#tkatb deryl

• Sol has trouble sleeping, which is why he often wanders around at night and then sleeps like a ferret during classes. Since he sits at the back of the classroom, teachers rarely notice him listening to music through his headphones or doing literally anything except studying.

• Sol did his first piercing at home using some ancient needle he found, which resulted in his earlobe getting infected and filled with pus. After a visit to the doctor, he started being much more careful about choosing needles and jewelry. As for his lip piercing, he did that one with Hugo behind the school.

• Sol's hands get very dry, so he uses hand cream regularly. However, he's too embarrassed to tell you about it because, in his words, he's "not some beauty girl from TikTok."

• Sol checks your social media all the time and can reread your chats together hundreds of times until he memorizes every little detail you've ever mentioned.

• Sol almost never does his homework. Since he reads more than some teachers do, it's honestly surprising how easily he can answer questions in class without a second of hesitation.

-`♡´- Usually the big spoon (also confirmed by Fantasia)

I feel like he would love to be the bigger spoon because he wants you to be safe and also feel safe all of the times, you being in his arms, sleeping soundly with him holding you calms him endlessly as he knows nothing can harm you as long as he is there

-`♡´- He would love to caress you

He would caress and massage your back, sides, thighs, arms, hands, face literally whatever. Not only does he want you to feel good he loves to worship your body in every way possible.

-`♡´- Prefers cuddling over sex (unlike some green guy..)

In general I feel like he prefers sweet innocent physical intimacy like holding hands, cuddling, hugging, clinging into each other one way or another any day over sex.

After a long day he wants nothing more than to have you in his arms or even be in your arms, it makes him so happy.

Sometimes he has arguments with his parents or just has a very hard day because of the council so ever since you started cuddling him his stress level dropped significantly. He sleeps so much better now.

Plus whenever you weren't there at night he would, just like Sol, think about you.

-`♡´- Likes to be little spoon too sometimes

Yes he loves to make sure you're safe and that you are snuggled in his side, but honestly he still has some things he needs to discover about himself.

Sometimes he gets overwhelmed because of his responsibilities. His family, family's business, grades, being a class representative and trying to be a good friend for others do catch up to a man eventually so he does burn out.

In those times if you offer him to be the little spoon and nuzzle into your chest, stomach or side he will take it without hesitation. He would love it if you played with his hair and caressed his face, he would absolutely melt under your touch.

-`♡´- Usually falls asleep after you

Making sure you're alright and content, he would almost always wait for you to sleep, also it would give him an opportunity to admire you (not in a creepy way) and think about his life and other things.

If he is the little spoon, though, he will be knocked out in 5 minutes before you even get sleepy.

-`♡´- Very comfortable

I think Crowe would give very good hugs and cuddles. He seems like he is soft and gentle, holding you like you're extremely fragile.

-`♡´- Cuddling as friends?

If he didn't have feelings for you I doubt he would be touchy. If he has a partner/crush he won't be touchy with anyone else, only going for a hug or handshake, so then cuddling or anything beyond friendship is taboo for him.

If he had a crush on you but you were only friends he'd definitely cuddle you any time you asked him!

Solivan Brugmansia

-`♡´- Little spoon but is willing to be the big spoon

I feel like he is both but he does love it when you hold him so much that he can't help but prefer being a little spoon just a little bit more.

He loves it if you cradle him and cup his face, it would overwhelm him with love so much but in the best way possible, he could stay like that all night.

-`♡´- He would always wait for you to fall sleep first

Unlike Crowe that man is taking every chance to stare and focus on you as much as possible, until he is exhausted and barely able to keep his eyes open. He would look at you, your eyes, face and body and wonder how did he end up so lucky.

-`♡´- I feel like Sol would take every and any chance to hold you

Now I know it's confirmed he isn't into PDA. And he wouldn't do it in public, but he would need to take you to a private place every couple of hours even if you're out with friends to make out or hold you or just be close to you.

-`♡´- He doesn't sleep much

He definitely sleeps less than you, trust me. He will, however, let you sleep as much as you need and keep watch over you.

-`♡´- Would want you to sleep with him every night

Once he is confident enough, trust me he will invite you over every day, actually you might just spend every day with him, he definitely wouldn't mind.

If you did snuggle up agaisnt him every night, it would become one of the favorite parts of his day.

-`♡´- Would sometimes cry in your arms

I feel like out of all of the men, he would cry in your arms first. Of course he is also trying to hide his sensitive side to an extent but he would get overwhelmed/ upset easily and cry as you hold and comfort him.

He will be very very happy if you comfort him though, his whole day will change for the better.

-`♡´- Cuddling as friends?

If it was anyone else? No.

If it was you? No matter your relationship status he could never deny his soulmate.

Deryl Helianthus

-`♡´- I kind of think he is the little spoon

Honestly he might act confident most of the time but I know he is a softie when it comes to his partner (much like Crowe and Sol!)

He would love to be held, and for any of my Deryl lovers out there please give him many hugs and kisses! Despite his cheerful demeanor, he doesn't feel as loved as he seems, so affection is very important to him.

-`♡´- Instead of being touchy he would be attached (physically and mentally)

He wouldn't caress you too much in my opinion, but he would always have an arm around your waist or shoulder, most of the time bringing you into a crushing hug.

You would get up to go to the bathroom and he would whine not wanting to let you go.

-`♡´- You would have to initiate it most of the times

Eventually he will ask more often, but I do think he gets a little shy at times, so in the beginning you need to go and do it or ask him.

He will always accept your request though, he would have to have a very bad day to not want to cuddle you.

He just feels like he needs to be tough a lot of the times so he needs time to open up.

-`♡´- He could sleep for HOURS

Like I mean 12-14 hours at once if you don't wake him up.

He needs plenty of energy for all that training, gym, classes and being with his friends so whenever he can he sleeps a bunch. He strikes me as the person who sleeps the most in the friend group.

I don't think he is an early bird OR a night owl cause he just goes to sleep at 10-11 pm and wakes up at 10 am to 2 pm whenever his schedule allows him to do so, so mostly on the weekends.

-`♡´- If you hugged him while he was visibly upset he'd be extremely thankful

Well yeah most of us would be, but DERYL would definitely take it to another level. He wouldn't forget it and it would better your bond considerably. He would try to give you the affection back when he could.

-`♡´- Falls asleep first

I just know he would be knocked out in seconds. You can hug him or snuggle up to him, either way he would feel extremely comfortable, becoming very sleepy in a short time.

Hyugo Sugimoto

-`♡´- Would initiate it

I feel like he would become touchy early on, he would love to cuddle as much as possible as it would fill him with energy.

He is a very bubbly and positive person (at least that's the mask he puts on) so he would probably love cuddles a lot.

-`♡´- Little spoon

I feel like he would be the little spoon, honestly. I know he is way tougher than he lets on and he isn't an innocent man at all, but I just feel like with his partner he would still be heartfelt.

I know it's said that Hyugo is crazier than Sol but I feel like that also makes his love or devotion more intense too (maybe not more intense than Sol's)

-`♡´- Early bird AND night owl

He can wake up early and go to sleep sleep late, he is very flexible and can change his schedules easily, a lot of the times he would get up and leave or disappear at random times in the night, leaving you alone.

But don't worry he's not cheating he just has some business to take care of!

-`♡´- He never really cuddled before

He had a past relationship or something with another man I know that, but I think he never got coddled or cuddled growing up or in his life in general so he is kind of new to it.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

Teasing ‘til you break.

Favorite position: Against a wall or large desk. He likes to keep you breathless, pinned, and flustered—ands somewhere they shouldn’t be while you’re still trying to talk shit. He thrives off your reactions and always keeps just enough distance to make you beg.

Favorite look on you: Perhaps… how about that post-argument? Getting into arguments is rather rare with him, but often complaining about his working schedule and him not having enough time for you, you simply going off on him, drives him, that look turns into smug-but-shaky confidence when you’re still catching your breath, simply yelling at him. When your eyes are locked with his, like you’re daring him to make the next move. He’s a sucker for the way you glare at him while still leaning in.

You had been yelling at him for what felt like forever.

The words tumbled out—lipped, furious, raw—illing the quiet of his apartment like smoke. You paced in front of him in slow, deliberate circles, dressed in nothing but deep navy blue lingerie and frustration, baring your teeth between sentences. Your voice echoed with every accusation you’d been bottling up for weeks.

“You invite me here,” you snapped, motioning sharply to the Crowe’s office, to the half-slept-in couch on the side of it. “You ask me to stay—and then disappear for three damn days without so much as a text?! Am I supposed to pretend that’s normal?”

He didn’t move. Just leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded, eyes trained on you like a predator watching its prey burn itself out. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his collar undone, hair tousled from wind or work—probably both. He looked irritatingly composed for someone who’d just walked into a storm.

His gaze swept over you—slow, narrow, lingering—not on your outfit, but the furious flush in your cheeks, the fire in your eyes, the way your finger jabbed at his chest like a dagger, trying to make him feel something.

“You’re never around,” you barked, stepping forward, voice rising. “You tell me you miss me, but all I do is sit here, waiting—!”

You jabbed his chest again, harder this time, your anger coiled like a spring, ready to snap.

But he caught you.

His hand wrapped around your wrist mid-motion—quick, precise—and the sudden contact startled you into silence. His grip was firm, warm, unshakable. Your breath stuttered in your throat.

“Are you done?” he asked, voice low. 

Not cruel—just calm. Dangerous.

You glared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling with sharp, uneven breaths. “No,” you said, quieter now, more of a snarl. “You don’t get to act like this is some kind of game—”

He pulled you in.

In one slow, effortless motion, he tugged you forward until your body collided with his. The desk behind him, the heat between you — everything narrowed to that moment. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath against yours. His thumb stroked the inside of your wrist with maddening softness, completely at odds with the way your heart was racing.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to bring his lips near your ear, breath warm, velvet-smooth. “You think I haven’t noticed? The missed calls? The little sighs when I don’t answer? The way you wore that”—his eyes drifted down, hungry and deliberate—“just for me?”

You tried to speak, but it caught in your throat. 

The fury, the longing, the ache—it all collapsed into something far more dangerous. “You’re being an asshole,” you whispered, the fight gone slack in your voice, trembling now.

He smirked—slow, dark, knowing. “Oh? Am I now?” 

And when his mouth finally crashed into yours, there was nothing left to argue. Crowe’s free hand slides into your hair, fisting tight enough to make your scalp sting. “And yet,” he growls, tilting your head back, “you’re still here. Still screaming my name, even when you’re pissed.” His lips brush your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. “Tell me, darling—was this really about my schedule? Or were you just tired of playing the good girl, waiting for me to reward you?”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and his chuckle is dark, triumphant.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You’re adorable when you’re pissed.”

You try to wrench free, but he’s already moving, spinning you around and pressing you back against the desk. His body cages you in, one hand planted beside your hip, the other sliding up your thigh, “You think yelling at me is gonna change anything?” he asks, lips brushing your ear. “Or were you just hoping I’d put you in your place?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you—hard, possessive, swallowing your protest. When he pulls back, your lips are parted, breath ragged, and his grin is pure sin.

“That’s one,” he murmurs.

“One what—?”

He kisses you again, slower this time, tongue teasing yours until you melt against him. His hand slips higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear, and you gasp into his mouth.

“Two.”

“Crowe—”

“Ah-ah.” He nips your lower lip. 

“You don’t get to talk shit and get away with it.”

He grinds you down with patience, with teaching, with that infuriatingly calm control until you’re nothing but raw nerves and trembling defiance. And then? Then he breaks you with just his touch.

The third kiss is filthy, deep, his teeth dragging over your lip as he finally—finally—slides his fingers where you need him most. You arch against the desk, a broken moan escaping you, and he chuckles darkly, thrilled by the way your voice cracks around his name.

“There it is,” he murmurs, watching the way your hips jerk into his touch, the way your breath hitches when he curls his fingers just right. “That’s the look I love. All that fire, just for me.”

And God, does he love it—the way you yell at him, the way you fight him, the way you come apart when he decides you’ve had enough. He revels in it, in the way your nails dig into his shoulders, in the way your breath shudders when he kisses you again—softer now, almost sweet, even as his fingers work you ruthlessly toward the edge.

“Next time you wanna yell at me,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rough with satisfaction, “remember this is how it ends.”

And you do. You remember. You ache for it.

His grip tightens on your thigh, hiking it higher as his mouth finds your ear. “Don’t back away now. Wasn’t you just begging for me?” His teeth graze your pulse point, sharp and punishing, and you whimper. “You’ve got it. But let’s make one thing clear—” Another bite, this time to your shoulder, and you cry out. 

“Next time you throw a tantrum, I won’t be nearly as gentle.”

“Crowe—!”

“Ahh so good,” he purrs, and the praise melts you faster than his touch ever could. “Now take what you’ve been begging for.”

And oh—God—he delivers.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Affection drunk and starved.

Favorite position: Missionary, but it’s more intense than sweet—he likes seeing your face, holding your hands above your head, nuzzling into your neck between kisses. Every inch of contact matters to him, because he’s not just trying to be close, he’s trying to memorize you.

Favorite look on you: ??? Fucking anything, you doing the absolute wearing anything we make him fall on his knees, like he’s turned on by anything no matter how you look? You belong in his space.

That? That’s his muse.

Sol wasn’t supposed to be home yet.

You’d checked the time, calculated his usual schedule down to the minute—he had hours left, or so you thought. Just enough to sneak into his studio and bring some semblance of order to the beautiful mess he always left behind. The space reeked of him—ink, bergamot, old books, and a touch of turpentine—and you moved through it quietly, reverently, like tending to something sacred. It wasn’t about tidying, really. 

It was intimacy, an offering.

You wore one of his old t-shirts—faded black and oversized, soft from too many washes, stretched at the collar until it hung off your shoulder—and sweatpants that barely clung to your hips. Your hair was twisted up carelessly, strands falling loose to frame your face. No makeup, no pretense. Just comfort, just you. 

You hummed absently as you stacked sketchbooks and wiped at charcoal dust with the edge of your sleeve, leaving faint gray smudges across your fingers and your collarbone.

The soft click of the front door opening froze you mid-step.

Your heart thudded. Not yet.

He wasn’t supposed to be here yet?!

You turned, eyes wide, hand still halfway to brushing off a crumpled page on his desk—and there he stood.

Leaning against the studio’s doorframe like a portrait sprung to life, Sol’s presence pulled all the air from the room. His green-streaked black hair was slightly damp, pushed back like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times on the walk home.

His eyes—sharp, tired but blazing—drank you in without shame, sliding from your bare shoulder down to where the waistband of your pants clung to your hips. His gaze stalled on the smudge of charcoal at your collarbone.

A pause.

“You,” he said, voice hoarse and low like gravel coated in velvet, “are fucking lethal.”

You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to explain, maybe to tease—but you didn’t even get the chance.

He moved. Not rushed, more like a current pulling you under. In three strides, he was in front of you, and his hand was already on your waist, the other sliding up under the hem of his own shirt on your body, fingers hot against your skin. You gasped at the sudden contact, the intimacy of it, but his expression didn’t shift—still fixed on you like you were the only thing left in the world he wanted to draw.

“You didn’t text,” you murmured, trying to sound firm, but your voice betrayed you—thin, breathy.

“I wanted to catch you off-guard,” he said, nose brushing your cheek, his breath warm. “Didn’t expect to walk into this little domestic fantasy, though. Thought I was hallucinating when I saw you barefoot in my mess, wearing that.”

Your back hit the edge of his desk as he nudged you backward, never looking away. His fingers slid across your stomach, slow, dragging through a dusting of graphite like he was drawing you too. Your pulse quickened.

“You tryin’ to make me lose my mind, baby?” he whispered against your neck, voice low and half-laughing, but there was a tension in his hands now. A grip that trembled with restraint. His mouth ghosted over your skin, lips never quite settling, like he was savoring the anticipation.

You swallowed hard, biting back a grin. “You already lost it, Sol.”

His fingers closed gently—possessively—around your hip. “Oh, I did,” he murmured. “I lose it every time I leave and find traces of you all over this place. Every time I see my shirt on you. Every time you try to fix me without saying a word.”

Then he kissed you—sharp, unrelenting—the kind of kiss that felt like possession and apology and please don’t stop all in one. The desk behind you creaked as he pressed you against it, his hand flat on the surface beside your head, his body caging yours in with practiced ease.

“You weren’t supposed to be home,” you whispered again, dazed.

His smirk curved against your mouth.

“And you weren’t supposed to look like that.”

Sol’s grip on your wrists isn’t just tight—it’s claiming. His fingers lock with yours, pressing them into the mattress like he’s anchoring himself to you, like if he lets go, you might dissolve into smoke. His weight is relentless, hips rolling into yours with a slow, deliberate grind that borders on cruel. He’s not just inside you—he’s under your skin, in the hitch of your breath, in the way your muscles tense and flutter around him.

His other hand slips beneath you, fingers splayed over the dip of your spine, forcing your body to arch. The angle is brutal, perfect, dragging a choked noise from your throat.

“Look at me.”

His voice is rough, a low command, and when your eyes meet his, something fractures in his expression. His forehead drops to yours, sweat-slick and fever-hot, lips brushing but never quite sealing—just the ghost of a kiss, a taunt. Every thrust is a question, an answer, a punishment.

He’s obsessive in the way he touches you—not like a lover, but like a man trying to brand himself into your memory. His teeth find your neck, sharp and sudden, and the groan that tears out of him vibrates against your pulse. “Fuck—fuck—you take me so good.”

You can feel him everywhere: the scrape of his stubble, the iron grip on your hips, the way his breath staggers when you clench around him. He doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t look away. He watches, pupils blown black, as you unravel beneath him.

And when you come, it’s with his name on your lips and his fingers digging bruises into your thighs. He follows with a ragged groan, forehead pressed to your collarbone, hips jerking through the aftershocks like he’s wringing every last drop of you out.

Later, when the air smells like sex and salt and the sheets are ruined beneath you, Sol traces the smudge of charcoal on your skin—leftover from his own hands, from where he’d gripped you too hard. His thumb drifts over your bottom lip, swollen from his teeth.

“You,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “In my clothes. In my bed. Fuck.”

He kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole.

He is.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Control disguised as care

Favorite position: Seated, with you in his lap—either facing him or turned away, depending on the mood. Geo likes control, but he also loves watching you fall apart slowly. He prefers positions where he can touch everything—your hips, your throat, your face, and keep you close. Like, it’s about dominance disguised in stillness.

Favorite look on you: When you wear his clothes—especially one of his hoodies because they always look oversized on you, messy hair, and tired eyes. Something about the way you look like you belong to him, unknowingly seductive, disarmed and unaware, drives him absolutely insane. He loves his large hands touching anywhere on your body just as simply hold you close he even likes the way how it looks on your neck or your hands. He pretends it’s about “comfort,” but it’s possessive. Always has been.

Who would’ve thought that studying session turned into something like this?

It was so calm and simple at the start, You sat beside him on the floor, legs tucked beneath the thick blanket draped over the kotatsu, your shoulders brushing every now and then. A calm, chill afternoon—well, it should’ve been calm. But studying with Geo?

That was fucking hell.

Especially when he had made it very clear—almost aggressively so—that no partner of his would ever fail a class. As if your GPA was a direct reflection of his pride. And honestly? You didn’t even argue with him this time. You kind of liked seeing that fire in his eyes.

Right now, though, that fire was focused. He was scribbling notes in sharp, clean handwriting across his notebook—probably rewriting a textbook from memory—while you sat quietly beside him, working through a problem set he gave you. With no notes.

Because he was 'testing you.'

What a menace.

You exhaled, frustrated but stubborn. tapping the eraser of your pencil against your chin before you shifted. Just a little. Enough to glance at your scratch work. Your brain was fried. You’d been stuck on this one question forever. And Geo knew it—he could feel your energy start to squirm.

His gaze lingered a moment too long. You didn’t see it—not immediately—but Geo was staring.

He always stared.

You were wearing his violet hoodie, after all. Oversized and soft, the sleeves swallowed your hands as you huddled into it like it was your own. You’d claimed it earlier when you declared, with a dramatic shiver, that his apartment was “one iced coffee away from a tundra.” He didn’t argue. Just gave you the hoodie in silence.

He hadn’t expected you to look that good in it.

Now here you were, bathed in soft amber light, bottom lip caught in your teeth as you gnawed the end of your pencil. Your brow was furrowed in concentration. His hoodie slipped slightly off your shoulder, revealing the curve of your collarbone.

Geo swallowed thickly, fingers going still on his pen. His heart stuttered.

It was unfair—how natural you looked here, tucked into his space, chewing on problems like a storm behind calm eyes. He liked watching you think. He liked the little flickers of frustration, the way your eyes narrowed and your lips parted when something clicked. You were quiet about it, too—not a show-off. Just bright. Focused. Determined.

Dangerous, in a way he hadn’t prepared for.

“Let me see,” he said, voice quiet but firm. Not a request. A command wrapped in politeness.

You hesitated. Not because you were shy—no, you were just trying to remember how many of your last answers were, uh… creatively interpreted. AKA: bullshit. You’d had a vague idea of what to do, but no notes meant you were flying blind and mostly filling in blanks with academically adjacent nonsense.

Still, you sighed and slid the notebook over like a child passing in a crayon drawing. “Be gentle,” you muttered.

Geo arched an eyebrow, flipping it open. He read quietly, eyes scanning line by line—and the longer he looked, the more you could feel the heat rising in your chest.

And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—he crooked a finger and beckoned you over.

You blinked. “What?”

“C’mere.”

“I’m perfectly fine over—hey!”

Because suddenly, you weren’t “perfectly fine over there.” You were in his lap.

Like, just—in it. One second you were sitting comfortably on the kotatsu cushion, and the next? You were yanked with effortless strength into his arms, back pressed firmly against his chest, legs tangled with his, and his arms loosely wrapping around your waist.

He didn’t even blink. “You clearly need help,” he said lowly, flipping a page in the notebook. “Don’t act like I can’t tell.”

“Couldn’t we have done this with, like, space between us?” you asked, struggling not to laugh.

He tilted his head, those violet eyes narrowing in amusement. “You stole my hoodie. I’m just reclaiming my property.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back a little more into him, your body subconsciously seeking the warmth he radiated. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brow raised, “are stalling. These last two answers? Nonsense.”

“Bold of you to assume I didn’t do it on purpose,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned in slightly, breath ghosting across the shell of your ear. “You think that’s funny?”

A pause.

You swallowed. Slowly.

“I thought you were gonna punish me for not knowing the answer,” you muttered, half-joking—okay, maybe quarter-joking.

The silence was deafening.

Then, his hand—long fingers, cold from holding his pen—slid gently around your neck. Not choking. Not tight. Just resting, possessive, under your jaw, his thumb stroking the base of your throat as he tilted your face up toward him.

Geo didn’t even flinch.

“I might,” he murmured, dangerously low. “If you keep playing dumb.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, trying to decide whether to melt into a puddle or spontaneously combust. Your breath hitched—because that? That was hot.

“I—uh—this is wildly unprofessional,” you mumbled, eyes darting to his lips and regretting it immediately.

Geo didn’t break eye contact. His thumb grazed along your jaw with lazy precision, like he was memorizing your pulse.

“You call this unprofessional?” he asked, voice low, unimpressed. “You were the one chewing on a pencil like it was a goddamn lollipop and squirming in my hoodie like a brat.”

Your cheeks burned. Your mouth opened—some protest on your tongue—but all that came out was a weak breath. Because damn, he was close. You could feel the heat rolling off him, his heartbeat pressed to your spine, the unmistakable tension in the way his hand gripped your waist now.

He noticed the effect, of course. He always noticed.

“Still think I’m being excessive?” he murmured, leaning in again. His lips brushed just beneath your ear this time—barely there. You flinched like he’d burned you.

You turned in his lap without thinking, legs straddling his waist now, hoodie falling more off your shoulder in the shift. His hands slid lower, slow and deliberate, thumbs circling your hips, fingers anchoring you against him.

Geo didn’t smile. He didn’t smirk. He just looked at you—really looked. Like you were something precious and volatile all at once. Like he could break you apart and put you back together better if you just let him.

“You really think I’m going to let you walk around in my clothes, look at me like that, and not do something about it?”

You blinked. “...I thought we were studying.”

“We were,” he said evenly, lowering his head until his forehead brushed yours. “Then you decided to flirt with failure and me in the same breath.”

His hand slid to your thigh, curling possessively around it. The other lifted your chin again, this time holding it steady, forcing your eyes back on his. The silence between you both was loud—taunting.

He leaned in, slow, restrained, lips brushing yours once.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmured.

“I—I don’t,” you whispered, breathlessly.

His lips tilted. “Liar.”

And then? Geo kissed you properly. Like he’d been planning this all along. Like this wasn’t a detour from the study session, but the real test. Slow at first—measured, deep—but with an edge that dared you to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your fingers curled into his white compression shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath, the subtle flex of his muscles as he tugged you closer. The kiss grew rougher when you responded—his control only thinly veiled now, restraint hanging by a thread.

He pulled back an inch, breathing hard against your lips. “Lesson one,” he murmured, voice gravel. “Don’t provoke your tutor unless you want your reward and punishment in the same breath.” 

You were breathless.

And the only thought in your head?

You were never going to survive another study session.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Low effort. High danger.

Favorite position: Lazy spooning turned into something more. He likes starting slow, sleepy, half-lidded—arms around you, kisses to the back of your neck—until he shifts and you realize he’s not as tired as he pretended to be. It’s always the quiet ones.

Favorite look on you: Anything that shows bare legs, short shorts, pajamas, chilling on the couch, binge watching movies. That. That domestic softness—like he could come home and find you there. He keeps staring, and you think it’s because of your thighs, but it’s really because of what it means to see you like that.

At his apartment, somewhere between 2AM and a game restart.

It starts the way most nights do at Hugyo’s place:

You’re on his couch, legs stretched out, a bowl of half-eaten noodles dangerously balancing on your stomach as you mash buttons on a controller. The glow from the TV flickers across your face, and you’re wearing one of Hugyo’s old t-shirts—probably stolen, definitely oversized. Hair up in a sad excuse of a bun. Bare legs. One sock.

He hasn’t said much in the last twenty minutes. Just occasionally adjusts the blanket on your legs like it’s part of his personal religion and munches on snacks like a cryptid in the wild.

You’re laser-focused on beating the mini-boss you’ve died to six times. “If this bastard kills me again, I swear I’m deleting the entire game and becoming a forest witch,” you mutter, eyes narrowed.

“Bit dramatic,” Hugyo says from somewhere behind you, voice dry and sleepy. “What’s the boss? The camera angle or your lack of stamina?”

You toss a pillow over your shoulder. It hits him in the chest, muffled by his hoodie. He doesn’t even flinch—just lets it hit, then hugs it like a trophy.

“Asshole,” you grumble.

“You love me.”

You pause. He doesn’t. Your face burns anyway.

He moves, then gets up slowly and pads over—socks on wood floors, quiet as a cat. Then he drops down behind you on the couch like a weighted blanket coming to life. Arms around your waist. Chin tucked into the curve of your neck. All warm breath and sleepy affection.

“You smell like instant ramen and shampoo,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your shoulder. “It’s kind of hot.”

You snort. “Your standards are low.”

“My standards are realistic. Unlike yours. You’re the one trying to beat a DPS boss with a support build.”

You elbow him gently. “Still better than you.”

“I let you win,” he murmurs, nosing your neck. “It makes you soft and cocky. I like it.”

The controller slips from your hands, the game long forgotten as Hyugo’s fingers trail up your thighs, his grip just shy of too tight. His teeth graze your neck—sharp, teasing—and you gasp, arching into him.

Bastard.

He pulls back just enough to smirk up at you, dark eyes glinting. Your fingers hover over the buttons of his—fine, your—stolen hoodie. “Are you talking about the game… or sex?”

Hyugo hums, deliberately vague, and god, that’s worse than an answer. His hands slide higher, calloused palms skimming your ribs.

“Wait,” you laugh, breathless as you twist in his lap, “You literally yawned five minutes ago.”

“I was tired,” he murmurs, nipping at your jaw. “Then I saw your legs. And your mouth. And—” His hand slips under the hoodie, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. “—other things.”

“Hyugo,” you warn, but it’s ruined by the way your hips jerk against his.

“Mm.” He kisses your shoulder, slow and wet. “I’m home.”

You blink. “What?”

His grip tightens, anchoring you against him. “When you’re like this. In my clothes. Talking shit. Beating my high score and stealing my fries.” A bite to your collarbone—punishment.

“This?” His palm slides down to grope your ass. “Home.”

Silence. Wayyy too long.

Hyugo freezes. “…Fuck. That was disgustingly sappy, wasn’t it?” He tries to pull away, grimacing. “Forget I—”

You yank him back by the hoodie strings, crashing your mouth against his. It’s messy, all teeth and laughter, and he groans into it, hands scrambling to haul you closer.

“Shut up,” you pant against his lips. “And pick a damn co-op campaign, loverboy.”

Hyugo grins, wolfish. “Only if you wear nothing but that hoodie tomorrow.”

“Deal.” You roll your hips, delighting in his sharp inhale. “…But I’m still stealing your fries.”

“Evil,” he mutters, before kissing you stupid.

Hyugo’s hands are everywhere at once—under the hoodie, over your hips, dragging you flush against him as his mouth finds that spot just below your ear that makes you squirm. You retaliate by sinking your fingers into his hair, tugging just hard enough to pull a rough groan from his throat.

"Still tired?" you taunt, breath hitching as his teeth scrape your pulse point.

"Exhausted," he lies, palms sliding down to grip the backs of your thighs. "Might pass out right here. Unless—" He flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath him with a smirk. "—you wanna be my pillow?"

You roll your eyes, but your legs are already wrapping around his waist. "You’re such a liar."

"And you," he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw, "are a thief." His fingers pluck at the hoodie’s drawstrings. "My thief."

You arch into him, nails scraping down his back. "Yours?"

"Mine." His voice drops, rough and possessive, before his mouth crashes into yours again, hot and demanding. The fabric of the hoodie rides up, his hands mapping every inch of exposed skin like he’s memorizing you.

Hyugo’s mouth is hot on yours, his hands rough and possessive as they slide under the hoodie—his hoodie, the one you “borrowed” last week and never gave back. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss with a low, satisfied hum.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as he pins you to the couch, one thigh slotting between yours. His hips roll against you, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a breathless laugh—

Then—disaster.

A loud crash from the kitchen. You both freeze.

Hyugo’s lips hover a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath uneven. "...The fuck was that?"

You blink, dazed, before it hits you. "...The noodles."

Hyugo groans, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. "Fuck the noodles."

"Literally your idea of romance," you deadpan, swatting his chest.

He snorts, pressing one last sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to your lips before rolling off you with a dramatic flop. "Fine. But only because I will burn this place down."

You watch him stalk toward the kitchen—all broad shoulders, mussed hair, and irritated muttering—his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The sight is distracting enough that you almost miss your chance.

"Still wearing this hoodie tomorrow!" you call after him.

Hyugo pauses, shooting you a glare over his shoulder before flipping you off. "And nothing else!"

You grin, stretching lazily against the cushions. "Deal!"

From the kitchen, there’s another clatter, followed by a muffled "Goddammit—"

You bite your lip, laughing.

Totally worth it.

✑ 𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓁

Sunshine with sinful hands.

Favorite position: Cowgirl. Hands on your hips. He lives to see you on top of him—smiling, laughing, in control—but the second your rhythm falters? He flips the game fast. He can play dumb, but he’s not stupid. That teasing energy? Yeah, he knows how to use it.

Favorite look on you: Workout clothes. Or literally anything tight. Bonus points if you’re sweaty from a workout or just annoyed at him. He likes it when you call him out. All that fire in your eyes? He finds it hot. Too hot, honestly.

You were just trying to enjoy your morning.

Nothing complicated. A cup of coffee, maybe some toast, a lazy scroll through your phone in one of Deryl’s oversized t-shirts—no obligations, no pressure, just peace. And then the door slammed open like a small earthquake had decided to pay rent.

“BABE!”

The bellows echoed through the apartment. Something thudded. Possibly a shoe. Or a dumbbell. Hard to say at this point.

You didn’t even flinch.

“I brought smoothies and a killer new resistance routine I found on TikTok!” Deryl’s voice carried with the same energy as a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball. “We’re hitting glutes, core, and then—get this—‘explosive cardio.’ You’re gonna love it.”

You sipped your coffee in silence. “Deryl… It’s 8:12 AM.”

He bounded into the room with two protein smoothies balanced precariously in one hand, wearing nothing but compression shorts and chaotic ambition. His hair was still wet from his earlier run—because of course he’d already done five miles before sunrise, and his grin practically lit the room.

“Exactly! Prime muscle-building window! Plus, I saw your leggings in the laundry and—babe—babe—you in those?” He made a dramatic collapsing gesture, clutching his heart. “Like watching Aphrodite do squats. Ruined my life.”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “I was planning to rot in bed today.”

“Too bad!” He popped a gummy vitamin like it was candy. “We’re doing couples circuits. I even made a playlist. There’s a warm-up, a cooldown, and a synchronized stretch where we stare into each other’s eyes and contemplate mortality—romantic, right?”

You tried to argue. You did.

But then Deryl hit you with the look—big brown eyes, sun-bright smile, that hopeful tilt of his head like an overgrown golden retriever with a six-pack. And fine. Maybe you did kind of love how his oversized hoodie swallowed you whole. Maybe you did secretly crave the way his hands lingered at your waist when he "fixed your form," fingers pressing just a little too deliberately into your hips.

And maybe—just maybe—you were a total sucker for the way his voice dropped into something low and teasing when you actually put effort into those damn planks.

The private gym was a sanctuary of steel and sweat, just air filled with thick with the scent of rubber mats and his cologne—something dark and citrus-sharp that clung to his skin even after an hour of deadlifts. You leaned against the weight rack, arms crossed, watching as Deryl lowered the barbell with a controlled grunt, his abs flexing under a sheen of sweat.

"Enjoying the view?" he teased, chest still heaving as he sat up, running a hand through his damp hair.

You shrugged, feigning indifference even as your gaze traced the vein running down his bicep. "Eh. I’ve seen better."

A slow grin spread across his face. "Liar." He reached for his water bottle, taking a long swig before deliberately letting a drop trail down his chin, over his throat—testing you. "You’ve been staring for ten minutes."

"Correction," you said, pushing off the rack, "I’ve been judging your form. That last rep was sloppy."

His eyes flashed, the challenge sparking something feral in them. "Oh, really?" He stood, closing the distance between you in two strides, his voice dropping to a rough murmur. "Then why don’t you show me how it’s done, sweetheart?"

You held his gaze, deliberately rolling your shoulders back—letting the oversized hoodie slip just enough to expose the tight sports bra beneath, the fabric clinging to your chest. "Maybe I will."

The second your fingers brushed the barbell, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. "Nah," he said, tugging you against him, "I’ve got a better workout in mind." His other hand slid down to grip your thigh, hoisting you up until your legs locked around his waist.

"Deryl—" you protested, even as your nails dug into his shoulders.

"Uh-uh." He nipped at your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. "You wanted to critique me? Then take responsibility."

You huffed, tipping your head back. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re fucking gorgeous when you’re annoyed," he growled, carrying you toward the padded bench.

Deryl lives for the way you take control—the way your hips roll with purpose, the way your nails dig into his chest when you pin him down, the way your breath hitches just before you lean in to remind him exactly who’s in charge.

The gym was empty this late—just the hum of the AC, the rhythmic thud of your sneakers on the treadmill, and the occasional clank of weights from Deryl’s corner. You knew he was watching. You’d felt his gaze burning into you since you walked in, all tight leggings and that damn sports bra you’d bought just to torture him.

You didn’t glance over. Not even when you caught his reflection in the fogged-up mirrors—his lips parted, his grip tightening around the dumbbell like he was imagining it was your waist.

Instead, you smirked and cranked up the speed.

Your ponytail whipped behind you, your thighs burning, your tits bouncing with every stride. You could hear the moment his control snapped—the sharp clatter of the weight hitting the floor, the rough scrape of his shoes as he stalked toward you.

"Fuckin’ tease," he growled, slamming the emergency stop on your treadmill. You stumbled forward, laughing, but his arm hooked around your waist before you could fall. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck. 

"You’ve been drivin’ me crazy all night."

"Oh?" You tilted your head, feigning innocence.

"I was just working out."

His hand slid down your stomach, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. "Yeah? Then why’re you so fucking wet already?"

You didn’t make it to the locker room.

He dragged you to the padded bench instead, his mouth crashing into yours as he yanked your leggings down just enough to get his fingers inside you. You gasped, arching into his touch, your nails biting into his shoulders. "Thought you were supposed to be spotting me," you panted.

Deryl grinned, all teeth, as he unbuckled his shorts. "Oh, I am."

It started slow—you straddling him, rolling your hips in lazy circles just to watch his jaw clench. His hands gripped your waist hard enough to bruise, his voice rough as gravel. 

"Fuck, that’s it. Ride me like you mean it."

You leaned back, bracing your hands on his thighs, and did exactly that—taking him deeper, faster, until his curses filled the empty gym.

Then he flipped you.

One second, you were on top, smirking down at him. The next, your back hit the bench, his body caging yours, his thrusts ruthless.

"Thought you had me, didn’t you?" he muttered against your throat.

You dug your heels into his ass, pulling him deeper. 

You glare up at him, but your thighs are already parting, your breath already coming faster. "Deryl, I swear to god—" He cuts you off with a kiss, laughing against your mouth as his hands slide under your ass, yanking you closer. 

"You’re cute when you’re pissed."

And yeah, he’s definitely banking on you punishing him for it later.

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓉

Well… You’re a doll!  

Favorite position: You lying on her bed, all dolled up like a present— and her between your thighs, kissing her way up slowly like she owns you. Because she does. She loves control, but with a teasing flair— she’ll pamper you, spoil you, then ruin you in lip gloss and giggles.

Favorite look on you: Coordinated outfits. Hair done. Nails painted. Matching with her. It’s not just about attraction—it’s aesthetic. The way you look beside her like a pair of it-girls, pink-tinted and smug. She loves it when people stare, because you’re hers and she knows you look good.

Stepping into Britney’s room was like getting slapped in the face by a glitter bomb—if that glitter bomb was also somehow high-maintenance and smelled like a Lush store exploded.

Pink. So much pink. Not just any pink, though—this was Barbie’s dreamhouse after a three-day bender pink. The kind of pink that made you squint like you’d just walked into a neon sign. And yet? Somehow, it worked. Because Britney didn’t just exist in a space—she conquered it, and now you were just living in her fabulous, sugar-rushed world.

The air was thick with the scent of bubblegum body spray and whatever expensive vanilla perfume she’d definitely stolen from some bougie boutique. 

Zebra-print pillows were artfully tossed around like she’d staged a photoshoot mid-nap, and every surface had just enough glitter to make you question if it was intentional or if she just shed sparkles naturally. 

Fashion magazines were splayed open to pages she’d probably dog-eared while dramatically gasping, “This. This is the vibe.”

But the real masterpiece? You two.

Because Britney had this thing about twinning—like, if you weren’t matching head-to-toe, were you even best friends? Answer: No. So here you were, looking like someone had copy-pasted you straight out of her aesthetic mood board.

Nails? Alternating pastel blue and pink, glossy enough to taste.

Hair? Twin braids so perfectly synced it was low-key eerie.

Outfits? Oh, honey. You were basically walking Clueless-core fanfiction.

You rocked a baby-pink crop top that hugged you like it was personally invested in your glow-up, paired with a high-waisted skirt that barely passed as “subtle” because it had just the right amount of oh hey, I sparkle when I move.

Britney, of course, had on her signature oversized blazer (pink, duh), thrown over her shoulders like she was about to drop the hottest album of 1999 instead of just vibing in her bedroom.

Together? You weren’t just cute—you were a statement. The kind of duo that made people side-eye you in the best way, like, Damn, they definitely have a shared Instagram account where they post aesthetic fits and cryptic quotes.

Britney’s gaze flicked over you, her lips curling into that smirk that always made your stomach do a backflip. “Looking like a whole damn present,” she purred, voice dripping with that I-made-you-and-now-I-keep-you energy that sent a shiver down your spine.

You rolled your eyes, but the grin tugging at your mouth ruined the effect. “Says the girl who basically dressed me.”

“Uh, obviously.” She flopped onto her bed, arms spread like she was claiming her kingdom. “Now get over here. We’ve got a photoshoot to fake and at least three more outfit changes before I decide if you’re allowed to leave.”

As if you’d ever wanna go.

Britney’s hand slid over your waist like she owned it—because, let’s be real, she totally did. Her fingers traced lazy, teasing patterns along your skin, mapping out every dip and curve like she was memorizing you for later. And oh, the way your breath hitched? Pathetic.

You tried to squirm away—keyword: tried—but before you could even fake an escape, she had you pinned, her body flush against yours, warm and unyielding.

“Not so fast, pretty,” she purred, her voice all low and dangerously amused, like she’d been waiting all damn day to wreck you.

“You really think I’d let you leave without making sure you remember me?”

Uh, yes?

Then her lips were on your neck, soft and infuriatingly slow, kissing up the sensitive skin like she was writing her name there. 

Every. Damn. Time. 

That little suck right below your ear? Cheating. 

The way her teeth grazed just enough to make you shiver? Illegal. And that laugh—that stupid, sexy little giggle she let out when you gasped? 

Absolutely foul. 

“You’re mine~” she murmured against your skin, voice thick with that playful-but-not-really edge that always made your stomach flip. “Say it.”

You rolled your eyes. “In your dreams—” Wrong answer.

Her grip tightened, yanking you back against her before spinning you around to face her. And then—ugh—her mouth was on yours, hot and demanding, kissing you like she was trying to steal your damn soul. Her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your knees weak, while her free hand slid under your shirt, nails scraping lightly over your hip.

“Say. It.”

You groaned, half-annoyed, half-way-too-into-this, but she just smirked, nipping at your lower lip. “Fine,” you huffed, glaring up at her even as your hands fisted in her shirt. “I’m yours. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” She kissed you again, slow and filthy, like she was savoring her victory. “Now get back here. We’re not done.”Britney’s fingers trailed down your chest, her pastel-painted nails catching the light—and your breath hitched.

“You like these, huh?” She smirked, dragging the tips lazily over your stomach, just enough to tease. Her voice was sugar and sin, the kind that made your pulse jump like it owed her money.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

“Liar.” She clicked her tongue, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’ve been staring at my nails all day. Think I didn’t notice?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then her hand slid lower, her fingers curling just right—and fuck, okay, yeah, she had you.

Her grip was perfect, all soft pressure and sharp edges, her nails grazing in a way that made your hips jerk. “God, you’re easy,” she laughed, breath warm against your neck as she worked you over, slow and sweet. 

“All this ‘cause I painted my nails cute?”

Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles going white. The mattress beneath you felt like it was spinning—or maybe that was just your head, foggy with want.

"B-Britney—" Your voice cracked, barely there, more breath than sound.

She didn’t slow down. If anything, her thumb pressed harder, circling just the right spot like she’d mapped you out years ago. (Maybe she had.) Her other hand stayed firm on your hip, nails biting in just enough to leave little half-moon marks. Her marks.

"Please—"

She tsked, leaning down so her lips brushed the shell of your ear. Her breath was warm, her voice syrup-sweet and so fucking smug. "Nuh-uh. You don’t get to beg. You just get to take it."

And god, you did.

Later—when the ring light was on, when the camera was rolling, when the world got to see the performance of you two—Britney was all dimples and sparkle. She laughed on cue, flipped her hair just right, nudged you playfully like this was all some silly little game.

"Bestie goals!" she chirped to the camera, winking. "You have to try this nail color—it’s, like, literally us in polish form."

The viewers ate it up. The comments would flood in later: OMG, cutest duo. Relationship inspo. I wish I had a friendship like this.

They didn’t see the way her fingers lingered a second too long when she fixed your collar. They didn’t hear the way she’d murmured, "You look so fucking pretty when you listen," right before hitting record. They didn’t know how her thumb had traced your bottom lip off-camera, how she’d tsked when you bit it.

But you knew. Britney didn’t just like the way you looked together—she craved it. The matching outfits, the twinned poses, the way people’s eyes followed you both like you were something special.

And you were. Because Britney’s favorite accessory wasn’t her designer bag or her perfect lip gloss.

It was you. Pink-tinted, pliant, hers. A matching set, down to the bone.

And honestly? 

No one else even came close to competing.

♤ — 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ