#gallagher x reader

blade

✧ absolutely does not handle it well. the moment he realizes he loves you, his first instinct is to run.

✧ he’s an emotionally constipated, touch-starved, quiet wreck of a man who absolutely doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he’s fallen in love with you.

✧ at first, he convinces himself it’s just logistics. you’re in the same unit, you train together, you share the same danger. there’s a usefulness to proximity. but usefulness soon tastes like something else entirely — sweeter, more dangerous. he catches himself watching the way you tilt your head when you’re focusing, how your fingers fidget with the hem of your cloak when you’re nervous. these aren’t notes for survival. they’re anchors.

✧ when the realization finally hits, it does so like a blade — clean, shocking, leaving him breathless. it’s never one cinematic moment. it’s a thousand small knives: your laughter in the mess hall, the way you braid your hair before a mission, the careless kindness you show a wounded ally. one of those moments finds him unguarded and suddenly he understands: he’s not protecting you because duty says to. he’s protecting you because he can’t imagine a world where you’re hurt and he’s done nothing.

✧ his instinct is to run. not because he doubts his feelings, but because he knows the cost of attachment. he’s built walls so high they’ve become habit; to climb down them feels like walking into a wilderness. so he pulls away, not to punish you, but to try and train himself to survive without you. the distance is a laughable attempt at mercy — except it only makes him lonelier.

✧ distance doesn’t mean absence. if anything, it sharpens the ways he shows care. he’ll be the shadow just beyond your periphery: a chair pulled up a little closer, an extra blanket draped near your cot, a scowl aimed at anyone who laughs too loudly in your direction. he’s still cold in public, but the private kindnesses pile up like unspoken letters.

✧ jealousy is a slow, volcanic thing with him. he rarely lashes out — words are blunt weapons and he’s learned prudence — but when someone else moves in on you, his whole posture changes. it’s subtle: the set of his jaw, the hush that falls over his voice, the way the air near him seems to tilt just a hair colder. he doesn’t need to shout to make the point. people understand. they see the line he will not let cross.

✧ he’s clumsy with praise. a compliment makes him stumble, then laugh like it was nothing. inside, his chest is a tangle of shame and pride. he keeps a ledger of the things about you that make him weak — the song you hum under your breath, the way you clean your gear, the look you give when you decide you’ll do something reckless anyway. later, in the stillness, he rereads the ledger and the ache tightens.

✧ when you’re injured, his restraint breaks like old rope. fear sharpens him into a predator and a caregiver all at once. he examines your wounds with trembling hands, cursing softly whenever a bandage slips or a stitch tugs. he speaks in clipped, practical phrases because panic is a language he understands better than sentiment, but his fingers linger where they shouldn’t — forearms, jawline, the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder — as if to make sure you’re real.

✧ small domesticities become his love language. he sharpens your blade until the metal sings, because he knows a dull edge can get you killed. he warms your boots by the hearth when you’re away. he learns your coffee preference and makes it exactly the way you like it, then grumbles when you say thank you as if you’d complimented his cooking skills — which, let’s be honest, he’d never admit he had.

✧ he still has moments of panic. there are nights when the fear of losing you wakes him, and he finds himself standing at your door without meaning to, hand raised but unable to knock. he tells himself he’s intruding, that he has no right. then you open the door and he is both lamb and wolf, baffled by how complete it feels to stand there, to be let in.

✧ intimacy is rough, because he’s not practiced in softness. but where he’s clumsy with words, he is relentless with presence. he will learn to be careful if you flinch. he will apologize with actions instead of phrases. and when he finally says the three words, if ever he chooses to lead with them, they are fewer than the nights he watches over you, but heavier than any speech: “i’m here. stay.”

✧ the good days and the bad days are both christened with his stubborn loyalty. he gets territorial. yes, but also tender in ways the world does not see. he will be the one who brings you the exact rag you like for cleaning your armor. he will be the one who tells the loudmouth regulars at the tavern to shut up when they disrespect you. he will be the one who sits in silence because you need that peace, and will bring a cloak because he can imagine the cold even when you can’t.

✧ he never stops being haunted by his past, but you become the reason he chooses to face it. you are not a cure for his scars; you are a decision he keeps making every morning he breathes. your presence is not balm that erases, but a stubborn warmth that allows him to stand in the sun again.

✧ bonus quiet moments: he falls asleep on his knees in the armory and wakes to find you covering him with an old coat; he leaves the smallest, ridiculous gifts — a banded stone, a scuffed coin — in places you’ll find them when you’re feeling low; he hums a lullaby he never admitted to learning, only loud enough for you when storms roll in.

✧ and when he says it plainly, later, not as a flourish but as an anchor — “it’s you” — you understand it’s not a proclamation. it’s a vow. it’s the first of many things he cannot take back, and he never wants to.

✧ becomes even moodier, distant, but never actually leaves you—he just stands nearby, arms crossed, watching with unreadable eyes

✧ if someone else flirts with you? oh. oh it’s over. suddenly he’s at your side, glaring daggers, “they’re wasting your time.”

✧ his protective streak is both armor and plea. he’ll intercept threats that were never close enough to harm you, simply to keep the reflex of guarding alive. he’ll take the late shift if the night’s forecast is bad, because he hates the idea of you walking alone under rain-washed skies. he does these things quietly, the same way a lighthouse keeps its light.

✧ he doesn’t confess, but he shows it in how he always steps between you and danger, how his voice softens when he talks to you, how he lets you touch him when no one else can

✧ blade is not someone who thinks love is for him. he doesn’t believe he deserves it—not after everything. he’s lived too long, hurt too much, and buried too many things he once cared about. love feels like a luxury he gave up ages ago. so when it starts… creeping in, he doesn’t notice at first. or maybe he does and just refuses to name it.

✧ it starts in the smallest ways. his eyes always find you first, even in a room full of people. he listens to your voice more closely than he should. he remembers things about you that you only said once—your favorite food, the way you like your gear adjusted, the look you get when you’re about to lie. he notices everything.

✧ and still, he tells himself it’s nothing. just habit. just instinct. just awareness.

✧ but deep down, the cracks are forming. he gets quiet around you—not cold, not angry, just… quiet. like he’s trying to hold something inside. like he knows if he lets it out, it’ll swallow him whole.

✧ the moment he actually realizes he loves you is sudden and sickening. maybe you patch up his wounds after a mission and scold him gently like “you always throw yourself into danger like it’s nothing.” and then you touch his cheek, just for a second.

✧ and he feels something twist in his chest—raw and terrifying. that’s when it hits him. he’s in love with you. and he can’t lose you.

✧ after that, he pulls away. fast.

✧ he avoids eye contact. walks ahead of you during missions. doesn’t respond when you call his name the first time.

✧ he’s not doing it to be cruel. he’s doing it because he’s afraid, loving you is like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing he could fall—and wants to.

✧ and yet… he can’t stay away.

✧ you’ll catch him lingering nearby. standing at your door but not knocking. sitting next to you during briefings even though there’s space elsewhere. sometimes, you really wished he would take the initiate, “knock,” you say to yourself, wishing he’d allow himself to be let in.

✧ his presence becomes a shadow, always close, but never quite touching.

✧ his love shows up in strange ways. he sharpens your blade without you asking. takes the watch when you’re supposed to be sleeping. kills enemies that were never close enough to threaten you, just in case. he doesn’t explain it. he just does it.

✧ and if you try to thank him? he shrugs it off like it’s nothing. like his hands weren’t trembling when he thought you got hurt.

✧ he gets jealous too, but doesn’t show it directly. someone flirts with you and blade won’t say a word, but the air around him goes cold.

✧ the next time that person’s sparring? blade’s their opponent.

✧ and if you ever get seriously injured (even if it’s just a close call) he snaps.

✧ he’ll grab you, check your body for wounds with trembling hands, and hiss out your name like it’s the only thing grounding him.

✧ “what were you thinking?”

✧ “you could’ve died.”

✧ “don’t ever do that again.”

✧ his voice shakes, and he looks away before you can see how scared he is. he won’t confess. not first. not directly. not unless you force it out of him.

✧ but there’s going to be a moment. maybe you’re bandaging his wound this time. your touch is gentle. your eyes meet. and suddenly, the air between you is heavy.

✧ you ask, quietly, “why do you care so much?” he doesn’t answer at first. he’s looking at you like you’re something he was never supposed to have.

✧ then, low, almost like a growl…“because it’s you.” and that’s it. raw and simple. because it’s you.

✧ after that, something shifts. he still doesn’t say the words. but he stops running. he lets you touch him more. lets you lean on his shoulder when you’re tired. sometimes, late at night, you’ll feel his hand brush against yours and stay.

✧ blade doesn’t know how to say “i love you.” but he says it in the way he guards your life more closely than his own. in the way he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing in a ruined world. in the way he stays despite everything in him screaming to run.

✧ the confession he gives isn’t polished. it’s ragged and private, a sound between a curse and a prayer. maybe you’re the one tending his wounds this time, the cloth cool against his skin, and the roles reverse. his breath hitches when your fingers brush his scar and he makes a humorless noise. “because it’s you,” he says finally, mouth tight, eyes raw. nothing more ornate. nothing more needed. it knocks the wind out of him to hear it out loud.

✧ after he admits it — that brittle, honest thing — everything tilts. he doesn’t become demonstrative in a way that makes you uncomfortable; he simply allows himself gentler truths. he accepts your touch in moments when he previously would have flinched. he lets you stand close without stepping back. he learns, painfully and stubbornly, that staying is not weakness — it’s choosing.

✧ you are his breaking point, his softness.

anaxa

✧ tries to play it cool at first, but the second he realizes it’s more than a crush, he kinda panics. scratch that, his entire focus is entirely on YOU now.

✧ gets very “i’m too cool for feelings” but turns around and is like, “did you eat today?” or “here, i fixed your weapon for you”

✧ he tries to play it cool, and for a while the act is flawless — aloof glances, practiced indifference, a sarcasm shield that keeps his insides firmly locked away. then one small thing unravels him: you hum a tune while you patch a wound, or you fall asleep halfway through a briefing, chin tucked into your palm, and suddenly the world re-centers.

✧ the performance drops. his hands fidget. his brain glitches. and for the first time he thinks, in actual, terrified clarity: i can’t stop thinking about them.

✧ denial is his first full-time job. he insists to himself that this is tactical — proximity for intel, mentorship for efficiency. but every time you laugh, his composure fractures. every time you’re late, a low panic buzzes in his chest. when he claims he “doesn’t care,” it sounds like a dare more than conviction, because his eyes betray him, following you like gravity follows a stone.

✧ he becomes your unsolicited caretaker under the guise of efficiency. “did you eat?” is his daily opener now, delivered with that same deadpan tone, but his gaze has an edge. when you say yes, he’ll still produce a bowl or a snack five minutes later and place it exactly where you’ll see it, because he knows you’ll forget otherwise.

✧ his version of stalking is logistical and painfully competent. he doesn’t lurk in alleys; he times patrols so he’ll “happen” to be nearby, he schedules training so he’s in the same room, he edits rota sheets with microscopic adjustments that make your shifts overlap. it is not creepy. it is a tiny, benevolent conspiracy to ensure you are always within reach.

✧ when you get a papercut, he acts like a medic and a drama king simultaneously. the initial reaction is bordering-on-hysterical — a soft curse, an immediate flurry of ointment and gauze, a muttered “who hurt you?” — but then the tenderness arrives, steady and practical, as he tapes the bandage with hands that tremble ever so slightly.

✧ he starts criticizing you in the most love-filled way possible. his critiques are precise and frequent, but they’re never cruel — they’re corrections from someone who refuses to watch you struggle when he can teach you better.

✧ “your left foot drops on that pivot every time,” he’ll say, and you’ll hate how right he is. the subtext: i want you safe enough to be unstoppable.

✧ the panic after realization manifests in micro-obsessions. he learns your schedule, the song you whistle when you’re focused, the way you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. he catalogues it all in the back of his head and revisits the list late when sleep won’t come. sometime between dawn and decisions, he thinks of how to keep you unscathed another day.

✧ his jealousy is not theatrical; it’s a hard, cold narrowing of the world. when someone else gets flirty, he doesn’t start a fight — he becomes the storm before it rains. his voice lowers, words clipped, but the message is obvious: back off. if that doesn’t work, his next move is quietly efficient and terrifying: he becomes their sparring partner. they leave the arena with bruises and a newly respectful distance.

✧ he’s the kind of person who prepares for your absence before you even leave. if you tell him you’ll be gone, he’ll arrange for gear to be sharpened, a cot warmed, a message posted. he does these things without fanfare. you find them later and realize he’s been thinking about your comfort like a daily task he cannot skip.

✧ he teaches not to show off, but to survive. his sessions are brutal, precise, and infinitely patient. if you slip, he corrects your stance with a soft curse and then demonstrates until you get it. he stays long after everyone else has left the training ground, because the quiet moments are when he can watch you grow and his heart can keep rhythm.

✧ when you’re reckless, he snaps — not out of anger but out of fear. his voice gets raw; the words are sharp. “don’t do that.” simple. final. afterwards, the apology is for his tone, not for the intent. he’ll make you tea and sit with you while you breathe through the tremors because he knows fear makes small things big.

✧ he hides his soft spots beneath sarcasm. call him out on it and he’ll glare like you’ve offended his dignity. steal his coat? expect a half-grouchy, half-pleased “don’t get used to it,” though he’ll make sure it’s mended and warmed for the next night. a gift is an embarrassment that he will never directly acknowledge, but he leaves little comforts where he knows your hands will find them.

✧ he writes messages like someone used to giving commands — short, crisp, efficient. but one night he slips and leaves a longer note under your door: “if you’re gone at dawn, send one post. if you’re late, i’ll assume you’re reckless. if you break anything, i’ll fix it. —a” and then he spends the day panicking that you’ll read more than you should and see how exposed he’s become.

✧ his attempts at romance are wildly clumsy. he won’t plan candlelit dinners because he finds them performative, but he’ll show up with stew and a slightly singed pie because he burned it trying to make something that reminded him of you. you laugh; he hates that you laugh because the pie is terrible but the intent is ceremony enough.

✧ he is fiercely protective but also hopelessly insecure. he’ll argue anybody into leaving you alone, and then go home and replay every decision you made that day, wondering if he could have prevented one stumble. the guilt of being insufficient is a weight he carries in silence — until you force him to talk and he realizes he can offload it onto you and you’ll still stay.

✧ he lets you see him tired and unguarded on purpose sometimes. at first that feels like an accident — you catch him at the table, head bowed over a map, eyes rimmed red. later you find it deliberate: an invitation. “i’m messy,” he’d warn if he had words for it. you brush a thumb against his knuckles and he stiffens, then relaxes because you stayed.

✧ he is clumsy with labels. he won’t hand you declarations, but he will hand you a life of effort. when you fall asleep mid-lecture, he moves your hair away with a reverence that looks like prayer. he doesn’t say it because words are blunt and he’s not brave, but he leaves his hand on your shoulder while you doze, and that linger is a small eternity.

✧ he’s got an internal monologue that reads like a storm. one minute he’s convincing himself he’s mad, the next he’s cataloguing what he loves — your laugh, your stubbornness, the scar only you notice. he panics at the idea of losing you, and his solution is always the same: be there more, be better, and hope his presence is enough to anchor you.

✧ he confesses in pieces. not a speech, but a string of moments. a hand on your back that doesn’t pull away, a protective step that leaves him winded, a muttered “stay” that is a command steeped in prayer. if pressed, he’ll say it simply, dangerous in its honesty: “i’m here. don’t go.” that, to him, means everything.

✧ after the confession, he doesn’t morph into a sitcom boyfriend. he remains sharp, high-functioning, and blunt — but the edges are softer with you. he yields space without always needing to explain why. he takes up less of the room in arguments, because he learns that to love is to listen as much as to guard.

✧ his jealousy becomes protective ritual rather than possessive rage. he’ll mark the territory in small gestures: he’ll sit between you and an admirer, he’ll make the first joke to disarm the flirt, he’ll take your arm with a possessive claim and then smirk away like it was all shown for show — but his hold is comfortable and warm and never meant to hurt.

✧ he shows love through preparedness: spare boots by your bedside, an extra cloak folded neatly by your door, your favorite ointment stocked in the infirmary. these are his promises — unexciting, practical, eternal.

✧ he will teach you to fight better because he wants you to be unbreakable even when he can’t stand watch. sometimes his lessons are brutal, and you’ll hate him for it in the moment, but afterward you’ll find bandages in your bag and a quiet look that says he was terrified the entire time.

✧ there are rare nights when he’s vulnerable enough to tell you the small things — the first time he noticed you, the way your laugh made something in him relax he didn’t know he had, the fear that you might not choose to stay. he says it in fits and starts, clumsy honesty that leaves you breathless because it’s raw and true.

✧ he loves you like a storm loves the shore: it's unavoidable, and like a coastline, you wear his roughness into something recognisable, something that holds meaning. he will never be soft in the ways the world expects, but his ferocity becomes the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.

✧ he keeps mementos you’d never expect: a scrap of fabric from an old scarf you wore once, a pressed leaf from where you sat and read, a band of steel he polished while thinking about you. they’re hidden in a drawer labelled “useless things” because he can’t bear to call them what they are: relics of the way he learned to care.

✧ on the worst days, when his past claws at him, you are the steadying force. he lets you hold him. he is not used to softness but he accepts it because you are the only one who has taught him softness is not a weakness. and each time you anchor him back to the present, his gratitude is a quiet thing that shivers in his jaw.

✧ if you push him to say it plainly, he will, in the end, because he’s honest even when he’s terrified. it won’t be a confession full of poetry — it’ll be direct and blunt and exactly him: “i never thought i’d want this. but i do. you’ve ruined me. stay.” and then he waits like a soldier who’s done with battle only to find a fight worth fighting.

✧ lowkey follows you around, not in a creepy way, just in a “if they need me i’ll be there in 0.2 seconds” kinda way

✧ if you even get a papercut he acts like you’ve been mortally wounded. “you’re bleeding?? i won't allow this”

✧ he’s dead serious, too. already dragging out gauze, disinfectant, and muttering under his breath about how “unbelievable” you are for letting something so catastrophic happen. when you laugh and say it’s just a scratch, he glares like you’ve personally offended him. “just a scratch? excuse me? blood is leaving your body. you think that’s something to joke about?”

✧ and then, while he’s wrapping your finger with way more precision than necessary, his tone softens. “you need to take better care of yourself. what if you ignored something bigger one day?”

✧ he doesn’t say the rest—what if i8’m not there to catch it? what if i lose you over something small, something stupid, something i could’ve prevented?

✧ okay but. first of all. this man? denial. like the olympic-level kind. he’s used to feeling above everything—especially emotions. he’s dramatic, sure, and full of pride, but real connection? real feelings? nah. not for him. or so he thinks.

✧ the realization doesn’t come in some huge romantic moment. it’s something stupid. maybe you fall asleep next to him while waiting for a briefing, your head gently bumping his shoulder, and instead of shoving you off or scoffing… he just sits there. perfectly still. completely silent. staring into space like someone just broke his brain.

✧ “what the hell is this. what. is this.”

✧ after that, it’s internal chaos. he’s spiraling. his brain is screaming and he’s just… pretending everything’s fine.

✧ on the outside? smug, still slightly cocky.

✧ on the inside? “do they know? did they feel my heart jump? was i breathing weird? why do i wanna hold their hand. why do i want them to like me back. this is a glitch in the matrix. i’m resetting my soul.”

✧ it starts off like regular anaxa nonsense. smug. composed. witty. above it all. but then he realizes he’s been “accidentally” assigned to mentor you way more often.

✧ he starts giving you extra notes, tailored study sheets, overly specific critiques like “you always forget this detail in your form, but your reaction time’s decent—still nowhere near good enough if i’m not around to cover you.”

✧ and you’re like “…wait are you complimenting me?”

✧“obviously not. don’t flatter yourself.” (he is. he totally is.)

✧ the more time he spends with you, the more unhinged he gets about your safety.

✧ like you’re sparring in a training room and you get knocked down, not seriously, but enough to make a sound—he teleports across the room like “what did i say about your blindside?? are you actively trying to get yourself killed, or are you just naturally this reckless??”

✧ “i’m fine—” “that’s not the point. do you think i enjoy wasting my time dragging you off the floor every week??”

✧ his hands are checking your limbs, his voice is sharp, but his touch is gentle. and his eyes are absolutely terrified.

✧ if you do anything remotely dangerous without telling him?? oh. you’re done. he will go off.

✧ “next time you decide to walk into an enemy territory alone, maybe try thinking for half a second beforehand? unless your goal is to make me lose the last three brain cells i have left.”

✧ “you’re overreacting…”

✧ anaxa? dead serious. “no, i’m reacting exactly enough for someone who just realized their favorite idiot almost died because they couldn’t be bothered to send a message.”

✧ but the thing is…he doesn’t just scold you.

✧ he explains things. he teaches. he wants you to be better, because if he can’t always be there to protect you, then you damn well better know how to protect yourself.

✧ he stays late helping you train. sends you articles and annotated guides.

✧ he’s invested.

✧ "if i’m stuck loving you, the least you could do is learn to dodge faster.”

✧ when you ask him “why do you care so much?” he scoffs every time. “oh please. i don’t care. i’m just tired of patching you up like you’re made of wet paper.”

✧ but his eyes linger, and later that night you find a handwritten note slipped under your door: “i care because i can’t not. because i’m already too deep. because you matter. more than i’m ready to admit.”

✧ (he’ll deny he ever wrote this)

✧ and then there’s the lectures. not just about combat, about sleep, food, rest, hydration.

✧ you yawn once and he’s already glaring. “have you been up all night again? why am i even asking, of course you have. congratulations, you’ve officially shaved ten years off your lifespan.”

✧ he’ll toss a fruit at you saying, “eat. i don’t want to hear another word until your body’s functioning at 50% minimum.”

✧ but it’s the soft scolding that hits the hardest, like after a battle where you overdid it again, and he finds you sitting alone, wincing while patching yourself up. his shadow falls over you before you even notice him, and by the time you look up, he’s already kneeling down, snatching the gauze from your clumsy fingers with a sharp “you’re doing it wrong.”

✧ he doesn’t say anything else at first—just works in silence, jaw tight, wrapping your wounds with careful, deliberate hands. it’s so unlike his usual dramatic, snarky self that you can’t help but watch him closely, the way his touch is steady even though his eyes keep flicking to every bruise like he wants to erase them himself.

✧ finally, when he ties off the bandage, his voice drops—barely above a whisper, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t: “you don’t have to do everything alone. stop acting like you’re disposable. you’re not.”

✧ and of course—you can’t resist teasing him. your lips twitch into a grin, and you lean just close enough to see his ears go pink. “awww, anaxa… are you worried about me?”

✧ instantly, he stiffens, glaring at you like you’ve committed some grave sin. “don’t flatter yourself. I’m just tired of cleaning up after your recklessness.” but his hands linger on your bandaged arm a little too long, and his voice cracks on the last word.

✧ you push it further, grinning, “you’re kind of sweet when you’re soft like this, y’know.”

✧ his face does not survive that. he jerks back like you just slapped him, sputtering. “soft? me? absolutely not. erase that from your memory immediately.”

✧ but later, when he thinks you’re asleep, his hand brushes yours, tentative, almost shy. and though he’d rather die than admit it. he liked you seeing that part of him. even if you tease him for it.

✧ his small rituals deepen. he brings you coffee to your bedside when he knows you have a long day. he sits on the roof sometimes, shoulders touching yours in silence, sharing the night because words feel redundant under a sky that vast. he hums low, a private soundtrack, and you learn the cadence of his contentment.

✧ he’s so bad at saying he loves you, but it leaks out in every word. for example: “don’t be late again.” = i waited for you and got worried and hated how much i did. “you’re terrible at this, let me fix it.” = i want to make things easier for you. “you’re an idiot.” = i’d die if anything happened to you.

✧ he’s always got some sharp comment ready, even in the middle of his “soft moments.” when he kneels to wrap your wounds, he’ll mutter, “really, are you trying to make me earn a medal for babysitting you?”

✧ and of course, you grin, leaning just enough to brush your fingers against his. “someone’s feeling dramatic today, aren’t they?”

✧ he frowns, but it’s the kind of frown that doesn’t stick. “i am not feeling dramatic. you’re just… reckless. it’s a public service i’m performing.”

✧ and you raise an eyebrow, teasing, “sure sure, your heroic concern for me is totally selfless.”

✧ he snorts, shaking his head, hands still gentle on your arm. “don’t get used to this softness. it’s highly irregular. maybe once every… eternity. don’t you dare think i’m doing it because I care.”

✧ but you can see it—oh, you know it. the way his hand lingers an extra second on your wrist, the little hitch in his breath when your fingers brush his, the way his eyes soften despite the words.

✧ and so, naturally, you tease him relentlessly. “wow, such a cold heart… and yet here you are, fussing over me like i’m made of porcelain.”

✧ he flinches, sputters, and mutters something about “porcelain being a ridiculous comparison,” but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s barely keeping a smirk contained.

✧ you can push him to the edge with this, knowing full well he won’t push back in earnest. his snark is armour, but underneath? he adores every second of your teasing, even if he refuses to say it.

✧ yes he’s infatuated with you there’s no denying it.

mydei

✧ realisation is quiet. it’s like the end of a complex equation and the answer is most definitely and undeniably….you.

✧ he watches you like he’s trying to understand every part of you, and then realises…he already does

✧ he starts acting a little awkward, stumbling over words, especially when you get too close, which is really cute but also terrifying to see, the son of gorgo, lord mydeimos…stuttering? wow.

✧ if you ask him what’s wrong, he’ll be all “nothing of logical concern,” but his ears are red

✧ there’s such a beautiful duality—he’s this battle-worn, ruthless soldier with blood on his hands and weight in his soul… and yet he’s soft, gentle, and almost painfully sweet with you. a protector.

✧ he gets ridiculously possessive in the cutest ways, though he’ll never outright admit it. if someone even glances at you for more than a second, he appears like he teleported there out of nowhere, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, muttering something about “don’t get distracted, they might actually be important to me” while pretending it’s about your safety.

✧ when you tease him, he sputters and protests, but secretly he loves it. he’ll mutter something sharp like “stop laughing, i wasn’t—fine, you’re lucky i even care” and his voice shakes just a little, betraying how much he enjoys the playful back-and-forth.

✧ he leaves little notes for you in unexpected places. not full-on love letters, because that would be… him, but scraps of paper tucked into your bag or gear: “don’t forget to breathe today. also, you’ve annoyed me just enough to like you a little more than i should.” and he definitely watches to see if you find it, hiding the pink tinge on his cheeks when you do.

✧ if you’re cold, he doesn’t hesitate. he’ll drop everything, wrap you in his cloak without asking, and growl if you try to protest. “don’t argue with me—you look ridiculous shivering like that,” he says, but there’s a softness in his tone that only you notice.

✧ during missions, he’s hyper-aware of your every move. the smallest sound—an unstable branch, a shifting stone, a stray spark—sets him moving before you even notice. he’s like a guardian shadow, always just a step behind or beside you, ready to catch you before anything happens.

✧ he practices subtle touches just to gauge your reaction. a gentle brush of the hand, a lingering arm around your shoulder… his poker face is perfect, but every small movement makes his heartbeat betray him. and he notices when you notice, freezing for a second before muttering something nonsensical to cover it up.

✧ if you complain about being tired or sore, he groans dramatically, but never leaves your side. he hovers close, his voice sharp but his hands gentle as he helps you stretch or rubs your shoulders. “you’re exaggerating, as always, but fine… let me,” he grumbles, though every movement is careful, protective, and tender.

✧ when he catches you staring at him, his brain immediately short-circuits. he panics internally: “did they notice my hair? my shoulder? my expression? oh no… they noticed me noticing them,” while externally he tries to act nonchalant, crossing his arms and muttering something about needing to check his weapon.

✧ he shows affection in tiny, almost imperceptible ways—tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, adjusting your cloak when you’re not looking, holding your hand for just a second too long. he’d never call it love, but every action screams it.

✧ he’s absurdly concerned for your safety, to the point of ridiculousness. “you could stub a toe and i’d spend the next hour calculating the probability of your survival. don’t test me,” he warns, though the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile at how much he cares.

✧ he makes little gifts for you and pretends they’re purely practical. a custom dagger for missions? “efficiency only. utilitarian purposes. nothing else.” yet later you notice delicate engravings only you would recognize—initials, a small pattern he knows you love, and you just let it slide, because he would never admit it was for you.

✧ when you fall asleep near him, he freezes. he doesn’t move or speak, just watches your chest rise and fall, memorizing the way your hair falls across your face, the softness of your eyelashes, as if you were the most precious thing in the world and he’s terrified to wake you.

✧ if you brush his hand or shoulder, he jumps slightly and mutters incoherent words while turning bright red. “what… did… you just do…? don’t think i didn’t notice,” he says, voice shaking as his ears flush, and he hides his face like a flustered teenager.

✧ he gives you his jacket without asking, claiming he doesn’t need it anyway, but secretly he loves watching you wear it. “it suits you better… obviously,” he says, though the word “obviously” is delivered with a twitch of nervous pride.

✧ when you’re hurt, he becomes methodical, almost scientific, checking every detail of your wounds and how you’re holding yourself, but his hands tremble slightly because he’s terrified of losing you.

✧ sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he whispers to himself: “please… stay. don’t go anywhere. i… can’t handle this without you.” and you always notice.

✧ he hides his flustered moments with witty, snarky quips, though they never quite cover how soft he is. “don’t look at me like that. i’m not… oh forget it,” he mutters, eyes softening every time you meet his gaze.

✧ he leaves small surprises around you: a clean mug ready in the morning, a neatly folded cloak, or a small sketch of something he knows you love, never admitting they’re meant for you.

✧ he's the kind of man who holds your hand like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, even after holding a blade like it’s part of him.

✧ it happens stupidly. like painfully soft and dumb.

✧ you’re trying to fix your armor or something and you’re all frowny and frustrated and go “ugh i hate this piece, i wanna throw it into the sun” and he?? just chuckles.

✧ like. full chest, soft rumble chuckle. and he goes, “don’t waste the sun like that.”

✧ but he’s looking at you. not the armor. and in that exact second he’s like “oh. oh no. i love them.”

✧ aaaaaand his brain short circuits.

✧ he becomes SO bad at hiding it. like he thinks he’s being subtle but his actions scream “hopeless man in love.”

✧ you cough once and he’s got a cup of tea ready in two seconds. you trip a little and he’s already got his arms around you like you almost got hit by a meteor.

✧ you look cold? he’s putting his entire cloak around your shoulders even though it’s heavy and now he’s just shirtless under the stars like a feral romantic wolf man.

✧ he gets FLUSTERED when you do soft things to him. you brush his hair behind his ear? he stops functioning. you call him handsome? he physically shakes. and if you kiss his scars?

✧ he malfunctions and literally freezes with his eyes wide open like “uh. system.exe not found.”

✧ he tries to act composed but he’s got the WORST soft spot for you.

✧ like you could literally walk in holding a kitten and go “this is ours now” and he’d be like

✧ “…..what does it eat. what temperature does it like to sleep at. does it need a name?”

✧ he builds it a tiny shield. he denies it. but he totally does.

✧ when you’re injured?? the man becomes your personal doctor/mom/furniture.

✧ “sit down. don’t move. i’ll carry you. no you’re not fine. you’re never fine.”

✧ and then when you finally rest he just SITS THERE watching you sleep like “my tiny brave idiot. why do i love you so much. you absolute chaos gremlin.”

✧ kisses your forehead when you’re unconscious before denying it later.

✧ he says the most insane soft stuff when he’s tired. he once mumbled “your voice is my favorite sound” at 3 a.m. another time whispered “i’d bleed for you. i mean i have, but like….i’d do it again….”

✧ you try to tease him about it and he’ll deny it like “i didn’t say that” but his ears are red. all the way down to his neck. yeah he said it alright.

✧ sometimes he zones out staring at you and then realizes you caught him and just grunts “you have something on your face.”

✧ your brows furrow in confusion as you connected the dots. “what is it?” you ask, touching and scouring every surface of your face for anything.

✧ mydei, the smallest yet cutest hint of pink on his cheeks as his eyes dance to yours. “me. looking at you.”

✧ you give him a kiss on the cheek once and he goes SILENT for ten minutes straight.

✧ doesn’t even breathe.

✧ you’re slightly confused and a bit worried. “are you okay?” and he just nods like “fine.”

✧ “mhm…yeah sure..”

✧ he is not. he’s internally screaming.

✧ he builds stuff for you. fixes your gear. makes you custom weapons that he pretends are “for mission efficiency” but secretly carves little patterns into them just because he knows you like pretty things.

✧ there’s one blade he gives you that has a tiny engraving on the hilt. you notice it later.

✧ it’s your initials and his. you don’t bring it up.

✧ he carries everything for you. bags? his. water? his. emotional burdens? also his.

✧ “give it to me.”

✧ “you’re gonna strain your back—”

✧ “then i’ll carry that too.”

✧ you trip ONCE and he doesn’t let you walk without holding his hand for a WEEK. it’s like he instantly becomes your mother, fretting for you 24/7.

✧ “what if you fall again?”

✧ “onto what. a flat hallway?”

✧ “danger is everywhere. even gravity can’t be trusted.”

✧ and finally, when he does confess for real, it’s quiet and simple yet so full of warmth.

✧ you’re curled up beside him after a long day, and he gently brushes your hair back and says, “you’re my peace. the only softness i’ll never fight against.”

✧ “i don’t just want to protect you anymore. i want to belong to you.”

✧ immediately gets flustered before speaking once again, “if…you’re okay with that.”

✧ and finally, the flustered, chaotic, adorable mydei you’ve come to know melts into a man who allows himself to love, protect, and be vulnerable with you.

phainon

✧ goes straight into panic mode. this man is flailing.

✧ starts stammering, laughing too loud around you, accidentally dropping things—like bro calm down...

✧ he flirts in the most obvious way possible, but it’s kinda endearing. like “if i were a planet, you’d be my sun!! haha… unless that’s weird…”

✧ gets so jealous but doesn’t know how to express it, so he just sulks and pouts until you give him attention again

✧ after he realizes he’s in love, every little thing you do becomes a highlight reel in his brain. the way you chew your lip when thinking? the way you stretch after a long day? he notices it all and it makes his chest tighten like he might burst.

✧ he tries to act nonchalant, but fails spectacularly. if you glance at him the wrong way, he trips over nothing, laughs too loudly, or knocks something over, muttering “…i’m fine. fine. totally fine.” and you know he isn’t.

✧ every compliment from you makes him melt into an awkward puddle. “phai, you look amazing today!” and he’s like, “…obviously… thanks… i think… wow.” internally panicking while trying to maintain a façade of hero-level composure.

✧ when you’re tired or cold, he immediately transforms into this overprotective, fluffball boyfriend. “come here. you’re not walking another step in that weather.” before you know it, he’s draped his cloak over you, pulled you close, and is muttering about how reckless you are.

✧ he flirts constantly, in the most chaotic, obvious ways. if you pass by, he’s “accidentally” bumping into you. he makes ridiculous jokes mid-fight like, “careful, sweetheart, wouldn’t want to fall for me too hard.” and his grin says he’s very serious about it.

✧ jealous? absolutely. but phainon doesn’t explode or make a scene—he sulks, pouts, and mutters under his breath like a baffled little puppy who’s been denied a treat. it starts with a stiffening in his shoulders when someone laughs too loudly at your jokes, then turns into that adorable, obvious sulk: he crosses his arms, stomps his foot once for dramatic effect, and walks a few paces away only to hover where he can still see you. his mouth is full of snappy comebacks but they stick there; instead he mumbles things like, “oh, very funny,” or “fine, enjoy their nonsense,” with a tone that clearly reads as please-pay-attention-to-me.

✧ he’ll pout in the quietest ways—drama without the fireworks. maybe he pretends to be unimpressed and loudly praises the perpetrator’s technique, then scowls when you laugh at their joke and not his. sometimes he sulks so theatrically you can’t help but jab him in the ribs and ask what’s wrong; other times he’ll grumble away while watching you, eyes soft and a little pleading, until you catch his gaze and the whole performance collapses into sheepish grin and a chaotic, “don’t be like that.”

✧ if you decide to ignore it on purpose, he escalates to puppy tactics: he becomes performatively helpful—offering to carry your gear, making silly faces behind someone’s back, or doing something spectacular and a little embarrassing just to get you to look. when you finally do give him the attention he’s been pining for, the sulk melts in an instant. he flops into your space with a relieved, goofy sigh and ruffles your hair like you saved him from a storm.

✧ and if you call him out—gently—on being jealous, his defenses wobble. he’ll snort and say, “me? jealous? never,” but his cheeks betray him, faintly pink, and he’ll reach for your hand like a small, stubborn child secretly begging to be reassured. underneath all the theatrics is a tiny, very real fear that you might drift away, and his sulking is just the only language he sometimes knows for asking you to stay.

✧ he’s fiercely competitive, but with you, he’s a disaster. even the smallest sparring victory from you makes him stare in stunned admiration. “…wait… you just—ow. yes, okay. you’re terrifyingly good.” and he can’t hide the pride in his voice.

✧ when you’re sad, he goes full soft mode. he doesn’t talk much, just sits near you, offering his shoulder or hand without a word, letting you lean on him. he hums quietly sometimes, like a grounding rhythm, until you relax.

✧ if you cry? he’s a trembling mess. gently pulls you into his arms, presses his cheek to your head, and whispers, “shhh… i’ve got you. i’ll hold it all for you, okay?” even though he hates being vulnerable, he lets you see this side of him because he trusts you.

✧ he notices everything about you. your favorite snacks? he memorizes. how you like your gear adjusted? noted. the tone of your voice when you’re tired? he adapts. it’s insane attention to detail, all mixed with love and absolute puppy energy.

✧ phainon is definitely the kind of guy to make you a flower crown. he’ll sit there, fumbling with stems, tongue poking out a little in concentration while he ties them together, acting like it’s just another casual hobby. when he finally places it on your head, he’s grinning ear to ear—then immediately plops one onto his own head so you match.

✧ if you call him out for how romantic it is, he instantly backpedals, running a hand through his hair and saying, “what? no way, it just looks cooler if I wear one too. totally not, like… couple-y or anything.” spoiler: it is very couple-y, and he knows it.

✧ his heroic side is still intact. he roars through battles like a living flame, lifts impossibly heavy objects, and protects everyone—but with you, he’s both chaotic and soft, leaning into his feelings in ways he wouldn’t dare elsewhere.

✧ he’s always trying to make you laugh. goofy impressions, ridiculous puns, playful challenges—anything to get that spark in your eyes, because he lives for it. every smile from you makes him feel like the world is right, even if everything else is chaos.

✧ every single time you laugh at one of his dumb jokes, like really laugh, that unguarded, belly-deep laugh...he loses it. outwardly, he doubles down, throwing another cheesy one-liner like it’s nothing. but inside? he’s a puddle. his grin falters for half a second because he’s so overwhelmed, and he actually has to turn his face away, clear his throat, and mutter something cocky like “yeah, I’m hilarious, I know.” truth is, he’s thinking: i just made them laugh. me. i could live off this forever.

✧ he cannot sit still around you. his body’s buzzing, restless, constantly moving. he’ll spin a dagger between his fingers, tap his foot, roll his shoulders—like he needs to bleed off the nervous energy. but the second you reach out and touch his hand, just casually, maybe to stop him fidgeting? he freezes.

✧ suddenly all that motion evaporates and he’s perfectly still, staring at you with wide eyes like you just hit his off-switch. he recovers in a flash with some half-joke like, “uh. guess you’ve got powers after all,” but he’s not fooling anyone.

✧ his confessions are chaotic but precious. “…i’d die for you. wait, not like that. i mean… i’d also like to live… with you… near you… uh. just… you know. stay with me?” he’s stumbling over words but his eyes are earnest, and it’s impossible not to melt.

✧ kisses from you? he freezes completely, wide-eyed, then wraps you up in a trembling hug like “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. no take-backs!” and his hands shake because he’s terrified and ecstatic at the same time.

✧ every little action from him screams “i love you” even when he insists otherwise. sharpening your weapons “for efficiency only,” leaving a blanket beside you, making ridiculous gestures just to make you laugh—it’s all for you, and he’s hopelessly proud when you notice.

✧ his chaos and heroism blend perfectly with his puppy energy around you: loud, dazzling, competitive, affectionate, flustered, and completely devoted. he’s impossible not to adore and he knows it.

✧ he’s charming, heroic, the kinda guy everyone loves on the surface… but you get to see the real him, the flawed, snappy, a lil unhinged sometimes. and he loves you more than anything for not turning away when he’s not perfect.

✧ phainon is most definitely the “i could bench press a star but i’d fold in half if you looked at me for too long” type of boyfriend. cough cough just letting you know cough cough

✧ phainon swears up and down he can cook for you. “culinary skills of a god,” he says. “you’re gonna be blown away,” he insists. the reality? chaos. the kitchen’s filled with smoke, half the food is either raw or charred beyond recognition, and there’s a small, suspicious fire in the corner. he comes out of it sheepishly holding a burnt pan and grinning like, “okay, technically it’s edible. but, like, the effort was hot, right?” he sulks for five minutes when you tease him about it—until you take a bite anyway, then he lights up like you just handed him the world.

✧ he is so easily distracted by you it’s borderline dangerous. he’s walked into poles, tripped over rocks, and once nearly fell into a river mid-conversation because you happened to smile at him. every single time, he acts like it wasn’t his fault. “gravity just hits different around you,” he says, puffing up his chest like it’s a legitimate excuse. but the pink in his ears always gives him away.

✧ if you look even slightly stressed or down, phainon cannot let it slide. he’ll throw himself into the most ridiculous antics just to make you smile. once, he literally challenged a boulder to a push-up contest. like, he dropped onto the ground, shouting encouragements to himself while side-eyeing you, trying to drag a laugh out of you. when you finally cracked a grin, he collapsed dramatically, rolling onto his back with a groan of, “see? victory achieved. your smile’s worth losing to a rock.”

✧ phainon is so easygoing at first. flirty, teasing, constantly cracking jokes with that cocky grin like he’s never once had a bad day in his life. he’s loud in the way sunshine is, everywhere, impossible to ignore.

✧ but when he falls in love with you? oh man. it sneaks up on him like a stray punch to the ribs. one minute he’s breezy, cracking jokes and swaggering through the training yard, and the next he’s watching you with this dazed, private awe that makes him forget the rest of the world exists. it doesn’t arrive like a declaration — it slides in sideways during a spar, behind a grin, in the quiet seconds after you laugh, and then suddenly he realizes he’s been orbiting you without permission.

✧ it all starts with sparring, naturally. you two jab and prod each other the way only people who trust one another can, teasing, testing reach and reflex. the air is electric, boots scuffing, breath coming in measured bursts. you’re bickering with that playful cadence that always ends with both of you smirking, and he loves it: the way you don’t flinch, the way you commit to every move like nothing matters but the moment.

✧ he holds back, of course, not because he can’t win, but because he’d rather see you try than crush you too easily. still, there’s a smug pleasure in feeling you land a hit on him, because of course you’d make him work for it.

✧ one afternoon you finally catch him in a lock and he lets you have it deliberately, with a slow, teasing yield. he collapses to the mats, sounding dramatic and delighted, “ow. i guess you win.” and for a heartbeat you’re stunned: your chest puffs with that weird pride that comes with surprising someone impossible. “wait really???!!!” you shout, half incredulous, half triumphant. he watches you glow with this soft, almost guilty sparkle in his eyes and admits, quietly, “…yeah.”

✧ that’s the moment it slams into him like a truck. he hadn’t planned on the feeling, and now that it’s there he’s alternately thrilled and terrified. afterward he tries to act normal. jokes come faster, his grin gets louder, his swagger more exaggerated, but normal is impossible. he starts complimenting you in the strangest, most chaotic ways because he doesn’t know how else to say you’re incredible without sounding like a fool. “you’re so freakin’ cool when you punch me in the face, y’know that?” he says once, voice too loud for no reason, then flushes when you beam back at him.

✧ sometimes his compliments ricochet off into surreal territory. “if i die in battle i hope it’s by your hands. you’d make it look hot,” he’ll blurt — confidence turned ridiculous bravado — and you stare at him wondering whether to laugh or swoon. he’s the kind of person who roars into battle like nothing can touch him, but the second you say something simple — “you look handsome when you’re serious” — he freezes. “shut up,” he grumbles through a blush, the words half-annoyed and half-pleased as his face blooms red all the way down to his chest.

✧ showmanship is his currency. he adores showing off in front of you: lifting ridiculous weights that make nearby soldiers whistle, demonstrating stunts that end with him grinning at your reaction. he’s proud in a loud, physical way because he wants you to be impressed. but praise — sincere, soft, unforced praise — melts him. one genuine “phai, you’re amazing!!” will make him lock up, eyes wide, mouth open, completely unready for being adored. he’ll deflect with a cocky “hah! obviously,” but inside his brain is spiraling: you love me, right? marry me now?

✧ he adores that you don’t flinch from his darker edges. when the coreflame in his chest pops up and his blood hums with anger, the world tilts and his hands clench, and he is an animal on the verge. if you simply step forward, place your hand on his chest and whisper, “i know you’re still here,” it grounds him like nothing else can. no fear. no recoil. you become his peaceful spot in the middle of the storm, the one person whose touch can shrink the rage into something manageable. he’d kneel for you — not out of ceremony but as a reflex of reverence.

✧ when he gets overwhelmed, he masks it with noise — dumb jokes, over-the-top laughter, a grin too wide because vulnerability terrifies him. yet if you see through the bravado and say, softly, “hey… it’s okay to not be okay,” he collapses into silence like someone finally dropping a heavy pack. then he pulls you into a fierce, trembling hug, burying his face in your shoulder and whispering, “thank you.” those moments are private, raw, and he trusts you with them alone.

✧ competitiveness is in his bones. with Mydei, it’s a nonstop game of one-upmanship, lifts, stunts, who-can-outlast-who, and yet around you he becomes endearingly clumsy. example: after Mydei lands a clean sparring win and nods your way with a cocky smirk, Phainon scrambles up, brushes off dust, and yells, “cool, love that for him — watch me lift a tree.” it’s both performative and sincere, half-show, half-plea for your attention. he’ll flirt mid-fight, dropping ridiculous lines like, “careful, sweetheart, i might fall for you harder than your footwork.” when you actually knock him off his feet he laughs, winded and triumphant, and for a second the whole world narrows to the ridiculousness of being in love.

✧ his soft spots are numerous and obvious to everyone — yet somehow everyone pretends not to notice because who could blame him? he learns your schedule, knows your snack preferences down to the brand, and can tell by the tilt in your voice when you’re tired. when you’re sad he gets quiet and present, offering jacket, hand, or silence depending on what you need. if you cry, he’s the gentle fortress: he pulls you in, cheek to your head, and murmurs, “shhh… i’ve got you. i’ll hold it all for you, okay?” and you can feel the sincerity in the press of his palm.

✧ he says the most unhinged things because he’s not great at neat emotions. “i’d die for you,” he blurts once, then immediately backtracks, “[wait. not like that. i mean — i’d also like to live. with you. near you.]” it is earnest, bumbling, and endearing. it’s the sort of proclamation that makes you grin and roll your eyes and want to punch his shoulder, and he’s thrilled by the attention.

✧ one day he tells you something that sticks: “…i think i’d let you win every fight for the rest of my life if it means i get to see you smile like that.” you fold in on yourself with warmth and disbelief, and when you kiss him he freezes for a beat, then cradles you like he’s afraid the world might snatch you away. hands trembling, he grins into your hair, “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. no take-backs!” and even when he tries to joke it off, his hands won’t stop shaking because he’s so completely undone.

✧ all of it — the swagger, the noise, the showboating — is a cover for how utterly head-over-heels he is. he’s loud to cover his fear, brave to keep you safe, and goofy because being around you makes everything feel lighter. he will say things that make no sense, act like a fool, and be victorious in the silliest ways if it means you’re laughing. and when it matters most, he’ll stand steady and fierce, the brightest, most dangerous guardian you could ask for — but also the warmest, most ridiculous puppy in your arms.

✧ it’s awful but so precious.

✧ he’s really good at speaking, whether it’s at rallies, casual talk or anything. and the one thing he said that flared up your heart?

✧ “…i think i’d let you win every fight for the rest of my life if it means i get to see you smile like that.”

✧ yeah, you folded under 0 pressure.

✧ you kiss him. he stops breathing. and then holds you up like “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. okay. no take-backs!” he’s so nervous you can feel his hands trembling as he holds you in his arms, ugh.

aventurine

✧ he figures it out and immediately starts calculating how to make you fall for him too. once aventurine realizes what he’s feeling, his brain instantly goes into overdrive. he treats it like a high-stakes gamble, studying you, your reactions, your tells, like you’re the most complex game he’s ever played.

✧ it’s not just about charm anymore, it’s strategy. he’s analyzing every word you say and plotting little ways to make you notice him more, like every second you spend not looking at him is a missed opportunity.

✧ suddenly you’re winning at his games “by chance,” he’s giving you his rarest gems “for good luck,” and he’s pulling out the charm like crazy.

✧ the odds always seem to fall in your favor, but anyone who knows aventurine would see right through it. he’ll play it off with a smug grin and a shrug, like, “guess you’re just that lucky,” while sliding another gleaming chip into your hand. and when he offers you gems—ones even other IPC execs would kill to have—he acts like it’s nothing. “don’t read too much into it, just think of it as insurance.” but his eyes are always watching to see how happy it makes you.

✧ still acts cocky and smug, but you can tell he’s genuinely trying, he listens when you talk, remembers the little things, and flirts in a way that makes your heart flutter.

✧ the bravado remains, aventurine's armor is as much a part of him as his shoes, but the swagger is now layered over earnest attention. he hangs on your words in conversations he used to skim, remembers your absurd preferences (how you like your coffee, which walk you favor on a cloudy day), and drops flirtatious lines that hit in a different register than his usual banter. they land softer; they land deliberate. every time he does it you feel him trying, and it makes the cocky front feel almost vulnerable.

✧ he’s literally so extra but tries to act like he’s doing the bare minimum. aventurine 1000% spoils you like a fashion-forward sugar strategist king and pretends it’s “just practical."

✧ he’ll insist the silk scarf was an economical choice and the bespoke coat was “practical for weather,” but the way he fusses over fit and fabric, insisting the hem falls precisely where it should, the sleeve hits the wrist just so, gives him away. he’s theatrical in the nicest way: the label isn’t the point, it’s the smile he gets watching you discover a hidden pocket, the small triumph of seeing something he chose match you perfectly. he pretends this is merely logistics, but the soft way he watches you wear his choices tells a different tale.

✧ one day just casually goes “you know i’d bet everything on you, right?” and you’re like wait. what? he says it offhandedly, light, teasing, like a gambler tossing out bravado but there’s a gravity beneath the line. your startled reaction makes him hitch, just a fraction, because the truth in it is heavier than a joke. for him it’s both confession and wager: he’s staking something he doesn’t usually risk time, reputation, the small guarded parts of himself on you. when the words hang between you, they look ordinary, but they tilt the conversation in a new direction.

✧ aventurine flirts with everyone, that’s just who he is smooth, charming, dripping confidence like perfume. so when he flirts with you at first, he doesn’t think twice about it. but the second you flirt back? not even that seriously, just a little smirk, a “you always say that, venti”—he chokes. like actually pauses. because oh. oh no. that hit different.

✧ he’s used to being the one who sets the tempo; someone mirroring him is usually just another ripple in the room. but when it’s you, when you deflect him with a smirk or a teasing retort, his practiced composure stutters. the breath catches, his brain trips, and for once he’s not writing the script. the choke is nearly audible: one small personal misstep that feels like a thrilling failure, because under all that charm he’s not immune to being disarmed by you.

✧ at first, he tells himself it’s fine. he’s just intrigued. you’re fun to banter with. nothing new. but then you start showing up in his thoughts when he’s alone, when he’s going over numbers, strategies, odds and he’s not thinking about his next bet. he’s thinking about your laugh. your eyes. how you looked at him when you caught him watching you across the room. and it’s messing him up.

✧ the tidy spreadsheets of his life begin to fray at the edges, your laugh becomes a recurring footnote in his head, an image that interrupts his calculations. he catches himself pausing in the middle of an analysis to replay a tiny expression you made, or catching the echo of your voice when he should be focused. it’s disorienting because everything he’s built is predictability and control, and this spontaneous, foolish thing keeps inserting itself where numbers used to be. he flushes with embarrassment and wonder in equal measure.

✧ he starts trying to control it like it’s a negotiation. he’s like “alright. if i don’t talk to them for two days, i’ll be normal again.” spoiler: he is not normal again. he makes it exactly 6 hours before he’s inventing fake reasons to visit your office. “just checking in~! you left a pen behind and i couldn’t let that tragic loss go unnoticed.”

✧ he experiments with distance like a scientist only to break them with charming, ridiculous excuses. the pen is a classic: trivial and perfectly framed as concern, but he knows exactly how to manufacture innocuous proximity and then accuse fate of conspiring. the ruse is sloppy because he’s not good at not being near you; he always finds a way back faster than he meant to.

✧ he becomes so annoying and so obvious to everyone around him. like he’ll see you lift something heavy and go “whoa, didn’t know you were that strong. what else have you been hiding from me?” with a smirk, but the second you shoot him a playful wink back, he turns around to hide the fact he’s literally fanning himself with a clipboard.

✧ his colleagues notice the change in his orbit: slightly less aloof, slightly more focused on one particular presence in a room. he peppers you with observations that sound like they could be market research but are just him trying to catalog your strengths. and when you reciprocate playfully, he’s caught off guard, flushed, a sheepish grin, clipboard defensively up because he’s a little embarrassed to be reduced to the state of a giddy teenager.

✧ aventurine LOVES competition but with you? he lets you win. or at least… he says he let you win. even if he didn’t. because he’s obsessed with the way your face lights up when you beat him at something. “guess i’m slipping, huh?” he’ll tease, but you’ll catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. like he’s proud. like he lives to see you smug for once.

✧ sometimes the victory is real and glorious for you; sometimes it’s arranged with the lightest of manipulations...he’ll nudge a dice, adjust a timing, or feign a misstep. he’ll act wounded and miffed afterwards as if you robbed him, but his eyes shine like someone who kept a secret just to watch you triumph. the tease is his cover; the pride swallowing soft at his throat is unmasked in the smallest, most human of gestures.

✧ when he realizes it’s love, it scares him. not in a dramatic meltdown way he just quietly panics. because aventurine is used to controlling outcomes, reading people, always being one step ahead. and with you? he can’t predict you. he can’t calculate feelings. he can’t even figure out when exactly you became the one thing he’d actually risk losing.

✧ the panic is internal and careful; it’s not chaotic theatrics but a series of small, private alarms going off at once. he reassesses all his assumptions and finds that where there were certainties about markets or favors, there is this vast unknowable terrain of heart. the idea that something might make him irrational, something he can’t hedge against, terrifies and exhilarates him in equal measure.

✧ he gets a little softer, a little quieter, when you’re alone. still flirty, still confident but you’ll notice his voice drops. he leans closer. his teasing gets slower, more sincere. “you ever notice how the room always feels better when you’re in it?” he’ll say with a little smile, and this time, he means it.

✧ the bravado eases in private; the cadence shifts from performance to intimacy. those lowered tones are intentional. he’s testing whether the chemistry translates off-stage. his compliments lose their foil and gain weight, and the little smile that accompanies them is honest, uncalculated. moments like these feel like an invitation into a softer, more vulnerable corner of the man you thought you knew.

✧ aventurine’s love language is gifting, but not obvious gifts. they’re subtle, personalized, and always tailored to something you mentioned once, weeks ago. a new charm for your weapon that matches your aesthetic? done. a rare coin he found on a mission that he says “reminded me of you, shiny and impossible to ignore”? yes.

✧ the gifts read like footnotes in your life: small, precise, and unexpectedly intimate. he doesn’t hand you ostentatious displays; he gives you things that say: i listened. he remembers. that tiny charm tucked into your gear is his way of being present when he cannot be there physically—an emblem of attentiveness wrapped in luxury.

✧ he absolutely gets jealous, but never in a dramatic or toxic way. he just gets smugly competitive. if someone else flirts with you, he slides up beside you like “hmm. looks like i’ve got some unexpected competition. should i be worried?” but he says it while casually wrapping an arm around your waist or leaning into your space with that "this is mine" energy.

✧ it’s a precision move—equal parts warning and playful claim. his smugness is a controlled flame rather than a wildfire: a way to stake territory without drama, to remind others (and perhaps you) that there’s a quiet confidence behind his charm, and that the game, whenever played around you, has become decidedly more personal.

✧ if you get hurt, he loses the charm act instantly. the smile drops. the sarcasm vanishes. he kneels beside you with a deathly serious look and says your name like a prayer. his hands are steady but his voice is shaking, “hey. hey, stay with me. you’re gonna be fine, alright?” he doesn’t joke again until he’s sure you’re okay.

✧ the businessman, the flirt, the strategist, all of it falls away the instant your safety is at stake. his care becomes blunt and urgent. he’s competent, quick, and frighteningly focused on the practical, but underneath that efficiency is a fragile human who finds that each breath you take is suddenly the most important thing in his world.

✧ you tease him once like “what, you falling for me or something?” and he freezes. for a second too long. then he laughs, but it’s not as cocky this time. it’s soft. he leans in, real close, and whispers, “maybe i am. what would you do if i said yes?”

✧ the tease unravels him because the truth is right at the surface now, tender and ridiculous. his whisper is both a dare and a confession, a tiny risk laid bare in the hush. the closeness is electrifying, and his question hangs like an invitation. he wants to see if you’ll match the gamble.

✧ when he finally confesses, it’s not flashy. not dramatic. just you and him, walking home together after a mission, your hands brushing, his voice quiet for once. “i used to think winning was everything. but then you showed up and ruined the game. and now… i don’t think i’d mind losing. not if it means i get to keep you.”

✧ the confession is simple because he is stripped of all theater; there’s no audience, no ledger, only the two of you and a truth he can’t package into profit or charm. it’s equal parts surrender and promise: he’d trade the thrill of victory for the steadiness of being beside you, and in that statement the full scale of how much you mean to him is made plain.

✧ he loves dressing you up. not in a weird controlling way, but in a “i saw this and immediately thought of how stupidly perfect you’d look in it” way. he’s already got incredible taste, so the clothes he buys you are so stupidly luxurious it’s unreal, soft silks, embroidered jackets, matching rings, everything tailored exactly to your measurements (which he 100% knew before you ever told him. don’t ask how. he’s scary like that).

✧ when you go “isn’t this too much?” he just blinks and goes, “you underestimate how much i enjoy spending money on people who make me smile.”

✧ the garments are statements, less about possession than celebration. he treats your style like a private gallery, curating looks that highlight angles he admires. when you try on something he picked, his eyes light up with that small, ridiculous pride of a man who found treasure and can’t wait to show it. the way he watches you move in his choices is intimacy rendered through taste and generosity.

✧ don’t even get him started on sleepwear. one day you mentioned in passing how your “pajamas are ugly” and this man literally blinked and twelve sets of monogrammed luxury loungewear showed up at your door. he acts so casual about it too like “oh, those? just some extras lying around. figured you’d like the silk blend.” each one is in your favorite color. and smells like him.

✧ the sleepwear is peak aventurine, ridiculously over-the-top, but so tender. it’s a soft invasion of your private evenings: fabrics that fold into your sleep like a promise, monograms that whisper familiarity, and a subtle scent he leaves behind so when you slip them on you feel noticed and comforted even in the smallest domestic hour.

✧ but the best part? the subtle matching. he would never do something as tacky as “couples tees” (he says that with visible disgust) but he absolutely goes out of his way to coordinate with you. if your outfit has gold accents? suddenly he’s got a gold chain on. you wear navy one day? “oh wow, look at that, my new cufflinks just happen to match.” if you ever call him out on it, he just smirks and goes “what, you thought we weren’t gonna be the best-dressed duo in the room?”

✧ the coordination is his quiet signature: a shared palette of color or a mirrored accessory that reads like a private joke. he maneuvers the aesthetic conversation without ever stating the obvious, and when you notice, the small grin he offers is pure delight—his way of claiming a tiny, tasteful piece of you without needing to make a spectacle.

✧ the first time you actually wear something he gave you in public, he short circuits. tries to act composed, but he just keeps looking over at you with this dazed, possessive little smile. “mm. yeah, i made a good investment.” like you’re a rare gem he found before anyone else could. he walks a little closer to you that day. lets his hand brush yours more often. calls you “darling” without sarcasm.

✧ the public moment exposes him where once he could be private and strategic, now he’s delightedly vulnerable. the way he claims proximity, lets his shoulder touch yours, and uses a new pet name without irony is his declaration. it’s a small possession, yes, but one grounded in appreciation and a desire to be close.

✧ and if you ever match with him on purpose? like you come out wearing something coordinated just to tease him, he stops breathing. doesn’t say anything at first. just stares. then he clears his throat and mutters “you’re really trying to kill me today, huh?”

✧ you can see the whole world narrow to that one coordinated joke. he takes it as both a playful challenge and an emotional arrow: you made a choice to mirror him, and it feels like the safest, most exciting kind of theft. his response is a breathless blend of mock outrage and heart-flip panic.

✧ “what, this?”

✧ his casual question, tossed out in a tone that tries to keep things light, hides the fact he’s counting heartbeats. he’s suddenly acutely aware of the way your shoulder fits under his arm, of the warmth your presence gives him, and he tries to stake the moment in words that sound smaller than the feeling itself.

✧ “yes. exactly that. never take it off.” (jk. he’s already planning the next set.)

✧ the joke reads as both command and confession. he’s afraid to be owning the sentiment outright, so he masks it with jest. but the afterthought, his plotting of more gifts, the next coordinated outfit, the future little plans, betrays him entirely. he’s hooked on this new currency: your attention, your smile, your presence. and he’s more than ready to invest.

boothill

✧ literally just goes “well damn.” like he knows

✧ he definitely starts out thinking you’re just fun. like yeehaw fun. someone who can keep up with him in a shootout and throw a decent punch if needed, and also laugh at his terrible one-liners. but the second you patch up one of his wounds with a worried little frown and mutter “you scared me, you dumbass,” it hits him like a bullet straight through the heart. he just stares. goes dead quiet. and thinks: “oh no. ohhh no. i’m done for.”

✧ he expects adrenaline and bravado, not worry carved soft and exposed on your face. that small, furious softness catches him off-guard because it’s a mirror of everything he is—reckless, stubborn, and breaking rules—and suddenly the idea that you could be upset about him is unbearable. he freezes because the next logical step—admitting he feels it too—feels like stepping off a cliff. he tries to laugh it off, but the silence afterward is full of possibilities he’s both thrilled and terrified to explore.

✧ he doesn’t know how to be chill about it either. he tries to keep things casual, but the next day he’s like “well if it ain’t my favorite partner in crime lookin’ finer than a fresh-polished revolver” while handing you a flower he 100% stole. and when you say “is that from someone’s windowsill??” he just shrugs like “they weren’t usin’ it right.”

✧ boothill’s attempts at nonchalance are a mess of charm and theft. he wants to be cool, but he’s hopelessly sentimental in practice so he steals daisies like a romantic outlaw and wraps them in a napkin, delivering them with that ridiculous half-wink. he tries to play it off like bravado and ownership, but the small, shy tilt of his head after you tease him says everything: he did it because he wanted you to smile.

✧ starts calling you “sweetheart” and “darlin’” every chance he gets, and gets real smiley when you call him back

✧ if anyone even breathes near you, he’s suddenly at your side like “you need somethin’?” with his hand on his holster.

✧ he treats you like gold…like, proper cowboy gentleman style, but also flirts constantly and lowkey lives for when you get flustered

✧ this man will absolutely gun someone down at noon then spend the evening asking you if you think his hat suits you better 😭

✧ he definitely starts out thinking you’re just fun. like yeehaw fun. someone who can keep up with him in a shootout and throw a decent punch if needed, and also laugh at his terrible one-liners. but the second you patch up one of his wounds with a worried little frown and mutter “you scared me, you dumbass,” it hits him like a bullet straight through the heart. he just stares. goes dead quiet. and thinks: “oh no. ohhh no. i’m done for.”

✧ he doesn’t know how to be chill about it either. he tries to keep things casual, but the next day he’s like “well if it ain’t my favorite partner in crime lookin’ finer than a fresh-polished revolver” while handing you a flower he 100% stole. and when you say “is that from someone’s windowsill??” he just shrugs like “they weren’t usin’ it right.”

✧ boothill is SO physically clingy once he falls. he’s not subtle about it either, arm around your shoulder, hand on your waist, sitting way too close next to you at the campfire like “ain’t no law sayin’ i can’t share a seat with my favorite person.” you nudge him and he’s like “what? you’re warm.” he will 100% sleep on your lap like a feral golden retriever cowboy and act like it’s completely normal.

✧ his physicality is his love language and he is VERY unapologetic about it. he just finds you comfortable, warm. in the quiet nights he’ll pull you in close, chest to chest, and act as if falling asleep perched on your lap is the most natural thing in the world. he thrives on contact: a shoulder leaned into, a hand squeezed under the table, a hip brushing yours. to him it’s intimacy, not intrusion, and he’s baffled by anyone who wouldn’t want to live in that closeness.

✧ he calls you nicknames like it’s his job. “darlin’,” “sweet thang,” “trouble,” and if you ever call him a nickname back? game over. melts. goes pink in the ears. tries to act smug about it but absolutely fails. you: “thanks, cowboy.” him, five minutes later, tripping over a barrel: “h-huh? oh yeah. cowboy. that’s me. yup.”

✧ he lives to impress you. most of his dumb stunts are, in fact, love stunts. “watch this, sugar” is usually followed by something like spinning his gun too fast and almost dropping it, or leaping off a rooftop and totally not sticking the landing but popping up like “ta-daaa.” he’s all bruised and winded but grinning. “you see that?? bet no one’s ever done that for you before.”

✧ gets so mad when someone else flirts with you. not in a scary way—just in a really obvious, dramatic “i’m not jealous i just hate that guy and i hope he trips over his own boots” way. he’ll immediately come up beside you, wrap an arm around your waist, and say something totally unnecessary like “me and my sweetheart were just talkin’ about how some folks don’t know how to mind their business.”

✧ he’s lowkey really insecure though. like yeah, he’s loud and cocky and deadly—but when you show him real affection, like a soft kiss on the cheek or you bring him a snack just because? it breaks him. he stares at the snack like “for me?? no catch? no strings?” and then grins like an idiot. he acts cool but if you leave a note for him or kiss him goodnight he will lie awake thinking about it for 6 hours.

✧ he adores showing off for you. quick draws, sharpshooting, wild tricks with his guns—you name it. but the real kicker? the moment you say “wow, you’re amazing” in a soft voice, he just melts. turns into a puddle of bashful outlaw man and hides his face under his hat like “aw hell, stop it… actually don’t.”

✧ sleepovers with him are so chaotic and so sweet. he insists on being the big spoon, insists you borrow his dumb bandana to sleep with, insists on telling you cowboy bedtime stories that are probably made up but sound romantic as hell when it’s just the two of you under the stars. “…and that’s how the outlaw won his lover’s heart. wild, huh?”

✧ “was that one about you?”

✧ the question is small and hopeful; it’s testing the waters. he’ll freeze, then scratch his jaw and mutter something like “no… unless you liked it?” because he’s terrible at directness. what he’s asking is: did you feel the same way he does when the story ends? and the way he waits for your reaction is painfully tender.

✧ he 1000% gets pouty when animals like you more than him. you pet a random cat and it immediately starts purring on your lap and boothill’s like “okay but i also have hands. and charm. and vibes. what does that furball have that i don’t??”

✧ his competitiveness is adorable. he wants your attention first, even from a stray animal. he’ll feign offense but end up laughing, trying to coax the pet away with a goofy voice and exaggerated affection. it’s partially performative, partially genuine. he’s just so glad you noticed the creature and he wants to be the center of your affection.

✧ “he’s soft. wait, why are you…are you pouting?”

✧ “what, me? pouting? PFFFT—never!” he was btw.

✧ he snores. LOUDLY. but then he’ll wake up if you move even a little and be like “you okay, sugar? need a blanket? a gun? me to kill someone real quick?”

✧ “no i’m just turning over.”

✧ “good. okay. love you.” and then immediately back to chainsaw snores

✧ he loses track of his guns constantly and blames it on you.

✧ “darlin’, have you seen Miss Bang and Miss Boom?” it’s a running joke that he’ll misplace “Miss Bang and Miss Boom” and declare them kidnapped by poltergeists. he floats the blame because it’s a way to get you involved, to watch you roll your eyes and help hunt, and he loves that shared fluster of scrambling together to find something silly and beloved.

✧ “you named them??”

✧ “…you mean you didn’t?? they’re part of the family now.”

✧ (turns out he just left them in the kitchen, again.)

✧ he makes the WORST coffee ever but drinks it with chest-pounding pride like “nothing better than cowboy coffee, sweetheart.”

✧ you sip it once and nearly DIE. it tastes like regret and gunpowder.

✧ he just smiles and goes “puts hair on your chest, don’t it?” you slap your chest, eyes squinting as your cheeks heat up. “it put trauma on my soul.”

✧ boothill is very much obsessed with matching in the dumbest ways. he’ll wear something and then be like “hey. wear this too. we’ll be a duo. a unit. people’ll take one look at us and go ‘dang, they’re in love and possibly dangerous.’”

✧ “boothill this is literally a matching fringe vest.”

✧ “exactly.”

✧ his hat = his soul. but he’ll still let you wear it if you’re cold or sad or just look cute.

✧ but he can’t handle it. like you put on his hat and he’s on the floor. “look at you. look at you. stealin’ my heart and my accessories in the same breath.”

✧ he’s grabbing at his chest like he’s been shot.

✧ you take the hat off and he goes “no wait. put it back. i was enjoyin’ the view.”

✧ if you two ever share a bed, he’s the worst sleep partner in existence.

✧ arms flung over your face. legs wrapped around yours. one time he accidentally drew his gun in his sleep and nearly shot the pillow because he was dreaming about a heist.

✧ “i can’t sleep with you anymore.”

✧ he snuggles closer, “that’s fair. but also i’m not lettin’ you go, so… figure that out, sugarplum.”

✧ calls you every nickname imaginable and makes them up as he goes.

✧ “hey there, apple butter biscuit.”

✧ “what?”

✧ “no idea. just sounded like you.”

✧ he’s definitely the type to pick a fight with an inanimate object on your behalf.

✧ you stub your toe on a chair and suddenly he’s flipping it over like “who taught you to disrespect my baby like that?! she is PRECIOUS. apologize!!”

✧ “it’s a chair—” “no. it’s an enemy now.”

✧ he tries to teach you to shoot and is SOOOO smug when you hit a target.

✧ “look at that. dead center. that’s my baby. that’s my lil shootin’ star. you’re so sexy when you’re dangerous.”

✧ and if you miss?

✧ “aw, well now you’re cute and humble. adorable. 10/10.”

✧ tries to act cool during dates but immediately gets flustered.

✧ you show up looking a little too good and he’s stumbling over words like “i, uh—this whole town’s gonna need new laws ‘cause lookin’ like that out in public oughta be illegal.”

✧ then walks into a pole.

✧ loses his mind if you ever kiss him mid-sentence.

✧ smack a kiss right on his cheek while he’s ranting and he’ll 💯 lose concentration. “—so anyway that guy totally—uh—wait what’d you—HEY—”

✧ he covers his face with both hands and makes a high-pitched cowboy noise that is NOT intimidating. he’s never recovering.

✧ when he finally confesses, it’s by accident. maybe after a fight, maybe after too much adrenaline. he just looks at you and goes “y’know i’d catch a bullet for you, right?” and you’re like “what??” and he just GRINS, rubbing the back of his neck like “oh damn. i said it out loud, huh. well. guess the secret’s out, sweetheart.” and then acts like it’s totally fine while he blushes so hard he can’t look you in the eyes.

dr. ratio

✧ at first, he denies it. violently. love is irrational, an unnecessary distraction, and certainly not something he, of all people, would succumb to. he spends like three weeks convincing himself it’s nothing, muttering equations under his breath and scribbling notes in the margins of his journals about how attraction is “an evolutionary glitch.”

✧ and yet, every time you walk into the room, his pen stills. every time you laugh, his carefully calculated logic cracks.

✧ spends like 3 weeks convincing himself that love is irrational and he’s clearly just hallucinating

✧ he’s terrible at hiding it. his behavior shifts in ways even he doesn’t realize. suddenly, he’s the first to grab your tools before you can drop them, or he’ll appear at your workstation muttering “inefficient setup” while rearranging everything perfectly… even though he’ll scoff and insist it’s only for productivity. when you thank him, he just clicks his tongue and goes, “don’t mistake this for kindness.” but his hands linger a second too long on yours when passing you your gear back.

✧ but he starts acting weird—gets all snarky around you but also awkwardly helpful, like he’s fixing your gear while insulting your aim, “honestly, your trajectory was embarrassing. i fixed it.” he looks away quickly, ignoring the way his hands are trembling just slightly.

✧ when he finally accepts it, he goes quiet. like too quiet. and then one day he just looks at you and mumbles, “unfortunately, you’re… exceptional.”

✧ he’s SO annoyed when he realizes he’s in love with you. like it ruins his entire schedule. “ridiculous. irrational. highly inefficient.” he mutters it under his breath like a curse, pacing in his office at 3AM with your name scrawled in the margins of his notes. “why you, of all people?”

✧ you wave at him the next morning and he nearly drops his clipboard.

✧ he pretends he’s totally unaffected by you, but then you get even slightly close and he short-circuits in the most emotionally constipated way. you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes and he deadass flinches. not because he’s scared—because he’s hyper-aware of your warmth. “must you stand so close?” he snaps.

✧ “…i’m literally just helping.”

✧ and he’s over here, glaring at his own heartbeat like it betrayed him

✧ he’s elegant and intellectual in public, but ✧ totally insane internally when you’re around. he’ll say something like “statistically, your odds of surviving that experiment were… unimpressive.”

✧ you roll your eyes and go “wow, thanks.”

✧ and inside he’s just 🧍‍♂️ you’re so cute when you sass me!!!!!!!!!!!

✧ he hates how easily you fluster him. you once complimented his intelligence and he actually paused, adjusted his tie, and went “…naturally.”

✧ but his ears were so red that he had to wear the statue mask for the next 20 minutes just to hide his expression.

✧ if you ever see him without the mask and say something like “you’re really handsome, y’know,” he will literally look away in silence. no smug comeback. no dramatic retort. just ✧ broken.exe ✧

✧ later that day he’ll text you like “don’t say things like that so carelessly. it’s… distracting.”

✧ “distracting? 😏” his eyes narrow, replying curtly, “i’m blocking you.” but we both know that he won’t.

✧ he shows affection in the weirdest, most autistic researcher ways. you say “i had a bad day,” and he just hands you a data chart he made analyzing your weekly mood swings like “i hypothesized this would happen. i’ve prepared snacks accordingly.”

✧ “…you made a graph about my feelings? 🥹”

✧ “don’t be so emotional about it. 😐”

✧ he completely denies he’s being romantic when he is. brings you tea exactly the way you like it? “coincidence.”

✧ buys you gloves because he noticed your hands were cold once? “don’t read into it.”

✧ reprograms the lab door to only open when it scans your palm too? “security upgrade.”

✧ (he would let you break into a vault just because you looked cute holding a crowbar.)

✧ every time he sees you injured, even a scratch, his brain goes into alarm bells. he covers it with harsh words: “you’re reckless. incapable of basic caution.” but his fingers tremble slightly as they clean the wound, and he keeps glancing up at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, as if you might slip away if he looks away too long.

✧ but his hands are so gentle when he’s checking your pulse, and he stays in the room long after you fall asleep, whispering things he’ll pretend he never said.

✧ he definitely blurts his confession on accident. like you’re arguing over something dumb, and you go “why do you care so much?”

✧ and he snaps, “because i love you, that’s why.”

✧ silence.

✧ he blinks once. sighs. rubs the bridge of his nose.

✧ “…i suppose that’s out now.”

✧ then walks off like he didn’t just say the most dramatic thing in the history of science, leaving you standing there in shock, jaws wide open with your eyes almost popped out of your socket.

✧ he’s deeply possessive in a lowkey way. doesn’t like when others touch you, compliment you, or even stand too close.

✧ but he never says anything. just comes to your side, stands a bit too close, and stares at the offender until they leave.

✧ “were you… jealous?”

✧ “don’t be absurd.”

✧ (ahem, also him, immediately gifting you an encrypted communicator only he can ping)

✧ under all the sharp intellect and deadpan sarcasm, he’s just a sleep-deprived genius who has no idea how to handle love.

✧ you once curled up next to him while he was working and said “you can rest too, you know.”

✧ and he literally just… paused. blinked. slowly shut the file.

✧ “…perhaps… only if you stay.”

✧ he has no idea how to flirt properly, so his affection leaks out in strange, clinical ways. he once drafted a full 14-page document analyzing your sleep cycle and presented it to you like it was a gift. “i noticed you’ve been restless. i’ve… optimized a schedule.” when you looked touched, he panicked, shoved the report into your hands, and muttered, “don’t make that face. it’s… distracting.”

✧ if you ever fall asleep near him, he absolutely freezes. his quill stops mid-stroke, his eyes flick down to your face resting against his arm or shoulder, and he just… stares. utterly still. terrified that even moving will break the moment. later, when he finally breathes again, he’ll pull a blanket over you with the softest care, whispering words he’d never dare repeat while you’re awake.

✧ he gets flustered at the most random times. once, you brushed a speck of dust off his collar and he went utterly blank. “you—why would you—never mind.” his ears burned so hot that aventurine teased him for two days straight.

✧ he notices the tiniest things about you. the way you tap your fingers when you’re anxious, the exact foods you eat first off your plate, how your voice softens when you’re tired. he’ll casually drop those observations like data points. “you’ve been tapping again. nervous.” you stare at him like, “…you memorized that?” and he snaps back, “don’t look so pleased. it’s just… data.”

✧ when he does let his guard down, it’s devastating. one night you tell him you don’t think you’re that important, and he just stares at you, utterly horrified. his voice is low, almost shaking when he says, “don’t ever say that again. you’re… vital.” and then he immediately clears his throat, pretends to be busy with his notes, acting like he didn’t just bare his soul in two words.

✧ aventurine finds out almost immediately. he catches ratio lingering a little too long in your direction, smoothing out his sleeves before walking near you, going quiet when you compliment his research… and aventurine’s like oh? ohhhh this is going to be fun.

✧ at first he just drops little comments like “interesting. didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, ratio.”

✧ “i’m not.” aventurine hums, nodding his head. “mm, of course not. that’s why you keep checking their comm logs like a worried husband.”

✧ at his words dr ratio grips his pen slightly tighter, aventurine only laughs.

✧ aventurine starts making a game out of it.

✧ “oh, look who’s in the room. should i leave? don’t wanna ruin your chances, professor.”

✧ dr. ratio, who’s trying with all his might trying not to turn red only states “stop talking.”

✧ “i’ll be quiet, i swear. unless you want me to bring up the way you looked at them during last week’s mission briefing. that was… romantic.”

✧ ratio tries to stay unbothered. “your deductions are idiotic and unfounded.”

✧ “mm-hm. and yet you started carrying two sets of nutrient vials on every mission. just in case someone forgets to eat again. totally unrelated, i’m sure.”

✧ aventurine’s favourite move is saying things like “oh, they’re looking this way. straighten your collar, lover boy.”

✧ he just LIVES to see his dear friend immediately panic, start adjusting and realise what he was doing.

✧ “…i will kill you.” aventurine shakes his head, crossing his arms. “you’re blushing.”

✧ “i’m overheating from rage.”

✧ “you’re overheating from affection. don’t lie to me, doctor.”

✧ once ratio tries to shut him down like, “it doesn’t matter.”

✧ and aventurine does the slow, smug grin. uh oh, dr ratio thinks to himself. “oh? so if i asked them to dinner, you wouldn’t care?”

✧ and there it is—the visible and tangible proof that dr ratio did indeed like you. the way he visibly tenses, teeth clenched and that one small sweat droplet.

✧ “…i wouldn’t recommend it.”

✧ aventurine smirks (that darn smirk) “oh? is that a threat or jealousy talking?”

✧ “no.”

✧ (he walks away before aventurine can see the ear flush but too late.)

✧ you walk into the room once while they’re bickering and aventurine immediately lights up like “ah, perfect timing. doctor ratio was just telling me how entirely unfazed he is by your presence. weren’t you, doc?”

✧ and ratio, who is trying so hard to be normal only sighs. “i will be filing a harassment report.”

✧ “…on who?” “on the concept of smugness.”

✧ aventurine, who’s witnessing all this, winks, patting his shoulder as if he was inconsolable. “aww, you’re cute when you’re flustered.”

gepard

✧ short circuits. he doesn’t even realize he’s in love until someone asks about you and he’s like “they’re amazing—wait.”

✧ gets SO flustered around you. eye contact is impossible, hands fidget with his gloves, sleeves, or even the hem of his jacket, and he mutters under his breath like he’s doing math in his head just to calm down. he’ll clear his throat, mutter “uh, fine weather today,” and you immediately know he’s panicking.

✧ offers to escort you everywhere. “just in case.” and it’s very knight-in-shining-armor vibes. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it for himself sometimes—he secretly loves being near you, feeling that protective surge. you joke about it, and he tries to act casual, but the faintest smirk tugs at his lips.

✧ he writes a song about you on the guitar but hides it under his bed like a secret diary. sometimes he strums the tune softly when he thinks no one’s listening, and the music comes out all messy and hesitant, because he’s trying to capture you in sound and fails spectacularly, but he keeps doing it anyway.

✧ it hits him slowly and very softly—he doesn’t even realize he’s falling for you at first. he just starts thinking about you randomly in the middle of patrol, or feeling a little disappointed when you’re not at the plaza when he walks by, or smiling when he finds something you might like. it’s all very quiet. very innocent.

✧ until one day you touch his arm while laughing and he just… freezes. literally short circuits. “oh.”

✧ and then mentally goes..

✧ “oh no.”

✧ “oh no i like them.”

✧ “wait no. i love them.”

✧ and now he’s spiraling in silence.

✧ he becomes so awkward about it. like he’ll try to act normal but the second you speak to him his voice goes up an octave and he drops something he was holding. you ask “are you okay?” and he’s like “YES. I MEAN. I’M FINE. I’M—I’M DOING FINE. THANK YOU. GOOD WEATHER, RIGHT?”

✧ meanwhile his internal monologue is just pure screaming.

✧ gepard is responsible and busy to an absurd degree—but he always makes time for you. he’ll carve fifteen minutes out of a chaotic schedule for a walk and act casual, but he’s memorized every flower along the route, pre-planned conversation topics, and rehearsed jokes. those fifteen minutes are the highlight of his entire day.

✧ he’ll try to act like it’s casual but he’s so excited about those fifteen minutes. he’s memorized the flowers along your usual route. he practiced conversation starters in advance. he’s been looking forward to this all week.

✧ if you bring him lunch or coffee while he’s working, he physically melts. “you… brought this for me? i—I mean… thank you… i didn’t expect—no, i mean, i’m grateful—i just—” the cup is a ticking time bomb in his hands. later, he writes a thank you note with a pressed flower tucked inside, signs it “yours truly,” panics, scratches it out, and sighs dramatically.

✧ he can’t stop fumbling with the cup like it’s a bomb.

✧ later he writes a thank you letter and delivers it by hand. with a tiny pressed flower tucked into it.

✧ he definitely signs it “yours truly” and then panics and scratches it out.

✧ he gets stupidly flustered if you compliment his uniform.

✧ “you look really good in blue.”

✧ “i—uh—it’s standard-issue but thank you!!”

✧ he will think about that one (1) sentence for like two weeks.

✧ he always puts your safety above his own. always. if there’s danger, he will shield you without hesitation, even if it means getting hurt. and when you cry or yell at him afterward for putting himself at risk, he just looks confused and says something soft like “i couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

✧ gepard sometimes leaves tiny, almost imperceptible marks on your stuff to “claim it” without telling you. a scratch on your notebook corner, a subtle symbol carved into a pen—he calls it his way of leaving breadcrumbs.

✧ he has this weird habit of remembering exactly what you said months ago. he’ll quote it casually in conversation and act like it’s nothing, but internally he’s grinning like an idiot.

✧ when he’s nervous around you, he taps his fingers or drums on his thigh, completely unaware that you notice it. he thinks it’s subtle; it’s not.

✧ gepard loves to give you “missions” that are really just excuses to spend time together—“fetch this rare herb for me, and I’ll… uh, help you carry it back safely.” he calls it training; you call it him being dramatic.

✧ he keeps a secret list of things you like, from the small (your favorite drink brand) to the bizarre (the exact shade of gloves you prefer), just so he can surprise you without asking.

✧ if you ever make a mistake or trip, he panics internally, even if he acts calm externally. he’ll act all “it’s fine, I’ve got this,” but his mind is already running scenarios for what he could have done differently to protect you.

✧ gepard is a hopeless softie when it comes to gifts from you. even if it’s small, he’ll carry it around for days, showing it off in the quietest moments when he thinks no one is looking.

✧ he sometimes leaves notes in his own pockets or gloves with little messages to you, like “remember to breathe,” “don’t forget your scarf,” or “you’re more terrifyingly perfect than you think.”

✧ he secretly likes seeing you flustered. it’s harmless, he tells himself, but he’ll drop little compliments or teasing remarks just to see the way your expression changes.

✧ when he’s jealous, he doesn’t lash out—he subtly makes everything about you, like insisting on holding the door for you first, stepping closer in a crowded space, or always being the one to offer assistance.

✧ he has an entire “mental playlist” dedicated to you, moments of him humming or whistling tunes that remind him of you without anyone noticing.

✧ gepard sometimes practices small gestures of affection in private—like brushing dirt off his gloves in the way he imagines it would be done for you, or lightly touching a table the way he would guide your hand if you were standing near him.

✧ when he catches you staring at him or admiring something about him, he freezes for a second, trying to act natural, but then internally panics, replaying the moment in slow motion.

✧ he has a habit of remembering the smallest details about you—how you sip your coffee, the angle you tilt your head when listening, the exact words you use in casual conversation—and stores them in a mental scrapbook just for himself.

✧ gepard’s comfort with people changes when you’re around. he becomes hyper-aware of others’ behavior toward you, always calculating if he should intervene, and sometimes going out of his way to subtly adjust things so you’re safe.

✧ he secretly writes “thank you” notes or little encouragements to you in invisible ink or hidden places, just so he can see you smile when you discover them, without having to admit he’s doing it.

✧ he notices the way your presence affects him physically—heart rate, breathing, tension—and sometimes excuses himself to “stretch” or “check equipment” when really he’s just trying to calm down after seeing you.

✧ every time you patch him up after a mission he goes full stiff blushy mode.

✧ “you don’t have to… i can take care of it…”

✧ but he’s secretly loving the way you fuss over him.

✧ when you tell him “please rest, you’ve done enough,” he smiles like he’s about to cry. “you always know what to say…”

✧ he lowkey tries to impress you with little gestures. helps kids across the street while you’re nearby. carries heavy crates like it’s nothing. gives you his coat without asking when it’s cold. but then you praise him and he’s like “I-I didn’t do it for that reason!! i was just—being helpful!! i-i mean not that i don’t like when you—uh—”

✧ he writes music when he’s overwhelmed by feelings he can’t say out loud.

✧ there’s a whole page in his songbook titled “for them (don’t let them see this)” with scribbled lines like “your smile warms more than the sun” and “i’d guard your dreams if you let me stay.”

✧ you find it. he dies on the spot. full shutdown.

✧ “…you weren’t supposed to see that.”

✧ when he finally confesses it’s the most sincere, vulnerable thing EVER.

✧ he can’t look you in the eyes. he just grips the hem of his jacket and says softly, “i know i don’t always say how i feel, and i might not be good at it… but i think about you. a lot. and when you’re not here, i miss you. more than i should. more than a friend should.”

✧ pause.

✧ “…i love you.”

✧ and then immediately goes “but if you don’t feel the same it’s okay! i—I just wanted you to know. i swear this won’t affect anything. you don’t have to say anything, i—”

✧ you kiss his cheek. he malfunctions. stares into space for five minutes.

✧ later he goes on patrol and accidentally walks straight into a lamppost. sigh, do you see what you do to this man? 😔

sunday

✧ sunday realizes he’s in love like a dramatic theater curtain dropping—it's full and heavy, and most certinaly unavoidable. one moment he’s lounging with a drink, listening to you talk about something completely mundane, and then...ah. it hits him like a thunderclap. “…this is going to ruin me,” he mutters, setting his cup down, like a divine tragedy unfolding in real time.

✧ he starts quoting poetry at you constantly. your eyes are stars, your laugh is a melody, your presence is the kind of thing that makes him rewrite metaphors mid-sentence. he insists he’s not in love, but somehow ends up writing five sonnets in your honor that he hides in his desk, muttering about “research inspiration.”

✧ insists he’s not in love but then writes five sonnets in your honor. sunday has poems titled after the exact way you said “good morning” once. he flips the page quickly if you ask what he’s working on. “classified,” he murmurs, throat dry, hands trembling slightly despite his calm facade.

✧ sunday gets giddy over the smallest things—your laugh, the way you say his name, the way you absentmindedly tuck hair behind your ear. he melts each time, composure failing in the tiniest microseconds, then snapping back like nothing happened.

✧ compliments start slipping out too easily once he truly falls for you. “you always catch the light just right, you know. it’s… distracting.” if you catch him staring, he smiles lazily. “can you blame me?” internally, he’s pacing, writing half-finished love letters, staring at your name in the logs like it’s holy scripture.

✧ he flirts constantly (but respectively of course) but the second he actually starts falling for you, it gets just slightly more real. the compliments start slipping out too easily.

✧ “you always catch the light just right, you know. it’s… distracting.”

✧ and if you catch him staring? he just smiles. “can you blame me?”

✧ he keeps up the act of composure, but inside it’s ✧ a disaster. pacing in his quarters. writing half-finished love letters he’ll never send. staring at your name in the mission logs like it means more than it should.

✧ he has three separate poems named after the way you said “good morning” that one time.

✧ when you ask what he’s working on, he panics and flips the page like “classified.”

✧ sunday is smooth, but the second you flirt back, he implodes.

✧ “you’re not bad on the eyes either, you know.” you say, completely unfazed and clueless to how your words have impacted him GREATLY. sunday laughs calmly “well, now—”

✧ internally? DO NOT COMBUST. DO NOT LET IT SHOW. BREATHE, YOU FOOL.

✧ he touches you like you’re delicate glass, but his eyes betray a devotion bordering on obsession. brushes strands of hair behind your ear, murmurs, “you drive me mad, utterly, completely,” and then stiffens because he just admitted too much.

✧ he always seems effortlessly in control—until it comes to your safety. if you get hurt? he drops the act. his voice gets lower. sharper.

✧ “who did this?”

✧ and when you say “i’m fine,” he kneels beside you, takes your hand, and whispers, “don’t lie to me, love.”

✧ he stays up all night that night. watching you breathe. thinking about what he’d do to the world if it ever took you from him.

✧ the drama. the longing. he touches you like you’re made of glass, but his eyes say “i want you like devotion, like obsession, like prayer.”

✧ he’ll brush a strand of hair behind your ear and murmur “you drive me mad, you know. utterly. completely.”

✧ if he ever confesses, it’s not planned—he’s too careful for that. it slips out like velvet, like a sigh between lines.

✧ maybe you’re teasing him, asking “do you always look at people like that?”

✧ and he chuckles, soft and low.

✧ “no,” he says. “only you.”

✧ you freeze. he looks down, smile fading just a touch “…you weren’t supposed to catch that.”

✧ if you say it first?? he just stares for a second. then lets out the softest, most reverent laugh.

✧ like he cannot believe you love him back. “…oh. oh, darling. you have no idea what you’ve just done to me.”

✧ he never stops calling you ridiculously poetic nicknames.

✧ “my moonlight.” “my muse.” “my forbidden prayer.” “you little divine chaos, you.”

✧ “you could just say babe, y’know?” sunday hums, seemingly unimpressed. “i could. but where’s the art in that?”

✧ he lowkey obsesses over the small things you do. the way you sit. how you hold your cup. your handwriting. he’s SO subtle about it but he notices everything. and he remembers it all.

✧ you and sunday were just chatting when he brought up something that you had mentioned weeks ago. “you remember that?” sunday, who stops mid sentence, blinks cluelessly. “darling, i remember the exact pitch of your laugh the first time you smiled at me.”

✧ he writes secret music about you. poems. confessions in the margins of philosophy books. he pretends it’s just to clear his head, but every word is about you.

✧ you find a piece of sheet music titled “when they walked in, the world paused.”

✧ he sees you holding it and just smiles. “a simple composition. don’t think too hard about it.”

✧ he will die if you play it.

✧ have i mentioned how he gives you the ULTIMATE VIP package perks?? 😭😭

✧ he never lets you wait in line. for anything. he’ll casually stroll over, loop your arm through his, and go “ah, sorry, they’re with me.” suddenly you’re walking past every annoyed noble like you own the city.

✧ “is this allowed?” you ask when sunday suddenly pulls you to the front of the line with a whole packed line behind you.

✧ “it is when i say it is.” “well okay then…” “…” “a—are you really sure—?!” “shhhhhh, yes.” he replies with his gloved finger on your lips.

✧ everyone else gets tea in little porcelain cups. you get yours brewed to your taste, in a cup that has your name engraved on the bottom (he did that). he places it on a silver tray with a napkin and a handwritten note that says “for the one who makes time taste sweeter.”

✧ “what kind of romantic riddle…” sunday, sipping his own like it’s nothing: “oh? you noticed?”

✧ escorts you everywhere like you’re sacred cargo. he’ll open doors for you, offer his hand every time you get out of a vehicle, and say things like, “careful. i’d hate for the world to bruise what belongs to me.”

✧ “belongs?!”

✧ “…well, i do hope.”

sampo

✧ oh he KNOWS and he LOVES it!! there’s this giddy, chaotic spark every time he thinks about you, like he’s won some cosmic lottery and somehow the jackpot is laughing at his dumb jokes.

✧ he flirts constantly, full of swagger and smirks, but the second you flirt back, he freezes mid-sentence, stammers, and pretends it was all a joke. internally he’s screaming: heart racing, brain short-circuiting, cheeks red, hands twitching like he’s about to combust.

✧ goes out of his way to “get you stuff”—weird trinkets, rare items, even a suspiciously shiny fruit??

✧ pretends it’s all casual until you’re in danger, and then suddenly he’s all business, protecting you like you’re the most precious thing in the world

✧ he has like 1000 hidden talents, he’s the guy who jokes his way through life but suddenly says something that makes your heart stop like “you really thought I’d ever let someone hurt you?” (mr. full of surprises fr)

✧ it starts off as a joke to him. he flirts with everyone right? so what’s the harm in teasing you a little? calling you “sweetheart,” winking too much, playing the “what if I fell for you?” game…

✧ but then you laugh at one of his dumb puns, or brush something out of his hair, and he literally feels his heart trip and fall down a staircase.

✧ he freezes for like 0.3 seconds and goes “…oh no. i’m in deep, aren’t i?”

✧ suddenly your name starts popping up in every dumb story he tells.

✧ “well this reminds me of the time you know who made that face—oh? did i bring them up again? whoops.”

✧ he says “whoops” with the most smug grin and 0 remorse but also his ears are red.

✧ flirts even harder after he realizes his feelings because he’s terrified of sincerity but still wants to be near you.

✧ “you’re impossible.” “mm, yes, but handsome.” at his response you glare at him. “…and also wildly in love with you, but you didn’t hear that from me~”

✧ “what?”

✧ “what.”

✧ gives you the best gifts and plays it off so chill.

✧ he’ll hand you a rare artifact or something weirdly perfect for your tastes like “oh, this ol’ thing? just happened to fall off a truck in front of me. you want it?”

✧ then disappears before you can even say thank you.

✧ he’s SO dramatic when he’s jealous. not aggressive. just petty.

✧ someone flirts with you? sampo sidles up like “wowww you’re popular today! should I go? should I stay? should I fake a fainting spell so you’ll carry me away like a romantic novel?”

✧ “sampo.” you say, tone flat as though you were a mother scolding your child lightly. sampo only huffs, “say the word and I’ll fake a sword wound right now.”

✧ if you ever get hurt?? that clown mask drops in a second.

✧ he’s serious. focused. suddenly using skills you didn’t even know he had.

✧ you’re like “why are you so good at stealth and first aid—”

✧ “shhhh, sweetheart, I’m good at a lot of things you don’t know about. but you’re gonna live, alright? i got you.”

✧ when he realizes he’s really in love, he has a full on crisis.

✧ “sampo koski? in love?? nooo. couldn’t be. absolutely not. well, maybe a little. maybe just… completely. head over heels. love of my life. great. wonderful. i’m doomed.”

✧ he says this to himself. out loud. on a rooftop. alone.

✧ the secret loyalty is SO real.

✧ he’ll act like “pssh nah, i don’t do attachments,” but if someone so much as looks at you wrong? he will destroy them behind the scenes.

✧ you’ll never know what happened. but the person who was bothering you? gone. hmm, wonder how he is nowadays.

✧ and he just shrugs like “huh. weird coincidence, huh?” (he hacked their comms, faked an ID theft, and got them sent to another planet.)

✧ when he confesses, it’s weirdly sweet and way too honest, he probably says something like, “hey, you know how i joke about falling for you? yeah… i wasn’t joking. turns out, your face makes my heart do that annoying fluttery thing. and i kinda wanna hear you laugh forever. so. uh. if you don’t hate me for it, maybe…let me stick around a while longer?”

✧ and then immediately covers it up with a “…unless this is embarrassing in which case i take it all back and i’m going to disappear dramatically now. smoke bomb?? no?? okay.”

✧ he’ll still flirt and tease forever but now it’s got real weight behind it.

✧ for example: “you’re looking dangerously kissable today. what’s the plan, sweetheart, do i survive the day or do i die of yearning?”

✧ he’s the type to names weapon or gadget after you, because..well..why not?

✧ kisses your hand dramatically like “for luck” before a mission or some stealth mission (that will most likely have him involved from a chase with gepard)

✧ wears something you said you liked once constantly. you like this colour on him? wow suddenly his closet looks like a bomb of colour. you like it when he wears tight shirts? no problemo partner! literally compliment him on anything he wears and i guarantee you, he WILL remember it till the day he dies.

✧ does over the top fake jealousy act when you talk to anyone besides him 😭 like wow how dare you prefer anyone OTHER than me!! 😡😡 just kidding, sampo knows that he’s the only one that you love (right?), he’s extremely secure and he KNOWS he’s handsome, there is no reason to feel threatened by any other person.

✧ hides notes in your stuff with dumb pickup lines like “are you the astral express? ‘cause my heart’s always stopping for you.”

✧ it’s cheesy and if it were any other person reading those messages they would be gagging, but between you and sampo? it’s nothing more than beautiful love letter.

✧ the classic escape artist move: whenever sampo is getting chased by gepard or the silvermane guards, he somehow always finds you. he’ll suddenly grab your hand mid-sprint like, “no time to explain, but you look fast—run!” and drags you into some alleyway or rooftop chase.

✧ he thinks it’s hilarious that you’re always unintentionally part of his “grand escapes.” you, out of breath, “sampo why me?!” him, grinning ear to ear: “because you scream the cutest when you almost trip.”

✧ he’ll hide behind you when gepard shows up, peeking over your shoulder and whispering “protect me, dearest,” as if you’re his shield. (gepards like: 😐 stop using them as cover.)

✧ sampo LOVES using you as an alibi. he’ll tell the guards “no no, i was just on a romantic stroll with my very innocent friend here” and wink at you while you’re glaring at him. somehow, you always end up backing him up because he makes puppy eyes.

✧ whenever you two walk through boulder town, kids run up to him asking what he’s selling today. he’ll pull you close and say “this one? priceless. not for sale.” with that smug little smirk.

✧ he gets you ridiculous nicknames in public like “sugarplum,” “treasure chest,” “my sweet little accomplice”—all in that dramatic salesman tone, purely to fluster you.

✧ he once showed up outside your place with flowers, but when you looked closer, you realized they were obviously stolen from a vendor’s stall. sampo just winked. “what can i say? only the finest for you.” (you: “sampo that’s theft.” him: “it’s called romance.”)

✧ you’ll be walking peacefully and suddenly he grabs your waist and yanks you into a side alley. your heart races, thinking it’s danger—but nope. just guards walking by. sampo whispering in your ear: “shhh, don’t breathe too loud.” he’s grinning the whole time while you’re ready to strangle him.

✧ he never knocks. EVER. he just climbs through your window like some shady cat burglar, sprawls on your couch, and goes “miss me?”

✧ always teaches you “shortcuts” around belobog. half the time, it’s just him getting you both lost in tunnels or climbing rooftops unnecessarily. but he claims it’s “faster” and “more exciting.”

✧ he’s the type to “borrow” your stuff constantly. scarf? “mine now, looks better on me.” snack? “sharing is caring.” pen? “collateral, i’ll return it when i don’t owe gepard money.”

✧ whenever you scold him, he puts a hand on his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply. “darling, you wound me—do you not believe in my innocent heart?”

✧ despite his chaos, he actually makes your life fun. he forces you into adventures, makes you laugh when you’re down, and even if you deny it, you secretly look forward to the sound of him knocking—or breaking into—your window.

moze

✧ poor guy is SO confused at first. he doesn’t even understand it himself at first—he just notices that he’s constantly scanning the room for you during missions, not because you’re in danger, but because he wants to make sure you’re okay. his eyes seem to find you first in any crowd, and he can’t break the pattern. it’s small things at first.

✧ he remembers the way you hold your cup, how you tilt your head when thinking, the sound of your laughter in a quiet hallway. it starts to feel like a reflex, something he can’t control, and when he finally understands it, he freezes, hiding in a shadow somewhere while muttering “…what the hell is wrong with me,” feeling like he’s malfunctioning from the sheer intensity of it.

✧ starts acting weirdly shy, avoiding eye contact, tripping over stuff around you, sometimes even going invisible when he thinks he looks bad, whether it’s bad hair day, lack of sleep or maybe second guessing if he has bad breath or not…he will hide.

✧ gets really quiet when you talk, listening with full attention but barely able to speak back.

✧ starts leaving little gifts for you, unsigned, until you catch him and he panics like “uhh that wasn’t me” like buddy we just saw you, it was you.

✧ not only that but you lowkey knew it was him, i mean how obvious could it be? you had only told moze about a specific type of plushie that had caught your eye weeks ago, and all of the sudden it was all wrapped up in a fine, beautifully wrapped present? like really.

✧ forgot to mention but he is slightly emotionally constipated. ✧ despite being emotionally constipated, moze starts showing his feelings in small, almost imperceptible ways. he leaves little survival kits in your bag with bandages, snacks, or even a tiny flashlight, and doesn’t tell you they’re from him.

✧ sometimes he silently appears behind you to fix something you dropped or adjust your gear, and you turn around expecting a teammate, but it’s just him, smirking faintly and walking away like nothing happened.

✧ he memorizes your favorite drinks, snacks, and routines, showing up with them exactly when he knows you’ll need them, even if he’s supposed to be on a completely different mission. when you notice these small gestures and ask, he’ll deny it fiercely, but the evidence is usually too obvious—like the time he accessed the vending system remotely, something only he could do.

✧ but back on the topic, moze does not realise he’s in love for a long time.

✧ he just notices that you take up too much of his attention.

✧ he’s mid mission, scanning crowds for targets, and somehow his eyes always find you first. not because you’re in danger, but because he wants to make sure you’re okay.

✧ that’s how it starts. with patterns he can’t break.

✧ watching you. thinking of you. remembering the sound of your voice when everything else goes quiet.

✧ when it finally hits him, it’s terrifying. like, he’s trained to handle everything. interrogation? fine. death threats? easy. but you smiling at him across the room?? complete system error.

✧ he literally turns away and vanishes into the nearest shadow, clutching onto his flushed cheeks with his hand, whispering to himself. “…what the hell is wrong with me.”

✧ moze rarely initiates affection, but when he does, it’s deliberate and heavy with meaning. he’ll reach out to adjust a strap on your gear or gently touch your wrist, and even if he only mutters “don’t” under his breath, it’s a protective warning that he can’t fully articulate. he leaves little notes or small gifts without explanation, sometimes in your digital logs, sometimes in your personal belongings, always signed simply “—M.”

✧ he memorizes small details about you—the rhythm of your walk, the tilt of your head, the little habits you have—and references them casually in conversation or action, knowing you notice without him ever having to explain why.

✧ he stands slightly in front of you when something’s wrong. puts his coat over your chair when it’s cold. subtly reroutes danger without ever telling you it was close.

✧ if you notice and ask “was that you?” he just goes, “no.”

✧ (meanwhile he just intercepted five encrypted messages and hacked three cameras to make sure you got home safe.)

✧ he’s hyper aware of your routines.

✧ he won’t say a word, but he knows exactly when you’re tired. when you haven’t eaten. when you’ve had a bad day.

✧ you walk into your room and find your favorite snack on your desk and a small note: “Eat. You’ll feel better.” — M

✧ (PACK IT UP LOVER BOY)

✧ he swears up and down it wasn’t him if you bring it up. but your comm log says someone accessed the vending system remotely…with a clearance only he has. but yeah sure, it wasn’t him.

✧ when you get hurt on a mission??? he loses it internally.

✧ on the outside: dead silent, stone-cold, methodical.

✧ on the inside: apocalyptic panic.

✧ he abandons everything else to get to you. “you’re stable,” he says, checking your wounds with shaking hands. you whisper, “you’re worried about me.”

✧ he pauses for half a second.

✧ “…yes.”

✧ if someone flirts with you or gets too close, he won’t say a thing.

✧ moze is protective in a way that’s almost imperceptible until you notice it. he won’t ever verbally confront someone who flirts with you, but the air subtly shifts when he’s near. he’s suddenly there, close, intimidating, like a shadow silently guarding you. he keeps mental tabs on any potential threat, tracking them through cameras, comms, or any surveillance network at his disposal, and makes sure they leave without ever having to step in physically.

✧ he’s hyper-aware of your safety and routines, noticing if you’re tired, hungry, stressed, or had a bad day, and will quietly remove minor obstacles from your path—rerouting danger, adjusting mission logistics, or simply placing a coat over your chair to ensure comfort.

✧ “are you jealous?” you ask, heart racing softly at the possibility that he was indeed jealous. and to your disappointment he groans. “i don’t get jealous.”

✧ but let’s not forget that he’s watching the person leave through six different surveillance feeds just to be sure they’re gone.

✧ when he’s near you, he tries to keep his distance, but sometimes the emotion slips.

✧ you reach to fix something on his collar and he freezes. eyes on you, barely breathing and just whispers, “don’t.”

✧ but when you look confused, he sighs, touches your wrist softly, and mutters “you’re distracting. it’s dangerous. not for me. for you.”

✧ (bro is already in love, but he’d rather die than let you know)

✧ confession? HA. that man would rather be tortured.

✧ it only happens if you corner him, maybe after catching him doing something clearly just for you.

✧ from then on? protective boyfriend unlocked.

✧ he’s not clingy. not loud. not even open, but he’s there. always. you’ll never walk alone, you’ll never be unwatched. and you’ll never be hurt—not while moze is still breathing.

✧ another weird thing is how he doesn’t say “i love you” but says “i would dismantle the universe for you” like it’s nothing. like??? 😨 make it make sense!!

✧ late at night, when everyone else is asleep, moze sometimes sits near places you frequent, quietly watching over you, ensuring you’re safe, breathing, and at peace. he is entirely discreet, meticulous in his protection, and completely selfless in his love.

✧ even though he may never explicitly say it, every small action—every note, every gift, every calculated route he takes to keep you safe—is a declaration of his heart. he loves you so profoundly and quietly that it could go unnoticed, but if you ever see the pattern, it’s unmistakable.

✧ he would dismantle the universe itself to make sure you’re unharmed, and he wouldn’t hesitate for a single second.

imbibitor lunae/dan heng

✧ realises it early but keeps it deeply buried for a long time

✧ dan heng notices little things about you early on—the way your fingers linger on objects, the way your gaze catches the light, the way your voice softens without realizing it—and he files it all away in his mind, silently cataloguing your presence like an invaluable relic.

✧ he has a tendency to appear in places you frequent without telling you, just to make sure you’re safe, but always acts casual about it if you notice. “oh, just passing through,” he says, but his eyes betray a focused intensity, tracking your every movement like he’s guarding something sacred.

✧ he gets more gentle around you, offering you ancient knowledge, looking at you like you’re some divine creature because to him, you are.

✧ his voice always drops when he’s speaking to you. everyone else gets his measured, formal tone, but you get the low, steady, almost whispering version—like every word he says is a secret he’s sharing only with you.

✧ he’ll gently guide you through places, a hand hovering at your back but never quite touching unless you allow it. “careful, dear one. the steps are uneven.” it’s so soft you barely hear it over the wind.

✧ when you’re overwhelmed or upset, he won’t bombard you with questions. instead, he’ll quietly sit beside you, folding his hands in his lap, giving you his full, patient presence until you’re ready to speak.

✧ his eyes soften when they land on you, like a storm breaking into calm. it’s subtle, but even march notices and teases him about it. he only smiles faintly and changes the subject.

✧ sometimes he recites old poems or verses to you without even realizing. his voice is like water over stones, slow and deliberate, and you don’t even care that you don’t understand half of the ancient language—he just sounds so reverent.

✧ he notices small things: if you’re cold, he’ll quietly shift his scarf over your shoulders without a word. if you’re tired, he’ll slow his stride to match yours. if you’re hurt, he’ll crouch to your level and murmur, “allow me,” before tending to you with practiced, gentle hands.

✧ imbibitor never interrupts you. even when you’re rambling. even when you’re angry. he listens with an intent so deep it feels like you’re being read like scripture.

✧ when you’re walking side by side, his tail sometimes flicks closer, like it wants to wrap around your ankle but doesn’t dare. once you stumbled on a rock and it actually steadied you before his hand could—his face went red instantly.

✧ he avoids using your name in public, but in private? he says it like a prayer. quiet, careful, as though it’s something precious.

✧ at night, if you can’t sleep, he’ll sit with you and tell you stories from the xianzhou—legends and forgotten myths—his voice a steady lull that calms you until your eyes grow heavy. he doesn’t stop until you’re asleep.

✧ he is always aware of you in a room. if you’re across the space, he’ll keep you in his peripheral vision, not in a possessive way but like he needs to know you’re safe.

✧ he never asks for touch, but the first time you brushed his hand while handing him something, he froze for a second, eyes flicking to yours. you swear you saw the tips of his horns tremble.

✧ when you tease him, calling him “dragon” or “your highness,” he just sighs, but the corners of his lips twitch upward. “if that is what you wish to call me…” he murmurs, but his ears are pink.

✧ sometimes you’ll catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not watching, his expression unreadable—like someone staring at a star they’re afraid to touch.

✧ and if you ever get hurt? the mask drops completely. he’s suddenly next to you, voice soft but unshakable: “look at me. breathe. i’m here.” his hands don’t shake until after you’re safe.

✧ if you thank him for anything, he always lowers his gaze slightly and murmurs, “there is nothing to thank me for. i am… honored.”

✧ and the first time you fall asleep on his shoulder, he doesn’t move for hours, afraid to disturb you. his tail curls protectively near your feet, and in the softest whisper you’ve ever heard, he breathes, “…stay as long as you wish.”

✧ probably calls you “dear one” or something poetic

✧ when he confesses, it’s with full soul, like “my heart has known many lifetimes, but it beats for you alone in this one” typa confession.

✧ imbibitor who’s trying his hardest to be calm and distant but is so terribly down bad for you it physically hurts him.

✧ he pretends for a while that it’s just admiration. or respect. or “aesthetic appreciation” (sure, heng.)

✧ but then you fall asleep on his shoulder once and he’s staring at you like you’ve just lit a candle in the middle of a dark cave he’s been in for centuries.

✧ he gently pulls the blanket over you, exhales through his nose, whispering gently to himself, “…this is not good.”

✧ (this is the most emotion he’s shown in hours.)

✧ his dragonic instincts??? oh they’re going nuts.

✧ he doesn’t even notice it at first. like—he starts subtly hoarding things that remind him of you, his “treasure” ✧he starts carrying small tokens of your presence without even thinking: a ribbon you dropped, a pressed leaf from your favorite tree, a stray bookmark with a note you left behind. he tucks them carefully into a hidden compartment in his quarters, hands lingering on them longer than necessary before closing it shut.

✧ a ticket stub. a pressed flower. a little ribbon you dropped.

✧ they’re all in his drawer next to old texts and relics and he gets weirdly defensive if anyone gets near it.

✧ march 7th was just wandering in his room when she spotted a box full of stacked objects. “what’s in here?”

✧ imbibitor, who suddenly appeared in his room blurted out his response—“classified.”

✧ “ooooookay.”

✧ he finds himself talking about his past more than usual when you’re around, sharing stories of ancient relics or old battles, but always phrased in a way that you’ll think it’s just casual history—though in reality, every anecdote is meant to anchor you to him, to invite you closer into the depths of his life.

✧ his tail, horns, and ears betray him constantly. they twitch, flick, or curl whenever you’re near, and he becomes hyper-aware of them, sometimes muttering under his breath or covering his face to hide how flustered he is.

✧ his dragonic features are sacred to him. he doesn’t even let strangers look at them for long, let alone touch. but when it comes to you? his guard falters. the first time your fingers brush against the curve of his horn, he doesn’t flinch. his breath just hitches—quiet, sharp—and instead of moving away, he tilts his head ever so slightly closer.

✧ his tail is even worse. it’s instinctual, twitchy, restless. he hates how it betrays him by curling subtly toward you whenever you’re near, like it’s drawn to your warmth. when you tease him and stroke it gently, he murmurs, “...you’re lucky it’s you.” he means it. anyone else would’ve lost a hand.

✧ in private, he’s surprisingly domestic. he makes tea with a precision that feels ceremonial, pouring your cup first before his own. he’s so methodical about it that sometimes you just sit and watch him, because his patience itself is calming.

✧ he reads ancient texts aloud to you at night—not for your understanding, but because he knows the cadence of his voice soothes you. sometimes he translates little bits: “this verse is about a flower that blooms only in darkness… it reminded me of you.”

✧ his living space is immaculate. neat stacks of scrolls, polished armor, everything in order. but then you leave a trinket behind—a scarf, a hairpin—and instead of moving it, he sets it carefully on his desk as if it’s the most important artifact in the room.

✧ he cooks rarely, but when he does, it’s usually simple dishes with symbolic meaning. one night, he sets a bowl in front of you and when you ask what it is, he explains softly, “a meal once shared between companions before battle. it is said to bring luck. i… wanted you to have it.”

✧ mornings with him are quiet but tender. he rises early, meditates, then brings you tea without a word. when you’re groggy and still half-asleep, he’ll let you lean against him while you drink, silently amused at how small you feel draped across his chest.

✧ when you brush his hair, he goes completely still. no snark, no teasing—just a soft exhale and lowered lashes. if you ask if he likes it, he whispers, “…i could sit here forever.”

✧ when you’re sick or worn down, he fusses in his understated way. blanket tucked around you, cup of warm tea at your bedside, and a soft, “rest. i’ll keep watch.” and yes—he literally keeps watch, sitting beside you like a silent sentinel until you drift off.

✧ he gets embarrassed when you catch his dragonic instincts slipping into everyday life. like how he automatically positions himself between you and an open door, or how his tail coils subtly near your chair in crowded places like it’s guarding you. when you point it out, he just clears his throat: “…habits.”

✧ you caught him once sharpening his spear in complete silence, then stopping halfway because you walked in. “what is it?” you asked. “…i did not realize how much calmer i feel when you’re here,” he admitted quietly, fingers pausing on the blade.

✧ late nights are the most intimate. the world asleep, his armor and composure shed, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he admits things he’d never say in the light of day. “i fear losing you more than i have feared any battle.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his tail brushes gently against your leg, betraying the truth.

✧ his tail shows up one time when he’s sleepy and you casually pet it like “aww that’s cute”

✧ btw you named his tail dan jr.

✧ and this man FLIES across the room in embarrassment. “y-you shouldn’t touch that.” “…why? does it mean something?”

✧“…”

✧ “does it mean you want to mate—”

✧ “no.“

✧ the horns twitch when you’re near. he hates that you know this. you walk in the room and they immediately twitch a little.

✧ “awww they do that every time I enter!!”

✧ dan heng, who’s clutching his forehead could only meekly reply. “please… show mercy.”

✧ acts super normal in front of others but you catch him looking at you like he’s reading ancient scripture.

✧ very serious about your wellbeing.

✧ if you get hurt?? he goes deadly silent and already carrying you bridal style to safety.

✧ “i’m okay, it’s just a scratch—” “no, it isn’t. don’t downplay things. not with me.”

✧ (he wraps your bandage very gently with his hands shaking a little.)

✧ you tease him ALL the time because he’s too easy to fluster

✧ “do dragons kiss?”

✧ “would you give me a scale if I asked nicely?”

✧ “what happens if I tug your tail again? will you bite me?”

✧ every time, his ears flush, and he either leaves the room or pulls his sleeve up over his face like “you’re being unreasonable.”

✧ he brings you a relic of his past. something meaningful and places it in your hands like he’s trusting you with centuries and says, quietly, “…i no longer wish to carry it alone. not if you’ll walk beside me.”

✧ (bro just said “will you be my soulmate” in such a poetic way)

✧ he doesn’t ask for affection. but when you give it?? tail wags once. ears twitch. eyelids soften.

✧ he won’t say anything but he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it

✧ and if you kiss his cheek, he turns away but you can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips

✧ protective AF but in silence.

✧ “I don’t feel safe going alone.” his reply was almost in an instance. “you won’t be.” then he shimmers into view at your side like a guardian spirit from a fantasy novel

✧ sometimes you’ll be like “you’re so pretty when you’re not frowning”

✧ he blinks at you once, then replies in the softest voice ever. “…then I will try not to frown. for you.”

✧ when he confesses, it’s both poetic and terrifyingly sincere. he doesn’t shout it or make grand gestures; he whispers centuries of emotion in a single line: “i no longer wish to carry this alone, not if you’ll walk beside me,” and the weight behind it makes the air feel charged.

✧ he will silently follow your routines or shadow your steps when he can, always ready, always protective, as if the world were a fragile artifact and you the only piece that matters.

✧ dan heng notices your little quirks—the tilt of your head when you concentrate, the way you sip a drink, the smallest gestures that might seem meaningless—but to him, they are everything. and he treasures them quietly, like one treasures a rare gem.

✧ if you compliment him or show small affection, he can’t hide the reaction entirely. ears twitch, tail flicks, a corner of his mouth lifts, and for a heartbeat he allows himself to fully feel it, before pulling back into the mask of calm composure.

✧ he may never call you “mine” aloud, but when danger arises, when trouble appears, he moves as though the world itself were beneath your protection. his actions speak the devotion that words could never capture.

gallagher

✧ the moment gallagher realizes he’s in love with you, he actually goes quiet.

✧like he’s standing there, wiping a glass or pouring a drink, and you laugh at something small and sweet and for the first time in a long time, his heart does that dumb little thump (literally oki doki)

✧he sets the glass down, stares at it for a second, and just thinks.

✧“…aw, hell.”

✧ he doesn’t say anything about it, well, not for a long while anyway. he just… starts doing more for you.

✧ your drink’s always ready before you even ask. he makes sure you eat, he walks you home when it’s late, even if you insist you’re fine.

✧ you thank him, and he just grunts and looks away, muttering “ain’t nothin’. s’what anyone would do.” really gallagher, really.

✧ (no it’s not. it’s 100% what he would do. for you.)

✧ doesn’t flirt. not directly. but his actions? OH, they’re screaming “I LOVE YOU.”

✧ he calls you “kid” or “trouble” but there’s a little fondness in it like. 😭

✧ always saves you the best booth no matter what!! the juke’s always working, seats cleaned, table wiped spotless and everything is in pristine condition (like he didn’t just wipe everything down minutes before)

✧ nudges your favorite snack toward you like “figured you’d want somethin’”

✧ if you’re upset, he quietly slides a drink over and says “on the house. long day?”

✧ his body language is how he shows he cares!! he positions himself near you in a crowd, he always keeps one eye on you, he stands a little closer when you’re nervous.

✧ “are you hovering?” you raise your brow, eyeing suspiciously at the brown haired man, it was painfully obvious that he was gradually inching to you closer than ever.

✧ he snorts, shaking his head almost too quickly. “just makin’ sure you don’t get in trouble. not like you haven’t before.”

✧ the first time you touch his arm? like just a light brush or grabbing his sleeve?? he stiffens just a little, it had caught him off guard, then he relaxes… and doesn’t move away.

✧ and you swear you see him smile into his glass.

✧ when you compliment him??? he pretends he didn’t hear it. (okay he’s on his deriod!!)

✧ ahem an example: “you look nice today” a nice and simple compliment. not one he hasn’t heard before. while you’re as calm and cool as the wind gallagher on the other hand does NOT make eye contact “tch. flattery’s bad for my blood pressure.”

✧ (he is secretly thinking about it for the rest of the day and gets 20% more awkward around you)

✧ doesn’t talk about his feelings, but shows them in subtle gestures, such as, fixing your coat collar without a word, bringing an extra umbrella without telling you why, walking on the outside of the sidewalk like it’s second nature (a true gentleman)

✧ calls you late at night and just goes, “you good?” he’ll pretend he was calling for something else but he absolutely wasn’t

✧ gets visibly grumpier when someone else gets too close to you, even if it’s the little creatures that hang around his bar often.

✧ you’ll notice the way his jaw tightens, or the way he suddenly has a lot of stuff to clean behind the bar right near your table and a whole bunch of grumbles.

✧ when he finally confesses, it’s so gruff and awkward and precious. he probably says something along the lines of “look. i’m not good at this kind of talk. but… you matter. more than i thought you would. and if you’re gonna be causing this much trouble in my head, i might as well make it official, yeah?”

✧ (sir. that was literaly the cutest thing ever.)

✧ after that?? he’s still the same. still grumbly, still tired, still sighing dramatically when you tease him but now when he says “don’t do anything stupid,” he tucks your hair behind your ear, when he says “take care of yourself,” he brings you a thermos with your favorite drink with a small sticky note on the bottle, the words reading, "

✧ and when you say “i love you,” ?????

✧ a simple: “…yeah. me too, kid.”

✧ after he confesses, he doesn’t suddenly turn into some smooth romantic. he’s still gallagher. he still sighs like you’re the most troublesome thing in the world. but now when he sighs, he’s pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

✧ he pretends he hates PDA, but his hand always finds yours under the table. his thumb rubs absent circles into your palm absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

✧ “don’t get used to this,” he mutters, holding your hand tighter when someone bumps into you on the street. (you smile because you know damn well he’ll never let it go.)

✧ whenever you hang around the bar, he pours you a drink before anyone else. always first. regulars start noticing and teasing him about it, but he doesn’t care. “shut up and mind your own glass,” he grumbles, while setting your favorite snack right in front of you.

✧ if you’re sick, gallagher turns into the most dramatic caretaker ever. he’ll act like it’s such a burden—“you’re gonna kill me with all this sneezin’, kid”—but then he’s making sure you drink water, cooking soup that’s actually really good, and checking your temperature every hour like it’s his sworn duty.

✧ sometimes, you catch him staring. not the quick glances he used to sneak before, but long, steady looks like he’s memorizing you. when you call him out, he snorts and says, “just makin’ sure you’re not up to somethin’.” sure gallagher. sure.

✧ he’s a terrible texter—short replies, lots of “k” or “yeah.” but if you don’t answer fast enough, he’ll CALL. “where the hell are you? it’s late.” when you tell him you were just in the shower, he goes quiet for a second, then mutters “…oh. good. just—text me next time.”

✧ he doesn’t admit it, but he loves when you leave little things behind at his place. your sweater draped on a chair, your toothbrush by his sink—it makes his place feel less empty. he never moves them.

✧ when you come back from a night out looking tired, he’s waiting at the bar like always. “have fun?” he asks, but his eyes are scanning you like he’s making sure you’re safe. when you say yes, he only nods, then pours your usual without you asking.

✧ arguments with him are… intense. he’s stubborn, you’re stubborn. but the thing is, he always comes back. even if it’s just to sit near you in silence. he’ll eventually mutter, “look. i ain’t good with words. but i don’t want you thinkin’ i don’t care. ‘cause i do. too damn much.”

✧ if you ever cry in front of him, he looks like it physically hurts him. he’s awkward at first, hovering like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. but then he’s pulling you against his chest, rubbing slow circles on your back, murmuring, “hey, hey. you’re alright. i got you, trouble.”

✧ gallagher has no idea how to compliment you. the words get stuck in his throat. so he just… does things. makes sure you’re comfortable, fixes your seat, adjusts your scarf so you’re warm. when you tease him—“aww, you’re sweet”—he grumbles, “shut it.” but the tips of his ears turn red.

✧ late at night, when it’s just the two of you, he talks more. not much, but enough. about his day, about the bar, about little stories from his past. his voice gets softer, quieter. like he only trusts you with that side of him.

✧ he always walks you home. no matter what. even if you insist you’re fine, he’ll trail after you, hands shoved in his pockets. “don’t argue. i’m already goin’ this way.” (he isn’t. he just doesn’t want you walking alone.)

✧ if you fall asleep on his couch, he’ll stand there for a long moment, watching you breathe. then he sighs, grabs a blanket, and tucks you in. when you stir, he mutters, “go back to sleep. you’re safe.”

✧ gallagher isn’t big on gifts, but he notices things. you mention offhand that your mug broke? next day, there’s a new one on your table. you say you like a certain song? it’s suddenly playing on the jukebox. when you ask, he just shrugs. “coincidence.” (it’s not.)

✧ if someone flirts with you too boldly in the bar, gallagher’s whole vibe changes. his voice gets sharper, his movements heavier. “bar’s full,” he’ll tell them, even if it isn’t, and plant himself between you and whoever’s bothering you.

✧ and when you finally kiss him first (because let’s be honest, he’s too stubborn to admit he wants it), he freezes—just for a second. then his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for it. afterward, he mutters, “…about time.”

✧ bonus old man boyfriend gallagher scenarios:

✧ you fall asleep on the bar one night, head pillowed on your arms. gallagher stares for a moment, then sighs like it’s the most inconvenient thing in the world (it’s not). he quietly drapes his coat over your shoulders, turns the lights down, shoos away any loud customers, and lets you rest as long as you need.

✧ he won’t say it but LOVES when you sit beside him during quiet hours. you, him, the low hum of the jukebox in the background—he’ll pretend he’s annoyed when you lean on his shoulder but the way he softens gives him away.

✧ you once called him “handsome” just to see what would happen. he froze. dead silent. then promptly dropped a whole glass he was holding, muttering “damn thing was slippery” even though his hands are usually steady as stone.

✧ he builds you a little shelf behind the bar for your stuff. no announcement, no explanation. you just show up one day and it’s there. your books, trinkets, and even a spare sweater tucked neatly in. when you ask about it, he just shrugs and says “figured you’d be leavin’ things around anyway.”

✧ he fixes broken things in your apartment before you even realize they were broken. the wobbly chair leg? tightened. the leaky faucet? patched. when you ask who did it, he just grumbles “place was fallin’ apart. someone had to.”

✧ after a long day, he simply mutters “you drive me crazy” while smiling into his drink. it’s quiet, almost like he’s talking to himself—but you catch it. and the way his shoulders relax after saying it makes you realize: he’s falling harder by the second. and you don't mind.

note: i’m obsessed with the amophoreus men

taglist 🏷️:  @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @yuri-is-silly @khoiyyu @daydreaming-paradies @xoxoangelsweets if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

DAN HENG

Dan Heng sees you camping by the hallway like the nosy person you are as soon as he gets home, hiding behind the slightly open door, eavesdropping on the couple, ex-lovers, or a pair with a romantic history (a gut-wrenching situationship) bickering. 

You immediately beckon him over, placing a finger against your lips to silence any of his questions, and by the time he arrives by your side you pull him aside: “They’ve been at it for hours.” You say, completely focused on a pair of a couple of strangers, eyes gleaming with the fervor as if you’re watching your favorite show on TV. 

“And you’ve been here for hours?” He replies, which you immediately hush him. It’s rather painful to admit, but there’s this feeling that boils in his chest, and he can’t help but be upset. Something sharp and unwelcome twists in his chest at how utterly captivated you are by this strangers' mess when he's standing right here, when he could be giving you his full attention. Why are you paying so much attention to someone that isn’t him?

“I don’t really know what’s going on but it looks so interesting, so I can’t help it.” You utter, still not sparing a glance at him. Clearly, you weren’t the only one as the others are doing the same thing—even the ones from a different floor are lingering by the stairs.

With a long-suffering sigh that doesn't quite mask his irritation, he hooks a finger in your collar and bodily drags you away from your makeshift opera show, ignoring your indignant squawks as he herds you back inside, effectively distracting you with something else.

PHAINON

There are some pretty loud sounds and creaking that has been going on in the apartment next door. 

At first, Phainon and you dismissed it. I mean, it’s not like those kinds of things are not normal and both of you weren’t the purest beings out there in this world. Besides, that was just the only time it’s going to happen, right? 

Wrong. 

You are completely and utterly wrong because for DAYS you have been enduring those damn sounds and for days you are losing sleep over it. It haunts you every single night for hours as soon as the clock strikes nine as if it was a damn routine of theirs. You tried knocking back against the wall, a signal, but they didn't stop. Matter of fact, they get louder.

By the time a week has passed by, or banged by, both you and Phainon have reached a level of zen-like resignation that would concern even the most seasoned monks. 

Night comes once more, his eyes are glazed over as the headboard next door pounds rhythmically against the wall in what can only be described as architectural assault. He’s long since given up on subtlety, muttering, “Good for them,” with the hollow cheer of a man who has accepted his fate. You, on the other hand, are biting your lip to keep from laughing at the way his eye twitches every time a particularly enthusiastic moan pierces the air. 

He suddenly rolls over, pulls you in his arms, and squeezes you tightly like you were a life-sized stress ball, “You’re laughing, we’re both miserable, and you’re laughing.” Perhaps it was better to bang at your neighbor's door tomorrow to give them a change of pace, or a new definition of pounding.

ANAXAGORAS

Anaxa is not one to be able to tolerate such things. I mean, how many times has this been already? Every single time there is a damn delivery addressed to your door, it’s not really addressed to you nor him, but to the person who lives next to you. You wouldn’t mind it if it was just a one-time occurrence, but no, because nearly every single day you’ll always have someone knocking and yelling: “Delivery for (insert name of your neighbour who is pissing you off and inconveniencing you with this thing)!”

From food, to jewelry, to clothes, to shoes, to flowers, you name it all. It feels like you had the entire mall fall into your entire doorstep already. It gets annoying especially when it overlaps with some of your expected deliveries. Imagine being so excited for your parcel to arrive that you’d run to your door, abandoning whatever you are doing, only to discover that it wasn’t even yours?!?

“This is getting annoying.” You grumble, invading Anaxa’s personal space as he reads from his book, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I agree.”

So what does Anaxa propose to do instead? Accepting the deliveries before his neighbour could open the door and tell the guy that it’s theirs. From then on, you are enjoying the luxuries of free food and items. Though it only lasted for five days because your lovely neighbor didn’t put your address as the delivery place anymore after your small squabble with them. Bummer.

Why were they even putting your address for deliveries anyway? Turns out your neighbour was scamming people left and right online and putting your address as to not get in trouble in case authorities get involved. Well, they did get involved and they also did end up at your door but you simply redirected them to the right place.

MYDEIMOS

As a great philosopher has once said, for one to arrange their furniture, one must do it in the morning. Not during the ass fucking crack of dawn when you’re already wandering and skipping in your dreamland, talking to a purple dinosaur. As soon as he hears that loud banging, screeching, and scraping of something coming from the place above, Mydei does not waste a single second.

“What the fuck.” You say, groggy and having just woken up from your sleep when a loud sound of something crashing is heard from above. You would have thought someone broke into your place until you saw Mydei right beside you, leaning against the headboard, arms crossed across his chest.

“What was that? Did you hear that?” You’re already bombarding him with questions, trying to make sense of what’s happening until you hear another sound of something scraping just above your ceiling and it doesn’t stop for a minute. If you were in a cartoon, your whole place would already be shaking just for the effect of it.

“I’m going to talk to them.”

“Huh?” You say, confused, watching as your lover gets out of bed. “Who?” Your eyes follow him as he randomly picks a shirt from his closet. 

Before he completely leaves, he crosses the room until he’s leaning over you, one hand cradling your cheek as if you’re something sacred. His thumb brushes beneath your eye and before you realize it, he’s already tilting your face up, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead.

When he finally pulls back, he murmurs, “Stay here.” And then you never see him again.

Just kidding, you do. Just a few minutes later when he slips back into bed and tells you to go back to sleep, while he embraces you. You don’t question him or what he did, and surely enough, your sleep was peaceful and quiet.

BOOTHILL

ASSERT DOMINANCE, Boothill claims as he’s already rolling his sleeves and preparing to take out the speaker system.

He was already not having it. Months of having to deal with his so-called neighbours, also so-called ‘friends’, and their never-ending parties that disturb your sleep to which they’ll compensate with a half-assed apology the next morning only to do the same thing again during the night. In addition to that nuisance too is how some of these dumbasses would occasionally stumble into your door, mistaking it for the party venue. Clearly, they don’t see the loud ass house with disco lights just behind them.

After another intoxicated fool ends up at your doorstep again, his already-broken composure falters as he swings the door open with a rather pissed off grin, gaze burning with so much intensity. "Lost, darling?" he purrs, voice dripping saccharine venom as the stranger blinks blearily at him. One glance at you who bore a tired look on your face and back to Boothill who's still hovering by the doorway, glaring, and the poor soul suddenly remembers they have somewhere else to be. That was it, that was the last straw.

So here you are, trying to stop him as he drags the speakers to the porch, firing up a playlist exclusively consisting of a guy imitating how Hugh Jackman would sing certain songs (please get the reference) and Mariah Carey’s entire discography.

Not long after, the neighbour’s party stops dead. Although a verbal argument did break out, with your lover’s amazing vocabulary and machine-gun like mouth, he won.

"See, darlin’? Sometimes the best way to shut a party down is to throw a better one."

In the end, both you and the neighbours got a noise complaint.

JING YUAN

There’s a couple breaking up across the street and they were yelling loud enough to wake up even the neighbourhood’s deepest sleeper. So like the chad Jing Yuan and you are, of course, you sit by your porch on the pretense that you are… simply sightseeing. Yes, sightseeing. 

That’s why you have your chairs out with glasses of juice along with some leftover popcorn that you made last night. Oh, and also, your binoculars. If only you could read lips to complete your experience, but it’s alright, because this couple (or not to be) is screaming and hollering loudly, as the lady throws into the streets what you assume to be his belongings. 

The spectacle escalates to something like you would see from a telenovela, shame there are no grand reveals and slapping involved. But the girl did fling a ceramic vase at him, to which the man dodges, unfortunately.

“I wonder what the guy did.” You mumble, taking a mouthful of popcorn. Your bucket was nearly empty now and at the same time, it seems like your show is coming to an end as the woman stomps back inside and leaves the guy behind. With that, Jing Yuan rises from his chair, stretching languidly before offering you his arm. 

"Shall we retire for intermission, my dear? I believe Act Two will involve either tearful reconciliation or a round two of their fight. Either way, we'll want fresh snacks." It’s no lie that your lover is positively radiant with amusement despite the disruption it created for your usually peaceful, warm afternoon.

SUNDAY

Sunday deals with the neighbours’ drunken chaos the way a saint tolerates blasphemy. Despite the nuisance it has brought with the loud bass that seem to shake the whole place awake, he’s still formal and proper in handling the situation.

The door opens after a few minutes of knocking and waiting and a lady greets him.

“My apologies for interrupting your revelry, but I’m afraid you’re disturbing everyone with your enthusiastic celebration.” Specifically you. The thought of you being weary and troubled as you lose sleep over this terrible disturbance is making his chest tighten. He doesn’t wish to see you suffer, so he ignores your insistence of just leaving the neighbours alone. “Some of us have work in the morning.”

The woman blinks slowly and cries, “I’M NOT READY TO DIE YET!” 

Hell is quieter than their playlist, that’s for sure. 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Please, it is clear that you are not of sober mind,” he forces a smile, “so allow me to make this simple for you. We would appreciate it if you were to immediately comply with local noise ordinance, lest we escalate this to the authorities. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

That seemed to have sobered her up, and though annoyed, the lady apologized and went back inside. Soon, the music comes to a halt and everything is embraced by silence. Relieved, he returns to your side after accomplishing what he was here for, bringing you a warm cup of tea to drink as he tells you of how his conversation went down, saying something about how some people wouldn't recognize peace if it bit them.

BLADE

You’ve just moved into the neighborhood, hoping to have a fresh, warm start together with your beloved. But life seems to have different plans for you.

There’s this group of teenagers making a commotion every day by the front of your house, coinciding at the same time that he’s away. From lighting up fireworks which resulted in burning off a few of your plants as it flew off the wrong direction, to laughing and playing loudly that you often find your afternoon nap being disturbed, and to even throwing eggs at your window as they compete with one another on who’ll get to hit the highest. It’s annoying, especially when you have already told them off many times before but they never listen. These brats.

Eventually, you’ve resorted to telling Blade about it, nearly breaking down in the process. I mean, it was stressing you out so much and although it could just be a small thing for others—reasoning it with how they’re just children and having fun—, it was making you frustrated. 

Blade makes an effort to comfort you, even reassuring you that he’ll deal with the problem. You just nod and accept it, knowing that he won’t be able to do anything against these young, wild, and free teenagers. 

You didn’t know that doubting Blade was a big mistake because somehow, when the next day comes, he had managed to bring them over to you and had them apologize, swearing that they’ll never bother you again.

“We’re so sorry!”

“We’re never going to do it again!”

“Please forgive us!”

You did scold them, kindly, before forgiving them and oddly enough, it was satisfying. It feels like a heavy weight was lifted off your shoulders.

“What did you do?” You ask him as soon as the kids leave.

“Stared at them.”

AVENTURINE

In all honesty, it’s rare for you to hear anything scandalous or experience something frustrating, so things can get a little boring. But when drama does strike, you and Aventurine are front-row spectators, dissecting every juicy detail.

This time, however, the gossip seems to involve you. There is a girl, a stranger, standing in front of you, yelling and accusing you of things that you don’t even remember doing. Your confusion and silence, however, prompts the stranger to hesitate and stop.

“Wait, you’re not [Name]?”

“I am…?”

"You bitch! Are you trying to confuse me or what?!" Furious, her hand flies up—only for Aventurine to catch her wrist with ease, letting go of it soon after.

“Perhaps there is a small misunderstanding. If I remember correctly, there are two [Name]’s in here.” he shields you behind him, holding your hand as if to reassure you, “I believe that the person you are looking for is them.” He says, directing her attention to somewhere else.

And funnily enough, there is another girl a few steps away, attempting to cover their face with their purse, trying to run away before they get caught. But it’s too late as the girl finally realizes who her target truly is. 

“YOU!” She storms over, heels clanking loudly against the floor. “I knew it was you!” You beg to differ.

The scene immediately escalated into a catfight accompanied with yelling and spilling the most atrocious things like how this paramour was also sleeping with the man’s sister. Wow, messy.

“Should we call the security?”

“I already did.” Aventurine casually says, squeezing your hand as he tugs you away from the spectacle. Walking back to your home and away from the mess, he takes this moment to tease you:

“Babe, you should have told me you had another man.”

“I do not!”

GALLAGHER

“And what’s troubling my beloved?” Gallagher asks as soon as he sees your rather stressed state—bags heavy under your eyes, hair disheveled, and the demeanor of someone who’s been pushed to their limit. You groan, flopping face-first onto the couch with a muffled scream into the cushion.

Gallagher hums, already pouring you a glass of water before settling beside you. His calloused fingers card through your hair, listening patiently, as you rant about the latest neighborhood nuisance: there is this constant thump-thump-thump noise that happens at exactly 3 AM. 

You’ll find yourself waking up to it often, cursing at that repeated sound that’s making your head explode. It lasts for an hour, sometimes less than it, but it occurs at the same time of dawn. You’ve adapted to it now by covering your ears with some plugs you bought from the store after days of having it happen to you.

“It’s just so annoying! Does it not bother you?” You say, rolling over to your back and staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t recall ever waking up to anything with that sound.” Right, you forgot how this man can be such a heavy sleeper at times.

“Lucky you.” You groan. “It sounded like someone's bouncing a basketball? Or maybe hammering nails? I don't even know anymore."

He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, gazing at you affectionately as he caresses your cheek. “Maybe we can talk to them tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we could, they’re just next door anyway.” You mutter, sitting up slightly to rub your tired eyes. 

Gallagher’s hand stills against your skin. “What do you mean next door?”

“You know, unit 305. The one right next to us.”

“My love.”

“What? You’re scaring me, Gallagher.” You whisper, pulse quickening as his gaze flicks toward the wall.

“Nobody lives there.”

i procrastinated on this for days then as soon as i finished i got informed i have a 150-page reading due

Aventurine

“You like that, don’t you?” He asks, grip on your throat. Its not enough to hurt you, but enough for you to know his hand is there. “You like my cock stretchin’ you out, huh?” You're unable answer him, the only thing you manage are whines and moans slipping through his fingers through your throat. He'd be mean to not let you moan out like a bitch in heat after all. Aventurine smirks knowingly, continuing his assault on your insides.

“Can't believe no one ever went inside you, youre far too good. Shit-you love it too, don't you?” You whine out, hiccuping out a moan as his other hand travels down your tummy, the soft touch sending waves to your core. His fingers eventually find your clit, rubbinh the swollen skin over and over again. Your eyes glaze over and roll back, it's too much, too much!

Your vision goes white as your orgasm hits you unexpectedly, stealing the breath from your lungs as your legs shake and back arches. “Mine, ok? Youre mine, my girl. You don't mind do you? Surely you don't...look at you, sweet girl.”

Blade

“feels s’fucking good—“ you mindlessly babbles out. His large palms are stretched out on both sides of you hips, nails digging into your skin. “Such a greedy little pussy,” he groans out with another roll of his hips. “keeps suckin’ me back in…you're a little greedy slut, hm?" he teases.

You can feel his hot breath fanning your ear while his dark hair tickles your neck. The sloppy sounds that fill the room seem to only grow louder with each thrust, as your arousal practically drips down his balls. Headboard constantly hitting the wall. You wouldn't be surprised if something would break this night, and it doesn't need to be the bed.

“if you keep moaning like a bitch in heat, i won't fucking stop,” he hissed out, as he presses down on your stomach which makes you whimper in response. "Naw, look at that," he points at the bulge in your stomach, "that's me all the way inside your greedy cunt."

Boothill

"you still good, darlin?" he asked, amused, his hands moving up to grab one of your tits, giving it a squeeze with his cold hands. He hummed at your subtle nod, his fingers pinching your nipple from below with just the right amount of pressure to bring you to the edge but not send you over. He knows he could do this for hours, his stamina is much longer than yours after all, but he doesn't want to push you just yet.

"shit.." he cursed, though not out of frustration, “your pussy is driving me crazy." he whispered against your folds, the vibrations of his voice sending shivers through your entire body, it almost felt as if you were being electrocuted or something. “its so fucking pretty for no fucking reason...”

Caelus

“shiiit-just like that...” he mumbles out as he lazily guides your movements, helping you bounce yourself up and down on his cock. Hands softly gripping your hips as he guides you. He smirks when he heard your whine as a reaction to his groans, golden halflidded eyes stare up at you. He thinks you’re adorable when you’re like this, so desperate for him yet so adamant on not asking for his help. You had no idea what you were doing, well, neither does he. But you insisted on riding him.

“doing so well,” he says with a slight whine as he thrusts his hips up in time with your movements. It doesn’t take much effort for him to flip you over and have you at his mercy. Your legs are now lifted over his shoulders while his dick is fucking you even deeper, "sorry,-shit-sorry I couldn't-hold myself back much longer-!"

Dan Heng

“just as i expected, it slipped right in...” your arm immediately slung over your face to hide your embarrassment. Something about the way he talks to you has you throbbing.

“fuck, so deep inside you already.” he breathes, as he eases his way into you. He's so painfully splitting you open. You whine and whimper, it feels too good to be true. “that’s it, there’s my girl.” his raspy laugh fills the silence. “youre doing so good for me, just a bit longer, ok?”

He speeds up his thrusts, "eyes on me," he says, "you can do it, eyes on me." And when he hits just the right spot, your eyes roll back and flutter closed.

"Good girl."

Dr. Ratio

“it hurts, doesn't it?” he whispers, no mock, no tease, unusual for him. He knows it hurts, he's just deep enough inside you, balls deep.

“yes, it hurts…” you whine, eyes watering as you adjust. He’s letting you distract yourself a bit, letting you soak up the pain with pleasure. “… so bad.” you keep whining.

"I know, it will get better." he presses his hips flat against you, just to slowly drag his cock out of you again, leaving just his tip inside. “Doing good for a first timer. Don't worry, I'll teach you everything you need to know.”

You nod desperately, biting your lip between your teeth.

“I'll be slow, we got time.” he mumbles, a sick grin painting across his face. He'd be lying if he would say he doesn't enjoy the power play that's going on at the moment. "I'M gonna teach you everything you need to know."

Gallagher

Your mouth falls open when he grinds his hard cock against your ass. Youre breathing hard, chest heaving. But you can't help but lean back against his chest. He slips a hand back into your underwear, rubbing slow circles against your clit. His breath is hot against your ear as he chuckles at your reaction. His middle finger slips between your folds and gathers some of your arousal to use it at your clit again. Once he had your hips jerking and whines leaving your lips, he slips two of his thick fingers inside. He moves slowly, fingers working inside of you like a caress.

“I- ‘m gonna-” you muster, weakly clawing at his arms.

He slips his hand out of your pussy again, letting his tongue run over his fingers, lapping at your juices. He hums, as the taste hits his tounge, “Shit, girl. Got me addicted already.”

Gepard

“That’s it.. Just like that..” He takes hold of the hand, kissing your knuckles, whispering soft praises into your skin to help you work up courage to keep riding him. He knows it's embarrassing for you, he knows you doubt yourself. But he also knows that you can do it.

“Doing so good for me, ok? So good, keep going..”

It takes his everything to hold back his hips and not fuck up into you, it's all too inviting.  He holds you, wrapping both arms around your torso and pull you close to his chest. One hand slips down to your hips, guiding you on his cock. "Like that, yeah."

Hot breaths reach your ear as he hums in approvment. "Good...shit--good."

Jing Yuan

“ass up. There you go, atta girl.” and you almost shiver from his touch on you'd hips as he turns you over. Jing Yuan stares at your ass, bringing a rough palm towards your left cheek. “Mm, nice. You're doing good. Don't worry, I'll go easy on you...for now.”

As he speaks, your cheek presses further against the pillow, hiding in embarrassment. Jing Yuan watches as your ass writhes and he hums, springing out his thick cock. “I'm going in, ok? No need to be scared”

“ok...” you breathe, big talk for someone who probably has way to much experience for his own good.

"I'll go easy on you, I promised you that birdie." He whispers in your ear as he leans over, slowly pushing in.

Jiaoqiu

He dives in, his tongue delving deep into your soaked folds. He laps at you hungrily, savoring your taste as he eats you out with wild abandon. His tongue swirls around your clit before sucking it between his lips, flicking the sensitive bud rapidly. “you're so hot...,” he hums against your core, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “thank you for the meal...”

Your finger desperately looking for support and found his hair, scratching his scalp with your long nails in the process. You can't help but let one hand wander to one of his ears, tugging on it. Immediately a whine leaves his lips as he laps on you more desperately than before.

He doubles his efforts, lapping at your clit with broad strokes of his tongue before sealing his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and suckling greedily.

"Do that again and watch me eat you up."

Luka

Luka leans down to capture your lips in a kiss, swallowing your cries of pleasure as he pounds into you relentlessly. His hands grip your hips hard you feel like you might see some bruises tomorrow as a souvenir.

"Damn, you take my cock better than expected, baby," he rasps against your mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Way to fucking well, you sure you're a virgin?" he breaks the kiss to gaze down at you. “look at me,” he commands, "that pussy is mine now. Mine."

As you meet his eyes, he reaches between your bodies to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck-didnt know you could get any tighter."

Luocha

The next thing you felt was his cock entering you all at once, barely giving you time to get used to his huge size and thickness. Hes not a mean man by any means, but he figured that maybe him going in faster with the ammount of slick you already got, might be less painful. Wronh judgment in a hazy moment. And fuck if he didn't love feeling the way your cunt stretched to accommodate him, how your walls are so tight around his length.

When he did it, it was over for you, and you thanked him with the most beautiful sounds he ever heard. You squeezed him and croed out, making a mess of yourself as you grab onto his shoulders for support. It all was too much for you, too much happening all at once. But you'd be a lair to say you didn't enjoy it.

He would slowly start to run against you, holding your hips in place as he drags his cock in and out of your hole. His slow speed was annoying, painful, but so good.

But the best feeling was yet to come.

“Just you wait once I'm done with you. We'll have plenty of time left to get to know each other much better."

Sampo

Without warning, he pulled out – only halfway – and plunged back inside you with an almighty push. It .ade your eyes roll back into your skull, your mind went blank for a second. His teasing laugh pulling you back into reality, "Oops-went to hard there~" As a apology he went softer on you, slowly dragging his cock in and out of your hole.

“Doing so well for me,” he groaned, as he lightly speed up again, holding your hips in a tight grip.

"Damn-" he groans as you grap onto his shoulders and dig your nails in. "Careful there baby, you don't wanna hurt poor Sampo, hm?" He laughs again as he kisses down your neck and leaves yet another bite behind.

"We could do this more often, I know I wouldn't mind."

Sunday

The all so collected man practically loses it when you wrap your legs around his back. You unknowingly push him against you, silently asking for more. "Needy, needy." he teases as breaths in your ear, giving it a soft kiss afterwards.

“Dont you worry, I'm not done with you yet.”

Although his words came out more scary than they should, his action of hiding into your shoulder makes it all seem more pathetic than dominant. His wings flutter as your parted lips let a whine escape.

He groans, burying his cock deep just as it starts to gush, painting your walls white. Your nails dig hard into his scalp.

“That came...rather unexpected.”

Welt

“it won’t fit!” you sob out loud. No way this all will fit inside you, you never took anything, or anything that size. He's bigger than you, this wont fit without tears. But you're determined today, telling him you wanted to fit everything in you.

He trails his fingers up and down your side before one hand snakes down to thumb at your clit while the other large hand clasps your hip. "i'll make it fit, and I'll be careful." he promises, soft as he pleasures you. You expected nothing less of him, he always treated you with more care than any others. He softly rubs your clit as he enters, a way of distracting you from the pain that you will encounter.