the dream boyfriend you read about in neat little romances with perfect communication and stable text response times. He’s not reliable in the traditional sense.

But he is real. Raw. Complex. And if you’re patient—if you understand the language of broken patterns and unspoken apologies—then loving Hyugo becomes an act of rebellion. An act of faith. Because when he stays—when he chooses to stay—it’s not by accident.

It’s because you’ve become his safe place. And that?

That means everything—it’ll be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗣𝗔𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦 rbr! sebastian vetteln x girlfriend! reader ( fluff ) fic summary , your boyfriend's been whining the whole drive, so you shut him up by revealing that you speak his language at a drive through (0.7K)

( my masterlist | more of sebastian vettel ) ( requests )

You swear he’s been whining for the last twenty minutes.

Not in a bratty way—more like a low-level grumbling every few minutes that makes you glance over with a smirk and a raised brow. And every time, Sebastian just meets your eyes with a pointedly dramatic sigh, arms crossed over his chest like a sulky prince.

"My stomach is protesting," he finally declares with the kind of conviction usually reserved for post-race interviews.

You snort. "That dramatic and I haven't even driven you through Monaco yet."

You're behind the wheel of your rental, cruising through the German countryside with him riding shotgun. Yes, shotgun. As in, passenger seat. You relish that fact deeply.

"You're not even going fast," he mutters, eyes flicking to the speedometer, then to your hands on the wheel.

"Maybe because I value safety, Herr Vettel. Unlike someone who treats apexes like they're suggestions."

He huffs, but you can see the faint curve of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glance over at him. “You know what you are?”

“What?”

“My passenger princess.”

That gets you a flat look. “Was?” [what]

“Oh, don’t act offended. You’ve got the seat pushed all the way back, feet up on the dash, and you’ve been complaining like we’re on a cross-country trek. That’s passenger princess behaviour, Sebastian.”

“I am a Formula One World Champion,” he says, deadpan. “Not your handbag.”

You tap your fingers on the steering wheel, grinning. “You’re right. You’re the handbag and the emotional support water bottle.”

“I need a new driver.”

“You’d never leave me,” you sing-song, just as you pull into a fast food drive-through.

Seb perks up instantly. “Finally! Real food!”

“Didn’t realise you were about to pass out from hunger, Vettel,” you tease, rolling down your window.

“I might faint. Then you’d have to call Christian and tell him his golden boy got taken out by a lack of fries.”

"Hallo! Einmal das große Menü mit einem Cheeseburger, Pommes und einer Cola, bitte. Und dazu noch sechs Chicken Nuggets mit Barbecuesoße. Danke!" [hi. one large meal with a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke, please. and also six chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce. thank you]

There’s a pause.

You can feel the way Sebastian turns his whole head to look at you.

Like . . . slowly. Incredulously.

You shoot him a side glance, pretending not to notice the way he’s blinking at you like you just started levitating. On the other end of the speaker, the employee responds naturally in German, confirming the order and cheerfully offering options. You handle it smoothly, answering back with ease, not even stumbling on the regional phrasing.

When you finally roll the window up and move forward, Sebastian is still staring.

“You speak German?” he asks, voice almost boyish with disbelief.

You nod. “I live in Europe, Seb. And I’m not just here for your cheekbones and championship points.”

“I just— I didn’t expect it,” he says, shaking his head. “You never said.”

“You never asked.”

“I just assumed you’d order in English and we’d get the usual tourist treatment.”

You turn to face him fully at the next stop in the line, eyebrow arched. “You’re telling me you’re more surprised by me speaking German than by you being the passenger in a car?”

“Yes!”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “God, that’s such a Vettel thing to say.”

He’s still looking at you like he’s a little starstruck, expression soft and oddly fond.

“And your accent is good,” he adds, almost bashfully.

“Well, thanks,” you say, playfully nudging his shoulder. “You know, if you’re lucky, I might serenade you with Schlager next time.”

“Bitte nicht,” he groans dramatically, slumping back in the seat with a smile stretching wide across his face. “But I admit… it's kind of hot.”

You snort. “The language?”

“No, you,” he says without hesitation, in German this time. “Du bist sehr heiß, weißt du das?” [you’re very hot you know that]

You raise a brow, grinning. “Na klar,” [sure of course] you reply smoothly. “Aber sag’s ruhig nochmal, ich hör’s gern, Meine Passagierprinzessin.” [but say it again, i like hearing it, my passenger princess]

Sebastian just sits there, stunned for the second time today.

Then he laughs—this delighted, slightly flustered sound—and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Passenger princess, huh?” he murmurs.

“Absolutely. But only the cutest kind.”

He beams. “That, I can live with.”

voice notes 🔊. . . ( i miss my husband )