#honestly this is becoming a pattern of mine

[randomfandomss]

Ok but Benítez/Lawrence/Bellini. Thank you.

[ohhgingersnaps]

I'm a little late to the party with the WIP Ask Game, but will you talk about Holding Patterns at all? Super curious what that's about!

Aaaa I'm so glad you asked about this one!! Holding Patterns is an original sci-fi thing I've had on the back burner for a while. It's a heist/mystery/disaster/(rom-com??) novel set on a fancy Art Nouveau-style cruise ship orbiting a dying star.

Featuring the following:

A man who's just assassinated a corrupt high-level senator in retaliation for some disastrous space mining OSHA violations. He is laying low as a waiter while he hides from the senator's corporate sponsors and figures out what, exactly, he wants to do with his life, now that his years-long revenge quest is over.

Two thieves hired to steal data from an attached research vessel by a mysterious donor. The promised payoff is enough to set them both up for life. Getting on the vessel itself is going to be tricky, but once Thief 1 gains the trust of the pretty astrobotanist he masterminded a meetcute with at the first night's masque dance, they'll be golden.

The astrobotanist private eye, who's hot on the thieves' trail. She's posing as a scientist to get close enough to them to find solid evidence of their last heist, but she's used to working from a distance... She's chanting "I won't get attached, I won't get attached!!" in her head half the entire time, and playing a Kira-and-L-style battle-of-wits chess game with Thief 1 in her head the other half of the time— but regardless, this is actually the most fun she's had on an investigation in a good long while.

A rich heiress on vacation with her sorority friends. She's less fleshed out right now than the others, but when things start to go south, she's really got some solid Elle Woods/Final Girl energy.

The underpaid, overworked security guard who's just trying to do their job, please, why is nobody cooperating with my murder investigation—??

Anyway, I don't want to spoil the plot (and also, frankly, I don't have all of the specifics figured out yet), but when another passenger is murdered in what appears to be a robbery gone wrong, all of the characters are left scrambling to cover their own secret identities, and also figure out what happened and who they can trust...

And then, when the life support systems on the ship start failing one by one, they find they've got even bigger problems.

This all sounds really serious, but this is actually intended to be a fun little sci-fi romp! I also originally meant for it to be a novella but, like... Honestly? Knowing me and how my projects normally go? This thing's not going to be less than 70k haha

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝜗𝜚 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

We’re back again with the “type of boyfriend” headcanons—this time for the best baby boy in TKATB. That’s right, it’s finally Hyugo’s turn. People have been asking for him (loudly), and since there’s barely any content on this chaotic rooftop menace, I figured... fine. It’s time.

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

Also, I was only gone for like two weeks and suddenly y’all hit me with 1K followers—??? Why?? T-T

I’m not even a consistent writer, I just be vanishing like a ghost with commitment issues. But seriously, thank you. I’ll try to get to your requests after finals, once my brain cells recover from the academic warfare.

Anyway, writing him? Pain. He’s sweet, playful, has beef with the college, possibly a knife in his back pocket 24/7, and still manages to be boyfriend-coded. Balancing all that? Not easy—especially studying for finals kicking me in the face. But even while dying academically, I think I’ve got a solid grasp on him now.

Honestly? I might just become the main Hyugo writer. 

Someone has to. Let’s get into it.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Let’s be clear—Hyugo was the one catching feelings first.

The boy was already gone for you long before you realized what was happening. In the game, it’s mentioned he has a “certain crush,” and the way he stares a little too long or makes offhand comments about how you “remind him of someone”?

Yeah. That someone is you.

He doesn’t confess right away, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he lingers around you more often, steals your pen to “borrow it” even though he never returns it, pulls you into weird places like the rooftop “just because,” and randomly brings up your name in conversations with Sol—pretending it’s no big deal. (Spoiler: it is.)

✑ Unpredictable Lover (But With Bite)

Hyugo doesn’t ease into love. He trips, stumbles, and full-body slams into it like a cartoon character hitting a wall—and then laughs about it while nursing emotional whiplash. One minute you’re just the guy who shares notes or laughs at his dumb trivia. 

The next? He’s looking at you like you invented gravity.

When the MC reminded him of his old crush? That was it. Game over. His brain short-circuited and fully convinced itself you were his soulmate. Not in a clingy way (okay, maybe a little clingy), but in that wide-eyed, heart-hammering, "Oh, you're real? You're mine?" kind of way.

It’s not even subtle. If Sol’s the type to bottle everything up until it explodes, Hyugo’s just… holding the bottle upside down, watching it pour, and asking if you want a sip. He’ll tell you he likes you in the most offhand, dramatic, heart-melting ways—laughing as if it’s no big deal while simultaneously dying inside.

“I like you too much. It’s annoying.” cue deflection into food talk like he didn’t just ruin your emotional stability for the week

He’s drawn to people who get him—the weird parts, the unpredictable schedule, the random ass facts at 3 a.m., the way he vanishes and reappears with rare cassettes or bags of stolen berries like a chaotic little cryptid boyfriend. People who don’t try to "fix" him, but instead hand him a spoon and ask to share dessert.

He doesn’t do patterns. Doesn’t do expectations. What he does do is follow his gut, sprint into romantic territory like it’s a speedrun, and somehow still make you feel like the center of the universe—his odd little galaxy.

One day he’s got your favorite fruity snack in hand, saying, “Skip class with me. I found a crime documentary we can heckle together.” The next? He’s ghosted for two days. No texts. No calls. Reappears like nothing happened, dumps a bag of cassette tapes in your lap, and mutters, “They sounded like you. Messy but good.”

His version of sweet nothings?

“If I threatened the dean, do you think I’d get expelled or promoted?”

What.

Anyway, Hyugo’s idea of a confession is the kind of thing that makes you pause for a full ten seconds wondering if he just insulted you or proposed.

Like the time he sauntered over to you with a slice of cake in a paper napkin, tossed it on your desk, and casually said:

“I got this cake the other day and it reminded me of you. It was horrible—like, truly disgusting—but really pretty to look at.”

And then he smiled.

Not even sheepishly. Just smug. Like he thought he was being romantic.

And somehow? It kind of was.

Because beneath the trolling and chaotic delivery, there’s a genuine, rare honesty. That cake? It was real. He hated it—but he thought about you. He bought it thinking about you. He shared it, thinking that even if it sucked, he wanted you to be part of the joke, part of the moment. And that’s what Hyugo does. He doesn’t wrap his feelings in a bow—he throws them at you like a dodgeball and laughs when you flinch.

But that’s the thing: Hyugo’s love isn’t elegant. It’s not scheduled. It’s messy, spontaneous, way-too-loud, and utterly sincere. One day he’s skipping class to show you a crime documentary he downloaded illegally off a sketchy website, and the next, he’s vanished for 48 hours without a word. Then he returns like nothing happened, hands you a crumpled bag of sweets and pretty flowers and mutters:

“I don’t know. These felt like you.”

He doesn’t believe in doing things the “right” way. He believes in feeling. And if being with you makes his heart do that hiccup thing in his chest? He’s going to chase that.

His affection isn’t routine—it’s a riot. He’ll flirt by arguing with you about fictional crimes. He’ll compliment you by comparing you to garbage-eating birds. He’ll confess his feelings mid-snack, while chewing.

“I like you too much, it’s annoying. Can you pass the chips?”

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

Because Hyugo doesn’t do romance the normal way—he does it his way. Unhinged. Blunt. Endearing in the most unpredictable fashion.

If you can survive the whiplash of dating someone who gifts you detective movie posters, late-night existential rants, and a stolen plush frog from the student store—He’s already yours.

Sidenote, now thinking about—Let’s just say… if Sol finds out Hyugo has feelings for the MC too?

Sol is the type to internalize every emotion until it calcifies. He doesn’t say he’s upset—he just stiffens around you, goes quiet, disappears from hangouts, and starts writing darker poetry. But make no mistake: he sees everything. And Hyugo? He’s not subtle. Not even a little.

Hyugo would catch on instantly. He’d tease Sol. Not maliciously—more like poking a sleeping wolf with a stick to see if it barks.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sol. Something bothering you?”

leans a little too close to MC

“Or someone?”

And maybe he laughs. Maybe he makes a show of being the light-hearted one. But behind all that noise is a sharp, protective loyalty—Hyugo’s jokes are weapons, and he’ll use them to keep the people he cares about close.

He might pretend to flirt just to mess with Sol.

But when it comes to you? He’s serious. Hyugo doesn’t play around with the things that make his heartbeat go crooked.

If you’re the one who makes him feel free—if you accept all his chaos without trying to change him—he’ll give you everything. The good, the bad, the oddly sweet bird-themed analogies. The ugly truths he doesn’t tell anyone else.

Because once Hyugo falls?

He falls all the way. No brakes. No caution tape. No escape plan.

Just you, and a heart too loud to ignore.

✑ Smart but Soft (and a lil scary)

Hyugo’s the type who confuses people on purpose. He’s top of the class one day, doesn’t show up the next. Cracks the most complicated equation in five minutes, then sticks googly eyes on the school vending machine and blames it on aliens.

Some say he’s a delinquent. Some say he’s a genius. All anyone really knows is that Hyugo always gets things done. He’s reliable.

Strangely so. You call him at 3AM with a crisis? He shows up.

You’re in tears over nothing? He distracts you with candy and half a conspiracy theory. He’s not ashamed of affection either—not even a little. 

Hyugo doesn’t care who’s watching when he grabs your hand in the hallway, when he hugs you from behind, or when he loudly calls you embarrassing pet names in front of Sol, or pretty much anyone.

Yeah. He's that guy.

But there’s something… off about him too.

Not in a bad way. Just—off. Like, he’s always smiling. Always laughing. But sometimes you catch that flicker in his eyes that’s just a bit too sharp. Sometimes his grin feels like it’s hiding something sharp behind it. Something practiced. Like he's worn that mask for years and just got good at making it look natural.

And the truth is? You’ve seen things.

Once, after class, you were heading toward the train station shortcut—an alleyway behind the older school buildings. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the voice that echoed off the brick stopped you cold. It was rough. Deep. Too serious. Too cold. Not Hyugo’s voice.

“If I catch you touching her again, I’ll carve out your throat and make you apologize with your last breath. Say ‘thank you’ for the warning.”

And then you saw him.

Hyugo. Your Hyugo.

Back pressed to some guy’s chest, hand gripping his jaw like he’d snap it clean. Not smiling. Not even blinking. Calm in a way that felt unnatural. There was a flick-knife in his hand. The same one he later used to peel an apple while lying on your floor like it never happened.

And what did you do? Nothing. You minded your business.

Like, what were you supposed to say? “Hey, babe, nice threats today! Who was the guy? Should I be worried?” Because how do you ask someone if they’re dangerous when they’re laying in your lap, pressing absentminded kisses to the inside of your wrist? When he’s curled up beside you with all his warmth and nicknames and that childish excitement in his voice whenever he finds a weird bug or sees a raccoon?

How do you bring it up when he's sweet?

When he traces your knuckles with the same fingers that curled around a knife so naturally. When he leans into your neck and mumbles, “You smell like strawberries,” like it’s a confession.

When he tells you, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?” in a tone too soft to be anything but sincere. That duality is what makes Hyugo dangerous. And irresistible.

He’s smart. Very smart. Too smart, maybe.

But beneath that chaotic, happiness-bomb energy, there’s a darkness he doesn't talk about. A history he won’t explain. All you get are glimmers—warnings painted in pretty smiles and sugar-sweet kisses. And maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he just knows how to handle himself. Maybe he is too cute for that sort of thing. ...Right? Or maybe the same hands that cup your cheeks gently could, without hesitation, end someone who hurt you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why you feel safest right next to him.

✑ Certified Cling Wrap™

Hyugo’s a walking paradox.

He’s an extrovert, yeah. The guy who can light up a room just by showing up, who always has something weirdly fascinating to say ("Did you know slugs have four noses?"). The type who remembers everyone’s birthday, even if he doesn’t show up to class half the time. He’s fun. Loud. Chaotic.

But when it comes down to it?

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you.

He’d trade a party for your couch in a heartbeat. Scratch that—he wouldn’t even consider the party if you were available. You could literally say, “I’m thinking of watching a movie tonight,” and he’d be like:

“Say less. I’m bringing snacks.”

He just wants to exist in your space. Quiet or loud, chaotic or cozy, rainy or sunlit—if you’re in it, that’s where Hyugo wants to be. And when he’s there? Prepare to lose all personal space rights.

Hyugo is Certified Cling Wrap™

Affectionate in the most relentless, devoted way. He’s the kind of guy who:

Will sit on the floor beside you just so he can lean his head against your thigh while you're working.

Wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you’re cooking, swaying with you and humming some dumb made-up song about your hair smelling good.

Steals your hoodies even though he already has a closet full of his own (“Yours smell like comfort and bad decisions.”).

Sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam—curled up on you, gripping your shirt with a soft little snore in your ear.

He doesn’t care if your hair’s a mess, or if you’ve said three words all day. To him, that’s the dream. A quiet afternoon, curled up together under a blanket, him reading some wild conspiracy thread aloud like it’s bedtime poetry, your legs tangled under the coffee table—that’s his definition of paradise.

And it’s not just physical closeness.

It’s emotional, too. Hyugo pays attention.

He notices when your laugh doesn’t sound real. When your “I’m fine” isn’t. When you’re holding back tears or trying to carry more than you should. And in his own strange, lovable way, he makes it better. Sometimes it’s through chaos—dragging you out of bed at 2AM for gas station candy and an illegal rooftop view of the cityline. Maybeee say for a bit to sun rise.

Sometimes it’s through comfort—sneaking in your favorite drink with a dumb note taped to it (“Drink this or perish.”).

And sometimes, it’s just… silence.

Him resting beside you, letting his fingers run lazy circles on your arm while you process whatever’s weighing you down. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

Hyugo’s the guy who’ll whisper “I love you” into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep, just to be safe. Who calls you nicknames like he’s been doing it his whole life—“bug,” “babyface,” “sweet disaster,” depending on the mood.

Who holds your hand like it grounds him.

And maybe he’s a little too clingy. Maybe he gets pouty when you’re not around. Maybe he whines into your voicemail if you ignore his texts for too long (“I’ve withered like an unloved plant. You better come water me or I’m dying dramatically.”).

But that clinginess? It’s love. Undeniable. Raw. Real. Because Hyugo doesn’t just want to be with you. He wants to build with you. A life. A routine. A weird little bubble of shared chaos and safety and inside jokes that no one else understands.

You’re his home. Not the apartment, not the school rooftop, not the alleyways where he sometimes does questionable things.

You.

And he’ll remind you in a hundred little ways, every single day.

✑ The Ass Silly Flirt

Hyugo flirts like it’s a full-time job and he's trying to get promoted.

He’s not smooth about it either—he’s annoying. Like, he’ll text you “thinking of you 😘” and then immediately follow it up with a picture of a traffic cone wearing a wig with the caption: “This u?”

And the worst part? You laugh or offended. Every time.

He texts you non-stop, like you're both in some private group chat that never shuts up. No context. No warning. Just raw, unfiltered Hyugo brain static 24/7:

“Do you think ghosts get boners?”

“Be honest would I survive if I just ate bubblegum and vibes for a week.”

“I saw a pigeon with a limp today and now I’m emotionally compromised.”

Mid-class, 3AM, during a fire drill—he does not care. You’re getting these texts whether you're ready or not.

And the memes? OH, THE MEMES.

Hyugo’s meme game is so strong it’s criminal. He’s got folders. Archives. A whole reaction gif arsenal like he’s been preparing for emotional warfare. He sends one for every situation, no matter how inappropriate.

You text him “I’m sad.”

He sends a gif of SpongeBob playing the world’s smallest violin and follows it up with “come cuddle or perish, dramatic ass.”

It’s his love language.

He doesn’t know how to say “I care about you deeply” like a normal person—he just sends you 38 TikToks in a row and expects you to watch them all immediately and react to each one like you’re being graded.

Now. Let’s talk about The Streak™.

Y’all have had a TikTok streak going for months. At this point, it’s longer than some people’s relationships. It is sacred. And if you break it? Hyugo will take it personally. You think he’s kidding? No. This man will hit you with voice notes that sound like break-up letters. 

“Hey. So. I noticed we haven’t exchanged any TikToks in the last… 14 hours. Are you okay? Are we okay? Just let me know if you hate me now. It’s fine. I’ll just go stare out a rainy window like a Victorian widow.” You better send something—anything—before he starts live-posting his descent into madness.

Speaking of voice notes?

He loves those. You open your phone and there’s just a five-minute recording of him rambling while pacing his room like a raccoon hopped up on sugar.

“Okay so listen—I saw this guy trip on the sidewalk and somehow launch his phone into a trash can, and I SWEAR it was cinematic. Like, Academy Award level physics. Anyway I thought of you. Wanna get dinner?”

Or sometimes it’s just him humming some random song he heard in the background of a YouTube ad and begging:

“Can you find this song? Please. I’m in shambles. I don’t have Shazam and my dignity won’t survive me asking a stranger.” And you do find it. Because you love him. And because you’ve accepted that being in love with Hyugo means acting as his personal Google assistant and meme judge.

Hyugo doesn’t flirt to impress. He flirts to torment. To tease.

To infect your brain like a catchy song and live there rent-free until you’re giggling like an idiot alone in your room just because he sent you a picture of a cat with bad bangs and said, “our child if we never discipline them.”

He’s a menace. A menace with heart eyes and a clingy streak. 

He’s the kind of guy who’d write “I love you” on a bathroom mirror with lip balm and then blame it on ghosts. The type who’d kiss you mid-sentence just to watch you stutter. Who’d steal your charger but bring you snacks to “make up for it” and then never give the charger back.

In short: He’s loud. Annoying. Borderline illegal levels of clingy.

But he’s yours. And that’s kinda the best part.

✑ Tailored to You

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo speaks your praises like he’s reciting scripture from a holy book only he knows how to read. 

It’s constant. Casual. Deadpan-delivered and terrifyingly sincere.

You’ll be mid-rant about your day and he’ll just go:

“You're the smartest person I know, and I hang out with Sol. That man knows Latin and still doesn’t know how to say sorry. Meanwhile, you? You breathe and my brain goes ‘yeah, this is the one.’”

Sometimes he insults you, sure, but in that “I’m obsessed with you but emotionally stunted” way.

“You make me want to be a better man. Unfortunately, I’m lazy and emotionally unhinged, so you’re stuck with this version of me. Congrats.”

And don’t even think about crying in front of him. He’ll switch from “hey sexy” to “you are the most brilliant, beautiful, badass person I’ve ever met” so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash.

— Acts of Service?

Hyugo would absolutely walk into a war zone with nothing but your to-do list and a Monster energy drink and say, “Don't worry babe, I got it.”

He’ll do your homework shockingly he’s smart asf while you nap, call customer service on your behalf (“Hi yes, my partner’s about to commit murder over a billing error, please help”), and will not let you carry your own bag if he’s around.

Did your phone die? Suddenly, his is at 92% and in your hands.

Craving something? It’s on your bed before you even finish the sentence.

Exhausted? He’s already drawing you a bath and setting a snack tray like he’s your overworked but loyal butler who’s also in love with you.

He doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He just shrugs and says:

“If you’re good to me, I gotta be good back. That’s the rule.”

— Receiving Gifts?

He gives gifts like he’s on a scavenger hunt where the prize is your smile. They’re not always expensive—but they are weirdly specific.

A ring from a claw machine he swears “vibes with your aura.”

A charm bracelet/ring/necklace with tiny objects representing inside jokes only the two of you understand.

An old book with your favorite quote already highlighted, because he “happened to see it and thought of you.”

A dumb little vending machine toy he’s convinced is your new emotional support trinket. And the wrapping? Forget it. He’ll give it to you in a paper towel and say,

“Presentation is for cowards. Love is raw and weird. Take it.”

— Quality Time?

This man thrives on being around you.

Not even doing anything, just existing in your orbit. He’ll lay sideways across your bed like a lizard sunbathing while you read. He’ll follow you from room to room like a haunted but affectionate cat. You’re watching a movie? He's not even watching—he’s watching you watch it. “You scrunch your nose when you get invested. It’s cute. I like it. Shut up and let me admire you.”

Wanna nap together? He’s already curled up next to you.

Want to work in silence? He’ll bring snacks and just vibe, occasionally sending you memes while sitting 3 feet away.

Your time? His favorite gift of all time. 

— Physical Touch?

Oh you want space? Too bad, babe.

Hyugo is basically a heated blanket with limbs. 

He’s all over you—shoulder leans, back hugs, thigh squeezes, lap pillows, forehead touches, neck nuzzles. He’s like Velcro with feelings. He has zero shame. “You’re soft and warm and smell like my favorite person, why wouldn’t I be on top of you right now?” And yes, those hands? Again, the same ones that once threatened someone in an alleyway after class?

Those are the ones that cup your face so gently it makes your stomach flip.

That brush your hair behind your ear. That hold your hand even in public, especially in public, with a smug little grin like he’s bragging silently: “Yeah. This is mine.”

In conclusion, Hyugo doesn’t just love you in five languages.

He’s practically multilingual in affection—loud, devoted, and unfiltered. Tailored to you. Perfectly chaotic. Inescapably real.

Want to cry a little about it later? Yeah. Me too.

✑ Tailored to Him

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo thrives on your praise like it’s oxygen laced with espresso.

Tell him he’s smart? He’ll preen. Tell him he’s handsome? He’ll smirk and pull you into a kiss so sweet it tastes like a dare. But whisper to him, all soft and serious, “I’m proud of you” or “You make me feel safe” and he short circuits. Full-body blush. Ears red. Eyes everywhere but on you.

He might laugh it off, say something dumb like,

“Babe, stop it, I’ll fall harder and it’s already embarrassing out here…”

But he replays your words over and over in his head. He craves your approval like it’s sacred. He doesn’t want empty compliments—he wants real ones, the ones you mean. The ones that come out when you think he’s not listening, but he always is. He remembers your voice in detail. 

If you say something sweet in the morning, expect him to bring it up casually three days later like it didn’t melt his heart into syrup.

— Physical Touch? 

Let’s not play.

He’s got the soft hands, the smug smirk, the “come here and sit in my lap while I tell you about this video game I saw played last night” voice. But under that cuddly, somewhat short golden retriever exterior is a problem in the best way.

He’ll touch you constantly—absently tugging your fingers, nosing at your neck, kissing your knuckles like some old-timey heartthrob who listens to rap music and fights demons on weekends. Bro what?

But when he wants you? Oh, he wants you.

He leans in close when he talks, voice dropping an octave, and his fingers splay against your hip like he knows what he’s doing. 

When it’s just the two of you, he goes quiet. Focused. His usual chaotic flirty energy simmers down into this heated, steady burn. And God help you if you wear something that shows your skin—because suddenly he’s behind you, dragging his fingertips along your arms, whispering in your ear with that teasing-laced purr like:

“You really gonna look like that around me and act innocent? That’s wild.”

He’s cute. But he’s also lowkey hot in that "I’d ruin you with love and cheek kisses and then also maybe leave scratch marks you didn’t know you liked" kind of way.

— Quality Time?

Hyugo’s a social creature, yeah—but you? You’re home.

He could be surrounded by people, laughing at memes, bouncing from conversation to conversation—but the moment you walk in, he shifts. Eyes locked. Energy redirected. Like you’re his true north in a galaxy of distractions.

He doesn't need an occasion. Doesn’t need a plan.

He’s the kind of guy who shows up at your door with snacks, a blanket, and zero expectations other than being near you.

Spending time with you recharges him. Whether it's lying in bed watching weird documentaries, going on midnight walks, or sitting on rooftops eating vending machine junk food—if it’s with you? 

It’s worth it.

He memorizes your routines, your reactions, your sleepy habits. He makes mental notes like:

“They like their tea a little sweeter at night.”

“They squint when reading—they need a lamp, I’ll buy one.”

“They hum that one song while brushing their teeth—learn that on guitar maybe?”

Time isn’t just time with Hyugo. It’s devotion made casual. It’s “I choose you” in every second. It’s you matter most, no matter what else I could be doing.

So yeah. Hyugo’s a mess. But he’s your mess.

He’s a walking contradiction of softness and chaos, affection and absurdity. He loves in ways that feel like warm thunderstorms—loud, unexpected, but still soothing if you know how to listen. And when he loves you, he tailors it perfectly.

Words that lift you up. Touches that say "stay." Time that says “you’re all I need.”

He’s all in. And he’ll make damn sure you feel it.

✑ Joystick Jerk 

Oh, Hyugo’s a gamer gamer.

Not some flashy streamer, not a try-hard clout chaser—no face cam, no Twitch, no mic unless it’s Discord with you or the inner circle. He doesn’t stream, and when you asked why, he just shrugged and said something cryptic like:

“Gotta keep some parts of me hidden, y���know? Too many eyes makes the game less fun.”

Which like… okay. Cool. Normal people say that.

Totally not suspicious. Definitely not assassin-coded behavior. Definitely didn’t say that while sharpening a pocketknife and humming anime opening themes under his breath.

But listen, the man’s cracked at every game you throw at him. FPS? Headshots for days. Fighting games? You blink, you lose. Racing? Don’t even try it. Even rhythm games? He gets full combos and doesn’t even break a sweat. He’s got the focus of someone who’s either a pro… or someone who’s trained their hand-eye coordination to kill a man in silence.

And worst of all? He always wants to play with you. 

And when I say always, I mean always.

“Babe, let’s do co-op, I’ll carry you.”

“Play a round with me? C’mon, I’ll give you a kiss every time you die.”

“If I win, you have to say I’m hot. If you win… okay that’s never gonna happen, but I’ll still say you’re hot.” It’s cute at first. Until you realize he never loses. Not unless he lets you win.

And yes—you noticed.

He tries to act slick about it. Pretends he “accidentally” missed that final hit or “slipped” during the last lap. But the smug look on his face gives it away every damn time.

You: “You let me win, didn’t you.”

Hyugo, grinning: “What? No way. You’re just getting better. Natural talent. Gamer instincts. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—”

You: “I’m going to delete your save file.”

Hyugo: “Wait—WAIT I’M SORRY—”

There was a time you swore off gaming with him completely. “Sore loser? Absolutely. Certified D1 crash-out? No shame.” But lately, he’s been playing way too much.

Like… you come over and he barely looks up from his screen. Just tosses a lazy “hey babe” and keeps mashing buttons like his life depends on it. Sometimes he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets you’re in the room.

So what do you do? Be normal? Communicate?

Nah. You’re evil.

Beautifully, diabolically evil.

Let’s say one day, Hyugo’s deep into a match. He’s playing some online team shooter with Sol, both of them barking callouts like seasoned war generals. His voice smooth and laser-focused as he barks commands into his mic. The screen flashes with rapid gunfire, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. He’s locked in, absolutely locked in—with that deadly kind of concentration that makes you want to ruin it.

So naturally, you do.

You drop to your knees without a word and slip under his desk, the soft whir of his PC fans the only warning he gets.

At first, he doesn’t notice. At first.

Your fingers trail up his calf, slow and innocent.

Then not so innocent. You press your palms to his thighs, feel the twitch under your hands. And when you start fiddling with the buttons of his pants, he pauses—just for a second.

His voice stutters.

“Y—yeah, flank left—mnn—flank, I meant flank! Just—move, damn it!”

Sol’s voice crackles through the headset, confused: “Yo, you good?”

Hyugo clears his throat with the subtlety of a panicked cat. “Yup. Peachy. Total—nghh—focus.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you get bolder—running your nails along the seam, watching him shift in his seat, those long fingers faltering for just a beat. You don’t even need to look up to know his jaw is clenched, teeth gritted in pure restraint. You can hear it in his breath. Shaky. A little desperate.

Then, finally, a low, bitten-off sound escapes him—a moan. Not loud. But real. Raw. The kind of sound you feel low in your stomach.

“Fuck—” And still? Still he wins the match. Freak of nature. You almost applaud. “GGs, I’m out,” Hyugo mutters into the mic, voice hoarse. “Emergency. Real life critical hit.”

Click. Call ends. Silence.

Before you can even shift, he’s got one arm under your shoulders, dragging you out and straight into his lap. The headset’s tossed somewhere across the desk. The game’s forgotten. All his focus now? On you.

Those baby blue eyes? Sharp. Wicked. Burning.

“You wanna play dirty now?” he breathes, voice low, chest heaving. “You think you can tease me while I play the game with Sol and just walk away?” His hand slides up your thigh, firm and slow.

“Nah, sweetheart. You started this.”

And Hyugo?

Oh, he never leaves a game unfinished.

✑ Sugar, Spice, and Chaos

For someone who lives on the edge of unhinged and adorable, it’s no surprise Hyugo is a menace in the kitchen—but only if it involves sugar. Actual meals? Nah. He either burns them, forgets them on the stove, or looks at savory ingredients like they personally offended him. 

But sweets? Baking? That’s his love language.

He’ll never say it, but there’s something almost calming about it—the measuring, the mixing, the slow transformation of flour and butter into something warm and golden. He’s got a soft spot for berry shortcake, especially ones layered with cream and strawberries. It’s nostalgic, he once said. You don’t press further, but the way he lights up when he tastes it? 

Tells you all you need to know.

So one weekend, he drags you into the kitchen with that signature grin, sleeves rolled up, apron tied (yes, it says “kiss the baker,” yes he wore it on purpose) and says: “Today, we conquer the cake.”

You start with the cake base—he insists on doing the measuring himself, swearing he has “baker’s intuition.” You don’t argue, even when you notice him eyeballing the flour instead of using the cup.

The moment the batter’s mixed, he tastes it with a spoon like it’s a gourmet meal. Then gives you a spoonful too. 

“Here. For quality control.” It’s… actually amazing.

While it bakes, he turns the kitchen into a war zone of whipped cream, sugar, and cut strawberries. He tries to pipe roses onto parchment and ends up with something that looks suspiciously like a slug.

“Abstract art,” he claims. “Put it in a museum.”

You laugh. He grins wider.

Then comes the fun part—assembling. You’re trying to do it neatly, but Hyugo? He starts feeding you strawberries like some dramatic prince and smearing whipped cream on your nose when you’re not looking.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “cuter than the cake.”

You chase him around the kitchen with a spatula in revenge. It ends in a tie. And a kiss. (With a side of whipped cream.)

Finally, the shortcake’s done—messy, chaotic, but somehow still perfect. Just like him.

The kitchen’s a battlefield of bowls, whipped cream smears, and flour footprints. You’re both a little sticky, a little out of breath from laughing too hard, and the oven’s still faintly warm behind you. Hyugo licks a smudge of berry syrup off his thumb with the same lazy grin that always gets him his way.

You’re sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he’s nestled between them, sharing forkfuls of cake straight from the dish. His eyes flicker up every time you chew, like he’s not watching the dessert but you enjoying it.

He hums low after a bite, leaning against your shoulder. “I’d burn water for dinner, but damn if I won’t make you the best dessert of your life.”

You snort, licking cream from the side of your lip.

“Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he says, swiping a bit of whipped cream with his finger and tapping it onto the tip of your nose. “But also a little hungry still…”

You tilted your head, lost. “For the cake?”

“Sure,” he smirks, “let’s go with that.”

He kisses it off your nose—soft and teasing. Then off your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last. Until it’s not about the cake anymore.

You reach for the bowl of whipped cream—because why not?—and dip your fingers in it. His eyes track you like prey, curious and wide as you smear a little on the side of your neck. “Oops,” you whisper, “missed a spot.”

Hyugo freezes. Then laughs, soft and dangerous. “Oh, you really wanna start something, huh?”

The next moment is a blur—his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider around him as he presses closer. His lips find the cream on your neck and he bites—playful at first, then deeper. Your breath catches. That baby blue gaze turns sharp, electric with mischief.

He kisses down your throat, slow and purposeful, tongue chasing the sugar and teeth chasing your pulse. You’re not even sure how the bowl got knocked over, but it doesn’t matter. The spoon clatters to the floor. Your back arches into him.

“Tastes good,” he mutters against your skin, “but you’re sweeter.”

His hands slide up under your shirt, warm and insistent. The cake is long forgotten now, half-eaten and melting beside you. His mouth is busy elsewhere—your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve where your neck meets your jaw. He’s painting you with sugar and heat, and licking every trace away.

You’re not sure who pulls who in first for the kiss, but it’s messy and desperate and just the right amount of wrong. And when he pulls back, panting, pupils blown wide?

“Kitchen’s already trashed,” he grins, voice rough, “might as well finish the job.”

Let’s just say the next round doesn’t involve frosting—but it’s still very much dessert.

✑ Partners in Cosplay (and Crime)

You knew Hyugo liked crime flicks and video games—but this? This was a full-blown obsession.

He’s not just a fan. He’s a geek. Deep in the lore, the trivia, the obscure theories that only like four people on the internet care about—and he’s friends with all four. He’s the kind of guy who can quote entire movie scenes, word for word, with the dramatic voice shifts and everything. One time he paused a shootout scene just to explain the gun model they used and how it’s “totally unrealistic, but looks so fucking cool.” His eyes literally sparkled.

So when convention weekend rolls around? Oh, he’s already packed.

Costume? Secured. Prop weapon? Custom-made.

And when he asks you to go with him? He doesn’t even care who you dress up as—just that you’re there. His partner in crime. Literally.

You pick a character that kinda matches his—maybe one from his favorite show, or the one you think would annoy his the most. Either way, when you step out in your outfit, Hyugo malfunctions. Full on, mouth open, hand to chest, “I think I just fell in love again” levels of dramatic.

You walk the con floor hand-in-hand, him constantly pulling you over to booths like a kid with too much sugar and no parental supervision. 

He buys crime-themed keychains, limited edition figures, posters with ridiculous quotes, and sketches from artist alley like his life depends on it. He compliments cosplayers like a pro—“Damn, that’s clean! Bro, how’d you make the holster?”—and flirts with you every chance he gets. “You look way too good in that outfit. You trying to kill me or get me arrested?”

By the time you get to the hotel, his and yours arms are full of merch bags, his wallet’s empty, and his energy is still sky high.

You barely make it through the door before he’s tossing his stuff onto the couch and pulling you onto the bed with him. 

Still in cosplay, the both of you. 

“Okay but like… what if our characters actually hooked up? For research purposes.”

You raise a brow. “Research?”

He just smirks and leans in closer, fingers already unbuckling whatever fake tactical vest he’s wearing.

“I’m just saying… we could be committing crimes of passion right now. Or passionately committing crimes. Whichever hits harder.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours, hands warm and eager as they slide beneath your costume, tugging fabric aside and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He kisses like he’s still acting in character—cocky, sharp, teasing—but with that unmistakable Hyugo sweetness that always slips through.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers between kisses, “real talk.” And when you end up tangled in a mess of half-off cosplay and breathless laughter, his voice is low and rough in your ear:

“Next year? We’re going all out. Couple cosplay. New characters. New roles. New positions—wait, did I say that last one out loud?”

You’re pretty sure he’s still joking… mostly.

✑ He’s Pansexual (lil angst)

Hyugo is pansexual—genuinely and unapologetically so.

He doesn’t care if someone’s masculine, feminine, both, neither, fluid, strange, loud, quiet, or something the world hasn’t learned how to label yet. If he’s drawn to you, it’s because you’re you—your voice, your presence, the way you move through a room, the look in your eyes when you’re focused, angry, glowing, grieving. He falls in love with essence, not gender.

“I don’t give a damn what you are on paper,” he once told you, head resting on your stomach, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “I like what you are to me. And that? That’s something nobody else gets to have.”

He says it so confidently, like it’s not even up for debate. 

Because it isn’t. But love—real love—terrifies him.

Hyugo plays it cool, because he’s always been good at pretending. But when he lets himself really care for someone? It unlocks this whole hidden, trembling part of him that he usually buries beneath bad jokes and gaming trash talk. That part of him that lies awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, scared out of his goddamn mind that one day the world might take you away from him.

“I don’t… live a quiet life,” he admitted once, when things between you were still new, still fragile. “I got people who know my name and don’t say it fondly. I got enemies. I got… unfinished things. If I ever pull back, disappear for a while… it’s not ‘cause I’m tired of you. It’s ‘cause I’m trying to protect you.”

You hadn’t said anything right away.

Just looked at him—really looked—while he sat still, shoulders tight, like every second of silence chipped away at his confidence. Like he was bracing himself for you to sigh, to shake your head, to say you didn’t sign up for this.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Because he had.

People have left Hyugo before. Screaming matches or messy, dramatic exits or Just… quietly. Gradually. Like a candle flickering out in a room he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

Some said he was “too much”—too chaotic, too unreachable, too unpredictable. Others didn’t say anything at all. They just disappeared. Let go without warning. Walked out while he was still holding on.

So when he opened up to you, even a little—when he admitted how messy his life was, how much danger it might bring, how scared he was of dragging someone good into his world—it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test. And he hated that it had to be.

But you didn’t walk away.

And something in him cracked open for you after that. Slowly, cautiously—but it opened. Still, there are moments… quiet, stupid moments where the fear creeps back in. When someone else’s eyes linger on you a little too long. When your attention slips away for just a beat too long. When you laugh with someone else in a way that used to be his alone.

And then? Hyugo gets quietly possessive.

Not cruel. Not jealous in the way that burns everything down. But in the way that digs in—firm, unyielding, scared in the places he refuses to show.

He’ll pout first, like it’s all fun and games. Arms crossed, an exaggerated sigh, brows cocked high with all the drama of a man auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“You ignoring me now? Damn, babe. Who’s this new cast member and what do they have that I don’t? ‘Cause I will up my stats. I’m not above DLC bribes.”

But if the other person gets too bold?

That’s when the shift comes. Subtle, but sharp.

His fingers slide to your waist, grounding himself in your warmth like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His voice softens, drops an octave—but there’s steel under the silk now. His whole energy changes, like a storm smiling through the sunlight.

“That guy’s not gonna steal you away, right?”

The words brush your skin just before his lips do, heat trailing over your neck, a kiss so casual it feels like a claim.

“I mean… you are mine, yeah?”

It’s not a threat. Not a demand. 

It’s a plea he doesn’t know how to voice.

Because he doesn’t want to trap you—he wants to be chosen. Every day. Every hour. Loudly. With intention. Just like he chooses you.

Even when the world’s unfair. Even when he’s neck-deep in shady jobs, fractured loyalties, or the weight of who he used to be. Even when he’s afraid. He’ll still love you like it’s the only thing keeping him real. Because Hyugo doesn’t care what you are. Only that you’re his. And yeah… sometimes he still wonders if he’s too much to stay with. 

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life giving you every reason to stay anyway.

✑ Flaws? Suprisingly there’s only Two…

Again—no one is perfect.

Hyugo’s learned, consciously or not, that being the comic relief, the sunshine, the dependable one earns love and keeps people around. So that’s the role he plays. Laughing through pain. Masking exhaustion with trivia. Brushing off his own needs with a practiced smile.

Which is a classic avoidant coping style, often stemming from early experiences where expressing pain or emotional needs either resulted in abandonment, punishment, or dismissal. He’s not unaware of his hurt—he just doesn’t believe there’s space for it. Or that anyone will stay if they see it. So he internalizes the belief:

“If I keep everyone happy, if I’m useful and entertaining, they won’t leave.” But emotional suppression is a time bomb. Eventually, the mask cracks.

It started small. Missed texts. Delayed replies. A few vague excuses about errands or errands or “sorry, I fell asleep.” But the dark circles under his eyes weren’t from sleep.

And you knew it.

So when you drop by his place unannounced and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt halfway off, eyes glazed over in thought—You don’t say anything. You just step in quietly and sit next to him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, voice soft. He smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I look like a mess, huh?”

You don’t reply to the joke. You just ask, “Are you okay?”

That’s when it happens.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of discomfort. A sharp inhale. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking. Long week, y’know?” Then a quick subject change: “Hey, did you know in some countries, strawberries used to symbolize perfection? Which is kinda dumb, 'cause they bruise so easily—”

You cut him off gently. “No trivia tonight, Hyugo.”

He goes quiet. The tension in his shoulders rises like a tide. He won’t look at you. Just stares at the floor like it might rescue him from the weight settling in his chest. “I’m good,” he says again. But softer this time. “I have to be. I don’t really get to fall apart. People expect me to… I dunno. Handle things. Be cool. Be funny. Be the guy who keeps the mood light.”

You put your hand on his knee. Anchor him. Pull him back from wherever he’s floating off to. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. It cracks midway through. His head drops, and for the first time in a long while—he doesn’t hide the exhaustion. “But if I do… what if you leave too?”

And that’s the real fear. Not pain. Not stress. Abandonment.

You pull him in. Let him lean on you. His arms wind around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. And for a while, neither of you speak.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You’re the only one I want to be weak with. That’s… scary. More than anything else I’ve done.” And he means it.

He’s not fixed. Not magically “healed.” 

But tonight, he let himself be seen. And that’s the start of something more powerful than any armor he’s ever worn.

Next is that, Hyugo doesn’t just love.

He attaches—deeply, instinctively, and without conditions. The people he chooses are more than friends, more than lovers—they’re extensions of his purpose. And if protecting them means lying, fighting, getting hurt, or burning bridges?

He’ll do it. No regrets. No hesitation.

This stems from survivor’s guilt and a deep-rooted sense of self-worth that’s tied to usefulness. In his head, if he isn’t saving someone, then what is he even for? There’s a quiet belief that he’s more tool than treasure—someone meant to hold the line so others don’t have to.

But in doing so, he forgets:

You love him for who he is. Not what he can suffer through for you.

You’d told him not to come. 

You made it clear: “I’ll handle this. Don’t get involved.”

But that was like telling a storm not to rain. The moment he caught wind of someone cornering you—someone threatening, someone bigger—Hyugo was already halfway to the alley behind the gym building, jaw tight, mind made up.

By the time you arrived, breath ragged and furious, the guy was on the ground. Groaning. Bloody lip. Hyugo stood over him, fists clenched and knuckles torn open.

He didn’t even look at you at first. He just said,

“Don’t worry. I handled it. He won’t bother you again.”

But you didn’t feel safe. You felt sick.

Not because he lost control—but because this wasn’t his burden to bear, and he didn’t even stop to think about the cost. “Hyugo,” you said, your voice shaking, “what if he presses charges? What if someone saw?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes wild. Heart still in war mode. But his expression softened when he saw the pain in your face—not from fear of him. From fear for him. “I didn’t care,” he said honestly. “I still don’t. No one’s hurting you. Not while I’m breathing.”

That should’ve made you feel safe.

But instead, it made your chest ache.

You stepped closer, grabbing his bloodied hands. They trembled slightly against yours. “You don’t get to set yourself on fire every time someone throws a spark near me.”

He blinked. Confused. Quiet. And that silence? That was the part that stung most—Because it told you he genuinely didn’t see the problem.

You reached up, cupping his face. “You think I want to watch you destroy yourself in my name? You think that’s love?”

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing guilt. But he didn’t pull away.

You added, softer: “You’re not a weapon. You’re my heart. And I want all of it. Whole. Safe. With me.” That was the moment he broke—just a little.

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You held him tighter. “By letting me protect you, too.”

This flaw will never fully go away. It’s wired into how he loves. But now? He’s learning there’s strength in restraint. That protecting someone doesn’t always mean throwing himself into every fire. Sometimes, it means staying close.

And staying whole—so he can keep loving you tomorrow, too.

✑ Thoughts + Ranting

Okay. So I said Hyugo only had two major flaws.

...I lied. It’s three. Sue me.

There’s one I didn’t name before. One that’s not easy to admit, even if it’s written all over him like an unspoken scar. Here it is: Hyugo is a perfect example of someone who’s been sexualized—and who learned to play into it, because it was the only way he ever felt seen.

But let’s set the record straight, because the internet loves to twist things: I’m not saying he’s a pervert. Absolutely not. Don’t even try it. This isn’t a man hiding in your closet or panting in your bushes. He’s not creeping in the dark. (Save that energy for Sol and his dramatic, stalker-coded tendencies—respectfully.) 

Hyugo isn’t that type of man.

What he is, is someone who developed hypersexual behavior—something that’s often misunderstood. Hypersexuality isn’t about being horny all the time for fun. It’s an intense, sometimes compulsive fixation on sex or sexual behavior, often as a way to cope. It’s not inherently predatory, and it’s not inherently wrong. But it is a reaction. 

A symptom. And in Hyugo’s case, it’s a wound.

See, I was sitting in class when the thought hit me like a truck: What if people really do treat Hyugo like a walking fantasy? A quick fix? A body to burn through and discard before sunrise? What if that’s how he’s always been viewed—never as a person, just a fleeting high, a secret, a sin?

Because that kind of dehumanization sticks. 

It doesn’t fade. It etches itself into the softest parts of you until you believe it too. And maybe, just maybe, Hyugo learned somewhere along the line that his worth lies in how easily he can be desired—not in who he is, but what he can do for others. What he can give.

He doesn’t feel loved. He feels used. And to protect himself, he leans into it. Becomes somewhat flirt, the temptation, the chaotic late-night call you regret in the morning. Not because it’s what he wants—but because at least this way, he’s not being rejected. He’s being chosen, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And that’s why he can’t let you go.

Because you didn’t treat him like a performance. 

You didn’t treat him like a transaction. You saw through the chaos and the charm and found the person. The equal. The soul. The boy who still believes in love, even if he’s too scared to admit it out loud.

You made him feel real.

Sidenote—completely unrelated to everything I just said—but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hyugo lost his virginity to a man.

Fantasia said it. I’m not taking it back. It wasn’t for shock value. It’s canon. It means something. It says something about him—and the more I sit with it, the more it adds layers to his character that I can’t ignore.

First of all, it confirms what we already sensed: Hyugo’s pansexual. He doesn’t box his heart or desires into categories. He loves people, not parts. He's comfortable in his skin, open with his identity, and doesn’t shrink himself to make others comfortable. He owns who he is with that same bold, cheeky confidence he brings to everything else. And that kind of honesty? It’s rare. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just is. Unapologetically.

But here’s where it gets tangled in my head—I keep wondering about the context.

Was it a casual hookup? Something spontaneous, wild, and curious, sparked by the need to feel alive or wanted in a moment of vulnerability? Or was it more than that? Did he love this person? Did they matter to him in a way that left a mark? Could this have been the crush he mentioned once, the one he speaks about with that strange softness, like he’s remembering something half-sweet, half-sore?

Did it end suddenly? Did it end at all?

There’s something quietly haunting about the idea that Hyugo’s first time wasn’t just a physical milestone, but an emotional one too. Maybe it was one of the only times he gave himself to someone not as a game, not as a performance—but as a person. Whole. Nervous. Real.

And maybe it didn’t last. Maybe it broke him a little. Maybe that’s where the cracks started—where he learned that intimacy and pain can exist in the same breath. That being vulnerable doesn’t always lead to safety. That being wanted doesn’t always mean being kept.

That’s why it sticks with me. Not because it’s scandalous.

But because it’s human.

And in Hyugo’s story, humanity is the one thing he keeps offering—despite how often the world tries to strip it from him.

Let’s take it deeper—Hyugo and… Geo.

I know I never shut up about Geo (he’s my husband, deal with it), but this isn't just about gushing over him. There’s something worth unraveling here. Something that speaks to how trauma doesn’t create a blueprint—it creates a battlefield. Two people can grow up in the same wreckage, and walk away with completely different scars.

See, Hyugo and Geo? They’re two halves of a shared history. 

Geo likes to say they’re stepbrothers—like that somehow distances them, makes the connection less binding. But let’s be honest: blood means nothing when you’ve been raised under the same roof, weathered the same storms, and built your sense of self from the same broken foundation.

That’s your brother.

That’s family. Whether you want to admit it or not.

And that’s the thing with Geo—he doesn’t want to admit it. Cold, closed-off, “don’t touch me unless it’s about business” 

Geo would rather die than openly acknowledge Hyugo as his older brother. But that truth lives in his bones. It’s there in the way he bristles when Hyugo’s hurt, in the way he silently watches over him from across a room, like a knight who doesn’t want to be caught caring. And Hyugo? He knows. He never says it outright, never demands affection or acknowledgment. But he knows. Geo is his little brother. End of story.

What’s fascinating—and heartbreaking—is how differently they responded to the same trauma.

Geo shut down. Became all logic and sharp edges. He put walls up so high no one could climb over, and he keeps his emotions buried so deep even he forgets where he left them. He’s aromantic/asexual, what if he’s emotionally scarred to the point of numbness, one thing’s certain: Geo is the embodiment of survival through detachment. He chose silence over softness. 

Distance over danger.

Meanwhile, Hyugo? Did the opposite. If Geo’s pain froze him solid, Hyugo’s set him on fire. He threw glitter over his wounds. Covered the screaming with laughter, with noise, with affection that sometimes feels like too much—until you realize it’s the only way he knows how to ask, “Will you stay? Will you care?”

That’s why people call him two-faced. 

Why they mistake his flirtation for manipulation, his touch for control. But it’s not conquest. It’s not about power. It’s about connection. About feeling real in a world that kept trying to erase him. Hyugo wants to be loved, and not just in passing. He wants to be seen—fully, achingly, intimately.

So yeah. In my eyes, Hyugo’s hypersexual.

But not in the shallow, performative way people think. It’s not about predation. It’s not about conquest or control. It’s about feeling. About proving to himself that he’s real, that he matters, that someone sees him and still stays.

Every touch is deliberate.

Every kiss is a question: Do I still exist to you?

When Hyugo reaches for someone, it’s like he’s trying to anchor himself to this world before it slips away again. 

Because to him? Intimacy is safety. Desire is reassurance.

And love—true love—is survival.

When he touches you, he’s not just touching skin—he’s tracing the shape of a future where he doesn’t have to be afraid. When he looks at you, it’s not lust—it’s hunger for warmth, for stability, for someone who doesn’t leave.

You don’t become his partner. You become his reason. His rescue.

And once you have Hyugo’s heart?

There’s no in-between. No lukewarm affection. He’s all in. No backup plan. No armor. Just him—raw and real and terrified that you’ll disappear too. Loving Hyugo means being chosen. Means being seen in a way that strips you down to the bone, and yet somehow, makes you feel more whole than ever before.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. But it’s never fake.

Now pair that with his two-faced nature—the side of him people whisper about. The switch that flips from sunshine to shadow in a blink. Because yeah, Hyugo can be the kindest soul you’ve ever met.  Soft, attentive, radiant. But cross a line? Or worse—betray him?

He’ll smile while slicing you in half with words sharp enough to scar your soul. That duality isn’t an act. It’s survival.

One face to charm the world. The other to protect what little of himself he hasn’t already given away. 

And the reason that duality even exists? Because Hyugo grew up in the same haunted house as Geo. Same broken floorboards. Same locked doors. Same silence. But while Geo turned cold, Hyugo became heat.

One froze to survive. The other burned.

And they’re still bleeding from it. Two brothers.

Two different coping mechanisms. Same pain—processed on opposite ends of the spectrum. So call Hyugo hypersexual. Call him two-faced. But don’t you dare call him fake. He’s just trying to feel something real. And in this world? 

That makes him one of the bravest souls I’ve ever known.

[cheriecouer]

Possessive Instincts

Jacob gets jealous when Embry and Seth flirt with you, pulling you aside to remind you—firmly and possessively—that you’re his.

……………..———————————……………….———————………….

You were used to Jacob being protective. It came with the whole shapeshifter-werewolf-territorial thing, and honestly, you loved it most of the time. There was something comforting about the way he always pulled you close, always kept an arm around you, always looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

But today? Today was different.

It started when you tagged along with Jacob to Emily’s place, where the pack was hanging out after patrol. You were used to the chaos—Sam and Jared arguing over something dumb, Paul stuffing his face, Leah rolling her eyes at every single one of them—but today, two specific wolves were paying way too much attention to you.

Embry and Seth.

You liked them, of course. They were Jacob’s best friends, and over time, they had become yours too. Embry was hilarious and Seth was the definition of a golden retriever in human form. Usually, Jacob didn’t mind when they joked around with you, but today?

Today, he was glaring daggers.

It all started when you walked in, and Embry let out a low whistle. “Damn, Y/N. You sure you’re dating the right guy? Because if you’re taking applications, I’d like to submit mine.”

Jacob stiffened next to you, his body going rigid. You barely had time to react before Seth chimed in. “For real, though. You’re, like, really cute today.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, what is going on? Did you two make a bet or something?”

Embry grinned. “Nah, just stating facts.”

Jacob’s grip on your waist tightened, and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. “She’s been mine for years,” he said, voice low, warning. “So back off.”

You turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Jake, they’re just joking.”

“They don’t sound like they’re joking,” he muttered.

Seth, completely oblivious to the tension, laughed. “Relax, dude! We all know she’s yours. But, like, can’t we compliment her?”

“No,” Jacob snapped.

Embry smirked. “Ohhh, I see what’s happening here.” He turned to you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Your boyfriend’s jealous.”

Jacob scoffed, but his fingers dug into your hip. “I’m not jealous.”

Seth snorted. “You so are.”

Jacob rolled his eyes and pulled you closer, practically shielding you from the two of them. You sighed, deciding it was best to distract him before he did something stupid. Tugging at his hand, you tilted your head up at him. “Jake, I need help in the kitchen.”

His frown softened just a little. “With what?”

“Uh… grabbing a plate?”

He gave you a look, but you knew he’d follow. You didn’t even make it fully into the kitchen before he spun you around and pressed you against the counter, caging you in with his arms.

“Mine,” he murmured, his nose brushing against yours.

You bit back a smile. “Yeah, I know.”

He kissed you, slow and possessive, his hands trailing up your sides like he needed to remind himself that you were right there. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still dark with jealousy. “Embry and Seth need to shut up.”

You laughed, tracing patterns on his chest. “They were just teasing you.”

“It’s not funny.” His jaw clenched. “They don’t get to look at you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like they want you.” His grip tightened slightly. “Like they even have a chance.”

You sighed, cupping his face in your hands. “Jake. I’m yours. You know that, right?”

His expression softened at your words, and he exhaled deeply. “Yeah. I know.”

You smirked. “Good. Now, are you gonna pout all night, or are you gonna go out there and prove to them why I chose you?”

He huffed but finally cracked a smile. “Oh, I’ll prove it, alright.”

And with that, he kissed you again—this time, making sure everyone in the other room knew exactly who you belonged to.

[retromochi]

lovingly still drawing mlp redesigns in the year of our lord 2024 these are kind of for a very casual next gen au of mine, but honestly i just like imagining ponies in different ways :-) (more info + headcanons under the cut!)

fluttershy: - trans (she/her), sapphic, autistic - she's a deerpony mix, with her maternal grandmother being a deer and her maternal grandfather a pegasus. - has sensory issues with cutting her hair, so she's content to just let it be long. - has large wings, but not a lot of strength. she's better at gliding, and can't really get herself into the air very well. - tallest of the mane six. twilight: - nonbinary (they/she), bisexual, autistic - all ponies have magic in them that can give their bodies physical changes, with twilight being an extreme example. the star patterns on her chest appeared after wielding the elements of harmony for the first time, the stars on her hooves appeared after becoming an alicorn, and the yellow streak in her hair appeared after defeating tirek. - has fairly bad eyesight, but prefers using her glasses rather than using magic to fix her vision. - can't fly as fast as most pegasi, but has good endurance. - shortest of the mane six, although she's only barely shorter than rainbow. pinkie pie: - gnc (any pronouns, but loves being called sister), pansexual - her full name is rose quartz pie, in line with the rock and gemstone theme in her family, but pinkie was a nickname that just stuck. - chiffon swirl/mrs. cake is her maternal aunt, they have more in common than pinkie does with her mom, but pinkie loves them both equally. - her strength nearly rivals applejack, she has super strong legs from bouncing and jumping everywhere. applejack: - bigender (he/she), sapphic - inherited her father's hat and her mother's hairbands - all of the apple siblings have accessories left to them by their parents. - prefers going by AJ or jackie, only granny smith usually calls her by her full name. - ties up her hair when working, and keeps the fetlocks on her back hooves trimmed short.

rainbow dash: - nonbinary (he/she/they), queer, ADHD - like twilight, rainbow has extreme examples of her body changing with magic. her cutie mark got longer after performing each sonic rainboom, and the colors in her hair appeared after she got her cutie mark to begin with. - originally named bluejay dash, changed her name to match her new look. her parents still call her "jay" from time to time. - never quite shook the rainbow crash nickname, she's a great flier but not so great at landings. has a fair share of scrapes and bruises, but they dont bother her. rarity: - cis (she/her), omnisexual - part crystal pony on her dad's side, her mane and coat have a slight crystaline look to them in the right light. - changes her hairstyle a lot, but has it tied up when working in her studio. - crafts beautiful jewelry, in addition to her clothes and accessories.

[glowettee]

✧・゜: ✧how i journal during summer + my favorite prompts for reflection :・゜✧:・゜✧

hey lovelies!

i don't know about you, but something about summer makes me want to journal more than any other season. maybe it's the slower mornings with golden light streaming through my window, or maybe it's just having extra time to sit with my thoughts. either way, summer journaling hits different, and i wanted to share how i approach it in case any of you are looking to start or refresh your practice!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ my summer journaling ritual ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

first things first - location is everything. in winter i'm all about journaling under blankets, but summer journaling deserves special spots. lately i've been taking my journal to this little corner of the park near my house right as the sun starts to set. something about the pink-orange sky and the slight evening breeze makes the words flow so much easier. if you can find an outdoor spot that feels safe and peaceful, i highly recommend it!

i also created a little portable journaling kit that i'm slightly obsessed with. it's just a small pouch with my favorite pens (the muji 0.38mm in black is literally perfect), some washi tape, and a tiny watercolor set. having this ready to grab means i'm way more likely to actually journal instead of just thinking about journaling (which, let's be honest, i've spent plenty of time doing too).

the other thing that's changed my summer journaling game is letting go of the pressure to write every single day. instead, i aim for 3-4 times a week, whenever it feels right. some entries are three pages long, others are just a few lines and maybe a tiny sketch of something i saw that day. giving myself permission to be inconsistent has somehow made me more consistent? the paradox of it all!

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ my favorite summer reflection prompts ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

whenever i sit down to journal and feel stuck (happens to the best of us!), these are the prompts i turn to:

what sensory experiences am i enjoying most this summer? (the taste of fresh berries, the feeling of warm sand, etc.)

what's something small that brought me joy today that i might have missed if i wasn't paying attention?

how is the current season reflecting my inner world right now?

if this summer had a color palette, what would it be and why?

what am i learning about myself during this season that surprises me?

what am i letting go of this summer? what am i welcoming in?

if i could bottle up one moment from today to revisit in winter, what would it be?

how is my body feeling in this season? what is it asking for?

what's a tiny adventure i could plan for myself this week?

what patterns am i noticing in my thoughts lately?

i find that summer is perfect for these kinds of reflective questions because there's something about the season that naturally puts me in a more observant state. i notice the way shadows fall, how ice cream tastes more intense, how time seems to stretch and contract in the heat.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ my actual journaling process ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

confession: i'm not one of those people with gorgeous, perfectly decorated journal pages. mine is messy and real - crossed out words, coffee stains, and all. i usually start by just word-vomiting whatever's on my mind for about 5 minutes. no filter, no judgment. this clears my mental cache enough to then move into more intentional reflection.

sometimes i'll press flowers or leaves between the pages (summer gives us so many pretty options!). other times i'll tape in a receipt from a special day or a tiny polaroid. these little artifacts become so precious to look back on when winter rolls around.

i've also started ending each entry with three things i'm grateful for from that day. it's simple but it completely shifts my perspective, especially on harder days when journaling becomes more of a venting session (we all need those sometimes!).

if you've been wanting to start journaling but feel intimidated, summer is honestly the perfect time to begin. there's no right way to do it - your journal is yours alone. it doesn't have to be pretty or profound. it just has to exist. feel free to use my personal prompts from above!

plus here a video on youtube i've been using to help me journal, it's beautiful music + wave sounds in the background: right here

do any of you keep journals? i'd love to hear how you approach it!

xoxo, mindy 🤍

[pearrosite]

🆃🅷🅴 🅻🅰︎🆃🅴 🅽🅸🅶🅷🆃,

🅳🅾︎🆄🅱︎🅻🅴 🅵🅴🅰︎🆃🆄🆁🅴,

🅿︎🅸🅲🆃🆄🆁🅴 🆂🅷🅾︎🆆

💋👠🍒

Presenting my third take on a Cuphead Show x Rocky Horror Picture Show crossover! This has sort of become a yearly tradition of mine and honestly I’m obsessed; both properties mean so much to me so embracing their already blended nature is such a joy! Especially with Devil and Frankie, both of whom are my favorites, being practically one and the same. 💋💋💋 I also have the isolated lineart, background image, and the Rocky pics from ‘23 and ‘22!

I will say this image was a JOURNEY. Balancing the colors, patterns, and images was a challenge, but 27 hours later it came to be and I’m so happy with it!!!!!!! No idea how I could ever top this, but I have a year to figure that out. In the meantime, I’ll be seeing you at the late night double feature picture show!

[kings-highway]

do you have any umbrella headcanons for the hq characters? like, colors and patterns and where they bought it, who has a million umbrellas but never seems to remember to bring one when it rains, who always keeps one at school, etc. that kinda stuff?

This is actually a way old prompt I simply took forever to answer but like... Yeah I gotchu.

Sugawara: never in his life has owned an umbrella. Bitch is WET half the time. Sprints between cars. Sneaks under other people’s and gets runoff dribbled on his head. Complains constantly about the rain. Could not tell you the last time he opened an umbrella

Asahi: opened an umbrella inside once and is still anxious about it

Daichi: has an umbrella and behaves normally about it. The sight of Asahi panicking because he forgot to bring one and Suga preparing to rawdog the weather is offset by Daichi standing between them and opening his umbrella without any fanfare and then seeming surprised by the chaos that his two friends have unleashed in the .3 seconds since it started raining. It’s probably a solid colour and at least 3 years old.

Tanaka: kinda like Suga but completely intentionally. “Umbrellas are for wimps!” he shouts, soaked and freezing and about to be very sick

Noya: shockingly, actually pretty good about keeping an umbrella around. He probably got one in middle school with like flames on it, and so he makes sure to carry it during the rainy seasons because it’s his only chance to show it off. Also whips it out at every opportunity to offer to walk girls home if they’ve forgotten theirs.

Ennoshita: forgot his umbrella once during a rainstorm and Daichi gave him his to walk home with “because your walk is further than mine anyway” and Ennoshita has never forgiven himself for it. The man keeps an umbrella in his school locker separate from the one he carries to and from home just in case. Dude got given a new flavour of imposter syndrome over the generosity of one guy a year ago.

Yamaguchi: has one of those clear umbrellas. Constantly offering to share umbrellas with tsukki but alas Tsukishima is taller than him so this makes no sense, and Tsukki has never in his life not had an umbrella on him. Often he ends up sharing his umbrella with Hinata instead.

Hinata: theoretically owns an umbrella, he says he does. Ends up ducking under Yamaguchi’s constantly, since he “doesn’t exactly know where his is” at the moment. Can’t figure out why Yamaguchi always seems annoyed by him asking to share his umbrella.

Tsukishima: a well prepared young lad, has had the same umbrella since middle school, it probably has like a moon pattern on it because the bitch likes to brand himself. Is currently trying to decide if he should fake forgetting his umbrella one of these days because it would probably make Yamaguchi happy.

Kageyama: will just walk home in the rain and not notice he’s soaking wet. Honestly I can imagine him shaking himself out like a dog. He once gave an umbrella to a girl and she fell in love with him and confessed on the next valentine's day and he had no idea who she was.

Yachi: got to share Kiyoko's umbrella once and has never been the same since. Her own umbrella is probably very cutsey and pink with stars or something.

Kiyoko: keeps a spare umbrella in her locker in case she forgets because boys become unbearable if they think they can offer to be her saviour. Refuses them and walks in the rain if necessary.

Oikawa: honestly he’s probably a very sensible regular guy who checks the weather and brings an umbrella if he thinks it’s needed, but he probably always has to borrow one from his mother or dig one out of the back of a closet.

Iwa: weirdly thinks that Oikawa is never going to have an umbrella, so he always over prepares, but Oikawa has literally never once been caught in the rain without an umbrella and for whatever reason simply cannot convince Iwa that he knows how to check his weather app. Like it’ll start raining and Iwa will scoff and go “bet you didn’t bring an umbrella, huh?” as Oikawa is pulling out and opening his umbrella and will be like: “????? leave me alone????”

Matsukawa: kinda likes the rain. Sometimes the rest of the Seijoh 4 catch him holding his umbrella to the side to let himself get rained on. Honestly I can see him with like… a kinda gothic umbrella, like probably something really dark with skulls on it, or a spider web pattern, and he unironically really loves it. It’s like an element of self expression that the rest of these jock boys cannot comprehend so they don’t even bother making fun of him for it.

Hanamaki: 9/10 the person who gets Iwa’s second umbrella

Kyotani: would rather die than admit he was cold and/or needed an umbrella after his mother definitely yelled at him to take one that morning and he ignored her

Yahaba: sometimes weaponizes his umbrella to whack people. He’d also use it to flirt with girls who forgot theirs, except one time a girl saw him using it to whack his teammates and rumours spread so now nobody accepts his offers.

Ushijima: okay hot take: I don’t think he owns an umbrella. Live-in dorms aren't conducive to an umbrella, what, he’s gonna open it for the 1 second he’s between buildings? Nah. but I think he’s got sort of a weird dog energy about it, where he’ll be soaked through from walking in the rain, but will in fact have walked instead of running, and will just kind of sit there and let water drip onto his face and honestly I don’t think this is a very fun experience for him but what’s he gonna do, complain about the weather? There’s no point in complaining about the weather, it can't be changed.

Tendou: I can imagine him with - and I’m aware this is very specific - a clean umbrella, with like colourful polka dot confetti. I take no criticisms. He also happily allows any of his teammates to walk under this umbrella if they need to, however this is a trap and they will, actually, have to listen to the entire plot of FullMetal Alchemist in excruciating detail.

Leon: give him a regular ass solid colour umbrella that he loses constantly. It’s the dorms thing! He doesn’t have to use it often! But any time he needs it it takes him 35 minutes to dig up.

Semi: he is like… cool with an umbrella. Like he’s not really actually stopping himself from getting rained on, because it’s tilted back against his shoulder and he’s sauntering along getting soaked, but my god does he look good. Also I imagine his umbrella being striped white and black. But oh boy is he always wet despite having an umbrella.

Goshiki: has an umbrella but stopped using it because he thought the thing Ushijima was doing was some kind of cool-mature-adult thing and now he’s just wet all the time.

Yamagata: will ask if people dare him to run through the rain and then not wait for an answer and do it anyways. Could have an umbrella, maybe he doesn’t, has never been seen using it either way. At least he has fun.

Shirabu: constantly trying to get Semi to use his umbrella normal. Constantly trying to get Leon to put his umbrella in the same place. Constantly trying to convince ushijima to buy an umbrella. Constantly trying to convince goshiki to use his umbrella again and that being wet isn’t cool. Has no idea what the hell yamagata is doing. constantly, desperately, avoiding situations in which he needs to walk under Tendou’s umbrella. Always wondering why the fuck the Shiratorizawa team is so goddamn wet all the time. His umbrella is pink.

Taichi: owns an umbrella. Thinks Shirabu needs to calm the fuck down.

Aone: shares umbrellas constantly with people. He has a really simple one, but he’s really consistent about remembering it, so often he’s the go-to saviour.

Futakuchi: Usually forgets his umbrella and is very thankful Aone never has. Is usually the second person under Aone’s umbrella.

Moniwa: carries two umbrellas around anticipating someone else needing them and will end up giving both of them away and walking home in the rain.

Koganegawa: excitedly walking in the rain beside Moniwa bonding over their wet heads. (he thinks he forgot his umbrella but it’s actually just pushed at the bottom of his bag. He will notice when he gets home and feel SO BAD he didn’t offer it to Moniwa.

Terushima: thinks umbrellas are for wimps and dorks and is always wet. He won't even walk under an umbrella someone else is offering.

Kuroo: black umbrella. Honestly I don’t think he’s very interesting about it. He doesn’t like getting rained on so he tends to be cautious and over prepare.

Kenma: always carries an umbrella if there’s even the slightest chance of it raining. Hates getting rained on. Hates sharing an umbrella with kuroo even more than he hates getting rained on. (Kuroo acts like he’s gods’ gift to umbrellas every time Kenma needs him to share.)

Fukunaga: rainbow umbrella!!! He likes to play in the rain and will get wet even holding an umbrella around his head. Jumping in puddles, splashing. One time he got soaked by a passing car driving through a puddle and has never laughed that hard in his life. This cat likes water.

Tora: usually ends up using Fukunaga’s rainbow umbrella because he forgot his own and fukunaga clearly doesn’t need it.

Lev: “hahaha yeah I have an umbrella…” (he doesn’t) and nobody will share with him. Kuroo just sort of side-eyes him. Yaku walks with an umbrella and doesn’t even pretend to offer. Lev gets wet.

Yaku: I imagine him with like a beige umbrella. He’s super normal about it. Never shares, though (hurts his arm to hold it up so much, but refuses to let someone else hold it for him.)

Inuoka: doesn’t have an umbrella, doesn’t need one. He’s always using his hood as if it’s just as good and saying how it’s redundant to carry around an umbrella even though this soaks his jacket every time.

Bokuto: I think he only owns an umbrella if he can find an owl themed umbrella, otherwise he’s just sorta running and hoping he doesn’t get too wet. (he does.)

Akaashi: if Bokuto has successfully found an owl themed umbrella, Akaashi owns one too. Otherwise, he’s got a very normal solid colour umbrella that he has never used for himself once. Bokuto, Konoha, Sarukai, whoever has forgotten their umbrella currently has Akaashi’s umbrella.

Kita: I think he has a white umbrella, and I think it’s very normally employed in the manner it should be, and I think he’s most often seen using it when he’s gazing off wistfully and making long, contemplative monologues about how rain is often run from despite it being the very essence of life, and how the water cycle heals and washes away bad energy and the state of pollution in the oceans and dear fucking god someone distract him throw a volleyball or something it’s been eighteen minutes he’s still talking.

Aran: I imagine him with one of the like, real fancy umbrellas with a wooden handle and all that (every other mentioned umbrella I was thinking of as a cheap plastic one that pops out) but no this bitch got a real umbrella, probably old from his grandmother or something. He’s also the only one still listening after minute eighteen of Kita’s contemplation on our connection to the divine via the endless cycle of water through our bodies. He’s gonna google the water cycle when he gets home.

Atsumu & Osamu: there is in fact an umbrella between the two of them. It will break before the end of their rainy walk home. They both think it’s their own umbrella, but it’s not, it’s their mother’s umbrella and she will yell at them.

Suna: this guy would rather sleep at school than walk home without an umbrella so you bet your ass that he keeps an umbrella on him. Give him something with a cool geometric design maybe. I also think the only moments of sincerity anyone’s every seen from him is when he’s very quietly and politely asking Kita or Aran to borrow their umbrella if he’s forgotten his.

Sakusa: Yes, he has an umbrella, of course he has an umbrella. I think his umbrella is bright purple, and I think he keeps forgetting how to open it, and then it pops out and scares him and this happens every fucking time. Something’s wrong with this guy. He can also never get it tied up again properly and generally tends to find the thing a hassle.

Komori: Also has a bright purple umbrella but he opens it normally. He has no idea what Sakusa’s problem is.

Korai: has Hirugami’s umbrella from last year.

Hirugami: is just realizing the reason he needed to buy a new umbrella.

[romanczukowsky]

Hogwart Express

Pairing: George x Reader Summary: A seemingly ordinary train ride to Hogwarts turns electric when George chooses to stay behind with Y/N, sparking a connection that’s been quietly simmering beneath the surface. Between stolen touches and whispered promises, what begins as school talk soon becomes a night charged with desire and unforgettable firsts. Content Warnings: explicit sexual content, consensual intimacy, teasing, mild jealousy, private moments Author’s Note: Sometimes, the best magic happens on the way to school — especially when someone’s really listening.

It was a crisp afternoon at King’s Cross Station. The familiar hum of chatter and the distant whistle of the Hogwarts Express filled the air, but I barely noticed. My fingers trembled slightly as I adjusted the strap of my worn leather bag. Three boys were waiting for me in the third compartment of the train — Fred, George, and Lee. Same year as me, same chaos, but somehow... different.

I stepped onto the train, the murmur around me fading as I made my way to their compartment. Fred’s mischievous grin greeted me immediately, but it was George’s eyes that caught mine—sharp, unexpectedly sincere. Lee offered a tired smile and a nod, as if already dreaming of the journey’s end.

“Hey,” I said, settling between them. “How’re you feeling about Transfiguration this year?” I tried to spark some school talk.

Fred rolled his eyes. “Transfiguration? Come on, y/n, it’s all about the new pranks we’re cooking up. Forget the lessons.”

George’s gaze didn’t waver. He actually listened.

“I’m serious,” I continued, drawing out my words, “there’s so much to prepare for... the new professors, the exams—”

Fred and Lee exchanged knowing glances, their smiles sly. But George stayed focused on me, as if every word mattered.

After a long, dull pause, Fred sighed dramatically. “We’re stepping out — gotta test a new ‘Slytherin surprise.’ You guys in?”

Lee was already heading for the door, grinning.

George hesitated, then glanced back at me, eyes sparkling with something I couldn’t ignore. “I’ll stay,” he said softly.

The door slid shut behind the others, leaving just the two of us in the dim compartment.

The silence between us felt charged, thick with possibility. I sensed the heat of his gaze, the nervous tapping of his fingers against his knee.

I kept talking, my voice softer now but steady, weaving through the thoughts I’d been turning over for weeks — potions and their delicate timing, the enigmatic patterns of numerology, even Muggle studies, which most found dull but fascinated me. George didn’t interrupt; he simply watched me.

His eyes were warm, absorbing every word. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin in his hands. That crooked grin spread across his face — the kind of smile that made you forget the chill outside and the crowded train around us.

“School’s school, love,” he said, voice low and sure. “You’re going to ace it all. Best in our year, easy.”

A rush of heat flooded my cheeks. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gaze. “And you?” I whispered. “What do you want to talk about?”

George’s smile deepened, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer beneath. “We can keep talking school,” he shrugged like it was no big deal. “Honestly, I like listening to you.”

I blinked, my face warming even more. The compartment seemed smaller, warmer, the air between us thickening — charged with something neither of us dared to name.

“Really?” I murmured, heart pounding.

“Really,” he nodded, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his knee. “So, keep going. I’m all ears.”

“I can’t wait for the Quidditch matches this year,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips as I glanced out the window, imagining the roar of the crowd and the blur of players chasing the Quaffle. “Gryffindor’s been training hard — this season’s going to be incredible.”

George sighed softly, standing to stretch before sliding down beside me, closing the small gap between us. I kept talking, words tumbling out, but I felt his eyes on my face — attentive, warm, suddenly uncomfortably close.

Without warning, his fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from my cheek, tucking it gently behind my ear. The contact made me stop mid-sentence, breath catching.

He chuckled quietly, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

His hand slid down slowly to rest on my knee, tracing lazy circles beneath the fabric of my skirt. The warmth of his touch sent a thrill racing through me. He leaned in, voice low and teasing, right next to my ear.

“Go on... What were you saying?”

I opened my mouth, but the words vanished. My chest tightened, breath shallow, caught between nerves and something electric.

Then, just as I was about to give up, George’s tongue flicked softly against my earlobe — warm and unexpectedly bold.

“I like hearing you talk,” he murmured, voice husky. “I really listen.”

My pulse hammered, and I swallowed hard, managing a quiet whisper.

“There’s so much to get ready for this year,” I said, voice trembling but steady. “Classes, homework, potions experiments... and the exams — they’re going to be brutal.”

His hand slid slowly higher, inch by inch, as I spoke. My voice softened into a murmur, every breath between us charged — sweet, teasing, impossible to ignore.

His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles on my thigh beneath my skirt’s thin fabric, sending shivers curling down my spine. I bit my lip, voice dropping to a whisper. “I really want to do well this year... but sometimes it feels like too much. Like I’m barely keeping up.”

George’s smile deepened, that familiar spark igniting my heart. He leaned in closer, breath warm against my cheek.

“You’ll be the best, y/n,” he murmured, low and certain. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

Before I could reply, his hand slid just a little higher, resting now at the curve of my thigh, fingertips barely grazing the skin beneath.

I swallowed hard, cheeks flushing as delicious tension spread between us — a mix of nervous excitement and something deeper, urgent.

“Want to take a break from talking about school?” he whispered, lips brushing my ear.

My heart thundered, caught between wanting to say yes and fearing what might come next. But his touch was gentle, full of promise, and I couldn’t say no.

His hand was already under my skirt — slow at first, but there was nothing gentle in the way he gripped my thigh and pulled me closer. The train’s hum and distant chatter blurred out the moment his fingers found the edge of my underwear.

I gasped, hand clutching the seat’s edge. “George—”

He didn’t answer. His eyes burned into mine before his mouth crashed onto mine — hot, demanding, a kiss full of everything left unspoken. I opened for him instinctively, moaning softly as his fingers slipped past the fabric.

He groaned low when he felt how wet I was.

“Fuck, y/n...” he whispered, breath shaky. His voice had changed — deeper, rougher. I could barely respond. My hips rocked toward his hand, desperate for more.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” he asked, fingers teasing my clit with maddening precision. I whimpered, nodding, lost for words.

Then he pushed two fingers inside me without warning — slow, deep — and I nearly cried out.

“You’re so tight,” he growled, pumping faster. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this. Thinking about me. While pretending to focus on classes.”

I grabbed his arm, holding on as pleasure curled inside me like a living thing.

“I have,” I choked out, voice trembling.

“Yeah?” His thumb pressed circles on my clit with just the right pressure, jolting my whole body. “Then come for me. Right here. Right now.”

The pressure, the speed, his voice — everything hit me at once.

I came hard on his hand, biting my lip to muffle the moan, body tensing then melting beneath his touch. He didn’t stop — kept moving, fucking me through it until my legs shook.

When I finally opened my eyes, breathless and flushed, he was licking his fingers clean.

“I fucking knew you’d taste good,” he murmured.

Then he stood, tugged at his belt smoothly, dropping his trousers just enough to reveal exactly what I’d imagined since fifth year.

“Your turn,” he said with a wicked grin, pulling me up onto his lap.

I laughed breathlessly, surprised by the sudden shift but not resisting. Straddling him, I felt the warmth of his body beneath me — hands firm on my waist, eyes darker than ever. The playful glint remained, edged now with something hungry.

His hands slid under my robes, palms warm as they curved around my hips.

“You really were going to talk about Quidditch the whole ride, weren’t you?” he murmured, thumb brushing just above my skirt’s waistband.

“I—” I started, words catching as he leaned forward, mouth grazing the base of my throat. His breath was hot, slow, savoring the moment. My heart thundered against his chest.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he whispered, kissing just under my jaw. “I could listen to you talk about exams and broomsticks all day. But right now…” His lips curved into a smile. “I want to hear something else.”

His hands moved up my sides, dragging fabric with them. I felt bare heat where his fingers brushed, trails of fire beneath my skin. I could barely breathe. My hands clenched in his robes.

“George...” I whispered, unsure what to say.

His eyes met mine — full of confidence, mischief, and desire. He kissed me — full, possessive, claiming. One hand cradled my head, the other gripped my thigh. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound with a low groan. My body pressed closer, moving instinctively. Every nerve alive, every breath shared, like a spell we both refused to break.

The rhythm shifted. My hands slid up his shoulders, fingers knotting into his ginger hair as I chased every flicker of sensation. All I felt was George — his hands guiding, breath hot against my skin, chest rising fast beneath mine.

He broke from my lips just long enough to whisper, “You drive me mad, y’know that?”

Then back — lips trailing down my neck, breath tickling my collarbone, voice deeper, unsteady.

Somewhere faintly, the train’s whistle echoed again, reminding us time still moved. When he held me tighter, forehead against mine, breath caught, I knew — this was more than a prank or passing thrill.

“Fuck, I’ll get there soon...” he sighed. A few more movements and I felt heat spilling inside me. I sank down on him.

“We should probably...” he began, husky voice trailing off.

I nodded, barely thinking. My skirt wrinkled, I tugged it down, cheeks flushed. George shifted, pulling on his shirt and running a hand through his hair.

Just as I reached for my bag, the door slid open.

Fred stood there, smirking knowingly. Lee peeked over his shoulder, half-curious, half-smug.

“Well, well,” Fred said, arms crossed. “Hope we didn’t interrupt a... deep academic discussion.”

George didn’t flinch, grinning as he leaned back.

“Y/n was just telling me all about Numerology. Fascinating stuff.”

I cleared my throat, avoiding their eyes, but the flush on my face said it all.

Lee whistled low. “Looks like someone got extra credit.”

I rolled my eyes, suppressing a smile. George reached over, gently squeezing my hand.

As the train rolled forward, I stared out the window, heart still racing, realizing this year at Hogwarts might just be different — in all the best ways.

[blowndrip]

A DAY WITH YOU

fluff 💭

pairing: kylian mbappé x reader

summary: When Kylian has a day off, all he wants is to be with you. From lazy mornings to stolen kisses, this is a day filled with love, and laughter.

A/N: soft kylian one-shot fluff. Enjoy ☺️

The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft golden glow across the room. I stir awake, feeling the warmth of Kylian’s arms wrapped securely around me. His breathing is steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that’s become so familiar, so comforting. I tilt my head slightly to look at him, his face relaxed in sleep, his dark lashes brushing against his cheeks. Even like this, he looks effortlessly perfect.

I don’t want to move, not when he’s holding me like this, but as if sensing I’m awake, his arms tighten around me. His voice, still rough with sleep, breaks the silence.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead.

“Morning,” I whisper back, a smile tugging at my lips.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His hair is messy, his eyes still half-closed, but the way he’s looking at me makes my heart skip a beat. There’s something so tender in his gaze, something that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world that matters to him right now.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

“Always, when I’m with you,” I reply, my cheeks heating up at the honesty in my words.

He grins, that boyish, heart-stopping grin that always makes me weak in the knees. “Good,” he says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Because I’m not letting you go anytime soon.”

///

We stay like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside feeling miles away. Eventually, Kylian sits up, stretching lazily before turning to me with a playful glint in his eyes.

“What do you feel like doing today?” he asks, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm.

“Honestly?” I say, smiling up at him. “I just want to stay here with you. No plans, no distractions. Just us.”

His smile softens, and he leans down to kiss me again, this time longer, sweeter. “I like that plan,” he murmurs against my lips.

///

We spend the morning in bed, talking and laughing about nothing and everything. Kylian tells me stories about his teammates, his voice animated as he mimics their expressions and gestures. I can’t help but laugh, the sound filling the room and making his eyes light up with pride.

At one point, he grabs his phone and starts playing some of his favorite music, the soft melodies blending perfectly with the warmth of the room. He pulls me to my feet, his hands resting on my waist as we sway gently to the rhythm.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “you’re not a bad dancer.”

I laugh, resting my head against his chest. “And you’re not so bad yourself.”

He hums in response, his fingers tracing circles on my back. “Only for you,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’d do anything for you.”

///

Later, we move to the couch, a blanket draped over us as we watch a movie. Or at least, we try to. Kylian spends more time watching me than the screen, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm.

“You’re not even paying attention,” I say, glancing at him.

“I am,” he insists, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m just… distracted.”

“By what?”

“You,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I feel my cheeks flush, but before I can respond, he’s pulling me closer, his lips finding mine in a kiss that’s slow and sweet and full of everything he doesn’t say out loud.

///

That night, as we lie in bed, his arms around me, I feel a sense of peace I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. His breathing is steady, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm against my back.

“y/n?” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” he says, his words soft but sure.

I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “I love you too,” I reply, my voice just as quiet but just as certain.

He smiles, pulling me closer, and I know that no matter what happens, as long as I have him, I’ll always have this. This warmth, this love, this feeling of being exactly where I’m meant to be.

[valenteal]

The reason why the story of the Todoroki family in mha is simultaneously surprising, original, and completely unsatisfying has become obvious to me after reading one essay by Joseph Campbell. Honestly every writer should read his works or at least an overview of them. That way they can avoid making mistakes like this.

One of the things Campbell is best known for is his breakdown of all the recurring patterns that are inherent to mythology and story telling across all human cultures. The character archetypes, the story structure, the themes that are always present. This doesn’t mean the stories are unoriginal, it means that the ideas and themes behind them are so intrinsic to human culture that they can never be destroyed or created as long as humanity continues. There’s immense beauty and value in understanding these archetypes and what they say about humanity as a whole.

The story of the Todoroki family was set up perfectly to fit one of these archetypes. The tale of the tyrant-monster who is toppled by the hero, a product of his own selfish desires poisoning his domain, who has defeated the demons of their culture and their psyche to become a pure representation of human nature at its best. (This is heavily paraphrased and Campbell talks fancy so others may have differing interpretations but I don’t want to go get the book rn to quote it). Edit: got the book in front of me, here’s the quote,

The figure of the tyrant-monster is known to mythologies, folk traditions, legends, and even nightmares of the world; and his characteristics are everywhere essentially the same. He is the hoarder of the general benefit. He is the monster avid for the greedy rights of “my and mine.” The havoc wrought by him is described in mythology and fairy tale as being universal throughout his domain. This may be no more than his household, his own tortured psyche, or the lives that he blights with the touch of his friendship and assistance; or it may amount to the extent of his civilization. The inflated ego of the tyrant is a curse to himself and his world—no matter how his affairs may seem to prosper. Self-terrorized, fear-haunted, alert at every hand to meet and battle back the anticipated aggression of his environment, which are primarily the reflections of the uncontrollable impulses to acquisition within himself, the giant of self-achieved independence is the world’s messenger of disaster, even though, in his mind, he may entertain himself with humane intentions. Where ever he sets his hand there is a cry (if not from the housetops, then—more miserably—within every heart): a cry for the redeeming hero, the carrier of the shining blade, whose blow, whose touch, whose whole existence, will liberate the land.

…

The hero is a man of self-achieved submission. But submission to what? That precisely is the riddle that today we have to ask ourselves and that it is everywhere the primary virtue and historic deed of the hero to have to have solved. As Professor Arnold J. Toynbee indicates in his six-volume study of the laws of the rise and disintegration of civilizations, schism in the soul, schism in the body social, will not be resolved by any scheme of return to the good old days (archaism), or by programs guaranteed to render an ideal projected future (futurism), or even by realistic, hardheaded work to weld together again the deteriorating elements. Only birth can conquer death—the birth not of an old thing again, but of something new. Within the soul, within the body social, there must be—if we are to experience long survival— a continuous “recurrence of birth” (palingenesia) to nullify the unremitting recurrences of death. For it is by means of our own victories, if we are not regenerated, that the work of Nemesis is wrought: doom breaks from the shell of our very virtue. Peace then is a snare; war is a snare; change is a snare; permanence a snare. When our day is come for the victory of death, death closes in; there is nothing we can do, except be crucified—and resurrected; dismembered totally, and then reborn.

Theseus, the hero-slayer of the Minotaur, entered Crete from without, as the symbol and arm of the rising civilization of the Greeks. That was the new and living thing. But it is possible also for the principle of regeneration to be sought and found within the very walls of the tyrant’s empire itself. Professor Toynbee uses the terms “detachment” and “transfiguration” to describe the crisis by which the higher spiritual dimension is attained that makes possible the resumption of the work of creation. The first step, detachment or withdrawal, consists of a radical transfer of emphasis from the external to the internal world, macro- to microcosm, a retreat from the desperations of the wasteland to the peace of the everlasting realm that is within. But this realm, as we know from psychoanalysis, is precisely the infantile unconscious. It the realm we enter in sleep. We carry it within ourselves forever. All the ogres and secret helpers of our nursery are there, all the magic of our childhood. And more important, all the life-potentialities that we never imagined to bring to adult realization, those other portions of ourself, are there; for such golden seeds do not die. If only a portion of that lost totality could be dredged up into the light of day, we should experience a marvelous expansion of our powers, a vivid renewal of life. We should tower in stature. Moreover, if we could dredge up something forgotten not only only by ourselves but by our whole generation or our entire civilization, we should become indeed the boon-bringer, the culture hero of the day—a personage of not only local but world historical moment. In a word: the first work of the hero is to retreat from the world scene of secondary effects to those causal zones of the psyche where the difficulties really reside, and there to clarify the difficulties, eradicate them in his own case (i.e. give battle to the nursery demons of his local culture) and break through to the undistorted, direct experience and assimilation of what C. J. Jung has called “the archetypal images.”

…

The hero, therefore, is the man or woman who has been able to battle past his personal and local historical limitations to the generally valid, normal human forms. Such a one’s visions, ideas, and inspirations come pristine from the primary springs of human life and thought. Hence they are eloquent, not of the present, disintegrating society and psyche, but of the unquenched source through which society is reborn. The hero has died a modern man; but as eternal man—perfected, unspecific, universal man— he has been reborn. His second solemn task and deed therefore (as Toynbee declares and as all the mythologies of mankind indicate) is to return then to us, transfigured, and teach the lesson he has learned of life renewed.

Both Shouto and Dabi were being set up as potential heroes to defeat Endeavors tyranny. It wasn’t until season 5 or 6 that we see the dramatic change in direction that the story takes, with Endeavor getting a redemption arc and Dabi being legitimately unhinged and evil. Now, this could be considered a plot twist or whatever, if it is it’s a really bad one, or it could be that Horikoshi literally changed his plan part way through the series. I personally think it’s the second. Whether that was because of pressure from editors, a desire to surprise fans who’d guessed where it was heading, or because he just decided he liked it better I don’t know. What I do know is that is was a mistake, one that went hand in hand with about a million other mistakes that are basically the same situation of the story completely changing direction halfway through. It ruined the series and it wasted an opportunity to tell an important story that could really resonate with people.

Instead of the ever satisfying tale of evil dictators getting what’s coming to them because of their own mistakes, we got a halfhearted redemption, a lot of victim blaming, reinforced widespread societal prejudice, undone character development, and a shit ton of heartbreak.

And I don’t understand why! It was set up so perfectly! It had so much potential! It looked like it was going to be incredibly cathartic, a story about how people are flawed and imperfect and expecting more ruins society. It looked like it was going to be about a toxic culture actually being changed! And then it wasn’t!

If it was an attempt to be original it failed spectacularly. If it was an attempt to be depressingly realistic it was a complete success, which I suppose is saying something given the nature of the series and its completely insane premise but I digress.

My point is, recurring themes and stories exist for a reason, they are important, and going against them so completely will never leave the audience satisfied. We crave these familiar stories, we need them. Mha made us expect to get one, left people on the edge of their seats for years waiting for the catharsis of it. And then we didn’t get it. Think queer baiting but with the psychological effects of stories.

[pplatonic]

Hi! I'm curious as of what you mean when someone can't expierence "narcissistic abuse" ? I can understand the fact NPD and those who have different forms can be good people and work away around those, but some don't and can harm others? I'm more so just curious on your thoughts since you are someone who has NPD and your opinion is more important than mine in this.

Thank you for seeing this nonetheless!

Thank you for asking! I actually put that banner there specifically start this conversation, because I honestly have thought So Fucking Much about this

"Narcissistic abuse" in today's lexicon has become the label to describe a specific subpattern of emotional abuse with its own unique traits (often heavily involved with gaslighting, emotional extortion, attention/praise/pity dynamics, black-and-white dividing relationships, etc.),

and it is not wrong to call this "narcissistic abuse" because "narcissistic" is a mental disorder,

it is wrong to call this "narcissistic abuse" because fundamentally the muddiness of personality-disorder related terminology completely obscures useful psychological discourse and often has people wrapping in narcissistic personality disorder where it has no place to be in the discussion of what we call "narcissistic abuse."

NPD is a volatile and horrific trauma disorder that develops from long-term childhood abuse or adversity. It causes harmful behaviors. I will not sugarcoat it, I have been a terrible person because of it, I will be a terrible person again because of it.

But the conflation of "trauma disorder stemming from longterm abuse" and "specific pattern of abuse that is very emotionally traumatizing" is basically impossible to avoid, and I would rather denounce both terms altogether because - at the end of the day - when you hear 'narcissistic,' everybody thinks of a fucking Greek myth, not serious, horrific abuse and mental illnesses.

It is the fault of the APA and every other psychologist who agrees and continues using such pejoritive terms to describe the mentally ill: "narcissistic," "antisocial," "oppositional defiant disorder," "attention deficit," "dependent," "avoidant," etc. These are not labels designed to provoke understanding, compassion, sympathy, or education. They are designed to confine within boxes and stigmatize, and the labels on these boxes do not even account for how they look to those lacking niche psychological knowledge.

Generally, however, I don't really talk about this because of the lack of nuance present in online spaces. I think that the way people with NPD - including myself! - regularly denounce the term narcissistic abuse is crucial to reconciling the conflation between "narcissistic abuse" and "narcissistic personality disorder."

However, I think both sides do this without much tact. And that's pretty fucking understandable - we're all abuse and/or trauma victims here. But I think on the part of the "narcissistic abuse" side, they tend to emotionally shut down or lash out whenever they hear the word 'narcissistic' because that word is inherently tied to the nature of the abuse they have endured. Yet, in the "narcissistic personality disorder" side, the way that those of us with NPD will attack and berate those that choose to label their abuse in such a way does not help that either.

I understand it, I truly do - "narcissistic is OUR word, it's OUR struggle, they can't appropriate it like this!" - especially with a disorder where positive external perception and reassurement to uphold one's ego is basically the cornerstone mechanism behind every symptom of the disorder. But that's the thing. The way that pwNPD often react to and berate not only just, doesn't help trauma survivors, it also forces themselves to endure the same awful trauma-related emotion while they lash out. Nothing will be made of perpetuating the cycle of screaming and crying at eachother, except for more internal anguish for the broken child all of us trauma/abuse victims hold inside of ourselves.

I don't think we should be using the term "narcissistic" in general to describe anything psychologic, because it's imprecise and just means "asshole" in the general lexicon. It's both inept to describe a complex mental health condition, and a complex set of abusive behaviors. It hinders both of our communities, when really, the fundamental issues the both of us deal with should make us steadfast allies.

I'm not good at names, and I don't have any ideas for what we should call NPD, and what we should call narcissistic abuse, instead. The disagreement is not actually in the existing phenomenon - both of them are used to describe repeating patterns and a generally cohesive group of experiences. The disagreement is in how harmful it is, to all of us, to choose to label it this way.

My bagel is cold now, thank you for coming to my fucking TedTalk, and remember to be compassionate.

[pixelatedraindrops]

Baby Makoto AU Doodle Dump🐣

Hiya everyone! So, I’ve been busy working on some art of this new little concept of mine. It’s been in my head for a while. Ever since I found out Makoto is in fact canonically 3 years old. And then thinking of Number One being a doting single parent to his tiny homunculus clone whom he adopts to keep safe from further experimentation and raises as his own 🥺💕

I’ve seen other people (specifically on twitter) come up with this thought as well. Makoto as a 3 year old child with Yuma as his parent. Honestly other than drawing my favorite characters being sick, drawing them as little kids also brings about a nostalgic comfort to me. Not nearly as much joy as drawing sickies brings me, but it was fun to draw the all powerful CEO as a little toddler curious about the world. He's just a little baby <3

Now I am actually a bit shy and insecure about this idea. Mainly due to people possibly confusing it with infantilization and/or age regression. This is neither of those things. It’s an AU where he just happens to be a toddler. If anything I picture little Makoto to be similar to Anya from Spy x Family. (and the fact they both share a Japanese VA makes this connection even cuter, and he's only one year younger than her x3)

Anyway, I hope you all will indulge in me as I share the art I’ve done of this tiny little homunculus. I probably won’t talk about this au or draw it often due to feeling shy about it, so I just made a full on thread of the doodles if you want to see. I keep them under a read more to prevent spam (and I know not everyone is a fan of this concept)

But if you look, I hope you enjoy!

A little reference of sorts I made of my toddler Makoto design. (though he wears different clothing in every art I do of him lol this just connects his normal purple flowery attire) He is exactly 2 feet shorter than his usual height making him pretty small for a toddler. (but yuma is pretty short too lol and I want him to be able to carry him ;w;)

He has 2 special toys that connect to his other mask designs in the concept art. The teddy bear is his very special possession that Yuma gave him as a present, and the puppet teruteru-bozu is something he made together with Yuma when crafting on a rainy day. (he is so talented preparing him for the future when he actually develops products for the company he will run) The melon ball is based on his favorite fruit, and he has socks and a fuzzy blanket with the pattern of his mask.

In this AU, Yuma retains his Number One persona. He’s not meek apologetic and unsure, he has the confidence of the ultimate detective. But is he confident as a parent? Not in the slightest. But taking care of Makoto teaches him more about being kind and empathetic towards others, and eventually over time he becomes super protective and even at times doting towards Makoto.

Making his personality a bit more bright and pleasant, much like the kind and gentle Yuma that we all know and love. Parenthood causes the serious detective to soften up a lot. And of course this causes Makoto to love and depend on Yuma in return and never want to cause him trouble. (So he puts on a tough act a lot ;w;) However, he almost never calls Yuma dad. He just calls him Yuma. Its very rare that he refers to Yuma as his dad but this is perfectly okay by Yuma. (But when Makoto does call him dad? Yuma feels such unexplainable emotional discord that he almost cries.)

Some more doodles :3

Such a silly little family. I love them so much <3

Why did I think of this AU? Because I want Makoto and pre-game Yuma to not be lonely, be happy together, and for Makoto to have a childhood. Honestly Makoto seems a bit childish and playful in canon too so...

I think I'd like him to have an actual childhood where he grows up comfortable and happy. And in the care of someone who loves him 💜

[baphometsss]

someone said to me once that they don't understand why i support palestinians' rights when the majority are muslim and mostly transphobic/homophobic, that they would happily see all trans people removed from existence

i had to stop for a minute bc i couldn't honestly understand multiple levels of disconnect that goes on mentally to make a statement like that

i support human rights. period. understanding that human rights struggles look different to different demographics based on their specific challenges and needs does not negate the fact that those rights are universal. i do not care what muslims/palestinians think of me being trans. i do not care what the majority of people think of me being trans. i can be a subject of their hate and still believe that their most fundamental rights should not be violated in the way they are. i can not share in their religious and cultural beliefs and still believe that their fundamental rights as humans should not be up for debate. even if you presented me with the most batshit insane criminal whom many would like to see on death row, i would still stand up for their rights, because those rights have to be protected for all. as soon as you start backsliding on rights for one group, it's very easy for it to become a pattern, and then the norm, for multiple groups of 'undesirables' to be dehumanised and wiped out. it's happened before and is happening again--in your country and in mine.

human rights are not tit for tat and if you think they are then you don't belong in the fight.

[lilgingerslut]

I'm thinking of you laying there on the bed of a dimly lit room, in your flirty little skirt just waiting for someone to take you.

I start slowly getting closer to you starring you down, letting you know just how bad I want you. You start to feel the tension in the room escalating and I can hear your breathing pattern changing. I’m now just next to you, I start softly running my hand up the inside of your leg, inner thigh all the way to your stomach. I pause, take a glimpse at you, I want to see how you’re reacting to my touch. We briefly lock eyes and that’s my signal, your insistant lustful gaze has betrayed you. You haven’t uttered a single word but your body has now made it clear, you’re enjoying this moment and you sure as hell don’t want this to stop.

So I pick up where I left at, I start to run my hand on your body once more reaching for your hips, I lean my head closer to yours, gaze at your face for awhile. I slowly run my other hand trough your hair, down your neck and shoulder. Your skin feels so soft. I decide to play with the strap of your bra for a while, trying to figure out if I should take it off just now, as I push your strap to the side of your shoulder. And in that moment, as I begin to undress you, you start to feel particularly vulnerable, the intimacy of the moment is very shooting, isn’t it.

As I make my way up your upper back with my hand, you start to blush, your cheeks are turning red and you are submerged by a wave of burning desire, and you probably haven’t even noticed but your hips instinctively moved closer to me.

I have you stand up for me as I begin to wonder just how to dispose of you.

Should I start by making my way up, slowly grazing the exterior of your of thighs with the back of my hand ?

Or perhaps I should start by standing firmly in front of you, pinning you up against the wall, staring you right in the eyes.

Yeah.. I like the sound of that.

So I get real close to you, you start to take a step back. I keeptrying to get closer and you match my pace, for every step forward I take you take one backwards. Our eyes are locked and you start to grin because you know what’s coming next, it’s almost like we’re dancing really. But now I have you cornered, your back’s against the wall. So I lean in real close to you, guide your arms above your head, let out a couple of warm heavy breathes onto your neck.

You have me seduced, I can barely contain myself. Having you there hands up against the wall, it’s a bliss but you realize there's no going back. It's just you and me baby girl, in that moment you become entirely mine.

I have you spread your legs open for me, just a little bit.

I’m taking my time with you, contemplating that beautiful body of yours.

You're eye candy to me, and I'd make sure you know that by the way I looked at you. Let you know how every single one of your curves draws me just a little bit closer to the edge.

..I’m thinking about just how hard it is for me to contain myself, but you're worth it, I want to take all the time in the world for you.

I take your cheek in the palm of my hand and slowly move my lips closer to yours, only to deny you of that kiss at the last moment and get close to your ear.

Whisper something along the lines of

"you know.. I'm really enjoying this. Knowing that you're mine to take. Having your body under my control, all of you, at the mercy of my touch. Yeah that's right, I want you to surrender your body to me, surrender to my touch, precious. »

Of course I'd have started to run my fingers around the string of your panties, playing around with them, teasing you.

…Should I push them aside and reach for your lips like your body is begging me to do ? Or should I continue to tease you and pull your panties upward just a bit, have them spread your lips appart for me..?

Oh my god… you should be a writer honestly this is absolutely amazing and I’m so turned on….

[raynerberg]

Part of You, part of Me

Snippet:

From the viscous mire of memories, Torgeyr was pulled back by a mixture of sensations - a kiss at the nape of his neck, tender lips and a prickling beard. His rough palms slid down to Grayson’s lower back.

 ꟷ You were somewhere else? ꟷ Paul whispered.

ꟷ Mm-hmm, ꟷ the mutant exhaled deeply.

He focused on the present, forcing himself into the moment - one he could replay later in vivid, holographic detail. There were many like it. The more he could preserve, the faster he could relearn how to live - on the other side of life, the softer side, where happiness was fragile but real.

ꟷ You really nailed the time, place, and mood for deep thoughts, ꟷ Denton purred into Grayson’s ear.

A damp tongue flicked his earlobe, followed by teeth - gently biting, grinding the sensitive skin between smooth enamel. Torgeyr let out a low, guttural growl and closed his eyes.

 ꟷ I hate it, Paul, ꟷ he said at last. ꟷ Every time I see it, I’m afraid it’ll become part of me. Not just flesh and bone - something deeper. I know cursing it is pointless. It’s already cursed. Cursed to its core.

Grayson opened his eyes again and stared at the wall in front of him. Paul had paused, his own gaze shifting to the panel where the armor hung on retractable hooks - like a torture device, like a second skin designed to crush the soul as much as the body.

 ꟷ Honestly?

Stiff beard bristles pressed into the mutant’s shoulder, and Paul’s arms encircled him low, near his hips. Grayson held still for a moment, then rested his hands over Paul’s.

 ꟷ Honestly.

 ꟷ Alright. That armor’s monstrous - intimidating as hell, I won’t lie. But it’s effective. I won’t bore you with a lecture, you grouchy bastard. It has its merits, and it’s the only thing that can handle what your muscles turn into when you shift. No one knows what pattern it was based on, who it was made for, or why - but whoever designed it had a long game in mind. They thought of everything. And… ꟷ Paul hesitated.

 ꟷ And?

Suddenly, Denton turned Grayson around to face him.

 ꟷ And it will never be a part of you, ꟷ Paul said, voice laced with steel. ꟷ Not that kind of part. Not the inside part. ꟷ He tapped twice on Grayson’s temple with his finger - barely a touch, but firm.

Denton pressed his body against Torgeyr’s. On a tender whim, he tucked the silver and black strands of the mutant’s hair back over his shoulder. Grayson hated having his hair pushed behind his ears - he preferred to hide the tattoo-scars beneath that dark curtain. Paul remembered that. But maybe… someday, even this wound would heal.

 ꟷ Why? ꟷ the mutant asked simply.

Their eyes met - amber once again swirling into seafoam. Only then did Torgeyr register that Denton was also completely naked. The nearness overwhelmed him, drowning his senses in a tidal wave of heat and desire.

His brain was shutting down systems one by one - self-control, logic, patience - all flicking off in sequence, handing over full command to instinct and touch. But two switches still remained lit- thought and speech - just long enough to finish what had begun.

ꟷ Because… ꟷ Denton whispered, pressing his lips against Grayson’s, ꟷ because part of you has been mine for a long time now. All of you, really - utterly and completely. And if somehow, in some mystical twist, that thing ever tries to lay claim to your soul, it’s going to have to fight me for it. And believe me - there’s no guarantee it’ll win. Just like it won’t beat you. Because you are part of me, too.

Grayson exhaled hotly, then kissed him - deep and fierce, all passion and love bound into one.

 ꟷ Jeg elsker deg, mitt hjerte, ꟷ he breathed, barely audible.

A wide smile lit up Denton’s face. He didn’t speak Norwegian - but something in him knew exactly what those words meant. The most beautiful, most precious, most wanted words in the world.