RWBY SFW Alphabet: Qrow Branwen.
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
Qrow’s affection is subtle, buried beneath gruff teasing and dry humor, but it’s there—in every sideways glance and every sacrifice he makes without a second thought. He isn’t the type to say he loves you outright; he shows it through the little things, the quiet acts of care that most would miss if they weren’t paying attention. You’ll notice it in the way he always walks on the side closer to danger, or how he checks his flask less when you’re around because he wants to be present. He teases you often, using nicknames to hide the tenderness behind his words, but when he says your name softly, without that usual smirk, it’s different. That’s when you know he means it. He’ll patch you up after a mission, cursing under his breath the whole time, yet his hands are steady and gentle, his breath close enough for you to feel how much he worries.
When Qrow lets his guard down, his affection becomes something raw and achingly honest. He might pull you close after a fight, his head dropping against your shoulder like the weight of the world just caught up to him, muttering how you’re the only thing keeping his bad luck in check. He’s hesitant with touch, afraid of the curse his Semblance carries, but sometimes he can’t help it—his fingers brush yours, his thumb lingers on the back of your hand, and for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to believe he deserves it. When he holds you, it’s always tight, like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he lets go. With Qrow, affection isn’t tidy or perfect—it’s messy, rooted in fear and regret, but every bit of it is real, and when he finally whispers how much you mean to him, you know he’s showing you the kind of love he never thought he could have.
B= Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
Your friendship with Qrow would start in the most unexpected way—born out of shared exhaustion and dry humor rather than any grand gesture. Maybe you met him after a fight gone wrong, both of you too battered to pretend you didn’t need company. He’d joke that you were “bad luck” for crossing his path, unaware that you’d be the one to keep him grounded later on. Friendship with him doesn’t come easy; he’s wary, used to being the lone crow perched on the outskirts of everyone’s lives. But you earn his trust slowly, not by pressing him to open up, but by sitting with him in silence when the weight of his past catches up to him. One drink turns into two, one sarcastic quip turns into full-blown laughter, and before either of you realize it, he’s calling you “Kid” with that almost-affectionate smirk that means you’ve become part of his small, fiercely guarded circle.
As a best friend, Qrow is equal parts protector and chaos. He shows up when you least expect him—usually right when you need him most, muttering something about “keeping you out of trouble.” He’ll give you advice that sounds like a riddle but carries hard-won wisdom underneath. He grumbles when you argue with him, but there’s a glint of pride every time you stand your ground. When things go wrong, he’s the first one in front of you, scythe drawn, swearing he’s “seen worse” even when he absolutely hasn’t. And beneath all the teasing and dark humor, there’s an unspoken loyalty that runs bone-deep; he may claim he’s cursed, but with you, he tries. You’d be his voice of reason, his partner in trouble, and the rare person who could make him laugh so hard he forgets—for a little while—just how heavy his world feels.
C= Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
Cuddling with Qrow is something that happens rarely at first—he isn’t the kind of man who’d admit to liking something so soft. He’ll grumble about “needing space” or claim he’s “too old for this,” but the second you rest against him, his shoulders drop, the tension in his jaw fades, and he exhales like he’s finally allowed himself to breathe. He’s warm, all rough edges and steady muscle under that battered cloak, and he always smells faintly of rain and steel. His arms wrap around you loosely at first, hesitant, but it doesn’t take long before he pulls you in close—like he’s afraid the world might snatch you away if he lets go. You can feel the guarded kind of care in the way he tucks your head beneath his chin, muttering something self-deprecating about his bad luck, and yet his hand never leaves your back, tracing idle circles that tell a different story entirely.
If he’s had a rough day or too much to drink, Qrow becomes unusually quiet during cuddles. No teasing, no sarcastic comments—just the hum of his heartbeat beneath your ear and the occasional, barely audible sigh. That’s when he’s most honest, even if he doesn’t say a word. He might press a lazy kiss to your hair or grip your hand a little tighter, grounding himself in the fact that for once, someone’s choosing to stay near him despite the storms he carries. You learn quickly that cuddling, for Qrow, isn’t just comfort—it’s trust. It’s his way of saying you’re safe here, even if he still half-believes his curse should keep you away. And on nights when neither of you can sleep, he’ll quietly pull you closer, cloak draped over you both like armor, whispering something near your ear that sounds suspiciously like, “Don’t go.”
D= Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
A settled life is something Qrow tells himself he doesn’t need, but late at night, when the world is quiet and the flask is still, the thought slips through—peace, home, someone waiting for him. He doesn’t dare admit it, not after years of believing he’s cursed, but deep down, he wants it more than he’d ever say. He’s tired of running, tired of sleeping in strange hotels or under the stars with only ghosts and regrets for company. With you, he finds himself lingering longer between missions, his excuses wearing thin. The idea of a quiet morning—coffee in hand, someone to talk to, laughter instead of the hum of silence—almost feels like a dream he’s afraid to reach for. But if you give him a reason, if you prove he’s not just bad luck waiting to happen, he’ll start believing in that life, one slow, cautious step at a time.
As for domestic life, Qrow is surprisingly functional—if not conventional. He’s not hopeless, but his “cleaning” method involves kicking things into piles and calling it done. He’s meticulous about his weapons but forgets where he left his keys half the time. Cooking, though? That’s hit or miss. His meals are simple, hearty, and sometimes charred, like he tried to multitask and got distracted mid-fry. But there’s something endearing about it—he hums lowly when he cooks, sleeves rolled up, joking that he’s “not poisoning you on purpose.” Over time, he actually gets better at it, quietly proud when you go back for seconds. Domestic Qrow isn’t polished or perfect; he’s still a little rough around the edges. But the warmth he brings to a small space—his laughter, his quiet apologies, his clumsy efforts to make a place feel like “home”—makes even the most ordinary things with him feel rare and real.
E= Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
You’d never see it coming—not really. Qrow wouldn’t sit you down and make a clean break of it; that’s not his style. He’d start with silence, pulling away bit by bit, showing up less often, his flask becoming more of a companion than you. When the moment finally came, it’d be quiet—no shouting, no scene. He’d look at you with those tired, red-rimmed eyes and say something half-hearted like you deserve better, that you shouldn’t have to share your life with bad luck. He’d joke about it, of course, mask the pain under the same rough charm he’s worn for years. But under that smirk, you’d hear what he really meant: I love you too much to curse you with me. Then he’d walk away before you could argue, coat flaring behind him like old feathers scattering on the wind. If Qrow had to break up with his partner, he’d do it to protect them—quietly, painfully, and alone.
F= Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
Commitment, for Qrow, is both a promise and a curse. He’s a man who’s seen too much loss to take it lightly—so when he calls you his fiancée, it’s not some passing word or drunken slip of the tongue. It means something real. But that same depth terrifies him. He carries this constant awareness that his bad luck touches everyone he loves, and even in his best moments, there's a flicker of fear in his eyes that he might someday bring that misfortune to your doorstep. The idea of binding you to him forever feels selfish; part of him believes you deserve someone untouched by his curse. Still, he clings to you in quiet ways—through shared looks, half-hearted jokes, and the way his hand always finds yours when he thinks no one’s watching. To Qrow, commitment isn’t something you declare—it’s something you live, every day, despite the odds.
Marriage, though? He’d take his time. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because the thought of it feels almost too good for a man like him. You’d have to convince him that this isn’t temporary—that you’re not just staying until the next Grimm, battle, or stroke of bad luck drives you apart. He’d probably dodge the topic with jokes first, pour another drink whenever it gets too serious, and only when he’s absolutely sure—when you’ve seen him at his worst and still choose to stay—would he start to think about marriage. And when that time came, Qrow wouldn’t need an elaborate ceremony. Just you, maybe under the night sky, a quiet vow that even misfortune can’t undo.
G= Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionaly?)
Qrow’s gentleness isn’t something loud or showy—it’s the kind that sneaks up on you in quiet moments, when his rough hands brush your hair out of your face or when his voice softens just enough to make you forget how sharp his words can usually be. Physically, he’s cautious, always aware of his strength and the bad luck that clings to him like a shadow; he touches you as if you might vanish if he presses too hard. Emotionally, he’s even more fragile. Years of loss, guilt, and self-loathing have taught him to keep his heart locked down, so when he lets you see that tenderness—when he lets you in—it means everything. Around you, that hardened Huntsman turns gentle, not because he’s trying to be, but because he doesn’t know how else to show love without breaking first.
H= Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
Qrow Branwen isn’t someone who hugs often — not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s afraid of what his bad luck might bring to the people he loves. You can tell he craves that closeness deep down, though. Despite putting up a wall of sarcasm and cynicism, Qrow’s the kind of man who carries quiet affection behind tired eyes. When he does pull you into a hug, it’s never casual. It’s hesitant at first, maybe one arm slung around you while he mumbles something self-deprecating like “Don’t say I never warned ya.” But then he gives in, pulling you close with the heavy warmth of a man who’s seen too much and still needs to be reminded that he’s not alone. His hugs come few and far between — maybe after a near-death encounter, or when words just won’t cut it — but when they happen, they mean everything.
Being hugged by Qrow feels like standing in the eye of a storm that suddenly goes quiet. His coat smells faintly of whiskey and worn leather, his chest solid against you as if he’s anchoring himself in the moment as much as he’s comforting you. He doesn’t let go right away; his hands tremble slightly, fingers curling like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. He’ll make a joke afterward, something to lighten the mood, but you can tell he needed it — maybe even more than you did. Each hug is an unspoken apology, a promise that he’ll try to stay sober, to stay alive, to stay there. And for someone who believes himself cursed, that simple act is his way of defying fate, if only for a heartbeat.
|= I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
Qrow doesn’t say “I love you” fast—not because he doesn’t mean it, but because that kind of truth sticks in his throat harder than any shot of whiskey ever did. You’d catch glimpses of it long before you hear the words: the way he stands between you and danger even when he swears it’s not worth the risk, the way his hand hovers over yours before he pulls it back with a muttered joke, the quiet drop in his voice when he calls you “kid” like he’s scared the word will break. When he finally says it, it’s low and hoarse, slipping out like something he’s been fighting to keep buried under guilt and bad luck—because if he loves you, that means you’re close enough to be hurt by his curse. But once it’s out, once you feel his hand tighten in yours, you know he’ll never take it back.
J= Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they're jealous?)
Jealousy hits Qrow harder than he’d ever admit. He’s the type to scoff, roll his eyes, and mutter something sarcastic when he sees you getting too comfortable with someone else — but the tension in his jaw and the way his flask comes out a little too quickly give him away. Qrow doesn’t get jealous often, but when he does, it cuts deep because it taps into his biggest fear: losing the few people who actually choose to stay by his side. He’ll convince himself you deserve better, that you’ll realize how cursed he is, and that it’s only a matter of time before you walk away. His jealousy isn’t fiery — it’s quiet, self-loathing, and a little heartbreaking, hidden behind a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
When he can’t hide it anymore, it shows through passive jabs and sharp humor. He’ll call whoever’s getting a little too close some mocking nickname, “charming” or “golden boy,” his tone just light enough to pass as teasing but his eyes guarded. Later, when it’s just the two of you, he struggles to put it into words — half an apology, half a confession. You’ll find his voice lower than usual, fingers brushing the back of your hand as he mutters, “Didn’t like how they were lookin’ at you, that’s all.” And underneath the gruffness, there’s that rare look of vulnerability — the kind that reminds you just how human he really is, for all his feathers and flaws.
K= Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
Qrow’s kisses reflect every contradiction that lives inside him — rough around the edges yet full of unexpected tenderness. When he kisses you, it’s slow at first, deliberate, like he’s proving to himself that this is real and that his misfortune hasn’t managed to ruin it. There’s warmth in the way his stubble grazes your skin, a faint taste of whiskey or wind, and the ghost of a smirk that fades once the moment deepens. He kisses like a man who’s lost too much and can’t believe he’s allowed to have something good again. His hands usually find your waist or the side of your face, fingers firm but trembling just a little when he thinks you won’t notice. Every breath between kisses sounds like a half-swallowed apology for all the times he kept you at arm’s length.
Qrow likes to kiss you where affection feels safest — your forehead, your cheekbones, the corners of your mouth. They’re gestures that say I love you without tempting fate too much. He’s partial to the crook of your neck on quiet mornings, murmuring something teasing just to hide how his heart stutters when you laugh. As for him, Qrow melts when you kiss his jaw or the underside of his throat — the places his guard doesn’t reach. A kiss there makes him hum low in his chest, eyes falling shut as if you’ve silenced every demon whispering he doesn’t deserve this kind of peace. And though he’ll still crack a joke afterward, you can tell by the softness in his gaze that he’s already thinking about the next time you’ll let him come home to your lips again.
L= Little ones (How are they around children?)
When it comes to little ones, Qrow surprises everyone — including you. For someone so rough around the edges, he’s remarkably gentle with kids. He might grumble about the noise or pretend he’s too “busy” for playtime, but within moments he’s the one crawling around on the floor, letting them pull at his cloak or braid feathers into his hair. He treats children like he does his nieces: a mix of teasing banter and protective warmth, calling them “runt” or “pipsqueak” with a smirk while making sure they don’t scrape a knee or wander too far. You notice the way his expression softens when little hands tug his sleeve or when their laughter drowns out the constant self-loathing that shadows him. Around them, Qrow almost seems free — the weight of his curse lighter, his humor sharper, and his heart quietly at peace.
M= Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
Mornings with Qrow are slow, groggy, and almost always start with a sarcastic mumble about how he’s “too old for this.” He’s not exactly a morning person—you usually find him hunched over a mug of black coffee, eyes half-lidded, hair somehow even messier than usual. If he slept on the couch again, you’ll hear him complain about his back while swearing he’s “fine.” He doesn’t talk much at first, but when he does, it’s a mix of dry humor and quiet affection—throwaway comments that mean more than he lets on. Sometimes you’ll catch him leaning back in his chair, watching you with that faint, crooked grin before muttering something like, “Guess mornings aren’t all bad.” And if you’re lucky, he’ll even make breakfast—burnt toast and all.
N= Night (How are nights spent with them?)
Nights with Qrow are quiet, weighted with the kind of peace that only comes after chaos. He usually sits by the window or outside under the stars, a bottle near his hand whether it’s actually filled or not, tracing memories he’ll never admit still haunt him. You end up beside him more often than not, wrapped in the stillness while he mutters half-thoughts about luck, family, or people long gone. Sometimes he’s sharp with his tongue—deflecting warmth with humor—but other times he’s soft, running a calloused thumb over your knuckles while the world hums into silence. Eventually, he relaxes enough to lean into you, the faint smell of smoke and metal on his clothes clinging close. When he drifts off, it’s never graceful—head heavy against your shoulder, murmuring something that sounds almost like gratitude before sleep pulls him under.
O= Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
Qrow isn’t the type to open up all at once—he’s too used to people leaving before they get the full story. When you first meet him, every piece of information he gives feels like a test. He’ll mention something half-serious, half-joking—like the reason he drinks or a fight he got into—and gauge your reaction with that tired, sharp look of his. If you press, he deflects with sarcasm or a swig from his flask. The real stories—the pain, the mistakes, the guilt—come out slowly, through late-night conversations or moments when he’s too tired to keep the walls up. You’ll notice it in the shift of his tone, the way he stops hiding behind humor. That’s when he finally starts letting you see the cracks.
Even then, Qrow doesn’t spill everything. He’s lived too long carrying secrets, both his own and others’, and there’s a part of him that believes dumping them on you would curse you too. So, instead, the truth comes in fragments—an old mission here, a lost friend there, maybe the tremor in his voice when a name slips out he didn’t mean to say. He trusts you slowly, like a bird inching closer to an open palm, suspicious of the kindness but desperate for something steady. When he finally does tell you everything, it’s not out of relief; it’s because he’s come to believe you can handle the weight he’s carried alone for so long.
P= Patience (How easily angered are they?)
When it comes to patience, Qrow Branwen walks a fragile line between restraint and eruption—you notice it in the way his jaw tenses before he throws back another gulp from his flask. He’s not easily angered in the typical sense; years of fighting, loss, and bad luck have taught him to keep his temper buried beneath dry sarcasm and bitter humor. But that doesn’t mean you can’t see the heat simmering in him, like an ember waiting for wind. His irritation tends to leak out through sharp retorts and cynical remarks rather than outright shouting. Still, when someone pushes too hard—when they threaten his family, question his loyalty, or drag up old wounds—his restraint shatters in a heartbeat. You’ve seen it before: his cool-headed mask burning away, eyes flashing with a mix of pain and fury. He’s not volatile for the sake of it; his anger is the product of guilt, grief, and too many years trying to believe that his bad luck doesn’t dictate his worth. When he lashes out, it’s raw and deeply human, and more often than not, the moment it’s gone, you can see the regret already setting in.
Q= Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
You always wondered how much Qrow Branwen actually remembers about you. The man’s sharp, no doubt — years of danger have trained his instincts to notice everything around him — but sentiment and detail? That’s where it gets tricky. He’s the kind of guy who remembers the rhythm of your laugh but forgets what you were laughing about. He’ll recall the way your eyes looked when you scolded him after one too many drinks, but not the exact words you said. Sometimes, when he stumbles upon a place you mentioned visiting once, he’ll pause, recognize it in passing, then shake it off as if surprised his mind had tucked that away at all. To Qrow, memory feels like smoke — he catches enough to know it’s there, but it slips through his fingers before he can hold on too tightly.
Still, there’s something special about the things he does remember. When he calls you by that nickname he made up, or when he orders your favorite drink without needing to ask, you catch glimpses of how much space you actually occupy in his cluttered thoughts. Qrow might act like he forgets, brushing things off with that self-deprecating smirk and a muttered “guess I’m getting old,” but the truth is, he remembers what matters. You, in your quiet, human details — the ones that make his curse feel lighter — are the memories that stick, even when everything else fades into the haze of another long night.
R= Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
Qrow’s favorite moment in your relationship isn’t some grand heroic act or heated mission—it’s that quiet night when the world felt still for once. You were both camped out under Atlas’ fractured skyline, the fire between you crackling low, your laughter softer than the wind. He remembers watching you teasing him about his flask, how you stole it just long enough to make a point, pretending to take a sip before grinning at the way he groaned. For the first time in years, he forgot about the curse, about the bad luck that clung to him. It was the way you looked at him—like he wasn’t broken, like the weight he carried didn’t scare you—that burned itself into his mind. He never admitted it out loud, but in that small, firelit moment, you made him believe he could have good luck after all.
S= Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
Qrow’s protectiveness runs deep, even if he masks it behind sarcasm and a drink. He’s the kind of man who keeps one eye on you even when he looks like he isn’t paying attention—watching your flank, taking hits meant for you, pretending it’s “no big deal.” If danger comes, he’ll face it head-on, scythe at the ready, settling into battle with a familiar weariness. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep, but when it comes to your safety, he’ll hold to his word like it’s a lifeline. Sometimes that means standing between you and a Grimm until he’s bleeding and laughing at his own luck; other times, it’s pushing you away because he believes distance is the best shield his cursed Semblance can offer. You wouldn’t always notice he’s protecting you—it’s in the way he walks a little ahead, checks every perimeter, refuses to rest until you’re safe. To Qrow, your well-being is worth every ounce of bad luck he drags behind him.
But Qrow isn’t used to being protected. If you tried, he’d probably scoff, make a dry joke to cover the flicker of surprise in his eyes. Truth is, he doesn’t think he deserves that kind of care. Still, a small, vulnerable part of him softens when you insist on standing beside him—not out of pity, but loyalty. He wouldn’t need grand gestures; having you grab his shoulder before he spirals, guiding the flask from his grasp, or simply staying close despite the curse—that’s what would get to him. He’d grumble about how you’re “trouble waiting to happen,” but deep down, he’d feel something foreign and grounding: the sense that someone sees past the bad luck and the mistakes, and chooses to stay anyway.
T= Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
Dating Qrow is like watching a storm try to learn how to slow down and appreciate the sunlight—you can tell he’s not used to it, but damn if he doesn’t try. He doesn’t put effort into the fancy stuff—no glittery dinners or dozen roses—but he shows love in the way he lingers just long enough to finish breakfast with you before a mission, or the way he actually remembers your anniversary even though he plays it off with a muttered, “Guess I got lucky this time.” You’d catch him giving you something practical rather than pretty—like a new weapon charm, or a cloak patch that matches his—and if he cooked for you (burnt edges and all), that would mean more than any polished gift ever could. Everyday tasks turn into quiet acts of care: fixing the leaky faucet while pretending it’s no big deal, leaving the last clean mug for you in the morning, even going sober for your dates because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He grumbles and downplays it all, but you always see the truth in his eyes—beneath the sarcasm and rough edges, Qrow gives what little peace he has left to you.
U= Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
Qrow’s bad habits come in a package deal—whiskey, fists, and guilt. The first is obvious: he drinks too much, too often, convincing himself that liquid courage dulls the edge of his so-called curse. The second is his knack for getting into bar fights—never starting them, but always finishing them with a bloodied grin and a bruised ego. And the third, the one that cuts deeper, is his tendency to shut you out completely when the world feels too heavy. He’ll vanish without warning, leaving only the faint smell of alcohol and a trail of broken promises, claiming it’s “for your own good.” You learned long ago that silence is his armor—anger his distraction, and the whiskey his escape from a lifetime of feeling undeserving of the people who still love him.
V= Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
Qrow isn’t exactly vain, but he’s aware of his looks in that quiet, begrudging sort of way. You’ve caught him glancing at his reflection before—running a hand through his spiky, feather-like hair or tugging his cloak into place with an absent scowl—but he’d deny it if you teased him. He doesn’t care about looking good so much as he hates looking tired, that ragged, worn-down image reminding him of how much he’s lost to bad luck and whiskey. Still, when you brush that stubborn gray strand from his eyes and tell him he looks handsome, he almost believes you—maybe even stands a little straighter after, pretending he didn’t. Underneath the gruff attitude, he likes that you notice him; it makes him feel human again, not just a broken crow trying to look the part of a Huntsman.
W= Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
Qrow would absolutely feel incomplete without you, though he’d never admit it outright. You became his quiet constant—the one person who steadied the storm of misfortune that always seemed to follow him. With you, he didn’t have to hide behind sarcasm or a flask; he could just be, without needing to push someone away before his bad luck did. You became his proof that he wasn’t doomed to hurt everyone he cared about, and losing that would shake him more than any betrayal or Grimm attack. Without you, every drink would burn a little harsher, every mission a little colder. He’d still fight, still do what needed to be done, but there’d be an emptiness behind his smirk—a silence that even the caw of a crow couldn’t fill.
X= Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
Qrow never admits it aloud, but you’re one of the few people he actually likes having around despite his constant claims that he’s “bad luck.” Around you, he’s quieter—not the sarcastic uncle or the bitter cynic—but someone who lingers a little longer in conversation, sometimes just to hear the sound of your voice. You’ve caught him glancing over mid-drink, a faint smirk curving his lips like he’s wondering how someone like you still puts up with him. He grumbles if you call him out on caring too much, but then he’ll silently walk you home through the dark, feathers ruffling as the night air turns cold. If he ever turns into his crow form near you, that’s his way of saying he trusts you—because Qrow doesn’t perch near just anyone.
Xtra headcanon: Qrow secretly names every crow he sees after people he’s lost, but he’s never told you that the one that always lands near you? He calls that one “Hope.”
Y= Yuck (What are some things they wouldn't like, either in general or in a partner?)
You learn quickly that Qrow Branwen’s dislikes are pretty telling of the man he is—grizzled, honest, and quietly self-loathing in all the ways he’d never admit out loud. He hates arrogance, especially when it’s paired with ignorance; nothing grates him more than someone acting invincible when they’ve never seen the real ugliness of a fight. In general, he can’t stand people who treat life like it’s a game or who look down on others for being “weaker.” In a partner, he wouldn’t have patience for dishonesty, manipulation, or anyone who tries to “fix” him—his scars are his business, and he’d rather walk away than feel pitied. Anyone who’s too naive or idealistic makes him uneasy, too, because he’s terrified of being the one who breaks their optimism. But beneath all that gruffness, it’s not hatred—it’s fear. Fear that his bad luck, his past, or his bitterness might ruin someone else’s light.
Z= Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
A/N: You can't tell me this man does not drool in his sleep and that he doesn't snore. He totally does LoL. And none of you guys can prove me otherwise.
You’re convinced Qrow’s sleep habits are a mix between endearing disaster and pure comedy. He’ll claim he can “sleep anywhere,” then pass out fully clothed on top of the blankets, boots half-off, cloak still wrapped around him like a makeshift pillow. He snores—of course he snores—deep, uneven sounds that make you wonder how the man’s lungs even manage so much volume, only to quiet when he rolls over and mumbles something completely unintelligible. And yes, Qrow absolutely drools… usually into the crook of his sleeve or against his arm, like that somehow saves his dignity. In the morning, when you tease him about it, he just grunts, denies everything, and blames it on “the humidity” or “bad luck.” You know better though—your tough, broody Huntsman is secretly the world’s most chaotic sleeper, and somehow, that only makes him more lovable.
