#tkatb hyugo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 1 month ago

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✑ 𝓁𝓊𝓈𝒸𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men are so into people of all sizes, and honestly, it’s kinda refreshing to think about how each of them would be low-key obsessed with their partner’s body, but in a way that totally fits their vibe. Like, I can so see it—each of them having their own quirky, unique way of being all about it...

But in their weird, lovable ways ! !

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

Honestly, it’s just too cute how they’d love and appreciate their partner no matter what! But ngl, I was a little nervous writing and posting this because, like, I kinda have body issues myself, and this is such a touchy topic. I honestly have no idea how my dearest readers are gonna feel about it, so just consider this your warning!

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Crow’s the type to compare you to the stars and gods before you even get a chance to complain.

You shuffled around your room, digging through your clothes for something cute but effortless.

You and Crowe didn’t need a reason to go out—any excuse to be together worked. Tonight, it was just a quiet evening under the stars, the kind of night that made the world feel a little more intimate, where it was just the two of you, no pressure.

Truth be told, the date was more of an excuse to hang out, but with Crowe around, even the simplest plans felt like an adventure—whether it was a quiet walk in the park or something a little more exciting.

Crowe leaned against the doorframe, arms casually crossed, his eyes following every movement you made as you sifted through your wardrobe. He had this look on his face—a quiet admiration, the kind that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks flush, even after all this time. Like there was something about the way he looked at you, like you were the most captivating thing in the room, and it made everything inside you feel just a little bit lighter.

"Hey," Crowe’s voice broke through your thoughts, smooth and warm, the kind that made your heart skip a beat. "You look absolutely stunning today."

You glanced over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow with an amused grin. "Crowe, I’ve been wearing this all day. Are you seriously still going to compliment me like I’m some cover model?"

His smile widened, that mischievous gleam never leaving his deep blue eyes. "Well, if you were in a magazine, it’d be the one everyone’s been dying to read. Trust me, dearest, you always look like a million bucks."

You laughed, rolling your eyes.

It was ridiculous how easy it was for him to get under your skin in the best way possible. "You’re soooo impossible, you know that?"

Crowe just shrugged, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Impossible? Maybe. But you love it."

He pushed off from the doorframe and strolled into the room, his presence filling the space with ease. His gaze never left you as he leaned against the dresser, arms folding casually.

You noticed how he was always so effortlessly cool—never rushing, never anxious, just... there.

So certain of himself, yet always so attuned to you.

"Seriously though, for me,” You started, voice lowering just a little, that familiar warmth in it, “Personally for me, I can’t get over how you move. Like... the way your hips sway when you walk? The whole room might as well stop for a moment. You know that, right?" You joked. No, you not because you swear Crowe can be a damn model himself if he wanted to, he’s simply so pretty to look at, fuck.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest, though he tried to hide it with a dismissive wave. "Oh, stop it. Who’s gonna believe you? You’re trying to take my charmer side anyway. You’d have anyone eating out of the palm of your hand if you tried hard enough."

Crowe’s eyes softened, and there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze. It only lasted for a second, but it was enough to make you pause. He took a step closer, his fingers brushing against your arm as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch lingered just a beat longer than necessary, and your breath caught in your throat.

"Maybe," he said quietly, his voice more sincere than you expected, "maybe they’re all just intimidated by how amazing you are. But you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve got your back. Always."

The words hit you harder than you anticipated.

For someone who didn’t ask for help, Crowe had a way of offering it without hesitation. You couldn’t help but feel a little lighter in his presence like all the weight you carried was a little easier to bear when he was around.

"Why do you never ask for help, Crowe?" you blurted out, the question slipping before you could stop it. "You do everything for everyone else, but when it comes to you… it’s like you don’t want anyone to see you need anything."

Crowe let out a soft chuckle, his usual teasing smile curling up at the corners of his lips. "What can I say? I’m your knight in shining armor. I’m here to protect you, not the other way around."

You shook your head, affection flooding your chest despite his teasing. "You're not just a knight, Crowe. You’re my savior," you whispered, meeting his gaze with a look that felt a little too intense. "But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything on your own."

He leaned in just slightly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. "I know, I know. I just don’t want to burden you with my stuff. Besides..." He stepped closer, the air between you two thick with that warm energy he always carried. "I don’t mind being the one to take care of you. Who wouldn’t want to look after the most amazing person in the room?"

You blinked up at him, about to respond, but his gaze shifted. "Hey," he said, his tone suddenly more serious. "What's going on? You’ve been quiet for a bit."

You sighed, shrugging.

"I dunno, just… I’ve been feeling off. About my body, I guess."

Crowe’s brow furrowed, instantly on alert. "What? What’s wrong with your body?" His voice had this sharp concern in it that only made your stomach flip, though you tried to push it away.

"Just... not feeling my best," you muttered, clearly frustrated.

The second the words left your mouth, Crowe’s eyes lit up with pure determination. He took a step back, scanning you like you were the most captivating thing he’d ever seen, his gaze never leaving you.

"Okay, hold on," he said, taking a dramatic breath like he was about to drop the most epic revelation of the century. "Do you hear yourself? You—" He paused, eyes sparkling as if he were about to tell you a secret that would change your life.

"You’re like... a celestial being of pure power and grace. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Anubis would be jealous. Or like... every celestial god ever, really. You’re out here walking into a room and making time stop, love.”

He flung his arms out dramatically as though trying to capture your essence in the air. "The way you move? It's like you're in an art gallery, and the world is your canvas. Like, are you sure you’re not secretly a god in disguise? 'Cause I'm starting to believe it."

You blinked at him, struggling not to burst out laughing, a rush of warmth in your chest.

"Crowe, you are so over the top."

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head as though you were the one being ridiculous. "And you’re really gonna argue with me on this? Have you even seen how perfectly you fit in my arms? I’m the lucky one here. I get to hold you.” He said.

“You’re the definition of perfection. There’s no one like you."

Crowe’s voice was low, almost hypnotic, as his hand brushed across your side, his fingers tracing along your waist in a way that made your skin prickle.

You gave him a soft smile, but inside, you were fighting the urge to blush, to get all sentimental. Instead, you turned back to your closet, trying to keep things casual.

"Well, if you're gonna keep looking at me like that, I’m never gonna finish getting dressed," you said, trying to sound unbothered. "We’ve got a date night to get to, remember?"

Crowe chuckled, stepping closer, his hand lingering on your arm before sliding down to your hip. "Right, right. How could I forget? The stars, your company... it’s literally the best combination."

You turned to face him, giving him a pointed look.

“Keep it in your pants, Crowe.”

His smile? Immediate. Unrepentant.

That look in his eye practically screamed ‘I heard what you said and I’m choosing violence anyway.’ He leaned against the doorframe like he was posing for a fantasy romance cover, smirking with the confidence of a man who absolutely should not be trusted near you.

“Oh, I’d gladly take you down under the stars,” he said, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You and me, the moonlight, a blanket, zero regrets. It would be perfect.”

You deadpanned. And then you launched the nearest pillow at his smug face with all the grace of divine judgment. Sins begone.

Of course, because he was Crowe, he dodged it with annoying precision, laughing like you’d just confessed your undying love rather than threatened him with soft furniture.

“Seriously?” you muttered. “You were literally raised by etiquette textbooks. How are you still this—this?”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Sinful? Irresistible? Blessed by the stars and burdened with unholy charm?”

“Unholy something,” you mumbled.

Crowe placed a hand over his heart like you’d just stabbed him—dramatically, of course. “You wound me. I’m simply a man in awe of a goddess.”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re so extra.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous again. “Yeah, but you love it.”

You groaned like your soul was trying to leave your body, and he took that as a yes, the audacity radiating off him like heat off asphalt. With a wink and a mock salute, he opened the door—pausing dramatically in the doorway, because of course he did.

“Now, please hurry. We’re getting you out there like the celestial deity you are.”

And just like that, your infuriating, charming disaster of a man disappeared down the hallway, probably to go flirt with the moon or compose love sonnets in your name.

You couldn’t even be mad. He really did have a loving heart… buried somewhere underneath the twenty layers of dramatic flair, star metaphors, and relentless flirtation.

Ugh, Crowe knows how to work his charm with those words.

I’ll never forget my first love, I missed writing him.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Sol’s the type who can see every curve of you effortlessly.

Sol stood back, his brush poised in the air as he looked at the canvas in front of him, deep in thought.

The faint hum of the radio playing some emo-ass music added an artistic charm to the atmosphere. He was always so serious about his art, and you loved how passionate he could get when he was working on something.

"Hey," he finally spoke, his voice soft but filled with curiosity, "I need your help with something... and it’s a little out of the ordinary."

You looked up, a bit confused. "What do you need help with?"

He hesitated for a moment, eyes flickering between you and the canvas. "I want to paint you," he said, gesturing toward the canvas with a flick of his brush. "But not just any regular painting... I want to cover your body in paint. Think of it like... a living piece of art."

You blinked, trying to process what he meant. "Wait, like... actually painting my body? You want me to stand still while you paint me?"

Sol gave a shy, almost embarrassed smile, his green streaks shifting slightly as he adjusted his half-up-half-down hair. "Yeah, I know it’s a bit unconventional, but... I think it’ll be beautiful. The way the paint will move with your body... it’ll be like... history in motion." He hesitated again, as if second-guessing himself. "If you’re comfortable with it, of course."

You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the quiet passion for his art, and how much he valued your trust in him. You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the nervousness creeping up your spine. "Okay, Sol, let’s do it. Just... no weird historical poses, all right?"

He chuckled softly, his crimson-red eyes lighting up. "I promise, no Renaissance art poses... unless you want me to," he teased, giving you a playful wink.

You laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing. "All right, all right, I’ll trust you with this. But you better make me look like a masterpiece."

Sol moved around you, his movements fluid and focused, as he carefully applied the paint to your skin. The quiet hum of classical music filled the room, but his presence—his calm, steady presence—was what made everything feel still and serene.

You stood there, wrapped in a moment that felt intimate in a way you hadn't anticipated. It wasn’t just about the painting; it was about the way he made you feel: seen, appreciated, cherished.

But as you stood there, exposed and vulnerable in front of him, a nagging thought crept into your mind.

What if you’re not good enough?

You shifted uncomfortably, your thoughts turning inward as Sol’s brush strokes continued.

What if your body isn’t the kind of art he deserves to paint?

You began to pick apart every little imperfection, feeling the weight of your insecurities pressing in.

Sol paused, sensing the change in your energy. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with those intense, almost ethereal eyes—one orange, one color—and then gently placed his brush down. He took a slow step closer, his gaze never leaving you. His hand, warm and soft, found its way to your waist, the touch small but grounding.

"Hey," he said, his voice thoughtful, a slight warmth in it that only seemed to intensify the affection he always had for you. "I can tell what you're thinking. But listen to me, all right?" He took a breath, his expression softening even more.

"You’re... beautiful, in ways that can’t be captured by any brush or canvas. Not even the greatest painters could do justice to how... real you are."

His hand slid up your side, just a simple, reassuring gesture, but the warmth of it wrapped around you like a blanket. You opened your mouth to protest, but he shook his head gently, his fingers brushing your skin in a way that made you stop.

"You remind me of something... a quote from one of my favorite writers," Sol murmured, his voice just above a whisper. "Edgar Allan Poe once wrote, 'Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.'"

You met his gaze, a flicker of confusion in your eyes.

Sol’s lips curled into a small smile, and his hand cupped your chin gently, guiding your face up to meet his gaze fully.

"He meant that real beauty isn’t just about what you see, but how it makes you feel. How it moves you. And you, in your own way, are the kind of beauty that excites the soul—makes it feel something deep."

The quiet sincerity in Sol’s voice caught you off guard, his usual playful demeanor nowhere to be found. It wasn’t the loud, dramatic show of affection you’d expect from him—it was deeper, more subtle. So much deeper, in fact, that it almost took your breath away.

Sol was always ready with a quip or some teasing remark, his sense of humor a shield against vulnerability. But in this moment, he didn’t need humor. He didn’t need to hide behind sarcasm or wit. His love, his admiration, was felt in the smallest gestures: the way his fingers brushed the side of your waist, the way he leaned just a little bit closer during moments of silence, and the way his eyes never seemed to stray from you when you were together.

“You’re perfect just the way you are,” he whispered, his voice warm, and surprisingly serious. His hand traced the curve of your waist slowly as if memorizing the feel of you under his touch. "Nothing about you needs to change, not a thing."

You blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his words.

There was no teasing, no lighthearted comment to follow.

Just a simple truth that settled in your chest, easing the tension you didn’t even know was there.

"You don’t need to be anything else," Sol added softly, his voice so low it was almost a murmur.

"You already are such a wonderful masterpiece."

You stood there, stunned for a moment. His fingers lingered on you like a quiet promise, and your insecurities—the ones that had been gnawing at you all day—seemed to melt away.

There was no need for you to hide or change.

In his eyes, you were enough. Perfect.

As he took a step back, his eyes moved over you again, but this time, it wasn’t the eyes of an artist, studying a piece of work. No, this time it was the look of someone who had already decided you were beautiful, flaws and all. Every curve, every imperfection was part of something that made you real, something that made you whole.

He gave you a smile—soft, almost proud.

“You’re more beautiful than any painting I could ever create,” he said, his words coated in genuine admiration, the kind that made your chest swell with something almost too tender to describe.

“And I’m lucky I get to call you mine.”

Your heart warmed at the sentiment, but then, the mischievous glint returned to his gaze. Just as quickly as the vulnerability appeared, it was replaced with his usual cocky swagger. But the words still lingered, melting the tension in your chest.

You took a step back, shifting your body slowly, deliberately.

A wicked grin spread across your face as you rolled your hips, just enough to send him a signal—something that would make him squirm.

“Lucky, huh?” you purred, voice smooth and teasing, your movements slow as you turned your back to him, knowing full well he was watching. You exaggerated the sway of your hips, pushing your body against him just enough for him to feel it. The way his breath hitched told you everything you needed to know.

His face turned crimson almost instantly, and you could see the telltale signs of him trying to play it cool like he hadn’t just been put on the spot.

“Careful there,” you teased, stepping closer again, your body brushing against his with purpose.

“You might just find out how lucky you really are.”

Sol’s jaw clenched, eyes widening as he tried to regain his composure. But it was obvious. You had him flustered. The cocky grin faltered just slightly as he cleared his throat, a sheepish laugh slipping past his lips.

“I—uh—I'm always lucky, right?” he said, his voice faltering for a second before he cleared his throat again, cheeks still flushed. “You’re just, you know... distracting.”

You turned back to face him with a playful, knowing smile, eyes flickering over him. “Distracting?” You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into something more mischievous. “I’m not that distracting.”

“Y-You are,” he sputtered, his face burning brighter as he tried to backpedal, but his words were slipping out in a tangled mess. “I’m just trying to say—I mean, you’re—uh, distractingly... perfect. Happy?”

You could see the way Sol was trying to keep it together, his usual cocky demeanor slowly unraveling under the weight of your teasing. His face was flushed, and his breath was a little shallow—oh, you had him right where you wanted him.

You couldn’t help but let a small, satisfied grin slip across your face as you brushed a finger down his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your touch.

“Happy, but I think you’re still a little... flustered,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing, barely above a breath.

Sol’s lips parted, but no words came out. Instead, he just stood there, cheeks flaming red, clearly at a loss for how to keep his cool. His usual confident swagger had disappeared, leaving him with nothing but his flushed skin and that almost desperate look in his eyes.

“Shut up,” he muttered, his voice gruff, though it didn’t quite match the tenderness he was clearly trying to hide. That smile—just the slightest tug at the corner of his lips—gave him away.

“I think you’re enjoying this a little too much,” he added, his words soft but full of warmth, like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or pull you closer.

“Well,” you purred, leaning in so your lips were almost touching the shell of his ear, your voice barely a whisper. “Maybe I’ll stop distracting you... if you can keep your cool next time.”

Sol’s throat tightened as he struggled to form a coherent response, his eyes still fixed on you with that heated, almost predatory intensity. He cleared his throat, his hands finding the back of his neck in a desperate attempt to regain some control.

“No promises,” he muttered, his voice slightly strained, clearly trying to hold it together. “But, uh... you’re lucky I don’t mind a little distraction... with you.”

You smirked at his struggle to hide his arousal, stepping back just enough to give him a little space. But not too much. You wanted him to feel it, feel how much you had him on the edge.

“Mmm, I think I’ve got you figured out,” you said with a sly grin, letting your words settle in the air between you two.

Sol let out a soft laugh, but it didn’t sound as confident as before. “Yeah, you do,” he said, still a little flustered, his cocky edge barely hanging on. “And if you keep this up, you might just make me say something... really cheesy.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you took a step back, your body deliberately moving in a way that made his eyes follow your every movement. He didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze lingered on you, the heat of his stare nearly tangible.

“Maybe I’ll make you,” you teased, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “We’ll see how much you can handle.”

And just as he took a breath to respond, you pounced.

In a flash, you had him pinned beneath you, his back hitting the ground with a soft thud as you straddled him with confidence. His breath hitched, a surprised gasp escaping his lips, but you didn’t give him time to adjust.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Now, tell me, Sol... can you finish your artwork now? Or will I be too much of a distraction?”

Sol’s eyes widened, a mix of frustration and desire flickering in his gaze as you pressed your body into his, feeling every inch of him tense beneath you. His hands hovered just at your sides, like he was trying so hard to keep them from pulling you closer—yet, you could feel the unspoken tension in his every muscle.

“I—I’m trying to focus,” he stammered, his voice lower now, almost a growl, but the way his hips shifted told you everything. “But you’re making it... really hard to concentrate.”

You smiled, leaning down to brush your lips across his jawline, just soft enough to send a shiver down his spine. “You’ll deal with it later, Sol,” you teased, the promise of something far more tantalizing hanging between your words.

“Finish your art. And then, we’ll see what happens next.”

You could feel his restraint crumbling beneath you, and for the first time in a while, you saw Sol’s usual cockiness falter completely. It was a thrilling, heady sensation—watching him lose control, and knowing you were the one who had done it.

Who would've thought the artist would paint you like this, huh?

See? I’m not always mean when it comes to writing Sol. I’ll admit, he’s a cutie—though, we still have some unfinished business.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo’s the type whose sharp eyes catch everything.

You and Geo were on one of your usual thrift store trips, strolling down the quiet strip just a few blocks from your place. The sun was starting to dip, casting a soft golden hue over the old, eclectic shops.

Geo, however, was clearly not thrilled. He was practically dragged here, grumbling under his breath as you walked past the piles of secondhand clothes and dusty shelves.

“God, this place is a hellhole,” he muttered, his nose wrinkling as he glanced around with disgust. “It’s like someone’s idea of a landfill masquerading as a boutique.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending you didn’t hear him complain every single time. “Come on, Geo. You might actually find something cool.”

He shot you a look, his arms crossed like he was waiting for an excuse to leave. “Cool? Cool? This place is so fucking dirty. The air smells like regret and broken dreams. It’s a maze of filth,” he scoffed, making a show of wiping his hands like he'd just touched something radioactive.

You smirked, unfazed. “Well, you’ll survive. I’m taking you to one of the nicer ones today, alright? You’ve got no excuse.”

Geo shot you a side-eye, clearly unimpressed. “Expensive thrift stores are still thrift stores. Don’t try to trick me into thinking they’re anything special.”

You shrugged. “Hey, it’s cleaner. And you can’t argue with the fact that you always end up paying for everything. So really, what’s the harm?”

He groaned, clearly not thrilled with the idea, but you knew how this would go. As much as he hated it, Geo was a sucker for your little adventures. You’d pick out a few things, he’d end up covering the bill, and you’d both walk out with something—him reluctantly admitting it wasn’t all bad, though he’d never say it out loud.

“Fine,” Geo grumbled, his gaze sliding across the racks with disdain. “But if I end up covered in dust and smelling like something dead, I’m blaming you.”

You grinned, knowing exactly how it would play out.

Even if he hated it, Geo would never let you pay. As smug as he was, he always made sure you didn’t spend a dime—something about “his pride,” or whatever.

It was so classic Geo.

The soft jingling of a store’s bell announced your arrival at yet another quaint little shop, and as usual, Geo wasted no time diving into the racks. You followed behind, casually scanning the shelves for anything that caught your eye.

Geo, however, was on a mission. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, his eyes flickering over to the fast food stand on the corner of the street as you passed by.

“I wasn’t going to,” you shot back, rolling your eyes.

“Good.” He gave you that look—the one that screamed, I know better. The guy was an archer, after all—his entire lifestyle revolved around staying in top shape. Hell, he probably had a personal trainer on speed dial.

“Stay away from that junk,” he added, nodding toward the fast food stand, his tone like he was advising you on life or death decisions. “It’s just gonna sit on your hips.”

You shot him a teasing glance, the corner of your lips lifting. “Not everyone’s obsessed with being ‘perfect,’ you know?”

Geo huffed, a dramatic eye roll matching yours. “I’m just saying, you’ve got a good thing going,” he said, flicking his hand at your body like he was some sort of health guru. “Don’t ruin it with greasy fries and burgers.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were the authority on perfection. Should I start taking notes on your diet and workout routine?”

Geo shrugged, before looking at a rack of clothes, “I mean,” he said nonchalantly, “if you want to look like me, sure.”

“You’re so humble,” you shot back sarcastically, you shook your head, amused at how seriously he took it all.

After a few more minutes of browsing, you spotted a cute outfit in the corner and grabbed it, excited to try it on. You made your way to the fitting rooms, with Geo trailing behind. He stayed near the entrance, leaning against the wall like he couldn’t care less about what you were doing. But you knew better—he was always paying attention. Even when he tried to act bored, his eyes still flickered around, making sure everything was in place.

It was one of the things that made Geo so undeniably… Geo.

Once inside the fitting room, you stared at yourself in the mirror, a familiar wave of self-doubt creeping up on you. The outfit fit fine—better than fine, really—but something about it didn’t feel right. You pulled at the fabric, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, but your eyes kept drifting to the parts of yourself you didn’t quite love. The parts you wished you could change.

The outfit? It was cute.

You just… weren’t sure you were. Maybe you do eat too much fast food, you thought, your fingers lightly brushing your stomach as your insecurities whispered in the back of your mind.

As you stared at your reflection, lost in your own head, the soft scrape of the curtain being pushed aside snapped you out of it. You turned quickly, heart skipping a beat, expecting an employee. But no—it was just Geo, tall and unimpressed, his sharp eyes flicking over the cramped fitting room like it offended him. He stood there like he owned the place, his arms crossed, with his usual air of perpetual irritation.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” you snapped, defensive and flustered.

Geo didn’t even flinch. His tone was dry, like he was bored of the question already. “You’re taking forever. And... you sounded upset. Figured I’d come in before you started crying and ruined the outfit.”

You rolled your eyes. “Geo, you can’t just barge in—”

“I just did.”

He stepped inside fully, letting the curtain fall behind him. The air in the small space changed the second he did. It was suddenly warmer. Closer. He scanned you from head to toe, but not in a crude way—he was calculating, studying, like he was mapping out your insecurities before you could say them aloud.

You crossed your arms over your chest instinctively.

“You look fine,” he said, blunt as ever. “Better than fine, actually. But you're standing there like you're about to throw up.”

You looked away. “It’s just— I don’t feel…”

Geo exhaled through his nose, annoyed, stepping in until he was right in front of you. He reached out, uninvited but unthreatening, and adjusted the strap of your top, letting his knuckles brush your shoulder. The touch was light, almost imperceptible. But it grounded you. He always knew how to do that—make a mess feel stable without saying much at all.

“Shut up,” he said gently, though the edge in his voice never softened. “You're fine. You always are.”

But that wasn’t enough. Not today.

You pulled away, sinking onto the small bench in the corner, your face twisting with something hurt and frustrated.

“You’re always such an asshole,” you muttered, arms crossing tightly. “I should’ve taken Crowe with me on this thifting trip. At least he wouldn’t make me feel like garbage.”

That stopped him.

Geo stared at you. Not in anger. Not even in annoyance. Just… still. Then, quietly, he crouched down in front of you, folding his long limbs with unnatural grace, eyes level with yours. It was startling. Geo never lowered himself. Never came down to anyone’s level.

He didn’t believe in it. And yet—here he was.

Sitting in front of you like he was trying to offer you something raw.

“You want me to say sorry,” he said, more a statement than a question.

And you… nodded. Slowly. Hesitantly. Because yeah, it did hurt. You didn’t care what most people thought of your body. But him? He could wound you without even trying.

He sighed again, but not in exasperation. In surrender. “Fine,” he said suddenly, voice barely above a murmur, “we can have fast food.”

You blinked, stunned. That was so not the point—but before you could respond, his hand lifted.

His fingers—rough, calloused from years of archery and too many fights—skimmed lightly along the side of your neck. A breath caught in your throat. He traced the curve of your collarbone, like he was memorizing it all over again. Deliberate. Gentle. And then he touched the chain you wore—the one he gave you.

The pad of his thumb ran along the charm resting just above your heart, as if to remind you: he chose this for you. A twin to the one hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, always worn, never shown. Just like his affection.

“You like where we go,” he said, voice low and steady, “You like the way I treat you when we’re out. I know you do.”

Your breath hitched, eyes wide, lips parting—but he was already closing the space between you.

“You like,” he continued, leaning forward, “that I know what makes you feel safe…”

And then his face—his sharp, pretty face—pressed into the curve of your shoulder blade. Not your shoulder. Not your collar. But the space right between—intimate, vulnerable. The tip of his nose grazed your skin, breath warm as it spilled across your back.

“I know what makes you feel good,” he whispered, the words shaped more from instinct than desire, “what makes you feel wanted… even when I don’t know how to want people the way everyone else does.”

You felt the shift before you saw it—his body bracketing yours, hand pressed to the wall beside your head.

Not caging. Not crowding. Protecting.

Always that careful restraint, like he was made of sharp edges but would never dare cut you.

“I’ll say sorry,” he murmured, voice rough silk, his lips so close now they practically breathed against your skin, “a thousand times if that’s what it takes. For making you think I see you as anything less. I don’t.”

He pulled back just far enough to meet your eyes, and when he did—God. Geo didn’t just look at you. He studied you.

His expression stayed unreadable, that same carved stone stoicism—but his gaze roamed, reverent and scorching, memorizing the parts of you he’d always admired but rarely said aloud.

“You don’t get it,” he said, voice lower now, almost reverent.

“I see everything.”

His eyes flicked downward. Not in a crude way—no. It was hungrier than that and deeper. A slow drag of attention across the slope of your shoulders, the curve of your chest, the way your waist dipped into your hips. Every place your body softened, or pressed tight against your clothes, or creased when you moved—he drank it in like he owned the knowledge of you.

“Doesn’t matter what you're wearing. You could be in a hoodie three sizes too big or nothing at all, and I’d still be trying to memorize the way it fits around you.”

His hand ghosted along your side, not quite touching, but it made your skin light up anyway.

“I’ll let you hit me, if that’ll help,” he said, and this time his voice cracked, just a little. “I’ll get on my knees. I’ll beg.”

You could feel it—his tension.

The weight of it in the way his jaw clenched, like it killed him to say that but he meant it.

“Whatever you need,” he said again, eyes flicking to your lips. “You can wear anything. I��ll still admire you for it. Every damn time. And I’ll keep buying you old and used shit if it makes you feel good.”

His head tilted, eyes narrowing, locking onto yours with that signature deadpan focus—cold, but not cruel. Just… impossibly precise. As if the rest of the world had blurred, and only you remained in focus.

“…But don’t pretend like you want anyone else but me,” he added, voice dipping. Something raw coiled underneath the words.

Possessive. Territorial. “Especially that charmer.” That last word landed like an arrow—clean, direct, and deliberate. It struck where it was meant to, buried deep.

“That’s the only thing I won’t apologize for.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your face was burning, heat creeping down your neck, blooming across your chest. And your heart—God, your heart was a mess of stuttering beats and heavy thuds, too loud, too much.

Still, you held his gaze. Those sharp, hunter’s eyes—focused, unflinching. An archer’s eyes. The kind that made you feel bare and known and hunted all at once.

Okay… maybe you did feel a bit better.

Because Geo never missed his mark, certainly not with you.

Blushing at this part… didn’t think it would land that hard—damn.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Hyugo’s the type who always had a way of touching you.

The textbooks were open, sure. Highlighters are scattered across the coffee table. There were even half-finished online flashcards pulled up on your phone.

But the studying?

Yeah, that died the moment Hyugo showed up with that lazy grin and a bag of snacks he definitely wasn’t supposed to bring near the couch.

“You know,” you said, nudging him with your knee as he flopped beside you, “we’re supposed to be reviewing the chapter on cognitive development, not watching cat videos on your phone.”

He didn’t even flinch. “I’m multitasking,” Hyugo said, one hand holding up his phone as a kitten somersaulted across the screen, the other casually reaching into the bag of chips. “Besides, you said we were studying. I already finished that unit last night.”

You blinked at him. “You what?”

“Yep,” he popped the ‘p’ smugly. “Got bored. Knocked it out at like, 2AM.”

“You—? Hyugo, we have a test today. You’re supposed to be panicking with me, not acting like it’s optional.”

He finally set his phone down, turning to you with that annoyingly bright, cheerful face of his—the one that screamed, I’m way too charming to ever suffer consequences. “Why would I panic? I’ve got you. Worst case, I cheat off your paper.”

You shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, leaning his head back against the couch like he hadn’t just confessed to academic fraud.

“You’re such a menace.”

“Yeah, but I’m your menace.” He grinned sideways at you, hair slightly messed up from how he’d flopped into the cushions. “Besides, don’t act like you don’t like having me around when you’re stressed. I make good noise-cancelling background static.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.” He winked. “That’s why you let me distract you instead of forcing me to open a textbook.”

“Because I know you’ll ace it anyway.” You paused, sighing. “Seriously though, how do you always finish everything without looking like you try?”

Hyugo shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Magic. Or maybe I just hyperfixate until it’s done and forget to eat in the process. Who’s to say?”

You just stared at him for a beat, then leaned over to steal a chip from his bag. “I hope you fail the extra credit.”

“I won’t,” he said smugly, popping another chip into his mouth, “but thanks for the emotional support, babe.”

You rolled your eyes, frustration building as you tried to explain Piaget’s stages of development for the third time. You were so close to getting your point across, but then—there it was. That subtle shift in the air. Hyugo. You didn’t even need to look up to know what was happening. He was moving again. Not loudly, not jarringly, just that soft, insistent motion of his body sliding closer to yours.

Before you could even finish your sentence, his legs stretched out across the couch, and his head was nestled in your lap like it was his damn birthright.

“…Hyugo,” you warned, voice flat, trying to keep some semblance of focus while a textbook balanced precariously on your knees, the edge just missing the top of his head.

He didn’t even acknowledge you at first.

“Shh,” he hummed, his eyes already closed, the tips of his lashes grazing the tops of his cheeks, his expression soft and relaxed. "I study better like this."

“No, you don’t,” you muttered, shaking your head in disbelief.

"You don’t even study."

“I observe,” he replied nonchalantly, voice thick with that lazy calm he always had when he was too comfortable. “And absorb. Osmosis.”

You sighed heavily, rolling your eyes so far back you thought they might stay there.

But still—despite everything, you didn’t push him off. Not yet.

Your hand, as if on its own, drifted to his hair. It was a habit by now. His hair was always so warm, so soft, and you hated how comforting it felt between your fingers. He smelled like faint citrus and clean laundry, a scent that reminded you of sunlight on a lazy afternoon, wrapped up in hoodie form. It was ridiculous how nice he smelled.

And then, it happened.

Slowly, carefully, with the kind of audacity only Hyugo could get away with, he turned just enough to press his face into your stomach. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you in like you were a pillow he had no intention of letting go.

He just… settled there.

His body was warm and secure against you, like he’d staked his claim and expected you to accept it.

It was so casual, so effortless, that you almost didn’t know how to react. But your body knew. It tensed instantly like you had no control over how it responded to his touch. He was too close. Too present. The heat of him spreading across your skin made your breath catch, and your spine went rigid, all the while you were desperately trying to keep your composure.

The book you’d been holding slipped off your knees, tumbling onto the floor with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have the mental space to care. Instead, all you could focus on was the weight of his head against your stomach, the feel of his arms around you like some kind of anchor. His presence was all-consuming, and somehow you could never quite get used to it.

You didn’t understand why Hyugo was always touching you. You didn’t mind it, not in the way you should’ve. It wasn’t that it annoyed you—hell, there were times it felt like you didn’t mind it at all.

But why? Why did he always need to be so close?

You weren’t even sure why you didn’t push him off when you knew you should. Was he really that confident? Did he not see how ridiculous it was for someone like him to be so affectionate with someone like you?

You looked down at him, his face pressed against your stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he could do this forever if you’d let him.

But how could anyone, especially him, be into someone like you?

Someone who was all sharp edges and curves and things that made you uncomfortable in your skin? How could he adore you the way he did when you didn’t even understand how to adore yourself?

And yet… you couldn’t help it.

The warmth of his body against yours, his gentle breath on your skin, it was like a constant reassurance. His affection, so soft, so unrelenting, was like a force you couldn’t escape.

Hyugo’s voice broke the silence then, soft and rumbling as if he sensed your thoughts and wanted to ground you in the present.

“You’re so quiet when I do this,” he muttered, his arms tightening around you just a little more. “

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, huh?” He added.

You swallowed hard, unsure how to explain. You didn’t know if you could even put it into words. “I—don’t get it,” you said, your voice almost a whisper. “Why are you always so close? I’m… I’m not like others, Hyugo.”

He pressed his face deeper onto your stomach, his eyes steady, warm, and intense. His gaze softened, that familiar tenderness you couldn’t seem to escape.

“Hyugo—” You pushed at his shoulder gently, a warning, a tremble in your voice you didn’t mean to let out. “Don’t. Stop”

He stopped moving. If anything, he just held you tighter.

“Stop it,” you whispered again, more to yourself than him, hating how your voice cracked. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?” His voice was muffled against your shirt, soft and steady. “Because I love you too much?”

You tried to pull back again, your hands moving to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. The movement was instinctive—trying to push him off, just a little space between you. But, damn it, he didn’t budge. Hyugo, always so damn stubborn, always so strong. Why was this short shit so damn solid?

His hand, warm and steady, slid down to the side of your hip, his touch slow, intentional, like he was tracing the outline of your body in the way only he could. Every inch of your skin, every curve, every line, he made it feel like it was meant to be touched.

You bit your lip, trying not to show how his closeness was making your heart pound. You weren’t sure why you still hesitated. But his warmth against your stomach was undeniable—something in the way he pressed his face into you felt different, familiar, like he belonged there.

"You don’t get to say that when you do this," you whispered, your voice small against the growing pressure of his presence.

"Not when I’m like this."

Hyugo shifted, his hand resting at your waist as if he could hold you there forever. "Like what?" he asked, voice low and curious, his gaze never leaving yours.

You didn’t answer, because, honestly, you couldn’t.

He knew what you meant. Hyugo always knew.

His breath hitched, and then there was the softest exhale like he was absorbing every moment, every inch of you beneath his touch. He always paid attention. So much attention.

"You think I haven’t noticed?" His voice was barely a whisper now, but it sent a shiver through your body. "You get quiet every time I touch you here," he murmured, his hand grazing your side, just enough to remind you of how it felt to be seen. "Like I’m not supposed to. Like I’ll notice something you don’t want me to see."

You tried to look away, but his eyes, those baby blue, soft eyes, never let you escape. You swallowed hard, heart thumping in your chest. He was so close, and everything about him made it impossible to hide how he was slowly unraveling you, piece by piece.

His fingers brushed your curves again, gently, as if exploring, and in that touch was a world of affection that you couldn’t deny.

“I love the way you feel,” he added, his voice tinged with something deeper than casual flirtation. "The way you’re built, the way your body speaks without saying a word. You have strength in every inch of you. And, that’s what gets to me. You don’t have to hide any part of you from me.”

Your stomach clenched, and this time it wasn’t with discomfort but with something that felt like relief—a soft weight that you didn’t realize you’d been carrying until now.

He wasn’t judging. He was worshipping.

Every curve of your body, every part of you he touched, he made it feel like you were a masterpiece in his eyes.

You didn’t say anything. How could you?

His words were making you feel too seen, too cared for, too cherished.

You never imagined this kind of affection would feel so overwhelming, so soft. His affection wrapped around you like a blanket.

"I’m not leaving," he murmured again, as his hands pulled you closer, wrapping around you like a shield, as if to say, I’ve got you. "You can hate it. You can push me away. But I’m staying. I won’t let you shrink back into yourself."

Your hands trembled against his chest, and his gaze softened even further if that was even possible.

“You don’t get to apologize for parts of you I already love,” he said, his voice a little hoarse now, each word carrying weight, like a promise. "I will cling to you like a damn leech because I want you to see yourself the way I see you. I want you to feel it. Feel the love I’m giving you until it seeps into your bones. Until your body feels the love, too."

His hand moved again, caressing the curve of your hip in slow, soft and slow strokes, as though he had all the time in the world to make you feel the warmth of his touch. There was a tenderness there that made you breathless, like he was trying to imprint that love into your very skin.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he murmured softly, his genuine words making your heart flutter. “Don’t let anyone—especially yourself—tell you otherwise.”The way he said it, so casually, but with such an unwavering certainty, made your throat tighten.

You didn’t know how to process it, how to take in all the love he was offering.

It was too much. But in the best way.

His fingertips traced the line of your waist, a careful, intentional touch that sent a shiver through you. His body pressed so close to yours that you could feel the heat of his own skin, and that heat felt like a balm for every insecurity you’d ever harbored.

“Your body,” he continued, his voice soft but firm, “is a reflection of your strength, of your warmth.”

It was impossible to ignore the way those words resonated deep within you. He wasn’t just talking about your curves or the way your body felt beneath his hands.

He was talking about your spirit, your strength, the way you carried yourself in a world that often tried to tell you you weren’t enough.

You felt a flush creeping up your neck, a heat that had nothing to do with his touch and everything to do with the way his words were making you feel. The tightness in your chest only seemed to grow, a mixture of vulnerability and something else—something more powerful that you weren’t quite ready to admit.

“And I’ll be here,” he added, his voice softening even further, “always, loving you for every inch of it."

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket, and you couldn’t help but close your eyes for a moment, trying to absorb everything he was giving you. The way he saw you, the way he adored every inch of you, it hit you deeper than you ever expected.

It made your heartache in the best way—this raw, aching love that you couldn’t escape, even if you wanted to.

And still, he didn’t let you go.

Hyugo’s arms remained wrapped around you, strong and secure, holding you close as though he never wanted to let you slip away.

It was like he was trying to make sure you never forgot how beautiful you were, how worthy of love you were. You couldn’t help but marvel at the way he held you like you were his teddy bear, his safe place. A person with a baby face like his, always so soft and warm, but with a heart that could hold the weight of your world.

He had a way of making you feel safe, cherished—like you were the most important thing in his life, and nothing would ever change that.

His presence was like sunlight, his affection the warmth you never knew you needed. And in that moment, as he held you there, you realized something:

Hyugo needed you, because, after all, you were his happiness.

I may have a few favorites when it comes to writing Geo and Hyugo…

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