#taking a level in sass

[demaparbat-hp]

“Feeding and checking on two animals a couple of times a day is hardly a chore for you. Meanwhile, I've got to deal with a sexist and—even worse—a stupid piece of koalasloth dung.”

“Still not my problem.”

“I'll make it your problem,” she growls.

She wanted murder. He needed sleep.

Technically, the scene this dialogue is from doesn't match the artwork, but the vibe is most important! Their banter must be one of my favorite things about Itch, Akai Kotou's second chapter (read it here!). The dynamic between Suki and Jian Li is terribly amusing, isn't it?

[lunawolfiefoxy]

Just played the piano at my recital haha

Mom had to work so Dad was supposed to show to take the video for her

Dad never showed

My piano teacher took the video instead haha

Nobody there to support me

I understand Mom's, she needs the money for groceries

But Dad?

The person who's been playing video games at night instead of hanging out with us?

Yea, thanks Dad for the support.

I feel great

Thanks.

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

You are honestly so right about Animated Optimus having repressed freak energy. Speak your truth. That man fucks like a champ and I know this in my heart

Every time a bondage incident happens to this man he has to combat the thoughts about liking it. And he's not winning.

[vexishereandveryqueer]

i love him, your honor

This was after he blew up all of the Leagues tech.

[anarkhebringer]

Canach failwife arc in Janthir Wilds swapping between him falling for Salem's provocation in the form of his spite and ego making him try to climb on by himself every single time and always falling off at least once, and him going "this is too much work I'm taking a spa day" and fucking off to the hot springs until he gets sick so he has an excuse to not follow Endobelles around while the most action going on is walking and talking

[tonycries]

Give Me Tough Love

Synopsis. What happens when your boyfriend just so happens to be mad at you? Well, your poor pússy might just know the answer.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Geto x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, brat-taming, angry séx, oral (male + female receiving), víbrators (Nanami’s), manhandling, unprotected, spanking (Sukuna’s), thigh-riding, intercrural, mentions of Higuruma and Shiu, cúmplay, bunch of heinous stuff idek, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.2k

A/N. Smh I’m sick, try not to catch my virtual cold.

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Dirty mouth? He’ll fix it.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he spits, Toji’s hand tightening around your throat, pathetic little gurgles going straight to his cock. “Because I know you aren’t talking back to me like a lil’ slut unless you want to be treated like one.”

“T-Toji m’sorry- mpfh-” Greedily taking in the way your your mouth drops into a soft little oh! as he grazes his fat tip across your lips, glossing your lips so fucking filthily with his precum, all pretty and dripping down to your chin. Hot and angry, and at perfect eye-level for you.

 Hand moving up to pry your swollen mouth open, “You’re only sorry cuz yer gonna get what you’ve been askin’ for, doll.” 

You’d been extra mouthy with him today, all sass and snipey comments like you just wanted this to happen. And it only took one offhand remark about how Shiu probably lasts longer in bed before Toji’s pushing you onto your knees, hand at your throat, breath hot against your ear. And, well, that smart mouth can do nothing but beg for mercy now.

Toji scoffs, snapping you out of your daze, “Nothin’ to say now, huh?” edging his hips closer “Open wide f’me now, yeah- jus’ like that- m’gonna clean out this dirty lil’ mouth of yours. Hngh-”

And with that Toji’s stuffing himself into your mouth. A raw little grunt leaving the back of his throat as your lips stretch so sinfully around his thick cock, and if he angled his head just right he could see the way your throat was bulging and full of him. “Shit, doll. Look at you struggling to take me.”

And Toji’s so mean - not even easing you into it before he’s thrusting in harsh, quick little strokes into your heavenly mouth. “Hah- Hard to take me all?” he taunts, loving the way you’re choking and gagging all around him. 

Pulling you down on his swollen cock till your nose is pressed against those tufts of black hair at his base. So wet with precum and spit. “Shouldn’t be, no? Ngh- A lil’ slut with such a fucking filthy mouth like you should take me s’easily.”

All he gets in response is a low, wet moan, muffled around his cock. One that goes straight to his twitching balls. Smacking your chin with each thrust, so hard he’s sure it hurts. But he couldn’t give less of a fuck, chuckling, “Heh, forgot you can’t speak with m’dick lodged in your throat, huh?”

And oh Toji almost considers going easy on you at the messy state of your mascara, and the way you bat your lashes tearily up at him. It’s only when you flick your tongue so sluttily underneath his sensitive tip in a way you knew would drive him wild that all thoughts of that go out the window. “So you like this, huh?”

Voice so low and dangerous it makes your cunt clench in- fear? Anticipation? You don’t even know because Toji has his hand wrapped around your throat again, hip stuttering filthily. 

And then it’s like something snaps because Toji’s ruining your pretty face. Abs flexing as he drags your head up and down up and down up and- like some toy. God, he thinks, it’s fucking hard to look at you too - so sloppy with the way precum and spit was dribbling down the corner of your mouth, his dick bulging in and out of your throat. In and out in and out in and- 

“Might let out a few tears, but I know that slutty lil’ cunt of yours has never been wetter.”

Reaching blindly to feel for his phone, he punches in that familiar contact. Cock twitching inside your plushy mouth at the way your eyes widen in surprise. Sputtering around his dick - but you can’t run away, because Toji has a hand firm on your head, pushing you down. Still fucking your pretty lil’ mouth while the line rings once. Twice. 

“Don’t act so suprised, doll. All Shiu and I are gonna do is fuck some manners into you.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Karma’s a bitch

“Mhm, yes, Higuruma. I’ve told the supervisor to email me the documents. Oh? In the background?” 

His darkened eyes sweep your figure - wrists tied, soaking through your panties, swollen lips falling into a little oh! at the bullet vibrator buzzing maddeningly in your dripping cunt. All controlled by the man himself, watching you like a hawk from the corner of the bedroom. “Must be the wind.” 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt-

“Kento- please, wan’ cum. Ngh-” you whine pathetically. But it all falls on deaf ears, because Nanami only manspreads further on the armchair, a long finger unhurriedly coming up to signal you to be quiet as he continues on his business call. 

Intensity setting 1.

Oh you could just cry. How did you even get here? 

All you did was send him a few photos in his favorite lingerie while he was at work - who knew that Nanami would end up clocking early, coming straight home to absolutely fucking ruin you for that little stunt that had him sporting a rock-hard boner all through an important meeting. 

“A voice? Ah, yes.” and that snaps you out of your little reverie. You blink at the flash of amusement in Nanami’s eyes as he continues the call. “Yes, a little fight as all couples have. Y’know how it is.”

Intensity setting 2.

You jolt at the stimulation, body jerking up for some - any - friction. “Kento~” you choke, tears clinging to your eyes now. 

But oh where Nanami was usually gentle touches and sweet, sweet love - he was so fucking mean now. Licking his lips at the slick dribbling down your legs so sloppilly, spreading in such an obscene pool on the sheets below. Frustrated tears cling to your lashes - you just wanted to fucking cum. 

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say she’s mad at me.”

Intensity setting 3.

No, you were fucking losing your mind. 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzt- Blinking tearily at Nanami as his thumb draws quick, relentless little circles on the intensity. The vibrator throbbing against your walls in time with your quivering walls, just grazing that one spot. But purposefully avoiding it so that he could see you fall apart and all desperate. 

He sighs, “I know, I have to make it up to her, right?”

Intensity setting 4.

“You have any ideas, Higuruma? Flowers?” 

“Hngh- Kento- Please, wan’ your cock.” Gritting your teeth so that you won’t just scream or outright demand that Nanami ends the call and makes you cum right now, you settling for low, needy little whimpers of his name. Whiney in just the way you knew he liked. And by the looks of the painfully hard cock straining against his trousers, you knew it was working. 

“Or, chocolates?” 

Maybe it was working too well because Nanami’s amping up his abuse on your cunt. Devouring the way you’re reacting so sensitively to the way he was turning the vibrations up and down. Swollen cock twitching at the wet gasps leaving your mouth, thighs twitching and squeezing together so sluttily to get yourself off. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” you blink away the tears in your eyes to risk a glimpse at the man currently driving you wild. Irritation spiking at the way he was huffing out a laugh, “I could just make her cum hard enough to see stars. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Intensity setting 5.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise - violent and fast. The last thing you see is the cruel little smirk curling Nanami’s lips before he’s setting the phone down with a quick goodbye. And then it’s all stars behind your eyelids as you finally cum, not even caring if whoever’s on the phone hears the strangled yelp of “Ah! Kento, m’cumming m’- hah-”

And it’s all you can do to ride your high out on the vibrations still stimulating your sore cunt. So sensitive and maddening that you almost miss the metallic clinking of a belt.

Ringing in the heady air, the complete opposite of the voice to suddenly very close against your ear, low and hoarse with desire, “Now, think it’s time for me to make it up to you. Hm, sweetheart?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Work for it!

“Get off on m’thigh, or you’re not getting off at all.”

Geto’s had enough of the cold shoulder today before he decides you’re getting one too - even when you’re needy and sat so prettily on his lap. It was only fair, right? Which is why he swats away the hand reaching for his aching cock, angry and throbbing in his fist. Twitching in his hand at the adorable little pout playing on your lips, “Nuh uh, bad girls don’t get what they ask for.”

“But Sugu~” you whine, slightly whiny yet not desperate - at least, not yet. “Already said I was sorry-”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it for that attitude you were givin’ me earlier, gorgeous.” he cuts you off, leaning back comfortably on the chair. Smirk only widening at the way your eyes were so deliriously locked on the way his fist starts moving in slow, languid little strokes up and down his swollen cock. “Now, y’gonna fuck that pretty lil’ cunt on my thigh or just watch? S’fine f’me either way.”

You huff at the way he was being so mean - letting a beat of silent staredown pass. One. Two. Cunt so achingly wet and dripping all over where you straddled Geto’s muscular thigh.

“Fine.”

You feel so dirty dragging your pussy all over his thigh like some bitch in heat. Your clit pressing down on his skin hard. “Sugu!” you yelp, hands reaching up to play with your sensitive nipples, still rocking your hips sloppily. 

Fuck does he love your little show - and you can see it too. Catching the way his balls squeeze painfully, brows furrowing and locked on the way your folds were spread apart so sluttily. 

“All that talk but look at y’now.” he hums. And Geto knows he’s supposed to be punishing you, but he can’t stop the way he starts bouncing his leg to meet your grinds. “What’ve ya gotta say for yourself now, my lil’ slut?” 

“M’sorry!” you whine, nails digging into his shoulders to steady yourself as he fucks you on his thigh. So hot and messy. His skin glistening in the dim light with all your sweet sweet juices, trailing down to the cushion below and pooling at his heavy balls. And Geto was such a fucking picture - hair falling over his shoulders, bottom lip bitten, cock so long and mouthwateringly hard, flushed your favorite shade of pink at the tip.

Only bouncing his leg faster at your cute lil’ whines, like he was turning you into his slut - hit stupid lil’ slut. And all you can sputter out are strained little “M’sorry m’sorry jus’ lemme touch you. Wanna touch you-”

He cuts you off with a desperate, desperate kiss. A permission. A surrender. And you taste the sin and the satisfied little grin on his lips as you reach for his heavy cock. Drinking in the low hiss at the back of Geto’s throat as you start stroking him in quick, desperate tugs. 

And he lets you. 

Hips bucking to chase the feeling of your soft hand wrapped so deliciously around his throbbing cock. Faster. Your nails delicately tracing the pulsing veins along the side, swirling under his slit because shit you might act like it’s a punishment but you’ve never been wetter. “Fuck this hand was made f’me, you were made f’me.”

Previous anger forgotten - perhaps in some miraculous act of mercy - Geto couldn’t even care less if it was all sloppy, mindless little tugs and grinds, high off of your desperation. In fact, Geto wasn’t any better with the way he was snaking a hand down to draw steady, lazy little circles on your swollen lips.

Whispering against your lips, “Make us cum within the next five seconds or you’re going back to getting off on my thigh and nothing else.” Oh. Not an act of mercy.

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Evil twin

“Sorry-” he’s murmuring into your neck, lifting your leg just a little bit higher to slide his cock messily between your swollen folds. “Ngh- sorry, baby. Fuck.”

Choso can’t even remember why he’s pissed off - or that useless little argument that led to this - but when Choso’s angry, it’s like he flips a switch. Such a silent tease where he’s usually all lingering kisses and everything you could ever want. 

Which is why he’s got you splayed out on your side, angry, red tip kissing your entrance in a way that was so filthy. 

“Cho, jus’ gimme your cock.” You arch your back, rubbing so deliciously against his abs, flexing with the strain to not just plunge into your pretty lil’ cunt right now. “Jus’ want you inside me. Please?” And shit Choso must be really pissed off because he doesn’t waver even at the way you bat your lashes at him, instead resorting to leaning down and kissing that adorable pout off your lips. 

He bites down on your bottom lip, tugging ever-so-slightly as he starts sliding his cock inbetween your pretty thighs. Creating such a sticky mess as he moves in slow, shallow little thrusts - Choso was always so sloppy. And such a fucking tease as he angles his hips to just graze your swollen clit.

You gasp into his open mouth, mewling out a strained lil’ “Ah! W-wait what’re you doi-”

“Fucking getting myself off, what does it look like doll?”

Fuck, he was really mad. But that doesn’t stop you from craning your neck to glare at him - eyes traitorously drinking in his flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, stray strands of dark hair sticking to his forehead while he meets your gaze head-on. Unwavering. 

“Bit rude to get off by yourself, huh?” you scoff, raising a brow at the slow smirk curling his lips. 

“You’d know a lot about being rude, huh?”

You don’t even have the time to react to his sheer audacity because Choso’s snaking down a hand to toy with your swollen clit. Still rocking his hips between your thighs. Loving the way all you can do is buck into his touch and whine so prettily as he rolls the sensitive bud between two long fingers. “But since I’m so fuckin’ nice, you better thank me, baby.”

“Y’like this?” he hums hoarsely, playing with your needy clit. Index circling your hole, just barely dipping in before he’s swiftly moving back to rub delicate patterns on the bud. “Could’ve gotten more if you hadn’t run that pretty lil’ mouth earlier.” 

“B-but I want more.” you’re babbling deliriously, trying to meet his relentless little rhythm on your cunt. Just wishing that he would fuck you like you wanted him to. But no - not yet.

“More? You think you deserve more?”

“Yes!” and it sounds like a sob that goes straight to his cock. “Wan’ more please. Was wrong- ah- I was wrong-”

Choso isn’t even sure if you remember what you two were fighting about, but that doesn’t stop him from having such fun bullying you - high off the power and the way your cunt tries to clench around his fingers. And especially your little surrender. 

“Exactly what I was waitin’ for.”

It’s like something snapped because Choso’s bullying his fingers in between your folds, curling deftly against that one gummy spot he knows will have you letting out such cute lil’ whines. Hitting that spot over and over as he pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt. Letting you soak him in all your sweet juices.

And you’re so sensitive and needy that all that spills from your lips are mewls of, “Oh- hngh- Choso Choso- yes, jus’ like that. Faster.”

Maybe for the first time tonight, Choso listens. Movements getting so sloppy and frantic as he chases your high. And occasionally you get such a delicious taste of his throbbing cock as his hips get erratic, fucking himself on your thighs.

You cum with a strangled gasp of Choso’s name, hips bucking wildly. White-hot pleasure running down your spine, and your blood roaring in your ears. It’s all you can do to milk his fingers the way you would with his cock as you ride out your high. 

But luckily for you, you feel his weeping tip nudging your quivering hole. So heavy, precum mixing with your slick in such a sinful combination.  Breath hot against your ear as he whispers a quiet little, “Actually, m’really fucking not sorry.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Plaything!

“Fuckin’” he kisses his teeth, hand raising up, up, up - coming down swiftly- Smack! “Brat.”

“Oh- Hngh p-please.” you gasp, big fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Nails digging into his shoulders for some - any - mercy from where you’re sat prettily on his lap, throbbing cock stuffed in your cunt. Hard and aching. Yet still unmoving. 

Thumb drawing lazy little circles on your clit, fast enough to have your thighs quivering on his lap, but slow enough to not give you exactly what you want - he’s been teasing you for hours now.

“P-pleeease.” he mocks, voice so dramatically whiny, swatting your ass again. Sukuna doesn’t even know why he’s fucking pissed off, he just likes seeing you all teary and letting out such cute lil’ whines, trying to eagerly to please him. Is he being a bully? Yeah. Does it make it cock so painfully hard watching you try to grind your pretty pussy down on his cock? Fuck yeah.

Which is why he watches you desperately try to fuck yourself on his cock, and oh how he loves taking in this heavenly sight. Your cunt spread so shamefully, sloppy and wet enough that you’re dripping all over him.  

His messy girl. It almost makes him want to play nice.

Smack! And that has you keening, pressing your sensitive tits harder against his front. “What do you want, brat?”

Your breath hitches, words shaky, “Want your cock, ‘Kuna-”

But the only response you get is a huffed out dark chuckle. Strong arms spreading your legs even further as Sukuna leans leisurely against the headboard. He scoffs, loving the way you were always the cutest when he played mean. “You already have it in your pretty lil’ cunt, want more could you want?”

“W-wan’ you to fuck me,” a hand trailing down to massage his heavy balls, moving your hips in slutty circles to meet his, milking him inside you. “Wan’ you to fill me up with your cum till m’dumb. Till everyone’s gonna know- Ah- ple-”

Oh how he loved all your dirty little tricks. “Hm, ya really were desperate for my cock, huh?” he grits out, jaw clenched and eyes locked on the way your dripping cunt was swallowing him up so deliciously. Like you were trying to milk something delicious out of him. “Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. Ya really that cock-hungry, brat?”

Smack! Speeding up his movements on your clit, your pathetic little sob rings in Sukuna’s ears and goes all the way down to his twitching dick. Massaging your plushy walls just right.

That makes you mewl and buck wildly, slurring out, “Yes! Wan’ed so bad. Wanted to be split a-apart hngh- on yer cock n’ filled to the brim.” 

Fuck, Sukuna bites his lower lip, do you even have any idea what you’re saying?

He doubts it - and he doesn’t give a fuck because before you know it, your hands are pinned behind your back, and Sukuna’s fucking up into you in one, harsh thrust. 

“Said you wan’ my cock, n’ you’re gonna get it brat.”

Messy and desperate as you’re being split apart by his massive cock, starting to ram into you with wreckless abandon. And you can do nothing but take it because Sukuna’s holding you still, arching you impossibly deeper into him.

“Kuna- mm ngh-”

“So cockdrunk that you can’t even speak, huh?” he’s high off of the way your words are a strangled mess. Such a pity you couldn’t do anything else either - with the way he was holding you still. Like some fucktoy from the depths of his treasury. Grip bruising on your arms, only being able to let out such pathetic lil’ ah! ah! ah! against his ear each time his cock hits your bruised cervix. 

“This what my little slut wanted?” His hips are erratic now, fucking any and every thought out of your mind. Hungry gaze appreciatively taking in the way your head was lolling against his shoulder, so cock-drunk and delirious already. “Now, don’t act so fucked out, brat. We’re only getting started.”

Well, he didn’t say he was going to be nice. Now, did he?

♡ GOJO SATORU - Candy for a bad day

“Had a bad day.” It’s all that announces Gojo’s arrival. 

Startled, you whirl his head to catch that an uncharacteristic little sigh, he’s pulling his blindfold down haphazardly, raising his eyes to meet yours and oh-

Fuck, you weren’t going to make it out alive.

And Gojo wasn’t sure whether he would either with the way he was immediately slamming the front door shut, lips searing on yours as he shoves you against the adjacent wall with a soft thud! 

“S-Satoru, what the fuck?” you sputter, head spinning because he was here and then kneeling in front of you so fast you think he might’ve teleported there. Hand groping every inch of you he could reach, thumbing over your hardened nipples. Drawing little circles on your hips as he looks at you through heavy, half-lidded eyes.

You try to talk back some semblance of sanity into him, “Satoru, what happ-”

“Shut up. Those annoying old fuckers always fuckin’ piss me off. Dunno why you fuckin’ made me attend that meeting.” 

Oh. That’s what happened. 

Heaving in a shaky gasp, you let him all but rip off your skirt. Flinging them to God-knows-where with the audacity of a man that would buy you ten new ones to replace it. Gojo’s mouth falls into a soft little oh! at the heavenly sight of your already-soaked panties.  

“Swear m’gonna purple hollow them all one day.” he murmurs into your pretty pussy, tongue darting out to draw lazy patterns along your slit. “Gonna have ‘em begging for their lives.”

Words muffled around the flimsy fabric - ones he rips clean off your hips with one hand. Not even letting you flinch at the cool air before Gojo’s pooling your sweet juices on his fingertips. Staring right in your eyes while he pops them into your mouth, sucking them clean and glistening with saliva in the dim light. 

“Oh.” Eyes rolling to the back of his at the taste of your sweet lil’ cunt. “You always taste s’fucking perfect f’me. Can’t believe you’ve been fucking holdin’ out on me.”

And maybe Gojo loses his patience - maybe his sanity - because one taste, and he’s hooked. Diving face-first into your clothed cunt, breathing in your scent so fucking lewdly.

“F-fuck, Toru-” you whisper breathlessly, gripping those soft white locks for some stability. The only reply you get is Gojo licking long, languid stripes up your swollen folds. Your slick glossing his ruby lips, trailing down his chin. “It feels s’good.”

And he’s so uncharacteristically messy - making out with your sloppy pussy like it’s his last meal. All pure desperation, lips puckering so prettily around your swollen clit as he sucks on it harshly. Rolling his tongue over and over and-

“Hate that you made me go. They drive me crazy, y’know.” he slurs lowly into your sensitive cunt. Vibrations sending white-hot pleasure running up your spine. “Makes me wanna wish I could stay home with you, eating this cute lil’ cunt out all day.” 

“Wha- what nonsense, Toru.”

“Your cunt is addictive, pretty.”

You barely even notice the way that he’s the one holding you up, throwing a leg over his shoulder, looping and arm around your waist to pull you deeper onto this tongue. Close. So close. “Hngh- Toru-”

“Close?” he murmurs, muffled. “Can feel y’clenching around m’tongue, y’know. How am I supposed to tonguefuck my pretty girl if she’s sucking the soul outta me?”

He was such a little tease. Becoming as frantic and sloppy as you - dripping all over the hardwood floor with a maddening tap! tap! tap!

And despite the way he was devouring you - licking all over your pussy, tongue dipping in and out of your slutty hole - Gojo still finds it in himself to run his mouth. Babbling about how he’s gonna destroy the elders all while you’re in shambles above him. 

“Hah- Toru, shit I’m close. M’gonna-”

“Give it to me, my girl. Wanna taste y’on my tongue.”

And then you’re cumming. Stars behind your eyes and Gojo’s tongue fucking you through your high as you grind down on his pretty face. Dragging your dripping cunt all over till it’s so messy that it makes your cheeks burn. 

But Gojo doesn’t mind - of course, he doesn’t. In fact, his glossy lips only turn up into a slow, sly smirk as he stands up slowly from the ground.

“C��mon, gotta punish you proper now, princess.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

I really loved your career day fic and I was wondering if you could do a Shut up mom fic with the same lineup with nanami tho if you write for him🥺 👉👈

Shut up, Mom!

Tags: teeth rotting fluff, mostly crack, cursing, jjk men as dads / fem!reader

An: I would be delighted to write this anon :) my requests are open, loves. If you want me to write a specific idea, definitely ask and I’ll try to deliver on it! also, if anyone wants to be on a taglist please let me know. So, I gave Sukuna a kid in this one because I didn’t really see Yuji calling you mom or him dad. Yuji calls you two unc and auntie :)

SATORU • SUGURU • TOJI • SUKUNA • NANAMI

SATORU

“Aoi, did you take out the trash?” You ask your nine-year-old son while trying not to giggle. Aoi has recently discovered pranks, and he suggested playing one on Satoru. You couldn’t help but think that was an amazing idea.

Your husband was leisurely sitting on the couch, playing a game on the console he and your son shared. He was able to see you from his peripheral vision while you and Aoi were in the dining room. He didn’t seem to be too intrigued by the conversation, but Satoru is a chronic eavesdropper. He can’t help it with his technique and all.

“No, mom. Why can’t you do it?” Aoi plays his role perfectly, even throwing in an annoyed groan at you. Gojo cut his eyes towards you two, but he stayed silent for a moment. He knew this was your battle to face, and he wasn’t usually the disciplinary parent anyways.

“Because I told you to do it, Aoi. It’s your chore.” You say, putting on a serious voice as you would if he had really been sassing off to you.

“Ugh. Shut up, mom!” Aoi yells with a dramatic eye roll.

Immediately, you hear the game console cut off. It seems like you two had garnered Satoru’s attention. Footsteps carry into the dining room, and your all too tall husband leans against the doorframe.

Aoi sees his father, and his eyes widen. Your little actor. He then tries to walk off, but Satoru easily put his hand out against Aoi’s chest, preventing him from going anywhere.

“Woah, woah, woah, there little man. Who do you think you’re talking to there?” He interjects as his hands slowly unwrap his bindings from around his eyes, letting you know that he’s about to get serious.

“She’s getting on my nerves, dad!” Aoi continues to play the role, even though you can tell that he’s scared shitless.

“Hey, look at me.” Satoru says as he bends his knees to be eye level with Aoi. Your son complies with his dad’s order. “I don’t give a shit, okay? Never, and I mean, never tell your mother to shut up unless you intend on fighting me afterwards. She says to take out the trash, you say yes and take out the trash. Do you understand me?” Satoru says as he holds his son’s shoulders, squeezing them a bit so Aoi knows he’s not fooling around.

“Because I don’t think you want to fight me, do you?” Satoru questions. His blue eyes beam in the light, making your son nervously sweat.

“Baby, it’s just a prank.” You quickly interject with a laugh as you gently nudge your husband away from your son.

“Yeah dad, I was just acting!!” Aoi’s nervous gaze flutters into an adorable smile.

Satoru rolls his eyes and playfully laughs along. “You two are too silly, makin’ me turn off my game for this.” He shakes his head as he wraps his eyes back up.

“You were like gonna hollow purple me!” Aoi shouts with an excited laugh, and he reenacts Satoru’s cursed technique.

“Yeah, I love your mom a little too much.” Satoru responds with a grin up towards your direction.

SUGURU

Mimiko and Nanako are coming into their teen years, and recently, they’ve been obsessed with the idea of TikTok. After seeing the “shut up mom” prank all over, they knew that they had to play it on Suguru.

You, of course, agreed to help them pull off their little shenanigan.

“You two are not going out. It’s a school night.” You chide at the twin girls, giving them a small wink as Suguru was enjoying a cup of tea while sitting at the breakfast bar. He was scrolling mindlessly on his phone, reading the news or something like that.

“Mom, please. Everyone’s going.” Nanako pled and even threw in a small pout.

“Yeah, who cares if it’s a school night?” Mimiko chimed in.

“Girls.” Suguru warned as he normally did when you were having to deal with the twins. He didn’t like the idea of the girls ganging up on you.

“I said no. I bet you two didn’t even do your homework yet either.” You carry on, eyeing the two girls as if they were really in trouble.

“Ugh! Mom, shut up!” The girls somehow managed to say in sync. The two had obviously practiced their lines.

The tea glass hit the counter, and Suguru a stood up from his seat on the stool. “Hey. I don’t ever want to hear that kind of language in this house, especially not to your mother. Got that?” He said as he eyed your daughters.

Your husband was a bit of a strict father to the girls. He really just wanted them to turn out good, so he was the main disciplinary figure in the house.

“Dad! She’s-“

“Aht.” He cuts Mimiko off, and starts to walk up to the girls. “I didn’t ask. Apologize to your mother this instant. Then, go upstairs and do your homework. You two are grounded from going out for at least a month.”

“Sugu, it’s a prank.” You say as you can’t hold back a laugh from how angry he got that quickly. “It’s a prank, sweetie.”

Your two girls were nodding quickly, holding their hands out in surrender. “We saw it on TikTok!”

Suguru rolls his eyes at the three of you. “That app is no good for you.” He quietly chides. “Did you two do your homework?”

Mimiko and Nanako exchange nervous glances, and they both run up to their rooms to get it done.

Your husband laughs quietly and shakes his head before sitting back down on his stool. You walk over towards him and card your fingers through his long hair. He lets out a long exhale of contentment while leaning his head into your touch. “What are we gonna do with those two, hm?”

“Love them and try our best to teach them.” You softly respond before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

TOJI

Toji is a pretty laid back dad. He lets you take the lead on a lot of the parenting aspects, since it comes to you more naturally than it does with him. However.. he has his moments.

“Megumi, come help me do the dishes.” You say to your 13-year-old son. He’s in that weird stage of puberty where you’re his best friend one day and his worst enemy the next, which means he sometimes agreed to play pranks with you.

“Busy, mom.” He mumbles at the table as he’s trying to learn the hand signs for one of his shikigami. He was left learning this stuff on his own since Toji wasn’t a sorcerer, and you weren’t apart of the Zenin clan. You had no idea how to do the hand gestures.

“You can do that after you’re done helping me, Gumi.” You say as you turn on the kitchen sink. Your son doesn’t even acknowledge that you said anything.

Toji eyes him from his seat at the dining table, waiting for his son to comply.

“Gumi. Get in here.” You finally say after a minute of him not responding to you.

“Shut up, Mom!” He raises his voice at you, and immediately, Toji is on him quicker than you could respond.

“What did you just say to your mother, brat?” Toji grits as he stares down at his teenage son. Megumi looked back up at him mortified. “I brought you in this world, and I will take your ass out of it if I hear you speak to your mom like that again.”

“Baby, baby, baby, it’s a prank!” You say as you rush over to Toji. Megumi cracks a nervous smile, and you gently nudge Toji back.

“It’s a prank!” Megumi shouts as he leans back away from Toji slightly.

Your husband lets out an annoyed grunt. “You two play too much. Gonna make me kill my own son.” He says as he releases Megumi’s shoulder. He walks back over to his seat at the dining table and smacks your ass on the way back.

SUKUNA

“Ryu, come take out the trash!” You yell to your son. He recently brought up the idea of pranking Sukuna by yelling at you to shut up in front of him. You had urged your son that this was a bad idea, but he was persistent.

Sukuna was sat at the dining table, eating whatever Uraume had prepared for him. Usually, Uraume handled the trash as well, but you distinctly told them to leave it.

There’s no response.

“Ryu! Trash now!” You call out again in a more frustrated tone.

Sukuna is biting his tongue at this point. There is nothing that he hates more than insolence, especially towards you. You’re his queen, and he demands for all to respect you, including his son.

No response.

“Ryu!”

“Okay mom! Shut the fuck up!”

All four of Sukuna’s eyes widened, and he put down his fork. “Domain expansion. Malevolent-“

“It’s a prank!” You shout as you spin to look at Sukuna quickly. Your son is standing behind you, quite literally trembling in fear.

“Yeah- it’s a p-prank, dad.” Ryu stutters out.

Sukuna narrows his gaze, and he looks between the two of you. “Foolish.” He grunts. “Boy, come have a seat.” He commands, and your son reluctantly complies.

“If you ever pull some shit like that seriously, I’m not afraid to start over and make a new kid. I got nothing but time on my hands.” Your husband says while eyeing your son.

“Ryu’s a good kid, Kuna.” You assure him as you walk over to your husband and rub on his shoulders a bit.

“Mmm, for now.” He mumbles, and he nods his head to the trashcan. “Take the trash out.”

NANAMI

Your husband was sitting in the living room, enjoying his “lazy Sunday” as he called it. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other. He couldn’t help but feel incredibly grateful for the life he was living right now.

He had everything he ever dreamed of: a stable job, an amazing wife, a small family in a loving home.

You were sitting next to him, casually rubbing on his thigh through his pajama pants. You and your daughter had been texting about playing a prank on your dear husband, and it was finally going to happen.

“Hana, did you fold the clothes like I told you to?” You call out to your daughter as she’s in her bedroom. Nanami turns a page in his book, still not paying too much attention.

“Mom, I’m doing something!” Your daughter yells back.

“Hana, get in here and fold those clothes!” You shout back, getting a bit more serious. Nanami lets out a small sigh as he places his mug on the coffee table. He’s normally quick to nip Hana’s attitude in the bud.

“I’m busy!”

“Hana!”

“Okay mom! Just shut up already!” She finally yells as she storms into the living room. Nanami shuts his book and immediately stares down your daughter.

“What did you just say?” He asks as he sits up from his cozy position. His jaw tightens a bit as he glares at Hana.

“I just told her to shut up. She’s being overdramatic.” Your daughter continues, playing her part perfectly.

“Who’s her? Your mother? You’re telling my wife to shut up?” Nanami says as he starts to stand up.

“It’s just a prank, Ken!”

“Dad, it’s a prank-!”

You and your daughter both shout nervously, and Nanami looks at both of you confused for a moment. It then clicks in his head. “God, don’t stress me out like that.” He chides as he relaxes back on the couch. He wraps his arm back around you and picks up his book again.

[zoe-oneesama]

The Kwamis! Some of these came easier than others, but since Angelic Layer has no magic involved, all the kwamis became human~ They won't be very prevalent, they're mostly here to fill in background character roles - shop clerks, MCs Tournament Directors, fans - so they won't have a whole lot of speaking roles (aside from, you know, the MCs who're there to commentate on the fights lol). But I thought I'd give them all a nice nod in the story somewhere.

As expected, Tikki and Plagg are the main MCs. Marinette and Adrien's fights will be going on concurrently so Tikki will be commentating Marinette's fights while Plagg commentates on Adrien's. They'll have the most dialogue of the kwamis, so I do want them to have unique ways of discussing what they're seeing.

Pollen will be working directly for the Bourgeois'. As a VIP with a direct relationship with the international director of Angelic Layer, Chloe has her own private practice layer in her home and Pollen is in charge of it's upkeep and maintenance. She matches Armand the Bulter's levels of competence.

Trixx is a Rena Rouge mega fan. They've been following Alya's blog for as long as they can remember and are mega stoked that Alya moved to their city. When Alya starts to doubt herself, it's Trixx's voice that can be heard cheering her on to not give up.

Nooroo and Duusu are servants in the Agreste Estate. Unknown to Adrien, they are fully aware of his sneaking around to play and the two do what they can to make excuses and deflect Nathalie when Adrien isn't where he's supposed to be. They're rooting him on from the shadows!

Wayzz is the adult son of Marianne and Fu. He brings them to Angelic Layer fights against his will because the two really enjoy them. The two seem to be really invested in Ladybug and Chat Noir's career (and the behind the scenes shenanigans that they secretly spy on).

Longg is Kagami's bodyguard. Like Nooroo and Duusu, they are fully aware of what Kagami is doing behind her mother's back and feigns ignorance when Kagami pulls something..."sneaky" to get to a fight secretly.

Here's where we get into some existing jobs from the show:

Orikko and Kaalki are the "Layer Hot Girls (and boy)". lol I just thought it was funny that Angelic Layer even has them.

Mullo is the sales clerk at the Princess Piffle store (the store where you can buy your Angel and all the accessories). All of them lol. Mullo and her many many sisters who look just like her.

Barkk and Fluff take similar but still different roles (the uniforms are ALMOST the same but there are some tiny differences). So Barkk is the receptionist at the Practice Ring (literally you pay to reserve a mini-layer to practice on) while Fluff is the waitress/cashier at the cafeteria at the Tournament Center.

(and back to making shit up lol)

Daizzi is a nurse where Rose goes to the hospital and she has segmental localized vitiligo. Rose is particularly close to Daizzi since she helps Rose make her donations to the hospital.

Sass is the backstage directory, aka, the guy who makes things run. He has an earpiece that has the same diamond pattern as his pants on it! The anime does show one person who helps backstage, but I wanted to have a little fun with Sass's look and tie in to him being "in charge" of the kwamis.

Ziggy works at Socqueline's family art supply shop, which is frequented by Angelic Layer players who are on a bit of a budget. They love talking with the customers about their angels, though mostly the design part.

Stompp is Ivan's foster mother and Roarr his foster sister (Stompp's bio-daughter). I actually didn't think of what kind of job this outfit would be good for, but I think she'd make a good security guard - usually working at rock concerts, which she bonds with Ivan over, but she's also been hired for Angelic Layer tournaments. Sometimes sore losers get a little...violent.

Roarr falls in love with Juleka's Angel Purple Tigress immediately thanks to her pre-existing love of tigers in general. She's even bold enough to proclaim her love to Juleka herself!

Xuppu is Ondine's sibling and a fan of King Monkey, though they'll go out of their way to make fun of Kim himself. Secretly, they're very invested in Kim's career and get very upset on his behalf when he loses.

[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.

[mejaemin]

can i get jeonghan + number 6 please? ❤️

jeonghan + fixing their attitude with one look

warnings: fluff, silly jeonghan giving an attitude smh an: sooooo sorry for the wait </333 i hope you read too much and journey mercies during it !!!

jeonghan’s not one to get mad. well.. he gets mad, but never at you. and he most certainly doesn’t get mad at you. however, he came home from one of his hangouts today and hasn’t been able to snap out of it since.

he’s laying in bed with you now, a container of takeout laying in front of you. he had promised to bring it on his way home, and he at least didn’t forget that, but he hasn’t touched it. he hasn’t done much but just sit, actually. of course, you know him, and you’re trying to give him some silence so he can cool down, but even your patience is starting to run thin.

you were only graced by seungkwan’s kindness, who messaged you to mention that he and seungcheol had fought. that explains it, you think, knowing not much else could tick him off to that degree. you know it might even be upsetting, so you reach out to put a hand on his thigh, trying to provide some comfort.

“han? are you going to eat?” you ask, keeping your tone light, trying to prompt him to cheer up.

he doesn’t move, sitting in the same position he has been for the past half hour, eyes focused on one individual thread in the blanket. his lips are in their natural pout, but you have half a mind to believe that he might actually be pouting this time. “i’m not hungry.” he says curtly, sighing. he tips his head up, leaning it against the headboard, letting it roll to the side for him to look at you. “you can.”

“no, i don’t want to eat. not without you.”

he sighs again, deeper, closing his eyes to level himself. “you can put it away then.” he speaks with so much attitude, so much sass that all you do is sit there, mouth hanging open.

his eyebrows are furrowed now, probably realizing his mistake, and when he pops one eye open to see your reaction he immediately sits straight, turning to you fully. “ah, i mean, please baby, go ahead and eat. we’ll eat together, okay? sorry, i was being silly..”

“that’s what i thought…” you mumble, opening all the food containers to finally begin eating. he chuckles nervously, running to get utensils and fulfill your every request.. whatever it takes to avoid your wrath.

1 to 13 🏷️ @markkiatocafe @ateez-atiny380

[3verythingiknowaboutlove]

standing in the steps of mine

how spencer deals with the fact that his daughter might be getting bullied at school

fluff word count: 1421 warnings & tags & stuff: dad!spence, references to spencer's bullying, references to spencer's dad leaving, its verryy comforting, they celebrate father's day on a friday WHOOPS my bad, umm just spencer being the best dad ever author's note: WOAH its been a long time!! sorry about that i went a little crazy about this app. i missed posting on here very very much and am still working on my self esteem when it comes to posting. so. this is terrifying. anywayyy i hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts if you have any! i love you and have a stellar day!!

“I did it wrong, I can’t give it to you.” 

This is, unfortunately, the first full sentence Anne has said since coming home from school, if you don’t count her little mhms and mm-mms tainted with a premature edge of sass Spencer claims to be all you.

Now, sitting on her newly acquired big-girl bed, Anne’s shoulders are worryingly slumped, voice meek. Her arms are hugging her backpack tightly, making sure no one except her can open it to see its contents, which– as you know from her contrastingly excited rambles during the car ride to school– include a Father’s Day craft made during her snack time just for Spencer.

“What do you mean, wrong, honey? Can we see?” Spencer asks her, crouching down to her eye level, thumb stroking her knee. After just a few seconds of trying to combat his imploring gaze, apparently just as effective on kids, she relents, unzipping her sparkly bag and taking out the slightly wrinkled paper. 

Her body language can only be read as small as she hands it to him, shy.

Right in the middle is a large, carefully drawn, and only slightly lopsided, plum purple heart. Inside, four names are written in black marker. Daddy, (the biggest, it is his day after all) Mommy, Slinky, (paired with a drawing of your cat) and Mrs. Agnes. (Stuffed unicorn.) 

Spencer utterly melts when he sees it, and looks her in the eye. “Anne, honeybear, this is perfect. Thank you so much. Can you tell me what about this you think is wrong?” You crouch too as he says that, rubbing her back.

She purses her trembling lips. “Ben said it was s’posed to be red since love is red, and that purple is dumb.” Spencer tilts his head.

“Well, lots of people do think love is red, but I bet it can be other colors too. In many countries east of here, orange can show love. Or, when you see blue, your brain tends to think of things associated with safety and trust. Trust is a kind of love, right?” Spencer explains. Anne nods hesitantly. “It doesn’t have to be red. He shouldn’t have called it dumb.”

“What do you feel when you see purple?” you ask, showing her the heart again.

“Um. Calm. And family. Since Daddy’s favorite color is purple,” she sniffles. “And the scarf you always make fun of him for wearing before you kiss g’bye in the mornings, an’ Mrs. A-agnes.” A fat tear drops down her face, and she shrugs. “I didn’t know. It should’ve been red. I just messed it all up.”

Spencer reassesses, thumb reaching out to wipe away the tear. It’s typical of Anne to have some self-esteem issues, sure, but they’d never not gone away with some reassurance. This is different. 

That’s when it hits him.

This isn’t just the body language of a sad kid. It’s the body language of a kid being teased. Her tucked in shoulders, short replies, breathing patterns, it’s so clear to him. Spencer’s mind reels, taken aback at just how long it took him to recognise this. In his own child. Her bow lips are pressed into the same exact guilty line his were at her age too. The same line he bore when his father had something to say, and when he was shoved against the goalpost in highschool, and when he was ostracised by his peers in college. 

He stills the stroking against her knee. “Anne, do you know Ben’s last name?” His voice is thin, wavery. 

“Umm, G.” 

He exhales a breath. “What about his full last name? Do you know that?” he presses. When she gives him a confused look, you interject.

“That’s okay, honey. Hey, do you wanna go hang this up on the fridge? I think Slinky needs some food too, do you wanna be in charge of that tonight? One and a half scoops, okay?”

She nods, momentarily distracted from thoughts of Ben G. and instead tottles off to do her favorite chore, despite her sadness.

Spencer looks at you the second she’s out. “I think she’s getting bullied.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Spencer,” you reason softly. “She hasn’t told us enough.” He ignores you, shaky hands digging in his pockets for his phone.

“I am not taking that risk. Garcia can find this…” he sputters. “Twerp.”

“Spencer, you are not seriously getting the FBI involved. I don’t care if it’s our child’s godmother.” 

“It’s Anne.” He spins and looks at you, eyes intense. “I’m not fucking this up. I’m not.” 

“I know it’s Anne. God, Spence, I know. Just let me call her teacher first. I don’t want an angry parent coming for us because we accused their son of bullying and got the federal authorities involved before they even knew what was going on. Okay?”

The panic behind his eyes softens a little. 

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he rasps out. You extend your arms for a little hug, which he sinks into. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.”

“It’s okay. She’s really good at covering it up. We’ll just… see if we can make her feel better for now and get more information out of her later?” He nods into your neck, knowing the two of you can, at the very least, do that. 

He presses a soft kiss to your cheek. “Stop one-upping me on Father’s day. How’re you so calm?” 

You exhale a soft laugh. “I really don’t know. How do you wanna make her feel better, though?”

…

He comes out to the kitchen to see her staring at her drawing, obviously still hesitant to hang it up. She stands next to Slinky as he eats, making sure he has company, of course, but her eyes don’t lift from her paper.

“Hey honey? I don’t think I properly thanked you for this. May I?” Spencer asks her quietly. She hands the paper over reluctantly, and he hangs it up, then swoops her into his arms so they’re eye to eye. “I can’t believe you remembered Daddy’s favorite color.” he tells her, voice full of sincerity. “You know how full that makes my heart?”

She shrugs, tucking her head into his neck.

“This tells me just how much you love me and our whole family. This is the best Father’s day gift I’ve ever received. You’re considerate. Do you know what that means?” she peeks out at Spencer, and sees his light eyes looking down at her. 

She, very gently, shakes her head no, lips twitching out of that thin line and into a giddy smile. She’s a blur the second he sets her down, zooming all the way to the tall bookshelf next to the fireplace. 

…

Resting on the bottom, easily accessible, are two halves of the Compact Oxford English Dictionary, each practically half the size of her. She pauses, remembering the word Spencer told her, and selects the first one. A through O. She lifts it with a little huff of effort and runs right back, nestling herself on the couch right next to you, where you’re strategically waiting with a blanket and cuddles. She peeks up at you subtly for confirmation she grabbed the right dictionary, and you give her a little nod. 

“What letter are we looking for, little bear?” you ask, hand moving to her hair to stroke. Spencer comes and sits on the other side of her, having gone to wash his face.

“C.” She says definitively, flipping through the thin pages. She skims quickly and methodically, a procedure no doubt inherited from her father. 

You’re all quiet, air filled with the soft sounds of paper flipping. It’s peaceful, despite the stress you know Spencer is still feeling. You reach for his hand, pointer gently tracing to his pulse point. Much slower than it was a few minutes ago. 

Support, reassurance, distraction. It’s really simple. It took him, what, a minute to figure it out? How to make her feel the slightest bit better?

A fucking minute.

He blinks the thought from his brain, ignores the jabbing in his heart, and focuses instead on looking at his two girls and how the light from the lamp catches the color of your hair. Anne soon falls asleep against you two late that night after finally finding considerate, and you bring her to her big-girl bed, the little scrunch between her eyebrows that she shares with Spencer nowhere to be seen. 

[urloveada]

𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 || 𝐣𝐨𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠💌™

𝓹𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: joe goldberg x f!reader

𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 1.9k+

𝔀𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰: smut, p in v, edging, swearing, vibrator, ‘you belong to me’ vibes, dom/sub undertones; dom!joe, sub!reader. MDNI

𝓷/𝓪: not beta read, i apologize for any errors!! || my new bsf (🤫) has been dying for this fic; i really hope you enjoy!!

╰ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ masterlist || navigation

You and Joe finally decided to go out on a date. You’ve both been so busy with work lately you haven’t gotten to spend much time together. Joe’s working full time; you're working part time, but unfortunately your schedules barely line up.

 

It was Joe’s idea to come to this restaurant; this was where you met. So, it’s quite sentimental to the both of you. which is a big reason why your boyfriend is eyeing you angrily as you flirt with the young waiter.

 

Now in your defence, you didn’t mean for the flirting to start; it just happened. He came to take your order but could not keep his eyes off you. Of course Joe noticed; he notices everything, especially when it comes to you. And out of the corner of your eye, you saw Joe clench his jaw in frustration, maybe even jealousy. So that’s when you decided to play along, for as long as Joe would let you, that is.

 

“Okay, your food will be ready in a few minutes. It might take a bit longer since we’re currently low staff.” The young waiter, whose name you learned is Elliot, tells you apologetically.

 

“It’s okay, baby; we aren’t in a rush,” you tell him kindly before he walks away, making sure you emphasize the word 'baby.'

 

Joe stares at you silently, trying to collect his thoughts before he speaks. “What are you doing?” The warning was clear: don’t do it again or you won’t like the consequences.

 

You stay silent, looking innocently at him, until he raises his eyebrows, indicating he’s expecting an answer.

 

“I’m just being polite; is that a problem?” You sass, crossing your arms over your chest.

 

“Oh, you do NOT get to flirt with the waiter than sass me. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Joe asks sternly, keeping eye contact with you as you try looking away.

 

“Oh my, God, Joe. It’s not that big of a deal. Why are you being such a—“

 

“Okay, we have one order of the grilled chicken, with salad on the side,” Elliot cuts you off, bringing your food over, “and one order of steak and baked potatoes.” He slides Joe his dinner.

 

“Can I get you anything else? a refill on your drinks maybe?” Elliot offers the both of you. Joe notices Elliot’s hand slightly brushing against your shoulder but doesn’t comment on it.

 

Joe shakes his head no.

 

“No thanks, darling,” you say, smiling at Elliott as he walks away to take other orders.

 

Joe is now looking at you furiously. “This is your last warning. Do it again, and we’re leaving; do you understand me?” Joe demands, grabbing your chin so you’re making eye contact.

 

You nod your head, but roll your eyes while trying to wriggle out of his grip.

 

“uh, uh. eyes up here. I said, Do you understand me?”

 

“Yeah, okay,” you nod your head. “I understand.”

 

Joe releases his grip and nods his head. “Now eat, please.”

 

_________

 

You and Joe eat your dinner peacefully, finally having the evening together Joe wanted. You are so close to finishing your meal without anymore distractions until Elliott comes over one last time to check on you.

 

“Is everything alright?” Elliot asks, sounding like he genuinely cares how your meal is.

 

“It was delicious, thank you,” you reply, setting the fork down and looking up at Elliot. “Wasn’t it good, Joe?" You turn to look at your boyfriend.

 

“Yes, it was. Thank you,” he says politely, despite how annoyed he is with Elliot.

 

“I’m glad to hear that!” Elliot replies happily, “Would you like me to get the bill now?” He asks, collecting your empty plates and utensils.

 

“Yes, love, that sounds wonderful,” you respond with the same level of enthusiasm.

 

Elliot leaves to get the bill, and you look over at Joe, not expecting to see him so angry.

 

“I have told you several times to knock it off. I am sick of you disrespecting me,” Joe says sternly.

 

He leans forward to whisper this last part so only you can hear.

 

“When we get home, you are being punished. I do not care how much you don’t want it; you will be punished for your actions, and that is final. Do you understand?”

 

You look at Joe bewildered. Sure, you wanted to push his buttons; angry sex is the best, is it not? but a punishment? That was something you didn’t expect.

 

"Yes, sir,” you respond sheepishly, “understood.”

 

_________

 

The drive home is silent, not even the sound of the radio going. You knew you were going to be in trouble, but not this much trouble.

 

I mean, really? a punishment?  

That’s not necessary. Of course you’d never say this to Joe; he would not approve of this mindset.

 

when you finally arrive home and Joe parks the car in the driveway. There’s a moment or two of silence while he tries collecting his thoughts.

 

He turns to you and grabs your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look him in the eyes when he talks to you.

“When you go inside, I want you to strip completely and wait for me on the bed. I will be inside in a few minutes. Go.”

 

Joe releases his grip, and you scramble out of the car and inside the house, shutting the door behind you. You run up the stairs and go to your shared bedroom.

 

You strip off your clothes, put them in the laundry basket, and wait on the bed as Joe instructed.

 

You heard Joe walking up the stairs a few minutes after you sat down. He wasn’t stomping, which was a good sign.

 

Joe opened the door and looked to the bed, making sure you listened. “Finally learned how to listen, hm?” He teased, walking over to the bed to stand above you.

 

“Go get the vibrator,” Joe says sternly, pointing to the nightstand on the opposite side of you.

 

“Joe, please no,” you plead, making zero effort to do as you’re told.

 

“Now.”

 

You sigh and climb across the bed. opening the drawer aggressively and grabbing the vibrator. Sliding across the bed you had it to Joe, and once again start pleading.

 

“please, please! dont. I’ll be good, Joe.” You give him your best puppy eyes. “So good, I promise.”

 

His eyes soften slightly, and he rubs his thumb across your lips before leaning in and softly kissing them.

 

He pulls back and admires you for a moment before saying, “Lay down, on your back, spread your legs.”

 

You whine but obey him wordlessly, trying your best to prepare yourself for what’s about to happen.

 

“Good girl,” Joe turns on the vibrato to its slowest level and holds it between your legs.

 

You gasp and twitch at the sudden sensation between your legs but say nothing; instead, you grip the soft cotton sheets in order to hold still.

 

“Oh baby,” Joe coos, placing down the vibrator so it won’t move when he lets go. and sits down on a chair beside the bed. “This is only the beginning, and your already gasping and moaning?”

 

You glare at your boyfriend and begin to say something when your cut off by the vibration being turned up a level, using a remote Joe keeps with him.

 

“Joe,” you groan, struggling to keep still. You look over at your boyfriend to see him smiling at you, enjoying watching you struggle to keep your composure.

 

“hmm?” He hums, “What is it, baby?” Turning it up to the max speed, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

 

“Mmm, fuck,” you moan breathlessly, gripping at the sheets even harder.

 

“Use your words,” he tuts.

 

“Please, off,” you beg helplessly, “I'm going to come, please.”

 

“Uh, uh. No, your not.” Joe sits up and pushes the vibrator deeper, rubbing it up and down. “Only good girls get to come. Were you a good girl?”

 

You quickly shake your head no, hopeful that if you obey, you will get the reward of coming.

 

“No? No what, baby, use your words.” He says sternly but not coldly.

 

“No,” you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure. “No, I wasn’t a good girl.”

 

“No, you weren’t,” he agrees, stopping the movement of the vibrator and leaving it still once more. “What were you then? hmm?" joe prompts.

 

“Bad girl,” you answer, arching your back, trying to nonchalantly wiggle away from the vibrations.

 

“Yeah, you were a bad girl.” He notices your wiggles and once again moves the vibrator closer to your clit. “And do bad girls get to come?”

 

“No, they don't.” You give him your best ‘I’ll be a good girl’ eyes, but to no avail.

 

“No, they don’t. Does that mean you get to come?” he asks, finding pleasure in your constant gasps and moans.

 

“No.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

You gasp loudly, “Joe, I’m going to come. I can't fight it anymore.” You carefully grind on the vibrator, trying to bring yourself to the orgasm you so badly need.

 

Joe quickly puts an end to that nonsense by taking the vibrator away. “Oh, baby, wrong decision.”

 

Joe waits a few minutes to let you come down from your almost orgasm, then puts the vibrator right back between your thighs.

 

“Oh,” you gasp, gripping at Joe's wrists, your nails digging into his skin. “Please stop. I’ll be good, I promise,” you beg. At this point, you’re willing pretty much anything to get him to stop.

 

“yeah? you have?" He gently removes your nails from digging into him.

 

“Yes! Oh, God, yes.” you all but yell. “I’ll never, ever flirt with someone else again.”

 

“Yeah, I know you won’t,” he agrees, unbuckling his pants and pulling them off.

 

You watch Joe strip, just now noticing how hard he is. Joe pulls down his boxers, and his dick springs out.

 

Joe climbs on the bed with you and removes the vibrator. “Show me how much of a good girl you can be.”

 

You eagerly climb on Joe's lap and position yourself on his cock. Joe slides inside you easily.

 

“Hmm, so wet for me, yeah?” Joe teases, kissing your neck.

 

“Yes,” you reply, turning your neck to the side so he has better access, as you begin to rock back and forth on Joe.

 

He flips you over your laying underneath him while he starts pounding into your dripping wet pussy.

 

You whimper and dig your nails into Joe's back. “Joe,” you pant, “don’t stop, I’m close.”

 

He continues pounding you. “No one will ever make you feel this good,” he whispers in your ear. “Look at you, so needy for me.” He kisses your lips rather aggressively, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

 

You moan in pleasure and run hand through Joe's hair, tugging on it, so his face is closer to yours.

 

You pull back from the kiss to moan out, “Joe, I’m going to come.” He continues, not slowing down his pace.

 

“Come for me, baby, that’s it. good girl,” he praises as you finish.

 

Joe comes shortly after and pulls out. You both flop on your backs, trying to catch your breath. After a minute or so, Joe turns to you. “I meant what I said. No one will make you feel as good as I do.”

 

You nod in agreement, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. “I know,”

 

Joe pulls you close; you rest your head on his chest and close your eyes.

 

“You’re mine; you got that?”

 

“Mhmm,” you hum. “Believe me, I won’t forget.”

𝓷/𝓪: requests are open!! feel free to use whenever you want.

[fushiguruuzzzz]

tetsuro kuroo tooru oikawa issei matsukawa satori tendou atsumu miya meguru bachira ( @adoresia 🙄 ) satoru gojo

best friends who teach you how to kiss <3

“you’ve never kissed someone before?”

his voice was mortifyingly loud and, despite the fact that you were alone in his bedroom, you felt as if there were eyes on you. the genuine startle in his voice was the worst of it, you thought. the notion that he believed it to be so entirely out of ordinary — nearly choking on the water he was sipping and spitting it out all over you — sent your further plummeting into the endless pit of humiliation dug by years of neglect to your romantic experience.

your face grew impossibly warm, eyes averting from his and choosing instead to gaze intently at a loose string on his comforter. “you heard me the first time, didn’t you?”

the bits of sass lacing your tone even despite the roles you played in the situation almost made him laugh, bringing him out of the shocked paralysis he had been stuck in from the moment the admission left your lips. it was a reminder that despite the revelation (which he was shocked he had failed to pick up on beforehand, but he figured it was because he avoided asking about your love life to save himself from the ache in his chest had you recounted times with boys that were not him), it was nothing new. the bewilderment faded from his chest, giving way to something else welling up. satisfaction.

of course, he had not intended to abash you. he was just befogged as to why someone like you would never have someone to receive that affection from. sure, he knew you well enough to know you lacked a partner — he was your best friend, and he would be a rather poor one if he did not know the surface level details to your life. but was it so outrageous to assume you were just mingling? he had seen people with kiss counts higher than the populations of some nations and he thought none of them were as much of a catch as you. he pondered for a beat longer, mulling over the reasons, working them out in his quickly-computing mind. no suitors? no, definitely not. some sort of extreme celibacy? he figured you were not the type. waiting for the right person? yes, that seemed most feasible (him, perhaps? he quickly pushed that thought away).

he realized that he probably looked absolutely manic, staring at you with his brows knitted together and a far-away look in his eyes. he shook his head, willing himself to remain as incredibly suave as he thought he was. he propped himself up on an elbow, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he stared at you with a lazy grin. “well aren’t you the picture of innocence and purity, mm?”

he laughed when you swatted at him, ducking away from your backhand with ease. “shut up.” you spoke indignantly, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

suddenly, a thought popped into his mind. it was sick and more than not inappropriate, more than toeing the line of friendship and crossing over to… well, something less than platonic. his fingers drummed against the mattress, slender and rhythmic and casual in a way that made your shoulders relax and your heart quicken all in one.

“…want me to teach you?”

the smile on your face dropped, replaced by parted lips and widened eyes. you sat there for a moment, sputtering as he kept an unbothered front, brow raised and a smirk tugging at his lips as he hid the way his chest was constricting with a strange feeling he still could not recognize (no matter how long it had been there).

“stop messin’ with me,” you murmured.

he rolled his eyes fondly with a low chuckle, moving to sit up properly on the bed. he faced you now, knee bumping your thigh as he moved closer. it was near enough that you could see the hidden sincerity in his eyes, but far enough that if you really did want to, you could push him off. because no matter how desperately he wanted to take you in his arms and invade you with all that was him, he only wanted that if you did, too. despite the way you had corrupted him into something of desperation and deep seated yearning, he did not long to hold a limp hand. he was still sane enough to want to be loved in return before allowing his own adulation to flourish, as hard as it was to believe. but he had a chance now — even if under educational circumstances. “i’m not.” his voice was still carrying a frivolous lilt, but he meant it. you knew it, as did he.

“cmon…” he drawled, head cocking to the side. he was smooth, as if his metaphorical tail was not wagging behind him with every syllable further spoken. “don’t say you haven’t thought about it.”

suddenly, your throat felt incredibly dry. “I-“ you stuttered because, well, of course you had. not only was he pretty and fun and equipped with a mouth so loud you wanted to kiss him simply for the sake of silence, but he was always so close. so tantalizingly close, invading your entire being with every moment you were together. it was only normal, and you were only human.

he laughed. “so you’d like me to teach you, yes? i’m doing you a favour.”

“…okay.”

his heart leapt. of course, he had hoped for such an answer, but hearing it tumble so softly from your mouth was an entirely different sensation. he had no time to dwell, though, because you were in front of him now and he would be damned if he passed this up. so he leaned closer and thanked every deity there was for the opportunity, playing his internal rejoice off with a calm smile. he was very, very thankful that you were more flustered than he, or else his nerves may have gone haywire and blown him to dust.

he brought a hand to your face, using his other to guide yours where he wanted them. and now your hand was on his jaw and his palm was calloused and gentle as his culled your cheek and oh dear he was leaning closer and-

and he kissed you.

his lips were soft, almost cautious in an uncharacteristic way as they met yours. he kissed you as though you would shatter if he pressed any further, as though a breath too harsh would blow you away. your eyes shut, but if you opened them, you would see the furrow in his brows as he sentenced every cell in his body to a sentence of restraint.

“there ya go,” he murmured against your lips. “not so bad, huh?”

he did not give you the chance to respond before he was on you again, a little more desperate this time, as if he was grasping at straws trying to prolong the moment. maybe you were timid and gentle and a little too pliable but it was everything, far more than he would even ask for. so he kept kissing you, and he hoped you could not feel the tremors in his breath. he just needed it for a moment longer — just one would do, but eternity if you would let him have it.

gen tags @spookypeacesandwich @titititititixo @sickpatientt @kameyyy @cancelledkat @mayyhaps @wizzzierr @jadeyaps @s6rine @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @kashee-h @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @gumims @cinnamxnangel @aldebrana @anotherwriternamedclara

form here.

a/n: not proofread or anything, random idea sia yelled at me to write el oh el… was only supposed to be like 300 words idk what happened.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Deadpool!Phainon was ridiculously hard to take seriously—with that half-lifted mask, tousled hair, and those mischievous baby blue eyes twinkling like he knew every dirty thought in your brain and was already five steps ahead of you. “You know,” he said with a little whistle, crawling over you like a cat with a laser pointer, “you keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might just have to do something unholy. Or y’know, five things. Maybe six, depending on your stamina, sweetheart.” He winked, teeth flashing, and dragged his fingers slowly along the hem of your panties like they offended him personally.

He let out an exaggerated gasp when he found the soaked fabric. “Oh my god, are you this excited just from me talking?” His voice dropped to a low, sultry murmur as he pushed them aside. “You kinky little cupcake.” Two fingers slipped inside without warning, and you cried out, grabbing onto his arms for support. “Aww, look at you,” he cooed, thumb teasing your clit while he fucked you with smooth, confident strokes. “All that sass earlier and now you’re squirming on my hand like I’m the main course.”

Phainon leaned down, nuzzling your cheek before kissing you silly, tongue sliding against yours in a sloppy, need-driven rhythm. “Bet you taste better than tacos,” he whispered into your mouth. “And you know how I feel about tacos.” His fingers pumped faster, curling just right, until your thighs started trembling. “Oh, that’s it, pretty girl. Fall apart for me. I’ll catch you… or at least land funny under you.” He laughed breathlessly, licking his lips, those baby blues gleaming like he’d found treasure.

When he finally yanked your panties down and kicked off his own pants in a flurry of chaos, his cock slapped against your thigh, thick and twitching with need. “Okay,baby,” he said dramatically, lining himself up, “this is the part where you say, ‘Oh Phainon, you’re so big, I don’t know if I can take it!’” He mimicked a high-pitched voice, then grinned when you gave him a glare that melted into a needy whimper as he pushed in slow. “Mm-mm, yeah. That’s my girl. So warm, so tight... I might cry.”

His pace built fast—rhythmic and wild, like he wanted to fuck you through the mattress and still make you giggle. He held your hips steady, whispering the dirtiest sweet talk with a grin that made your heart race. “Y’know, if I die tomorrow, this is how I wanna go—balls deep in the hottest girl alive, moaning like a loser.” Then his eyes locked on yours, bright and blue and burning. “And you, sweetheart... you’re mine. Forever. Mask on or off, I’m never lettin’ go.”

He didn’t stop when you started trembling—especially not then. If anything, Phainon’s hips got faster, harder, like he was trying to fuck the soul right out of you and laugh while doing it. “Ohh, what’s this?” he teased, voice giddy and sweetly mocking, eyes wide as he watched your body clench around him. “You gonna make a mess? Gonna squirt all over me, sweet little sweetheart?” His thumb found your clit again, circling in tight, mean little flicks, and the tension coiled deep in your belly until it finally snapped.

You cried out, loud and raw, legs twitching as a wave of heat pulsed through you—and then it hit, a gush soaking both your thighs and his stomach as he groaned. “Fuck, yes! There it is!” he gasped like it was the best thing he'd ever seen. “Oh, baby, you just squirted on me like a busted fire hydrant. So proud.” He laughed with a gleam in his eye, bending down to kiss your slack mouth, not even slowing his thrusts as you spasmed under him. “You are a super soaker, I swear. I’m gonna need goggles next time.”

Still hard and deep inside you, he moved slower now, grinding into your overstimulated cunt while his hands smoothed over your shaking thighs. “You okay, (name)? That was like… a level ten explosion. I should put you on the Avengers roster.” He nuzzled into your neck, sweaty and breathless, but still grinning like a madman. “Wanna go for round two? Or should I get us some post-sex snacks? You know I brought cupcakes.”

He pulled out just a little, only to push back in deep enough to make you yelp. “Or…” he smirked, licking your ear, “I could just keep going till you squirt again. Wanna see if I can fill the whole damn bed.” His voice softened then, real affection sneaking into the wild heat. “You’re so beautiful when you come for me, baby. I’ll never get tired of wrecking you like this. You’re mine, okay? All mine.”

Soaked, shaking, and utterly ruined, you nodded—and he just beamed, proud and possessive, his baby blues sparkling like stars.

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[julielovesstars]

‘A little bit… or a lot’ (Min Ho x Reader)

Summary: K.I.S.S resident Marco will not leave Y/n alone so the night at the club Min Ho comes to her rescue and they set themselves up in fake relationship to make sure the guy gets a hint, but will their friendship survive the blurred lines?

Warnings: kissing, divorce

Word count: 8.7K

(Noy my GIF :))

“Not again,” I say out loud subconsciously, Kitty and I are once again in the boys flat just studying with Q, and I lay my phone face down frustrated.

Q and Kitty turn towards me immediately, annoyance showing in their eyes, but not at me “What did he say this time?” Q asks.

I just pass him my phone; Kitty gets up from lying on her stomach and looks over his shoulder, her face twists and turns as she reads the message.

“I mean it could kind of be kinda… romantic- no?”

“What can be seen as romantic?” Min Ho says walking in through the dorm door and taking off his shoes, looking between the three of us.

I let out a loud sigh and twist to lie on my back laying a pillow over my face, “It’s Marco he keeps message me,” I hug the pillow to my chest.

Q laughs, “He’s pestering her and very clearly not getting a hint,” he says pointing the phone in Min Ho’s direction, he pulls a disgusted face as he reads the message.

“They say you are what you attract,” Min Ho says with a level of sass and walks into his room closing the door behind him.

“No one has ever said that” Kitty exclaimed in a whisper and the three of us burst into a fit of laughter.

Q passed the phone back to me and I immediately threw it to the other side of the sofa, “That guy seriously needs to chill,” Q says turning back to the textbook and question sheet.

“Honestly I’m so tired of it, I’m scared he’s gonna try something in person,” I said, both my friends shoot my empathetic looks, trying to be supportive, but it doesn’t look like Marco is going to leave me alone any time soon.

Kitty started to gather up all her resources, “Okay time to stop this,” she says getting up and putting the stuff in her bag. I try to argue with her that we’ve only done half the homework questions, but she ignores me and keeps packing.

“Look I need time to get ready for this date with Praveena, I really think things could work out between us, so I want to put the effort in,” she explains, Q and I look at each other and identical smiles spread across our faces, “Plus I’m still yet to match make you and I think it’s time you find someone for you, and it might help Marco move on,” I give her the can we not talk about this right now look but then Q agrees.

He stands up to leans against the sofa arm and looks down at me, “We’re gonna have so much fun, come on smileee,” he says reaching out an arm and pulling me up.

We agree to finish the work tomorrow and to meet in two hours to head out to the club. A new DJ was playing and most everyone in the friendship group wanted to go.

When we arrive the atmosphere is perfect, the music is energetic but cool, the lights and decorations are the exact level of out there and complimentary, and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. Kitty is quickly stolen away by Praveena and taken to the dance floor.

Dae, Q and I make our way to get mocktails before also heading to the dance floor, I watch Q looking around as if he were shopping for guys, which to be fair was exactly his plan for the night- a little distraction from the stress of tomorrow’s race and I was not going to stop him. Dae on the other hand looked stiff and uncomfortable but trying to move around doing something that kind of resembled dance moves.

“Oh my god,” Q says suddenly, and I follow his eyeline only to be met with the one and only, enemy on and off the track: Jin. Q looks… frankly offended at the sight and excuses himself.

When I turn back around to Dae he’s disappeared too, I look around but I can’t see him so go back to the bar to get another mocktail, then I finally find him talking to a group of girls at the back of the club and then I find Q making out with Jin so I went back for another drink and sat at the bar just people watching, all my friends were spread around.

That’s when I heard his voice. “Y/n!” Marco said sitting down next to me, I closed my eyes for a second. Great – now him. I couldn’t have my sad song music video moment, and I had to talk to him.

“Marco,” I say and it accidentally comes out a little too high pitched.

“What is such a pretty girl doing sat at the bar by herself?” he asks shuffling his seat closer and ordering a drink, being a good friend, I wanted to tell him, by not cockblocking any of my friends but I just don’t answer.

I finish the last of my drink and turn around to put it on the counter, in turn he places his hand on the counter almost touching my arm and leans closer to me, “Did you wanna get out of here? We could go grab some food or something,” he asked and I cringed internally.

Opening my mouth to answer he interrupts me, “Come on Y/n, we can go to that barbeque palace you love,”.

I grab my bag and stand as I say, “Marco I don’t-”

“There you are babe,” someone says from behind me, I feel an arm being strung against my shoulder, I turn to see Min Ho just as he presses a kiss to my forehead. He sees the confusion, and maybe a little fear in my eyes and nods subtly to Marco.

“Yep, just been waiting for you,” I reach my arm around his middle, he pulls me closer to him.

“Bye Marco,” Min Ho says simply and turns us away from the brunette walking in the direction of the exit.

What the hell just happened.

“What the hell just happened?” I said out loud this time as the outside breeze soothed me.

Min Ho just sighed taking his arm away, “I just saved your ass, you’re welcome by the way,” he explains.

“Thank you,” I say still in the state of shock.

“He really must not talk to many girls,” he continues, “you looked, repulsed, to say the least,” then one of his brows raised, “I can’t tell who I feel worse for, you, or that poor, helpless guy,”.

I shove my shoulder into his slightly, he swayed to one side by a step, a smile playing on his lips, I shook my head in response.

“What were you doing at the club anyway? I thought you said,” and then I turned on my best Mino Ho accent impression, “The sweat and heat of those places is terrible for my skin,”. The cool January breeze was rustling against my skin, and it was a pleasant contrast to the club which was starting to feel claustrophobic.

“I wanted to hear the DJ live, I’m considering hiring her for my next party,” he says placing his hands into his pockets, I wrapped mine around my jumper.

“So how long has this guy- what’s his name Mark- been bothering you?” Min Ho asked as we walk out towards the dorm buildings.

“Marco,” I say- he knew his name just chose to be petty, then I ran my hand through my hair but didn’t look at him when I answer, “Honestly pretty much since beginning of last semester but the messaging started getting more frequent over the break,”.

“Why haven’t you told anyone about it earlier?” he asked as if I was being an inconvenience to him, I explain to him that it’s never been anything big, he wasn’t being rude or demanding he just didn’t seem to understand that I wasn’t interested and the more I was pushing the more he was latching on.

“No every man can be as good as me, clearly,”

“Clearly,” I join in on his banter, “but seriously, thank you for saving me, I know how much how that must have killed you inside, to have to align yourself with me in such a way,” I said exaggerating, of course he didn’t actually feel this way, we are friends, but it was an inside joke in the friend group that Min Ho was just better than everyone.

Min Ho stopped in his track taking in a deep breath, “Fine, I’ll be your pretend boyfriend,”.

“What?- Min Ho I’m not asking you to-” the words fell out my mouth quickly.

He brushed me off immediately, “Until Marco leaves you alone. You should be thankful that I’m such a good person,” he starts walking again. I take a few quick paced steps to catch up to him.

“Min Ho you really don’t have to, I think he’s got it,” I argued but I  agree with the words coming out of my mouth, if anything a one off like this was likely to propel Marco more, as if this were some kind of challenge for all I knew.

“You’re so ungrateful,”

“Ok fine,” I say defeated, “Thank you,” this time with more emotion.

“It was time to do some charity work anyway,” he said messing up my hair, my face scrunched up in reaction. The rest of the way home in his car was spent arguing about what the best snack for film night was, then what the best film is and soon enough we were back on K.I.S.S grounds.

Min Ho walked me to the door of the girl’s dorm, now that we were alone we discussed what this arrangement meant, and what we were going to tell our friends. The answer was nothing, we were gonna leave them in the dark, one of them was likely to blabber and this needed to seem real. We would act as a couple in front of others but mostly when Marco was around. Not going over the top but just enough to make him believe. When we got to the door we looked at each other.

“What do we tell them when they ask how this happened?”

“We say that you finally fell for my handsome look and irresistible charm,” he says running a hand through his hair, “I mean it was bound to happen, everyone does,”

“Okay Min Ho, whatever,” and then we quickly came up with our cover story.

“Night L/n”

“Goodnight Min Ho,”

Then he was walking in the direction of the boy’s dorm and I look at my phone that was buzzing mercilessly the last few minutes, a bunch of texts were shining brightly back at me.

Kitty: Where are you?

Kitty: Helloooo

Kitty: We want to leave soon

Q: Girl we’re worried answer the phone

Q: missed call (2)

Kitty: missed call (3)

Yuri: Y/n meet us by the front door

Kitty: Swear I’m going to expose all ur secrets if you don’t answer

Shoot.

I was so wrapped up in the Marco situation and then Min Ho that I didn’t even think to text any of them. Not wanting to call any of them right now I text Kitty a quick explanation, that I wasn’t feeling well and Min Ho took us home.

My reply was met with several other messages, but I just got inside our room, got changed and jumped into bed. Twenty minutes later the girls arrived in the dorm but I was  pretending I was asleep, which I almost was, so a little white lie. They would’ve wanted to know what happened and I wasn’t quite ready to fake having a relationship in front of my friends.

<3 <3 <3

Over the next few days all was pretty normal, I didn’t see much of Min Ho outside of lessons, he was busy with avoiding his father and I was busy helping Kitty figure out who this Simon guy we are searching for is. Though on Thursday morning there was some flowers delivered to our door whilst we were having breakfast, I managed to get to the card before the girls thankfully and since then they wouldn’t stop prying.

That was until tonight, our weekly movie nights, I was feelings blessed with the fact that it was finally Friday, but I also didn’t know how to behave.

“I’m dreading whatever we’re gonna watch tonight,” Yuri says as we walk through the boy’s dorm building.

Kitty is flinging her popcorn bag, “I know I hate it when the boys pick, it’s always some kind of action film,” she says.

“They’re not always that bad,” Julianna says bringing Yuri’s hand, which she was holding, up to her lips to give it a kiss.

Even though I didn’t mind the action films or the thrillers it was when they put on horror films that I wanted to run and hide- I don’t judge what people like but it’s lowkey not for me.

“Oh guys remind me to ask Jin for that smoothie recipe before we leave tonight,” Yuri says as we arrive at the door. Kitty reaches for the handle and lets herself right in, we all take our shoes off and say hello to everyone. Giving the boys the benefit of the doubt they did prepare hot drinks and brought some blankets into the living area.

“Are you girls ready to dive into Infested?” Min Ho says coming out his and Dae’s room, the latter following behind him with a closed lipped smile.

“Nooo,” I drag out and look at Q begging him for some support, he just gives me one of those pitying smiles. That night on the way back from the club I told Min Ho that I refused to go watch the film in cinemas or at all.

Dae pats my shoulder as he walks past, “Sorry Y/n it was Min Ho’s turn to pick this time,” he said taking the drinks from the counter and passing them out to those who have already sat down.

Min Ho took a place on the edge of the sofa, I helped Q grab the bowls with snacks and lay them on the table as the others chatted, Jin was using the remote to turn on the film. I look towards Kitty to go join her and sit in front of the sofa when Min Ho catches my eye.

He nods his head ever so subtly, urging me to come sit next to him, I abide with some reluctance.

“L/n” he says lifting the blanket, I sit down with my legs curled up to my body, “I really do think you’re going to hate this movie,” his smile is sadistic, I go to elbow him and he flinches away.

“That’s my opinion,” I say sweetly.

After asking if everyone was ready Jin turned the movie on, and as expected it was creepy and eerie and my mouth was curled up in discomfort within the first 15 minutes. When everyone is deeply focused on the film I turn my head to Min Ho slightly.

“Also- flowers. Really?” I whispered shaking my head.

“Do you want this to be believable or not?” he said back still watching the screen, does he actually send flowers to the girls he was dating, just because?

“Who knew you were such a gentleman,” I teased and I just watched him roll his eyes before turning back to the screen, my distraction did not want to distract me from whatever the hell was happening on the screen.

About half an hour passed before jumpscare scared me so bad that I turned my head to the side covering my eyes and almost hit Min Ho who was sat very close to me. A low chuckle escaped him, then he was laying his arm around me, I felt myself stiffening, it was unexpected, but it only took a second for my body to relax.

After Kitty returned from the toilet later on during the movie she looked at me, her eyes widening as if I’d grown another head, her eyes scanned from me to Min Ho, back to me then to him in a questioning look. After I failed to satisfy her need for answer she sat back down and pulled her phone out, then I felt another two pairs of eyes on me, but I forced myself to keep my eyes on the screen. How long did we have of this film yet?

At some point Min Ho started to brush his fingers back and forth across the skin on arm, it was calming, and if it was anyone else, in any other circumstance I’d find it endearing, romantic.

When the movie was finished, I was half asleep on the sofa, my head on Min Ho’s chest, no one said anything about our position as they started getting up and cleaning, but they did look back once or twice to check if they were seeing things right.

I got up to help washing up, putting my jumper back on after unfurling from the warm blanket.

“So don’t worry guys we’ll be back with a super cheesy romance next week!” Kitty says clapping her hands together and then hugging Q goodbye. I laid the tea towel on counter ready to go get my shoes back on too.

One step into my journey I was stopped, everyone was still chatting and getting ready to leave, as a pair of arms wrapped around me.

“Bye babe,” came Min Ho’s voice, a little louder than usual, just to make sure everyone heard, and before I knew what was happening, he was turning me around slightly, his eyes going to my lips, then to my eyes, and he clearly did not read the panic in my eyes as he leaned down and kissed me briefly.

“Bye,” I said almost breathlessly, turning back to see all our friends trying to hide their shock.

The walk back to our dorm was very quiet, Yuri complained that no one reminded her to get the smoothie recipe from Jin and Kitty was listing rom coms, but what would usually be loud was rather quiet.

That was until we were all within the space of our dorm.

“What the hell was that?!” Yuri exclaimed  

“Yeah, I think you have some explaining to do,” Kitty says fidgeting excitedly

I hang up my jacket before turning back to them, “Guys it’s not a big deal,”

“Not a big deal!” Kitty started, “Is this where you disappeared to last week after ditching us at the club

“Actually, you guys all ditched me…”

Julianna joined in “So not the point, but seriously you can’t say it’s not a big deal,”

“You and Min Ho have been butting heads all of last semester,” Yuri states.

“That’s irrelevant, what happened that night?” Kitty pestered excitedly.

I lifted myself to sit on the island counter, “He ended up coming to the club so he could listen to the DJ, he thought he might hire her for his next party, I bumped into him on my way outside, the hot air was giving me a headache and we just talked, and then came back and talked some more,” I pull my lips into a shy smile.

“Just talked?” Yuri says consciously.

“Okay talked and then, we kissed, it was an in the moment thing but then yeah, we’re just in this kind of middle ground where I don’t really know what’s going on,”

“Oh my God, so the flowers the other day were from him?” Yuri pieces it all together.

“I mean I have literally been telling you guys for moths,” Kitty says turning to the other two girl putting her hand out, palm upwards, “You both owe me,” she says. I shook my head and jumped down from the counter, Kitty had once said as a one off to me that maybe this line of annoyance with each other was more, but I just brushed her off, and now I feel bad tricking her, but it wouldn’t be for long.

<3 <3 <3

We all got stuck into the semester really fast the next few weeks, lessons were harder, and Kitty was actively doing opposite of what her intention was this semester with Praveena and Yuri, but at least we were making progress on her family situation. Min Ho and I were acting like a happy couple every time we all met up or Marco was around, which was decreasing the more times he saw Min Ho with his arm around me or whispering something judgy about someone else in my ear making me laugh.

This meant we started spending more time together and I was learning so much about him, one night when everyone else went out we cooked dinner, well more accurately he cooked dinner whilst I tried helping but he just sent me away to the other side of the kitchen island and I watched him sheepishly.

“Stop looking at me like that L/n” he said not even looking up from the vegetables he was chopping, and I felt a blush rise on my face.

There was also the first time I spent time in his room, we had been texting and I was complaining about homework for one of the classes and he told me to just come over and he would help me. We were doing homework sat on his bed listening to music, his back pressed against the wall, and I was laying on my stomach facing him as we worked out the answers.

The someone creaked open the door slightly, “I want to come in so stop making out!” Dae warned and Min Ho and I looked at each other as if that was the most disgusting thought. He was not a bad kisser, in fact the last few weeks I’ve found out quite the opposite, but I wasn’t about to boost his ego.

We all also ended up going to the Moon’s cabin for the holiday weekend, unfortunately his dad didn’t come up, Min Ho said that there was something more important with his favourite son. He played it off cooly, but I could see the hurt in his eyes but he said he didn’t want to talk about it.

That first night when everyone else had fallen asleep I snuck out to the kitchen to get some water, and there was Min Ho sat on the sofa scrolling through his phone, he looked tired with the light illuminating his face in the dark.

“Can’t sleep?” I asked, but he just murmured a reply. I grabbed a blanket and went to sit down next to him, “maybe you should talk to him Min Ho,” I raised the idea gently.

He shook his head and put his head down, “And say what? Oh by the way dad thanks for not coming to the weekend getaway you wanted and always choosing everything and everyone else over me, I don’t think so” he says sharply but I know it’s directed at me. I turn his face to look at me, the persona falls then.

I put my arms around him and pull him close into a hug, running my hand up and down his back and nape as his head is hidden against my neck.

“Be careful L/n or you’ll actually fall in love with me,” he said turning his head ever so slightly to look at me.

“You wish,”

But he didn’t move away, we sat in silence for a while and when I whispered his name I got no reply, only to notice that he’d fallen asleep.

The Kitty came out the corridor to see us, I was running a hand through his hair as I was also starting to doze off, and Kitty whispered, “Is he okay”.

I nodded, “Yeah he will be,”, and then she was heading back to the bedroom with an I told you smile. Over the last few weeks, I did come to care for Min Ho more, as a friend, I got to know more about him and how he’s actually a human with his own shit going on, but he just doesn’t let people in. The rest if our time was spent, playing games and sitting in the hot tub in the evening, there was minimal drama apart from the whole Yuri, Julianna, Kitty and Praveena love letter, and Min Ho’s dad bailing but we made the most of the trip.

By the time we got back it was only two weeks until the school’s annual ball, this year’s theme was going to be ‘Blossom Ball’. In all honesty I didn’t think Min Ho and I would be keeping this thing up for so long but maybe it was time to end it before the ball, I knew more than a couple girls were hoping for my downfall so they could go with him, and in part I did feel guilty, one of these girls could be someone he could really fall for.

After overhearing another not-so-subtle conversation in one of my extracurricular classes I decided that it was time to put it to an end.

That was until I was walking through the common room area and was bombarded by 5 people with signs, pink glittery writing spread out on them, music was turned on really loud behind me, a well known Korean love song. The signs read:

‘Y/n’ ‘Will you’ ‘go to’ ‘the dance’ ‘with me?’

Then Marco burst through the crowd of guys with a single flower in his hands, dropping down to one knee in front of me.

I could feel the eyes of all the other students, and their whispers, mostly judging Marco, because like come on, from the onlooker of an outsider, who asks out a girl to prom when she’s had a boyfriend for the past two months? I could feel the frustration building up under my skin.

“Marco can you just give it a break! I have a boyfriend, that I really like for gods sake. Leave me alone!” I say with more fire than I had intended

“I guess that’s my cue, excuse me mate,” Min Ho says coming from behind Marco who is stuck with a mortified face looking towards us.

“Now that that joke of a man is out the way, will you go to the Blossom Ball with me L/n” he asked lifting the pink roses he held, for a moment something fluttered in my heart and I reminded myself this is not real, it’s for show. I just needed to get through the ball and then we could go back to the way things were, and my heart would stop doing summersaults every time he touched me or smiled at me.

I pulled the ‘are you joking face’ and a smile, a genuine smile, spreads over my lips, I can almost drown out the pathetic complaints from Marco. A but of guilt was eating away at me but not even those surrounding us were paying him any pity, still those who were looking  were looking at Min Ho and I.

“Yes, of course,” I reply and reaching for the flowers, the second they’re out of his hands both of them are on my face and he kisses me boldly and I can feel myself blush at the reactions of all the students. The thing about Min Ho was that he didn’t need big signs or loudly blaring music to make something grand and meaningful.

“Well, I hope you have a black dress to wear so you can match my suit,”

“And what If I don’t?” I asked in a challenge.

“Then I guess you’ll be going with Mr grand gesture over there,” he points his thumb behind his back and shrugs before walking away. I watch him walk away for a moment, the audacity of this kid.

“You coming?” he asked turning around briefly and I shake my head before catching up with him.

<3 <3 <3

Thankfully the dress that I bought a while back was black and I have to admit I was looking fucking hot, with my hair curled and let down, my makeup and the black and white corsage that Min Ho dropped off earlier.

“Well well well, Min Ho is being treated tonight,” Kitty says coming out from the bathroom, now too in her dress, a satin red gown, she looked absolutely stunning, anyone would be lucky to have her.

“And who are you planning on wooing tonight Miss Covey,” I said pointing up and down her body, “You look stunning Kitty, all eyes will be on you,” I tell her and she comes give me a hug, everything in Kitty’s love life was still a little bit on fire and in chaos but she was dealing with it, I was there for her. She was doing okay and we found her family, who wasn’t exactly talking to her yet but we got the letters from Peter and we would make them listen one way or another.

We finished getting ready and headed out, the ball was on the other side of campus in one of the new buildings, I couldn’t wait to see all the decorations, and the view was said to be absolutely stunning. We met Yuri and Julianna outside the dorm building and made our way over together. The air was a perfect mix of fresh but also pleasantly warm so none of us had to wear jackets.

“You guys all look absolutely fire,” Q states the second he sees us in an exaggerated voice, complimenting little things about our looks and conveying that we may burn the building down with how hot we look.

“Is it time we talk about you now diva? Come on give us a spin,” Kitty exclaims and helps him do a little twirl. Then Jin comes back with 2 drinks and drags Q to the dance floor, Julianna and Yuri follow.

“So,” Kitty says hands behind her back and looking out at the huge room, it truly was stunning, there was petals everywhere and the colour scheme mixed pink and white and black and gold, it looked elegant, and almost too fancy for a school, “Where’s the lucky guy?” she asks.

“His dad needed something from him, but he should be here soon,” I said and spotted Praveena in my eyeline, Kitty’s gaze followed mine, “Maybe now’s the time?” I suggested, Kitty has been trying to work up the courage to talk to her since everything went down at the cabin but she can’t seem to find a way and it’s been eating away at her.

She asked five times if I was okay being left along for a while and I urged her to go, she deserved to be happy, and something was telling me that Praveena might be willing to hear her out. I headed over to the bar to get myself a drink, pulling out my phone to see a message from my mom asking me to call me when I’ve got a quiet minute. A wave of anxiety passes through me.

“Hi, are you okay?” I look up at the unfamiliar voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I’m Josh, you just started to look really pale I thought you were about to faint or something,” he stuck his hand out, the boy has dark blonde hair, and he is learning against the bar with a friendly smile.

I shoved my phone back into my little purse, and shook his hand, “No I’m okay, thanks though,”

“Unpleasant message?” he asks and sits down, I take a seat next to him and explain that my family had a poor history of messaging me something really vague things when it was actually something serious and it would make me worry, he then took it upon himself to make me laugh, in his words laugher was one of the best medicines. I found he was from the year above and originally from Canada, and that he wanted my number and to take me out.

The conversation was enjoyable, and he bought me another drink so I gave him my number, he even wanted to dance but I couldn’t not save my first dance for my ‘boyfriend’, Kitty would be devastated. When he left to go to talk to some of his friends, I looked at the time, I hadn’t realised an hour and a half had passed already.

It was then that a figure walking in caught my eye. Min Ho was wearing a stunning black and white suit, his hair in his classic style and yet it looked extra lush right now. Watching him run his hand through it felt as though it was in slow motion. Q who was stood near the entrance caught his searching eyes and pointed in my direction.

“You look… pathetic,” he says in that very Min Ho way of his as he walks over, head turning slightly to the side observing my dress.

I smile subconsciously, “You too,”.

“I’m sorry I’m so late you know how my dad is, when he’s in a good mood it’s one thing after another,” he said earnestly.

I shook my head, brows scrunching, “Oh no don’t worry, I met a new friend, so he kept me company,”

“Who was it?”

“His names Josh, he’s in the year above us,” I say but Min Ho doesn’t seem to look impressed.

He reached his hand forward, a few strands of hair falling forwards, “Come on let’s dance,” he says completely ignoring what I just said, “You think people will believe you’re actually my girlfriend if I don’t even dance with you,”.

A reminder rings in my head, “True, Marco might think it’s his time to swoop in,” I say and something about his facial expression changes ever so slightly, the change so small and sudden that I can’t read it before it’s gone.

He doesn’t say anything just takes a hold of my hand and pulls me towards the dance floor, we stand before each other for less than a second before I reach my hands to rest around his neck, a small awkward chuckle escapes him. This wasn’t new, I have been in very close contact with him, but this felt different.

“Plus, I know this is your favourite song,” he says looking right into my eyes, as if he could see right into my soul.

We talked about Kitty, and Q and Jin, and his dad, and what was going to happen with the big talent competition, and what our plans were for the summer neither of us noting that when these plans were happening this was going to be over. Without either of us realising about three songs had passed, we made each other laugh and then tried to pull serious faces but my attempts were poor in comparison to his.

“This is not fair

“I lo- I really, really like your laugh,” he says correcting himself, I brush him off and move one arm to brush my hair behind my ear. He lifted his hand and tucked the side of my hair behind my ear, then his fingers went to my chin to lift my gaze towards him, his eyes scanning my face.

“L/n” he said, and I could feel my heart rate increase.

“Y/n!” Kitty’s voice shouted out as she approached with our friends, the music turned upbeat and she was pulling my arm to come dance with them, and that’s how the rest of the dance was spent, drinking fancy looking mocktails and running around and dancing with our friends.

It was a few days later when my mom had flown into Seoul and was going to meet me in a restaurant at the edge of town, I told Min Ho that I was more than capable of going by myself, but he insisted that drive and come with me, I only let him when he agreed to stay in the car. In the car he argued at me about not telling him my mom was flying in and that she could have used his family’s private jet rather than coach but I told him he was just being ridiculous.

When we arrived at the restaurant I saw mom through the window, she was wearing bright colours and had a gleaming smile on her lips as she scrolled on her phone. Some of the anxiety that I was feeling the last couple of days started to fizzle away. I pulled the sleeves of the hoodie that I stole from Min Ho in the car up and walked in.

“Y/n honey!” my mom stood up to give me an embrace.

“How are you mom?” I asked, “I’ve missed you, and dad,” I said I took the seat opposite her.

She brushes her hair behind her ear, “Oh it’s been quite chaotic I do have to say,” she starts and grabs a menu, “But let’s order food first then I’ll explain,” she said, I swallowed down and even though I wanted to argue I chose not to, not yet.

The food arrived and it was delicious, mom was talking telling me about some work drama and my aunt’s new baby which was lovely, but she was avoiding whatever she came here to tell me about. After she laid down her cutlery and picked up her phone I spoke up.

“Mom, can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked nervously.

The look in her eyes when she looked up at me had my heart dropping, brows burrowing and worry painting itself over my face.

“Your dad and I are getting a divorce,”

The world stopped. It was like I’d heard her say the words, but they weren’t registering in my head.

“We’ve been separated since you went back to school after the break,”

“What? How long has this been going on?” I asked frantic.

Mom moved her hand over the table and grab mine, they were soft and warm, “About halfway through last semester, we- we’ve been trying to make it work but we’ve decided we’ll be happier this way,” she said, her thumb running over my skin was not comforting. In all truth it was making me feel nauseous.

I didn’t say another word, I grabbed my phone and stood up, putting it in my back pocket and ignoring my mom’s words, her calls out to me. The only thing I could see clearly was the door, I needed fresh air.

When I was outside I couldn’t stop walking, I headed towards the outside area of the restaurant, towards the back of the fenced land.

“L/n!” a voice called but I didn’t turn around.

“Y/n!” they called again, at this point I reached the end of the land looking outward tears rolling down my face.

“Y/n are you okay? What happened?” Min Ho was asking frantically looking me over.

“They’re getting a divorce,” I whispered, the phrase sounded foreign on my lips, “Which means it was all for nothing,”

His brows furrow and he steps closer, “What was for nothing?”

“My whole childhood I spent listening to them argue, being the one in the middle, smoothing out the creases, bring the common ground, it was all for nothing,” I said again and felt the tears doubling.

“It’s going to be okay, it’s going to get better,” he said and reached his arms wide towards me, I took a few deep breaths and let out a sob, before wrapping my arms around him and letting him pull me close as I cried into his chest, shaking my head in denial.

He brushed his fingers over my hair moving it out of my face, holding me tightly.

“You must think I’m such a mess. You definitely did not sign up for this,” I say trying to add a playful tone, but it came out more pathetic than anything.

“Y/n I’d be more worried if you weren’t reacting like this,” he said laying his chin on my head, “You’re” he paused momentarily, “You’re kind and caring and loyal and have had a lot of pressure put on you your whole life, it’s normal for you to feel like this, this panicking need to fix it, even when you know you can’t make everyone happy,” he explained and I could feel my heart start to slow as I followed his breathing subconsciously.

After another few moments I took another deep breath and pulled away, still holding onto the sides of his open denim jacket, and him the sleeves on the hoodie, not much further apart.

“Thank you,” I said, and he wiped the last of my tears off from under my eye.

“That’s what I’m here for,” he said and then his eyes went from my eyes to my lips and back up, I could feel him leaning closer and my body naturally reacted, as if it were a dance it knew well. Then his lips were on mine, and they were soft and warm, and moved at exactly the right pace. I kissed back without a second thought, poured everything I was feeling into it, he pulled me close to his body. That’s when the second thought came and I pulled away.

“Min Ho, stop, what are we doing?” I asked, running my hand over my forehead, everything in my head a big mixture of mixed emotions and I could feel the tears building up again, the pressure in my chest making my shoulders rise, “There’s no one here, no need to pretend,”

“Y/n”

“In fact, I think the mission has ran its course,” I started, “Marco’s not bothering me anymore, so thank you, for everything, really. But we’ve been avoiding this because we don’t want things to be weird, but I think it’s time to come back to reality,” the words felt like sandpaper in my throat, “we should head back,” I said looking at his face, such a mixture of emotions on his face that I couldn’t read them. I forced myself to walk past him, he didn’t follow straight away but then his steps echoed behind mine.

We sat in silence the whole way back to K.I.S.S and I got out the car before he could say anything, I rushed to my dorm only to be met with all three of the girls upon arrival. The second they spotted me, all faces concerned and I started to cry again. Greving my parents divorce and what felt like the loss of a friendship I so desperately didn’t want to end, my words were harsh, and I didn’t want to lose his him, but his face was a clear sign.

They all questioned what happened, Julianna made me a tea, Yuri brought in a blanket and Kitty cooed me in her arms. I didn’t mention Min Ho, I didn’t know how to go about that yet, I didn’t want to make either of us look like dickheads, ending this right after what I found out about my parents.

I managed to give myself a huge migraine, so I went to bed early, and fell asleep after crying for what felt like hours.

When I woke up in the middle of the night I looked at my phone to see the time, and what was a few messages from Min Ho.

(20:30) Posh boy: Are you feeling any better?

(20:58) Posh boy: Do you need anything? I can bring some chocolate or ice cream

(21:25) Posh boy: Please answer I’m worried about you

The last was sent a couple minutes ago,

(02:23) Posh boy: I know you’re asleep, but I’ve ordered your favourite tea and those biscuits that you love to steal from me, they should get here tomorrow

(03:00) Posh boy: Night L/n

I turned my phone back on its other side and turned around to face the other side in my bed, and forced myself to go back to sleep.

<3 <3 <3

I barley left the dorm for days, at the end of the weekend I sent an email to Alex explain the situation and explaining that I needed a few days, he accepted the request if I kept on top of the work. On Wednesday I went back to lessons, I hadn’t spoken to Min Ho since that day, he was probably avoiding me, just like I was avoiding him.

Josh and I had been texting a load since the night of the ball and I was staring to feel like maybe it could go somewhere, he respected that I needed some space right now but was already planning on some activities for us to do when I was up for it. It was making my heart hurt a little less.

When Friday rolled around, I knew I would have to face him: move night. 

The girls got in their comfies in the evening and were grabbing the snacks we bought earlier in the day, ready to head out to the boy’s room. I was dreading it and if the girls realised, I was being quiet they didn’t say anything.

When we arrived all was pretty normal. We made hot drinks and put out the snacks. Min Ho didn’t say anything to me and I hadn’t engaged either. He was sitting in his usual spot on the side of the sofa but I took a seat on Kitty’s side and laid my head on her shoulder, she quickly laid her arm around me and put her head on mine, rubbing my arm to soothe me, to tell me she’s got me. I think they all knew something was off between Min Ho and I too, that it wasn’t just the divorce I was upset about anymore, but they we’re giving me time.

I paid very little attention to the film and was ready to leave as soon as it was over. When we were back into our room Kitty sighed and turned around to me, “What’s going on with you and Min Ho, you guys seemed off tonight?” she asked.

I turned to her quickly, “We’ve ended things,” I say quickly “I think we’re figuring out how to behave around each other again,” I said earnestly.

Kitty looked both confused and worried, “Did something happen? Don’t get me wrong I love the guy but if he hurt you, I swear,” she started coming over to sit on the edge of my bed.

I gave her a sad smile, “Kitty, we just didn’t work,” I said and everything about the look on her face said she didn’t believe me, but she took the hint when I slid down my pillow and wrapped myself up in my duvet.

On Monday when I was walking to Mr Moon’s class for managers when I overheard Kitty and Min Ho talking inside, I quickly stepped back and listened from outside.

“Min Ho you’re losing her, she was so happy, literally glowed when you guys first got together, what happened?” Kitty demanded, “and don’t tell me things just didn’t work out because I’ve already heard that excuse, be honest with me,”.

I could hear a shuffle, and Min Ho taking a deep breath, “I don’t think she’d want us to be having this conversation right now,” he said.

‘Min Ho whatever you did I can see in your eyes that you care for her, so fix it before it’s too late,” Kitty says softly this time, then there’s a silence, “Oh my god,” she continued, “It wasn’t you, she ended it,” Kitty said.

“No, Kitty come on, it was a mutual decision,” he tried to argue, he tried to put in some conviction into it, but the lie was coming out weak.

“Min Ho,” Kitty said with conviction, “If you care for her you’ve got to fight, one thing I’ve learned from Lara-Jeans is that love isn’t easy and doesn’t always start in the way you expect it to, but it is worth it,” she said.

“Oh, hey Y/n,” Praveena said coming up to me, I could hear shuffles in the classroom “I wonder what Mr Moons has planned for this lesson,” she said completely ordinarily.

“Sorry I’ve got to go,” I said walking away quickly.

Later that afternoon after lessons had finished, I was leaving the main building to head back to the dorm, we were all having dinner in the boy’s dorm tonight and I was already running late because I had to tutor and bless the girl, but she was clueless. I was trying to use my arms to shield my face as much as possible from the rain that chucking down.

Then I heard a voice shout out, I turned around to see Min Ho, waking towards me.

“Y/n!” he called out and I stopped in my tracks, “finally you give me the time of day,” he says sharply, his tone makes me stand up straighter, “firstly so much for staying friends and acting normal,” he said and then ran a hand through his hair, water dripping down his face, “secondly-”

I interrupted him, “I’m sorry,”

“Y/n/”

“Look I’ve been talking to Josh and I-” this time he tried to interrupt me but I prevailed “Min Ho, he’s a good guy and I think,” I sighed, running my tongue over my lips, “I could really like him, and there’s plenty of girls waiting for you to give them a chance, but this thing between us, we blurred the lines and we need to stop” I said with the frustration coming through, rain falling harshly down my face, this is already hard enough, to know this is going to end, so why is he making it harder, giving my heart beats of hope, “We both deserve something real,” I sounded tired, even to my own ears.

“Y/n I don’t want this to end,” his voice came out just above a whisper, and I felt my heartbeat triple.

“What?” I asked, quieter than I expected.

“Look I know this was not the plan, but- I went to the club that night because I saw Marco and his buddies leave and they were teasing him about finally making a move on you, so I followed them, but I didn’t know why yet, then somewhere in this whole situation I realised that I was jealous, then it became real and I realised I didn’t want it to end, and ever time you’d bring up that we we’re doing it because of Marco it crushed me,” he said and I just stated at him.

“I think I fell in love with you,” he said looking at me, the rain pouring down his face, “A little bit… or a lot,”.

My eyes scan his face frantically. Min Ho had fallen for me. Just like I had fallen for him. Before he could move or say anything else, I fling my arms around him and kiss him passionately, holding him as close as I possible could, and that was still not close enough.

“I love you too,” I said after I pulled away, laying my forehead against his, I could see him smile before I closed my eyes again and he pulled me into a tight embrace. It felt like the relief was coursing through both of our bodies.

“It’s good to hear you finally admit it,” he said back to his natural cockiness, “Everyone eventually falls for me, it’s my charm unfortunately,” he said.

“Well stop using it on other girls or I might get jealous,”

“You know what? That does kind of make me feel some sort of way, I quite like my imaginary version of you jealous and it’s quite hot,” he muses, and I just pull him in for another kiss, running my hands through his hair. His hands on my waist pulling me close.

Then when we came back into the building, whilst still soaked, we came clean to our friends, and whilst most of them were shocked Kitty was very offended, but all in all they were glad we worked it out because it was obvious long before this that there was something bubbling under the surface.

“I can’t believe you pulled a Lara-Jean on me! Now I’ve fallen for it twice,” Kitty said running her hand over her forehead.

“I think this means Y/n is taking over the title of chaos queen,” Q said shaking his head, and everyone started laughing, Min Ho had his arm around me, and I naturally leaned into his chest as I giggled, and he kissed my forehead.

[jaysng]

sassy — park jongseong

pairing: husband!jay x wife!reader

genre: fluff, crack

synopsis: jay trying to re-gain his dramaqueen daughter’s attention after she got mad at him.

the kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar, mixing perfectly with the soft hum of the oven. you glanced over at your daughter, who stood on a small stool next to you, her tiny hands busy rolling cookie dough into little balls. her brows were furrowed in concentration, but there was no hiding the little pout that had settled on her lips ever since jay had told her she couldn’t help him earlier.

jay stood a few steps behind, nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he watched the two of you. “princess,” he started softly, trying to catch her attention, “i’m sorry, okay? daddy just didn’t want you to get hurt.”

she ignored him, huffing dramatically as she placed another cookie on the baking sheet. “mommy says i can help her,” she said, her voice holding that unmistakable sass she’d developed lately.

you stifled a laugh, not wanting to encourage her but also finding the whole situation too adorable. “she’s right, you know,” you said, glancing over at jay with a small smile. “i’m keeping her away from the hot stuff.”

jay sighed, knowing he was going to have to work harder to win back his little girl’s favor. “i know, i know,” he mumbled, stepping closer. “but can daddy at least help now? i miss baking with my favorite girls.”

his daughter finally looked up at him, her big eyes narrowing as if she was considering his request. after a moment, she sighed, crossing her little arms over her chest. “only if you say sorry again,” she demanded, her tiny voice serious.

“i’m really, really sorry,” jay said, kneeling down to her level. “i promise next time i’ll let you help more. deal?”

she seemed to think about it for a moment before a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “deal,” she agreed, reaching out to pat his cheek like she’d seen you do countless times.

jay couldn’t help but grin, leaning in to give her a quick kiss on the forehead before standing up. “thank you, princess,” he said, feeling a wave of relief wash over him.

the three of you continued baking, your daughter’s earlier grumpiness completely forgotten as she giggled and chatted with both of you, her mood lifting with each cookie she helped make. jay couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the clock every now and then, knowing that 8 pm was just around the corner. it was their special time, and he needed it more than anything.

as the last batch of cookies went into the oven, you caught jay looking at the clock again. “don’t worry,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “you’ll get your cuddle time.”

he smiled sheepishly, feeling a little silly for being so anxious about it. “i just… i don’t want to miss it,” he admitted.

you reached out, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “you won’t,” you promised, your eyes warm and understanding. “and i’m sure she’s looking forward to it just as much as you are.”

sure enough, as the clock struck 8, your daughter was already climbing onto the couch, her small frame getting comfortable among the pillows. jay quickly followed, scooping her up into his arms and settling down beside her. she snuggled up against him, her earlier sass completely replaced by the soft, sleepy demeanor that always appeared around this time.

you watched them with a smile, feeling your heart swell at the sight of the two most important people in your life. jay met your gaze, his eyes full of love and contentment as he wrapped his arm around his little girl. “come join us,” he whispered, patting the spot next to him.

you didn’t need any more convincing, slipping onto the couch and nestling in beside them. your daughter yawned, her eyelids already drooping as she mumbled something about cartoons. jay reached for the remote, putting on her favorite show, but it didn’t take long before her breathing evened out, the steady rise and fall of her chest signaling that she was fast asleep.

jay sighed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “thanks for letting me make it up to her,” he whispered to you, his voice filled with gratitude.

“you’re a great dad,” you whispered back, leaning your head against his shoulder. “she just likes to remind you who’s really in charge sometimes.”

he chuckled softly, knowing you were right. “yeah, she’s definitely got your spirit.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” you teased, closing your eyes as the warmth of the moment wrapped around you like a blanket.

the three of you stayed like that, cuddled up on the couch, the soft glow of the television casting a gentle light over the room. and in that quiet, peaceful moment, jay couldn’t imagine anything better.

do not copy or reblog my work — @/jaysng