#and this time was like.. opposite of the previous one

[imfoive]

Trophy Husband - Chapter 5

Hyunjin x Reader (fem.) Genre: Arranged Marriage au!, Marriage of Convenience-ish, Romance, Angst, Frenemies-to-Lovers, NSFW (mdni) Warnings: mentions of cursing, drinking, crude language, somewhat proofread WC: 6.0k A/N: Last chapter of the year! I hope the slight insight into y/n melts away any frustrations the previous chapter left. Our bickering-couple will see you again in 2025! Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated! Happy reading! ── MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Two individuals with polar opposite lifestyles are thrown into an arranged marriage for the benefit of both their families, or so they claim. One is a frivolous playboy, living off familial wealth, while the other is an overly controlling workaholic. Navigating their marriage with a business-like approach, their relationship is marked by a whirlwind of bickering, banter, and societal pressures. Amid misunderstandings, they uncover layers of unexpected qualities, eventually discovering a sweet love neither saw coming.

Missed a chapter? - Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

CHAPTER 5 ───────────────────

As a child, Y/N Yeom had always been compared to a bird, lost in her own world. 

Soaring freely, high above, doing as she pleased as her parents’ only child. One of the perks of having no competition with a sibling. 

She chased her imagination, colorful dreams unfurling in her mind.

It was something her parents bragged about. How independent she was. How ambitious she was. How proud she would make them.

It was something her parents would come to regret as she entered her teenage years. The extracurricular activities they had piled onto her as a child, aimed at making her well-rounded and talented in many fields, from dancing to piano to art, would soon return to haunt them. 

Especially when the Yeom heiress declared she wanted to be an artist.

Her mother had laughed at it. 

A sound that still echoed in Y/N’s mind. It had been a laugh muffled by her fingers, her face a alight with amusement as she stared back at her young daughter, clearly finding the idea more humorous than anything else.

“Don’t say such silly things Y/N”

Words that still rang in her memories.

Her carefree world began to shatter.

Then came the hiding. 

The pretense of attending tutoring classes designed to prepare her to follow in her father’s footsteps, while she secretly slipped into the art program she had forged her mother’s signature to join, started swiftly.

For the most part, she had gotten away with it. That was, until her art teacher called her parents after she won a competition. One whose name she couldn’t even remember anymore.

Her father was furious when he found out. Perhaps she would have been too if she was in his place. Although, she believed she wouldn’t have allowed her child to hide their passions in the first place.

She wouldn’t have laughed at their dreams.

Y/N started growing bitter. Her carefree world shattered even more.

She had always been sort of an outcast amongst the other children in her social circle, although self-appointed.

They seemed to lack their own dreams, their own passions. Happily following the plans their parents had drawn out for them, while she struggled to even hang up her art pieces with pride. 

The first time Y/N had properly seen Hwang Hyunjin was back in school. The academy they attended was full of children of the elite, cliques of those who loved to flaunt their good looks and their parents’ wealth. One of which the second Hwang son was also in, though she never truly cared enough to acquaint with him, let alone keep his name memorized.

If she tried to recall when his name had become a familiar one in her memories, she would probably say that swim championship he had won for their school. A first time win after six years of their academy losing. Only for Hwang Hyunjin to hold the winner title for his entire academic career.

She had always been acutely aware of his existence, hearing his name here and there throughout school, catching glimpses of the supposedly handsome Hwang Hyunjin in the halls, at events her parents dragged her to. Types of events where she would hole away at some random empty room after initial greetings. 

The first time Y/N had taken a proper look at him was in one of these events, in her search for an empty room she would spend the evening in before it was time to leave. She had stumbled upon Hyunjin, the handsome second son of the Hwangs.

Handsome he was, his gaze snapped to hers the moment she entered. Their eyes locked for the first time as she stood frozen in the doorway, catching him in a …compromising position. 

His lips had been locked with the school president’s. But at the sound of the door, the two broke apart almost instantly. Hyunjin wiped his mouth casually, while the school president, usually prim and proper, sputtered, her eyes darting between his and Y/N’s equally stunned expressions.

   “Ah—Sorry...” Y/N had muttered awkwardly, closing the door behind her as she blinked at the odd combination she had walked in on.

The school president cornered her in halls the following day, pleading eyes already giving way to her request. To not tell anyone she was with Hwang Hyunjin, the apparent “black sheep” of his family, a detail Y/N hadn’t known until that moment, though it wasn’t something she even cared for.

She had her own problems to deal with, and who the school president was or wasn’t making out with, didn’t even register on her radar. She barely even remembered the event, let alone have time to run around and spread gossip.

Still, Y/N promised. And then, just a few weeks later, she found herself witnessing another scene, some other cheerleader pulling the “black sheep” of the Hwang family behind the bleachers.

A sight that would become more familiar than his existence itself.

────────────────────────

The shower water running down her skin should have felt relieving. Should have helped her loosen up, the hot scorching water that always managed to help her relax after a long strenuous day, tingling yet soothing. But as Y/N stood beneath the shower, the one place she usually found peace, her mind refused to settle. Instead, she found herself staring at the water swirling down the drain, her thoughts drifting back to what had happened between her and Hyunjin.

Back to the memory of her trophy husband, kneeling before her, his piercing gaze locked onto hers with a mixture of astonishment and something more. Something darker, more desirous.

And suddenly she was heavily aware of Hyunjin just outside, in the bedroom where he had trudged into after feeling lightheaded.

It seemed he really had exerted too much energy, the alcohol in his system, the confinement between her legs, the exhaustion afterwards. All overtaking him almost instantly. Y/N had even helped him into the bed. 

He had muttered things under his breath, a chuckle escaping through his mumbles as he had tried to keep his eyes open. Yet, ultimately he had lost that battle and soon his breathing had grown shallow.

Y/N had stared down at his passed out form, gnawing at her bottom lip as her eyes trailed over him. Ultimately retreating in for a shower to clear her head.

Yet the shower didn’t seem to clear anything at all.

Instead she felt even more conflicted. 

The scraps of Hwang Hyunjin she could find in her memories resurfaced as she tried to recall as best as she could. Yet every single one of them seemed to be of him with a pretty girl on his arm.

But now here he was, the pretty man on her arm.

The bathroom door had opened with a soft click, Y/N peeked out to glance back into the bedroom, her trophy husband’s body still tucked under the duvet as she had left him. The bedroom was lit dimly, the bedside lamp casting a soft glow, allowing her to look down at Hyunjin’s serene expression as she approached his passed out form.

Y/N instantly thought back to earlier in the evening. As if her mind hadn’t been replaying every moment of it in a loop ever since. The feeling of his touches, his gaze, his tongue, still burning against her skin, in her memories. 

Perhaps that was how his playboy nature worked.

His bold actions, his whiskey-laced breath. 

The way his tongue darted out to lick his lips, the sultry tone in his voice.

Which Hyunjin had it been this evening?

The playboy Hyunjin who knew the arts of pleasure?

Or…

She pictured the flush on his cheeks. The heat that radiated from his skin against her. 

The desperation in his wide gaze, his slightly shaky fingers tugging at her dress as he asked for permission.

Perhaps it was her husband Hyunjin.

The gallery director clutched at the bathrobe tightly, slowly crouching down to get a closer look at his face.

The ever so pretty Hwang Hyunjin. Her playboy husband, so serene, so angelic even in his sleep.

Her eyes traced his features, resting on his lips. The ones that had her chasing that orgasmic feeling that she hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. 

His lips, that would curve into those smug smiles whenever he taunted her, irking her slightly, amusing her mostly. 

His lips, so kissable.

Y/N leaned in, her mouth pressing against his. A soft kiss, a simple peck maybe.

His breath felt hot against hers as he slept, a low sleepy moan escaping his mouth as she pulled away, peering back down to take in his sleeping expression. He shifted slightly, brows narrowing in a frown before relaxing. A sight that made her stifle a smile, fingers pushing away the stray hairs that fell over his face. 

The room quieted again after Hyunjin settled once more, his crouching wife observed this side of him.

She had always been the first to fall asleep. Always exhausted, easily slipping into her dreams once her head hit the pillow. Sometimes she would watch Hyunjin from her tucked in spot. The dark-haired man, who seemed to always be doing this or that on the other end of the bedroom. 

Sometimes reading on the recliner, sometimes standing out on the balcony. Oftentimes he would shuffle under the sheets once her eyes fluttered close. Her lids, heavy, yet aware of his presence beside her.

Oftentimes she wondered what he would do if she asked him to embrace her.

Engulf her in his warmth to soothe her of her day’s exhaustion, unaware if his arms would even have that effect.

Though, after tonight, maybe her assumptions weren’t too far off.

She often wondered what it would be like to make this man hers.

To allow him into her heart. The shielded, guarded organ that seemed to harden against love.

Or would she simply become his plaything? The one he would turn to whenever he needed to let off steam.

Hyunjin inhaled deeply in the midst of his shallow breaths, a low noise that was just loud enough to draw her attention back to just the two of them in this room. Y/N finally pushed herself back on her feet, glancing down at him once more.

Did she trust him enough? 

He hadn’t done anything that would have broken her trust, went against whatever clauses they’d laid out, whatever contracts they’d signed. Yet, there was that nagging voice in the back of her head.

The one that whispered to her.

That he was putting on some act, behaving himself only for a moment before he craved attention. Before he got bored of sitting still.

He’d done it before. Or atleast, from what she had read and heard in the past.

After some new scandal of his, he would disappear. Lie low for a couple of months before he was once again dancing in nightclubs. Even prior to their marriage, he had been engulfed in some incident. Something about a bar fight. The news that she read about after her father had thrown the marriage arrangement at her, left her tasting bitter.

Her husband turned in his sleep, sinking deeper into the mattress, his face turned away from hers.

Y/N reached out. Perhaps to push back some more stray strands of his hair, perhaps to lean down and press another kiss to his lips. But she faltered, the quiet hum on her cell phone vibrating against the dresser echoed in the bedroom, the sound had her already striding over, knowing well that these late night calls from her secretary were always urgent.

Knowing well that she had always been the kind to prioritize her work. Her ambitions.

That she would never be a perfect lover, let alone be a perfect wife.

The gallery director fidgeted with her wedding ring, inhaling deeply as her eyes glanced over the glass doors of the meeting room. 

Her secretary had called her late last night, finally arranging a meeting with a potential sponsor for Y Gallery’s upcoming project. 

Y/N had rushed out frantically, glancing back at her husband once, before she had to start preparing for this meeting in the early hours of the morning. But now that she was done, and had nothing to do besides wait, her mind trailed back to Hyunjin.

Back to her trophy husband who seemed to be ever so peaceful in his slumber. She wondered if he would remember what he had done last night?

A part of her cursed herself for not ensuring he was sober enough before agreeing to his ministrations. Although he didn’t seem it, the way he had almost collapsed afterwards had her worried slightly.

Her eyes shot to her cellphone, the discarded device that had a cascade of messages and notifications from people she didn’t care enough about to respond right away.

But no message from Hyunjin.

It made sense. It was still early in the morning, and over the months of being married to him, the gallery director had learned that her husband loved to sleep in. Especially on days after he had a few drinks.

She wondered if she should message him. Tell him to take it easy in case he wakes up with an aching head. Tell him to call her so she could ensure he was alright.

Hear his voice.

His groggy sleep-laced voice, memories of it running through her mind. From all the times he had muttered things as he made her coffee on those days he claimed she had roused him awake.

Y/N blinked at his contact. At the words she had typed out, staring at the letters almost as if they were foreign.

They felt foreign.

Types of words she hadn’t sent in what felt like forever.

Words of concern. Of worry.

Messages a wife would send her husband.

The knock on the glass door tore the gallery director out of her trance, her instant social smile spreading over her face as she stood. Arm extending for a shake.

   “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet me today Madam Kim.” Her voice dripped with confidence.

The gallery director’s husband rustled under the sheets, his brows furrowing in a frown, eyes still shut tight but awake nonetheless.

The silence in the room stretched and for a moment he simply just laid there.

But then as the gears in his brain began to work, the memories of the night prior surged down on him, replaying through his mind in a loop.

Hyunjin’s eyes shot open, slowly he propped himself up to glance around the empty room. His body slightly ached for some reason, and his mind was foggy as he scanned his surroundings. 

There was no sign of Y/N. 

No quiet rustle of sheets, no trace of her presence. No loud clatter of her attempting to be quiet but failing miserably.

The space felt oddly hollow, and an uncomfortable silence settled in as he fully sat up, trying to make sense of everything. Of the time, of the day. 

His fingers traced his lips, tugging at his bottom lip as he tried to distinguish whether whatever he was thinking about right now, whatever he had done, had in fact happened or had it all been a dream.

Hyunjin made his way out of bed, figure crossing the rooms to peer out in hopes to find a glimpse of her, or a clue that would soothe the anxiety that had begun to bubble within him.

The living room was silent, a familiar stillness that settled in at this hour. Times when Hyunjin would head to the gym and the entire house was empty. Yet, the silence felt eerie to the man who had just awoken, his hair rustled messily as he glanced around the room. 

A loud sigh had escaped his lips. The anxious feelings started to subside as he was almost to that conclusion that it had been all a dream.

Almost.

Hyunjin’s eyes flickered to the counter. His brows relax at the sight of the mug of forgotten tea.

The drink that had long gone cold, still in the spot last left. Right across the front island, where he had tasted his wife. 

Not a dream.

Hyunjin gulped, the dry feeling in his throat refusing to subside. And all his anxieties began crashing down.

The second son of the Hwang family had had his fair share of one-night-stands. Sometimes waking up alone, sometimes leaving alone. It had never bothered him enough for his mind to linger on it any longer than he needed to. Forgetting it all almost with the new day.

And although whatever happened between the business-couple wasn’t even close to things Hyunjin had experienced in his one-night-stands, it still pricked at his heart in a way he didn’t think it would.

He knew the kind of person his wife was. Knew her priorities, knew that she would be working at this time, especially on a work day. But he didn’t expect to wake up alone.

Didn’t expect these anxious thoughts to course through him when he was welcomed by silence. 

Perhaps that’s what love was. 

These foreign emotions that surged through him right now had never been present after his past…overnight escapades. The lingering feelings that never seeped into his thoughts the next morning were heavily weighing down on him now.

He must be overthinking it all, he had to be.

Like a love-sick fool who felt abandoned.

Hyunjin had never thought himself to be the clingy type. In fact, he despised the women who often clung to him, professing their adoration for him. Attraction, love, things that made his brows twitch in irritation.

Yet here he was feeling clingy. Being clingy. 

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel of his car as he sat outside his wife’s gallery, gaze wandering over the building. Doubts clouded his mind as he second, third-guessed his actions. 

The sudden knock against the glass of his driver’s side window made him jump, head whipping around to pull down the tinted glass. 

One of Y/N’s gallery employees looked down at him, eyes full of curiosity.

   “Ah, Mr. Hwang, it’s you.” 

Hyunjin forced a smile, attempting to hide the uneasiness that stirred within him. To not appear as suspicious as he thought he looked, sitting out here in the outdoor parking lot wracking his brains. 

Nervous, anxious, but painfully missing his wife.

   “...She left so early, so…” His excuse trailed off, trying to settle the nervous twinge in his tone with a clear of his throat.

The young woman smiled with her nod as she straightened, glancing back at the glass building of the gallery.

   “Director Yeom had an early meeting that ended not too long ago. But now, she’s holed up working. I’m slightly worried...” The employee sighed, her brows furrowing with slight concern.

Words that are just enough to push away all of Hyunjin’s second-guessing. 

The trophy husband was already stepping out of his vehicle.

   “Let’s get her to take a break then.” He mumbled with a gentle smile, nodding at her before he was already striding ahead.

The gallery director herself had indeed been holed away since the early morning. Reworking a proposal that she suddenly needed to do after her meeting. As a gallery owner, the majority of her work was centered around securing investment and funding to keep it running. From managing visitors, renting out parts of the pretty space for events and shoots, to attracting rich patrons and people who had enough money to spend on her, her hands were always full.

But she wanted to do something different this time around. A gala, where proceeds would go towards sponsoring aspiring artists. The rich would get a chance to flaunt their wealth, and the starving artists would get a chance to showcase their talent through her gallery.

Y/N would like to think the meeting went well.

Most of the people who were attracted to her gallery outside of everyday visitors, were the wives of the wealthy businessmen in their circle, familiar faces that Y/N had grown up around. They loved to show off their wealth. Purchasing pieces and hosting events at her gallery had become a popular trend of some sorts in the recent years. Maybe it was to do with the fact that Y/N was going against her family and doing something she was passionate about. The high society women lingered about to either scope out the gossip that surrounded that or maybe they were truly infatuated with the wonderful artwork she had collected and exhibited in her gallery.

Madam Kim was one such prominent woman in their high society. The madame of one of the country’s leading law firms, her late husband is still a respected figure even now, years after his demise. 

The gallery director had initially wanted to propose a potential partnership with Madam Kim’s daughter-in-law, a woman who was an appreciator of art, and a regular patron of Y Gallery. But when the director had reached out, she had gotten a response from the matriarch of the family instead.

Y/N wasn’t complaining. Madam Kim was one of the more tolerable individuals of the elite class, humble in her ways, yet still had an immense influence on the other women and wives of her social circles. Maybe she had gotten lucky.

Or maybe not. The extra work that Madam Kim had requested was starting to take a toll on the gallery director whose eyes were starting to sting. Tell-tale signs of an oncoming migraine already throbbed at her temples.

The knock on her door faltered her machine-like fingers typing away with a frenzy, her eyes shooting over her glasses to take a glance at the incoming visitor.

She expected to see her secretary, perhaps with the drafted email the gallery director had been awaiting. But instead, the long dark locks of her husband’s appeared in her line of sight, and she stiffened at the sight of his figure entering her office.

For a brief second, the two of them stare at each other, simply just taking in each other’s presence, eyes floundering over one anothers face after not having seen it in what almost felt like years. Hyunjin’s eyes flicked to her desk, at the bottle of pain pills that rested by her glass of water, a sight that made his brows furrowed with a frown.

   “Have you slept?” He questioned with a sigh, the concern on his expression deepening.

Her eyes followed his to the same pills. She had taken two in attempts to soothe that headache that pounded at her temples, but of course it hadn’t worked. Instead she decided she would push through this workload before taking a power nap.

   “Not yet.” Her response wasn’t surprising, making her husband groan slightly, his arms crossing over his chest.

   “Have you eaten?” He continued, already understanding what her response was from the silent stare she shot him.

Y/N wanted to break into a laugh, to point out the creases that settled between his brows as he looked at her with an upset frown, clearly displeased by her answers. 

She wanted to break into a laugh because he was one more question away from becoming a nagging spouse. 

Instead she stifled the urge, sighing as her eyes darted to the bright screen that burned her eyes, before they settled back on his form just a few feet away.

   “I’ll eat soon. I promise.” She muttered.

   “Ten minutes.” His words followed immediately after her apparent hollow promise, making her tilt her head in slight confusion.

   “You have ten minutes before I force you to eat.” He added, his brows narrowing.

His words caught her off guard, a tone of his that she had never heard before. An expression that looked foreign too, as he stared with her pointedly. Yet she didn’t hate the sight of it. Rather, it sparked something else in her. That familiar challenged sensation erupted within her. Mixed with something else. Something she couldn’t really describe without thinking about him on his knees again. 

   “Force me to eat?” Y/N repeated, raising an eyebrow.

She leaned back into the cushion of her chair, her fingers lacing together in front of her. The gallery director watched her husband uncross his arms from over his chest, sliding them into the pockets of his slacks before a teasing smile tugged on his lips.

   “Spoon-feed you if I have to. Airplane and all.” His words were laced with a mischievous edge, watching as she squinted for a second, before finally breaking into that laugh she tried her best to stifle.

The contagious sound made her trophy husband mirror, his eyes creasing as his chuckles followed.

His anxieties faded almost instantly at the sound. At the sight of her.

   “Give me ten minutes. I’ll bring you something to eat.” 

Y/N opened her mouth to protest. Maybe to refuse or maybe to lie about not being hungry. But Hyunjin doesn’t allow her to, pointing a finger at her with a commanding tone.

   “Ten minutes. Sit tight.” He shot, already heading out the door.

Ten minutes. She pressed her lips into a soft smile, staring at the empty spot her husband had been standing in.

True to his words, ten minutes later the gallery director’s husband returned. Nodding at her secretary who sat outside her office, his grin radiated almost as he carried whatever nutritious breakfast he could scour for his wife, though it was long past breakfast time. 

But when he entered the room, he was greeted by silence.

He had expected to hear more rushed typing, the sound of her fingers working against the keyboard was a sound so familiar to him, he was slightly stunned by the quiet.

His gaze shifted to settle on the gallery director. The sight of her slumped figure, passed out on her arms over the desk, both fascinated and awed him all at once. 

She lasted ten minutes, barely. Unable to keep her eyes open. He was slightly impressed when he had entered earlier, it was clear she was exhausted, yet would have pushed herself further if he hadn’t distracted her.

Hyunjin sighed, gently placing down the bag of takeout on the coffee table before walking towards her. His eyes skimmed over her desk, at the cluttered surface that resembled her make-shift workstation that was their living room table.

He picked up the crumpled balls of paper, pushing it aside before he pulled out the chair on his side softly, taking a seat across. He leaned against the leather, getting comfortable as he simply gazed down at the exhausted woman who would have sworn she wasn’t sleepy, wasn’t exhausted if asked. But here she was now, softly inhaling and exhaling.

His eyes drifted to her laptop, the screen still glowing brightly, clear that she had fallen asleep not too long ago. 

Gently, Hyunjin reached out, fingers pushing back a stray lock of her hair, a fond smile tugging on his lips as he watched her breathe softly. His gaze shifted to the notepad beside her, amidst the crumpled papers and stacked sheets of ink. 

The open notepad was covered with a jumble of words, arrows, and little annotations in her meticulous handwriting. Despite the confusion of the notes, a few familiar words caught his attention, prompting him to slide the laptop in front of himself. With a nod to himself, he leaned forward and began typing. His eyes flit over the screen once to linger on her form.

   “The things I do for you.” He muttered under his breath, patting her hair softly before diving into the task at hand.

The sound of the press of keys had been a distant sound, yet as she stirred away, it had grown louder.

The gallery director’s lids fluttered open, staring at a sight that should have been strange, yet it didn’t feel so. Maybe she was still dazed from her impromptu nap, refreshed eyes still adjusting as she took in the sight of her husband absorbed between the laptop screen and her notepad, his fingers meticulously working against the keyboard.

It should have been a strange sight. Seeing Hwang Hyunjin working. On something that he claimed not to know about, claimed not to care about. But it wasn’t strange at all.

Instead, her heart clenched, the shielded, guarded organ of hers, suddenly racing in her chest. And all she wanted to do now was reach over and kiss him. 

A incoming notification on her laptop broke the comfortable silence that had settled in her office. An email from her secretary sitting outside, the notification of the email draft Y/N had requested popped up on the screen. It instantly drew Hyunjin’s attention, his eyes scanning the subject-line almost instinctively.

   “Artist Armin…” He muttered, reading to himself.

Y/N’s brows narrowed, a wave of bitterness spreading over her tongue as she slowly sat up. Movements that have Hyunjin look up to her. His gaze softening at the sight of her awoken state.

   “Is it written ‘A-R-Min’ or ‘R-Dot-Min.” She asked, her tone slightly groggy. 

Hyunjin glanced back at the screen, at the notification that lingered on the corner.

   “A-R-Min.” He replied, looking at her with slight wonder.

Y/N inhaled deeply, before letting out a slight groan.

   “It’s supposed to be R-Dot-Min.” She grunted almost, reaching over for the laptop so she could send the corrections to her secretary.

   “I’ll do it. You eat.” Hyujin pressed instead, pulling the device closer to him. 

An action that made her arch and eyebrow.

   “Really? You want to be my personal secretary now?” A smile had spread on her lips.

Hyunjin shrugged, his smug smile returning on his face.

   “What does the compensation package look like?” He chuckled, already ready to type the email to her secretary.

Y/N stood, stretching before she headed towards the bag of food, slightly hungrier than she was before her nap.

   “Anything you want.” Her words are more casual, distracted fingers pulling out her breakfast and lunch.

Her words make Hyunjin pause, fingers hovering over the keys.

For a moment, he wondered if asking for a kiss right now, maybe even daringly asking if he could lift her onto her desk, would be enough compensation. But he caught himself almost instantly, clearing his throat before grabbing the laptop to join her by the couch.

   “R-Dot-Min, right?” He confirmed once again.

Y/N’s hands stilled against the container of food, tasting bitterness all over again.

   “Yes.” She almost spat.

Her gaze drifted off, her thoughts suddenly elsewhere as she ate.

Hyunjin watched her movements, the way her fork disappeared into her mouth, the way her lips wrapped around the bottle of water. It made his own throat dry, his thoughts swirling, and he had to bite back the urge to say something. He didn’t want to sound like some pervert who couldn’t think of anything beyond wanting her all to himself, but suddenly, he couldn’t help it. Those thoughts lingered, darting through his thoughts.

He dropped his gaze, staring at the shiny surface of the glass table between them. He had to remind himself to control himself. To stop thinking like some fuckboy after her body. The trophy husband gnawed at his lower lip, trying to steady himself, his mind.

The gallery director watched as she dropped the empty container of her now-devoured food, wiping her lips. Her eyes lingered on Hyunjin, sitting across from her, his teeth tugging at his bottom lip, before he glanced back at her.

   “Who’s R.Min anyways?” Hyunjin cleared his throat, sending the email corrections to her secretary.

Y/N fell silent at the mention of the artist, the one Madam Kim wanted to collaborate with simply because her grandson had liked his work. 

What do lawyers know about art, anyway? 

She had groaned to herself during the meeting, though outwardly she had smiled, offering her radiant social grin and empty compliments, promising to follow through and try her best for a collaboration.

   “He’s a painter.” She answered curtly, rising to her feet.

Silence settled between them once more as Hyunjin set the laptop aside. The sound of another email pinged, cutting through the quiet, and both of them glanced at the screen.

   “Your secretary sent the email to R.Min.” He read aloud, eyes drifting over her.

A flicker of irritation drew over her expression, arms crossing as she muttered something under her breath. Likely a curse, though Hyunjin couldn’t quite catch it.

   “Enough about that artist—Do you remember what you did last night?” Her voice was sharp.

Her blunt question made him stiffen, his eyes widening slightly as he watched her from his seated position, suddenly wanting to melt into the leather. He swallowed a few times, unsure of what kind of answer would ease the irritation still lingering on her face. The scowl shot towards him, ones he thought he would have gotten rid of after he had pleasured her last night.

   “I do…” He finally sighed, his gleaming gaze flickering from his fingers to her face.

   “Why are you nervous? Do you regret it?” She asked.

Another question that made his eyes widen, this time more from the fear of her misunderstanding than anything else. 

   “No!” He almost exclaimed, licking his lips to calm himself down.

She blinked, slightly taken aback by his loud response. The pressing expression, the piercing gaze that he stared up at her with.

Her eyes traced over his rigid form that looked up at her. 

Nervous. Passionate perhaps. 

Kissable.

The gallery director only needed two long strides.

Three steps and she was towering over him, her figure already leaning into him. Hyunjin reflexively drew himself back as she inched closer, until he was pressing flush against the leather of the sofa, trapped almost. He inhaled sharply, stunned eyes darting between hers to grasp exactly what was happening, why she was suddenly so close.

Could she hear his heart about to explode in his chest?

Y/N can’t help but stare in fascination. This up-close view of her pretty husband was even more breathtaking than last night, his open eyes boring into hers. She could see the nervous twinge in his gaze, something she hadn’t truly expected from the ever-so-cocky Hwang Hyunjin. Yet, seeing it now, she couldn’t help but smile at how cute he looked beneath her.

Her fingers ghost over his lips. The ones she had gotten a feel of after stealing a kiss in his sleep. Although she would never, ever admit she had done so. He shuddered almost, even without her touching him yet.

   “I-is this a dream?” He found himself muttering instead.

Her brow arched at his words.

   “You dream of me?” She countered, her tone laced with a teasing edge, a hint of amusement.

Hyunjin swallowed hard.

   “No.”

He was trying his best. To cling onto that fragile thread of sanity left in him. To not appear desperate, craving her touch, her lips. Ready to melt underneath her.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, her gaze dropping to his lips for a split second before locking with his eyes again. Clearly unconvinced.

   “I don’t kiss liars.” She murmured smugly.

Hyunjin swallowed hard. The thread snapped.

His hands shot out, slipping behind her hair to rest again the nape of her neck, tugging her toward him. 

His lips crash against hers. Desperate, frantic. 

All control shattered, his sanity slipping away as he pulled her closer. 

Closer. 

Into himself, wrapping his arms around her, settling her over him, onto his lap.

Melting underneath her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ to be continued.

── ask to be tagged! (18+) - @jellyleggz, @binniesbabe, @bookswillfindyouaway, @lemonn015, @scarlet789, @onlyhyunjin, @freekyfangirl, @candyquokka, @jehhskz, @stayjinnie, @suzyhhj , @minh0scat, @qwonyoung23, @d34thon2legs, @dessianna1, @kpopjackie, @rundontwalkshesaid, @sheerfreesia007, @thecutiepieme, @danihwang882, @hyunebunx, @seeeeking-skz, @hanadulsetaad, @velvetmoonlght, @alrm02, @tirena1, @hityoulikebahng, @tsunderelino, @cybergracie, @notevenheretbh1, @piscesrising01, @alisonyus, @hyuneyeon, @broken-glowsticks, @modesttiger, @gnabnahcbby, @shhyucm, @hanniesdegree, @lenfilms, @sushiinmidnight, @chrisbangsass, @fixation-dump, @minluvly, @loxgirl2004, @aeri-skzver, @ellemir2404, @mariahxrrera, @t1eekn0wsaurus, @aprilmaejune77, @amenabiii [CLOSED]

[azen13]

CW: Yandere Themes, Implied Murder, Captivity, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Undressing, Bathing Together

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

You've learned to count how long Moze takes to wash his hands when he returns home.

A minute, and everything is fine. At least as fine as things can be, considering the bizarre circumstances you're living in. Sometimes you pinch yourself at random, believing you must be living in some everlasting nightmare—the man you met only in brief, fleeting moments over the course of months kidnapped you.

It could be worse, you think to yourself as you begin ticking off the seconds. One, two, three, four, five...

When Moze took more than one minute to wash his hands, you began to let your mind sail off into seas of uncertainty. Perhaps he was sent on a mission to dispatch some Disciples of Sanctus Medicus or clear out the remaining Borisin.

Maybe he killed a friend or relative.

When thoughts like those come, you try to clear them from your head like grime from your hand, but the ideas are like blood from a deep, chronic wound. No matter how much you washed and scrubbed, trying to clear your thoughts, you couldn't escape the constant trickling anxiety.

...thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one...

Giving up on quelling your dread, you slide off the bedside you're sitting on and walk over to a small shelf on the opposite side of the room. A row of random books lie on the wooden shelf, ranging from traditional Xianzhou poetry to encyclopedias of espionage. When you had woken up in the bedroom, there had been nothing. It wasn't until a few weeks into your confinement that Moze brought a stack of books home, silently depositing them on a small table in the kitchen.

It would have been a kind gesture, if you hadn't been blubbering the previous day about how terrified you were, and how you felt you were going crazy with nothing to do. So fearful that you were talking to nobody. Or so you thought.

...eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine...

The sound of flowing water suddenly ceases. In a moment, Moze has entered the room, not even making the hardwood floors creak as he steps. "I've brought you dinner. Beef noodle soup." Moze's eyes scan you from head to toe with a surgical precision, one that makes you want to shrink away from him. "Wash your hands, and then we can eat."

You nod, and tentatively step towards the door. Moze makes no movements as you walk past, letting your fingertips accidentally graze against his. He smells of nothing, save for the faint, metallic tang of blood.

As you wash your hands, you can see Moze standing behind you in the bathroom mirror, supervising you as you scrub your already-clean skin with a slow, methodical precision. You've learned to spend at least thirty seconds washing your hands, moving over every finger and knuckle with extreme focus. If you didn't, Moze would walk over, chest pressed against your back, and take your hands in his and wash them for you.

Even when you washed your hands as perfect as could be, sometimes the man still insisted on "helping" you.

Dinner is a silent affair. You pick away at your food, ignoring how Moze's eyes are piercing into your skull. Sometimes, you can't help but wonder what pushed him to do all of this. For a man who you've come to regard as extremely efficient and forward, his decision to take you prisoner is quite contrary to his personality. Not only that, but he refuses to tell you why he's done it. You've tried to decipher any sort of plausible answer to that question, to the point where you've wondered if you accidentally committed some sort of unforgivable crime, and this—the everlasting dread—is your punishment.

After dinner comes bath time. When he had first corralled you to the bathroom and began to run the water, you thought you were finally being put out of your misery. Granted, the thought of death by drowning made you start to tear up with fear, but at least you knew what was happening. Or, at least you thought you knew. Instead, after filling up the tub with water, Moze's hands went to the hem of your shirt. With a single, fluid motion, the assassin lifted the shirt over your head. Despite how you shrieked, Moze simply folded the shirt into a neat square and placed it on a counter.

Tonight follows a similar pattern, though you don't shriek, and your body trembles less as Moze's hands slowly strip you of protection. He gives you a small mercy in how his eyes remain staring into yours, but it doesn't suppress how vulnerable you feel as he lowers you into the warm water.

His hands, calloused with scars, reverently scrub at your skin with a luxurious bodywash, scented a sweet and floral jasmine. Your favorite. Moze says nothing as he continues to wash you. You'd come to understand that he didn't speak to you often unless you spoke to him first.

Part of you wishes he would speak more. Your life feels like it's shrouded in a thick mist, and maybe if Moze would speak a little more, you would have more answers to your questions. But the thought of speaking up makes you nauseous with anxiety. So, you continue to let Moze bathe you in silence.

After deeming you satisfactorily clean, Moze lifts you out of the tub and hands you a fluffy towel. He takes another towel for himself and gets dressed in simple, comfortable sleepwear. Then, he helps you get dressed and leads you through your nighttime hygiene routine. After finishing up getting ready for bed, Moze takes your hand and walks you back to your shared bedroom. Turning the lights off, he settles close to your side. Even with your eyes closed, you can feel his gaze pressing against your head like a sharp blade against tender skin.

After what feels like hours, you feel something soft press against the crown of your head. "Goodnight, my dear." The words are whispered, yet they drown out any thoughts floating in your mind. Quickly, you piece together that the sensation you felt was a kiss.

Moze kissed you.

You spend the rest of the night awake, trying to understand why.

[littlerequiem]

we mourned the sea ˚⁎⁺ chapter 3

> Crossposted on AO3

Levi hasn't seen you in a year, and he wonders how you will find him. Changed, perhaps. Lost, definitely. Or: After the war, you and Levi learn to live in this new world.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+). Post-Canon, Post-War, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Grumpy/Sunshine, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Chronic Pain, Panic Attack, Depression, Ambulatory Wheelchair Use, Irregular eating habits mentioned specifically in this chapter (WC: 5.5k)

( Previous chapter / Next chapter / WMTS' Masterlist )

-

You spot him alone in the library. Months have passed and winter has made its presence known.

Levi is staring at the fire. When his eyes lock with yours, you think they lack their usual cutting edge. Instead, he just looks tired.

“You gonna gawk much longer?” he asks. 

“Well…” Your grip on your book tightens; you stay rooted to your spot. “You don’t mind if I intrude?”

“This is a public space, isn’t it?”

It is, but it doesn’t mean you won’t ask.

Levi doesn’t leave when you sit on the sofa opposite him. The two of you stay like this, letting the crackling fire be your guiding light into the night.

.

.

.

It isn’t that Levi always preferred being alone, it’s just that it’s had a way of finding him.

Growing up, Levi remembers seeking affection—craving it, in fact—like a moth seeks a flame. Levi worshiped the ground his mother walked on, loved to listen to her speak, imitated her, anything to hear a “Well done, my Levi”. He imagines it made him a needy brat, that he was probably a burden to his mother.

When she died, he thinks that's when it happened. When he began to close in on himself, when he started to keep his emotions close to his heart.

"My boy, what wonderful craftsmanship!" Mr Jakowski's joyful voice assault's Levi's ears, plugging him out of his wandering thoughts.

Levi looks up at his boss, ignoring the smell of fresh paint.

Mr Jakowski is leaning over Levi’s shoulder, spectacles shining under the dim amber light. A large grin creeps on his rosy face, a contrast to the blue paint smeared on his white shirt. "What are ya making, hm? Is that something—"

"—personal," Levi cuts him off, shifting in his seat to conceal his work.

His boss lets out a loud bark. He pulls back from Levi. “Hah, mysterious as always, our Levi!”

Levi has been working at Mare Lumber Co. for a little more than a year now. His boss, Adam Jakowski, originally an Eldian from Liberio, is the sole carpenter in town. Levi likes working here. Most days, Levi tends to the till, manages the inventory, and assists Mr Jakowski with customer orders. It's routine work, really, but it feels good to be working with his hands, with his mind. 

“And how are you doing?” Mr Jakowski asks, propping his back against the edge of the counter, a habit of his whenever he chats idly with Levi. 

“I'm fine.”

"Are ya sure? You seem a little distracted, dear boy."

Mr Jakowski got in the habit of calling Levi ‘dear boy’ shortly after he took the job. At first, Levi told him off—sure, Mr Jakowski was older than Levi, but Levi was nearing his forties at this point. Levi was not a boy—never had been, perhaps.

And yet, he soon noticed something strange: every time he corrected the man, Mr Jakowski would correct himself, a distant glaze in his stare… only to make the same mistake the next day.

One day, his wife took Levi aside.

“You musn’t be cross with him, Levi,” Mrs Jakowski had said with a gentle voice. “My Adam and I… we lost our son ten years ago. Marleyans butchered him. And ‘dear boy’… that was Adam’s nickname for our son. Sometimes, I think… I think in his heart, my husband never quite got over it.”

After that, Levi never corrected Mr Jakowski again.

“Levi, are you listening to me?" Mr Jakowski laughs. "You’ve got that glaze in your eyes of a dreamer, the way my daughter be sometimes. Never seen it on ya before.”

Levi scowls. “I think you need to clean your glasses, old man.”

“Is it that missy staying at your house that’s got you looking so—”

“No.”

“Sure about that?”

At that, Levi stays silent. Of course, he’s sure. He'll be damned if he lets trifling innuendos get under his skin.

And yet, Mr Jakowski's eyes glint knowingly all the same, as if catching wind of something Levi isn't aware of. It almost makes Levi want to speak up (though, to say what?), but before he has the opportunity to say a thing, the man leaves him be. Levi listens to his receding footsteps and the tinkering noises soon coming from the workshop area of the store.

Levi reverts his attention onto the wooden figurine in his hands, casting it an altogether unimpressed look.

What he’s making… it’s stupid, isn’t it?

For the last week and a half, Levi has been using his lunch breaks to work on it. Right now, this wooden creation is simply a great blob of nothing. And yet, Levi can’t stop from continuing it. It started with your arrival, this idea, when something spurred deep in him to create and he doesn't know if it will lead to anything.

Perhaps he's wasting his time, perhaps—

The bells on the door chimes. Levi's eyes swerve up.

And he promptly places the figure on his lap, concealed right under the counter.

Because you've just entered the shop, greeting him with a pleasant smile. “Afternoon, Levi!” The door closes, light pooling around you, dewy and delicate. "Are you on your lunch break?"

Levi lifts a brow but gives you a slow nod. 

"Oh, good, I was scared I got your lunch time mixed up..." You lift a basket that was hidden behind your back, showing it off like it was some prized thing. “Ta-da!”

Levi just stares, not understanding what he's supposed to be seeing. 

“I brought lunch.” 

Oh, that's a first. You've never come all the way into town to visit his place of work, let alone have lunch with him. Is this because he accidentally let it slip that he sometimes skips lunch on his work days? You seemed particularly affronted last night; you'd washed the dishes grumbling something beneath your breath... 

“Miss Adler, is that you?” As if on cue, Mr Jakowski appears to Levi's left side, safety glasses still lodged on his head. He lets out a full-belly laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "I thought I recognized your melodic voice. It's good to see ya! I’ve been telling Levi to bring you around for some time now, but he's kept you all for himself."

"Has he, now?" you muse. "That's not very polite of you, is it, Levi?"

Levi keeps his expression blank.  

Mr Jakowski steps around the counter. "Is that lunch I see? You know, Levi rarely eats much in here."

“I know, that’s why I’ve come. I'm on a mission to change that, sir. I've brought lunch and even my secret trump card… cake!”

“You sure know the way to a man's heart, Miss Adler!” You pinch your lips, seemingly flustered, but Mr Jakowski is already shifting his attention to Levi, something almost devious splitting in his boss' expression. Levi's gaze narrows instantly, suspicious of whatever is to come next. “Now, you heard the lady, dear boy. You wouldn't want to reject the hospitality of such a kind woman, would ya?"

Levi considers Mr Jakowski. His offer sounds tempting enough, but Levi's already shirked his duties by working on his project. His lunch time is practically over...

His boss seems to read his mind. "Take an extra hour." Mr Jakowski walks over, squeezing Levi's shoulder—not painfully, but not lacking zest. The man leans closer, the smell of paint weaving into Levi's space once more. "Shop's quiet today, anyway—I'll handle it. And don't forget to hide that little secret of yours. Wouldn't want her to see your gift before it's finished, hm?"

Levi's eyes flicker from Mr Jakowski, then onto you. His shoulders rise... then fall again. He gives in with a sigh. You came all this way, after all, and Levi was never one to waste food.

“Fine,” Levi mutters, eying Mr Jakowski, “I'll be back in an hour, on the dot.”

.

.

.

“What are you reading?” you ask him one night. The two of you are at it again—sitting on different armchairs, reading in front of the fireplace. It's been a routine of yours these last evenings. 

“History books.”

You raise a questioning brow—that wasn't what you expected Levi to be interested in. 

Levi seems to pick up on your question before you even voice it.  “I want to understand why you upsiders do it.” 

Upsiders, the term coined by those living in the Underground for those living above.

You tilt your head. “Why we do what?”

“What you live for.”

.

.

.

Levi feels like he’s about to outright melt.

The park at this time of the day seems to gather heat like a damn magnet. Sitting on a picnic blanket under a large willow tree isn’t enough to stop sweat from coating his neck—summer is in full swing, and even the yellowing grass blades around them seem to feel its effects.

Over the last minutes, you’ve been telling him all about your morning: how you worked in the garden, how you cleaned up around the house.

“… then I went back into town to buy lunch," you explain, one hand outstretched as you caress the grass blades with the tip of your fingers. You seem content, relaxed. "I'm very excited to hear your thoughts on the cake, 'Vi. It’s a specialty from the Southern part of Marley, apparently.”

Levi squints, the eyelid on his bad eye trembling from the glare cast by the sun. Laid out between the two of you is something that’s just short of a small feast. Sandwiches, sliced fruits, fresh lemonade, and a takeaway box that contains what Levi can only guess is this infamous cake you're so excited to make him try. 

Vegetables, cheese, sugar. Levi still isn’t used to having these ingredients in such abundance. Maybe he never will be. 

But he certainly won't let any of it go to waste. 

"Hey, didn't I tell you to take it easy?" Levi mutters, picking up a cheese sandwich. "You didn't need to waste your free time doing all of this.”

"Come on, after my big freakout from last week, it's the least I could do."

"I told you, it was nothing—“

“But it wasn’t to me. I wanted to do this,” you cut in, weighing each word like it held its value in gold. Levi notices you reeling your hands into fists... only to be ushered out of existence as you shrug off the uncertainty. “Besides,” a bright smile brackets over your face, "all of this is keeping me busy. If I don’t do this, well… I've found that I just want to sleep all the time. At least, like this, I’m too occupied with thinking too much. Know what I mean?”

Levi thinks he does. It's why he always enjoyed cleaning so much, to some extent; it kept the edge off of things. He isn’t sure what that says about either you or him.

"I'm glad I could see where you work," you continue. "The shop has a certain aura to it, doesn't it?"

"It's the smell of saw dust and paint. You get used to it."

"I meant there's warmth to the interior." You snort, rolling a particular grass strand between your index, tugging at it without ripping it out. "But I like the smell, too, now that you mention it. I've only dabbled in oil paintings here and there, but it reminds me of that. I imagine adding color to something—anything, really—for a living must be rewarding. You get to style furniture according to someone's wishes, make sure it's dear and personal to them. That's pretty amazing, right?"

Levi almost smiles. Count on you to spin what some might consider mundane work and describe it as something magical. You've always had a knack for doing that, even in times of adversity. 

"And that boss of yours sure seems eccentric," you muse as you lean back, "bet he makes every day feel extra special.”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

Your eyes drift up to the sparse clouds. “Special’s… good. Special’s fun.”

Levi's lips twitch. Yes, he supposes that's true. Many things can be said about Mr Jakowski, but boring is not one of them.

"You and him are similar in that way," he murmurs beneath his breath. 

(You make every single of his day feel special, too.) 

A gentle breeze picks up the front section of your hair; it makes the smile on your face more noticeable, somehow more in the spotlight. For a moment, a delicate silence settles in, one filled with the sound of tree branches swaying above, its shadows moving across your face. Levi catches himself staring at you—again. Before he knows it, he's watching as you draw your attention on the food options laid on the picnic blanket. Your eyes stop onto a particular plate. 

Without even thinking about it, Levi raises the plate towards you.

You grin, grabbing a slice of spinach pie. "Thanks." As Levi retreats his hand back, placing the plate back on the picnic blanket, he notices you pausing. His eyes meet yours; your eyebrows knit together. "Hey, what's that on your hand?"   

Levi feels the heat of your attention as he glances down at his palm. Ah, that. The bandage. Levi forgot all about it. Earlier, while working on his personal woodwork project, Levi accidentally cut himself. The cut is superficial in nature, and the blood that leaked out of it felt excessive. Like his body was being dramatic for no good damn reason.

Unsurprisingly, your reaction blows out of proportion, too. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself?" 

"S'fine." Levi now holds his sandwich with both hands, trying to shield his bandaged hand so you don't reach for it (somehow, he thinks you will). He's not sure how to handle your care right now, so he turns away from you, pretending to be interested in seagulls foraging nearby. "I patched it up."

“Still, you should disinfect it when we’re home…”

(Levi still isn’t used to that term of possession. We. Like it's his home, as much as much it's yours. Something shared.)

"I can make an ointment that'll speed up the healing process, perhaps, so you're not encumbered for very long,” you continue. Levi glances back at you. You're holding your chin thoughtfully. “I’ll need to go buy some tea tree oil for that. Maybe I should also stock up on ethanol and other essentials while I’m at it...”

The sight of you all pouty causes Levi to scoff. “Thought you weren’t a doctor no more?”

He takes the last bite of his cheese sandwich. 

“For you, Levi, always.”

Levi chokes. He begins to cough, the half-eaten bread hammering at his chest. 

Your hand is on his back just as soon as his coughing fit starts. "You okay?"

Levi nods with a blank expression, swatting your touch away. He stares at you from the corner of his eyes, disbelief lodged behind his gaze. Shit. Why do you have to say stuff like that? It's like you're trying to make his heart explode or some shit. 

“Cutting yourself at work and almost choking to death.” You whistle lowly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re losing your touch, Ackerman.”

“I choked because of you, Adler.”

“Because of me?” You blow air with your lips. “Why, what did I do?”

“You—“ Levi feels himself growing hot—too hot. Blast this damn heat. “Forget it.”

You lean back, looking at him curiously. “Is this the fate that awaits me in a few years when I reach your age? Choking and half-finished sentences?”

Levi’s eyes narrow. “Well, aren't you full of jokes today?”

“Thanks. I’m trying real hard, in case you couldn’t tell.” You bite back a full-teeth grin; Levi hates how adorable you look, even when you're teasing him—especially when you're teasing him. “Maybe that’s what I should pursue next, huh? Comedian… that'd be quite the career change.”

Levi shakes his head. “I’ll have to support you financially for the rest of your days.” 

A burst of laughter rolls out of you. It makes Levi feel queasier still.

“Hey," you say once your laughter has dimmed down. Your gaze holds his, bright and true. "What were you working on anyway, that you ended up cutting yourself?”

“Nothing.” Levi doesn’t supply you with more information, the memory of the unfinished figure flashing in his mind. It's trivial, the sort of work he's been doing, especially compared to what Mr Jakowski builds. “Just keeping busy.”

Because Levi’s life is just that now. He has to keep himself busy, to fill it with things so he doesn’t stop moving.

“Hey, Levi?” Levi looks back at you, and you shoot him a lopsided smile. “Do you ever think your past self would believe you’re out here now, carving wood for a living?”

Levi considers your question. He’s not the sort of person to wonder about these questions, but he’s not surprised that you still are. 

The answer is simple. No, his past self wouldn’t believe it. His past self wouldn’t believe most of it.  

He tells you as much, aching to change the subject. “What about you? Picked up a pencil yet?”

“Hm… not yet. Haven’t been feeling it, to be honest." There's something a little sad hanging on your face for the shortest moment, only to be replaced by wide eyes and parted lips. “But, oh, I promise, that doesn't mean I don't like your gift or anything. The supplies you bought—I'll make sure they don't go to waste! I just—”

"Hey, breathe," Levi interrupts, his eyes charged on you. "It's fine if you don't. There's no pressure.”

Your shoulders deflate. You give him a tired smile. “Thanks.”

In the distance, a school bell rings. Children begin to pour out of the building, like a flock of birds leaving the nest, knowing it is there to come back to.

“Anyway,” you say, reaching for the sealed container. “Enough of that. It's time for my favorite part of any meal: sweets. I’m eager to know your thoughts on this lemon tart.”

(The answer? Levi will discover he has a taste for lemon desserts.)

After that day, it becomes a routine of sorts. You show up some days to have lunch with Levi. On the grass under the willow in Mare, you and Levi watch the sea drift from afar, cake laid out between the two of you.

.

.

.

“Oi, what’s this?”

You look up from your notes on your desk. Levi has barged into your office, holding the silver tin you asked to be delivered to him. 

"That's Valerian root,” you answer.

”Valerian root,” he repeats, eying you suspiciously. “Why?”

"Um... think of it as a gift, I guess?"

"Why? We’re not friends."

A grimace flashes on your face—ouch. So, Levi doesn't see you as a friend, even if you're starting to consider him as such, anyway.

"Well., I noticed you seem to have insomniac tendencies, so I...” You clear your throat, swatting a dismissive hand in the air. “If it makes it easier to accept it, think of it as a medical order."

"A medical order." Levi scrunches his nose, pinching his lips together. "And what does Valerian root do, anyway? "

"Valerian root is tea. Or well, not tea. It's an infusion. But you can brew it the same way and it helps... it helps to fall asleep."

.

.

.

When Levi comes home that night after work, the sun is setting low over the sea, a red dot over the horizon. There's a gentle breeze in the air, one that carries with it the smell of salt and sand from the beach just below the valley. 

As soon as Levi is home, he slips into his usual patterns. He takes his shoes off, swapping them for the soft slippers Gabi and Falco once gifted him. He grabs his indoor cane by the entrance, just where he left it. Then, like a rite of passage, he makes his way to the common room, expecting to find you. 

You're not there. Instead, the quaint room that serves as a kitchen, living room, and dining room is empty, a distinct smell of herbs in the air.

Levi recognizes the scent almost immediately; it's the same fragrance that hung around the Survey Corps infirmary on any given day. Frankly speaking, Levi equates the smell with, well, you. It's been years since he smelled it.  

Peppermint, chamomile, tea tree oil... there was always a particular mixture of herbs you favored to treat ailments. Funding within the Survey Corps was sparse, after all, all the more within the medical wing, so to remedy this, you had to get creative: you bought cheap herbs in bulk and created balms with what the Survey Corps could afford. The same herbs Levi now smells in the air.

And Levi suddenly gets a sense of...

Home. 

It's corny, really, that all of a sudden, he feels more at home than the home he's inhabited in the year of living alone. But maybe that's the thing about getting older; there's just smells that remind of the past, things that feel impossible not to acknowledge.

In a way, Levi is grateful that those scents are what he associates with your infirmary, with your hands. Later, when his leg was wounded, and he became accustomed to the stomach-flipping stench of strong antiseptic solutions prevalent in Marleyan hospital tents, the memory of you—of his fucked-up sense of home—remained untainted.

"Oh, fuck!"

A crash assaults Levi's ears. He turns, only to find you half-bent down, picking up a pile of books from the ground. You straighten back up, looking flustered at the sight of him.

"L-Levi,” you huff, “y-you scared the living out of me!"

Levi's brows draw low, shooting you an unimpressed look in return. "Then you should pay better attention." You're holding onto a bunch of books that pertain to gardening. 'Flower symbolism' reads one cover.  "If these were the streets, you'd be a dead woman by now."

His words cause you to roll your eyes at him, although a playful tug of a smile graces your lips not a second later. "This isn't the streets, 'Vi. There's no one out there to hurt me, least of all within the confines of this house."

Levi knows you make a point, but his nature has always been to be suspicious of everything, and that much hasn't changed here. He wishes you'd be a little more careful, at least for his sake.

"Anyway, welcome back... how was the rest of your day?" You dart past him, placing your pile of books on the kitchen table.

Levi notices you've changed since he last saw you; you're now wearing a long skirt that reaches below your knees. Levi has never seen you wear anything like this. He wonders if you got it at the market in Mare, or if this is something you bought on your travels.

"Levi?"

Levi swerves his attention back to you.

Right, your question.

"Same as always." The rest of his day was, in fact, just as Mr Jakowski had predicted. Quiet. "What's all of this, then? You starting a bookclub or something?"

"Not quite. I spent my afternoon at the public library. Have you been?" Levi shakes his head. "Walls, Levi, it's even bigger than the one we had back hom–I mean, back on Paradis." You pick up a random book, flip through it and show him a page that's all about flower propagation. "I'm gonna make sure your garden's perfect."

Levi’s brows scrunch low. Truth be told, he doesn't see the big deal with flowers. Aren’t there more practical things to grow, like vegetables? Flowers seem to take up place and suffer the risk of easy destruction.

But maybe it's simply not for him to understand. 

"Hey Levi, are you listening to me?"

"Yeah.”

"What was I talking about?"

Levi glances at you. There's a spark of defiance flashes in your stare. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, face impassive. "Something something... gardening."

You chuckle, placing the book back on the table. "Actually, I was asking you if I could get your opinion on where to plant what tomorrow. You've got the next two days off, right? Can I spare a moment of your time?"

Levi doesn't work Saturdays and Sundays. The weekend, as Marleyans call it, is for rest.

"Yeah, I'll help." 

"Great!"

With that decision out of the way, Levi leaves you to it. He stops in his bedroom to grab a clean change of clothes and then heads to the bathroom to start his rigorous pre-dinner routine (Levi's found that he will not, cannot, rest before he completes it). 

It all starts with a shower, where Levi rubs at his skin until it is raw and pink, massages his scalp and hair until it's lathered and soapy, the scent of his lemon-scented soap rampant. Once Levi is pleased that every part of him is clean, he rinses himself with hot water, the act oddly meditative as he feels every muscle, every bone in his body come undone, one limb after another.

As soon as he's done and toweled dry, it's shaving time. 

Tonight, as Levi lays out his shaving kit by the sink, he can't help but pause at the sight of his reflection.

Levi stares at himself. 

Over the last three years, time has caught up to him, in more ways than one. His hair has gotten longer, yes, but it's the strands of silver now framing his face that Levi lingers on. Then, there are wrinkles on the sides of his eyes, on his forehead, on his smile lines that are new. He's even accrued a collection of freckles on the ridge of his nose; somehow, he thinks the warmer weather in Marley is responsible for that. 

In some strange ways, with every new year Levi ages, he thinks he looks more and more like Kenny, minus the facial hair. That son-of-a-bitch got his way with him after all, it seems, and despite this, Levi suspects Kenny would still call him a runt if he were here standing next to him right now.

"Still can't grow facial hair, huh, kid?" Kenny would say. "And you're still just as short."  

Yeah, that sounds like Kenny alright. 

"Hey, 'Vi?” A shy knock makes Levi turn his head towards the door. “I forgot to give you the balm I made for your cut. Do you want it now?"

"Gimme a moment," he mumbles. "... I'll be right there."

Levi finishes his routine. He shaves his face and massages his leg. He changes into indoor clothes. 

By the time Levi’s done, he finds you sitting on the sofa, flipping through one of your books while stroking Scout. It seems you've already started the preparations for dinner; there's simmering onion soup that's replaced the previous smell of herbs over the stove.

This time, upon hearing him approach, both you and Scout look up, almost synchronically. It makes Levi's heart a little warm—why does it feel so strange to have an audience waiting for him? 

Before Levi can contemplate on this very question, you've swung to your feet. "Here, sit down; I’ll get the balm."

Levi does as he's told, taking a seat on the free spot—on the other side of the sofa, next to Scout. His peripheral catches you first washing your hands over the kitchen sink, then retrieving something from the ice-box. 

Scout's purr pulls him back to the sofa. The kitten has made her presence known, demanding attention from Levi, and Levi obliges her. He scratches her under her chin like he always does, using his unwounded hand to do so.

Soon, the cat's purr vibrates against his fingertips. 

"She misses you, you know." Levi glances over your shoulders. You're standing on his other side, bending down. "May I?" you ask, looking at his palm laid flat on the arms of the sofa.

Levi nods.

Carefully, you take his hand into your own, flipping it to remove the bandage and analyze the cut. The wound runs across the tender flesh of his palm, ending with his index. It's not a deep cut by any stretch of the imagination, but it is on his five-fingered hand. Just his luck. 

“Did you know that Scout sometimes goes into your bedroom, meowing into the void?" you say in passing, eyes focused on his wound. "It's like she's looking for your ghost or something.”

"That cat needs to get used to me being absent." 

"She's just attached to you. Can you blame her?"

Levi's throat goes thick. No, he supposes he can't blame Scout, not when he's felt that same emptiness himself before, knows how damaging it can be.

"Anyway, I hope she grows used to me being here, too. For now, she still refuses to enter my room when it's just the two of us, but I think we may bridge that gap soon." Your voice turns into a coarse whisper, leaning closer to Levi like Scout might somehow overhear—and understand you. "I may or may not have bribed her with some leftover tuna."

"You mean you’re spoiling her."

"Hey, all's fair in love and war." You lean back. A knowing smile tugs at your lip, delicate like the first bloom of spring. "Besides, there are worse things for a cat to be."

After that, you focus on tending to Levi's wound—disinfecting it, adding balm, wrapping a clean bandage by the careful press of your hands. It brings Levi back to the old days, when he'd watch you either tend to him or his comrades. There was always this intensity, this non-bullshit attitude, that would always wash over you. It made Levi aware just how seriously you took your job, how dedicated you were to your craft. It was one of the first things that made him respect you.

Now, as Levi watches you at it again, there is something else, too. Something that speaks volumes of just how touch-starved he's become. He tries to ignore the warmth that blooms under your touch, tries not to think about how long it’s been since anyone that wasn’t his doctor touched him like this.

He fails.

It might be why, when at last you seem satisfied with your work and rise to your feet, Levi finds himself doing the same. He stands, moving with no objective in sight, the scent of herbs and home and you beckoning him closer. 

As he does, he ends in your personal space, his fingers almost grazing yours. 

He freezes. 

You seem just as surprised to find him in your space. Levi watches as your lips subtly part, the smallest shift in your expression that narrows into your eyes widening. He listens to your breath catch; it makes the tip of his fingers tingle.

"Um... Levi?" 

Levi blinks, panic swelling in his chest, but before he can say a thing, a sudden "mrrrp" vibrates below. What happens next is a blur, but Scout has somehow jumped off the sofa, intertwining herself between you and him, and the sudden feeling of fur on your bare legs must have taken you by surprise.

Because the next moment, you’ve bumped the back of your calves against the edge of the sofa, almost tripping back. 

Luckily, if there's one thing that hasn't changed, it's Levi's instincts. He instantly latches onto your elbow, steadying you, your warmth blooming beneath his grasp. 

“Walls,” your voice vibrates against the shell of his ear, breathless. "... Thanks." 

You straighten, taking a subtle shift back. Levi finally lets go, clears his throat, and moves away. He flexes his hand, trying to rid himself of the tickling sensation he'd just felt. 

"It's nothing." He focuses on Scout, who's skittered away and in between the dining chairs, looking at you and Levi with wide eyes. Levi exhales harshly as he stares at her. "Tch, have a care, you damn cat. We're practically titan-sized to you; don’t creep around like that unless you want to end trampled on."

The rest of the evening is uneventful. Like every other evening since you moved in, you and Levi share a meal, seated at the dining table, facing the window with a viewpoint on the sea. You share tidbits of information you've learned about the village and its inhabitants, while Levi provides scarce comments here and there. You discuss Gabi and Falco’s upcoming visit for the solstice, and everything you plan to do with them.

Everything is just as Levi remembers it being. The setting is different, there are people missing… but there is something soothing that he is here now, with you, with scents that don't feel foreign, with foods that feel familiar. 

One thing does loom over Levi's mind, though.

Levi swears you drew closer when he stood.

.

.

.

One night, you fall asleep in front of the fireplace.

Come morning, Levi's gone, but there's a blanket draped over your body.

.

.

.

That night, Levi can't sleep. That in itself isn't shocking; Levi's always been a chronic insomniac. Still, when the telltale signs of a sleepless night make themselves known and Levi realizes he's in for one of those nights, he doesn't waste time. He gets up and goes to make himself a fresh cup of valerian root tea.

Half-way there, however, something stops him in his tracks.

It's your the door to your bedroom, half-ajar, warm light pooling out.

And Levi sees you.

You're on the floor, crouched over something. Next to you, it seems that your bribing paid off; Scout is by your side, staring at you with keen interest, tilting her head as she looks at your every movement. 

That's when Levi notices what you're doing, what you're twirling around one by one, as if to show the cat.

Your drawing materials, his gift to you. You've taken them out of the desk he built, laying them all on the floor to inspect them.

Pencils, an eraser, a notebook.

Huh.

-

Thanks for reading! This is a slow build into feelings and healing, but I hope the journey will be worth the read. If you have a minute, I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments/tags. Take care <3

[ro-bee]

Hi!

Could maybe say something more about your Goat Realm?

What is story of Puppy narinder here?

What heretics look like here and how are they behaviour? (I'm curious about it because I love these beans. I'm all ears to any littlest detail)

How other bishops look like?

And anyway anything. I'm all ears to all ramble!

Drink your water!

HELLOOO

It is time for the goatverse yap section ! Everybody cheers!!

Anyway little disclaimers :

1_ is very work in progress... Unfortunately all my focus is on those two gay furries and not much on the world so I don't have many drawings to show :(

2_ it's heavy... And I mean there are strong themes and stuff (I'm not gonna go in details here) ... You'll see it better when I finish one of my many projects but it will require a lot of time... Like a lot, sorry... Anyway :)

Goat's world is very harsh. Here we live by the philosophy of kill or be killed very often, despite that there are some people that manage to live in piece and tranquility (example: goat's family and people that don't venerate any specific bishops or that venerate Kiran)

The world is ruled by the 5 bishops (these design are still concepts expect our beloved wolf lol)

Four of them command on different regions, Kiran being the god of death rules the purgatory

He doesn't have many followers like his siblings but he prefers it like that, it doesn't really matter to him because people souls would end up to him anyway.

His siblings have more of an evil alineament, they use their godhood for bad often, taking entertainment on their followers pain. Kiran is the opposite and witnessing his followers suffering fills him with sorrow, that's why he always gives his followers a painless death, is the last he can do for them... After all their souls gives him power :)

Anyway I think I already explained kiran's plan here , tldr bro is sad people suffer so he thinks that killing everything is a good solution

A little thing I want to add to kiran's backstory thing (idk):

I think that unfortunately we're not gonna have a ratau in this world, since Kiran's objective is to get rid of pain with putting everyone's soul to rest I think he won't let any previous vessel go away after failing (I'm not doing this because I hate ratau, he's my dad I love him so much)

So goat had no guide in what they were doing

Heretics here are just like regular heretics(?), if you wanted to know more about their design unfortunately I don't have anything with them :( I have some sketches in the comic I'm working on but I need to keep it as a surprise

Most of them are just regular people that want to survive...

Talking about people who want to survive:

Goat wasn't always this fucked up in the head, this whole deal changed them for the worst. Before the crown they lived a normal peaceful life with their family, when they lost everything they were forced to learn how to fight back to survive. So they spent many years running away and fighting back, they felt terrible at first but then it started to feel normal, almost enjoyable. Getting the crowns powers made killing people fun for them so yeah lol this is the evolution of goat going from calm Lyra player to killer machine, they have a loooooot of anger issues lol.

About the bishops... I'm currently drawing them better and they still have no name right now...

Their personality is the opposite of the canon one basically

The leshy is calm less impulsive

The geko is a prudent and a bit coward

The kraken is fearless and violent

The scorpion is ruthless and impulsive

Kiran is their older brother and loves them very much!! the feeling is not very mutual but anyway :)

I need to work a little bit more on them ngl

Aaaand I think this is all? Hmm idk feel free to ask more :)

[sly-s-n0nfusion]

Irl world inspirations for Orsterra and Solistia 🗺 pt2

Link to part 1!

SPOILERS for some travelers' stories!!

Solistia

Toto'haha: I believe this region takes its inspiration from South East Asia/Polynesia. The house architecture seems to be the same. Ochette's story also leans heavily on beastlings/humans' relationships with the god-like entities of nature and earth, which are very important topics in Polynesian culture.

Polynesian islands

the Harborlands: Again, I suspect that the Harborlands might be inspired by Italy, but this time the opposite coast, Venice (in Veneto). Canalbrine is very much inspired by Venice because of the town's architecture and boat transportation, as well as the boats themselves being a clear reference to gondolas. Castti Florenz, however, is a traveler who gave me a headache while trying to figure out where she comes from. Given that the character herself is an amnesiac, so we know very little about her past as an apothecary of Eir, so I tried to figure it out with what I have. We know for sure that she isn't from the Harborlands as she only found herself in there at the beginning of her story. In her flashbacks we see her group operating in the Brightlands, so she might come from there. Now her name is pretty weird, has probably both Italian and French influences (her surname, Florenz, might be a version of "from Florence", which would hint at her having Italian origins, but in one banter with Partitio she jokingly says her full name is "Castti De François" which is a very French sounding surname. Also, her teammate Trousseau has a very French name. If we lean into the hypothesis that they all come from the Brightlands they might have French origins, since the region is probably inspired by France as we'll look into it next) Castti 🤝 Osvald : coming from who knows where

Venice, Italy

the Brightlands: Even though the name New Delsta might make one think of New York, I believe the inspiration for the Brightlands' biggest city is Paris. The european-style theatre and the buildings' architecture itself make it look like France's capital city. In the 18th century France was also a big centre of industrial developement (Clockbank). Throné Anguis might also have the frenchiest name among al the travelers so I'm pretty convinced the Brightlands might be France. We all know the big mess that is Throné's genealogical line so I won't dive into that lol. Lostseed’s gothic cathedral though reminds me of Notre Dame in Paris, too

Paris and Conques, France

the Winterlands: As I said in the previous post, cold regions were the ones I struggled the most with. Solistia's Winterlands could be Siberia/Northern Russia because of the super cold weather, and the infamous prisons and ice mines used during dictatorships (Frigit Isle). It also has the Sacred Guard headquarters and the stained glass in there make me think of some orthodox churches. I still haven't figured out where Osvald V. Vanstein comes from, though, because in-game he says that he lives in Conning Creek, in the Harborlands, but I suspect he might be native of some other place because of his very German-sounding name and last name. So he still remains a mystery to me to this day, I jokingly explain that as "he comes from Orsterra's Highlands"

Siberia

the Wildlands: Safe to say that this region is inspired by Texas/Southern US. The aesthetics of Oresrush and its mining industry is enough of a hint to the Gold Rush in the United states during the 18th century. Both Partitio Yellowil and Papp come from this region.

Virginia City, Nevada

the Leaflands: Perhaps my favorite Solistia region! It's very likely inspired by Southern Spain as both Timberain and Wellgroove have very big buildings/castles just like many historical Spanish towns. Agnea Bristarni herself is very much Spanish-coded (except her theme which is very celtic-sounding for some reason lol) both because of her name and her flamenco-inspired dress

Rupit and Coca Castle, Spain

the Crestlands: Another region I kinda struggled with. Excluding the omnipresent catholic church elements, the area seems to have very high hills/mountains as well as anglo-saxon inspired architecture. Some friends of mine pointed out that it might look like the Welsh countryside, but Crick Wellsley's very British surname is what convinced me. Temenos Mistral and Roi are also orphans and their names were perhaps given to them by the pontiff himself. Also for some reason the region seems to be in a perpetual autumn

Wales

Hinoeuma: Perhaps the most interesting culture mashup region of all! The references to Japanese culture such as local dishes and clothing is plain to see, but there are also elements of Chinese culture such as Hikari's gold crown and some buildings such as the Trial pagoda. Khu being in the middle of the desert is a clear reference to the Chinese town of Dunhuang. Hikari Ku has clear Japanese elements in his design.

Dunhuang, China

Thank you for reading!

[problemswithbooks]

I think the reason it comes across as demonizing the women in this specific situation is because, simply put, it kind of is, even if not purposely.

Stella and this other woman are the only two people we see cheated on by gay men. In the first episode, when the situation is between a straight couple, Blitz has no problem killing the target, and said target is portrayed as a bloodthirsty cannibal and cultist. But now that it's a gay couple doing the cheating they're wholesome, cheating isn't worth killing someone over, and Blitz can't kill them.

It feels like a double standard and as if the show is saying women in these situations are always stupid and abusive. If it had been left to just Stella it wouldn't be as big a problem. One time isn't a pattern--two is.

On top of that, it wasn't necessary. If the show is simply trying to show that Blitz and Stolas made the right choice, and they can be happy, it did not need the client to be a woman or the couple to be gay. The client could have been an abusive man wanting revenge on his lesbian wife. Or another gay man. Just because the couple has kids doesn't require one party to be the opposite gender. The audience and Stolas and Blitz should be smart enough to get the message no matter the gender of the people in the situation.

There was no need to shove an exact replica of Stella into the show to get the point across that Stolas and Blitz can be happy. To me, it felt as if the show didn't trust the audience to get their message unless they spoon-fed it to them. In order to do this they added the second female character, whose presented as the evil roadblock that comes between a happy, wholesome gay couple. Given there is no positive representations of the opposite, of a woman accepting their ex-husband and being a decent person, it comes across as the show pushing the idea of women in these situations being abusers and purely unsympathetic.

[Side note, the couple are the only genuinely good people shown on Earth--in every other instance, humans on Earth have been portrayed as comically awful or at least gullible and stupid. I find it weird how the show abandoned its own previous writing/characterization of Earth in order to give us this wholesome moment.]

I Feel Making Both Stella And The Karen Customer Evil Shrews Sends A Message Of Excluding Divorced Spouses From Blended Families

It's really interesting that the idealized gay families exclude the mother from the picture due to demonizing her as a witch even if their complaints of cheating is treated as not that big of a deal. Even though they frame their anger as ignorance, there is a sense they feel betrayed and replaced while the narrative doesn't dwell. I mean nothing in the narratives does anything to dwell that they were at one point the mother of their ex's children and consider their existence just a hindrance to happiness. I know sometimes that can happen in real life but it comes off as misogyny because they refuse to give depth to women who are no more than one dimensional stereotypes meant to make the other partner better. It really seems like a insidious excuse to shove the mother out of the picture because she doesn't fit into their idealized family picture.

[katyspersonal]

It is only first month of 2024, and I've already lost not one but two subjects of nightmares, paranoia and reoccurring emotional torture. I really wish there was another way to get rid of these besides having extremely painful conversations.. but at least these scars are closing, one by one

[lunarflare64]

Jesus fucking christ read The Lady's Handbook For Her Mysterious Illness

[nururu]

Sanji is such an outlier in the group it makes me worry so much

[bibliophilicstranger]

I investigated the TV trope page and noted something you may have missed: there are numerous examples of the same trope far predating the Harry Potter series. The idea of turning a good character bad for one reason or another, including for shipping, is not a new one. It wasn't started by Harmony fans. Someone could easily have named the same trope The Roman's Odysseus, Zeus the Rapist, or Raoul the Alcoholic. The trope may have been used by Harmony fans, and the existence of those fics may have given the name to the trope, but frankly that says more about the media preferences of the people writing the article. If I had to guess, it was created during the heyday of Harry Potter, as that coincides with when TV Tropes was getting popular (there are approximately 24 pages with Harry Potter-related titles, three of which, including "Ron the Death Eater," are fanon terms). Based on the current Trope-naming guidelines, were the same page created today it might well not mention a character at all but be named "Good Guys Go Bad."

I'm going to have to ask you to provide some kind of credible article on Harmony shippers sending death threats as unfortunately Rowling gets so many of them that my searches are turning up more recent events. Were that to be true it would be unfortunate. Disappointment is warranted, and the expression of that disappointment is allowed, but one should not send death threats, especially not over this.

I can't comment on "classist body shaming and look shaming comments" as I've never seen those particular attacks made. Unless you're referring to the bit from canon where he's got dirt on his nose? Ron is canonically tall and thin-- who on earth is body shaming him for that? And in comparison to whom? Harry is also skinny, with knobby knees.

Attacking Harmony shippers for their reading comprehension is another ad hominem attack and I must request that you desist on that front. For one, it's inaccurate to say that someone who ships Harmony lacks reading comprehension. Reading comprehension is simply the ability to read a text, process it, and understand its meaning. Two people can have equally good reading comprehension but reach a different understanding of the text by focusing on different aspects or bringing different theories to bear.

You seem to adhere to the opposites-attract, pigtail-pulling-is-cute, antagonistic-bickering-is-a-sign-of-attraction school. I concede that is a common enough trope of its own. You focus on the expressions of jealousy toward other romantic interests, the virulence of their squabbles and the explicit details provided. The very things you seem to favor, the "love-hate relationship" are the same things which concern Harmony fans, who worry that such a relationship would ultimately be unhealthy and devolve into domestic violence. If the 'hate' part of love-hate got significantly better over time, then it wouldn't be as much of an issue, but as late as book six Hermione has escalated from trading insults with Ron to sending birds to attack him. In book seven, when Ron returns Hermione punches him, yells at him, and wants her wand to curse him. We don't see them practicing a lot of healthy conflict resolution-- Hermione rightfully bears a grudge that doesn't seem to be resolved until after they visit the Lovegoods, and we don't see them have a discussion where they talk it out as much as they just go through another particularly dangerous event and it makes them ignore and forget any previous conflict-- just like books one and three. Once they're no longer fighting trolls, death eaters, and Voldemort, can Hermione and Ron actually resolve their disagreements?

In contrast, I, and many other Harmony fans, look for exchanges of support and comfort, understanding one another, prioritizing one another. I look at details such as Hermione's words to Harry in the Potions Challenge in book one, her bringing him toast the morning after the Triwizard champions are selected in book four, and his trust in her and prioritization of her desires in book five. There are also the details in book six of Harry comforting Hermione and talking her up to Slughorn and her comforting him in book seven when they visit the Potters' grave or when they learn about Dumbledore. There are a variety of times where they display compatibility by knowing what one another is thinking, or how they're likely to act. While Harry and Hermione do argue, they still treat each other with respect and even while at odds Harry usually acknowledges that Hermione's position is well-meaning. There are other examples where he expresses anger around her, but acknowledges he's not angry at her, but the situation or other people.

Before the explicit introduction of romance in book six, there were only hints in either direction. Even after book six, there was a chance that any romance or attraction wouldn't last. There are many couples who make it through all of high school only to break up as they get older. A first attraction between Ron and Hermione could have flared and burnt out, and Harry and Hermione could have gotten together in the end. Neither Harry's attraction to Cho nor Ron's to Lavender lasted, after all.

Now for the Ginny "fanfic" you mentioned. Are you talking about the forum post of that name from twenty years ago? The one that's not a fanfic, but a conception of ways that Ginny could be removed in book seven? That only actually has only 196 ways? I'll grant you they're not the most tasteful, but this has been done for many characters over the years, including Hermione, Draco, and Edward Cullen.

I'd disagree about who the most toxic people in the fandom are. You yourself reblogged a post acknowledging the toxicity of the Romione fans. In addition to having seen numerous attacks on Harmony fans by Romione fans (including yourself), I've often seen incredibly toxic behavior from Marauders era fans (ex: 1 2 3), especially the ones who ignore most of canon. I think there has been a decent amount of hatred towards Tonks and Remadora (ex: 1, 2, 3) but it's also easy for most Wolfstar shippers to ignore her existence, considering most Wolfstar occurs before the Remadora relationship is even remotely possible. I can't be bothered to expose myself to HarryxDeathEater ships to find examples of them being abusive to Ginny-- I have most of those tags blocked-- but I'm fairly certain Drarry fans have engaged in just as much Ginny bashing and the use of that love-potion trope you don't like.

Accusing someone of "playing the victim card" is a common form of gaslighting and I suggest you remove it from your vocabulary before your erroneous use causes harm. You're also applying it in a situation where it's false. To play the victim card, one must be fabricating or exaggerating victimhood. To see two asks where someone called me a bitch, look here and here. I've deleted others. Here's an out of the blue attack on Lily and here and here are some against Hermione. In your above response you validated what I said about attacks on reading comprehension, but here's another example. And here's the call for negativity against Harmony shippers. As you can see, these are neither fabrications, nor exaggerations and therefore your accusation is false.

Further, you would really rather preach that all Harmony shippers should accept being victims of cruelty, simply because some may have engaged in negative behavior in the past (and a past that in some cases is twenty years and a whole generation of fans ago)? That seems a rather slippery slope, don't you think? It's thinking like that which has synagogues in Canada and Australia firebombed, when those with particular views on Israel/Palestine attack all Jews over their disagreement with the Israeli government, even when those Jews have no say in what the Israeli government does. It's one thing to disagree with a particular person holding views you don't like, it's another to call for an attack on all shippers. Such an attitude only perpetuates toxicity in fandom.

Defend your ship if you like, but if you want a less toxic fandom, constrain yourself to arguing over the text. After all, don't you want to sow positivity for yourself, lest you dislike what you reap?

There is one thing in common with the PeterMJ (Spider-Man/Marvel) and Romione (Harry Potter) shippers; both of their pairings are 'canon' and have everything going for them thanks to favoritism by the author (J.K. Rowling)/ comic writers (Marvel). Despite all that, these

'canon' shippers aren't satisfied with having an already huge following and seek/continue to tear down on other ships (Harmione & PeterGwen) just to push their pairings to front and center. People like these are why we hate fandoms.

I can't comment on the Marvel portion of this ask as my knowledge of that universe is limited in scope and I'm not an active member of its fandom.

As for the Harry Potter part...

I think Romione fans have the issue that while their pairing is canon, it's not well developed in the text (very few pairings in Harry Potter are). We're told that they get together, marry, and have children, yet we don't actually see a lot of development of the relationship blocks that would support the longevity of their marriage. Yes, they went through the war together (although Ron abandoned them for a good portion of that) and yes they were friends, but their friendship was highly contentious and they spent significant portions of each year not speaking to one another or not hanging out (first year before they were friends, second year when she was petrified, most of third year, part of fourth where Hermione was more with Harry, part of sixth year, and part of seventh). Now, technically, first and second year don't count, but honestly, the only year they spend the entirety of together where they don't have a major fight is their fifth year. We know they like each other from Hermione's actions in book six and Ron's in seven, but we don't really see why they do, why that would turn into love rather than a teenage crush, or why they'd make it as adults.

Supposedly Hermione likes Ron because he's funny. Supposedly Hermione's maturity makes up for Ron's lack and he gets her to open up. While there's something to her liking someone who can lighten things up, if that's all then she could just as easily have liked one of the Weasley Twins instead. As a Hermione-type myself, I've often liked guys who were funny, but them being funny isn't enough. The guy I dated when I was 17 was funny, but he also lacked drive and dedication and in the end that made us incompatible in the long-run. Yeah, it's nice to have friends that can make you laugh, but in a partner for life you want someone you don't have to nag all the time when you need them to do something.

We also know that JKR admitted that Romione was her personal wish-fulfilment, clinging to her original idea of the plot, whatever that was, rather than a natural outcome of what she actually wrote. She also said they'd have needed counseling and their relationship was further questioned in the Cursed Child.

This puts Romione shippers on a weaker footing than most canon-pair shippers in other fandoms, making them defensive. Yes, they have the benefit of canon, but not the textual support, other than 'well, our people got married.' They can be threatened by Harmony supporters, who have fairly well crafted arguments grounded in the text for why Harry and Hermione make sense as a pairing. This makes Harmony a greater threat than pairings which are more loosely grounded in the books: Dramione, for instance, is never going to happen in a close-to-canon universe, but it takes very few tweaks to make Harmony work. Additionally, many of the arguments used in favor of Romione are equally as powerful for Harmony, such as the length of their friendship. Indeed, many of the arguments regarding Hermione's feelings for Harry specifically are a lot stronger, because we do see instances where she chooses Harry over Ron, such as in the seventh book.

It is unfortunate that these tend to become rather nasty fights that devolve into personal attacks on the sanity, demeanor, or reading comprehension of the Harmony shipper. I've seen many people go after another Harmony shipper on here pretty nastily, and I've heard tiktok and instagram are worse. Some screenshots I've seen are basically Romione shippers vowing to spread negativity about Harmony just because they don't like some of the fanfic people have written. As if it weren't possible to just, you know, not read the fanfic you don't like.

It would be nice not to get people randomly calling me a bitch in my inbox, but you know, such is life. I don't know if they dislike me more for shipping Harmony or Jily at this point but I really don't care.

[thoughtvoid]

-after eating through my YT content faster than usual due to doing nothing while sick, checks on older channels that I only look at a few times a year- -clicks to Markiplier- ...Wait a second. -checks GT Live-

...I think FNAF somehow got me sick, because it's a super weird coincidence that I suddenly got sick right when it had an anniversary. I'd actually checked GT Live around the beginning of the month, but I guess I just missed when they started playing the initiative fangames to lead up to the new game. But literally, I got taken out health-wise when into the pit came out, and it took a couple of days before I even watched YT again (over sleeping). Which solves my 'I'm running out of my usual content I like to watch' problem, I'm just mildly offended. I might not be the biggest FNAF fan, but I like to keep up with stuff happening. And I like the fangames, so seeing that all of them came out without me noticing and that I got sick for the new game coming out when I could have been watching LPs... Sus timing. Feels like the universe didn't want me to see any of them.

[ozzgin]

Just read your arranged marriage kidnapped by a most post and the humor in the servants always thinking reader is in peril. The same going for monster hubby (He just thinks they're submissive and breedable)

Like none of them realize they are a moster fucker cause they hide it so well. Like just imagining reader be like "oh be gentle with me I'm a dainty maiden" and then giving him the night of his life is hilarious. Or them having dinner and the servants feel bad for them cause monster hubby is eating human meat but their just thinking about other things he can use his tongue on.

Or maybe someone comes to rescue them from the terrible monster finally. But they don't wanna leave and instead fight the knight off. The knight thinks they've been brainwashed or something. Meanwhile the servants think the knight just wasn't good enough to rescue them.

Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, NSFW! [Part 1] | [More Monsters]

The servants are not blind by any means: they can tell, quite plainly, that their monstrous Lord has a soft spot for you. Not only that, but the beast nearly worships you! They've come up with many theories, the latest one involving witchcraft. Surely you must have some sort of magical trickery under your sleeve in order to subdue their Master. There's no other way around it. All previous humans have been devoured, or have died in a pitiful attempt to escape, terrified to the bone upon gazing at his blasphemous Majesty.

You can't blame them. It's probably better for everyone involved if you omit the fact that your source of witchcraft lies in your...genitals. Well, not just that, of course. Your husband had started to lose hope. His appreciation of humans never came to fruition before your arrival. He was expecting you to cower in fear, not throw yourself at him.

He wondered if you wanted something from him in return, but no one could possibly pretend so flawlessly: the way you clung to him unprompted. The way you hungrily took him in, tears welling in your eyes, refusing to let go until you could feel his load avalanching down your throat. The way you'd trap his hips with your legs, despite being weak and feverish, asking that he doesn't stop yet. If that wasn't proof enough, your whines and moans were loud and clear. To think he could have his own little human, one who isn't repulsed by his monstrous form. He would've been content with mere tolerance, yet someone who begged to be fucked by him? He's been delirious ever since.

He loves everything about you, naturally, but he can't deny the shameless addiction he's now developed towards your body. He'd pound you anywhere and anytime if he could. If he needs to leave for official matters, know that the return will burn in the back of his mind.

"An important date, Sir?" one traveling servant will ask, glancing at all the scribbles in the calendar.

"Indeed", he answers solemnly. It's the times when he can finally fuck you dumb.

While the servants worry about their devilish Master being put under leash, for the other fellow humans the opposite seems to be true. You recall your last "rescuing" attempt distinctly. During one of your evening walks, burly, foreign arms swept you off in an instant. Before you knew it, you were holding onto the armored shoulders of an unknown man, as he made his way out of the traditional garden.

"I'll get you out of here", he promised between heaving breaths.

You stared in confusion. What was he saving you from? A good dicking? No matter how much you explained that you do actually like your newly appointed husband, the hero wouldn't budge.

You ended up just walking back home when the man fell asleep.

"That was quite the long walk", your monster partner remarked, polishing his weapons.

"Oh no, I was kidnapped", you state casually. "Got us some fruits on the way back."

Would it have been better to lie about it? On one hand, you do feel terrible for whoever attempted to retrieve you from the claws of the tyrant. Your husband is very possessive, and you know he'll scorch the Earth until that treacherous pest is gutted and fed to the pigs.

On the other hand...he becomes particularly savage after such incidents. You won't be able to sit properly for the next few weeks, but it's worth it.

Tough luck, you tell yourself, lounging in bed with a satisfied smirk and torn apart hole.

[azotowanie]

the fact that there are only three towns where they sell monthly tickets for my bus line, i can't buy them online and on top of that not a single one of those 3 towns is the town where i actually go to school fills me with so much rage like??? and they absolutely could sell the tickets in that town like there is a train station that is better organized than the ones in two of those towns and isn't stuck in a perpetual state of renovation like the one in the third town

[sanatomis]

⋆౨ৎ˚ ──── 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐒𝐄.

it's been on your mind for a while now. and, even though he's a little confused at first, it takes satoru very little time to warm up to your enticing offer.

დ content. fr3e use kink, cursing, female!reader, fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, consensual somnophilia, deepthroating, cum-swallowing, mentions of satoru eating it from the back <3

დ notes. second attempt at posting this on tumblr, don't mind me. it's crossposted on ao3 bc my previous attempts at posting all failed miserably (it never showed in the tags ://)

Satoru is confused. It doesn’t take you much time to notice that your softly spoken words have him quite rattled, as the results of them can so clearly be observed on his face. There’s his nose that scrunches up cutely, and a little tilt of his head to the left which comes accompanied by a few snowy strands of hair shifting across his forehead. A small furrow of his brows, the soft gnawing on his bottom lip. He’s thinking about it; mulling over your offer. 

Three times, he tries to say something. His mouth opens once, twice, and it’s futile. Not a word escapes, and he takes a sharp intake of breath. You almost believe that, if you weren’t currently seated opposite him, he’d smack the side of his head a few times to make sure it’s still screwed on right. 

“So, I just. . .” The third time really is the charm, it seems. Though, he never quite manages to finish what he was going to say. 

“Just put it in, yeah.” 

You finish it for him, you’re sweet like that. It does really seem as if he could use the help.

“Wh—whenever I. . .” 

There’s a little voice in your head, chiming and chattering about how all of this is weird. It makes you nervous, and your fingers itch to play with your necklace to fight it. 

“Whenever you want,” you confirm. It’s as if your heart has suddenly moved to your throat. 

“Wha—what if you’re asleep?”

“I said whenever you want, didn’t I?” 

He almost lets out a little squeak at the words you so casually give him. They surprise him, as they do you. Your last sentence wasn’t one spoken by your mind, and you shift in your seat as if it’d shush the part of you that did. 

It’s as if you’re telling him what you’d eaten for breakfast this morning, not giving him permission to slip, bully and sheat his cock into your needy cunt at any given time of the day. Without needing to ask, too. Satoru can fill you up, stuff you full, and dump so much of his cum into you until you’re overflowing, and he can do it whenever he feels the need to—because he’s Satoru, and you love your Satoru.

“Are you sure?” He asks, a hint of apprehension laces his voice. Your heart almost swells at his concern, at his hesitancy and need to confirm your wishes; even if you’ve vocalised them so bluntly. “Maybe, think about it for a little long—” 

“I have,” you interrupt him. As gentlemanly as he’s being, there’s no mistaking the darkening of his eyes. The pretty, baby-blues making way for something sinister. You suddenly don’t feel so nervous anymore. “I have thought about it. Way too much, and for way too long.” 

A string of curse words tumble past his lips. They’re hushed, and quick, and from the way he, too, shifts in his seat you gather that he’s hard. Painfully so, if the bulge forming in his pants is anything to go by. Your relationship has existed long enough for you to know that drops of his pre-cum are staining the fabric of his boxers already—always so messy, your Satoru. The mere thought has you wanting to take him out, to put him in your mouth and lap at the sticky, white beads falling down his length. 

“Please,” you plead softly, and watch how he stifles a groan at the needy, saccharine sound of it. You want more, more of that sound. Right next to your ear, preferably. “Use me, Satoru.” 

There’s little you want more than that, little that arouses you more than that. The thought of Satoru taking you whenever he wishes, abiding by his whims and allowing him free-reign over your body—it instils a heat into your stomach, into your core. It makes you feel filthy, like a cheap whore picked up from the street; but you’d be his whore, and suddenly it all starts to feel like a dream. It’s Satoru. Satoru, Satoru, Satoru. He’ll be gentle, and he’ll be kind, and he’ll stop as soon as you utter your safeword, and he’ll love you so much, even if he fucks you as if he doesn’t. 

You have half a mind to ask him again, to plead, to beg for it again, as it almost feels as if he didn’t quite hear you. But, as soon as you open your mouth to do so, he immediately latches his lips onto yours. It’s messy, and sloppy, and entirely fueled by the frantic state his mind is currently in—but you don’t complain, and never will. 

His hands are everywhere and nowhere all at the same time, and you feel him almost buzzing with excitement. Your teeth clash against one another at the force of the kiss, your tongues greedily seek the other out, and saliva gets swapped from your mouth to his, and vice versa. It’s dirty, and sticky, and almost brings you back to your high-school years, when he’d been all clumsy hands and feigned confidence on the night you’d lost your virginity to each other. 

Satoru pulls back from your kiss first, and a small smile falls over his lips when he notices you chasing him. “Wait a minute, sweets,” he murmurs, forehead against yours. His breathing is heavy, as is yours, and you don’t want to wait a minute—you want him, now, tomorrow, and each day after that. “Are you. . .” He chuckles when you kiss him again, and again, and again. You only stop when he holds your head in place. “Are you completely sure about this?” 

You blink up at him, eyes wide and lips swollen. “Mhm,” you hum, and caress his cheekbone with one of your thumbs. Satoru melts in your hold, as he always seems to do. “‘S you, ‘Toru. I’m completely sure when it’s you.” 

He lets out a shaky breath. There’s a storm of emotion behind his eyes, but all of them point to the same conclusion—he loves you. So much, you might even get sick of it one day; he’d told you as a joke, one born out of fear. But you won’t. You never will. And you think he’s starting to realise it, finally. 

“Okay,” he whispers, and kisses your forehead. 

It’s delicate, and loving, and so opposite from the way he buries himself into you over, and over, and over again a mere five minutes after that. Satoru’s needy, and impatient, and so pent-up from your previous conversation that foreplay gets thrown out of the window. 

He bends you over the couch first, that cute little ass of yours jiggling right in front of his face as he mounts you from behind. He slips in easily, with a pussy as wet as yours, and a cock as leaky and hard as his—the lack of foreplay almost goes unnoticed. Almost, of course, as the sheer size of him never fails to elicit a hint of a burn as he stretches you out. Nevermind that you take his cock daily, or that your walls are bound to carry his shape after the many years you spend with him. 

The sounds that decorate your apartment are filthy, lewd, and borderline obscene, but you’re thoroughly obsessed with them. The slapping of his balls against your ass, the squelching with each passing thrust, the deep groans and choked whimpers Satoru releases next to your ear just like you wanted. Even your own moans, your own babbles, and your own whines add to the experience; the combination of sounds. And you love it, because it’s you, and it’s Satoru—and it’s the two of you together. 

It doesn’t end after Satoru cums, nor does it after you do. The agreement between the two of you that was made tonight seems to have done a number on him, and he takes you a second time. On the balcony, where he puts you on display for the world to see as he fills you over and over again. And a third time, in your shared bed that’s never been safe from his affection and blatant desire towards you. And a fourth time, in the shower that was initially meant to clean you up, he decides to dirty you even further. 

If this is the reaction he gives to the mere idea of using you whenever he pleases, you long for the time that he actually does.

It’s well past midnight when Satoru finally decides he’s done with you. You’re curled into his side, a shirt that’s way too large for you (but one that you swore you didn’t steal from him) covers your figure. You’re asleep. Tired, exhausted, and completely knocked out. He smiles. You’re so cute. A love-sick expression is stuck to his face, and it may very well become permanent if he stays looking at you. 

One of his fingers reaches in-between your thighs, gently scooping up the remnants of his release. Satoru almost coos at the way your nose scrunches up cutely when he starts to finger it back into your pussy. It allows his digits to slip easily through your folds, and she sucks them in as soon as he reaches your hole. His cum doesn’t leak out this time. Not yet, anyway, but even if it does, he’s more than willing to repeat the process. 

He sighs. Mind full of thoughts, but at least his balls are empty now. There’s a little huff escaping his lips, and he’s amused at his own comment. Satoru shakes his head, but the small smile remains nonetheless. Strong, yet gentle arms pull your body tighter against him. 

You’re delicate, and sweet, and so precious to him; and he will do his best to take care of you. Use me, use me, use me. He kisses your forehead, his own eyes falling shut. 

He will most certainly try to. 

The very first time Satoru entertains the idea of indulging in your offer, is on a day where you’ve decided to wear his favourite lipgloss. It’s so shiny, such a cute shade, and makes you look so beautiful, but above all—it’s sticky. It’s sticky, and easily smudged, and he knows from experience that everything feels so much filthier when he steals a kiss from you with it on. 

Without meaning to, thoughts of you wrapping those glossed lips around his dick, creating a mess made-up of spit, cum, tears, and thus that delightful stickiness from your lipgloss, enters his mind. The coloured shade will leave a perfect ring around his length, there’s no doubt in his mind. Your pretty face will be all dirty, smudged stains near the corners of your mouth courtesy of his fat cock. You will be a sight for sore eyes. 

You’re talking to him, but Satoru can’t seem to listen. He’s enamoured by your lips, your soft-looking, plumb, and very glossed lips. He briefly feels pathetic, knowing that a mere make-up item has the ability to make his head spin to such a degree—but he doesn’t, as he quickly realises it only does so because it’s you that’s wearing it. 

Fuck, he really wants to stuff his cock into your mouth. 

Five, six, almost seven seconds pass before the realisation kicks in. If he wants to put his cock in your mouth, then he can. Satoru’s body moves on its own before he gets a chance to think about his actions, as is often the case with him, and it's not long before his large hand finds its new home on the back of your head. He falters briefly, watching how you quiet down, how your eyes widen slightly, but continues as he’s doing when you make absolutely no move to stop him when he gently guides your head down, and down, and down—until you’re right where he wants you. 

A small gasp leaves your lips when he puts you on eye-level with his crotch. It’s quiet, and he almost didn’t hear it, but it makes him pause nonetheless. The hand on your head loosens its grip, and he hesitates as he looks down at you. 

“Is this oka—” 

The sentence never gets finished, forever interrupted by a sharp hiss as you take his cock out of his pants with such unabashed eagerness. It slaps against his abdomen, leaky tip staining the fabric of his shirt. Your previous conversation is all but forgotten, it seems, as you don’t waste a second in taking his hard, aching length almost entirely into your mouth. It all happens so quickly, and Satoru’s mind almost can’t keep up. All he did was think about filling your mouth, and now he’s actually doing it; the fat tip prodding near the back of your throat. 

His hands are shaky, he notices, and so is his breathing as a small whine escapes when one of your hands goes downwards to play with his balls. “Fuck!” he curses, caught by surprise at the boldness with which you reached for that part of him. In his startle, his hands return to the back of your head, and your words make their impromptu return to the very front of his mind. 

Use me. 

He will, then. 

Satoru isn’t at all gentle when he does. His fingers tangle into your hair, and he pushes you down onto his cock until your nose brushes against the soft, white hairs near his pelvis. Your poor little mouth is struggling, he can see, but he can’t seem to pay much mind to it; the sounds of you gagging around his thick length are too much of a pleasure to hear. The way he pushes you up-and-down nears the realm of brute force, and still you eagerly suck, and suck, and suck. 

A particularly loud groan echoes through the room when he steals a glance at your small form kneeling between his legs. It seems he knows you well; you are a sight for sore eyes like this. There are tears in your eyes, and some of them have already fallen down your hollowed cheeks; hollowed, to make space for him. Your mouth is filled to the brim with his cock, and even though he can see you fighting for breath, you never make an attempt at catching it—as if you wouldn’t dare to deprive him of the please your throat gives him. 

Satoru catches himself falling in love all over again. 

He fucks your face harder, and harder, and harder the closer he gets to the edge. Deep groans, and slurred curse words join your symphony of muffled moans, and his hold on your head slowly starts to falter. 

“‘M close, princess,” he mumbles, but that’s about all the warning he gives you. A few seconds later, he cums down your throat. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t need to. Not because you’d given him permission to use you as he sees fit, but simply because he knows you’re utterly obsessed with him doing so. “Fuck, f—fuck, look a’you, hm? Gonna take all of it like a good girl? Don’t waste it, m’kay? S’all for, fuck, for you.” 

It’s something he’s done countless times before, but Satoru swears that each time he spills his cum down your throat feels better than the last. Thick, sticky ropes fill your mouth, and you hum around him when it keeps going, and going, and going. You’re struggling to take it all, and he huffs in amusement when bits of it start to drip down your chin. His thumb catches it, and he quickly places it back in your mouth, forcing you to open it wider to accommodate both the digit and his slowly softening cock. You happily do so. 

He pulls out of you shortly after, with his chest heaving as he recuperates. His entire focus is on you, you, and you as he watches you wipe your mouth and swallow the last of his seed. There’s a smile on your face. It’s kind, and gentle, and innocent; almost as if he hadn’t just fucked your mouth and dumped his release down your throat. Satoru is utterly bewitched as he watches you, captivated by all and every little thing you do, and he cooperates as you tuck him back into his pants. 

And then, as if nothing at all happened, you sit down next to him again—and you speak, you continue talking, finishing the story he’d interrupted with his need to be sucked off. Your voice is hoarse, and your cheeks are still stained with dried tears, but you pay neither of those facts any mind. It makes all of this look so. . . mundane. You were speaking, and then you were between his legs, and now you’re speaking again. 

Satoru’s heart starts to beat even faster for you. Fuck, that’s so hot. This time, he decides to try his very best to listen to your tale about some co-worker of yours that pissed you off this week. He pitches in every-now-and-then, adding a low ‘huh,’ or ‘mhm’ to keep you occupied, and he almost feels guilty—guilty, because all his adrenaline-filled mind can think about are the future possibilities of using you.

“And, wanna know what’s the worst thing about the situation? It was my idea to get donuts for everybody! That harlot didn’t even want them initially.” 

Satoru’s downward spiral is inevitable, and he finds himself falling victim to it more times than one would consider healthy in a mere seven days. He very quickly learns that he’s thoroughly obsessed with the notion that allows him to fill you up anywhere, and at any time. To him, it’s one of the highest honours. 

There’s such confidence, such unwavering faith encompassed in your view of him. There has to be, if you’re willing to allow him such a thing. Thinking about it almost causes a cute pink hue to colour his cheek. . .you really do trust him a lot, huh?

He’s never been able to tell you ‘no’ before, and he certainly isn’t about to start. So, he dutifully listens to you and abides by your delectable request. To satisfy you, of course. There’s absolutely no other reason for his actions, and the way he breaches your dripping cunt with his leaky tip, all while soft breaths leave your lips, and your pretty eyes are peacefully shut, is simply to indulge you. 

Use me. Use me. Use me. 

Satoru curses, the crude words that tumble past his lips being plenty colourful. One of his hands settles on your hip whilst the other hikes your (or rather his) shirt up to provide him with better access. It’s your fault, really, that he’s currently sporting one of the hardest boners of the century. You were waiting for him, weren’t you? Waiting for him to return and bury himself to the hilt in that sweet, sobbing pussy of yours. 

There’s no other reason for you to fall asleep with nothing but his shirt on. Not even panties covered your cute little cunt, your sticky folds fully on display and welcoming him home. Satoru wants to bury himself in it—in a multitude of ways if he’s being truly honest with himself. For now, though, he’ll stick to simply one. 

“Shh,” he coos into your ear, delicately rubbing soft circles into your upper thigh with his thumb. You whine faintly, feeling his cock fight its way past your walls. He splits you open, stretching you just wide enough to slip inside. Your nose scrunches up cutely, and he almost rouses you from your slumber.  “‘S me, really need you, baby.” 

And that’s all he has to say. It’s me. It’s your Satoru. A gentle whisper of those words, and he gets to use you as he pleases. All of his previous worries, all of the near-boiling anger he felt at his previous meeting with the higher-ups washes away as soon as he sinks himself balls-deep into your pussy. Satoru groans deeply at the feeling, and gentle, stuttered declarations of love are babbled into your ear with each slow drag of his cock along your walls. 

The garbled mesh of words that he deems too important not to say, even despite their poor enunciation, only ceases to exist a few minutes later—when he spills his heavy load into that sweet, sweet cunt of yours. No, into that sweet cunt of his. Because, that’s who it truly belongs to, no? It’s his, to use, to spoil, to worship. You’d offered it to him so kindly, after all. And, well, Satoru has never been the type of person to turn down a gift. 

. . . You unknowingly create a monster. It seems that even the mere idea of being allowed to use you as he pleases has him tip-toeing around the line of borderline insanity. As each time he sees you, he wants you. . .and each time he wants you, you let him. 

It doesn’t matter what you’re doing at that moment. Even if you’re speaking, and he suddenly feels the need, no, the simple want for a blowjob. And even if you’re asleep, resting after what must have been a long day, you still allow him to slip his aching cock into you to satisfy the craving he’s had for hours. 

Even if you’re busy setting the table, you don’t push him away, and you still allow him to bend you over the wooden surface, to sink to his knees and lick, suck, and kiss around his pretty pussy with his tongue. Simply because he wants to do it, and you really do so, too. 

. . .And even now, when you’re cooking dinner. 

There’s a certain cuteness about the way your brows scrunch in concentration, about the way you gently bite on your bottom lip as you prepare the food for the two of you; it nearly makes him feel guilty for feeling the secret desire to ruin such a lovely, innocent view. The word nearly is important, however, as he’s acutely aware of your need for him to do exactly that—and so, any sense of wrongdoing melts away, similar to snow underneath the sun.

He’s not quite sure what it is that you’re cooking, but it smells delectable. There’s an array of spices, herbs, and vegetables strewn around the counter, and Satoru knows he’ll be eating like a King in a few minutes. As for right now, though, there’s a different craving, a different type of hunger slowly making its way forward. He fears it won’t be one that’ll be sated by your lovely culinary skills. 

“Smells good, baby,” he mumbles. It doesn’t take him long to settle himself behind you, large hands gently coming to rest on your hips. He sighs in the crook of your neck, and nudges the skin with his nose. “What’cha making?” 

You answer. He knows you do, as he feels the vibrations of your voice underneath his lips, the soft hum feeling quite soothing as he kisses along the column of your throat, but Satoru can’t find it in himself to focus on the words you give him. His ever-loose hands roam eagerly down your body, and the previous loving, and delicate kisses along your neck turn sloppy, wet, almost, as Satoru dips one of his hands underneath the waistband of your panties. There’s a grin forming on his lips, one entirely too big and full of confidence. 

“‘M startin’ to think you’re just always wet for me, pretty girl,” he mumbles against the shell of your ear, fingers entirely coated in your slick the second he’d sunk them into your dripping cunt. 

Your cheeks heat up, and you try to stifle a moan when he, so very, very slowly starts to move his fingers in-and-out of you. “I—I am,” you admit, and clench around his digits just as he’s about to take them out; as if it’s a last resort to keep them inside. “F’you, Satoru. Just for you.” 

“Hm?” He hums, and almost huffs in amusement as he sees you trying to continue what you were doing so desperately, as if you weren’t being fucked on your husband’s fingers. Just for that—he rapidly thrusts his fingers back into you, harsher, deeper, and so much quicker. “Just for me, yeah, princess?” 

“Y—Ah! Yes, yes,” you squeak, one of your hands seeking out some semblance of support from the kitchen counter.  “Only for you.” 

There’s an embarrassing sound hitting your ears, as each thrust of his absurdly long fingers is accompanied by your wetness squelching around them. You struggle to speak, to breathe almost, as he fucks you on his fingers. Satoru stretches you out, curling his fingers to find the spot he knows will leave you with those pretty tears falling down your cheeks, and to hit it over, and over, and over again. 

There’s such a heat gathered between your legs, such a pleasurable source of warmth, and Satoru suppresses a groan as he’s once again made very aware of that fact when your walls clench around his digits. His cock twitches, and he lets out a shaky sigh as he grinds it against your ass. “You are, aren’t you? Hm? C’mon, baby, don’t be shy. . .be a little louder.”

You aren’t shy. You haven’t been for a while now. There’s a certain hotness in the way you moan so unabashedly, so utterly shamelessly whenever Satoru gets his hands on you in such a way—it’s as if you can’t ever get enough of him. It never fails to harden his cock even more, to make his balls feel achingly heavy until he ultimately empties them inside your tight little cunt. And you know so, which is exactly why you do it. 

“‘M not,” you rasp out, one of your hands coming to rest on his wrist. The back of your head falls against his shoulder as you choke on a moan, seeking some very necessary aid to stay upright. “Please, I. . .’Toru, please.”

In all honesty, Satoru isn’t quite sure what you’re begging for. He knows it’s one of two options: either to cum on his fingers, or for him to push his thick cock inside your pussy already. There’s no desire to ask, however—he’d much rather make that decision himself. The hand that wasn’t currently burying three of its digits knuckle-deep into your pussy busies itself with his belt-buckle. 

There’s a pitiful whine falling from your lips, one that’s released immediately upon the removal of his fingers from your cunt. “Shh,” he coos in your ear, instantly soothing your upcoming tantrum. You stifle the complaint you’d prepared for him, the feeling of his fat tip prodding near your too-eager hole quickly puts an end to it. “S’okay, pretty girl, just wanna feel you cum around my cock, s’all. . .Think you can do that for me?” 

You nod, and rapidly so. “Mhm,” you hum, and open your mouth when he presents it with his soiled fingers. You clean them, suckling around them until each bit of your sweetness is gone. “Want to—really wanna cum around your cock, ‘Toru.”

“Of course, you do,” he breathes, and captures a quick kiss. And another. And another. And one more. It makes you smile, and that, in turn, makes him smile. When he does pull back, there’s as much love as there is lust dancing in his eyes. “Wouldn’t have expected anything less of you, princess.”

Satoru is often greedy. There’s no such thing as savouring something with him—if he’s enjoying himself, he’ll be as gluttonous as he wishes. The exception is you, of course, as you always are to him. There’s no greater feeling than savouring you. It’s why he, more often than not, decides to fill you up slowly. To let his cock drag along your walls, to let your soothing warmth engulf him inch, by inch, by inch, until his firm balls press up against your ass. He does so this time, too. 

Your long, drawn-out moan as he fills you up slowly sounds as if it were gifted to him by the Heavens, and Satoru’s cock twitches inside when he hears you mutter a soft fuck as you struggle to adjust to him. It’s certainly not the first time you’ve taken his cock, but the sheer girth of him still stretches you out—as it always does. Your husband loves you dearly, however, and waits. . .one second, two seconds, three seconds, and he doesn’t get any further before his self-restraint falters. 

Satoru nearly pulls himself out of your cunt completely, only for him to fuck himself back inside so deeply—it has you place both palms of your hands on the counter to steady yourself. It startles you, as he hears you choke on a moan, but he continues. His movements are quick and rough, animalistic even, as he pounds into your cunt. 

“Sa—ngh, Satoru, wait, I. . .” You interrupt yourself with a moan, the feeling of his tip near your cervix too sharp for you to properly finish a sentence. He’s so deep. It feels as if he’s in your womb, in your stomach—it feels as if he’s everywhere. “Fuck, I. . .f—fuck, ‘Toru. . .”

 “Hm?” He breathes out, a groan slipping past his lips. “Want me to, fuck, you. . .” His rapid movements dial down. The self-control needed for it is enormous, but you’d asked him to wait—so he will. Some beads of pre-cum drip into your cunt, as if his cock was upset that he’d suddenly slowed down. “Wan’me to go slower, baby?”

“No,” There’s a small whine near the end of your sentence. It’s the absolute last thing you wanted him to do, even if you originally asked him to wait. “No, don’t, please, keep going. Need—need more.” You feel Satoru wrap both hands around your hips, as if he’s preparing for something. “Harder, please. . .”

“Harder?” He asks, and you don’t need to see him to know there’s currently a sense of smugness ruining his pretty face.  “How hard do you want it, huh, sweets?” 

Little more than the tip remains inside you, and there’s not a moment for you to mourn the loss of his entire girth—as all air leaves your lungs when he immediately thrusts back into you with a newfound vigour, with such force that it has you bend over the kitchen counter. 

“Like, ah, like this, huh? That how you want it, angel?”

You don’t answer—you’re not able to, as Satoru uses the entirety of his thick length to steal your ability to speak coherently. Once again, you’re acutely aware of the sheer size of your husband. Satoru is tall, and big, and he likely isn’t even aware of it. It certainly doesn’t seem so, as he heads no mind to the way your feet are starting to lift off the floor. Each deep thrust has you inching further up the counter; his hands on your hips nearly holding you up and off the floor as he rocks into you from behind. 

There’s little you can do, except take it. 

The kitchen is filled with sounds that definitely do not belong there. Your wetness is prominent, the sound of it borderline embarrassing, and Satoru’s balls slap against your skin with each thrust. He’s relentless, and you want to cry. The good kind of crying; the kind that often comes accompanied with mind-numbing pleasure. You hiccup, and sniff, and try your best to stabilise yourself against the counter. 

Though, your efforts prove futile once Satoru brings one of his hands to your front. You choke on a whimper as he cruelly pinches your clit, toying with it, flicking and rubbing it in the way he knows will get you off. 

“T—Toru,” you warn him. “I—I’m. . .”

“Mhm,” he hums in acknowledgement, not letting up even for a second. There’s a featherlight kiss pressed to your shoulder. “Me too, princess. S’okay, let, shit, let go for me, yeah?”

And because he’s Satoru—your Satoru, you comply. It hits you all at once, and you’re suddenly very grateful for both your husband holding you upright, and your expensive kitchen counter for adding some extra support. You’re still breathing heavily, coming down from your high, when Satoru hits his own. It’s a familiar feeling, but one you’ll never grow tired of nonetheless. 

You sigh in content. His cum fills you up rapidly, and to the brim. It’s hot, and thick, and trickles out of you even with him still inside—simply because there’s so much of it. The both of you are out of breath, and because of it, choose to stay within each other’s hold for just a little while longer. 

Satoru could—and would—stay in this position for the rest of his life. . .but he’s quite sure that you’ve put a lot of effort in today’s dinner and he doesn’t want it to be for naught. With a deep sigh and a quick kiss to your cheek, he goes against every fibre of his being, and pulls out of you. 

A shiver trails down your spine when he does so, and you let out a soft sigh in content. You’re still recovering, he notices. There’s a trail of his cum dripping out of you, though he wastes little time to push it back inside. Satoru takes matters into his own hands, and decides to place your panties back into place for you, too. It gets soiled by his seed rather quickly, but that’s a problem for later. 

After smoothing down your skirt, he tucks himself back into his pants, as well. He’s by your side as quick as he can, and presses a sweet, lingering kiss to your temple. 

It’s only then that he properly takes notice of all the stuff that’s been thrown around the kitchen. Pots, pans, vegetables, spices. It seems you really were busy.

And, as if he hadn’t just finished fucking you silly, he smiles. 

“So, what are you making?”

© MADE BY SANATOMIS — please, refrain from stealing, copying, or reposting any of my works.

[inbarfink]

One common Undertale misconception that really frustrates me is when Sans is portrayed with a strong innate sense for RESETs and alternative timelines. Like, that he remembers the RESET timelines better than the other characters who only have occasional feelings of deja vu or even that he can sense when a timeline is RESET.

And that’s, like, almost the opposite of the actual text of the game. While pretty much every main character can have slightly-different dialogue in a Not-True-RESET, especially if the Player had previously befriended them, based on the idea that they have lingering memories/feelings from before the RESET - 

Sans has no real dialogue changes based on this conceit. All of his changes are based around noticing Frisk has different reactions based on their memories of the precious timelines. 

Other characters do also make observations like that about Frisk, like Mettaton and Toriel. But Sans is distinctive because this is the only way his comments change between RESETs and there are a lot of them from him.

Because that is what really frustrates me about this misconception. People mention it as one more thing that makes Sans cool - but the actual truth is far more badass. Sans is one of the people in the Underground who remembers RESETs the least. I think memory-resistance to RESETs is probably tied to Determination. Flowey, the second-most Determined person in the Underground after Frisk, can remember everything perfectly.

Everyone else has some vague feelings and deja vus. And Sans, he’s the least motivated person in the Underground - both in the sense he’s lazy and in the sense he’s fucking depressed.

That probably means he has very little Determination. Thus, he doesn’t remember anything that happens between RESETs.

And yet, he is still the character most aware of them. Because he has the technological know-how to read and analyze timelines.

And because he has the observation and analytical skill to notice a RESET from other people’s reactions and behavior. Whatever it’s Papyrus thinking he recognizes someone or Frisk’s behavior implying that they know something they shouldn’t have. Sans main RESET-related skill is just being able to identify these moments and come to the correct conclusion about them. And with that he manages to be the most aware character in the entire Underground.

Like, the one point where it might seem like Sans remembers something from a previous Timeline is the Fake Spare scene during his boss battle. 

But it’s all pretend. Unlike the previous lines from other characters that I mentioned, this dialogue plays even if the Murder Route is the first time the player touched the game. Sans isn’t remembering anything in this scene. But he makes an educated guess that the Immoral Time God probably tried using their powers for good at first, so they were likely ‘friends’ in a previous timeline. And in most cases, his guess is right on the money - tricking many players into thinking this is another case of the game actually reacting to their past actions.

And as always, Sans can only tell if his lil’ trick worked or not based on the expression of the Player Character.

Arguably, Sans even uses his lack of Determination and cross-RESET memory to his advantage in his boss battle. After all, the whole point of this fight isn’t to kill the Player - Sans understands this is impossible. This is a war of attrition, trying to get the Player so frustrated and annoyed with the unfair fight that they just ragequit or RESET the Timeline. And this war of the Player’s patience versus Sans’ stamina and will is infinitely easier for him when he doesn’t actually perceive all the Player’s previous attempts against him.

Like, for the Player this might be the billion time they go up against him, they’re aware of some of his patterns and tricks now but they’re probably also frustrated and angry and exhausted. Meanwhile, from Sans’ POV, this is still the first time this is happening. He knows it’s not from the Player’s behavior and Frisk’s expression - but he doesn’t feel it like the Player does. 

He doesn’t feel the frustration and repetition of the endless stalemate. So he’s always as fresh as a daisy no matter how rugged the Player is getting.

And that’s part of why Sans is so cool in the first place, like, in general. He’s technically the weakest person in the Underground, lacking in every standard evaluation of power in the setting - no ATK, no DEF, no HP, no DETERMINATION. But he’s darn clever enough to overcome these weaknesses and even use them in ways that make them into strengths, enough to be one of the most dangerous and most aware guys in this whole setting.

Sans can’t remember anything, and that makes him awesome.

[bbokicidal]

[REUPLOAD] skz + hands (and how they use them)

warnings: hand kink, sexual content (MDNI), fingering, oral (f receiving), squirting (hyunjin), putting that i mention jeongins church ring in here bc some people are religious n i aint tryna stir the pot

notes: a reupload from my previous blog !!

Chris : Man absolutely fingers you to the Gods. He's the type to know his hands drive you wild and he will absolutely use it to his advantage. That little 'Hall of Fame' move? Yeah - he's doing that shit to you under the dinner table when you join the boys for a night out. He's extremely good at using his hands to coax an orgasm out of you. (And you best bet he rubs over your clit with his thumb. Man is too experienced in fingering at this point. He knows all of your weak points.)

conclusion: uses his index and ring finger during sex + thumb for the clit <3 skilled enough to use one hand and make it amazing

Minho :  He... *sigh.* I'm going to be that person and say that when he fingers you, you can feel the veins in his fingers. Not in a gross way - in a like, textured... ribbed-for-your-pleasure-dildo kind of way. His hands are soft - incredibly so - and because of how the blood pools in his hands any time he lowers them below his ribcage, you just feel it when he's kneeling over you and two fingers deep in your pussy. He'll use his free hand to touch and pinch at your clit though - he's a little too disoriented to use just one hand. But he loves the way his hand looks when he grabs at the plush of your thigh and the veins in his hand become more prominent the tighter he holds onto you, keeping you open for him.

conclusion: uses his middle and ring finger during sex, uses the opposite thumb for the clit <3 too eager to use one hand, gets messy and uses two

Changbin : He - Girl. He.. *sigh pt. 2* He's the type to not...? finger as much? But more, use his hands to spread your pussy open for him so he can shove his tongue as deep as possible into you. He's going to use his hands to hold your thighs apart (as if his broad ass shoulders dont push your thighs open enough) but he's going to do it specifically by putting his hands on the junction between your thighs and hips and splaying his fingers are far apart as he can. (also an ass grabber.)

conclusion: enjoys some good handfuls of ass while he eats you out

Hyunjin : Absolutely fingers you - but always does three instead of two because he's an overachiever. He's going to be fucking you with his fingers so hard that the fucking wet squelches that come from your pussy are NOTHING short of absolutely drop dead sinful. Y'both goin' to Hell for the way he destroys your pussy with his hand. Also, who cares about the clit. You're not even going to be worrying about that because you'll be too busy squirming and crying at the way he fucks you with his fingers.

conclusion: the type to fuck you with his hands so hard that you squirt. that's his end goal.

Jisung : Less of a finger-er, more of an eater. A grabber. Very grabby. He'll hoist your legs over his shoulders (mf is broad and nobody ever talks about it bc they're too focused on his waist) and slip his arms (which are again- big as FUCK) under your thighs so he can rest his hands on your abdomen. He likes feeling over your sides and tummy, maybe even reaching up to pinch your nipples and he's absolutely going to be just groping and kneading at your breasts when you start to squirm against his face.

conclusion: likes to grope and grab, knows you enjoy the feeling of his hands on your body.

Felix : Again, less of someone who fingers and moreso someone who eats. Man is hungry. Man needs that meal. Man - needs that meat. (LMAO SORRY) Anyway absolutely will grab at you while he eats you out. But unlike Ji where he's groping and grabbing and whatever - Felix will slap his hands on your thighs, arms wrapped under your legs, and then he'll lay there and eat - and knead at your skin while he does it. There is never a moment where his fingers aren't digging into the soft plush of your thighs and kneading the skin, pulling lightly on it and feeling how it bulges between his fingers. He's weak for it.

conclusion: thigh man 100%

Seungmin : The type to start by eating you out and letting you relax and think you're being taken care of but then slip his middle finger in and fuck you with it while he abuses you with his tongue. No warning, just a sudden intrusion that's definitely not unwelcome. Uses his free hand to pin your abdomen/hips down to the mattress so you can't move around too much. Also the type to absolutely bury his face in your pussy and try 'n get his tongue as deep into you as he possibly can. A messy eater.

conclusion: eats you out like you're his last meal but likes to keep you on your toes and wiggly. he thinks you're so cute.

Jeongin : We all know he's got pretty hands. (next to seungmo, imo.) So we know he's going to use his long fucking fingers to destroy your pussy. Definitely the type to use his middle and ring finger to fuck you, free hand splayed over your thigh to push it away from his head. You swear on God he's pushing at your cervix every time he goes knuckle deep and it makes you try to close your thighs but he refuses to let it happen and holds you open. Where Seungmin fucks you with his tongue and his fingers - Jeongin fucks you with his fingers and lets his mouth take care of your clit only. But his tongue is a topic for another time. 

conclusion: certified clit sucker. has the longest fingers known to mankind and keeps his rosary ring ON while you fuck.