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kingofbodyrolls · 2 days ago

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Songs of the Heart (m) | pjm | chap 4: face-off

In the quiet glow of a shared evening, you finally ask Jimin about Jiwoo, peeling back the layers of his heart while daring to reveal the scars of your own. You speak of the ghosts in your past, of love that hurt instead of healed, and he listens—truly listens—with the kind of tenderness you never thought you’d find. Jimin is everything you didn’t know your soul was yearning for, and now, in this fragile, shimmering moment, it feels like the universe is whispering that maybe, just maybe, you can do this. That love, real love, might finally be within reach.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: musician!au (not completely idol!au), single dad!au, slice of life!au → Trope: strangers to lovers / neighbors to lovers → Genres: slow burn romance / fluff / angst / smut / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 6.8k → Warnings + triggers: mention of illness, past character death (Jiwoo), mention of past domestic abuse (hitting), mention of past emotional abuse, FEELINGS 😭 → Read on AO3? [link] → Author’s note: Alright, brace yourselves—this one’s a rollercoaster of angst and sadness, okay? Like, grab your tissues sad. 😢 But I swear, hold tight because the storm does pass. You’ll get answers to all those questions we’ve been agonizing over, and while it’s emotional, it’s also unexpectedly soft—like a cozy blanket after a storm. 🌧️ All the raw, messy feelings are on display, but here’s the twist: healing is happening, and everything will be okay, I promise! 🫂 So let’s dive in, feel all the feels, and come out stronger on the other side! This whole story is for my dear friend @remmykinsff! I hope you’ll love it 💜

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The months slip by like sand through your fingers, swept away by the rhythm of work and the gentle pull of evenings spent with Jimin and his enchanting daughter, Hwa-Young. April has arrived, dressing the world in a delicate lace of blossoms, and with each petal that unfolds, you feel your own feelings for Jimin unfurl, tender and vibrant. Like spring itself, they bloom quietly, yet with an ache that demands to be felt.

And yet, you’ve kept your feelings hidden, a secret cradled close to your chest. Namjoon, ever the wise confidant, keeps urging you to tell him, to stop letting fear hold you back. “You’ll feel lighter,” he says, as though love isn’t a tightrope strung between hope and vulnerability. But the thought of laying your heart bare terrifies you. You’ve been down this road before, and the scars remind you that even the most beautiful things can break. Still, deep down, you know—Jimin is not like the others. There’s a gentleness in him, a quiet depth that sets him apart. Yet still, you tread cautiously, balancing between longing and fear.

Today, he’s invited you to his rehearsal—a glimpse behind the curtain of his world—and like the ever-supportive “friend” (oh, how that word stings now), you’ve come. From your spot in the empty venue, you watch him test his mic, strumming a few chords on his guitar before diving headfirst into his setlist. His voice, low and resonant, fills the space, spilling raw emotion into the still air.

You’ve heard these songs a hundred times before—on the radio, in quiet moments together, and the ones he’s been crafting these past months—but somehow, they strike a different chord tonight. Each haunting lyric feels like a thread, weaving something sacred, and his voice... oh, his voice. It reaches you in a way that words alone never could, wrapping around your heart, leaving you breathless and undone.

Goosebumps ripple over your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a moment—that the emotions he pours into his music might be meant for you.

As you watch him perform, lost in the way his fingers glide effortlessly across the strings, you find yourself wondering about the meaning behind his lyrics. What chapters of his life do they hold? What untold stories linger in the spaces between his words? Jimin is a mystery, and every haunting note he sings feels like a glimpse into a life he has yet to fully share with you.

“All right. With those sweet words of yours, you were doing your best to take every single thing from me. Look at yourself. Why don’t you want even more? You can want more. That suits you, babe. I hope you don’t change.”

His voice wraps around the room, raw and unguarded, and the lyrics cut through you, sharp and aching. There’s a truth in his words that stings, a vulnerability that feels too personal to ignore. It pierces your heart in ways you can’t explain.

A small part of you can’t shake the thought—these songs must be about Hwa-Young’s mother, no matter what he’s told you. He’s said they weren’t romantic, only friends, but these words… they feel too heavy, too deeply etched with sorrow and longing to be about just friendship. You can’t stop yourself from wondering if there are pieces of his past that are still too tender to touch, pieces he’s shielding even now.

And yet, as the melody rises, a weight settles in your chest. You remember what you told Namjoon months ago—that you weren’t ready to step into something complicated. And Jimin’s life? It feels like a song with too many verses, too many harmonies to untangle. The honesty of his voice, the rawness of his words—they’re pulling you in, but at the same time, the sheer depth of it all feels overwhelming. Why does love always have to feel so complicated?

You don’t even realize the tears streaking silently down your cheeks until you feel a small, warm hand wrap around yours.

“Y/N… why are you crying?”

The soft, curious voice pulls you from your spiraling thoughts, and you look down to see Hwa-Young gazing up at you, her big, concerned eyes watching you carefully. She’s been sitting beside you all along, a quiet witness to your unraveling.

You blink rapidly, trying to compose yourself, but the knot in your throat is hard to swallow. How could you explain this to her, this little girl who sees the world in innocent wonder? You can’t. You won’t.

With a shaky smile, you squeeze her hand and shake your head lightly. “I’m okay, sweetheart,” you whisper, your voice barely steady. But your heart clenches because you know the truth you can’t admit—not to her, not to Jimin, not even fully to yourself yet.

You’re falling, tumbling headlong into feelings for a man whose world is so much bigger than yours. And as much as you wish it wasn’t, as much as you long for simplicity, love never seems to come without its complications.

So, you settle on a simpler truth, wrapping it delicately in softness for her young heart to grasp. “Your dad is just so good at singing. It’s so beautiful, it makes me feel… sad in the best way.”

She nods thoughtfully, inching closer to you on the stools, her small shoulders brushing yours as if seeking silent comfort. “Daddy’s really good with words,” she says quietly, her voice carrying an innocence laced with wisdom far beyond her years. “He tried to make mommy happy with his words… but I think sometimes they did the opposite.”

Her statement lands like a whisper of thunder, quiet but resounding, leaving you staring at her. How could such a tiny soul speak with such weight? But before you can find a reply, she continues, her small voice carrying secrets as fragile as glass.

“When my mom got sick,” she murmurs, “he wanted to do everything for her…” Her words trail off, and instinctively, you lean toward her, drawing her into a gentle hug. Her warmth melts into yours, her resilience as humbling as her honesty.

“You know…” she muses after a pause, her tone lightening as her little legs swing idly beneath the stool. “Daddy never kissed Mommy.”

Her soft giggle catches you off guard, and you blink down at her, confusion flickering across your face. “Daddy never made love to my mommy either,” she adds with a grin, her words innocent yet jarring, sending heat rushing to your cheeks. You can’t tell if she fully understands what she’s saying, but her candor leaves your heart racing in your chest, your pulse hammering loud and unrelenting in your ears.

Your gaze instinctively shifts to the man she speaks of, and there he is—onstage, lost in his music, fingers coaxing melodies from his guitar, his voice weaving stories that feel like silk and sorrow all at once. If what she says is true—if Jimin never had that kind of relationship with Hwa-Young’s mother—then how...?

Questions bloom in your mind, wild and restless. And just as your thoughts begin to spiral, Jimin’s song comes to an end, and he looks up, his gaze locking onto yours across the room.

Time seems to halt.

The light casts a soft halo around him, his blonde hair glowing like threads of gold, his skin luminous under the stage lights. He looks ethereal, almost unreal, as if he belongs to another world entirely—a celestial being rather than a man who feels so deeply it hurts to watch.

And yet, it’s his eyes that anchor you, pulling you into the moment. They seem to see right through you, their warmth a balm and a spark all at once. Your breath catches, your chest tightens.

It’s in that instant you realize: you can’t keep dancing around these questions, these unspoken truths that hang between you like threads in a web. If there’s one thing you’re certain of, it’s that you can’t love a man while standing in the shadow of another. You deserve to know, to understand.

As Jimin gives you a wink, you feel the weight of the conversation you know you need to have. It’s time. Time to ask him about Jiwoo. Time to find out where she fits in his heart—and where you might belong in his story.

Jimin runs a hand through his hair, the strands clinging to his forehead where sweat beads at his hairline, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if it’s fair—how effortlessly breathtaking he looks, even like this, raw and unguarded under the stage lights.

Beside you, Hwa-Young slips her tiny hand into yours, her warmth grounding you in a moment you didn’t realize you needed. “I like you, Y/N. You’re nice,” she says, her words simple but disarming, like sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky.

A lump rises in your throat, and you feel the sting of emotion prickle your eyes. It’s as though this day is conspiring to undo you, one tender moment at a time. Pulling her into your arms, you hug her tightly, your voice soft as you reply, “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

The rest of Jimin’s rehearsal blurs like an impressionist painting—notes and movements smearing together into a beautiful haze. Before you know it, the three of you are seated in his car, the hum of the engine steady beneath the weight of your thoughts. Jimin’s voice mingles with Hwa-Young’s soft chatter, but your mind is elsewhere.

There’s something bubbling beneath the surface of your chest—an ache, a pull, an unrelenting tide of feelings that refuse to be silenced. They prickle at your skin, a mix of anxiety and anticipation, urging you to seize this moment. You know the talk you’ve been dreading is inevitable. You can’t avoid it any longer.

The car slows to a stop in front of Jimin’s home. His home—a place that has slowly begun to feel like your own in a way that terrifies and comforts you all at once. You follow them inside, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Jimin pauses, turning to you with a smile so soft it feels like it might break under its own tenderness. “I just need to put Hwa-Young to bed,” he says, his voice low and warm. “It’s way past her bedtime. Do you mind waiting here?”

You nod, settling onto the couch, the silence of the room wrapping around you like a blanket, but before Jimin can lead Hwa-Young away, she giggles and steps forward, her sleepy eyes sparkling with playful insistence.

“No, daddy. I want Y/N to read to me,” she says, her little voice carrying a hint of mischief, though the puffy redness beneath her eyes betrays her exhaustion.

Jimin exhales a soft sigh, but his smile lingers, a look of affection flickering across his face. He gestures for you to follow, his voice gentle. “Looks like you’ve been recruited,” he says with a small laugh.

You chuckle softly, your heart lightening despite the weight of the day, and rise to follow Hwa-Young into her room. The familiar rhythm of bedtime routines feels comforting as you help her brush her teeth, slip into her pajamas, and settle her under the covers. As you sit beside her, her eyes glisten with a warmth that makes your chest tighten.

There’s a sweetness to this moment, so simple and pure, yet it feels like it holds the weight of something bigger. As you help tuck her in, you can’t help but think of the life Jimin has built—the love, the care, the quiet strength—and wonder if you could truly belong in it.

“I’ve never seen my dad so happy since he met you,” she says, her voice small but carrying a truth that lands heavy in the space between you.

It’s like a gentle punch to your gut, the words so innocent, so pure, and yet they shake you to your core. Your throat constricts, an unexpected lump rising, as if the weight of her words is just too much to bear after such an emotional day. But you manage to smile—soft, fragile—and reach out to caress her forehead, letting the gesture speak for you when words seem inadequate.

You don’t need to say anything, because deep down, you already know—his happiness is something you’ve felt, too. That quiet, simmering certainty that there’s something more between you and Jimin, something undeniable, even if it’s still untold.

Hwa-Young interrupts your reverie, her small finger pointing to a well-worn book by her bedside. “Can you read this story for me?” she asks, her voice a soft plea. You glance down at the title, something about a princess who has faced the harshest of trials—siblings’ jealousy, the loneliness of her crown, a prince who offers help, but she stands strong on her own... until a single moment fractures her strength.

What kind of children’s book is this? you wonder, a touch bemused. But you say nothing, opening the pages, and as you read, her eyelids flutter slowly, the rhythm of your voice pulling her toward sleep like a lullaby.

As her breathing slows, her little body softening into the warmth of the blankets, you run your fingers gently through her hair, the silky strands slipping between your fingertips like whispers of tenderness. “Sweet dreams,” you whisper, the words barely audible, but they feel like a promise.

And in that moment, as she drifts off into a peaceful slumber, you realize that perhaps this—these quiet, fleeting moments—is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever known.

Then you step out of Hwa-Young’s room, the door clicking shut with a softness that feels almost sacred. The quiet hum of the house settles over you like a fragile veil as you make your way back to the living room. Jimin is there, sunk deep into the sofa, his posture loose with exhaustion. Even in the dim light, the weight of the day clings to him, but there’s something comforting about his presence—grounding, like an anchor in a restless sea.

You sit down beside him, close but not quite touching, and it feels like your heart is trying to break free from your chest. It thuds relentlessly, a drumbeat urging you forward. Today has been emotional, raw, and unguarded—a day of truths—and you decide, in this rare moment of quiet, it’s time to seize your courage.

“Jimin?” you breathe, his name barely more than a whisper as it escapes your lips. His gaze lifts to yours, tired but warm, his eyes carrying that soft, unspoken affection that always manages to disarm you.

“Hm?” he hums, leaning slightly toward you, his exhaustion not dimming the kindness in his face.

You hesitate, searching for the right words, your thoughts a tangled mess. It’s not a question you want to rush—it feels delicate, like glass. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your shirt, an outlet for your nervous energy, and your eyes flicker around the room as if the walls might give you answers. Finally, you steady yourself and exhale.

“I was wondering about Jiwoo… Hwa-Young’s mother,” you begin, your voice trembling with hesitation. “If you could tell me about her?”

For a moment, the room feels suspended in time. Jimin’s expression shifts, softening further as an almost wistful smile curls at the corners of his lips. His gaze turns introspective, like he’s reaching into a box of memories he hasn’t opened in a long time. Then he leans forward, his hands sliding over yours, steadying them, grounding you.

“What do you want to know?” he asks, his voice gentle, like the beginnings of a lullaby.

You swallow, feeling the weight of the moment press against your chest. “Well… everything you feel like sharing.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping for a moment as he collects his thoughts. When he speaks again, his voice carries a warmth, a tenderness that wraps around the edges of his words.

“Jiwoo was my childhood best friend,” he begins, his tone both nostalgic and reverent. “We were inseparable. Through school, through everything. She was… home. We had this bond that I think only happens a few times in a lifetime. She was the kind of person who could make the world feel a little less heavy just by being in it.”

His words settle in the air between you, and your heart clenches. You nod, urging him silently to continue, even though a part of you aches at the depth of the love he’s describing.

“We were there for each other,” he says, his voice dipping lower, as though he’s talking more to himself than to you now. “In every way that mattered. She wasn’t just my friend; she was family. My constant.”

You watch him closely, the soft glow of the room casting gentle shadows across his face, and though his voice remains steady, you catch the faintest glimmer of sadness in his eyes. It’s as though he’s letting you into a sacred part of his heart, piece by fragile piece.

And as he pauses, the quiet stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable, filled with an understanding that doesn’t need words. You brace yourself for what comes next, your fingers still caught beneath his, his warmth anchoring you as much as your presence seems to steady him.

“One day, she went to her doctor for what she thought was just a routine checkup,” Jimin begins, his voice dipping into something heavy, laden with the kind of memory that lingers like a storm cloud. “But then she called me right after… crying her eyes out because they told her she had cancer.” His body folds slightly at the recollection, shoulders slumping under the weight of the past, and your heart feels like it’s sinking into a bottomless well.

He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing, his fingers unconsciously tracing over yours as though grounding himself in the present. “She started talking about everything she hadn’t done… about the life she hadn’t lived. She was terrified. You know, Jiwoo always talked about wanting kids someday, but she never found the right guy.” His lips quirk upward briefly, bittersweet, before the sadness returns to his gaze.

You nod softly, the room seeming smaller, quieter, as his words draw you deeper into his world.

“I tried to tell her… over and over again… that cancer didn’t have to take her dreams away. That she still had time. But she didn’t believe it,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, the cracks revealing the depth of his pain. He exhales shakily, squeezing your hands as though searching for strength in your touch.

“Then she asked me,” he continues, his voice almost trembling with the weight of the memory, “if I’d have a child with her.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and you watch as his eyes shimmer with unshed tears.

“And I—” he sobs gently, his vulnerability raw and unfiltered. “I wanted to do anything for her. Anything. She was my best friend, and this… this was the one thing in life she wanted the most.”

A lump forms in your throat as you see his pain laid bare before you, unguarded and achingly real. Your chest tightens as the truth of his words settles deep in your heart.

“So even though I’d never felt that way about her,” he says, his voice soft but firm, “I said yes. I agreed.” His hands clench yours a little tighter, as though he’s afraid of losing something even now. “I donated my sperm, and she had her eggs fertilized. That’s how Hwa-Young came to be,” he finishes, his voice quiet but resolute, the ghost of a smile barely brushing his lips.

For a moment, silence stretches between you, but it isn’t empty—it’s filled with unspoken emotions, grief, and love, all tangled together in a bittersweet symphony.

His tears fall freely now, and you realize your own are trailing down your cheeks, unbidden. You don’t know where his tears end and yours begin, as they mix and soak into your joined hands. The moment feels sacred, fragile, as though the two of you are holding not just each other, but also the echoes of Jiwoo and everything she left behind.

And though your heart aches for him, for her, and for the beautiful little girl asleep in the room beside you, it also swells—because this man, with all his pain and all his love, is showing you a part of himself he’s never shared with anyone before.

“So, she became pregnant,” he begins, his voice trembling, “and she managed to carry to term, but…” He pauses, running his free hand over his face, wiping away the tears that seem endless. “Her cancer… it got worse. And she… she didn’t want to get treatment while she was pregnant. She didn’t want to risk the baby.” He huffs out a breath, a sound too broken to be a sigh, drying his damp cheeks with trembling fingers.

“After she gave birth,” he continues, voice cracking under the weight of the memory, “they gave her the terminal diagnosis.” His hands clench yours tighter, as if holding on to the present will keep the past from pulling him under. “And all I could think… all I could do… was try to give her everything she ever wanted—the child, the life, everything she dreamed of.” His voice shatters on the last word, and he sobs openly, the years of sorrow spilling out at last.

You pull him into a hug, holding him close as his grief crashes into you like a tidal wave. His sobs are muffled against your shoulder, but his pain is louder than words.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, “I know people have always questioned my feelings for her. Wondered what we really were to each other. But she… she was like a sister to me. My best friend. My constant.” His words falter as he pulls back just slightly to meet your gaze, his tear-streaked face lit by the soft glow of the living room light. “I don’t know how to explain the bond we had. She wasn’t my lover, but she was my everything. And when she died…” His voice catches, and he lets out a shaky exhale, eyes shimmering with fresh tears.

“When she died,” he whispers, his throat tightening with every word, “Hwa-Young was only six months old. I was so young… so unprepared to be a father. And my career was just starting. The spotlight was on me, but I wanted to shield Hwa-Young from it all. I had to shield her. But it’s been…” He takes another shaky breath, his voice breaking again, “it’s been so exhausting—carrying it all. All the grief. All the questions. All the feelings.”

Your chest aches as you watch him, the weight of his story pressing into you like a stone. You nod softly, words failing you, because how can you begin to comprehend the burden he has borne? How can anyone?

You tighten your arms around him, hoping he can feel the warmth of your care, the silent promise that he’s not alone. Slowly, gently, you move back just enough to look him in the eyes. His gaze is raw, brimming with sorrow and vulnerability, yet there’s a flicker of relief in the depths of his brown irises.

“I’m so sorry, Jimin,” you whisper, your voice trembling but full of sincerity. “You’ve carried so much for so long. You’ve given so much of yourself.”

And in that moment, it feels as though the two of you are suspended in time, surrounded by an unspoken understanding—a shared fragility and a promise of healing.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper again, your voice thick with emotion. “I can tell how much she meant to you.” You pause for a moment, letting your thoughts form, delicate as flower petals. “If my best friend were dying, I’d do anything for him too—even giving him a child if that was his dream. I’d want to give him something to hold on to. Something to leave behind.”

Jimin looks at you then, and it’s as if the world stills around you. His eyes, swollen from tears, soften into something deeper—something like gratitude, like he’s finally been seen, truly understood for the first time.

“I think it’s beautiful,” you continue, your voice trembling, “what you did for her. The greatest gift you could’ve given her.” You reach out, drying the tears that continue to slip down his cheeks, your touch as tender as the words you’re trying to say. “And now you have her little piece of forever. A part of the love and the friendship you shared. That’s… that’s so precious, Jimin.”

Your voice cracks as the weight of his story settles deeper into your chest. You choke back your own tears, your breath hitching. “It’s really beautiful.”

And somehow, as broken as the moment feels, there’s a strange healing that takes root within you. His story pulls at your soul, stitching up places in your heart you didn’t even know needed mending. The depth of his love for Jiwoo, for Hwa-Young, only strengthens the feelings you’ve been carrying for him. And in this raw, vulnerable space, you no longer question his past or the bond he shared with her. No, now you see it for what it truly is—a love so pure, so selfless, that it only brings you closer to him.

Jimin’s breath catches, and then he sobs again, burying his face briefly in his hands before looking back at you. “Before she died,” he whispers, his voice breaking, “she made me promise her something.” He pauses, the air between you fragile and electric, like the calm before a storm.

You lean closer, your voice soft but steady. “What did you promise her?”

His lips tremble as he exhales, gathering the strength to say the words. “She made me promise that I’d find love,” he says, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent carrying that promise. “But I… I’ve never been able to. Not until…” His words trail off, and suddenly he moves closer, so close that your foreheads are touching.

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the steady rhythm of his heart echoing in the quiet between you. Your chest tightens, and you inhale deeply, summoning every ounce of courage.

“Jimin?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, trembling like the edge of a song.

He sniffles, his voice rasping but soft. “Yeah?”

Your eyes meet his, and in them, you see everything—his pain, his hope, and something new, something meant just for you. You exhale shakily. “I think…” you pause, grounding yourself in the moment, “I think I’m falling for you.”

A stunned silence stretches between you, and then he exhales, his lips curving into the softest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen. “I think…” he says, his voice almost breaking with emotion, “I think I’m falling for you too.”

The weight of his confession hits you both at the same time, and suddenly, laughter spills out between the tears. It’s unsteady and messy, but it feels so good—like the tension and sorrow of the past have finally given way to something warm and freeing.

You cling to each other, laughing and crying, your hands tangling in his as the world around you fades away. It’s chaotic, it’s raw, and it’s imperfect—but it’s yours. It’s the start of something neither of you can deny anymore. And for the first time, it feels like everything is exactly as it’s meant to be. Just right.

You wake to the soft prod of a small finger poking your cheek. A sleepy groan escapes your lips as you stir, shifting against a source of warmth beneath you. Blinking your eyes open, you’re met with Hwa-Young’s beaming face, her smile bright enough to rival the morning sun.

“Are you and daddy together now?” she asks innocently, her big, curious eyes studying you with a playful twinkle.

Confusion flutters through you until you glance down—and your heart stops. You realize you’ve been lying on top of Jimin, his chest a comforting pillow throughout the night. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you sit up abruptly, your movement jostling him awake.

“Wha—what?” Jimin mumbles groggily, his hair adorably tousled as he sits up too, looking at you with sleepy, startled eyes. His blush mirrors your own, painting his cheeks a delicate rose as realization dawns on him.

You laugh nervously, running a hand through your hair in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. Jimin chuckles too, rubbing the back of his neck, though his embarrassment doesn’t erase the tender smile tugging at his lips, “Muckin’ aren’t you up early?”

Hwa-Young, ever the morning sprite, shakes her head matter-of-factly. “No, no, you guys slept in. So, are you dating now?” Her voice is sweet, but her question lands like a thunderbolt in your chest, setting your heart racing.

How is it that a child’s innocent words can so effortlessly crack open your emotions, leaving them raw and exposed?

Jimin turns to you, his eyes wide with surprise, then softening into something deeper—something vulnerable yet sure. Your gaze drops to your hand, hesitantly reaching for his. When your fingers touch, his warmth steadies you, grounding your swirling thoughts.

You swallow the lump in your throat and look back at him. “If you want this,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “then I want this too.”

For a moment, the world stands still. Jimin’s smile grows, tender and genuine, his eyes brimming with quiet joy. “I guess… I guess we are,” he says, his voice carrying the kind of softness that makes your heart flutter.

Your eyes flick to Hwa-Young, her grin impossibly wide as she watches the exchange like she’s been waiting for this moment forever. “Would that be okay with you?” you ask her gently, your voice laced with sincerity. After all, this little girl holds a piece of Jimin’s heart, and you’d never want to intrude on that if she didn’t welcome you.

Hwa-Young’s response is instant—a squeal of pure delight as she throws her arms around you both. “Of course, it’s okay! I’ve been waiting for this to happen!” she cries, her excitement contagious.

Her small arms mash you and Jimin together in a tight, giggling hug, the three of you becoming a tangle of laughter and warmth. Jimin’s arm curls protectively around both of you, and you feel him press a light kiss to Hwa-Young’s hair.

Your eyes meet his over her head, and in his gaze, you see it all—the joy, the relief, and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning. You’re a mess of laughter and emotions, but in this moment, wrapped in their embrace, everything feels right. Like the first rays of sunlight after a long night, you feel hope bloom in your chest, warm and endless.

The rest of the day unfolds in a blissful haze of warmth and laughter. With Jimin and Hwa-Young, it’s all simple joys—playing silly games, dramatic rounds of charades, and bursts of giggles during hide-and-seek. The house feels alive, filled with the kind of happiness that settles in your soul like sunlight after a storm.

When evening falls, Jimin takes over the kitchen, whipping up dinner with a grace that mesmerizes you, even in its simplicity. The meal is delicious, and afterward, Hwa-Young’s sleepy yawns signal bedtime. You offer to tuck her in once more, her tiny arms wrapping around your neck as you read her favorite story until her soft, even breaths fill the room.

By the time you find yourself nestled in Jimin’s bed, the world feels quieter, softer, like it’s holding its breath just for the two of you. You lie beside him, the dim light casting gentle shadows across his face. His presence is steady, grounding you in a way that feels both new and eternal.

Your gaze lingers on him, your chest swelling with emotions you can barely contain. Pride, gratitude, love—it’s all there, an unspoken symphony playing between your heartbeats. Slowly, your hand reaches out, your fingers brushing against the softness of his cheek.

“Thank you, Jimin,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes meet yours, warm and patient, as if he’s willing to wait forever to hear what you have to say. “Thank you for sharing the love you had for Jiwoo.”

His hand moves to cover yours, gently pressing it against his cheek. There’s something in his touch that feels like a promise—like he’s anchoring you to him, silently vowing to keep you close, to never let you go.

“You were really brave,” you continue, your voice trembling with the weight of what you’re about to say. “So I want to be brave too.” You blink, inhaling deeply, willing the courage to surface. “I want to tell you about my relationships.”

Jimin nods, his head sinking deeper into the pillow as his eyes remain fixed on yours, filled with quiet understanding. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push—he just waits, offering you the safe space you need to unravel your thoughts.

“You’ve met my brother Yoongi, of course,” you begin, your voice soft but steady. “Both him and my best friend Namjoon… they’re very protective of me.” You pause, swallowing hard. “Because,” you sigh, your breath hitching as you press forward, “because I have a bad track record with men.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw, but instead of recoiling, Jimin shifts closer, his hand gently intertwining with yours. His touch says everything you need—it’s okay. Take your time.

You exhale shakily, your gaze flickering to the ceiling as memories resurface. “I’ve been with men who didn’t value me, didn’t see me for who I was. They took pieces of me, left me feeling smaller, like I wasn’t enough.” Your voice cracks, but Jimin’s hand tightens slightly around yours, grounding you. “It’s made me cautious, made me put up walls I didn’t even realize were there.”

You glance back at him, your voice softening. “But you’re different, Jimin. You’ve never made me feel small or unsure. With you, it’s like… like I’m finally breathing fresh air after years of holding it all in.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, his gaze unwavering, filled with something so tender it makes your chest ache. “You’re not small, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice steady but rich with emotion. “You’re more than enough.”

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand, grounding you with the warmth of his touch as a tear slips free from your eye. He doesn’t speak, but the steady rhythm of his fingers against your skin tells you that he’s listening, that he’s here.

You inhale shakily, the words heavy on your tongue but begging to be said. “I don’t know why, but all the men I’ve been with—they’ve either been manipulative, cheating, or full of red flags I should’ve seen but didn’t,” you murmur, your voice trembling under the weight of memory. “The most recent one, Mark… this was a few years ago…”

You pause, closing your eyes as you brace yourself. His hand tightens slightly on yours, a silent assurance that you can take your time.

“He hurt me,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper, “not just emotionally. He was cunning—so good with his words, so convincing. He made me believe every lie he told, every false promise.” Your voice cracks, and you force a laugh, though it’s brittle, hollow. “And then one day… one day, he hit me.”

The words hang in the air, raw and exposed, like a wound that never fully healed. You dare to glance at Jimin, and what you see makes your chest ache—a storm of pain, anger, and heartbreak swirling in his eyes, all for you. He says nothing, but the way he looks at you feels like a vow: No one will ever hurt you again.

You laugh softly, the sound tinged with bittersweet triumph as you add, “So… I hit him back.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then a spark of something else—something close to pride—flickers in them.

“I don’t go around hitting people, I swear,” you say quickly, shaking your head with a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But Mark? Mark deserved it. And then I left him. For good.” You let out a deep sigh, sinking further into the pillow, as though shedding the memory and its weight. “I haven’t dated anyone since. Not because I didn’t want to, but… I’ve been scared. Scared it would all happen again.”

Your gaze drifts to Jimin, and your hand moves on its own, your fingertips brushing against his lips. The softness of them makes you shiver, makes you feel something you haven’t felt in a long time—hope.

“But you…” your voice falters, your touch lingering against the plush curve of his lips, “you’re not like the men I’ve known before. You’re gentle, and kind, and so good—so good it terrifies me. And yet…” You pause, the confession tightening in your chest like a butterfly trapped in a jar. “And yet, I’m still scared.”

His lips part slightly beneath your fingers, a breath of warmth brushing against your skin as his eyes lock onto yours, steady and unwavering.

“Scared of this,” you whisper, your voice cracking with vulnerability, “of letting you in, of giving this—us—a chance.”

Your hand trembles as you pull away, but before you can retreat, Jimin reaches for you, his fingers curling gently around yours and pulling your hand back to his chest. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, strong and reassuring.

“But I want you,” you admit, your voice barely audible, the words spilling out like a confession to the night. “I want to try, even though I’m scared.”

For a moment, the world holds its breath. His hand moves to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away the tear that lingers on your cheek. “You don’t have to be afraid,” he whispers, his voice soft but full of quiet conviction.

And when he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, it feels like a promise—unspoken but unmistakable. The past may have left its scars, but with him, you feel the fragile beginnings of something new. Something healing. Something worth the risk.

He inches closer, the warmth of his body drawing yours like a tide to the shore, and the gap between you dissolves into nothing.

“Mark sounds like a fucking dick,” he murmurs, his voice low but laced with quiet fire. “I’m proud of you—proud that you stood up for yourself and left. And I swear to you,” his voice softens, trembles with a vow he’s desperate for you to believe, “I’d never do anything like that. Ever.”

He’s so close now, your noses brushing, the air between you charged and trembling, and it would take nothing—nothing at all—to close the gap and press your lips to his. But you hold back, caught in the moment’s fragile beauty, afraid to shatter it.

“You deserve so much more than what you’ve been given,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. His breath mingles with yours, his words steady and sincere, but then they falter. “And I… I just hope I won’t disappoint you.” He exhales shakily, his vulnerability like an exposed nerve. “I haven’t been in many serious relationships.”

You study him in the dim light, your gaze tracing every detail that makes him so heartbreakingly human. The tiny freckles scattered like constellations across his skin. The slight curve of his crooked teeth when he speaks. The crescent moon shape his eyes take when they crinkle, even when he’s this close to breaking. The ink that stains his finger and wrist, marks of stories and promises etched into his flesh.

Everything about him is imperfect. Everything about him is beautiful. And your chest tightens with the force of it all, the way his presence fills every hollow part of you without even trying.

“Maybe…” you murmur, the words catching as your eyes lock with his, “maybe we can figure it out together?”

Your breaths intermingle, his so warm against your lips it feels like a whisper of what could be. His eyes search yours, wide and shimmering with something fragile, something hopeful.

“I’d love that,” he breathes, his voice soft but sure, and then he moves—finally closes the distance.

When his lips meet yours, the world tilts and stills all at once. His taste is intoxicating, a delicate blend of something musky and sweet, like vanilla threaded with amber. It’s not just a kiss—it’s gravity, pulling you into his orbit, tethering you to him in a way that feels both grounding and weightless.

You wrap your arms around him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though holding on to him could anchor you in this moment. His touch, the way his body molds to yours, feels like home. Like comfort. Like every shattered piece of your heart finally has a place to rest.

This—he—is what you’ve been waiting for. And as the kiss deepens, you realize he’s not just what you want; he’s what you need.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv @mikrokookiex @rapmonjoon94 @parkitrighthere

→ Series taglist: @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @hnnnjm @flaneuseonthestreets @miniesjams32 @graydolan12 @rinkud @allie-in-the-moon

→ Author’s endnote: okay, real talk—how are you holding up? Because oh my god, I was absolutely SOBBING while writing this. Like, ugly crying, tissues everywhere, red-nosed Rudolph levels of chaos 😭. But I swear on all that is good and fluffy, things are finally looking up now! No more gut-wrenching, soul-crushing angst (well, maybe just a sprinkle here and there for spice), but I promise, it’s time for healing 🥹 So grab your emotional support snacks, because we’re entering the soft era! 🫶

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fophelia1331 · 2 days ago

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Aight, I'm kinda tired so I'm gonna wait to give the whole big lore drop, but here's some stuff about my Project Sekai unit swap AU.

All the cutouts are courtesy of @prosekaiuwu, aside from the VBS Miku, MMJ Miku, and Luka heads (which I cut out myself).

Groups:

COLLAGE

A performance squad that blends wildly different sounds together. The roots the respective members have in classical, idol pop, musical soundtracks, and street songs are all honored in their new sound.

Genre: Mixed

Faded Smiles

Many smiles and cheery sounds, though the lyrics they sing often have deeper meanings. Each member has loved and lost... you can hear it in their voices if you listen long enough.

Genre: Indie Pop

fragile

The lyrics are distorted, the melody is crisp yet echoing. The nostalgia for childhood from an observer far away. The sound of crystal and glass.

Some Notes:

Genre: Denpa

Heartbreak Re-Take

Lone souls put their hearts together in this band. Half rough around the edges, half polished to perfection. The songs call out, the music tells you that it will all be okay.

Genre: Shoegaze

Monochrome (K)Nights

There's a story to every tune, and a hundred more they could tell. Three members of different background and talents work together to immersive each passersby. Every day a new tale is woven.

Genre: Lyrical (with aspects of musical numbers and indie)

Serpent Intent

Mythology, folklore, and tradition are at the core of this group. They pay homage to what has brought them to this point in life with music that carries one through time itself. The wings of a butterfly... the words of a serpent.

Genre: New Wave

Haruka enrolled at Kamiyama instead of Miya Girls. She's in class 1C with Akito, and he ends up shooing some nosy classmates away from her a couple times.

RIP to the Wonder Stage, the source of the easiest backstory angst for Emu. Sorry hun. (In clearer words: the stage was demolished. I didn't do it because it was easy, but it is easy angst.)

Honami dropped out of Miya Girls early into the year, but was classmates with Emu for a short time. She's doing online courses now.

Honami also doesn't work as a caretaker at all, so definitely not for Kanade.

Kanade was going to visit her father in the hospital when she heard piano music from down the hall. She ended up in the ward Saki stayed in and saw Saki at the piano. Kanade listened for a bit, but Saki couldn't play for long because of her health. Kanade left, but she didn't forget the song Saki played.

Ichika couldn't always make it out to visit Saki at the hospital. Thus, she ended up giving some notes and gifts to Tsukasa so he could deliver them. The two had an excuse to spend some time together, which was equally appreciated. Ichika and Tsukasa were both kinda lonely, so it was nice to have someone around.

Ena ended up needing to go to extra lessons before her night classes, which Tsukasa also was a part of. Ena immediately would say Tsukasa was annoying, though she admired how bold and upfront he seemed to be.

Though Ena and Tsukasa weren't really friends, Tsukasa was one of the few students in their extra class who went out of his way to speak to everyone. He was one of the only people Ena had interacted with at school. When Ena got forced back into day classes and put into class 2A with Tsukasa, he immediately offered to help her get used to the new schedule. Ena's fate was sealed. She became friends with Tsukasa.

Shizuku can play violin. Look at her. Violin. Shizuku. Yes.

Mizurui friendship in middle school. Mizuan friendship in their first year of high school. Rui transfered to Kamiyama, falling back in with Mizuki, and now An. Mizuruian rooftop trio.

(M(K)N was the first group I came up with. I really liked the way An and Mizuki looked in the knight costumes? (I don't remember what it's called, but it's in the base game, no card unlocks.) So I added Rui in there, and I loved that group ever since. What a dynamic. I could see them going roller skating on the weekends.)

Serpent Intent: also known as, how much can I angst Minori while building that Miya class 1A group? I mean, there will be Shiho and Kohane angst too. But the start of the group is built on Minori angst.

Kohane will totally get a glow up, and it's [hopefully] going to be a bit different from her VBS one.

I said this would be simple. I think I lied to myself. Well I'm gonna call it here for now, but I'm totally going to put up some more about this AU, so stay tuned! And I'm open to questions/asks too. Thanks for checking this out!

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bookloover35 · 3 days ago

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A Song for Sanji x fem reader.

The Baratie was alive with its usual cacophony of clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, and the sizzling sounds of the kitchen. It was a place of chaos and comfort, a haven for weary travelers and hungry pirates. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, the Baratie hummed with anticipation, the kind that only came when you took the stage.

You were the singer. Not just any singer, but the voice of the Baratie, the one who could hush even the rowdiest of patrons with a single note. Your voice was as much a part of the restaurant's charm as the food, and for someone like Sanji, it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard.

He wasn't one to get distracted while working, but the moment you stepped onto the makeshift stage, guitar in hand and confidence in your stride, everything else faded into the background.

The First Song

You began with a slow, sultry tune that wrapped around the room like smoke, your voice smooth and magnetic. The crowd quieted, entranced, and Sanji, standing behind the bar with a dish towel slung over his shoulder, leaned forward, completely captivated.

"Focus, Sanji!" Zeff barked, tossing a ladle in his direction.

Sanji dodged it easily, his eyes never leaving you. "I am focused," he muttered under his breath, though his mind was far from the plates and pans in the kitchen.

When the song ended, the crowd erupted in applause. You gave a modest bow, your eyes scanning the room until they found his. Sanji's heart skipped a beat when you smiled at him—a small, private smile meant just for him.

After the Show

Later that night, when the crowd had thinned and the Baratie was settling into its quieter hours, you found Sanji in the corner of the kitchen, carefully plating a dish.

"You always watch me like that," you teased, leaning against the doorway.

Sanji looked up, startled but delighted. "Can you blame me? Your voice could stop wars, love."

You laughed, walking over to him. "And what about you? Every meal you make tastes like peace itself. I'd say we're even."

He smirked, wiping his hands on his apron before pulling you gently by the hand. "Even? Hardly. I cook, but you... you bring the soul to this place."

You rolled your eyes, though your cheeks warmed at his words. "You're too much sometimes, you know that?"

"Never too much for you," he replied smoothly, his voice dropping into that soft, honeyed tone that always made your heart flutter.

Late-Night Serenade

The two of you ended up on the deck, the night sky stretching endlessly above you. Sanji had brought out a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, insisting that you deserved something special after your performance.

"I'm serious," he said, watching as you plucked at the strings of your guitar, playing a quiet tune. "You're incredible. I don't think you even realize how much you mean to everyone here."

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. "And you don't realize how much you mean to me, Sanji."

His breath hitched, and for a moment, the ever-confident chef was at a loss for words.

"Would you like a song?" you asked, breaking the silence.

"For me?" His voice was softer now, almost vulnerable.

You nodded, adjusting your grip on the guitar. "For you."

The melody you played was tender, the lyrics intimate—a love song written in secret during stolen moments. As you sang, Sanji's expression shifted from surprise to wonder, and by the time the song ended, his gaze was filled with something deeper than admiration.

"Did you... write that for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, suddenly shy. "I guess you could say you're my muse."

Sanji reached for your hand, bringing it to his lips. "And you, my love, are my everything."

The night stretched on, the two of you lost in each other's company, your voices and laughter mingling with the quiet sounds of the sea. In a world as chaotic as theirs, these moments of peace were rare, but they were all the more precious for it.

#wattpad #wattpadstories #wattpad story #my own words #one pice live #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #one pice x fem reader #sanji x female reader #opla sanji #opla x y/n #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #black leg sanji #sanji #one pice Sanji

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sallysavestheday · 21 hours ago

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Spirit Games

Family feels for @arafinwean-week

*****************

Finarfin’s children are bright sparks, all, at their conception, dancing and shimmering in the depths of his heart. Yet each is shadowed, cradled in opacity that speaks of strange, uncertain futures. Child after child after child after child.

As they grow, he waits, loving them, for the trick of fate or fortune that will overturn the cup of his happiness. He knows too well from his own youth the weight of expectations, the shapes of pain and sorrow that dance beside joy.

Four souls, born of his own yearning.

He loves them, spoils them, shields them. He loses them all.

*****

Finrod loves haying: the sweet scent of the drying grasses, the rhythmic song of the haymakers, the slow trundle of the carts along the windrows as the forage is raked and piled high. He dances atop the ricks, trampling the straw and whistling as the oxen trudge their patient way to the barns.

Until he slips, and falls into the dusty pile, suddenly submerged. It is only a moment until he draws breath again, shivering, but he will swear ever after that it was there that he first heard cries of battle: struggling in the hay, that was the Fens.

*****

Angrod’s palms are pink with dust; the hollows of his eyes stand out from his dirty face as he tugs his father’s hand, hurrying him down to the brickworks where he has been playing.

“Atya, come see!” He is serious, urgent; his usually hasty speech strangely weighted with the knowledge of a task well-done.

The tower he has built has the clean lines and stability so prized by the Noldor: it will outlast a weathering, stand firm against a storm.

Finarfin’s words of praise are strangely stiff within his mouth. The late light bathes Angrod’s thatch of hair in flame.

*****

The hunt is to be a pleasure trip, a milestone in maturity: riding out with elder cousins into what passes for the wilds of peaceful Aman. Aegnor watches the stag fall – its great head tossing in agony, its hooves tearing the grass – and asks when they may expect it to Return. Ever after, he refuses meat, unwilling to send another life beyond the circles of the world.

In Dorthonion, in love and already mourning Andreth, he raises sheep – for wool, alone. They are sweet, and wise, and shearing is as close to another life for them as he can come.

*****

Little Artanis cannot abide a leather garment. It is like having another skin, Atar, she explains, to his bewilderment, and I already have too many of my own. Watching her grow, Finarfin remembers that aversion as she shape-shifts and adapts: to politics, to sport, to craft. With each mastery some new form of her emerges, striding forth from the split skin of the old.

They meet again in foundering Beleriand, he in a steel carapace, she in silk and linen and the finest, softest wool. Still, no leather. How many selves she has shed by then, he does not know.

*****

Also on AO3.

#aranfinwean week 2025 #finarfin #finrod #angrod #aegnor #galadriel

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saturns-spell · 1 day ago

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A Letter to Penelope.

My love, my heart, my steadfast guide,

Though seas may part and winds may chide,

I write to you across the night,

Where shadows fall and stars take flight.

Twelve years have passed, but not a day

Has dulled the fire that lights my way.

In distant lands, I roam alone,

Yet every thought is of our home.

The sirens sing, the Cyclops roars,

But none can break these inner shores,

Where your sweet voice still calls me near,

A whispered prayer I hold so dear.

I see your face in every dawn,

Your laughter in the winds that song.

No treasure, no throne, no land unknown

Could replace the peace my heart has known.

Endure, my love, be strong and true,

For I will return, and when I do,

Our beds will be warm, our halls will glow,

And in your arms, my soul shall know—

That all my trials, all my pain,

Were but the price to come again,

To be with you, my heart, my light,

Penelope, my love, my life.

--------------

First post? 👀

#epic odysseus #epic the musical #the odyssey #poetry #odysseus and penelope #odysseus

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missarchive · 3 days ago

Note

Hey,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where he realizes he is in love with the fbi reader after she nearly dies while she was hunting an other serial killer. After this realization he persues her and has dinner with her, where he confesses in a typical Hannibal way.(preferably with smut)

my first request! thank you so so much!!! i hope you like it <3

who? hannibal x fem!reader

category: angst, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dark themes, cannibalistic references, mentions of death, blood, fingering, food, biting

word count: 2k

He watched in horror as you lay motionless on the floor, your blood painting the room in crimson rivers, a masterpiece of despair. The coppery scent filled his nostrils, igniting something primal in him, but it was overshadowed by the weight of his failure. His heart fell like carrion, devoured by guilt. If only he hadn’t been so consumed by his obsession with Buffalo Bill, so blinded by his macabre reveries, he might have caught the predator who nearly stole you from him. You were his now, his life’s marrow, and the thought of losing you gnawed at his resolve.

Jack’s frantic voice calling for paramedics was a dull roar in the background, irrelevant. All that mattered was you, your fragile body bathed in the ichor of survival. Your blood called to him—a siren’s song of life and fragility, begging him to protect what he had claimed.

The ride to the hospital was a slow dissection of his patience. He stayed by your side, never wavering, his presence as steady as a hunter guarding his feast. When they sedated you, he felt the sting of powerlessness, like a beast caged, unable to act. Seeing you pale and vulnerable in the hospital bed filled him with an ache he couldn’t name—a hunger not of the body but of the soul. You deserved better, and he would carve the world into a place worthy of you.

He’d never felt like this, not even in his darkest indulgences. You had unearthed something raw in him, something human, an appetite for connection that rivaled his other hungers. You made him feel alive, your presence slicing through his apathy as cleanly as a scalpel. You were his purpose now, the flesh to his bone, the feast he never knew he craved.

When you were discharged a week later, he was there, your shadow and sentinel. He helped you into the car, his touch lingering, savoring the privilege of your skin against his. You ordered takeout and sat together, the mundane act transformed into an intimacy that gnawed at the edges of his restraint. You wanted to know him, to taste the marrow of his history, and for the first time, he relented. He bared his scars, his childhood, Mischa—the foundation of the monster he had become.

Your arms wrapped around him, your cold hands branding his skin, and he reveled in the comfort you offered. You were his salvation, his undoing. When he stayed with you that night, your feverish body beside his, your scent and warmth filled the hollow void within him. The memory of your blood on his tongue haunted him, exquisite and forbidden, but he resisted. For now.

The next evening, you agreed to dine with him. He led you to the table, his lair dressed as an altar, the candelabra casting flickering shadows that seemed to dance with the promise of secrets. The silver serving dish gleamed between you both, an offering. When he revealed its contents—sliced thigh meat, glistening and tender—your breath hitched, her eyes wide with fear and something deeper. Desire.

“Will you taste it, for me?” he asked, his voice silken, the predator coaxing the prey.

“I shouldn’t,” you whispered, your eyes darting from the meat to his face.

“But you want to,” he said, leaning closer, his presence enveloping you like a shadow. “Don’t deny yourself what you crave.”

You swallowed hard, lips parting in hesitation. “And if I do? What does that make me?”

“It makes you honest,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “Honest with yourself. With me.”

Your trembling nod was all he needed. He fed you, piece by piece, watching as your soft lips closed around the fork, tongue darting out to savor the taste.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his eyes locked on yours. “What do you taste?”

Your gaze flickered to the dish, then back to him. “It’s rich,” your voice barely above a whisper. “Decadent. It shouldn’t be, but…”

“But it’s exquisite,” he finished for you, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Just like you.”

Your breath hitched, and you shook her head. “You can’t say things like that. Not after everything.”

“Everything I’ve done, you mean?” he said, setting the fork down and leaning closer. “And yet, here you are. At my table. Tasting my work. Why?”

You looked away, hands trembling in your lap. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice a blade cutting through your defenses. “You’ve known since the moment you found me in my cell. We are not so different, you and I. You feel it, don’t you? That pull. The hunger.”

Your eyes snapped to his, wide and glassy. “I’m nothing like you.”

He laughed softly, the sound more predator than amusement. “Oh, but you are. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. You wouldn’t have tasted it if you didn’t want to know.”

You shook your head, tears brimming in your eyes. “I can’t. I can’t be like this.”

“You already are,” he said, reaching out to cup your chin. “And it’s beautiful.”

Lips quivered under his touch, your resolve crumbling. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything,” he said simply, his voice low and deliberate. “Your mind, your body, your soul. Give yourself to me, and I’ll give you the world.”

You stared at him, breath shallow, pulse hammering against your ribs. “And if I say no?”

“Then you’ll walk away,” he replied, his tone calm, though his eyes burned with a fire you couldn’t ignore. “But you won’t. Because you already know the truth.”

Your lips parted as if to argue, but no words came. Instead, you reached for the fork, hand trembling, and lifted another piece of meat. “More?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours, and you fed him. His hands slid to your thighs, a deliberate and possessive touch, and you didn’t stop him, how could you? Your eyes met, your hesitation melting into something deeper, darker.

“How does it taste?,” you whispered, your voice soft and reverent.

His groan rumbled low in his chest as he pulled you to him, his lips finding yours with an urgency that made you gasp. The taste of you, the feel of you, was intoxicating, and he devoured it with a hunger that felt endless. “Delicious.”

You let him kiss you, let him taste you, for one long, breathless moment before pulling back, lips swollen, chest rising and falling in rapid rhythm. “Hannibal…” you murmured, voice a blend of warning and want.

He released you reluctantly but seized your chin, tilting your face to meet his gaze. His fingers were firm, unyielding, but not cruel. “Say it,” he commanded, his voice velvet over steel. “Tell me you’re mine.”

Your eyes widened, twin storms of fear and longing swirling in their depths. Your breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, the room held its breath with you. The weight of his command pressed on you like a velvet shroud—suffocating yet intoxicating. You hesitated, lips trembling, caught between resistance and the undeniable pull of surrender. Finally, as though the tension within you had reached its breaking point, you nodded, voice quivering, a fragile wisp of sound.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes darkened, the amber depths of them ignited by the molten heat of satisfaction and desire. A predatory smile ghosted over his lips as he drank in your submission. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, heavy with promise and intent.

You lie there, motionless, your body trembling with the echoes of his touch. His presence is all-encompassing, a shadow that devours the light and leaves only him. You can’t escape the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes seem to bore into your soul, unearthing secrets you didn’t even know you carried.

The first bite sends a jolt of pain and pleasure coursing through you, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips that follow. Your breath hitches, your body betraying you, arching toward him, craving the sting of his teeth even as your mind screams at you to run. But you don’t. You can’t.

His voice, low and commanding, is a dark symphony that plays at the edges of your sanity. “Open,” he says, and before you even realize it, your lips part, obeying him as though the word itself holds you captive.

The strawberry he presses to your lips is sweet, its juice sticky and warm as it drips down your chin. His tongue follows, deliberate and slow, tracing the trail it leaves. Your eyes flutter shut, the world narrowing to the sensation of him, the taste of the fruit mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

Your hands find their way to him, desperate for something to anchor you in this storm of sensation. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pull him closer, needing him, hating yourself for it but unable to resist. He groans, the sound vibrating against your skin, and it ignites something deep and primal within you.

When his teeth find your inner thigh, your gasp is involuntary. The pain is sharp but fleeting, replaced almost immediately by a rush of heat that pools low in your belly. You can feel the wetness between your legs, the evidence of your desire, and it shames you even as it thrills you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rich and dark, a promise and a threat all at once.

And you are. God help you, you are.

He moves with purpose, trailing his lips, his teeth, his tongue over your body. Each bite, each scrape of his teeth, feels like a brand, marking you as his. And with every mark, you feel yourself slipping further, the lines between pain and pleasure, fear and longing, blurring until they’re indistinguishable.

When his fingers find you, parting your lips, sliding into your heat, your moan is loud and unrestrained. You’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet you’ve never felt so alive.

His mouth claims yours, swallowing your cries, his tongue tasting you as though he can’t get enough. When your body tightens around him, when you shatter in his arms, he doesn’t stop. He devours you, body and soul, until there’s nothing left of you but the trembling, aching woman in his arms.

And when it’s over, when you’re spent and sated and utterly his, he looks down at you with a hunger that hasn’t been satisfied.

“I’m still hungry,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear, and your breath catches in your throat.

You know what he means, and yet you don’t run. You nod, surrendering completely, because in that moment, you realize something terrifying and undeniable.

You want to be devoured.

#missarchive #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal smut #hannibal oneshot

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jedi-enthusiasm-blog · 1 day ago

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Star Wars Masterpost

Pro Jedi/In Defense Of The Jedi/Jedi Culture

Non-Master/Padawan Jedi Relationships

The Jedi didn't free Shmi and why that's not a slight against them

The Jedi aren't stuck in their ways just because they don't allow marriage

The Jedi aren't stuck in their ways just because they don't allow marriage (addendun)

Jedi Antis when jedi-enthusiasm-blog likes the Jedi (meme)

Jedi culture tag (derogatory)

Jedi culture tag (derogatory) (meme)

Mace Windu Best Jedi

Collective Jedi Parenting

Obi-Wan Best Jedi

Villains Praising the Jedi (and fandom not getting it)

Sith (derogatory) VS Jedi (affectionate)

Q: Who's the best Jedi? A: Yes

Star Wars History ( @saturnidiot thank you so much)

On the Jedi's limited numbers (+ an anti)

Many Jedi are orphans

My interpretation of the Jedi Code/Meditation Mantra

"Cal and Kanan fix the mistakes of the Order and stop repressing what makes them human" Shut up

Inconsistency in anti-Jedi arguments

"There's being critical and there is slander"

Fandom experience (derogatory)

Age is not an immediate disqualifier

A Jedi's Weapon

Friendly reminder about emotional mindfulness

Jedi kidnapping (affectionate) VS Mandalorian foundlings (derogatory)

If you're gonna critize the Jedi they have to be wrong

The Jedi's political power: canon vs fanon

Most Jedi don't struggle with attachment

Mace Windu and actively fighting fascism

Gushing about Reva

Jedi Order: broke vs woke

Reva/Vader parallels

If the Jedi have no fans I'm dead

When others are the best versions of themselves

I wouldn't want a romantic relationship if I was a Jedi

Antis stop projecting your religious trauma onto the Jedi, the Sith are right there

Jedi positivity (community)

No, Luke doesn't save his father with attachment

Heart of a Jedi

Multilingual Jedi Babies

Fandom experience (derogatory)

The Jedi made the right decision in using the Clone Army

Anti Mandalorians/Mandalorians Critical

Why Mandalorian Culture and Mando'a don't make sense

Jedi kidnapping (affectionate) VS Mandalorian foundlings (derogatory)

Anti Sith

The Sith are not oppressed by the Jedi

Darth Vectivus is a bastard (derogatory) and I love him

Peacekeepers vs nazis in a galaxy far far away…

The Sith don't have balance (joke unfortunately not mine)

Obi-Wan roasting the Sith

Anti Anakin/Anakin critical

Anakin is not mentally ill

Others

Tag game

Star Wars Lines (Pt.1) (Pt.2) (Pt.3)

"Be with me" AKA cool tribute to the Jedi I found on YouTube of all places

Opinion on Ahsoka

The Dark is generous and it is patient

Songs from the soul (fic)

Sabine as the successor to Tarre Vizla

Opinion on Rey

Force-sensitivity and being aroace

#star wars #pro jedi #anti jedi bashing #anti sith #sith critical #mandalorians critical #anti mandalorians #work in progress #I'm still not done #but I guess this is good enough for posting

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kaboomthepossum · 7 months ago

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The Diaz Brothers Drawing

Hello there tumblr besties! Today I finally finished the 7th item in the continuous saga of “Kaboom drawing TMG songs for fun”

This drawing.. oh my gosh I have been to hell and back to create this - I have never in my life drawn a pine tree before, this was a huge struggle. I was pretty pleased with it in the end though! :D

I hope you guys like it too :)

#Draw my arms into my hospital gown #let the sky open up and rain down #rain down!#Mercy for the Diaz brothers!#Mercy for the Diaz brothers!!#the mountain goats #tmg #tmg posting #art #artists on tumblr #digital art #doodle #tmg lyrics #transcendental youth #the Diaz brothers #ok so fun fact. apparently this song is about characters from scarface. I have never watched scarface #but I love this song with all my heart and soul #so I had to draw it #seeing it live has permanently altered my brain chemistry in the best possible way #um so yeah basically this line always kinda reminded me of dreaming and stuff #like running through a forest is something I have defo dreamed about before #the deer is kinda like a representation of visions - they’re a unique thing #although fun fact: this deer is based on a deer I saw irl #it felt like a dream seeing her #this pose is directly inspired by that #🐐#🦌

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starry-bi-sky · 9 months ago

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Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.

It is a fast dream.

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)

—---

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom.

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

-----------------

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #danyal al ghul au #amnesiac danyal al ghul au #songs in order of the album: the hartebeest / harpy hare / and the hound / neath the grove is a heart #musician danny has my heart and soul #yes this danyal IS an alternative danny from the other au. an au where things were a little better :) but still sucks #implied good mom talia al ghul #danyal is a momma's boy send tweet #dpxdc ficlet #dpxdc prompts #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #danyal is sTILL five years older than damian in this au #no beta no edits we die like danny fenton #poc danny fentons #i didnt know where to end this :(( i was gonna go on but i blanked. i thought about going into his relationships with his rogues and so on.#but that felt too much like trying to just increase the word count rather than actually writing?? if that makes sense #ugh im gonna have forgotten to include things and im gonna be kicking myself later #morally ambiguous danny whoo! we love to see it #since this was just for fun it doesnt really go into it all that much other than like. it happens. and that danny realizes he's dangerous #phantom in a hazmat suit? nah phantom looking like an assassin >:].#danyal al ghul with damian and his mom: 🥰🌸✨#danyal al ghul with everyone else: 👹🔪#am i heavily implying that clockwork had smth to do with Danyal’s amnesia and appearance by the cabin? 👀 maybe #not enough danyal al ghul aus where him being an assassin actually. has some kind of affect on him

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