#about floyd

Azul Ashengrotto does not learn how to love; he learns how to cling. And the difference is immense.

After the Overblot, Azul is not healed. He is exposed. As if someone had stripped away the glossy varnish of his identity and left the damp, softened wood underneath—still vulnerable, still capable of rotting. He is not destroyed; he is emotionally naked, and for someone like him, that is worse than being broken.

For years, Azul forced himself to grow up too fast. He did not mature—he hardened. He learned that the world does not reward sensitivity, only usefulness. That affection is counterfeit currency. That kindness always comes with conditions, and that those who offer nothing in return do not deserve to be seen. His childhood as an awkward, chubby, ridiculed merm-octopus taught him a single survival rule: if I cannot be desirable, I will be indispensable.

Contracts. Power. Information. Control.

That was Azul before the Overblot.

Afterwards… what remains is the child who never believed someone could stay without a price.

And that is where Yuu appears.

Yuu does not enter Azul’s life as a refuge or a savior. They enter as collateral damage. Out of loyalty to Ace and Deuce. Out of responsibility for Grim. Out of Crowley’s negligent demands. Yuu does not seek Azul; they endure him. They negotiate because they must, not because they want to. And when they accept a deal that risks Ramshackle—the crumbling dormitory that nonetheless proves their existence—they do so not out of naivety, but out of quiet calculation.

Azul sees this. And underestimates it.

Yuu fulfills the contract. Plans contingencies. Gains the backing of other dorms not through manipulation, but through presence. Through showing up when others do not. Through saving lives without demanding anything in return. And that success—that imbalance—pushes Azul past his limit. The Overblot does not happen because Azul is evil; it happens because he cannot bear losing control of the narrative.

When he collapses, when he cries inside his broken pot—big, ridiculous, humiliating, childish—Yuu sees. Not as an enemy. Not as someone who owes anything.

They see someone overwhelmed.

That is the point of no return.

Because Azul does not believe in affection. He believes in transactions. And Yuu offers none. No reproach. No grand forgiveness. No moral superiority. Just a cautious, tense, human presence. With boundaries. With wariness. But real.

Azul wakes after the Overblot expecting judgment. Expecting disgust. Expecting to be seen as the monster he fears he is. And what he receives instead is something far more dangerous: understanding without absolution.

Yuu does not excuse him. But they do not reduce him either.

That awakens something primitive in Azul: the inner child who learned he only existed when he was useful discovers that someone can see him even when he fails.

And that makes him hungry.

Azul begins to notice details. That Yuu recognizes emotional collapses without him showing them. That they understand exhaustion not as weakness, but as consequence. That they do not give affection freely—because they too learned how to survive—but they also do not withdraw it as punishment.

Yuu appears. Asks if he has eaten. If he has slept. Tells him to rest… and stays until he does.

Azul’s rest was never sleep. It was letting go of holding the world together.

In the Mostro Lounge office, with just the right lighting and soft music, Azul works until he fractures. And when he finally falls asleep—because he is exhausted, because he feels safe—Yuu covers him with a blanket. With a coat. The same one Azul begins to leave there on purpose.

He does not ask for hugs. He does not ask for words. But his body learns quickly where it is allowed to loosen.

Azul discovers something that terrifies him: he is clingy.

Starved for touch. For warmth. For validation. He has a fear of abandonment that tightens his chest in silence. A self-esteem that fluctuates dangerously like waves depending on Yuu’s gaze. And when Yuu becomes his center—his refuge, his new pot—Azul does not know how to let go.

Not because he does not want to. Because he never learned how.

The invisible suction cups attach slowly, without drama. They do not squeeze. They hold. And when Azul realizes that this attachment exists, it is already too late to undo it without tearing something vital out of himself.

This is where the yandere is born. Not the violent type. The administrator.

With Yuu, Azul is soft. Sensitive. Proud when validated. Needy for contact. Awkward in his affection. A small octopus that wants to stay where it is seen. With the world… Azul remains the elegant mafioso everyone knows.

And that contrast is what makes him dangerous.

Azul does not think “Yuu belongs to me.” He thinks: “The world is hostile. I understand how it works. I can make it safer.”

Threats are not people—they are variables. And variables are corrected. He does not need to dirty his hands. Jade and Floyd exist for that. Unfair contracts return—only for those who “deserve” them.

Dirty information leaks. Reputations erode. Opportunities vanish.

Azul protects Yuu without Yuu noticing. But the entire campus sees it clearly.

If someone gets too close, the environment shifts. Schedules overlap. Activities become unviable. Invitations never arrive. Not out of open jealousy, but out of impeccable logic and convenience.

And if someone truly harms his darling…

Azul acts.

Not with blood. With systems.

A rotten contract. Everything taken. Social isolation. Slow ruin. Then a hand extended like a lifeline. Azul does not push anyone—he only removes the ground. And when the individual falls, he is no longer watching.

Because Yuu is his pearl. His marine treasure. The only one who saw him as Azul even after everything.

Azul could accept being only a friend. It would hurt like tearing off tentacles. But he would accept it… with conditions. Friends come first. Always. Family. Absolute priority. And, as a good friend, he would investigate every potential partner for darling. For safety. Only for safety.

Yuu validates him. Admires him. Calls him capable. Wonderful.

Azul smiles with genuine pride—soft, dangerously sincere.

Because in his mind, the future already exists. And Yuu is in it.

Returning to their world was never a real option. Not when Azul has so much to offer them. So much to show them. So much to build… together.

Azul Ashengrotto falls in love after the Overblot because before that, he did not know how to exist without control. And when he finds someone who sees him even when he loses that control… he does not let go.

Not out of malice. Out of fear.

And that fear—dressed in tenderness and strategy—is the true heart of his yandere.

“Don’t worry, Prefect… the world is a cruel place. Luckily, I already bought it so it can’t hurt you.”

Jade Leech was not raised to love. He was raised to observe, classify, and survive.

In his world of origin—a marine ecosystem where beauty and cruelty do not contradict one another—affection is not a useful language. Curiosity is. Control as well. And the ability to read the environment with surgical precision is what separates long-lived predators from corpses drifting with the current.

That is why Jade does not take interest in people spontaneously. He does not fall in love at first sight. He does not experience sudden romantic impulses.

Jade detects anomalies.

And Yuu is, from the very beginning, an anomaly too persistent to be ignored.

Before Azul’s Overblot, Jade classifies Yuu as a curious but peripheral element. A human without magic, fragile in theory, functional in practice. They do not compete, do not manipulate, do not attempt to dominate Octavinelle. They simply exist within the system, absorbing tensions that do not belong to them, resolving conflicts no one else wants to touch.

That alone is already strange.

After the Overblot, it stops being strange.

When Azul collapses, what breaks is not just a leader: the illusion that absolute control is sustainable fractures. Jade observes the disaster without panic or moral shock. He feels no guilt. No surprise. He feels clarity.

Octavinelle did not fall because of excessive ambition. It fell because the system depended too heavily on a single emotional axis.

And in the middle of that collapse, Yuu remains.

Not standing through power. Not intact through magic. But stable through something far more unsettling: emotional resilience.

To Jade, that is fascinating. Not because Yuu is strong, but because they do not compete. Not because they impose presence, but because they reduce friction. Not because they control, but because they stabilize.

That is where the true interest is born. Not romantic. Functional.

Jade begins to observe Yuu the way he observes a rare fungus within a familiar ecosystem. Not with tenderness, not with hunger, but with a methodical curiosity that borders on reverence. He records patterns: how they respond to stress, how they move among hostile dorms, how they do not fracture under others’ emotional chaos.

Yuu does not idolize Azul, but neither do they condemn him. They do not fear Octavinelle, but neither do they attempt to dominate it. They do not seek power, yet they do not retreat.

That midpoint is lethal to someone like Jade.

Because it breaks the tacit law of the world he inhabits: that power defines relevance.

Jade does not desire Yuu. Not yet. First, he integrates them as a stable variable.

Jade is a moray eel.

A long, silent, territorial predator. It does not need to attack constantly; its mere presence reshapes the space. But even a moray eel accumulates parasites over time: foreign tensions, emotional residue, conflicts that are not its own yet cling regardless.

Normally, Jade cleans himself. Distance. Observation. Control.

After the Overblot, it becomes clear that this is no longer enough.

Yuu appears as a cleaner shrimp without intending to.

Not because they are submissive. Not because they are weak. But because they do not compete.

Yuu moves close to Jade without activating his defensive instincts. They do not invade. They do not challenge. They do not attempt to understand him with anxiety or dismantle him with forced affection. They listen when Jade speaks—and Jade speaks little—responding without urgency, without trying to gain ground.

That absence of need disarms something.

Because almost everyone wants something from Jade: information, power, protection, status. Yuu wants nothing.

They simply remain.

To someone like Jade, that is pure intimacy.

Here the key psychological shift occurs.

Jade stops seeing Yuu as an object of study and begins to see them as a safe space. Not in the human emotional sense, but in the ecological one: an environment where he does not need to monitor every gesture, where he can lower his cognitive guard without losing control.

That should not happen.

And yet, it does.

Jade begins to seek Yuu through coincidences too precise to be accidental. Conversations that do not push, but do not withdraw. Silences that do not weigh heavy. Small acts of service: food, practical help, repairs in a dorm that barely holds itself together.

It is not romance. It is maintenance.

Yuu appreciates it without emotional debt, without dramatics. For someone living in constant emotional and material precarity, this does not feel like control. It feels like relief.

That is when Jade considers a new possibility for the first time: structural compatibility.

When Jade accepts that he likes Yuu, he does not enter into conflict. He does not feel shame. He does not rationalize it until it disappears. He simply thinks: Fine. Then this enters the system as well.

His attempts at romance are, inevitably, strange.

He does not know how to seduce through traditional emotional gestures. He knows how to serve, optimize, care. He offers warm food. Time. Presence. Silence. He becomes—almost childlike—genuinely excited when Yuu shows real interest in his mushrooms, his explanations, his inner world.

That enthusiasm is real. And selective.

Floyd notices. Azul takes longer. No one else does.

Yuu, perhaps, begins to connect the dots when fear fades. The human mind learns quickly: if someone has fangs but never shows them to you, your nervous system reclassifies the risk. It doesn't disappear entirely—it transforms into respect, caution, even security.

They know Jade is intimidating. But they no longer feel him as danger.

Because Jade never directs that edge toward them.

The yandere aspect of Jade is not born from the desire to possess, but from the fear of destabilization.

Before, risk was emotional chaos. Now, risk is losing Yuu.

Not necessarily through death—though that variable exists—but through displacement. Another dorm absorbing them. Another leader claiming them. Yuu deciding to leave.

That is not acceptable.

From that point on, Jade begins to intervene without being noticed. He adjusts conversations. Redirects paths. Plants uncomfortable truths that make certain people withdraw on their own. He does not lock Yuu away. He does not isolate them visibly. That would be crude.

Jade optimizes the environment so Yuu always ends up returning.

Not through blatant manipulation. Through logic.

Jade does not enjoy physical harm. It does not attract him. It is not his style. He prefers emotional erosion, social pressure, the silent destruction of reputations. It is more efficient. Cleaner.

But Jade does not fear getting his hands dirty.

If someone becomes a persistent threat—real, not imagined—Jade does not hesitate. He evaluates. Waits. Acts when movement becomes inevitable. Without noise. Without traces.

Yuu does not see most of this.

Not because they are naïve, but because their direct experience with Jade is warm, stable, even sweet in its own way. The world says “Jade is dangerous.” Yuu thinks: He is… but not with me.

And that is exactly what Jade wants.

Over time, Jade begins to notice something that should not be there: his own internal tension decreases when Yuu is close. He no longer needs to analyze every micro-gesture. He can remain silent without losing control.

That alarms him.

Because Jade does not depend on anyone. Or should not.

That is where the true break happens: Jade decides that if Yuu can affect his stability, then they cannot remain an external variable. They must become a constant.

Not through chains. Not through threats. But through inevitability.

Jade becomes the most logical place to turn. The most efficient. The calmest. The one who understands without judging. Yuu begins to lean on him without realizing it.

The symbiosis is complete.

Jade Leech does not become yandere out of love. That would be loud. Human. Inefficient.

He becomes yandere when he identifies Yuu as a vital organ.

He does not cage them. He does not mark them. He does not claim them aloud.

He simply stays. Silent. Attentive. Dangerously close.

Like a moray eel that allows the shrimp to live between its teeth without biting.

Because he understands, with unsettling lucidity, that destroying it would be destroying the balance.

And Jade Leech never does something so inelegant.

“Nothing will harm you while you are with me, prefect. And if anything tries to take you away… it will cease to exist.”

Floyd Leech does not love from the mind. He does not think love. He does not conceptualize it. He does not name it. Floyd loves from instinct, and instinct does not reason or justify—it recognizes.

That is why Floyd does not fall in love the way someone “normal” would. There is no lack to fill, no ideal to chase, no promise of completion through another. Floyd is not broken before love; he is in motion. He exists as a perpetual tide, driven by stimuli, by sensory variation, by the need to feel something other than the flatness of boredom. Most people, to him, are lukewarm currents: he touches them, squeezes them a little, gives them a name, and lets them go. There is no drama in that. No mourning. No trace.

Until Yuu appears.

Yuu does not arrive as a hero or a chosen one. Yuu arrives as a system error. No magic. No proper belonging. No expected reactions. No correct responses. No pattern compliance. And Floyd—who does not read the world through words, but through the body—perceives it immediately.

He cannot reduce them to an easy nickname. He cannot translate them into a sea creature at first sigh. He cannot anticipate their reaction.

That, to Floyd, is not romance. That is pure stimulus.

Floyd approaches Yuu the way he approaches everything that sparks his interest: by invading. He breaks personal space, tests limits, touches, squeezes, leans too close. It is not sadism; it is sensory reading.

Floyd expects a clear response: fear, rejection, submission, anger. Something. Anything that confirms the emotional texture of the other.

But Yuu does not respond like prey or predator.

They do not flee correctly. They do not attempt to dominate. They do not freeze.

They resist with a strange calm, with attentive observation, with an acceptance that is not submission. And that is the first real fracture in Floyd’s psyche.

Because for someone who lives by measuring the world through reaction, encountering someone who does not break, does not excite, does not recoil before his intensity, is deeply disorienting.

It does not wound his ego. It wounds his internal map.

Floyd does not understand it, but his body remembers it. And he comes back. Not by conscious decision, but because the current felt different there. Because something vibrated differently. Because without Yuu, the environment begins to feel flat.

Floyd’s nicknames were never empty jokes. Never. When Floyd names, he does not label: he translates.

The nickname is born from a visceral, almost biological reading. Floyd does not “guess” people; he perceives them as currents, as emotional densities. And then he names them with something his body understands.

That is why calling Yuu Shrimpy is not childish. It is symbolic to the bone.

Floyd is a moray eel. And morays do not exist alone: they live in symbiosis with shrimp. The shrimp cleans, observes, warns; the moray protects, occupies space, imposes presence. It is not romantic hierarchy—it is vital balance. Two different creatures that survive better together.

Floyd does not reason this. He knows it.

That is why, even before falling in love, Yuu already occupied a special place. Not as a disposable toy. Not as a threat. Not as prey. As something that belongs to his essential environment.

Floyd’s infatuation does not begin as romance. It begins as sensory territoriality. Yuu becomes a fixed point within his flow. Floyd begins to measure his day by whether he sees them or not. He does not think about it. It simply happens. When Yuu is not there, the world turns dull. When they are, something aligns.

Floyd does not think a mere “I like them.”

He thinks: “Mmm~ this feels suuuuper good~” (This seems weird and bad in english, noo!!!) And then: “No… Shrimpy isn't going anywhere. Not while I can drag them with me.”

Here something psychologically crucial occurs: Floyd begins to regulate himself. Not always, not completely, but perceptibly. He does not squeeze as hard. He does not invade as much. His mood does not swing with the same violence when Yuu is near. Not because of guilt, but because he does not want to disrupt the experience. Pleasure is no longer in provoking reaction; it is in sustaining presence.

That is new. And that is dangerous.

Because Floyd does not know what to do with something he wants to keep.

When Floyd grows attached, he becomes clingy. Physical. Invasive. Like a large child who does not know how to measure strength or space. Floyd touches to confirm existence. He hugs to prove something is real. He leans, hangs, squeezes. There is no initial malice—only excess.

The problem is that Floyd does not calibrate danger the way humans do.

What is fun, stimulating, ordinary to him can be objectively lethal to Yuu. And here lies the central paradox of his love: Floyd wants to share his world without fully understanding that Yuu is not built to withstand it. Not because they are weak, but because they are human. Floyd doesn't intend to hurt, but he's rough, aggressive, intense. And that's frightening. A very real, very clear fear: Floyd could kill you if he wanted to. You know it. He knows it. Everyone knows it. And yet… he doesn't.

With other students, Floyd leaves broken bodies and trips to the infirmary. Fractured ribs. Real fear.

With Yuu, there is an instinctive restraint. Not moral. Not conscious. Biological. Because they are his Shrimpy.

Yuu changes too. At first, Floyd and Jade are intimidating. Social predators. Octavinelle reeks of something mafioso, something dangerous.

But over time, Yuu learns Floyd’s rhythm. Learns when it is play, when it is an energy spike, when it is better to set a boundary.

And something fundamental happens: fear stops being constant.

It does not vanish—because Floyd is still unpredictable—but it transforms into familiarity.

Yuu’s brain registers something essential: "Floyd, with me, is not an active threat." And that changes everything. Yuu begins to set limits. And Floyd, strangely, listens.

Not because he is controlled. But because the stimulus changes.

Yuu becomes the stable center Floyd never knew he needed. They do not extinguish him. They do not domesticate him. They regulate him. Floyd remains aggressive, intense, chaotic… but now he has a place to return to, to recharge, to recalibrate.

When Yuu returns affection—when they initiate contact, when they respond without fear, when they accept closeness—Floyd is left genuinely stunned. He does not expect it. He does not anticipate it. His system overloads. And then he explodes, not into violence, but into uncontained joy.

For Floyd, that is love.

Not words. Not promises. Shared stimulation.

Here is where Floyd’s love crosses the threshold and becomes yandere. Not through hysteria, but through extreme protective function. Floyd does not lock Yuu away or isolate them overtly. What he does is clean the environment. He removes threats like bad algae from a reef.

If his intuition detects hostility—even minimal—around Shrimpy, Floyd acts. Without guilt. Without hesitation. His instinct does not fail. Ever.

People disappear. Conflicts “resolve themselves.” No one asks too many questions, because “That’s just Floyd.”

His is not the classic and boring “You are mine.” type of guy. It is “Hey, Shrimpy… you’re mine, kay? Don’t go floatin’ off on me.” kind of thing he will say. And think.

Floyd does not fear violence. He never has. To him, it is another stimulus. Killing is not a moral taboo; it is a concrete possibility. And that is what makes him terrifying as a yandere. Because there is no internal brake. Only function.

Yuu, paradoxically, is the one with the most influence over Floyd. Not absolute—never—but enough. That influence does not come from rigid boundaries, because that would only make Floyd more reactive. It comes from acceptance, from understanding his cycle, from not trying to contain him.

Jade knows this. That is why his implicit advice is always the same: “Do not try to stop Floyd. Let him burn energy. He will return. Exhaustion comes on its own.”

Floyd Leech in love with Yuu is not a romantic monster nor a loud villain. He is a creature who, for the first time, found something he does not want to release (A only one time type of thing)… and does not know how to do so without tightening his grip.

His love does not promise safety. But never lies about danger.

It is absolute loyalty. Fierce protection. Overwhelming physical affection. A beautiful, lethal disaster. And if Yuu knows how to read him, accept him, and return stimulation, they will have at their side an unpredictable, terrifying, and strangely tender moray eel.

A yandere who does not love with words but with the full tide of his being.

“Eh~ Shrimpy… if I see you getting too far away from me, maybe I’ll have to hold you tighter… until you can’t leave without me~♪”

Phew, this was exhausting. But I loved the result, and I hope you all do too. Without a doubt, the Leech twins have been the most complicated characters for me to write so far.

Even so, I feel like their essence is still intact (I hope so…). It was fun doing this, especially because Floyd's line left me thinking about how to phrase it since he has a unique way of speaking, you know?

It's really noticeable when something doesn't sound like Floyd, so I listened to the voicelines for about an hour to decide what to give him as his line.