People need to understand that liking a 'bad' character does NOT mean I encourage or i'm okay with their actions. I like the Queen of Hearts just as much and I don't expect people be cut off their heads just because someone with power said so.
For those 5 other people on this app that love sjse, I carefully selected songs from my own playlist and other sjse playlists, seeing which fit them best and these are the songs that resemble them the most.
It's always so funny to me that when i'm reading smut in class and I show my screen to my friends after they ask me what i'm reading, their eyes go WIDE and ask me how the hell i can read that with a straight face
I started watching Haikyu!! not that long ago and I was like "meh, i'm not really into sports at all, let's see what this is like" AND I'VE BEEN CRYING ALMOST EVERY EPISODE NOW. I swear, i'm 20 episodes in and i've cried more than once in almost every single one. The teamwork and sense of belonging that comes with it is so precious, i just can't help but cry
summary: youâve been running empty for days, just the hollow motions of existing. when seongje finds you at a convenience store at 3 AM, barely recognizable without your usual armor of makeup and carefully maintained appearance, he doesnât ask if youâre okay. he already knows youâre not.
content: fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of depression/lack of energy/lack of appetite/dissociation, seongje helps you shower, nonsexual nudity, seongje typical smoking, cuddling, hwangmo shows up for like one paragraph, reader is mentioned to typically wear makeup
based off this request. role reversal version here.
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The fluorescent lights hum overhead with that specific frequency that makes your skull ache if you pay attention to it. You have not been paying attention to much lately. The past few days have passed in a blur of disconnected moments that your brain stopped trying to organize into linear time.
Your hand hovers over the shelf of instant noodles. Shin Ramen sits in its red package. The package in front of you blurs slightly. You blink. It stays blurred.
The question of when you last ate surfaces without urgency. Yesterday feels like a possibility. The day before seems equally likely. There was toast at some point.
You put the noodles in your basket without remembering the decision to reach for them. They join the other items you have collected. Energy drinks you will not open sit next to bandaids for cuts you do not have. A bag of cheap sugar cookies that taste like cardboard rounds out the selection. The basket weighs almost nothing in your hand. Everything weighs almost nothing these days.
The glass door of the refrigerated section reflects someone you don't quite recognize. Your hair is pulled back in a knot that was never meant to last four days. No makeup covers the greyish tint your skin has taken under these lights. You're wearing one of Seongje's hoodies. The sleeves hang too long and there is a stain on the cuff that might be coffee. The fabric smells like him and cigarette smoke.
Heâs never seen you like this.
The thought arrives with unusual clarity, cutting through the static that has replaced most of your thoughts. In the eight months you have been together, he has never seen you barefaced. The version of yourself he knows is maintained and deliberate.
The version currently buying random shit at three in the morning looks like she has been underwater for a week.
You move toward the register on autopilot, body carrying you there without conscious input. The cashier is some college student doing overnight shifts. He glances at your basket and then at your face. Something flickers in his expression that looks like concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
The question takes too long to process. You blink at him and form the word in your mouth before speaking. "Fine."
He does not look convinced but he's not paid enough to push. The scanner beeps as he runs your items across it. Each beep sounds too loud in your skull. Everything is too loud or too quiet lately.Â
His voice carries from the next aisle over.
Seongje says something you do not catch. Then laughter follows. Hwangmo is probably with him. The sound makes your stomach drop in a way that almost registers as emotion. That makes it the strongest thing you have felt in seventy-two hours.
Your hand tightens on the basket handle. The cashier continues scanning. The energy drinks beep. The cookies beep. Your brain screams at your body to move faster but everything moves through honey.
"That'll be-"
You shove money at him before he finishes, not bothering to wait for change. The plastic bag crinkles as you grab it and turn toward the door. If you can just get outside before he rounds the corner then maybe he wonât see that the girl in his hoodie with greasy hair is supposed to be his girlfriend.
"Yo, isn't that your girl?" Hwangmo's voice carries that specific amusement that means he is about to say something stupid. Every muscle in your body locks. Your back is to them but you can feel the weight of attention shifting in your direction.
"Where?" Seongje sounds closer than you expected.
"Right there. Chick at the register."
You keep walking. The automatic doors are right there. Five more steps separate you from escape.
"Wait."
Four steps remain.
"You guys have the wrong person." Your voice comes out flat and empty. The doors slide open. You are almost through when footsteps sound behind you.
"Turn around."
The words are not a request.
You stop in the doorway. Night air hits your face with sharp cold. The plastic bag cuts into your palm. Behind you Hwangmo is probably grinning. The fluorescent lights are bright enough to see through your closed eyelids.
"I said turn around."
You do.
His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts. His gaze moves over your face and catalogs the absence of makeup. The circles under your eyes look dark enough to be bruises.
Hwangmo says something. You donât hear it. Seongje isnât looking at him.
"When did you eat last?" The question comes out quiet and matter-of-fact. He could be asking what time it is.
You open your mouth and then close it. The answer requires accessing information you do not have. "Today."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. Cigarette smoke clings to his jacket. "When?â
"I don't know."
"You don't know." He moves close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You don't know when you ate."
"I've been busy."
His eyes drop to the plastic bag in your hand. Energy drinks and cookies, things that are not food in any real sense, look back at him. When he looks at your face again, something cold and controlled has settled into his expression.
"How long has it been since you slept?"
"I sleep."
"How long?â
Your brain tries to count backwards. It gets lost somewhere around yesterday afternoon. The timeline refuses to organize itself. "I don't know. A few hours here and there."
He reaches out and touches your face. His thumb presses gently under your eye where the skin is darkest. You flinch from the shock of being touched after days in a body that stopped feeling like yours. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." The word has no bite to it. It just falls out of your mouth and lands between you.
Hwangmo still stands nearby. Seongje does not glance at him. His attention stays fixed on you with that careful intensity that makes you feel pinned in place.
"You're coming with me."
"I have to go home."
"No, you don't."
"I have-"
"Whatever you have can wait." His hand drops from your face to your wrist. The grip is firm but not painful. "You're coming with me."
You should argue. You should pull away and insist you are fine. You should go back to your apartment and continue the very productive spiral you have been in. The thought of doing any of that requires energy you stopped having days ago.
"Okay," you hear yourself say.
His expression doesnât change but something in his posture relaxes slightly. He takes the plastic bag from your hand and turns to Hwangmo.
"Go home."
"But-"
"Go. Home."
Hwangmo must see something in his face that makes arguing a bad idea. He shrugs and wanders toward the back of the store. Seongje's hand is still around your wrist. The warmth and solidity of it registers as the first real thing you have felt in days.
"Can you walk or do I need to carry you?"
The question should be humiliating. Instead it just sounds like an assessment of your current functionality.
"I can walk."
"Then walk."
He doesnât let go of your wrist. He pulls you gently toward the door and out into night air so cold it almost feels like sensation returning to your skin. You follow because the alternative is standing in a convenience store trying to remember what functional human behavior looks like.
His apartment is six blocks away. You have walked this route before as the version of yourself that wore lipstick and laughed at his dark jokes. That version seems very far away now, unreachable.
"You've been avoiding me," he says after the first block.
You stay quiet.
"Three days. No texts. Calls going to voicemail." His voice stays even without accusation. "I thought you were pissed about something."
"Not pissed."
"Then what?"
You donât have an answer that makes sense. How do you explain the emptiness? How do you describe going through the motions of being alive without any of the actual living parts working? You have been wearing his hoodie for four days straight because it was the only thing that felt like it belonged to something real.
"I don't know," you say finally.
He makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. He does not push for more. He just keeps walking with your wrist held loosely in his hand, like heâs afraid you will disappear if he lets go.
Maybe you would.
His apartment looks the same as it always does. A couch sits against one wall while a low table holds an ashtray and his phone charger. There are no decorations or photos. The functional space could belong to anyone.
A hand on your shoulder guides you to the couch. The pressure feels gentle but firm enough that your body follows without question. You sink into the cushions and watch him move toward the small kitchen area.
"Stay there," he says.
The couch has become the most comfortable place you have sat in days. Your body settles into it like it might never get up again. Going anywhere was not part of your plans anyway.
Water hits metal too loudly in the quiet apartment as he fills a pot from the sink. The pot goes onto the stove and he turns the burner on. Blue flames lick up the sides. A cabinet opens and he pulls out two packets of instant ramen. The cheap kind costs less than a dollar and tastes like salt and MSG.
His movements are efficient and practiced as you watch with detached interest. This is clearly not the first time he has made food at three in the morning. The water begins to boil. Torn packets release noodles into the pot. Seasoning follows. Steam rises and fills the small space with the smell of artificial beef flavor.
A bowl appears in front of you on the low table three minutes later. Noodles sit in their broth and release heat into the air. Chopsticks rest across the top of the bowl.
"Eat," he says.
Your stomach turns at the thought of eating in a way that has nothing to do with nausea. Food has become an abstract concept over the past few days. Your body stopped asking for it.
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat anyway."
The chopsticks feel heavy in your hand as you pick them up because arguing seems harder. Some noodles lift from the bowl and broth drips back down. Steam hits your face. The chopsticks lower without any food reaching your mouth.
"What's the problem?" he asks.
"I'm just not hungry right now."
"You haven't eaten in days. You're hungry."
"I don't feel hungry."
A long moment passes while he stares at you. Processing this information seems to lead him toward finding it unacceptable. His jaw tightens slightly. Frustration rather than anger shows in the gesture. "Why?â
The chopsticks go back across the bowl as you set them down. Noodles sink back into the broth. Your brain searches for an explanation that will make sense.Â
"I usually shower before I eat dinner," you say. "So I'm not hungry right now."
The logic sounds reasonable in your head. Out loud it sounds less convincing. His expression suggests you have just said something in a language he does not speak.
"You're not hungry because you haven't showered," he repeats slowly.
"I always shower before dinner. It's just a thing."
He stands up from where he has been leaning against the arm of the couch. The new information gets processed. Some conclusion forms that you cannot see.
"Okay," he says. "Then go shower."
"I don't have any clean clothes here."
"I have clothes. Go shower."
Standing up and walking to the bathroom seems like the logical next step. Your body refuses to respond to these commands. The couch cushions might as well have grown roots into your spine.
Ten seconds pass before he reaches down and takes your hand. Steady pressure pulls you up until you are standing. Your legs remember how to hold your weight but only barely.
"Come on," he says.
His hand stays wrapped around yours as he walks toward the bathroom. Following requires less energy than resisting. Water turns on as he reaches into the shower. Steam begins to fill the space.
Temperature adjustment happens while you stand in the doorway and watch. The sound of water hitting tile almost drowns out the ringing in your ears that has been there for days.
Turning back to you, he reaches for the hem of his hoodie that you are wearing. You take a step backward and create distance. His hands stop.
"What are you doing?" you ask, suddenly shy.
"Helping you shower."
"I can shower by myself."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
That same careful assessment from earlier returns to his expression. Showering alone probably exceeds your current capabilities. Standing without swaying takes most of your energy. Coordinating the complex series of actions required to wash your hair feels impossible.
"I'm coming in with you," he says.
"What? No. I can do it myself."
"You've been wearing the same clothes for four days. You can't remember the last time you ate. You look like you're about to pass out. I'm not letting you get in the shower alone."
"That's weird."
"I don't care."
A staring contest begins. Steam continues filling the bathroom. Exhaustion has soaked so deep into your bones that arguing feels like climbing a mountain.
"I've never showered with someone before," you say finally.
"There's a first time for everything."
"This is weird."
"You already said that."
"Because it is."
"Are you getting undressed or am I doing it for you?"
Your gaze drops to the hoodie and sweatpants you cannot remember putting on. His hands move to the hem of the hoodie.
The fabric catches on your hair tie and pulls it loose. Greasy strands fall around your shoulders. The hoodie drops to the floor. Sweatpants follow. Underwear joins the pile. Once youâre completely naked, you feel no embarrassment or self-consciousness like you thought you would. His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. Looking at your body does not seem to interest him particularly. Nothing sexual lives in this moment.Â
You step into the stall first. Hot water hits your skin and the sensation shocks your system. Heat seeps into your muscles and reminds them that relaxation used to be possible.
He steps in behind you. The shower stall allows maybe six inches of space between your back and his chest. Water hits both of you. Standing under the spray lets you watch it run down the drain.
"Tilt your head back," he says.
Compliance comes easily. Water hits your hair and soaks through to your scalp. His hands follow and work through the tangled mess with unexpected gentleness. A bottle opens somewhere behind you. Then his fingers return with shampoo that smells like mint.
Slow circular motions scrub your scalp. The pressure feels good without hurting. Your eyes close. Water runs down your face. Days of grease and grime get worked through by his fingers. Rinsing removes the shampoo and the bottle opens again. The conditioner works through the ends of your hair where tangles are worst.
"You smell like cigarettes," you say. Your voice sounds strange in the small space.Â
"I was smoking earlier."
"You're always smoking."
"Yeah."
The conditioner rinses clean. His hands on your shoulders turn you around until you face him. Water runs between your bodies. Wet hair pushes back from his forehead. A washcloth hangs from a hook and he reaches for it. Body wash pours onto the fabric. He begins washing your arms with the same methodical attention he gave your hair.
"This is really weird," you say.
"You already said that twice."
"I'm saying it again."
Your shoulders receive attention next. Then your back and stomach. The washcloth scrubs away layers of sweat and stale air that have been clinging to your skin. Standing still and letting him work seems like the only option. Your brain has stopped trying to process what is happening. Making sense of anything no longer seems possible so passive observation takes over.
Legs get washed. Then feet. Every part of you receives the same careful attention. When he finishes, the washcloth gets handed to you.
"Your turn," he says.
The washcloth gets handed to you and you take it with hands that barely remember how to grip properly. Body wash pours onto the fabric in an amount that is probably too much. Your hands move to his chest and start scrubbing with all the coordination of someone who has forgotten how arms work.
The washcloth slides across his skin in uneven strokes that miss spots and repeat the same areas. You go over his left shoulder three times while barely touching his right. Your movements lack any kind of rhythm or purpose. This is not helping him get clean and both of you know it.
He stands completely still anyway and lets you work with clumsy hands and unfocused attention. No corrections come from him. He doesnât guide your wrists to the areas you are missing. Your hand drags the washcloth down his arm and then back up. The water has started to run cool but he does not rush you or take over. He waits.
Eventually your hands slow and then stop moving entirely. The washcloth hangs limply in your grip while you stare at his chest like you have lost track of what you are supposed to be doing.
"Done?" he asks quietly.
The question takes a moment to process before you can answer. "Yeah."
The washcloth drops from your hand and hits the shower floor with a wet slap. He reaches past you and turns the water off in one smooth motion. Sudden silence fills the small space and makes every other sound seem amplified.Â
"Feel better?" he asks.
"A little," you say.
"Good. Now you can eat." He steps out of the shower first and grabs a towel from the rack. The fabric wraps around his waist with practiced efficiency. Another towel gets pulled down and held open in both hands. You step out on unsteady feet and he wraps the fabric around you immediately. His hands tuck it in above your chest with quick movements. The towel feels rough and clean against your skin while holding more warmth than you expected.
He leaves you standing there wrapped in his towel. Movement sounds from the other room as drawers open and close. He comes back with a t-shirt that will be too big on you and sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
"Get dressed," he says. "Then we're eating."
The clothes get pulled on with movements that feel disconnected from your brain. The t-shirt hangs off your shoulders and reaches mid-thigh. Sweatpants bunch around your ankles even with the drawstring pulled tight. You shuffle back to the couch where the bowl of ramen still sits on the low table. Steam no longer rises from it. The broth has probably gone lukewarm.
Sitting down takes more effort than it should. Your body folds onto the cushions and you reach for the chopsticks. They still feel heavy. Everything feels heavy.
Seongje settles into the spot next to you with his own bowl. Noodles disappear into his mouth at a steady pace. A small amount lifts to your lips and you chew slowly. The taste registers as salt and something vaguely meat-flavored. Swallowing requires conscious effort.
Another bite follows. Then another. Each one takes time to get from bowl to mouth to stomach. Your jaw moves like it has forgotten the mechanics of chewing. The noodles are soft enough that this does not matter much.
He finishes his bowl in the time it takes you to eat maybe a quarter of yours. The empty dish gets set on the table with a quiet click. Settling back against the couch cushions, he reaches into his pocket. A cigarette pack emerges. The familiar sound of the flame catching fills the quiet.
Smoke curls up toward the ceiling as he takes a drag. The smell of tobacco mixes with the lingering scent of artificial beef broth.
Your hand reaches out without thinking about it. The gesture asks for what your mouth does not bother saying.
He looks at your outstretched hand and then at your face. The cigarette stays between his fingers.
"No," he says.
"Why not?" Your hand stays extended in the space between you.
"Because I said no."
"You're literally smoking right next to me." The smoke still hanging in the air gets a vague gesture from you.
"That's different."
Your hand drops back to your lap with more force than necessary. The chopsticks pick up more noodles but your movements have lost what little coordination they had. "How is that different?"
"You breathing in my secondhand smoke and you smoking directly are not the same thing." He takes another drag and this time turns his head to blow it away from you.
"The distinction seems pretty arbitrary."
"It's not arbitrary."
Another bite goes into your mouth while you stare at the remaining noodles in your bowl. "You smoke around me all the time. What difference does it make if I'm the one holding it?"
"The difference is you're already self-destructive enough without adding nicotine to the list." His voice stays matter-of-fact while the cigarette dangles from his fingers. "This is the last thing you need."
"That's hypocritical." The words come out without heat.
"I don't care."
"You're sitting here smoking while telling me I can't smoke." Another bite lifts to your mouth and the chopsticks shake slightly in your grip.
"Yeah." He takes another drag and blows the smoke away from your face. "I am."
The energy required to argue about this does not exist in your body. Your brain tries to form a rebuttal and gives up halfway through. Whatever. The fight is not worth having. Going back to eating your noodles in mechanical silence seems easier.
Silence settles between you like a physical presence. His cigarette burns down slowly and leaves a trail of ash that he taps into the ashtray. Eating at your glacial pace continues. The bowl is maybe half empty now. Progress exists even if it feels minimal.
He reaches over and taps ash into the ashtray on the table. The movement is practiced and automatic. Smoke continues to curl upward while you continue to chew with your eyes half-closed from exhaustion.
"When did it start?" he says after a while.
The question is vague enough that clarification seems necessary. "When did what start?"
"This." He gestures vaguely at you with the hand holding the cigarette. Smoke trails from the lit end. "The not eating and sleeping. All of it."
Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth and hover there while you think, trying to pinpoint when things started going wrong feels impossible. There was no clear beginning, just a gradual slide from functional to whatever this current state is.
"I don't know," you say finally. "A week ago maybe. Could be longer."
"What happened?" He stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and immediately reaches for another one.
"Nothing happened."
"Something always happens." The lighter flicks and catches. New smoke joins the old.
"Not this time. I just got tired."
"Of what?"
"Everything." The word comes out flat and empty as you set the chopsticks down across your bowl. "All of it, the constant effort of being a person."
He does not respond right away. His eyes stay on you with that careful attention he gives to things he is trying to understand. The weight of his gaze feels heavy enough to press you further into the cushions.
"You should have called me," he says finally.
"I didn't know what to say." Your hands fold in your lap while your thumbs press against each other.
"You don't need to say anything. You just needed to call."Â
"I'm done," you say, not sure if you were referring to the noodles, or to the weight of everything on your shoulders.
"You barely ate half." He looks at the bowl and then back at your face.
"It's more than I've eaten in three days."
"Fine. That's enough for now."
Standing up requires pushing yourself off the couch with both hands. Your legs remember how to support your weight but protest the effort with a slight tremor. The bowl gets picked up as you turn toward the kitchen area.
"I'll wash this and then head out," you say.
"Why would you head out?" The question comes immediately.Â
"Because I should go home." Your feet are unsteady as you take a step towards the kitchen.
"Why?"
The question stops you mid-step. Going home means going back to your apartment, the unwashed dishes and the pile of laundry. It means going back to the space where the spiral started.
"I just should," you say without turning around.
"That's not a reason." His voice comes from behind you on the couch.
"I can't just stay here." The bowl trembles slightly in your grip.
"Why not?" The leather creaks as he shifts on the couch.
"Because I have things to do." Your knuckles are white where they grip the bowl.
"What things?" His voice stays level but something in it suggests he already knows you are lying. "What do you have to do at four in the morning?"
"I don't want to be a burden," you say. The words come out barely above a whisper.
"You're not." The couch creaks again and footsteps sound behind you.
"I'm literally falling apart in your apartment. That seems like a burden."
"I don't care. You're staying here."
"You can't just decide that,â You argue as you finally turn around to face him.
"I just did." He stands now and looks at you with that immovable expression.
"That's not how this works." Your voice lacks conviction.
"You can barely stand up without swaying. You're not going anywhere."
âI donât have my stuff,â you say weakly.
âYou donât need stuff. You need sleep.â
âI can sleep at home.â
âNo you canât.â The certainty in his voice allows no room for argument. âYouâll go back to your place and stare at the ceiling for six hours and then come back here looking worse than you do now.â
âYou donât know that.â
âYes I do.â
He is probably right. Going home means another day of going through motions without any actual living happening.
Your mouth opens to protest again but nothing comes out. The exhaustion has finally won. Fighting takes energy you stopped having days ago.
âFine,â you say. âIâll take the couch.â
âGet in the bed or Iâm carrying you there.â The bowl gets taken from your hands before you can respond. Water runs in the kitchen as he rinses it. Dishes clink together.
He comes back and finds you still standing in the same spot. His hand wraps around your wrist.
âCome on,â he says, leading you to the bedroom.
You climb onto his bed without waiting for further instruction. The mattress gives under your weight.Muscles you did not know were tense begin to release. The pillow smells like him.Â
He moves around the room for a moment. A drawer opens and closes. The lamp on the nightstand gets turned on and casts warm light across the space. Then the overhead light goes off and the room becomes softer.Â
"Move over," he says.
You shift toward the wall and your body protests the movement. The mattress dips significantly as he climbs in next to you. His weight settles and changes the entire landscape of the bed. The blanket gets pulled up higher over both of you. An arm drapes over your waist with familiar weight. Warmth radiates from his body into yours and seeps through the borrowed t-shirt you are wearing.
âIf you kick me Iâm going to the couch,â you mumble into the pillow.
âIâm not going to kick you.â
"You say that now." Your words slur slightly with exhaustion.
âGo to sleep.â
âThank you,â you say quietly. The words barely make it past your lips. âFor not letting me leave.â
His arm tightens around your waist slightly. âYouâre not going anywhere. Not anymore.â
Sleep pulls at the edges of your consciousness. For the first time in days it feels possible rather than theoretical. Your body starts to let go.
âDonât disappear again,â he says against your hair. His breath is warm on the back of your neck.
You manage a sound that might be agreement. Your brain has stopped forming coherent words. His warmth and the weight of his arm and the smell of cigarette smoke all blend together into something that feels almost like peace.
The static that has been filling your head for days finally quiets to nothing. Sleep takes you under like water closing over your head, but this time it feels like relief instead of drowning.
in your relationship, âwhat's mine is yoursâ is sylus's motto. he justâŠnever expected you to use his wealth to keep your favorite tv shows from being canceled.
before you met him, you'd been betrayed one too many times by some greedy network axing your beloved series one season in. so when you finally gain the resources to fight back, you vow to never be left on an unanswered cliffhanger ever again.
as the current season of your most-watched show comes to an end, you scour the news for a renewal announcement that never comes. when the inevitable âunfortunately, this series will not return for another season,â article drops, thereâs no time for mourningâonly action. you stay up all night running numbers you shouldnât even know, wondering just how many zeros itâll take for the studio to change their minds. (and they will change their minds. like, the main characters havenât even kissed yet! thereâs potential here, people!)
within the next week, the retraction statement floods the media:
âto our amazing community: an anonymous benefactor has made a multimillion-dollar donation to the production team behind your favorite show! their generosity will secure at least five more seasons for this brilliant team of creatives. thank you for making your voices heard!âÂ
hmmph, you think when you finish reading. and donât let it happen again!
other fans around the world rejoice at the network's change of heart, though theyâll never know the âbenefactorâ who made it happen was one of their very own.
and sylus? he hardly pays your philanthropic endeavors any mind. the funds are yours to spend, as far as heâs concerned; plus, if it means more cozy nights lying next to you, hearing you gush about scenes and storylines while your favorite show plays in the backgroundâŠwell, if it makes you that happy, he might just buy the whole network himself.
Canine level of smell means that scented soaps can probably be a bit of an assault on the nose. Thereâs aslo the fact that he probably enjoys when he can smell a personâs (especially your) natural, clean scent.
Lactose intolerant:
Now this one is more of a gag headcanon that I donât really believe in, but it would be funny. Canines canât have chocolate, but heâs a human. Now he could have a mild allergy, but I think itâs funnier if he was just lactose intolerant. And every lactose intolerant person I know just goes âwe ballâ and eats/drinks the dairy product filled whatever it is anyways. So he would love chocolate but feel absolutely awful later.
Very specific about fur care:
Likes to keep his tail soft and glossy, especially after meeting his mate. None of the cheap stuff, either. Itâs a whole thing including several brushes and a LOT of fur.
A baby about getting his claws clipped in wolf form:
He knows it needs to be done, but dislikes it. He asks you to help him with it, but whines and gives you puppy eyes the whole time. Youâre the one in charge of making him get it done. Heâs not in that form enough for his nails to naturally wear down from walking and running around and whatnot in the forest.
Scenting:
Yes more smell stuff. This one is specifically about him leaving HIS scent on you and your belongings and even your space. Finds joy in knowing you smell like him even if you and all the other humans canât perceive it. Also likes to casually brush against your doorways, and wall corners while passing by like marking. Itâs nice having his scent in your âterritoryâ lololol. Same with you. Rubs his cheek over yours and the top of your head and your shoulders- Digs his nose into yours neck to smell but also rub his nose against your skin.
Crepuscular:
This is another silly one. Unlikely, but funny to imagine. Wolves are crepuscular, meaning they are most active during twilight hours. Meaning dawn and dusk. Meaning the time most would want uninterrupted sleep. You wake up to find he baked a cake for no reason other than he had energy at 4 in the morning. You tell him to make cupcakes next time instead of a whole cake.
valko is most definitely the type of man to drive you all the way home himself if you're too sleepy to do anything.
imagine being so tired that you can barely keep your eyelids open, and you end up drifting off to sleep in the passenger seat. peacefully snoozing as your dreams drown out the sounds of the city, low music, and cars wooshing by. he's right next to you humming along to the song, one veiny hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on top of the gear shift.
when he pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park and hesitates for a few moments to take in the gorgeous sight of you completely unaware that you're finally home.
valko will get out of the car, open the car door quietly, and pick you up bridal style to gently carry you inside your home after rummaging through your bag to find your house keys.
in the morning you wake up on your comfortable mattress beneath the sheets, and groggily glance over at your nightstand to find all of your belongings neatly placed with a sticky note as well.
the note reads: "can't thank you enough for a wonderful night. i brought in your flowers for you too, they're on the kitchen table. -valko"
