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stllmnstr · 1 month ago

Text

starlight

pairing: yang jungwon x f reader

genre: soulmates au, university au

word count: 13.4k

warnings: swearing, angst (but a happy ending because I’m not a monster), soulmate lore, copious amounts of pining and yearning and sighing

soundtrack: crying over you - honne, beka / a world alone - lorde / this is me trying / invisible string / daylight - taylor swift / spring day - bts / so far away - agust d, suran

note: this was another find in my old drafts that I spent a couple of days editing/rewriting. I have very much been in a jungwon mood these days, and it was fun to venture into some more angsty stuff that I haven't written in a while. happy reading! ♡

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

There’s a word for it. Something that’s whispered behind closed doors, shunned like a bad omen you can’t quite shake.

Glitch. A cruel twist of fate. A failed soulmate match.

Something you’ve been marked as since the countdown on your wrist ticked to 00:00 two long years ago and left you lonelier than ever. Something you’ve been fighting since destiny carved itself into your skin with a dull, lifeless shade of gray.

But fate is a funny thing. And love, as you’ve learned, is often found in the most unexpected places.

or,

fate, with all of its cruel, incandescent scheming, leads straight to yang jungwon.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

The overhead fluorescents in this particular lecture hall always manage to leave you with a pounding headache that even a strong dose of Advil can never quite seem to mitigate.

“And with time, these bonds only strengthen. Until a point is reached after which both parties would experience immense pain were they to be physically separated, willingly or not.”

Well, it’s either the lightbulbs or your professor’s droning.

Today, his words are slightly muted where they reach your ears, as if you’re underwater. Drowning in a topic that’s been beaten to death a million times over.

Still, this is information you should be taking in. Or, at the very least, jotting down notes of, since it’s all but guaranteed to appear on your final exam. But no matter how much you will yourself to focus, you can’t get your mind to cooperate.

After all, it’s bad enough that you’re forced to be here in the first place.

Sociology 112: Intro to Soulmate Theory. An absolute joke of a class.

The very foundation your society is built around. A nagging reminder of the grayscale deficiency that stains the skin of your left inner wrist.

Subconsciously, you tug the left sleeve of your shirt down a little further. There’s no need, not really. You made sure that your mark was fully covered before you left your dorm room this morning. Just like every morning.

But long standing habits are rarely broken, and the last thing you need now is another reminder of what makes you different. What makes you wrong.

At the front of the lecture hall, your professor pushes forward in that same, monotonous stupor. He’s either unaware or unconcerned by the fact that some of his students may be affected by his lecture on more than just a purely academic level.

Staring straight ahead, you distract yourself by scanning your professor, eyes taking in his appearance. At the very least, it will make it look as if you’re paying attention to what he’s saying.

With the signature graying hair most men in their mid-fifties carry, a pair of rather plain, slightly round eyeglasses, and neutral button-down appropriate for most professional settings, there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about your professor.

Like most people, he gets up in the morning, selects a plain shirt from his modestly sized closet. He enjoys a cup or two of black coffee before embarking on his morning commute to campus, leaving ten minutes earlier than strictly necessary, because he’s convinced it helps him avoid the worst of the morning traffic.

His life is one of normalcy, you imagine. Nothing that most people would find especially enviable or extraordinary.

But when he reaches up to point out an example on the lecture slide, the left sleeve of that beige button down lifts, just slightly.

You only catch a glimpse, a tiny fraction of a look, but you see it all the same. The glossy, shiny, red 00:00 inked into his skin.

You resist the urge to scratch your wrist. He clicks forward to the next slide. Life goes on.

“As per the syllabus, you’ll be completing projects with an assigned parter on a topic of your choice. Although I encourage you to consult a variety of resources and include several points of view in your project, the only firm guideline is that your topic relates to soulmate theory.”

Several points of view. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Yeah, right. In your experience, any arguments against the traditional soulmate model are scoffed at. Met with nothing but anger and ridicule.

Although it makes for a miserable life, it does make for a simplistic assignment. Assigned partners are usually the bane of your existence, but no matter how incompetent this one is, you’re sure it will be easy enough to meet up once or twice in the university library and regurgitate common sentiment on how the soulmate system is nothing short of a wondrous gift to humanity.

Glancing at the clock as your professor officially dismisses class for the morning, you suppose you do have something to thank the heavens for. He’s wrapped up fifteen minutes early, which means you’ll have enough time to grab a coffee before your shift.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and once again checking that the fabric of your left sleeve covers your wrist, you slide your laptop into your bag and stand up from your seat.

No matter what particular strand of bullshit this class dragged you through, today will be a good day. Or at least a comfortingly neutral one. You’re sure of it.

With one final scan of your desk, you head to the exit at the front of the lecture hall without a backwards glance.

And in the very back corner of the lecture hall, tucked neatly out of both sight and mind, Yang Jungwon exhales a long sigh before gathering his things.

…..

“Oh, you are an absolute angel.”

Playful frown tugging at your lips, you ask, “Why is it that you only praise me when I come bearing gifts?”

Jake’s too engrossed with taking a long sip of the matcha latte you just handed him to concern himself with giving your question a real answer.

Despite his inclination to be most forthcoming with compliments when they’re a payment for caffeine, he’s hands down your favorite coworker. He’s genuinely kind, easygoing in a way that makes even the longest of shifts pass quickly.

Setting your bag down, you slide into the seat next to his, turning on your desk computer. “Any new applications to process today.”

“Nothing yet.” Jake glances at the empty inbox to confirm his answer. He shrugs, adding, “This time of year is usually fairly slow, though. We tend to get the most applications at the beginning of the semester and around the holidays.”

“Right,” you nod. “That makes sense.” Times when people are fresh on campus, away from home and exploring a new environment for the first time. And times when people are lonely.

It’s something you understand well. After all, you had been part of the latter group when you submitted your own application.

Last year was your first year of university, and although the numbers on your wrist had already faded to a dull, matte gray by the time you enrolled, living on campus put you far away from your support system for the first time in your life.

Even then, you avoided it as long as you could. It hurt something in your pride, felt like admitting a weakness, admitting a flaw. But the truth could only be avoided so long and on one cloudy afternoon in late fall, the loneliness crossed the line from painful to unbearable.

So, with a rain jacket pulled tight around your body, you made your way to the Student Support Center on campus and sought out help for something you’d been grieving in private for the better part of a year.

It had still felt like shame, to disclose the details of your condition. To tell another person about the cosmic cruelty etched permanently into the soft skin of your left wrist.

And then it was done. Your secret belonged to someone else, too. Pain was shared, and over time, started to feel less like a cut and more like a bruise.

It still ached when you pressed on it, of course, but you felt lighter. Able to breathe a little easier.

But even with all of the support, all of the work you’ve done to feel a bit more like yourself, pain is still a shadow that lingers at your heels.

Even now, months later, sitting next to a friend, you suppress the urge to tug at your sleeve again.

You’re able to see your actions for what they are now. And you suppose it’s the same thing – injured pride, a deep sense of shame, that has you wearing long sleeves even as the last days of late summer cling to the air with stifling heat.

It’s not as if your unfamiliar with the failure etched into your skin. You know what you would find, what everyone would see if you were to wear short sleeves for once.

A dull, matte gray 00:00. A reminder of what could’ve been. What should have been, if the universe had just been a little kinder to you.

Even as days and weeks and months pass you by, you still remember when there was a different number displayed there. One that got smaller with each passing second. One that, like your professor’s, like everyone else’s, glowed a bright, glossy red.

Just like everyone else, you were born with red numbers on your left wrist. There was no sign then, at your birth, that you were different. That you were a glitch.

Just like your family, just like your friends, just like every stranger you passed in the street, your number was normal. In fact, it was enviable. Mostly because it was so much smaller than average.

As a child, you’d reveled in it – the comparatively short length of your soulmate countdown. It wasn’t unusual for people to have to wait well into their twenties, thirties, or even forties to find their soulmate.

But a quick calculation had revealed that your countdown would tick to 00:00 just after your seventeenth birthday.

It feels stupid now, like some sort of cruel joke, that you ever thought of yourself as lucky.

You still remember it as if it were yesterday. Two long years ago, at the delicate age of seventeen. On the precipice of a life-changing revelation. A moment that was meant to mark the beginning of your forever. Your happy ending.

The air was clean that day. Lingering with the fresh scent of the earth after a rainstorm. Rebirth. A sign of something beautiful to come. Dew and humidity clung to you like a second skin as you raced towards the neighborhood park that had been haunting your dreams for the last few weeks.

Soulmates and the bonds that connect them aren’t magic, not exactly, but there was still something divine about it, the cosmic energy that sang to you. That told you that this particular park was where your life was destined to change. That it was where you were going to meet your soulmate.

The other person who felt the same gentle tug towards you, whose wrist was stained with a matching countdown, set to tick down to 00:00 at the very second your eyes locked with one another.

Your heart was racing, nearly beating out of your chest. Your fingertips thrummed with it, that overflow of energy that didn’t come from you but belonged to you all the same.

And like everyone else, your timer ran out.

He was there. He was there, and you knew it was him without having to say a word. Across the park, under the shade of an old sycamore tree, you could see it, feel it in his eyes.

Your soulmate.

Handsome and a year older than you, if you had to guess. A perfect stranger that you felt like you already knew. That already understood you without the need for words.

You had been too wrapped up in it, in him, to notice the one striking oddity. Because unlike everyone else, your completed countdown, that ever coveted 00:00, didn’t remain that gorgeous, shiny red.

No, while your eyes were locked on his, heart singing with unfulfilled dreams and visions of a future you’d never have the privilege of knowing, it had faded to that same dull gray that mocks you now.

It wasn’t the color that you noticed. It was the burning sensation that finally had you tearing your gaze away from him and landing on the skin of your left wrist.

Confused, your brow drew together as you tried to make sense of it. As your mind spun, searching for a plausible explanation.

And when you finally found it in you to look up at him again, the wrongness of it all began to sink in. The way he walked toward you with slow, reluctant steps. The way his mouth pulled tight at the corners, as if he wanted to prevent any words from escaping.

The wedding ring wrapped around the finger on his left hand. The already occupied space you thought would belong to you one day.

It was an accident, he told you. Even then, his voice had been steady. He wasn’t pleading for your forgiveness. He didn’t need it. He didn’t need you.

It was nothing more than a drunken mistake between him and a girl he met at university. One that he wasn’t serious about, but damage had been done nonetheless. A single night that was meant to be a blip, a passing moment in time, but had turned into a child. One that the two of them had already made the decision to raise together.

A child that had made them both decide to forgo the fate written on their wrists and forge a new life on their own.

It hurt, he told you, to see you, to know that he was causing you pain.

But one glance at him confirmed for you that his hurt was different from yours. For one, he could still speak, could form words with that same, even cadence that felt like knives embedding themselves into your skin.

You had wanted to beg, wanted to scream until your throat was raw. It was him. It was him. He was supposed to be yours, and you were supposed to be his. Wasn’t it the same for him? Didn’t he feel it too?

But his mind was made up and you knew better than to plead with a man who had fought and forsaken destiny itself.

It wasn’t your fault. He had told that day, and you’ve heard it countless times since then. From your parents. From your closest friends. From your own tear-stained reflection in your bedroom mirror.

But blame with nowhere to go always had a way of ending up on your shoulders, and empty reassurances never stopped your mind from spinning with painful possibilities on sleepless nights.

What if we had met sooner? What if he had never met her? What if they never had a child?

Or even worse,

What if I found him again? Begged him to reconsider? Convinced him to leave her?

In the end, it was pointless. Fate had been written and then rewritten. Would in a tight string and undone in one fell swoop. The stars had aligned and shifted and still remained so terribly out of reach.

There was nothing you could do, nothing to be done.

But it didn’t stop the loneliness from seeping in. It was always loudest in the quiet moments, but it never truly left. It didn’t matter where you were – in class, with friends, surrounded by people, or completely alone. There was always an overwhelming sense of loss, of loneliness that followed you wherever you went.

So last fall, when the burden of it felt too heavy to bear alone, you’d bitten the bullet and applied to your university’s support program for glitches. Although, of course, none of the staff dared to use that word.

It’s where you first met Jake. And the bright red number on his wrist still ticks evenly, he had a friend once, one that shared a fate similar to yours. One who let the loneliness consume her instead of accepting help.

Even though it wasn’t through firsthand experience, Jake knew the pain of a failed soulmate match intimately. And after a handful of weeks, you’d found genuine friendship in him.

After a few months of attending support groups, he was the one who suggested you for an open position on the support team. It was him that thought you might find a renewed sense of purpose, a distinct kind of empathy for the other students on campus with stories like yours.

You’re grateful beyond words for him, for all of it. For the people and the friendships and the small moments that remind you that life is worth living, even on the hard days. Even when you’re forced to sit through classes on soulmate theory and pretend like long sleeves are nothing but a fashion statement.

So you’ll take his compliments with a smile, even when they come at the expense of a matcha latte from his favorite campus cafe. You’ll take the hard days and the good days and all the little moments in between.

He knows it too, even if you don’t say it with words. Even if all you ask is, “The matcha’s good?”

But something in you still smiles, still feels a little lighter, when Jake turns to you with a grin and assures, “Of course.”

…..

If there’s one place you still find to be painfully devoid of optimism, it’s your damn Intro to Soulmate Theory course. Although it’s an important element of existing sociological systems and objectively relevant, it presses on your ever-lingering bruises more than just about anything else in your day-to-day life.

As if that weren’t enough, it’s a morning class. Which means you’re already in a dreary mood as the clock ticks painfully slow through yet another monotone lecture.

Thankfully, your professor’s cadence is beginning to slow, a surefire signal that class is drawing to an end. Again, you glance up at the clock, a spark of pleasant surprise flickering through your mind. Could you really be so lucky as to get out early two classes in a row?

At the front of the hall, your professor scans his notes one final time. Nodding slightly, you really think he’s about to let you go ten minutes ahead of schedule.

But then his eyes pause at the bottom of the page, a reminder he missed the first time.

“Before we wrap up for the day,” he says, and you suppress the urge to groan audibly. “As I mentioned last class, you’ll be completing your next assignment in partners.”

That’s right. You’d almost forgot. Ugh, as if the disappointment of a full length lecture hadn’t been bad enough.

“The instructions, rubric, and due date can all be found on your syllabus, and as always, you’re welcome to email me or attend office hours with any additional questions you may have. I’ve already taken the initiative to place you in pairs, so please listen for your name.”

Glancing down at his notes again, he reads out the first pair.

“Kim Sunoo and Lee Heeseung.”

As he moves through the seemingly endless list of names, you begin to tune out. Have there always been this many people in this class? Admittedly, this is not a lecture that often commands your attention, but it seems like something you should have picked up on.

A minute later, spurred by the sudden sound of your own name, your attention snaps back into focus.

“... and Yang Jungwon.”

Yang Jungwon.

It’s a name you’ve heard in passing, maybe. But it’s not one you’re familiar with.

Standing as the list draws to a conclusion, you begin to look around the emptying lecture hall. You figure it might be easiest to exchange information now, but you’re not sure if you’ll be able to find him with everyone else trying to do the same.

Sighing, you decide to try for a minute or two before just resorting to looking up his email on the online class list later and sending him a message there.

Ultimately, it’s him who finds you.

“___?” At the sound of your name, you spin around, looking back over your shoulder.

His presence, like his voice, is unassuming. Still, as your eyes land on who you assume must be Yang Jungwon, there’s something about him that makes you want to keep looking.

Dark hair falls over his forehead, framing equally dark eyes. Dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and oversized jeans, the attention doesn’t seem like something he’d seek out. Even now, he doesn’t quite match your gaze.

“Yeah,” you affirm, somewhat breathless. “Yang Jungwon?”

“Just Jungwon is fine.” He smiles, but it’s a tight, strained thing. Doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s pressing forward before you have time to linger on it. “Do you want to go ahead an exchange information now? I’ll get my final training schedule this afternoon, so I can message you when I have a better idea of when I’ll be able to meet up.”

Well, he seems competent enough. Or at the very least, willing to put in effort. It’s more than you can say for most of the assigned partners you’ve been given. And it’s pleasant surprise in a string of disappointments and what is surely going to be a miserable project to work on.

“That sounds good,” you nod, reaching for your phone. You open a new contact before handing it to him to fill out. As he types, you watch a strand of hair fall over his eyes. He doesn’t bother to brush it away, even as your fingertips itch with the sudden urge to.

Instead, you busy yourself with asking a question. “Training schedule?” you echo his earlier words. “Are you an athlete?”

If he’s put off by your probing, he doesn’t show it. Steady as ever, he continues typing. “Mhm,” he hums. “Taekwondo team.”

“Ah,” you nod. “That’s cool.” Accepting your phone back, you type your name into the newly created chat. “Here, I sent you a message with my name, so you have my information, too. I work in the afternoons, but I have a pretty consistent schedule. Once you have your training times, we can figure out when we’re both free.”

Glancing at the message that comes through on his end, Jungwon confirms, “Perfect.” Hiking his bag a little further up on his shoulder, he pauses for a moment before turning his gaze towards the door at the front of the lecture hall.

In the time that’s elapsed, most of the other students have made their way towards it. The room is significantly more empty than it was a handful of minutes ago. Still, Jungwon lingers for a moment.

Finally, he looks back at you. This time, he does meet your eyes.

You know it’s nothing but the overhead lights. The same obnoxious fluorescents that always give you a pounding headache. But reflected in his dark, searching gaze, they almost look like starlight.

“I’ll see you around, then,” he says before turning towards the door.

And if you let your gaze linger just a little too long on his retreating back, you’ll be grateful that no one is paying you enough attention to notice.

…..

Your dinner is cleaned up, skincare is completed, and the events from your day are blurring into a sleepy sort of haze when his first message reaches you.

9:36 pm Yang Jungwon I got my final training schedule. Looks like I should be free Tuesday and Thursday afternoons after 4 if that works for you?

Double checking your work schedule, you type a reply.

9:38 pm You I work on Tuesdays until 6 but I can do Thursday at 4.

9:39 pm Yang Jungwon Let’s plan on Thursday then 👍 Meet you at the library? I’ll reserve a study room on the first floor.

9:40 pm You Sounds good, see you then!

With the semester well underway, Thursday is quick to roll around. Other than a quick wave and a small smile towards him during your last shared lecture, you haven’t had any contact with Jungwon since your last messages.

Even though it’s still only early afternoon, you’re already feeling the weight of a busy day weighing on you when you arrive at the library. A handful of minutes before four, you’re working to locate the study room Jungwon just sent you the number of.

Navigating your way through frazzled study groups and overworked, overcaffeinated upperclassmen, you finally find it with a few minutes to spare. Pulling the door open slowly, you’re half surprised to see that he’s arrived even earlier than you.

Early and straight from practice, you assume, if his still slightly damp hair is anything to go by. Freshly showered, the faint smell of his shampoo reaches you where you slide down into the seat across from him.

“Good call on the study room,” you add after your initial greeting. “I always forget how packed the library is once the semester really gets going.”

“Right?” Jungwon agrees. “I have a friend who swore by them last year, and now I’ll never go back.

“Letting you in on the study room secret,” you grin, pulling out your laptop. “That’s a true friend right there.”

“Yeah.” Something in Jungwon’s gaze softens as he nods. There’s a distinct fondness in his eyes, one that makes you think there’s a story there. One about more than just study rooms. “He is.”

When you finish settling in, you pull up your course syllabus again, clicking on the link to the assignment guidelines. “So,” you start, scanning the page one more time, “the instruction seem pretty straightforward. It looks liek we just need to pick a topic within the realm of soulmate theory and discuss recent research or developments.”

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you suppress the urge to tug at your left sleeve. Eyes honing in on the screen in front of you, you force yourself into a practiced state of detachment. The one you always revert back into when discussing this particular topic.

“I don’t know if you have a topic in mind already,” you shrug, “but I’m pretty much open to anything.”

Across from you, Jungwon’s teeth start to worry at his bottom lip. He hesitates for a moment, the room suspended in silence before he ventures, “What about –” Shaking his head slightly, his words die on his lips. “Never mind.”

Looking up at him, you frown. “Is there something you’re interested in?”

“No.” Jungwon shakes his head again. “I doubt there would be any recent research, anyway.”

“Okay,” you concede. Part of you wants to push further, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable. Instead, you type in a quick search. “I just pulled up some recent research topics, and it looks like there’s been development related to countdown colors and location based soulmate matches.” Ignoring the sudden slight burning sensation on your left wrist, you fight to maintain an even tone as you ask, “Do either of those sound interesting to you?”

Jungwon pauses for a moment, considering. “Maybe location based matches?”

Exhaling, you release a breath you hadn’t been meaning to hold. With a small nod, you tell him, “That sounds good. Let’s look for publications to reference today. We can divide them between us before we go and then take notes on them separately. We can meet up again next week at the same time to start an outline, if that works for you. We have a little over four weeks until the final paper is due, so that should give us a decent start.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees. “That works for me.”

Returning to your computer, you fight the urge to steal small glances at him as he does the same. In the minutes that follow, a silence settles around you. It’s not horribly awkward, but you still find yourself itching to fill it with something.

Finally, you bite the bullet. “Would it be okay with you if I put some music on? Just something instrumental.”

Glancing up at you, your eyes meet. Again, you’re not sure how he does it. But tucked away in a library study room, his gaze reflects the lights above you in a way that looks all too much like starlight. “Sure,” Jungwon nods.

Forcing your gaze back to your screen, you navigate to your study playlist and put it on shuffle. The first handful of notes spill into the silence, a calm piano melody that cuts through some of the stagnance.

A handful of classical pieces and a dozen journal articles later, Jungwon breaks the easy rhythm the two of you have fallen into. “Clair de Lune,” he names the tune that has just begun to weave itself around the room. A small smile turns the corners of his lips upwards. “This is on my study playlist, too.”

You offer him a matching smile in return. A soft thing. A shared moment. “You like this song?” It makes sense. A boy with stars in his eyes listening to a love letter to the moon.

“Yeah,” he nods. The quiet melody sings through the air, floats around tentative glances, delicate breaths. Lands lightly on two sets of shoulders. “You know, you’re better than I am. I always end up turning on my regular playlist and then singing along to the songs instead of actually working on anything.”

That earns him a full blown smile. “Believe me,” you lean in like it’s a secret. Something meant just for the two of you. “I do that more than I probably should, too.”

A shared grin later, the two of you are back to your own laptop screens.

Even though it’s your study playlist that continues to filter softly through your speaker, you find yourself distracted for a different reason.

It’s all too easy to imagine.

Jungwon, alone in his room, eyes sparkling even as he fights off the clutches of sleep. A song playing through his speaker. An old favorite, maybe, or perhaps something he heard on the radio and hasn’t been able to get out of his head since. One that he sings along to softly, assignments lying untouched on the desk in front of him.

…..

Despite your newfound fondness of your project partner, you’re sure that Intro to Soulmate Theory will continue to be your most dreaded class until the end of the semester releases you from its twice-a-week morning monotony.

The universe, as always, seems determined to prove you wrong, though.

Just as your professor steps into position behind the podium at the front of the lecture hall, a person slides down into the usually unoccupied seat just to the left of yours.

Startled, you glance up .

“Jungwon?”

“Hey,” the boy in question smiles. Switching to a whisper as the professor begins his lecture, he adds, “I’m glad I made it on time. I thought for sure I was going to be late.”

Sliding his bag off of his shoulder, he pulls out his computer and finishes settling into the seat next to yours. Then, he sets something on the desk in front of you. “I brought this for you, by the way.”

Eyes landing on the iced coffee in front of you, you can’t find it in yourself to do anything but stare for a moment.

“I noticed you have one sometimes, in this class.” With your silence, Jungwon suddenly seems unsure of himself. “I wasn’t sure what your order was, so I just guessed based on color. And I mean, light brown can be just about anything with iced coffee, so I hope you like it. I probably should have just asked, but…” he trails off, and you don’t think you imagine the light dusting of pink that settles across his cheekbones. “But I thought it would be nicer as a surprise.”

“I – thank you.” The fondness that’s been growing since your time together in library study room begins to swell again.

You glance at him, and your heart gives a strange, unsteady lurch. Not entirely unpleasant, but disquieting all the same. For a moment, it feels like something bigger. Something more.

Something you haven’t felt since a humid afternoon in a neighborhood park that you’ve been trying to forget for a long time.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Jungwon shrugs, but his cheeks retain their color. “I was stopping by the cafe anyway.” He gestures to the coffee on his own desk, proof of his claim. “Besides, it’s what a partner’s for.”

“Well, thank you,” you repeat. “I –”

“Again,” the sound of your professor’s voice, suddenly sharp, cuts through your words. “I’d like to give a firm reminder to you all that my lectures are not an appropriate place to carry on side conversations. Feel free to exit the room and forfeit your attendance points for the day if you are unable to refrain.”

Thoroughly cowed, you shrink back into your seat as a few wandering pairs of eyes land on you.

At your side, Jungwon shakes with a silent hint of laughter.

Despite the humiliation of essentially being asked to shut up in front of an entire lecture hall, the sight is enough to have you smiling.

And when the two of you part ways an hour later with matching smiles and a promise to see each other again Thursday afternoon, your heart feels lighter than it has in ages.

…..

When Thursday afternoon comes, it finds you and Jungwon tucked away in the same study room, sitting across from one another, laptops open, and outline for your project halfway formed.

This time, the drinks that sit on the table in front of you are courtesy of your wallet. The iced coffee Jungwon brought you a few mornings ago wasn’t your usual order, but it is what you’re sipping on now. You can’t quite decide what you enjoy more: the taste or the sentiment.

Either way, you have a feeling that a tradition of sorts may be blooming.

You can’t say that you mind. It’s nice to have something to look forward to, to have someone to share it with. It doesn’t matter that it’s small. It doesn’t matter that it’s just an unexpected coffee to help a study session pass by just a bit faster. It feels nice, to be considered. To be thought of. It feels… special.

With the same instrumental study playlist filtering through your laptop speaker, the two of you exchange a smile when Clair de Lune begins to play.

With startling clarity, you realize that you enjoy this. It’s pleasant. A project that you were dreading with dragging feet has become something you look forward to.

And you’re sure that it’s because of him.

Despite the fact that you’re poring over research that would sting like a slap to the face under any other circumstances, Jungwon’s presence has a way of soothing the ache. Even as you scan over another promising article detailing the current research on soulmate matches in various geographic regions, you find yourself fighting smiles. Stealing glances.

All Jungwon is doing is sitting next to you. Occasionally trading mindless conversations with you. But that’s enough to keep the reminders of a tragic fate lost to decisions and circumstances out of your control at bay for the time being.

You’re not sure what it is, not sure why it seems to reach you somewhere that’s remained untouched for years, but the more time you spend with Jungwon, the more you start to like it.

That odd sensation that almost feels like butterflies in your stomach. The stilted rhythm of a heartbeat that almost feels like it’s running a little faster, skipping a step every now and then.

The warmth that sits high on your cheekbones and heats almost like a flustered blush whenever he catches your eye for a little too long.

A million little almosts. A thousand little possibilities. The lingering ghost of a hundred somethings you thought you lost along with the dead countdown on your wrist two long years ago.

But you don’t let yourself voice these thoughts. You’re afraid to even let your mind linger on them for too long.

If it does, you’re worried that it will twist and tarnish whatever is taking flight into something ugly, something rotten. Will convince you that this glimmer of peace you’ve found is living on borrowed time and will only bring a future of misery in its wake.

Because the semester will end, the class will finish, and your project will be submitted.

Yang Jungwon will become nothing but a moment in time. A blip on a radar. A distant memory that you hope you’ll reflect on with fondness.

Time will continue on with its incessant march, and the countdown on your wrist will still be that ugly, faded, gray.

It doesn’t matter if the moments that pass between the two of you feel like almosts. Your fate was already written and unraveled by another man who didn’t want you.

You’re a failure. A glitch.

Pretty words and sideways glances and unexpected gestures imbued with kindness won’t change that. Won’t fix you.

Yang Jungwon will move on from this project, from this class, from you.

The countdown that you’re sure must tick bright red on his wrist will continue to get smaller and smaller, and you will be nothing but a forgotten memory.

You’re not sure why it’s so upsetting, here in the sanctity of the study room. Not sure why this series of truths you’ve always known is suddenly so devastating. But something about the way they swirl in the recesses of your mind had you flailing, desperate for air, for distance, for space.

Out loud, you choke out a halfhearted excuse about stepping out for a moment. The concern that immediately flickers across Jungwon’s features barely registers in your panic induced stupor.

You need to go. Need to get away. Need to find somewhere to be alone and away from all of it, from him. You can’t breathe –

“___?” You hear your name. You know it’s him. Hear him ask gently, “Are you okay?”

But it’s muffled. It’s all wrong.

In your haste to escape, you knock over the gift, your gesture of goodwill in the form of coffee you bought for Jungwon.

You watch, horrified, as it falls in slow motion. Hot, dark liquid spills over the table, narrowly avoiding his laptop and class notes.

Of course. Of course you ruined this, too.

“It’s okay,” you think you hear him say as he reaches for a spare napkin, dabbing at the growing puddle. But it’s not. It’s not.

He reaches for his bag, pulling out another handful of napkins from the front pocket. Instinctively, he rolls up his sleeve, the left one, to wipe up the rest of the excess liquid.

That’s when you see it. The inky 00:00 on the inside of his left wrist.

It’s not red. It’s not shiny. It doesn’t make sense for him. A boy with stars in his eyes should have love on his skin.

But even as you blink again, it remains unchanged. It’s a dull, muted, lifeless gray.

A reflection, a twin, a copy of your own.

A moment too late, his eyes fall to the skin of his wrist too. With the practiced reflexes of a trained athlete, he’s pulling it down just as quickly as he rolled it up. But it’s too late. You’ve already seen the truth.

Shared pain. Shared shame.

It grounds you. Reaching out a hand, you take a few napkins from the top of the pile.

“Here,” you offer, voice unbearably small. A million questions swim in your mind, none of which you’ll ask. “I can help.” Hollow words and a hollow sentiment. There’s nothing you can do for him, and he knows it just as well. As luck would have it, spilled coffee is the least of your shared concerns.

Nonetheless, the two of you wipe up the remainder of the spill in silence, a gentle piano melody still weaving its way around the space between the two of you. It wraps itself around both of your stained wrists, threads an invisible string between two lost souls, two shared fates.

Finally, after long minutes, you are the first one to speak. “It didn’t get on your computer, did it?”

“No,” Jungwon shakes his head. He reaches an outstretched hand towards you, taking the soiled napkins you still hold before discarding them in the trash can. “Just the table.”

“That’s good.” A moment passes. Two. And then, “I’m sorry.” You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for. You’re not sure what you should be apologizing for. In the end, you take the easy way out. “I should have paid better attention to where your cup was. You can finish mine, if you want.”

“That’s okay.” Running a hand through his hair, Jungwon explains, “I usually only drink it hot.”

“I can get you a new one –”

“Really,” he insists. “It’s okay.”

And it is. You can tell that he’s not upset, not about the coffee. But the tension is still there. Has yet to vacate the room. Has yet to drain from the tight line in his shoulders.

You saw it. You have the sinking suspicion that he knows you saw it.

That puts you at a crossroads. You can act as if nothing has happened, pretend that you saw nothing and do your best to return to your project.

But you’ve had friends and family tiptoe around you for the last two years, and it never left you feeling anything but empty. Even more unwanted, more of an anomaly. More of a glitch.

You don’t want Jungwon to feel those things. Don’t want him to feel as if he has to carry all of his pain by himself. So, you try your best, in a steady voice, hiding the shake in your hands underneath the cover of the table in front of you.

“You know,” you nod towards his arm, taking great care to keep any sign of judgement clear from your voice. “I actually work at the Student Support Center. I know it’s rare, but there are lots of people and resources there dedicated to helping people that… struggle with soulm–”

“I think we should just work on the project.” Jungwon’s lips are tight, drawn into a thin line. Avoiding your gaze, he sinks a little further into his chair. Even with his eyes trained on the floor beneath him, you can see the tension in his jaw, the uneasy tapping of his fingers against his leg.

The way he tugs at the sleeve that sits over his left wrist makes you want to press matters further, to push just a little more until he knows that he has you on his side, but you’ll respect his wishes.

You may have shared moments between the two of you, but you don’t know him, not really. The boundaries he sets are not yours to push. The lines he draws are not yours to cross.

The last thing you want to do is increase his discomfort, even if you have the sinking feeling that you’ve already done just that.

“Okay, yeah.” You take a deep inhale. “I overstepped. I’m sor–”

But Jungwon just shakes his head again. “Don’t worry about it.”

…..

But you do.

You worry about it when you head back to your down nearly an hour later, after bidding him a goodnight that was still riddled with tension.

You worry about it as you prepare dinner, accidentally leaving the stovetop on long after you’ve finished cooking.

You worry about it as you try to fall asleep, unsettling thoughts of Jungwon suffering from the same pain, the same shame you’ve been hiding for the last two years. Distantly, you wonder how long it’s been for him.

You worry about it when you arrive at your next Intro to Soulmate Theory lecture, two coffees in hand.

Your worry turns to dread when long minutes tick by and still, the seat on your left remains horribly unoccupied, coffee going cold where it sits untouched on the desk.

You worry when you arrive at work, the handful of messages you’ve sent still unanswered no matter how many times you check your phone.

10:47 am You Hi Jungwon, sorry if this is annoying but you weren’t in class today and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay

10:58 am You I’m really sorry about the other day at the library. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

1:32 pm You Hey let me know when you see this. I just really want to make sure you’re okay.

You’ve typed and deleted a million more, unsure of how to best approach the situation. You’re not close to one another, not really. You’re not even friends. You’re project partners, and not even of your own volition.

You can’t seek him out, because you don’t know where he lives. Who he talks to. What his schedule is.

The whole situation has you feeling a bit helpless. Your shift passes in an absentminded blur as you try to piece together some kind of solution, some way of making sure he’s okay.

In your daze, you hardly notice that the clock has ticked all the way to the end of your shift. Jake finds you, an apologetic smile on his features.

His voice sounds far away, muddled as he asks you for a favor, asks if you’d be willing to pull a double tonight since the person on the evening shift just called out sick.

Usually you’d be hesitant, but right now you’re desperate for a distraction. Something to take your mind off of the fear that gnaws at your gut.

But through the fog in your mind, you’ve forgotten one thing. In your old schedule, evening shifts were always your favorite. Primarily because they’re significantly slower than the daytime ones. Back then, the reprieve had been welcome, and you’d used the extra time to finish up assignments between tasks.

But now, every agonizing minute feels like an eternity.

And it’s an especially slow night tonight. From your office seat, you watch as the light rain showers outside turn into a torrential downpour. With a sigh, you resign yourself to the fact that no one will be visiting tonight. No one will want to leave their home in weather like this.

In the silence, you’re left alone with your thoughts. Again, you check your phone screen, hoping that sometime in the last three minutes since you last checked, there will be a notification to ease your worries.

But there’s nothing. The only thing that stares back at you is the time and the faint outline of your own reflection.

Frustrated, you set your phone back down. There has to be something you can do. You’re halfway convinced that you should just go through everyone on your class list and send emails until someone knows something when the sound of the chime that hangs above the front door to the center rings out against the silence.

Peering over your computer, you frown. Maybe Jake forgot something.

But as the person draws closer, a familiar shape begins to solidify. And it’s not your favorite coworker.

“Jungwon?” It’s him. You’re sure of it. Even if he looks more like a drowned cat than the boy you share a study room with.

Your brow furrows, a strange mix of confusion and relief coloring your features as you stand from your seat. A million emotions flicker through your mind, running too fast for you to fully keep up. Annoyance that he’s been avoiding you and your messages. Confusion as to why he’s here now. And above it all, cold, sharp relief that he seems to be okay.

But then you let your eyes scan him, falling from his dark hair to his soaked sneakers.

He’s absolutely drenched, down to the bone. Rain soaked hair falls over his eyes, stray drops streaking over his cheeks, his nose, his jaw. Dripping from his dark eyelashes. His clothes, usually baggy, cling a bit closer to his frame with the added weight of precipitation.

And his eyes. His sparkling, shining eyes full of starlight.

They’re frantic now, imbued with a panic you recognize all too well.

“Jungwon,” you repeat, letting your strides eat up the ground as you close the distance that separates you.

He’s shaking, you realize. His entire body trembles. Without thinking, without even really meaning to, your hands reach up to smooth some of his dark, wet hair away from his eyes. Your touch only intensifies his shivering.

He stands, motionless, dripping on the floor. He still can’t match your gaze, has yet to breathe a single word to you.

“You’re shaking.” You can’t help but state the obvious. Removing your hand from his temple, you reach for his hand. It’s cold, too. Raindrops melt against your skin as you touch your skin to his. Finding no resistance, you envelop his hand in your own.

Tugging slightly, you pull him into a nearby room, stopping only to grab a warm blanket. Guiding him gently into a chair, you drape it over his shoulders, let it cover his entire body beneath his neck.

Stepping away from him, you begin to brew a warm cup of tea. After another minute of silence, you hand it to him wordlessly.

You watch him take a tentative sip. His fingertips are red, evidence of the lingering chill in his bones, where he wraps them around the mug.

A million questions bubble in your throat. You breathe life into none of them. Silence settles around the both of you. Not entirely unpleasant, but brimming with something heavy.

You’re not sure how much time passes like that. It could be minutes, could be hours. Could be something not bound by the rules and restraints of physics at all.

But soon enough, the mug is empty. Jungwon sighs.

“I just,” he finally breathes, and you feel your heart clench in your chest. Seizing like his pain belongs to you. His voice is ragged, scraped raw. And so, so quiet. “I couldn’t be alone.” There’s a tremble in his fingertips when he adds, “Not tonight.”

“You’re not,” you assure him, shaking your head as you step closer. After a moment of consideration, you slide down into the seat next to him. “I promise you. You’re not alone.”

Jungwon closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall. You watch as his throat works around a swallow.

“Okay,” he finally whispers.

You mean it. He’s not alone. You won’t let him be. Not for the remainder of your shift. Not when the early traces of dawn start to streak in through the windows, clouds parting in the morning sky as the rain releases its grip on the world.

Not as the sun starts to peek its head over the horizon, painting the sky in pastel watercolors and the promise of a new day.

Even then, it’s just the two of you. Jugwon’s head it still against the wall. His eyes are closed, but you know he’s not sleeping.

You don’t move until he does. Until he asks in a small voice if you’ll meet him at the coffee shop the two of you have started to become regular at.

Until you honor his request with a nod and a promise to see him again in an hour.

…..

The coffee shop is mostly empty this early in the morning. You watch, sipping absentmindedly on your iced coffee as a handful of patrons come and go, moving about their day blissfully unaware of the way your world feels a bit like it’s spinning on its axis.

But you feel distant from them, too.

The corner table you and Jungwon occupy feels private, secluded. A bit like the study room you’re also well acquainted with. A fitting place for revelations.

After a minute of baited silence, Jungwon begins all at once, coffee warm between his hands.

His match was supposed to be in a park, too.

It’s interesting – the research you’ve been reading on location based matches supports claims that soulmate bonds prefer open air, areas surrounded by nature. Ironic then, that both of yours should end like this.

Jungwon’s fate was set in stone later than yours. His match failed a year ago. Exactly a year ago. Today is an anniversary for him, a terrible reminder of your shared fate, shared shame.

It was supposed to be in a park. His favorite one. A place he went often, a place he loved. He hasn’t been back since.

Not when that eerie, cosmic, magnetic pull of destiny tugged at him until he was sitting on a bench, next to the rose garden that had just begun to bloom.

Not when his breath stopped the second she arrived, and he knew, he knew that it was her. He was looking at his destiny. His soulmate.

But she wasn’t looking at him.

Not when he stood up to greet her, to meet his future with a wide smile and a fresh bouquet of wildflowers just as the shiny, red numbers on his wrist drew closer and closer to zero.

Not when he watched, a distinct sort of dread building in the pit of his stomach, as someone emerged from the opposite side of the garden. He wasn’t carrying wildflowers, but he did hold a single, ruby red rose.

Not when time ticked on, revealing with every steady, agonizing second that this stranger had the same intentions, the same plan.

The same countdown. The same fate.

Not when he watched, motionless, helpless, as this stranger met her first.

Not when he watched in abject horror as both of their faces lit up with smiles. When she took the rose from him with care in her touch and love in her eyes.

Not when he looked down at his own wrist, vision blurring as tears began to gather in his eyes, as bright, shiny red faded to a dull, lifeless gray.

Not when he was a failure, a miscalculation. An unfortunate needle in a haystack of success stories. A glitch.

Not when he watched the woman that was meant to be the love of his life fall into the arms of another man and leave him standing there alone. Lonely. Forgotten.

Not when his fingers began to shake so bad that he couldn’t maintain the grip on the bouquet.

Wildflowers stained the earth beneath him in a garish array of too bright colors, and he knew, even then, that part of his heart would be left there to die, too.

Even now, in the seat across from you in the cafe, you can see the toll it takes on him.

So you strain for a fragment of twisted comfort in the only way you know how. A reassurance that this particular cruelty is not his alone. That somehow, in an unlikely twist of fate, your paths crossed.

Laying your left arm on the table between you, you slowly drag the bottom of your sleeve up. Only an inch. And only for a moment.

It’s not a lot. Against the tides of his own agony, it’s nothing at all. But for now, it’s enough.

…..

There’s an odd sort of balance, a distinct sense of comfort that comes from the simple act of understanding. Of being understood.

It’s not quite as easy, as lighthearted as it was before, but you and Jungwon are quick to fall into a new kind of simple rhythm with one another. One that saves space for the intricacies of your shared pain and shame while still keeping them at an arm’s distance.

It’s not solace. But it is something.

You’re off tiptoes and on solid ground. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel the need to constantly check the length of your left sleeve. At least, not when you’re with him. You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t hurt to sit through hours of lectures on soulmate theory every week.

You don't have to explain any of it. Jungwon just gets it. He already knows.

But when you meet him for your next Thursday study session, two coffees in hand, Jungwon’s eyes aren’t sparkling with their usual stars. There’s something different there now. A kind of fire you haven’t seen from him before. One that glimmers with determination.

As you slide down into the seat across from him, he skips all pleasantries and says instead, “I think we should switch our project topic.”

It takes a concentrated effort not to knock over the coffee you set down in front of you for the second time in the span of weeks. “What?” At this point, your outline has long been finished and you’re well into writing your report. The thought of changing topics with barely a week left until the submission deadline is absolutely ludicrous. “Why?”

Jungwon doesn’t miss a beat. “I think we should do our project on glitches.”

You recoil as if you’ve been slapped.

Glitch. It’s a word people usually tiptoe around, whisper behind closed doors. Not meant for respectable society and certainly has no place in a university research paper.

You don’t even take a second to consider. “No.”

“What?” Now Jungwon is the one who looks surprised. Brow creasing, he presses. “Why? I mean, we’re both gl–”

“I said no.” You can’t hear him say it again. Features falling, Jungwon’s confusion begins to mingle with hurt at the sound of your sharp rejection. This might not be something that you’re willing to compromise, but your intention was never to hurt him, either.

Sighing, you explain, “Look, I’m just not comfortable with it. Besides, we’ve done so much work on this topic already. It doesn’t make sense to switch so close to the deadline.”

Only a fraction of what you’ve said seems to resonate. After a pregnant pause, Jungwon echoes. “Not… comfortable.” His tone is flat, as if your words are indecipherable to him.

He doesn’t continue, but you can tell that he has more to say. Can sense the words bubbling on his lips, begging to drip from his tongue. This is already a sensitive subject, and it’s made even more so by the way he tiptoes around it.

Across from him, your cross your arms across your chest. “I can tell that you have something else to see.” You don’t mean to be combative, don’t mean to start anything. But annoyance is starting to creep in. It’s dragging dread along with it, like an old friend, like a dangerous reminder.

“It’s nothing.” Jungwon shakes his head. “I guess I just don’t…” He trails off for a moment, deciding how best to tread treacherous territory. “How can you not be comfortable? I mean, you’re a glitch like me. Aren’t you curious at all? About why we glitched? If there’s anything we can do to fix it?”

And there it is. The lingering fear you’ve been working for two long years to overcome. The deep, aching insecurity that beneath it all, this is all your fault. That something is fundamentally wrong with you. “Fix me, you mean.”

Jungwon frowns. “I mean, I guess you could look at it that way, but I’m more curious about what kind of solutions there are.” He presses on, oblivious to the way every word sounds like nails on a chalkboard to you. The way every syllable pierces like a knife against your skin.

He’s not overflowing with hopelessness where he sits across from you. No, he’s enthusiastic as he tells you, “I did some research the other day, actually, and there’s this one scholar who thinks that all glitches happen for a reason. He thinks that you can still meet your soulmate and get your countdown to turn back to red if–”

“Stop.” Your voice is too loud, too sharp, too much, for the scant space of this small room. “Please,” you’re whispering now, but Jungwon flinches all the same. “Just stop.”

Jungwon’s eyebrows draw into a tight furrow. You thought he understood, but he doesn’t. He still doesn’t get it. He tells you as much. “I don’t understand why you’re so against it. I mean, we finally have a chance to look into why we gli–”

“I said, stop.” Jungwon looks as if you’ve pushed him. Dumped ice cold water over his head and left him out to dry.

But now he’s angry, too. There’s an accusation in his words when he says lowly, “I thought you would understand.”

And you do. You know how flowers wither when they’re left to die without any water. You know how love blossoms and blooms and dies all within the span of a single breath. You know what it feels like to carry a constant reminder of your most intimate pain seared into your skin, your soul.

There was a time when you wanted to be fixed, too. When you would have given anything to have a second chance at that day in the park two years ago. When you were sure if you could just do it again, you would walk away with a different fate. A red countdown. A soulmate.

But the longer you spent with your grief, the more you realized that it didn’t matter. The what ifs didn’t matter. The maybes didn’t matter. The almosts didn't’ matter.

You can’t reverse time. You can’t turn back the clock until your countdown glows red again. You don’t get a second chance at that afternoon in the park.

All you get is the life you have now. And you can grieve for what you’ve lost. Part of you always will. But if you spend the rest of your life lingering on it, obsessed with it, trying to fix it, then that’s all your life will be.

You won’t just lose a soulmate. You’ll lose yourself, too.

You’ll lose new friendships and favorite coworkers and every goal and dream you’ve ever had. You’ll lose quiet moments in secluded study rooms, trading smiles and sharing coffee. You’ll lose every shred of happiness in search of something that never really existed.

Sitting here now, across from Jungwon, you’re not just angry. You feel stupid, too. Ridiculous for ever thinking that maybe, just maybe, butterflies bloomed in the pit of his stomach when he looked at you, too.

That maybe, just maybe, when he matched your gaze, your eyes turned ordinary things into starlight, too.

But even with gray on his wrist and pain in his heart, the distance between the two of you has never felt wider.

Jungwon won’t even match your eye now. He aims for the heart instead. “You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever met who I thought would understand. Who knows what it’s like. To lose the only thing in life that really matters.” His voice is small, but it’s teeming with frustration, with misplaced anger. There’s an unmistakable fury in his eyes when he finally lets his gaze land on yours. But you know him now, even better than you thought. You see the pain just as clearly. The confusion, the hurt.

And where he expects to find an apology, or perhaps some sort of agreement, he’s met only with a rage to rival his own.

“Fuck you.” It’s barely decipherable under your breath, but he catches it, even if just barely.

“What?”

You double down. “I said, fuck you, Jungwon. How dare you. You think you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt, the only person that this stupid fucking system screwed over?” And now your anger has been let loose, the floodgates opened. It rises, ebbs and flows like waves against a shore. Weathering over all the sharp pieces and jagged edges that time hasn’t yet managed to erode. Spills over onto the table like his forgotten coffee from weeks ago.

“Why do you think I work at the support center? Why do you think you’ve never seen me in a short sleeve shirt?”

You’re angry and you’re hurting and you understand his pain. But it’s worse this time. You don’t know why his determination to fix his failed soulmate match stings like rejection. You can’t figure out why it burns in a way that’s all too reminiscent of that afternoon in the park two years ago.

You feel it all, under your skin like an itch you can’t scratch, an ache you can’t get rid of. You don’t know why he didn’t just stop when you asked him, why he won’t just listen to you.

“At least you get to wonder what might have happened.” You don’t mean to do it, to throw his hurt back in his face. To compare pain, to stack your scars against one another and measure them like there’s a winner in this game. “I met my soulmate. I met him and talked to him and fell in love with him and he still didn’t want me. It doesn’t matter what some scholar says. You can’t fucking fix that.”

You’re standing before you know it, heading to the door before you mean to. But you can’t stay here, can’t watch him look at you like that. Not when every word that passes between you opens wounds you’ve spent ages trying to clean.

Not when you know that none of it, even the parts you’d hoped you’d remember fondly, were ever done intentionally. He didn’t mean to hurt you. Didn’t mean to give you butterflies or look at you with starlight in his eyes, and that only makes it worse.

You’re already beneath the doorframe when you find it in yourself to add, “You’re hurting and you’re lonely and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You don’t deserve that pain, and you never will. But I refuse to do this again, to spend the rest of my life thinking there’s something wrong with me. That it’s my fault, that I can fix everything, fix myself, if I just try hard enough. My matched glitched.” You still can’t quite say the word without flinching. “I’m a glitch. But I refuse to let that be the only thing I am.”

When the door shuts behind you, it echoes, even in the crowded hallway.

Your footsteps feel too heavy as they eat up the ground between you and the front door of the library. The late autumn air feels too cold as you walk back to your dorm, enveloped in the quiet of the evening, mind screaming with misplaced rage.

The silence of your dorm room is too loud as you sit alone in it.

And the mark on your wrist is too gray, no matter how you look at it.

…..

Jungwon is antsy.

Even with the space of a day between him and your argument, he’s brimming with a sort of uncontained energy that will only spell trouble if he doesn’t find a way to channel it.

Taekwondo practice helps, albeit only slightly. Physically, at least, it grounds him. There’s a solace to be found in the repetitive motion of his well aimed kicks.

He welcomes the familiar ache in his muscles like an old friend, sweat building on his brow as he lets the calm, flowing energy guide his powerful movements.

But even after two hours on the mat and a long, overly warm shower, Jungwon’s thoughts are still spinning in circles, still doing cartwheels through his mind. He needs to talk, needs to process everything that’s happened, everything that he’s feeling.

But save for one person, he’s not sure who to go to.

It’s then, the last member of his team still towelling off in the locker room, that he realizes that under any other circumstance, the first person that he would want to reach out to, to spill his heart and guts and soul out to, is you.

It’s been weeks, a handful of days, a smattering of hours, since you became a name in his mind. A person with an identity other than the pretty girl that sits in the sixth row of the lecture hall, and yet.

And yet.

Jungwon is suddenly overcome with the urge to reach for his phone, to send a message, make a phone call. His better judgement stops him before he can.

Mostly because he has no idea what he would say. An apology is in order, surely. He still sees the look on your face against the backs of his eyelids. The way pain etched itself into your features, the way your shoulders never quite relaxed after he suggested the topic change on your project.

He’s not sure if this is even something that can be remedied with words, but he is absolutely certain that he never wants to see that look on your face again.

So an apology it is, then. But for what, exactly?

If he’s honest with himself, he still doesn’t fully understand.

He let his anger, his frustration, his pain get the best of him, yes, but it was more than that. He’s not sure why you seemed so personally affected by the idea of exploring research around soulmate glitches. Why that word seemed to eat at you so much.

So he lets his confusion carry him to the only place where he thinks he just might find an answer.

The Student Support Center looks different in the daytime. Jungwon still feels that nagging sense of discomfort as he forces his feet through the front door.

His shame feels most prominent here, in a place where admitting that he needs help still feels like weakness to him.

Swallowing his pride, he forces his footsteps forward. The desk he found you at a handful of night ago is empty. But the one next to it is occupied with another student, a boy. One that looks a couple of years older than you, if he had to guess.

He smiles when he sees Jungwon, offering a generic greeting before he takes another look at him.

Jake, he thinks it must be, if your descriptions are anything to go by. Another person that Jungwon has begun to become familiar with in the past few weeks, albeit only by your secondhand account.

And you must have done the same for him, because Jake is quick to mask his shock with something careful, guarded.

“Hi,” he repeats, standing from her seat. “I’m Jake.” Looking him over once more, something akin to a sigh escapes his lips. “You must be Jungwon.”

Jake, as it turns out, is surprisingly easy to talk to. He understands why you like him so much.

In a matter of minutes, a fairly abridged version of your last library session has been reconstructed, laid bare in front of eyes that know you best.

Jake is silent for a moment, turning over thoughts in his mind before he finally says, “It’s not my story to tell.” Jungwon figured as much. “But I think she would, if you asked.”

Jungwon nods. It’s permission. From an indirect source, maybe, but hope flutters through his chest all the same. He has a goal now, something to work towards. Something that he hopes will fix whatever has shattered between the two of you.

There’s a brief pause before Jake speaks again. “What I can say is that she’s done a lot of work to move on. To find meaning in her life outside of the number on her wrist. To stop feeling incomplete, like a burden, like a problem to be solved.”

And I threw those fears back in her face, Jungwon realizes, something twisting unpleasantly in his gut.

The despair must play out on his features, because Jake is gentle when he says, “I won’t pretend to know what it’s like, but I do know how it feels to grieve for what could have been. It’s easier, sometimes, I think, to let that consume you. To spend your life trying to get as close to that lost future as you can, even though you know it will never be quite right. Even though you know you’re chasing ghosts.”

Jake folds his hands across his lap, lacing his fingers together.

“She made the decision to let those ghosts rest, to let that part of her life go. To find something else worth living for instead. For the small moments, maybe. For joy, for love. All those things that she still gets to feel.”

That you still get to feel. Jake doesn’t say it, but Jungwon hears it all the same.

“Those things that nothing, not even fate, gets to take away.”

Jungwon glances down at his wrist. It’s covered, but he can feel the ever present weight of it. Of the gray mark that he knows, deep down, will never fade. Will never change.

And for the first time in a long time, that truth doesn’t feel quite so heavy.

“I…” Jungwon isn’t sure how to wrap his gratitude in words. “Thank you.” For telling him. For helping you. For being here. “For all of it.”

“Of course.” Jake smiles. Lets his fingers fall to his sides as he stands, brushing invisible dust from his lap. “Joy is even better when it’s shared, no?”

Joy is even better when it’s shared.

For the first time in a long time, Jungwon smiles. A real smile, a face-splitting, toothy, uncontrollably wide smile. One that hurts his cheeks and reaches all the way to his eyes.

It’s still there when he’s walking back to his dorm.

It’s still there when he sits down at his desk, reaching for his computer and turning on the last playlist he was listening to earlier, just for something to fill the silence.

After a handful of moments, a familiar melody begins to lilt through his speaker.

Clair de Lune. It’s a tune he would know anywhere. It reminds him of moonlight, of starlight, and everything in between. It reminds him of long study sessions and stolen glances and tentative whispers.

It makes him smile even harder.

Looking at the computer in front of him, Jungwon thinks fate just might be a tangible thing.

He feels it in the back of his throat first and then the base of his nose. The telltale stinging sensations that always comes at the first sign of tears.

He lets it. Welcomes it. Allows them to fall.

Alone in his room, hard, long sobs wrack his entire body and leave him gasping for air. Sorrow and grief and anger and joy all tangled together in one.

Because Jungwon is done mourning himself, the ghost of a life that has haunted him for the last year. The future that was never his to begin with. The weight of possibilities that time cannot undo, that sheer will alone cannot change.

Joy is even better when it’s shared.

And he thinks he’ll start with himself.

…..

The knock on your front door is unexpected. And it comes just too late at night for you to feel comfortable opening it without a second thought. Footsteps padding as silently as possible towards the entrance to your dorm, you run through the short list of people you think could possibly be knocking at your door at this hour and come up blank.

Against your better judgement, you undo the latch, opening the door slowly as if that will be enough to deter any unwanted visitors.

Thankfully, the sliver of space doesn’t reveal a threat. But it does have your brow furrowing in confusion.

“Jungwon? How did you–”

Explanations for how he found your address are not at the top of his priority list. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, words tumbling out all at once. “I don’t…” A pained expression crosses his features. “I’m not good with words, and I don’t always know what the best thing to say is, but I’m sorry. I never should have said those things about you, about us. I – we’re not glitches.” He pauses, frowning. “I mean, we are, but that’s okay. We’re okay. There’s nothing to fix, and I’m sorry that I made it sound like I think otherwise.”

He trails off again, jaw working as he swallows the lump in his throat. “I… You have to know that I think the absolute world of you, ___. I would never, ever want to say or do something that makes you think otherw–oof.”

Jungwon’s words die with the sudden impact of your head against his chest, arms wrapping tight around his torso. Shock renders him immobile, just for a moment, before he’s melting into your touch. Returning your embrace as his arms twine around your back, fingers settling against your spine.

It’s all there, wrapped up in this moment. A solid foundation. A warm place to land. Things that futures can be built upon. Things that can breathe life into possibilities, into almosts, into maybes.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and it’s lost somewhere against the skin of his neck.

“For what?”

“For everything you said.” You melt a little further into him, and Jungwon hopes that he never has to move. “For being here.”

You mean it. He knows it.

He lets his cheek rest against the crown of your head. You feel the movement of his jaw when he tells you, “It’s the only place I wanted to be.”

He means it. You know it.

…..

epilogue.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You know,” Jungwon rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile on his lips, too. “The more you keep asking that question, the less inclined I am to answer it.”

Huffing, you argue. “We’ve been walking for thirty minutes.” With still no destination in sight, mind you. “Don’t I deserve some kind of explanation.”

“That’s what the coffee was for.” Jungwon’s smile turns into a grin, one of those real ones that lights up his eyes. That has starlight reflecting in them. One that has you returning a smile o your own, despite your complaints. “To distract you from the physical labor.”

“Well, we can’t all be on the taekwondo team.”

Jungown just rolls his eyes again. “We’re almost there. I promise.”

And despite it all, you believe him. Because it’s been six months since you were first assigned as project partners and nearly two since your shared class ended. And he’s still here. Still a permanent fixture in your life. Still responsible for so many moments you’ve come to look forward to, so many memories you know you’ll cherish forever.

Because despite the gray numbers on your wrists, you’re both dressed for the activity. It’s nearing winter now, but it’s unseasonably warm. With the physical exertion included, it’s weather that calls for short sleeves.

Because there’s no one else you’d walk thirty minutes towards an undisclosed location for.

Because there’s no one else that understands you the way he does, not just from shared circumstances, but also as a result of effort. Of honest conversations and the genuine desire to listen. To learn you. To know you like the back of his hand.

Because to him, you’re just you. A person capable of joy and anger and grief and love and all of the beautiful, wonderful, messy things that comes with being a human. You’re not a failure, not something to fix. Your identity isn’t constrained to the gray mark on your wrist.

Because you think you might love him for it.

Because you know that you do.

And when you finally arrive at the small neighborhood park ten minutes later, the only thing you’re thinking about is how beautiful the lake looks bathed in the glow of afternoon sunlight.

Later, sprawled on a picnic blanket underneath the shade of an old sycamore tree, overlooking that same lake, you’ll turn to him and whisper some nonsense about recent studies claiming that soulmates often find each other surrounded by nature. Particularly in the presence of a body of water.

Jungwon will roll his eyes, will brush a strand of hair away from your forehead while he tells you that he doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter, that it’s all a bunch of nonsense anyway.

His smile will be soft, as he hands you the small makeshift bouquet of wildflowers you hadn’t noticed him collecting on your journey here. You’ll tuck your favorite one behind your ear before you lean back against his chest.

And it will feel a little bit like coming home, like resting after a long day, like basking in the first rays of sunshine as winter finally releases its grip on the world and blooms into a glorious spring when he intertwines his fingers with yours and whispers against the shell of your ear that he thinks you’re beautiful.

Fate is a funny thing, you’ll think as his breath tickles the skin of your neck, sends a shiver down the length of your spine.

And no matter how many nights we’ve spent berating it, cursing it, resenting it, I’ll always be glad that it has led us to this. Or maybe, you’ll wonder as he presses a gentle kiss to the curve of your cheekbone, the space between your eyebrows.

Maybe we led it. Grabbed fate by the collar and forced it to bend to our whims like that masters of destiny we are.

Whatever it may be, I’m glad that it brought me here.

To joy. To love.

And most of all, to you.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. As always, I love hearing your thoughts. All the best ♡♡

#jungwon fanfiction #jungwon fanfic #jungwon x you #jungwon x reader #jungwon angst #jungwon fluff #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fanfic #enhypen angst #enhypen fluff

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puspincarolartarchives · 2 years ago

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Okay Okay, I had a Draw it Bad Meme in May.

In the Alternate Universe, Carol and Alexis are Reverse Gijinkas.

Alexis is an Ocelot and Carol is the Fire Ferret.

It's called "The Ocelot and Fire Ferret".

I did it on Reverse Gijinka AU.

#ocelot #fire ferret #carol #alexis #reverse gijinka #reverse gijinka au #eyeglasses

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wonyoiz · 5 months ago

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Pa-umaga; Jungwon filo smut au 🔞

2.2k words

taglish, cuss words, teasing, laplapan, kantutan, car fun BASTA BASTOS BAWAL SA BATA

You would be lying if you said his last message didn’t make you need him more. Lagi kayong nag ba-bar to unwind before or after a good fuck. Madalas niyong ginagawa ito, for thrill they say. The night would either end well or end with a mukhang-hindi-mabasa written on your face dahil sa selos. Jungwon often wears his black eyeglasses outside which makes him look nerd, pulling girls left and right, and he knows damn well you don’t like the idea of it. Sinasadya niyang pag-selosin ka dahil tinitigasan siya whenever you act possessive. Girls usually think of him as someone who is pure as milk, nerd, and innocent that makes them want to use him. Little did they know that the innocent guy they know is the same guy who’s begging you, dominating you, and of course, fucking you.

He becomes a completely different person the moment he’s alone with you or even just when he catches sight of you. Ganiyan kalala tama niya sa’yo na baka kahit isang haplos lang ng kamay mo sa hita ni Jungwon ay tigasan na siya and you’d always end up getting fucked.

You eventually made your way back to your table, and Jungwon soon followed. The moment his hand rested on your waist, accompanied by a subtle squeeze, it was as if a jolt of electricity coursed through you, leaving you visibly stunned. You’re aware sa kung ano ginagawa niya dahil alam niya rin kung gaano kayo nagtitimpi hawakan ang isa’t isa. Inusog ka niya sa harapan niya at biglang idiniin ang katawan sayo, tangina damang dama mo yung tumutusok sa pwetan mo and it’s hard as fuck. Parang kinikiliti ka sa leeg mo dahil sa hangin na lumabas sa pag-tawa ni Jungwon. He leaned in close to your neck and whispered, “Dama mo?”

Tumawa na naman siya bago idiin lalo, slowly thrusting his clothed dick behind you. “Tigas ‘di ba? Kasalanan mo ‘yan.”At dahil puta ka, you can’t help but let out a soft moan. Umupo agad siya na parang wala lang nangyari. Kitang kita na naman sa mukha mo yung inis dahil sa pambibitin ni Jungwon

As Jungwon sat down, a smirk played on his lips, fully aware of the frustration he was causing you. He casually took a sip from his drink, eyes never leaving yours, as if daring you to make the next move. The heat between you was palpable, and every nerve in your body was on edge, craving his touch and the release he so expertly withheld.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, you leaned over the table, your voice low and dripping with desire. "Quit teasing. Alam mo naman kung ano gusto kong mangyari.”He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence, but the glint in his eyes told you he was far from done playing. "Oh? And what exactly do you want, baby?" he asked, his tone laced with mockery

"Don't play dumb," you shot back, frustration evident in your voice. "You know damn well what I want." He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down your spine.

"Maybe I do," he said, leaning in closer until his lips were just inches from yours. "But where's the fun in giving in so easily?"

You clenched your fists, trying to control the overwhelming urge to drag him out of the bar and into the nearest dark corner. But before you could respond, he stood up, grabbing your hand and pulling you with him.

"Tara na." he said, his voice suddenly serious, leaving no room for argument.

Jungwon's grip on your wrist tightened as he led you swiftly out of the alley and toward his car. Jungwon's grip on your wrist tightened as he led you swiftly out of the alley and toward his car.

The moment the door closed, he was on you. His hands found your waist, pulling you onto his lap as he settled into the driver’s seat. The interior was dim, shadows playing across his face, highlighting the dark, hungry look in his eyes. You could barely catch your breath before his lips crashed into yours, the kiss aggressive and desperate. His hands roamed your body with purpose, gripping your hips, meeting each other's thrusts in perfect sync. Ramdam na ramdam mo yung hulma ng tite ni Jungwon kahit naka pantalon siya.

“Ah.. Kanina mo pa ako binabaliw, tangina.” Jungwon moaned between kisses, his voice rough with need. His hands slid up your thighs, fingertips brushing close between your legs.

“Putangina?” He finally noticed. “Ito ba dahilan?” Walang sabing hinawakan ni Jungwon ang puke mo, slowly rubbing your clit.

“Do you wear skirts to flaunt how much of a slut you are? Kailan mo pa tinanggal panty mo?” Hindi ka na halos makasagot because of the pleasure he’s giving you. Ungol lang ang tanging sagot mo sa tanong niya kaya’t binilisan niya pa lalo ang paghimas sa puke mo at saka pinasok ang dalawang daliri, making you grip on his shoulders tightly.

“Ah.. kanina.. sa cr— Fuck you..” apat na daliri na ang pinasok niya matapos mong sumagot. You can feel every inch of his fingers—neither too large nor too small, but perfectly sized to fit inside you. The sensation is intense, as the fingers press and curl against your sensitive walls, hitting just the right spots. Each movement and touch is precise, creating waves of pleasure that seem perfectly tailored to your body’s needs.

Ang isang kamay niya naman ay pumunta sa baba mo sabay sabi ng “Tongue, baby.” Agad mo rin naman siyang sinunod na para bang you’re made to obey whatever he says. Nilabas mo ang dila mo bago ka niya sunggaban ng halik. Dila sa dila.. he swirled his tongue inside your mouth. Alam na alam niya kung ano ang gagawin, kabisado niya na rin ang bawat parte ng katawan mo and it never failed to impress you. Marami ka nang nakahalikan pero iba si Jungwon. He’s just too good for you.

You moaned into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the intensity of his kiss as your hips instinctively rocked against him, seeking friction. But just as the tension reached its peak, Jungwon pulled back with a smirk on his lips.

“Sa tingin mo laplap lang ibibigay ko sa’yo?” he murmured, voice dripping with dark amusement as he gripped your hips firmly, stopping your movements. You whined in protest, trying to grind against him, but his hold was unyielding.

“Please, Jungwon…” you begged, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with desperation.

“Can’t hear you, baby.” he teased, raising an eyebrow as he stared into your eyes, savoring every second of your submission.

Napakagat ka sa labi mo dahil alam mong nang-aasar na naman yung isa, the taste of the alcohol he drank still lingers on your tongue. “Please, just fuck me already.”

Jungwon's eyes darkened, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. “Marunong ka naman pala mag-salita,” he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

In one swift motion, he tugged down the fabric of your skirt, revealing just enough of what he wanted. His fingers swiftly and skillfully reached your pussy, tracing delicate circles, eliciting a sharp gasp from your lips.

“Fuck, basang-basa…” he muttered, his voice filled with satisfaction as he continued his torturous teasing, his fingers never giving you the full relief you craved. “All because of a little teasing in the bar?”

Tanging pag-tango lang ang nasagot mo sa kanya, barely able to form words as his fingers worked their magic. But just when you thought he might finally give you what you wanted, he stopped, pulling his hand away completely. You were about to speak, but the look in his eyes silenced you.

Without warning, Jungwon unbuttoned his jeans, releasing his hardened length, the sight of it making your mouth water. He didn’t waste any time; he gripped your hips and positioned you above him, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance.

“Let’s quit with the teasing. Kantutin na kita, please..”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You slowly lowered yourself onto him, moaning loudly as he stretched you, filling you up completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that had your head spinning. Tangina, ang laki niya.

Jungwon let out a guttural groan as he bottomed out inside you, his hands still gripping your hips, guiding your movements. “Mhmm- Fuck, ang sarap mo,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he began to thrust up into you, setting a brutal pace that had you seeing stars.

Napapaliyad ka na sa bawat hagod ng tite niya sa loob ng puke mo habang si Jungwon naman ay napapakagat na ng labi as he throws his head back because of how tight you are kahit ilang beses ka na niyang napasukan.

You couldn’t hold back your cries of pleasure as he fucked you hard, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The car was filled with the sounds of your desperate moans and the slick, wet noises of your bodies colliding. His hand found its way to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat with just enough pressure to make you feel even more powerless under his control.

“Nakikita mo ba sarili mo?” Jungwon asked, his grip on your neck tightening as he pounded into you relentlessly. “Halos kilala ka na nga sa uni bilang santo pero here you are.. so fucking desperate for my cock.” Hindi ka na naman makasagot dahil sa pagsunggab niya sa leeg mo, leaving marks for people to see.

“Only I get to fuck you like this, naiintindihan mo ba?” he asked, waiting for your answer.

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to breathe as the pressure of his hand and the intensity of his thrusts pushed you closer and closer to your climax “Ikaw lang.”

“Good,” his voice thick with lust as he drove into you harder, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “Because I’m not stopping until you’re begging me to.”

And he didn’t. He kept you on the edge for what felt like an eternity, pulling you back from the brink of release only to push you closer again, until you were nothing but a mess in his arms.

Jungwon looks so hot under you.. na kahit sa simpleng pagtulo ng pawis niya eh nalilibugan ka. You’re riding him pero he doesn’t let you do all the work and that’s what you like about him compared sa mga dating naka fubu mo, mga makasarili amputa sariling libog lang iniisip. You two have been fucking for almost four months already and you would be lying kapag sinabi mong hindi mo siya gusto romantically. Typical lore na nahuhulog sa ka-fubu. Lala ng attachment issues mo par. Paano ba naman kasi, after care niyang ipag-luto at alagaan ka kaya sinong hindi mahuhulog sa ganiyan?

…

And fucking finally, when you couldn’t take it anymore, when every nerve in your body was screaming for release, Jungwon gripped your hips tightly and slammed you down onto him one last time, sending you crashing over the edge into oblivion. You screamed his name as the pleasure washed over you in waves, your body convulsing around him as he continued to fuck you through your orgasm, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were completely spent.

With a final, deep thrust, nilabas ni Jungwon ang tite niya bago labasan nang tuluyan, nanginginig pa siya habang tumatalsik sa katawan mo ang tamod niya. He held you tightly against him, his breathing heavy and ragged in your ear.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you too lost in the aftermath of what had just happened. But eventually, Jungwon loosened his grip on you, his hands gently stroking your back as you caught your breath, He gently brushed the hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ears with a tender touch.

Jungwon gently pulled you off his lap, carefully adjusting you so you were seated beside him in the shotgun seat. His touch was now tender, a stark contrast to the rough, demanding energy of a moment ago. At dahil bare minimum enjoyer ka, kuhang-kuha ka na naman ni Jungwon.

He reached over to grab a small, clean towel from the glove compartment and handed it to you. "Here," he said softly, his voice warm and reassuring. "Clean up."

As you finished cleaning yourself up, he took the towel from you and tossed it aside, then pulled you into a gentle hug. Wala na, baliw ka na ata talaga sa kaniya. His arms were warm and comforting, wrapping around you protectively. "Ayos ka lang?" he asked, his tone sincere.

You nodded, leaning into his chest. "Of course."

He stroked your hair, his fingers running soothingly through the strands. "I'm sorry if I got too rough," he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. “Sarap mo kasi,” biro niya, kahit totoo naman.

Hinampas mo siya nang mahina sa braso pero gago kinilig ka lang dahil naramdaman mo ang biceps niya, lumalaki na talaga lalo ang katawan niya dahil sa pag g-gym. Even his chest were much bigger than last month.

“Tara na hatid na kita.”

You smiled, appreciating the thoughtfulness behind his offer. "Sure," you said, feeling a warm glow at the way he was taking care of you.

Jungwon nodded, starting the car with a smooth motion. He drove effortlessly, his left hand resting on the window while his right hand guided the wheel. Occasionally, he glanced at you with a warm smile.

#jungwon hard hours #enhypen smut #jungwon hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #jungwon smut #enhypen hard thoughts #jungwon imagines #jungwon x reader #enhypen suggestive #jungwon x you #filo smau #filo au #Spotify

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little-pondhead · 7 months ago

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Day 20: Pitch Bible AU

I had a lot of fun with this :)

[Quotes from the pitch bible and personal headcanons are below the cut.]

Link to pitch bible

Pitch!Danny

"The kid with the nerdy, freaky parents. The kid who's afraid of his own shadow."

"Shy, quiet, stumbling and nervous - but always with a smile and a wink to his friends and the camera."

(Page 7)

Danny's death mark looks more like a burn scar rather than Lichtenberg figures. Everyone assumes he was in a fire whenever the trio talks about the Accident. The Fentons back this up since the true events cause an electrical fire in the lab.

He was only bullied about his scars once. Danny burst out crying on the spot, and no one has said anything since. He carries around a homemade balm to soothe the scars when he gets phantom pains.

His death mark extends into his hair and one of his eyes. He now has heterochromia as both Danny and Phantom, as the affected eye's iris was darkened, and a starburst pattern appeared. (inspired by this)

His overall eyesight was also affected, and he now wears reading glasses as a human. Danny frequently loses them, so his friends bought him a used eyeglass chain from a yard sale. The eyeglass chain is made of rainbow beads, and the spirit of the previous owner is attached to it.

Danny took up knitting soon after the Accident to help retrain his fine motor skills and concentration. He's quite good at it, and he made a sweater based on Van Gogh's Starry Night.

Frequently has ectoplasm stains on his clothes from either ghost fights or helping his parents in their lab. Most people think it's paint.

Phantom is invisible to most people (including himself when he looks in mortal mirrors.) He keeps it that way as much as possible, as his appearance is quite inhuman. Danny hates the uncanny valley feeling he causes wherever he goes. Even his friends had to work to get past the instinct to run when he showed himself. He has no pupils, but his death mark remains.

Pitch!Tucker

"Tucker uses the gadgets that Danny has gotten for him by raiding Mom and Dad's lab: The goggles that let him see ghosts, the backpack that lets him capture them, and the occasional random jet back that Dad was saving for a rainy day."

(Page 17)

Tallest of the trio, even with Sam's boots giving her an inch. Took track and field in middle school, so he's also the most physically fit, even if it's just by a little. Tucker is also the most reckless of the three and carries a first aid kit around for both him and Danny.

Bit of an adrenaline junkie, even if he won't admit it. Red Bull is his go-to over coffee and tea, which both Sam and Danny insist is bad for him. He's always hungry from sharing his meals with Danny, who cannot cook at home.

Tucker was forced to stop wearing his hats in middle school, but he hated his hair at the time, so he dyed it blonde and fried it straight to 'fit in better.' Sam and Danny have yelled at him for it, and he's slowly learning to appreciate his natural hair. (He still wants to keep dying it for a few more years, however. Red is the next color on his list!)

Takes dual courses at the Amity Park Community College in computer science. Became a top student quickly. He uses this knowledge to help Danny tinker with his parents' inventions and computers. (Which is difficult, given their backgrounds.)

Has a form of synesthesia called 'chromesthesia,' which means he sees colors and patterns when he hears sounds. His favorite color pattern is the sound of leaves rustling in autumn since it makes pretty yellow, orange, and red swirls. He turns the most memorable sounds into tie-dye t-shirts.

Tucker uses his 'liberated' Fenton tech all the time. Aside from ghost fights, he will 100% use the jetpack to get to school when he's late or use an extendable arm to hold a drink when he's busy. It drives Danny nuts because he has to recharge the backpack more, but when it comes down to it, he doesn't really mind. After all, Tucker is the one jailbreaking all their equipment.

Pitch!Sam

"A Goth Janeane Garofalo-type that hides her good looks behind baggy clothes, she is an encyclopedia of conspiracy theories and paranormal activity…a cute girl who loves all things geek!"

(Page 17)

Sam is the most serious of the three and is suspicious of everything. Her parents raised her as a rich elite; nothing comes for free in that type of life. She practically lives in the secondary suite that belonged to her grandmother Ida, tending to the greenhouse and library there.

Her favorite color is purple, and she raises Purple Emperor butterflies in the greenhouse in an attempt to increase their population, despite her location. She raises other butterflies and insects as well, but the Purple Emperors are her pride and joy. She wears purple butterfly charms in honor of them.

She has a bigger library than the high school, with books on topics Danny and Tucker have never heard of. During a ghost-induced power outage, they went to Sam and her library to perform an "ancient form of Googling." She did not appreciate that joke.

Cuts and dyes her hair herself, and bothers the boys about proper self care. She even has a little notebook in her pocket that lists reminders, dates, and observations she wants to look back on later. (For example, it reminds her when Danny is supposed to take his medicine, since his memory sucks now.)

Sam researches the paranormal almost obsessively, especially since she gains that psychic link with Danny. She wants to understand it, how it works, and why it happened. (She isn’t aware the ‘get better’ kiss was the cause.)

The random feelings and visions have increased her anxiety tenfold. Tucker jokes that she’s Batman now, since Sam has used her money to create a hundred different backup plans for everything she could think of, including hidden emergency packs all over town.

Once curb-stomped a grown man, as a child, on the day of Grandma Ida’s funeral because he was bragging about influencing the final will in his favor. She brings this energy to any fight she’s capable of participating in, and ghosts have learned to give her a wide berth. Locals just think she’s nuts.

#danny phantom #dannymay2024 #day 20: pitch au #pitch bible au #listen I put too much thought into this #if someone wants to take this and run feel free

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lo1k-diamonds · 3 months ago

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Stellar Behavior 💜 Part 1

“What is worth an innocent’s life? You decide.”

PAIRING: Officer!Yoongi x Mafia (f)reader

SUMMARY: Yoongi has been in the police force for long enough to know that the system isn’t perfect, so when an injustice is about to put his protégé in jail, he has no other choice but to go to you. You’re the devil, but you’re hard to resist, and he needs to decide between falling into temptation or showing you that two can play the game.

WORD COUNT: 4.8k

GENRE: Gangster AU, Law AU, enemies to lovers, smut

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: corruption, power dynamics, blackmail, threats w/ a knife, slight degradation, sexual favors, oral (f rec)

A.N. I'm soooo excited, this fic is 🔥 Infinite thank yous to @moonleeai and @downbad4yoongi for working through my crazy and being incredible! Enjoy 🔥🔥

Masterlist | Masterpost | AO3 | Wattpad | Next Chapter >

Yoongi huffed and threw his eyeglasses onto the keyboard, rubbing his eyes so roughly he saw lights. It was no use; no matter how much he went over the evidence, again and again, he couldn’t change it.

“Hyung.”

He uncovered his eyes, only to be met with Taehyung’s sadness. His shoulders sagged from the sleepless nights ever since Jimin had gotten arrested, with dark circles bringing even more desolation to his otherwise heavenly features. He knew it wasn’t Taehyung’s intention, but the sight only unnerved Yoongi even more.

“Go home, get some sleep.”

Taehyung flinched, “But—”

“That’s an order, Officer.”

Taehyung stiffened and instantly bowed and showed his respects to his Superintendent before turning and leaving. Only then did Yoongi heave a deep breath and observe around him. It was weird seeing his department at the police station empty, without the officers at their desks taking calls or doing paperwork while on one of their 24-hour shifts. But they had all been shaken up, and so he had sent them home.

He was proud of his Division, and as their Chief, he couldn’t be more certain of everyone’s conduct and character. This included Jimin’s, and it was the reason why he was losing his mind over this case.

No matter how much he reviewed the footage and evidence, there was no mistake — Officer Jimin had seemingly shot his partner dead during an arrest gone wrong. This was a natural conclusion, judging by the body camera of the now deceased cop, Officer Junghee, that had captured Jimin nearing him with a fuming pistol in his hand. One that matched the ballistics report on Yoongi’s desk.

This was why the prosecution wanted to charge him with manslaughter at the very least, but Yoongi could not be convinced. The body camera also captured the panic in Officer Jimin’s voice and expression as he tried to save his downed partner. Yoongi didn’t care if that was Jimin’s gun or if it was fuming in his hand — he didn’t believe it.

“It wasn’t me!” The words Jimin shouted as he was arrested conveyed an absolute world of hurt and combined with the shock in Jimin’s eyes was seared into Yoongi’s retinas, causing him to dig the heel of his hands into his eyes again. But no matter how much he attempted to change the image, it wouldn’t. Jimin, his protégé, was still being handcuffed and taken away while begging, “I didn’t, you have to believe me! He put it in my hands! Hyung!”

Yoongi nudged his eyeglasses off the keyboard, locked his computer, and grabbed his coat. On long nights like these, he didn’t bother staying in uniform, only wearing black pants with a white shirt and his badge and holster belt. He made his way outside and got into his car, acknowledging whoever he met along the way. Temperatures were freezing, and his car didn’t start immediately. He reached for his nicotine gum while he waited for the car to warm up. When it finally started, so did the 3 AM news on the radio right as he left the parking lot.

“In a shocking revelation, an officer from the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency shot his partner dead after pulling up to a suspicious vehicle in Dongjak District. The mounting evidence is undeniable, and the prosecution is discussing the potential penalty in such a case, with the spokesperson revealing in a press conference that while mistakes happen, justice needs to be served.”

Yoongi kept chewing and driving as the prosecutor’s voice echoed through the speakers. On the outside, Yoongi was the picture of calm, cool, and collected, but inside, he was fuming. He had spoken with the prosecutor many times, who preferred a clean-cut arrest to build his case to run for whatever political role he was after rather than fight for justice, as he claimed. Yoongi had always known that multiple interests abound in the justice system, but now he was starting to get pissed.

When he parked the car, he looked outside through the windshield, observing quietly as the people moved in and out of the Aether. The bouncers kept drunks at bay, and despite the booming music and the flashy lights, everything looked normal for a nightclub.

He removed his belt and badge, shoving them in the glove compartment so hard that something fell out. He reached to grab it from the floor, his frown instantly turning into a scowl. It was a photo of him hugging a woman, laughing, taken many years ago when they were still happy. When they were not even married yet, let alone divorced.

He got out of the car and ripped the photo into as many tiny pieces as possible, dropping the scraps in a trashcan along with his gum. Then he stopped in front of the bouncers with his hands in his pockets, saying six little special words.

“I want to see the boss.”

The first bouncer just scoffed a laugh and shook his head, but the second one eyed him from head to toe, “If you’re here to inspect, then you have to identify yourself first.”

“Not an inspection,” Yoongi said nonchalantly, glancing around. “It’s not an official visit.”

The smirking bouncer kept the flow of the people going in and out while the serious one, resembling the first almost to a T, pressed his earpiece further into his ear, waiting for orders. Yoongi had noticed the cameras already while he was walking up, and he wondered how long it would take for them to know exactly who he was and why he was there.

The serious bouncer moved closer to him, “Are you armed?”

“No.”

“I have to make sure.”

Yoongi glanced at him, then nodded, raising his hands as he let the man make sure he was unarmed. When the tall man rose from his knees after checking Yoongi’s ankles, he lowered his arms and waited for the goon to catch his breath.

“Alright, you can go in.”

He moved past the bouncers and into the entryway, but he hadn’t even made it to the coat check when someone approached him. Just by the light clothing, styled hair, and badge hanging on his belt, Yoongi could immediately tell that the man worked there.

“Follow me.”

Yoongi wasn’t there to sightsee, but he could appreciate the columns and marble structures and statues. Along with the paintings, velvet curtains, and carpets, it made the Aether look like a temple or divine abode of the Gods. The aesthetic intensified as they went up the stairs, but he didn’t have time to register much. In a second, he was walking into what appeared like an ordinary office — a pleasant space with a large desk at the center in front of huge dark windows that showed the lights flashing from the dance floor. He ignored the liquor table, the cabinets with files, and the black velvet sofas to the side. What his eyes were immediately drawn to was you — you who had pushed the large computer screen to the side so you could watch him come in. Your chin rested graciously on your intertwined fingers, with your elbows on the desk, eyes flickering with amusement, watching him through dark curled lashes. He hadn’t even noticed he had walked to your desk or that the door had closed behind him, but then you stood up, letting your delicate arms fall alongside your tight black dress. Your black, straight hair slid over your shoulders, framing the plunging cleavage of your dress, and when you smiled, he felt hot—molten hot.

“Welcome, Superintendent,” you smiled with a glint of amusement, your perfect teeth shining in the overhead light, and he clenched his fists behind his back. “Or should I say Yoongi? I was told you weren’t here in an official capacity, but…” You eyed him from head to toe, and he did his best to stay poised and calm. “You don’t look like you’re here to club.”

Yoongi was already sweating, not out of nervousness but because of you. Because you always eyed him like you owned him, always had a hint of mischief to every smile, and were always as elusive as a ghost. One he couldn’t catch and had grown tired of running after.

Still, hearing his name in your mouth for the first time… made him pull on the collar of his shirt, “Not here to party; I’m here on business.”

Your eyebrow twitched, and he looked at you seriously; you were a cunning fox of the worst kind. Worse than a weed, than a pest, than the bloody smoke still hanging in the air and making his fingers twitch. He had a simple goal, and he had to stay focused.

“Not an official visit, but you’re here on business…” you mused out loud then shrugged. “Soon, it will be four in the morning,” you revealed with a hint of disdain as you neared the table that held liquor in crystal decanters. “Surely, if you wanted to do something official, you’d wait at least three more hours?” You chuckled as you poured a finger of whiskey into a glass. “Want some?” He shook his head, and you shrugged again. You made your way back to your desk, but instead of going around it, you perched on the side of it, close enough for him to see your dress parting, giving hints of your upper thighs, “What can I do for you, Chief?”

Yoongi had nerves of steel; he ignored the lush skin of your thighs, the cleavage, the numbing sound reverberating through the walls, the dimmed lights, and the way your eyes seemed to challenge him with every blink.

He focused, “I want your help.”

Your eyes widened comically, the image of innocence and confusion, “Mine? What could such a powerful person need from me?”

Thankfully, your coy attitude irritated him and helped him concentrate. “I know the suspicious car they were chasing was one of yours.”

Your eyes widened even more, but this time, you brought your glass to your lips to hide a smile, “My, my, Officer. I know I have many cars, but to say I was a fugitive—”

“You know what I mean,” his jaw clenched, and you licked your lips.

“I don’t,” you could only smile, and he clenched his fists again. There it was. It pissed the fuck out of him. “Are you going to arrest me, Chief? Make good use of those deduction skills of yours and put pretty handcuffs around my wrists?”

He hated that his heart jumped in his chest as you whispered salaciously and leaned into him, shortening the distance between you. He hated how tempting you looked, and he hated the way your eyes fixed on his, as if you were ready to follow suit with your provocation. You were probably a tease like that with everyone all the time. It pissed him off even more.

He only blinked, ever the master of showing a relaxed demeanor, “I have no evidence to arrest you, nor am I here in that capacity.”

It instantly hit him, as you straightened your back and finished the drink in your hand, that he was going to have to ask for your help. Not outsmart you, not convince you, not squabble with half facts and hunches — he needed your help and that meant he had to come down off his pedestal.

“My— An officer from my team will be sentenced for something he didn’t do. I’m out of options; I’ve hit a dead-end.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you put down the empty glass, “Don’t tell me — the system he holds and protects with his life won’t even try to prove his innocence.”

His jaw clenched; he hated that you weren’t completely wrong. “I’m trying to prove his innocence.”

The corners of your mouth twitched in a smile. “What makes you think I can help?”

He kept his mouth closed for a thoughtful moment. There was no use in accusing you again. Your smile wasn’t sly, so he decided to go for it. “You’re one of the biggest players.”

“Me?” You acted surprised, “I just own a few businesses here and there…”

“They say you’re the one to contact for information.” You tilted your head, and he insisted, “Even if that wasn’t your car, you’d know about it because it was on your turf. You’re you. I just know you know something that can help us solve this.”

That answer seemed to satisfy you because your lips and eyes revealed a small yet genuine smile that caught his breath. It made him realize he was leaning towards you now, exposing himself like that, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. Not when you looked at him like that, feeding into his hope.

“Say I do,” you started, eyes fixed on his. “Say I have evidence that could exonerate Officer Park.” He snapped straight; he had never told you the name of the Officer, and the media didn’t know it either. Yet what got him were your words, “Why would I help you?”

He clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth clicked. He just about growled with the way irritation mixed with his desperation, making him reel.

“Come on, Chief. Talk to me,” you pressed, wanting him to push through both the shock and the stick up his ass. “You must be desperate enough if you’re asking for my help, and I’m not denying it. I’m saying I might have what you need. What would you do to save an innocent from prison for life or worse?”

He didn’t think, “You have it? Something that could undeniably prove his innocence?”

He knew before he was done asking that it was impossible and that he was acting crazy. Yet, you leaned into him, meeting him halfway, your breath hitting his chin, “In those exact words? I do.” You sat back and let your words sink in, not knowing they gave him a full-body shudder. He always knew you were powerful and had your ways, but holy shit— “What do you have that I want?”

He opened his mouth but instantly closed it. Objectively, he had nothing. But maybe there was something he could do. First, though, he needed to know it was real. “What evidence do you have? Show it to me—”

“Hmmm, no,” you pressed your lips and twisted your nose, displeased. “That’s not how this works. This is based on trust. Besides, you don’t seem to have anything to offer.”

For a split second, he wondered if you were bullshitting him, but he honestly didn’t care. He had to do something. “You want something concrete for a maybe?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” your tone hardened as your expression lost humor.

“Alright, name it. Tell me what is worth your help.”

His tone was soft, and it worked to soothe you. His dark eyes helped; there was so much willingness in them, and you liked that. The man there asking for your help to correct an injustice was the kind of man you were looking for.

“Since you asked,” you cheekily started, pulling your hair behind your shoulders. “I want three things.” He didn’t even blink, so you continued, “The first is a favor. Of my choice and at my discretion whenever I shall need it. The second is for you to get on your knees. And the third is for you to eat.”

He blinked, “What?” He looked down to follow your hands over your thighs, and you spread your legs for him, though the black dress covered between them. He shook his head in bewilderment, “You’re crazy!”

“Crazy?” You chuckled, “I think I’m being quite reasonable.”

“You— Do you hear what you’re asking?”

He sounded breathless and could feel the heat on his cheeks, which was not ideal. He almost managed to step back, but a quirk of your eyebrow kept him still — he needed that evidence.

“Oh my, Chief Min. Are you getting heated at the thought of a couple of favors?” He scoffed, and you continued your tease, “Or is it the knees? Too proud to beg?”

“No, not too proud,” he mumbled between teeth. He was ready to kneel on the floor and beg, and the heat rising in his neck told him the rest wasn’t a problem either. And that was the problem. “The favor—” He cleared his throat, scratching it, “What is the favor?”

“I don’t know yet,” you shrugged, and it seemed to him like it didn’t matter. He knew that couldn’t be true, that had to be what you were really after — something specific from the Superintendent of the Seoul Metropolitan Police. And yet your eyes were shining in such a way that he almost forgot who you were. Almost.

“Something illegal, no doubt.”

You sighed and he took the moment to let the anger cool him — you were a criminal about to use his good intentions to surely accomplish something even worse. Instead of cooling him, irritation made him snap his knuckles and shift on his feet.

“I don’t know what it is, but it shouldn’t matter,” you said more coldly, squinting your eyes. “What is worth an innocent’s life? You decide.”

There was a hint of impatience in your tone that only riled him up more. He turned to you, “What’s stopping me from just—”

“You’re not that stupid,” you interrupted, raising your chin. His eyes noticed the surveillance cameras and you smirked, “They’re not who you should be concerned about.”

Your smile was predatory but he scoffed. You didn’t need to threaten him, and he didn’t like the coercion. He refused to look at you for a moment, giving you the impression that he was weighing his options. In reality, he was figuring out what angered him more — the fact that he was about to make a deal with a devil like you, or that he was that turned on from it.

You huffed and got off the desk, your heels clicking on the floor like a timer had just gone off. “Never mind—”

He grabbed your arm to keep you from walking away, and in a second, something sharp was poking his lower stomach. You both froze in place, your gaze angry and fixed on his, while his heart raced inside his chest. He didn’t let go of your arm, and you didn’t lower your knife.

“I never heard a yes from those pretty lips, so…” you spoke quietly, then pressed the blade harder. “Hands off.”

He knew you could put your money where your mouth was, and that if you wanted to kill him and get rid of him, you would. Yet, his grip didn’t lessen as he observed you. He was still trying to figure things out — not what to do, but you. He hated you objectively; you represented everything wrong with the world. Jimin was innocent; you shouldn’t be bargaining for his life, you should do the right thing. But you weren’t, you wanted to play with fire. Maybe even to get burned.

“What is it…” he started quietly, still eying your angry eyes. “Is it the risk? The humiliation? The footage for blackmailing me later? The power over a figure of authority?”

You scoffed, leaning in to answer just as quietly, “No risk, Chief. The footage might be insurance, but you’re a man of your word. No power over you because you’ll be doing it willingly. And no humiliation,” you chuckled. “It’s a privilege to eat at this table. Although…” You looked down, then smirked. “I can play if that’s what you like.”

He looked away from your eyes for the first time and almost flinched; his pants had a tent. He couldn’t even think; why was his body betraying him like this? He tried pulling away and letting you go, but you pressed the tip of your knife harder.

“Nuh-uh,” you whispered, taking a deep breath a little closer to his neck. “I heard the missus left cause you couldn’t get it up, but won’t you look at that—” Your tone was sly, and he gripped your arm harder in retaliation. You laughed, “I guess she just didn’t know how to play. Or maybe you like this,” your voice lowered wantonly, and a shiver ran up his spine as though he was starting to attune to it. “Like not having a choice, to be in danger, to be forced to do something reprehensible.”

He had to lick his lips because for a second he thought he was drooling, “I have a choice.”

You smiled and his cock twitched, “Then choose.”

He eyed your smile and leaned into you, but you chuckled and playfully pressed the tip of the knife to impose distance, ignoring the red droplets tainting the fabric.

“On your knees, Chief.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and he pulled you by the arm, disregarding the blade, so you’d walk back until the back of your thighs hit the desk. Then, he gripped your hips and helped you on the desk, fisting your dress in the same movement to get it out of the way as he kneeled between your legs. Your knife had slipped from your hand as you rested them on the desk for support, and you didn’t think to pick it back up. You wanted him to eat you and mean it, but he was going above and beyond — nuzzling your thighs and inhaling your scent, frantically fighting with your dress, and trying to pry your legs further apart so he could have access.

When his nose poked your clit, you jumped in place, and his fingers dug into your hips, even through the fabric of the dress. Just looking at the way he was fighting to get his mouth on you was positively melting you, but you wanted it to actually happen.

“Slide them down,” you breathed after he nuzzled and licked your core through your panties enough times to cover you with goosebumps.

He immediately obliged, and you shimmied to help him get rid of them. He threw them on the floor, then gripped your legs apart before giving you a look that seared you in place. You didn’t know what it was, but you were living for it, and the excitement burned your gut. The Superintendent looked like a piece of forbidden heaven between your thighs; who knew he’d have you melting like this just at the hint of doing what you asked?

A smirk spread on your lips as he kept struggling with your dress, until suddenly — rip. He bunched the fabric and pulled it, causing the slit that revealed your thigh to rip, and you chuckled. You liked that energy, that hunger; the way he was willing to destroy to have his way. Instantly, he had free leeway to uncover your core and press his mouth, rolling his tongue all over your slick folds.

You jolted with a sigh, gripping his hair at the back of his head. The more he laved his tongue over your slit to taste you, the more you had the urge to move, but you stayed still. With your eyes closed, you enjoyed every second of his discovery, from his licks to his tasting and humming. You heaved the breath you were holding when he nibbled your heat right before finding your clit to suckle, and your voice finally came out. You could almost laugh at how easily he had found his way, but your mind wasn’t there. While he found his rhythm, you guided him with expressive sighs, grazing your acrylic nails over his scalp without ever forcing him. You wouldn’t; his hunger was part of the power trip. Chief Min would eat you, give you what you wanted, and service you because you had that much power. You could bring someone like him to his knees. He liked it.

You suddenly pulled on his hair so he’d look up at you, and he did, not even bothering with a quizzical look. You bit your lip to stop a smile and relented your grip, and he looked down for a second. It was all it took for him to get back to it, and you let your head fall back with a sigh — case in point.

“The things you do for duty, Chief…”

His tongue kept laving over you as if you were desert, focused, regardless of your taunt. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten where he was or why because his hands started gently exploring your spread thighs. His fingers pressed to your curves and didn’t stop even when he felt the garter that held the knife you had used on him. Instead, he pulled on it, making it snap against your thigh, ripping a stronger moan from you.

It was then he realized you needed something stronger, so he pressed his face harder against your cunt, latched onto your clit, and started rutting into you. You were surprised but instantly melted, and your fingers curved around his hair. The grind of his lips pressing into you while his mouth held the suction was already maddening, but the thrumming of his tongue on your clit was the cherry on top. You didn’t have time to make it a challenge, or maybe you didn’t want to; his rhythm was perfect against your heat, and you moaned when it intensified. The strumming was precise and maddening, each tap firm and steady, giving you enough time to despair for the next one and moan when it came, leaving you to anticipate what would come next.

Your hips started moving on their own, and that was when you knew you had let go. There was no point in pretending he wasn’t doing it just like you wanted, or that you weren’t rolling into his face to feel him harder, forcing him to dig his long fingers into the flesh of your hips as he drank the slick melting out of you. The very sounds of his humming and licking drove the blood to your cheeks and emboldened your hips, messily humping against his mouth. You could feel the edge right before you, and every time you ground on his mouth, you thought that would be it.

“Fuck,” you groaned between teeth, looking down to find burning brown eyes drinking you more greedily than his hot mouth. He wasn’t stopping you or holding you back, he was letting you fuck his mouth however you wanted, and it popped you.

You let your head fall back and pressed his face to your cunt, your moans pitching higher when he sucked harder, as if to pull all the pleasure out of you like it was venom. He rode your climax with you, gripping your trembling legs around him as though he wished you’d smother him, and finally, you looked down. Your walls were still throbbing in the aftershocks when he dragged his tongue across you slowly, and you groaned through a smirk, then pulled him away by the hair.

“Easy there,” you smiled and let your legs down.

You quickly pulled your dress down to cover you again while your other hand raked through your long hair, putting it in place. He rose slowly to his feet with his eyes on you, and you didn’t even try hiding your heaving chest; he could see it well with such an observant gaze. His eyes were so intense that you shuddered and bit your lip, but avoiding them only landed your own on his evident arousal, and you smirked.

Looking up, for a moment, your taunt got caught in your throat. Min Yoongi looked the absolute best covered in your cum from nose to chin — deliciously ravenous.

You licked your lips, raising your hand to his face but stopping before you touched him. He mimicked you, his pink tongue collecting your slick over his lips while he focused on yours. Still, when your hand moved down, so did his eyes. You smirked, dodging his erection at the last second to hide your hand under your dress.

You hummed, closing your eyes as your fingers collected your wetness mixed with his saliva, and then brought them straight to your mouth. You licked them first, tasting what he did before putting them in your mouth and sucking.

You clenched, knitting your eyebrows as you realized how turned on you were. You were throbbing and craving something to push into you and fuck you senseless, and opening your eyes, you saw the same urge staring right back at you.

Your fingers left your mouth with a pop, and then you smiled, shaking your head, “Should have asked for a good fuck too.”

His dark eyes stayed on yours for a moment, and even when he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, they remained on yours. It was almost a taunt, and you grinned; you loved a good challenge, and even more the kind of fucking that lustful gaze promised. But you knew the worth of asking, and you were not going to come out losing.

“Maybe next time.”

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fanaticsnail · 7 months ago

Text

Pretty Bird - Part 2

Masterlist here

Word count: 2,065 Part 1

Synopsis: you nursed back to health and injured raven that was found in the canopy of your cottage. The raven was a shifted Avariel fae, a creature of myth and legend, and the new lord of Kuraigana. He is extremely smitten with you, and doesn't know the adequate customs to court you. All he knows and feels is you are his mate, and he wants you.

Themes: fae!Mihawk x human!reader, raven!Mihawk x f!reader (can be read as gn, no gendered terms used).

Notes: prompts based on this ask by 🪶 Anon. Header picture made by me using OPLA's Yoru and doctored stock images. We're leaning in on a bit of hybrid au stuff. Mihawk is a winged, elf-like creature that can shift into a raven and human form - but he is most comfortable being a winged humanoid with dark feathers and talon-like fingernails.

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

It wasn't quite the grandiose hallways and intricate ornamentation you had experienced once upon long ago. The high keep was, for all other words considered, gloomy. The light was dull, the curtains barely parted, and the lengthy leading carpet had begun to fray at the edges from ill-maintenance and neglect over the years.

The single room in the entire manor that caused your heart to flutter was the one you had reminisced with your pretty bird at your inherited cottage. The gallery was in full bloom, the curtains clipped and dusted with a place for everything, and everything in its place.

A large amassment of individuals were wandering and chattering within the halls, eyeglasses drawn up their faces and assessing the finery with criticism in their snarls. The group which were invited to the grand premier of the reopening were some that you had not seen prior, and many local dignitaries you had dealings with in your cottage.

You assumed you were here as a civilian observer, like some of the others, to give the new lord of Kuraigana a reputation of hospitality and humility. Truth be told, you did not care you were to be used as a ruse. All that seemed to matter was finding that one painting you recounted from the days of your youth.

Spotting a long since forgotten painting of your childhood, you felt the wonderment warm and swell in your chest as soon as you laid eyes on it. Your land, your hometown, a field of wildflowers shrouding your familial home with two figures sitting on a hanging swing off on a hollowed willow tree. The figure on the swing was looking up, just as a winged creature with a humanoid face was smiling down.

This was the picture you imagined when you spoke with the wounded raven in your cottage. There was something in the way the two subjects looked at each other, their hearts swelling in their eyes, as joy was depicted on their lips. Two creatures from different worlds just as captivated with the other as the other was with them.

As you leaned in closer to the image, you felt a presence behind you with their dark shadow cascading your form with their silhouette.

“Do you enjoy this one, then?” their vocal cadence was difficult to read, but their presence felt intimidating. You turned to face the figure, and curtseyed low to them with your eyes fallen to the ground.

“This painting holds meaning for me, yes, sir,” you rise from your curtsey, keeping your gaze held firmly to their dark, leather boots as you rose back to full stature. They stepped forward in a single stride, puncturing your border of personal comfort and towering over you.

“Can you explain it to me, so as to grant me a greater understanding of such a piece?” their voice purred down at you. The scent of their cologne felt familiar to you, as did the subtle pattern in their flowing cloak over their shoulders.

Softly floating your gaze to their features, you hovered over their unique, angular facial hair and bit back your nerves.

“The prior lord of this house was known for his admiration and appreciation for the fae-folk,” you spoke, attempting to maintain your calm demeanor while feeling intimidated by the man towering over you, “Many seem to enjoy the fables and tales of old. Hearing the joy of a world far from our own, whether written on written paper or depicted on canvas, is an accessible binding that draws people of all creed and color together.”

You float your eyes up to meet his, the amber hue of his gaze piercing you like a blade and seeming to goad you into speaking more on the subject.

“And the fae?” his challenging tone almost made you recoil, but you held your ground and attempted to avoid his gaze as he spoke down his nose at you, “Do they not frighten you?”

“Truth be told, sir,” you quickly bobbed a polite curtsey as you continued, “I feel I do not have enough experience on the matter to fear them.” You turn back to the painting, focussing on the gaze of the young Avariel beaming down at their human counterpart on the swing, “I appreciate them from afar, but I am yet to truly meet one.” The man hums in deep thought, slowly turning their own attention back to the painting while sitting in silence beside you.

After several moments of studying the painting, you turn to your guest and curtsey once more to the individual with a shy smile tugging at your lips.

“I fear it's getting rather late for me, sir. I best be getting home and tending to my homestead,” you nod to the sun beginning to fall behind the swirling landscape of curling mountains, “It is a lengthy trek home.”

“You arrived here on foot?” his voice seemed to be taken aback, “Do you not have horses, or some mule to pull a carriage? A cart with two goats, a saddle for a swine-?” You broke his train of thought with a soft, melodical giggle. He halted his words, listening to your laugh and slowly offering his own alongside it.

“Forgive me, sir,” you stifle your soft laugh, slowly biting back any further humor in your tone, “Some of us more common people can not afford the luxury to own such things. This is the furthest I've ventured of late, and I do wish to make it back before nightfall.”

Before you had the opportunity to flee from his sights, he swooped down and claimed your arm in the crook of his left elbow and held you there while slowly whispering down at you.

“You will allow me to escort you from the gallery and towards the door,” he was firm in his tone, but his poised elegance seemed to put you at ease. As he began to take a step to walk with you, he froze in place as you spoke to him.

“I feel like there should be a ‘please’ in there somewhere,” you offer him a nervous giggle and gently nod your head to him, “I don't think you have a right to lord over me like some cruel tyrant, sir…?” you trailed off, attempting to meet his gaze.

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, a look that seemed somewhat familiar to you, but foreign atop his features. His amber eyes seemed to hold a challenge within them as the corner of his lip ticked up.

“Lord Dracule Mihawk,” he offered you freely, raising his right hand to circle over your knuckles clasping his left elbow, “And, would you please allow me to escort you from the gallery towards the door?”

Something between a squeak and a gasp caught itself within your throat as you failed to find the words to respond to him with. The man at your side was the mysterious host you were curious about, and you had been conversing with him so openly you didn't spare a thought as to whom he was.

As he lead you silently through the quiet halls towards the door, he gently coaxed you through the threshold and gracefully spun you to face him within the archway. He stooped down towards you, and gently reached up to preen at a fallen strand of your hair to tuck it behind your ear.

“Should you need to borrow a horse, I would gladly provide you with one from my stables,” he uttered, gently caressing the crown of your head and scanning over your features without meeting your eyes. “I have a few to choose from, alongside a personal carriage or cart should you ever need one.” He finally met your eyes, looking down at you as your gaze was intense with eyes wide and in shock.

The lord of Kuraigana was shuffling your hair with such familiarity, it immediately drew up and rose every alarm in your mind. Why was he doing this? What motivation would he have to press his hands into you, and toy with you in such a way? You were a commoner amongst a den of lords and ladies, why you?

“I have no formal training in cart rearing, my lord,” you nodded your head to bob your hair from his clutches, “Nor do I desire to have you part with a horse on my behalf.” Stepping away, his hand hovers where contact was priorly met against your skin and hair. “Thank you for your hospitality, this is where I take my leave from you, my lord.”

Bowing in a low curtsey, you chose to walk from him without waiting a further dismissal from him due to the fluster his intimidating aura rose to you. As soon as you were out of sight, you breathed out a sigh of relief and gazed up into the first light of purple stars greeting the pastel purples and pinks over Kuraigana.

“I am such a fool.”

Both yours and Mihawk’s lips shared the same sentiment, feeling truly imbicilic in the interaction you had with one another not moments ago. For you, your embarrassment came from speaking so freely about childhood fantasies to the man who lords over you. For Mihawk, it was another aspect entirely.

“My mate hates me,” he whispered to the walls of his keep, “My mate fears me and recoils from my touch.” He gazed down at his hands, witnessing the first release of talons protruding from his fingertips in response to holding a human-passing form for so long.

As soon as he left your cottage once he was healed, he was attempting to find a way to welcome you into his home. While he understood that humans have kindness for one another in times of need, and compassion for injured animals, at the first offence of aid from you in his raven form, he knew it was you. You were his, and he was yours.

He needed you, craved you to know how desperately he wanted you in his high keep. The understanding on the intricacies of human clourtships was sadly lacking in his regard, but he knew he needed to try to win you over.

If you were an avarial, a changeling, or a shifter of the fae folk like he was, he knew he could express his desires and make his wanting known by preening and grooming you. He would nest for you, fill it with your scent matched with his, and welcome you into it while nestled against one another. Should he wish to make the match permanent, which he considered the notion the moment you began to converse with him as a man, he would dance for you to showcase his skills as a reveered fighter and exceptional provider.

Witnessing the fluster on your face at the moment he attempted to groom you left him feeling deflated and dejected. The rejection of his mate, the one he sorely wanted for himself, had him frustrated and desiring to know if you truly were rejecting him, or if this was an action lost in the courtship discorse of fae folk and humans.

He would never be able to get close to you as the lord of Kuraigana, your lord and ruler over your land. He would absolutely not desire for you to see him in his radiant glory, as half-shifted into his more comfortable form as a winged humanoid. He was assured you would turn from him in fear.

But as a raven? You liked him as a raven. You praised him as a raven. You scratched his chin, offered him meat, and spoke to him as a raven. He could listen to you as a raven. As your raven: your pretty bird.

Giving his shoulders a gentle shimmy, his cloak sprung to life and revealed his darkened wings as his form began to shrink into his smaller avarian form. The golden hue of his watchful eyes remained as intense as they searched for you on the pathway leading to your cottage.

He needed to know. Were you interested in such a courtship with a beast like him, or were you simply one of the kinder varieties of mortals? He shook his wings to take flight, his intense gaze was fixed on your form as the soft sunset became a gentle dusk and faded into a blue, cloudless night.

#one piece #x reader #mihawk #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #fairytale au #avarial mihawk #dracule mihawk x reader #mihawk x you #ask snail #snail answers

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months ago

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Competition | Yandere Hades

Yandere Pantheon College AU (1/7) | Master List

Providing guidance to the up-and-coming youth was a privilege not awarded to many and for that Pantheon College put a substantial amount of its budget toward its counselors. Allowing said counselors to manage the health of the students and staff at their discretion.

Since the grand split of the social classes, unofficial titles were given to the counselors. Dubbed the Average counselor and the Elite counselor staff and students divided themselves in turn. This wouldn’t have been a problem if the Principal didn’t find this funny enough to make a game of it.

“Hohoho whoever gets the most votes from students will get the lion’s share of the budget! Hohoho!”

Forcing the students and staff to submit their votes in a poll on a specific day would decide where the money would go and thus began your many bouts with the Elite counselor: Hades.

“Feel like giving up yet, (Y/n)?”

With his winnings from last year, he’d assembled an impressive display. A nationally acknowledged catering buffet in the courtyard. Separated by quality, the more upscale side needed identification as an elite student to even get a plate. It was downright degrading.

“Never in a million lifetimes.”

You were always rushing around busy trying to fundraise or stretch the tiny budget you did to help the average students plus they guaranteed their votes. The only problem was that the elite students were well aware of the predicament of the guidance counselors they did their best work to stunt the polls.

“(Y/n), you look so much more cross today what seems to be the matter?”

The smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.

“Another one of your students has been bullying mine out of voting.”

“Oh really I’ll have to look into it.”

His stupid smile was still on his face as he twirled the glass of wine in his hand. He always looked so unbothered it reminded you of the things that did get under his skin.

So you tilted your head pretending to rifle through files before faking a disappointed face, “I wish I could stop pitying you though.”

He stopped twirling his glass to pointedly stare at you, his single eyeglass catching the light. You continued, “It’s a little more demeaning that you can only win through sabotage. But I don’t have to live with your pride, right?”

He seemed like he wanted to argue but you ducked into your office, filing the manila folders away. Keeping your gaze fixed on your desk and the various items on it, pretending you don’t see the counselor waiting for you to acknowledge him.

“For your information, I am completely faultless for what my students do besides it’s just regular teasing–”

A student being held by a peeved security guard continued to head out of the office. The student looked up at the man outside of your office, letting a smile spread on their face.

“Hey, Mr. Hades! Make sure your votes stay up there, just like we talked about, even if I am getting suspended!”

“That’s enough out of you brat, out the door!”

It couldn’t have happened more perfectly than that, you looked at the counselor who was hiding his expression behind his gloved hands. Stifling your giggles you twirled in your chair over the small triumph.

“I wished I’d taken bets on how likely it was that you did convince your students to compete with the majority on a contest that doesn’t concern them.”

Letting his hand fall as he looked exasperated at you, “Why don’t you share the exact predicament with the students? It would certainly keep you in the running.”

“Because there’s already enough animosity between the groups and this is more about finding activities and events that benefit all students.”

He walked deeper into your office, languidly stepping closer to the edge of your desk.

“But the professors know, doesn’t that go against your….morale?”

He let the word on the end drag. Allowing that prideful smile of his to spread across his face as he leaned over the trinkets on your desk.

“Professors aren’t my main priority, it’s the students that I really need to worry about. It’s helpful that they know but I didn’t tell them. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if you included your professors in the same briefing that your students did.”

Hades quirked his eyebrows, in neither confirmation nor denial. Instead letting his grey-iris eyes glaze over as he stared at the different memorabilia on your desk picking up. Landing on a picture of your child he picked it up, dodging your grasp that tried to put the frame back in place.

You only could watch as you watched his eyes roam over the small picture as he walked around your office, casually taking in the art and graduation photos from various graduates. The smallest bloom of envy built in his chest when he saw the picture of a graduate hugging you. Thinking about his own office the sterile look was meant to maintain professionalism for his people. The only exceptions were the picture he had with his brothers and the single photo he had of his first day—the only picture he actively had with you.

“If you’re done looking, I’d like my picture back. I have an appointment in fifteen.”

At your voice, Hades turned from your wall still clutching your picture while he went behind your desk. Leaning on your side of the desk he came in close, still wearing that prideful smile.

“How do you say we have lunch together?”

You scoffed,” I doubt I could afford wherever you want to go.”

“No worries. I’ll pay.”

“And be in debt to you? No thanks.”

You took the frown on his face as a chance to swipe your frame back looking pridefully at the family photo before putting it in its proper place.

“Besides I’ve decided I’ll be working through lunch so it’d just be a waste of time.”

“Working through lunch? Our office hours are required to be closed then.”

“They will be and it’s a budgeting meeting. So yeah.” You took advantage of the shamed roll of his eyes while you turned your attention forward, looking down the hall and waiting for your appointment to walk through the door.

“Then how about dinner?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Hades–”

“I’ll pick a kid-friendly place it’ll be a private thing.”

“Do you even know what it’s like to have a toddler in a fine-dining atmosphere it’ll be a mess!”

“I’ll get us a booth tucked away, let the owner know in advance. It would be fine.”

“Hades–”

“That sounds like an awesome dinner plan, (Y/n)!”

Walking in was one of the art professors: Apollo waving off the enamored office workers and secretaries to enter your office. He casually sat in your chair across your desk spinning it as he waved at Hades. You let your head rub against your forehead, mildly aware of the annoyed gaze Hades was sending.

“Apollo, you booking an appointment under a student’s name is an issue. This time is for students who need to talk to me.”

“But (Y/n)! I do need to talk to you!”

“If it’s anything about what you offered before I want no part of it.”

“Come on (Y/n), you’re supposed to be open to making the staff and students happy!”

“Going to a party with you to take psychedelics is not research to make anyone happy.”

“It’d make me happy! Plus you’d get yourself a bunch of new votes!”

“No Appollo.”

Hades watched with growing disinterest as you went back and forth. It occurred to him that as the Elite using whatever methods to reach their goal was natural. He was aware of this when he told a select group of students and staff. He wasn’t aware that attempts would be made for you directly not that that’s what Apollo was doing. Not among the few he told, he must’ve been told by one of his ‘friends’ who gave him the courage to take advantage of your situation. Hades really hated that.

“--If you want to do it privately we can—”

“Apollo.”

“What?”

All he had to do was step beside him and put his gloved hands on the professor’s shoulder. The sight of Apollo was the Elite guidance counselor looking down at him, his single eyeglass glinting with his usual smile. For whatever reason it was darker than usual, letting a healthy set of chills run down his back.

“How about you try again another time, Apollo? (Y/n) and I were talking.”

The question wasn’t that. Just as abruptly as he entered Apollo was waving goodbye to you both before skipping out of your office quickly.

Vaguely aware of the veiled threat, you turned your attention to the smiling counselor.

“So, about that dinner.”

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere record of ragnarok #yandere ror #yandere ror x reader #yandere record of ragnarok x reader #yandere hades #yandere ror hades #yandere hades x reader #yandere record of ragnarok hades #yandere x gender neutral reader #yandere x gn reader #yandere drabble

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wildestdreamsblog · 1 year ago

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Hiraeth IV

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x Reader

Summary: You had always been his, and no one could take you away from him. Idol!AU

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Slight age gap, Murder intention, Mention of death, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: back from the grave :>

Masterlist, Hiraeth III

Seven years ago, United States of America

“You saw him last night,” your therapist repeated gently when you paused to breathe. Your eyes watered, remembering the dream- no, the nightmare you had last night. It had been almost two years since you last saw any of them, since you last saw any remnants of your past.

It had been two years, yet one dream of him managed to shatter your progress. One dream of his sorrowful eyes managed to break you. And you hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself for not being stronger.

He was just a figment of your imagination, memories manifesting themselves through your subconscious- and sadly, that was enough to make you crumble.

You reminded yourself that Seokjin was just that- someone from your past.

“And how did that make you feel?”

You looked up at her with tears in your eyes, “Terrified,” you whispered shakily, wrapping your hands tighter around yourself. “He terrifies me.”

She regarded you over her eyeglasses for a moment, her hands posed to write on her list of all the things that were wrong about you. “You still think he killed your father,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone.

And you answered merely with anger in your eyes.

You ran.

Of course you ran again. You weren’t strong enough to stay, and even if you were, there was no place in your heart for him. Not when it still hurt looking at him. Not when every time you look into his eyes, you were brought back to that day when he died. Not when you were reminded of that day, not when your desperation and misery were resurfacing every time he was near.

Not when a part of you blamed him for the tragedy of the only family you had.

This was exactly why you left.

This was why you ran so far that you left the only home you knew, and why you left him standing there alone with his head bowed down.

“The faster you get the owner to sign, the faster you can return here,” your boss replied from over the video chat, excitement apparent in his voice once you finished your presentation. You included other restaurants that you visited with Jungkook, even going as far as underselling Seokjin’s business. You even didn’t mention that he was the owner, respecting his privacy.

And yet, your boss who wasn’t even paying you enough to face your nightmare, chose his restaurant. It was just your fucking luck, you thought.

“Boss, I really think that the first option is better-“

He squinted his eyes at you as though he was looking right through your bullshits. You knew his restaurants was the best among the choices. Objectively speaking, choosing him would benefit your company the most. Even without his named connected to the store, it was already performing better than the others. You wondered that what height of success it would reached once people knew that the Kim Seokjin owned it? You knew that. Yet, you were only human and as such, you couldn’t help but be affected by your emotions, to be subjective when success was merely one signature away.

“The faster you can return here, the sooner you’ll get your promotion which is already being processed. The only thing missing is my signature. And I did promise you I will sign, the promotion is yours- as soon as you get the owner to sign.”

This was a draining meeting and an even more exhausting day. You didn’t think you slept at all last night, and you left his house early morning like a common thief, moving so quietly and taking the things you considered essential with you. You just really wanted to breathe, to be think without his intoxicating presence clouding your mind.

“I know you can do this. I trust no one but you.”

Of course you knew you could. The question lied whether you would survive this, whether you would survived him.

Those were his parting words before he ended the call. Had this been anyone else, literally anyone else, you would have been on top of this. You were a professional and damn good with your job. This shouldn’t be any different…right?

In fact, this should have been easier because you knew him. You knew Kim Seokjin. Except that you couldn’t be any more wrong. You didn’t know the other half of him, the sinister, selfish and dark side of him.

The coffee shop was now swarming with people as the day approached midmorning. Ever since you left his house, you were here quietly working, doing anything to take your mind off that kiss…off of him. Yet, every time you closed your eyes, your mind went to him. You could still feel his lips on yours, could still feel the warmth of his hands as he cradled you so close to him, could still feel how truly powerless you were when it came to him. If you were going to be completely and utterly honest, you could still feel how hard your heart was beating that moment. He was a force to be reckoned with. He was then, and still was, bigger than life. It was truly unfair how he grew old to be even more perfect and dashing than he was when you were younger. And what you hated the most was how he could still fucking affect you as though you were still that young girl who followed him around. And look what he reduced you to, a coward who ran when he was at his weakest.

You sighed before turning to look at the window to your right, only to be met with who seemed to be the lead rapper and main dancer of the group, Jung Hoseok. He was wearing a disguised, only his eyes could be seen and he was apparently looking at you with urgency in his eyes. His body was huffing in exhaustion as though he had been running around.

He did not waste anymore time as he entered the coffee shop and went to you, his hand immediately encircling your wrist as though to ensure that you could no longer run.

“You have to come with me.”

“What? Why?” Your brows furrowed at the seriousness on his face. You were aware that he was the sunshine of the group, that he was the light of the group. You would be living under a rock if you didn’t know of him. This was the reason why it confused you why he suddenly seemed…angry. Or why he looked to be moving with utmost urgency.

You could feel people looking at you with curiosity, and it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized him. He knew it. And you knew it. Hoseok was taking advantage of the fact that he bet you wouldn’t want to make a scene, and thus he was able to take you in his car without much of a fight.

He maneuvered the car expertly, his eyes focused on road. He was the perfect picture of calmed and composed if not for the way he gripped the steering wheel. Amongst all the members, he was probably the least you had interaction with which was precisely why how he was acting confused the hell out of you. He was acting as though you had personally offended him, as though what you did was close to becoming unforgivable.

Which brought you once again to this question: what did you do to him?

“What is this all about?” You asked him in a barely restrained contempt. You didn’t bode well with being dragged out of an establishment by a man you barely knew, and his silence was not doing him any good but to piss you. It was a good thing you weren’t a sensitive person for how could you grow up to be one when you were being constantly rejected by Seokjin. He was running and pushing you away at least three times a day that you almost felt bad for him. Almost.

But this man beside you was driving you nuts

You thought he wouldn’t answer as he only chuckled without any emotions, his eyes cold as he glanced briefly at you.

“Do you know what you’ve done to him? Do you have any idea what you’re doing to my hyung?” He asked conversationally as if his words weren’t meant to be knives to you.

“Wha-“

“Put on your seatbelt,” he ordered harshly, looking at you with coldness in his eyes. “As much as I hate how you made him a mess, I know you getting hurt would messed him up further.”

“What are you talking about?!”

“You’ll see.”

Hoseok left you with no choice but to follow him, his steps brisk as he entered the Hybe building with obvious familiarity. After numerous turns, he stopped in front of a door. You heard crashes of something heavy and corresponding grunts of men struggling before you even saw him. Hoseok turned to you with coldness in his eyes before he even opened the door. And what you saw was your usually strong Jin reduced to a mess of a man. His eyes were hallow, his hair a mess as he struggled against the hold of Namjoon and Jungkook who were trying their best to contain him. Your mouth hanged agape as you took him in and the chaos that he seemed to have caused to the what you thought was once a pristine room: chair thrown across the room, devices swept off of the table, decorations askew as though they suffered from violence. He still hadn’t looked at you, still hadn’t taken notice of your presence and you didn’t know why you were glad for it.

“Hyung, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!” Jungkook pleaded, yet it was as though he wasn’t heard. Jin’s eyes were unfocused as he struggled with the hold the two men had on him, his eyes determined.

“P-Princess- I have to find her,” he mumbled incoherently as he tried to push them away.

You stepped back albeit unconsciously as though it was your mind telling you to run from this…to run from him. But you didn’t go far. You felt J-hopes hands on your shoulders, effectively preventing you from leaving.

“Where are you going?” He asked with a low voice. “Why can’t you look at what you’ve done to him?”

“I didn’t do anything to him!” You hissed at him, struggling to get away from him, only for it to draw attention to you. Namjoon was the first to notice you and he looked both alarmed and relieved by your presence. “Fix this,” Hoseok ordered you coldly.

He smiled before stepping you near to where Jin was. “I found her, hyung,” he announced gently to the man you almost couldn’t recognized. “You need to calm down now, okay? We still need to go to our shoot, hyung.”

Jin blinked his eyes before he focused on you, his body immediately relaxing upon seeing you. Yet, your eyes weren’t on him. Instead, they focused on the nondescript bottle of medicine beside him. The orange bottle looked to be almost empty. You didn’t know why it seemed to be something important, but you couldn’t help wondering…What was that?

Namjoon’s eyes widened when he saw where your eyes were and in a blink of an eye, he snatched the container and pocketed it away from your prying eyes. However, even Namjoon’s quick reflexes were not able to stop that image from being engraved in your mind. Was Seokjin…sick?

“P-princess?” Seokjin called for you, disbelief evident in his voice. He pushed their hands away from him, his sole focus on you. He stood up immediately, his long limbs carrying him. He looked as disheveled as he felt when he thought you left him again.

You couldn’t moved. It was as though you were rooted to the ground, waiting for the inevitable. You felt his arms wrapped around you like a child scared to part with you, he was trembling as he held you to him. However, his voice was dark as he whispered to you.

“Don’t leave? Please? Never leave me again. Never disappear without saying a word again. Please. I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave.”

“Something is clearly very wrong with that boy,” Seokjin’s father muttered lowly as he watched his only son talked to you in the garden.

It was Jin’s birthday and like every year, the family threw a party for their beloved son. He was perfect, they thought. He got good grades, was sporty, obedient, independent, and showed promising intelligence when it came to their company. See, he was perfect in theory. However, the older Kim couldn’t help but noticed his strange dependence on you. It wasn’t…normal, he thought.

You weren’t supposed to be here. In fact, you had an exam tomorrow and as a fourteen year-old girl, you took your studies seriously. However, Jin didn’t take your absence from his birthday lightly. Upon hearing that you wouldn’t be able to make it, it was as though he lost his smile and what took over was an expressionless face. He didn’t know how, but Seokjin was able to make several calls and lo and behold, your exam was rescheduled.

Even at his age, a ripe eighteen year-old young man, he excluded power and he wasn’t afraid to use it and his charms to get what he wanted.

“Don’t say that, honey,” Mrs. Kim chided him gently, a frown on her face as she watched her son smiled genuinely for the first time tonight. “He’s just…close with her.”

“Honey, he’s eighteen years old now. He shouldn’t act like he did just because she wasn’t near him. You know that,” he said gently, looking into his wife’s eyes with concern. “It’s not normal. His need for her isn’t normal.”

Mrs. Kim placed her tea on the table with a light thud, “Our son is perfect. There’s nothing wrong with him,” she replied in defiance.

Perhaps, if she accepted what was apparent that time, Kim Seokjin wouldn’t turn out to be evil living in the body of an angel.

Tip Jar

Hiraeth V

#kim seokjin #bts fic #yandere bts #bts fanfic #bts yandere #kim seokjin fic #yandere kim seokjin #yandere seokjin #kim seokjin x you #kim seokjin x reader #kim seokjin x y/n #seokjin x reader #seokjin fanfic #seokjin x y/n

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theredofoctober · 9 months ago

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MANNA- CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRIPE

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, child abuse and more (check the tags)

Read after the cut

By some sense of duty, or else an undug tendril of guilt, Will volunteers himself to oversee your evening routine alone. You allow him this, being in scant possession of what slim tolerance has borne you through Hannibal’s accompaniment thus far.

Will proves himself to be far less involved than the other man would have been in his stead. He leans against a wall with the nonchalance of a prison warden as you shower blood and spend alike down the receiving drain, allows you to pad into your bedroom, towel-wrapped, to select a clean nightdress and sanitary products with his head turned nobly aside.

You cannot determine if his distance from you is through respect for your condition or some lasting dislike of you, neither of which holds entirely true.

More likely it is that he does not see you as his child, yet, nor quite with the equality of a lover.

Still, as you get into bed he cannot help but come to you, uncertain as he his of his purpose.

“Will you give me a goodnight kiss?” you ask, part in bitter jest, and part in annoyance with his indecision.

That a man can fuck and beat you in throes of black delight and still skulk about like a repentant sinner would have confounded you in the days before you became accustomed to such duality. To what end, and upon what strength the latter side subsists is now the greater puzzle, for it is this that drags its heels and restrains Will from his full devilry.

“Well?” you say, brusquely. “What are you waiting for? Dad’s permission?”

Will gives a hard laugh, one hand kneading the back of his neck.

“I admire your commitment to the part, but you don’t have to keep it up so seriously when it’s just you and me.”

“I promised I would,” you remind him. “Why can’t you? You had no issue kissing me in front of Hannibal. I don’t see why it’s a problem now.”

You see Will’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose, wanting the guard of the eyeglasses he’s neglected to wear.

“It’s not genuine,” he says, flatly. “The only reason you’re asking is to manipulate me.”

“So what?” you say. “Scared that it’ll work?”

“Not scared, no.”

“Sure you’re not.”

There is something hysterical in your tone, the cut string of a trapped and weary madness.

Will examines you, aware of the power play you’re attempting over him, intrigued by it, despite himself. Attracted, even.

His gaze is like a stone in the sun, all heat, all black, all blue.

He knows what revulsion you must push past to test him like this, still slightly high from the forced euphoria of fucking, and the drugs. You’re beyond consideration of the consequences, irrational, barely attached to the tongue and teeth that bite at the air in their ire.

Still Will hangs from your words like a pilgrim knelt before an oracle, dependent on your answer.

“Haven’t you had enough of me kissing you tonight?” he asks.

Sniffing, you turn to face his gargoyle shadow on the wall.

“So it’s a no. You’d make a really terrible father.”

“One...”

“Not my name.”

So Will says it, gently, and you roll back towards him, your heart quick and high behind a rail of bone with the thrill of his appeasement.

Your truce, the union of flesh: they’ve altered Will, for as he looks at you a second time his pupils are the chasms between worlds, wild and deep.

Kneeling up on the bed, you make a trellis of both hands through his curls and clutch him to you in an ungainly kiss. Will stumbles in the force of it, his arms spilling about your back so as not to fall upon you with all his weight.

You gasp against his lips with eagerness to take what he has taken, to fallow the rose flesh of his inner mouth, the lathe of your tongue churning. Will is too surprised to kiss you in return, but as you hitch one leg after the other upon his hips you feel the vine of him against your groin, wanting you again, as always.

You think of him fucking you now, pinning your wicked hands with the nail of his fist as he thrusts through a sheen of blood. Though you despise him still, your loins smart with interest in engineering the act rather than merely suffering it as ever before.

At last Will returns your kiss, but briefly, and with a knowing restraint before he lays you back upon the bed again.

You grasp at his face in an attempt to reclaim his lips. He pushes you lightly away.

“Hey,” he grins. “You made your point.”

“Oh?” you say, coolly. “And what is my point?”

“That I like kissing you. That I want to kiss you, whether Hannibal’s here or not.”

“Right,” you say, twisting a corner of your quilt around one finger for something to do with your hands. “But you never would have picked me. Like, if I was in one of your FBI classes. If I was your student. Would you even have noticed me?”

Will laughs again, with a startled unease, as though the notion is foreign to him.

“Starting affairs with students isn’t exactly my style. I turn up, I teach. That’s it. I don’t get personally involved. Or didn’t, till now. Letting people get close is... uncomfortable for me.”

He glances down at the bunch of quilt in your closed knuckles. Unlike the ever-tactile Dr Lecter, he makes no attempt to take it away.

“So how come you got so close to Hannibal?” you ask. “Didn’t you say you had reservations about him?”

“He saw me even when I was making an effort to turn away. He and I have commonalities I can’t ignore, and enough differences to keep me wondering who he really is. There’s a lot even I don’t know about him, and there are times I wonder what I’m doing letting him in.”

You’re on the verge of another question as Will steps sharply back from the bed.

“We can talk more tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll still be here in the morning. But if you want my thoughts about Hannibal then it’s only fair that you tell me a little about you in return. If this is going to work long-term I need to know who you are.”

Then he goes over to the light switch and closes you in behind a shutter of night.

You’re roused from the saccharine heat of your bedcovers the following morning by Will rapping on your bedroom door. His face appears in the crevice between it and the frame as though wary to trespass, the broken spell of your desperation in his eyes.

“It’s so early,” you whine, noting the bare line of sunlight beneath the curtains. “And I feel like death, thanks to you and Dad. Can’t I stay in bed?”

“Hannibal just rushed out to an emergency appointment,” says Will. “One of his patients is having some kind of crisis, so it’ll be just you and me for a while. You want coffee? I was about to make some.”

An apology, you think, something to alleviate the swaddled and perspiring misery of your comedown.

“Sure,” you say, weakly. “Black, please. Sweetener, if there is any. The low calorie version.”

Will’s brows rise.

“You think Hannibal keeps that around?”

Reflecting on the little paper sachets that had been favoured throughout high school you say, “Ha. I guess not.”

Within twenty minutes you’re sitting up against your pillows, one hand gripping a delicate, steaming cup, the other soothing your stomach through which bites the first monthly cramp.

Will takes a nearby chair, eyeing the bars on your window as though assuming your daily view through the glass.

Though you loathe him still in his unpredictable oddities, you’re keen to make closer yet the allyship you’ve struck up with him, watchful though he is of that very attempt. If he will not help you escape, then a friendship at least may fortify the sanity you fear will leave you in this quasi childhood.

Will doesn’t seek your regression quite as Hannibal does— a cantankerous teenager is as young as he perceives you, the sick girl that never grew up. This house, then, is a Neverland in reverse, a sumptuous den of brutal sex.

Closing your eyes against such thoughts, you take in your coffee, each dark mouthful a long-acquired taste. You remember forcing back cup after cup of it, trusting it over plain water in the belief that it would burn calories as you drank.

Suddenly you’re acutely nostalgic for the days spent in your childhood room, scrolling through online threads of ailing young women in a community of mutual suffering.

It occurs to you that you may never feel so entirely comprehended without judgement as you were there again. You understand Will rather more through the thought, his convergence with Hannibal a relief to so lonely a monster.

“Tell me about ‘Dad’,” you say, into the silence. “You said you would, last night. Like, who even is he? Where did he come from?”

Will blinks, stirred up from his own brooding thoughts. In the dreary daylight he has the face of a beautiful invalid, all its angles skirted in shade.

“Hannibal’s from Lithuania, originally,” he says. “He had a younger sister, Mischa. She died a long time ago. I don’t know the finer details of what happened to her. She’s the only family he’s ever talked about, and even then it’s been bare bones.”

You sit up straighter, envisioning a young girl with Hannibal’s eyes, and none of his appetite.

“Huh,” you say. “That makes a lot of sense.”

"Hannibal would disagree. He doesn’t put much stock in the past making him who he is.”

“Seems kind of a weird thing for a therapist to say. He’s always digging into mine.”

Will looks at the floor, as though distinguishing some new pattern from the grains in the carpet.

“Hannibal views himself as... separate from other people. Being that he acts outside of ethics and the law in his own profession, I’d guess that what’s between us isn’t his only secret.”

“I’ve tried to tell you,” you say, tapping your coffee cup with bitten fingertips for emphasis. “I’ve known this for so long. But since you’re going along with his games how can you even judge him for whatever horrible things he’s doing?”

“Without knowing what he has or hasn’t done,” says Will, slowly, “I can’t say that I do.”

He gets up from his seat and paces before the window, his hands gesticulating like pigeons frenzied into startled flight.

“You assume that what I’m trying to learn about Hannibal—the core of who he is—is something ugly. But that isn’t what I’m afraid of. It’s the possibility of him lying to me. I don’t know if I could forgive him for that after the bond we’ve made. After what he encouraged me start with you.”

“You shouldn’t trust him,” you say, urgently. “Don’t. You don’t need him.”

Scoffing, Will says, “Jack seems to think I do. Alana— she’s convinced I’m one nudge away from disappearing so far into a case that I kill someone without even knowing it. Hannibal's the only one that doesn’t think of me as broken.”

You consider informing him of his suspected encephalitis, that Hannibal surely withholds this truth and more so as to keep his favour.

In the end you retain your silence; better that Will discovers the manipulation alone and behold how he has been misled upon this trail of darkness.

“Enough about me,” says Will, abruptly. “I know that someone hurt you, long before Hannibal. Before me. Someone you've never forgotten.”

Alarmed by the twist in conversation, you stammer, “I— I already told him some of it. I said I didn’t remember. But I was lying about that. I just don’t know if it was only one, long night, or it happened other times. I don’t know which is worse.”

You pause, slightly breathless. Like a portent from the white lips of some phantom you know that you must tell Will the truth, adhere him to your weeping heart with empathy for you.

“I was just a little kid,” you say. “And he was an adult. Nearly family— I used to call him Uncle Lee. Hannibal probably told you that. Anyway, I got my ‘wrong’ feeling about him way before he did what he did. Like I knew it was coming. Then he came into my room alone one night and... it happened.”

You put down your coffee cup, almost knocking it from the bedside table with the shaking of your hand. Will comes away from the window at once, dragging his chair to your bedside to listen. He neither speaks nor looks into your eyes, aware that you can bear neither without faltering.

“He touched me,” you say, “and the whole time I couldn’t even face him. I don’t even remember what I felt. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. Just stared at the ceiling or whatever. He did stuff to me that changed me forever. I felt like a tiny old person in a kid’s body, after that, knowing about things I wasn’t supposed to know.

“And the worst of it was still having to see him after. My parents— I tried to tell them, but I couldn’t get the words out. They just thought I didn’t like him. So he came back to the house, now and then. Never saw any consequences.

“I’ve always wondered if I was the only one, or if there were others. He was a plumber, or something; he could have access to people’s daughters anytime he wanted. Just walk into their room and... you know. I think maybe he did do that, a couple of times. Who knows.”

Your restless fingers pick at the gold embroidery on your bedspread, working it loose from the velvet. One of Will’s hands folds over yours, gently holding them still.

“What I always think about is how he treated me, afterwards,” you say. “I tried avoiding him, but it didn’t always work. One day he cornered me at the top of the stairs— my parents were in the kitchen, so it was just me and him.

“I must have been maybe twelve or so. Not far off thirteen. My body was changing. I was growing up. He said, ‘you’re getting a little chubby, you know. You ought to do something about that before you look like your mother.’

“Then he smiled at me, and just walked into the bathroom like there was nothing wrong with what had just come out of his mouth, or what he’d done to me all those years ago.”

Inhaling an unsteady breath, you try, with dubious success, to smile.

“So now you get why I’m like this. And knowing it wasn’t my fault, that Leland Frost is just a predator... it doesn’t fix anything. Like, where do I go from there?”

“He injured you,” says Will, softly. “And it may never stop hurting. But you can recover. No matter what you believe, it is possible. His shallow cruelty is not your compass. You don’t have to live on the basis of an insult.”

Scowling, you pull away from Will, trapping your hands under your armpits.

“How can I change when I’m reliving what I went through every day? Why does Hannibal think this’ll heal me? Why do you? Oh, yeah. You don’t.”

“I want it to,” says Will.

You snort dismissively.

“Yeah, yeah. Not so long ago you would have punched the air to see the back of me. You don’t want to share Hannibal with anybody.”

Will leans back in his seat, arms folded; it takes a moment for you to register that he is, by some subconscious impulse, copying your posture.

“I’m not sharing Hannibal with you,” says Will. “I’m sharing you with him. And I want to do that. You knew it before I did.”

His gaze snaps to yours, more arresting than his hands on you had been.

“You’re more like me than I cared to admit. Hannibal was right about that. And though everything about you should repulse his sensibilities he finds you adorable. You clearly don’t appreciate it, but there it is.”

You yearn to deny him, to condemn this speech as sophistry, but you are silent, as much a congregant to him as he has been to you.

“Leland Frost tore you down because he saw that you were growing up and away from him,” says Will. “He knew that one day you’d have a life, and achievements, and people that really cared about you. He was going to fade out of your world, and he couldn’t stand not leaving a mark.”

“I just don’t get it,” you whisper. “He loved me. Why did he do it?”

Will shifts his chair even closer to the bed so as to lean into you, his expression tender, tragic, sombre with a father’s sympathy.

“Leland never loved you, and that’s no reflection on you or your worth. It makes him weak, that he could throw away the relationship he had with you over an urge.”

You don’t have the strength to rage against the whited sepulchre in Will, not when he speaks the truth you’ve always yearned to hear from another. Pain winds through your body, throat to gut, great, twisting pulses, as though eviscerated on a blade of past.

What advice would Will give for you to survive what he and Hannibal have done, and will do?

Nothing. Not a word. He knows that the structure of the home, even comfort from those that afflict you has changed you in so short a time. Your desperation to be gone from him he senses, too, and with it your lust to be loved.

Will holds your hand for a long time before he speaks again, on another subject quite as dreary as the last.

“When you said it’d been years since you...”

“Since I last had my period?” you ask, touching your stomach through the sheets. “Yeah. It has been.”

Your body, the betrayer, making a scarlet banner of your betterment through cruelty.

“I never wanted it to come back. Having it again means I’m not as sick anymore, and that’s like... messing up for me.”

Will's head tilts, his face carved up by the shadows thrown from your barred window into a lattice of snow.

“Failing to die is barely a failure at all,” he comments.

You shrug yourself further under your bedcovers.

“It is if what’s happening to you is something worse,”

“Is it always so bad, being here with us?”

Will’s hand rises. Doesn’t quite touch your face. You turn your head away, but not cruelly; he’s not a bad man, you decide, only contorted so utterly from the ways of his fellows that he is some creature other, or from before, the flint-armed hunter of the caves.

And like such a creature, he seeks your answering affection for want of some warmth in the dark beginning of the earth.

You allow him to kiss your forehead, clumsily, inclined towards him as though you were not both aware of the fiction that allows this contact.

He can only guess how far you’d run from this, had you your chance. How readily you’d betray him.

You’re much recovered by the time Dr Lecter returns, having been hydrated and energised by a selection of unnamed supplements Will had you take with lunch; there is a cure for every ailment in the makeshift laboratory of the kitchen, it seems.

Hannibal discovers you at your usual perch of the parlour couch, writing in your journal with a blanket tucked loosely around you against the October cool.

Will stands to greet his companion, setting aside a book you’d offered him from your shelf to peruse, its cover depicting the bloody half-brain of the sun on a desert horizon.

“I didn’t expect our charge to be in such high spirits,” says Hannibal, with unmasked surprise. “Thank you for caring for her this morning, Will. I’m aware that whatever time you can spare for us in the midst of an investigation is very precious.”

Likely aware of your eyes on him, Will says, “I’m glad I stayed. I appreciated the company. How’s the other patient?”

“Suitably quieted. I doubt that I’ll be called away again on her behalf. Still, I made the most of the journey home.”

Hannibal reaches into a shopping bag looped over one arm and produces from it a wrapped package of fresh meat, marbling the paper with blood.

Grimacing, you say, “Ew. What is that? Looks like an organ.”

“It is. I’ll be making trippa alla romana tonight. It’s an Italian dish made from cow stomach. Don’t turn your nose up till you’ve tried it. Have I served anything to you yet that you haven’t enjoyed?”

After dinner, all three of the household recline, full and talking lazily before the fire. Had your company been any other than your abusers you would almost be content, for having been allowed to leave the table after a valiant half plate you are not so guilt-soaked as you’d have been had you finished it all.

You had, in fact, disliked the meal, a first in Hannibal’s house. The thought of the organ, plucked from the rib of a butcher’s shelf, had struck bile to the back of your mouth from the first bite.

A cup of chocolate, warmed to a froth and unadorned with cream is set in your hands instead, which you drink in feline licks to make it last.

Will’s phone shrills abruptly in his pocket. Frowning, he glances at the lighted oblong of its screen and starts at a familiar name.

“It’s Jack,” he says. “I’d better take this.”

He promptly exits the room, speaking with clipped tones into the device.

Alone with Hannibal, you become acutely aware of him looking at you, not quite with suspicion, but not so far from that.

"I see that you and Will are becoming close,” he says, at last. “I’m glad to see it.”

Humming vaguely, you snatch up the journal again and weave your pen about in a pretence of writing.

Hannibal says, "Still, it saddens me that—for all your pretty words of promise—you display a lesser willingness to befriend me.”

You do not answer, pressing your pen so hard against a page that it blots through to the other side.

"Put your journal down a moment, Little One,” says Hannibal. “I’m speaking to you."

Without looking up, you answer, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"You needn't say anything at all. It's your behaviour I wish to change."

In a flounce of irritation you throw the journal upon the floor, its spine creasing.

“I do what you say, and I don't fight you anymore,” you say. “Isn't that daughterly enough?"

"For the purposes of your treatment,” says Hannibal, “it is not. You remain closed to me, parted only by narcotic aid. I'd prefer you to open to me of your own volition. With Will, you prove yourself increasingly capable of that.

“I’ve given you all you’ve asked for, and more, and yet you show little gratitude. I wouldn’t wish to remove these luxuries for you to appreciate my endeavours.”

You look at him, then, this man both jealous and performing jealousy to groom you into his concubine, and in looking see that he will deconstruct your room into the barest cell, should he not have his way.

"I do appreciate what you’ve given me," you hastily protest. "I do, Daddy. You don’t have to take anything away. But I— I just don’t know you the way I know Will.”

“But you do,” says Hannibal, rising to sit beside you, a dangerous proximity. “That’s why you are so afraid of me, is it not?”

You begin to object, trailing off at the sound of approaching footfalls as the younger of your captors returns, listing in the churning swell of stress.

“It's the investigation,” says Will. “Another doll’s been found. Savannah Belmont. It’s too soon to be the Lover’s kill. He has a cool off point between each abduction.”

Hannibal straightens in his seat, rapidly alert.

“A copycat, then.”

Will nods, his throat tightening. His eyes touch your face briefly, and you offer him a small, close-lipped smile, an extension of comfort from across the room. His shoulders drop from their rigid line, and when he speaks again the frantic note in his voice is tempered slightly.

“Definitely a copycat,” he says. “The Lover disposes of the dolls by throwing them into rivers like garbage. No attempt to lay them to rest. Savannah was put on display, placed in a chair on a dirt bank as though she was waiting to be found.

“Both killers meant to degrade their victims, but only the copycat’s is implied to understand and accept that humiliation. Savannah Belmont died aware of her inferiority in the eyes of her murderer.”

You find yourself sitting on your hands to prevent them from betraying your agitation with their unsteadiness. Your leg, however, you cannot control, the right foot gyring an inch above the floor.

Hannibal eyes it without speaking, folding your reaction into the lengthy tome of his mind.

“The victim’s stomach was missing,” says Will, turning to pluck a bottle of whiskey from a nearby cabinet like some bronze fruit. “That’s new. The Lover’s mutilations are all with the purpose of fitting the bodies of his victims inside their silicone casings. He has no surgical skills.

“This new killer obviously has expertise. Savannah’s stomach was cut precisely from her body with the clear intent of taking it as a trophy.”

“Her stomach?” you repeat.

You feel the heaviness of meat within you and are chilled by the coincidence.

Hannibal could not have known what the copycat would take to reference it, could not have known of his existence to begin with, and yet as you glance at him under your lashes you don’t quite trust the seriousness of his expression, his eyes gleaming dimly as tarmac in the rain.

“You mustn’t worry, Little One,” says Hannibal, turning to lift you up onto his lap. “The Lover can’t hurt you. We will protect you, always.”

He settles your head against his chest, which resounds with the slow beat of his heart and the machinery of organs digesting his own rich meal.

The monster knows of your renewed distrust and is unthreatened by it, declawed and tooth-filed as you are by his influence over you and all the passageways of the world you’d otherwise cross in your escape.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy,” you mutter, against his shirt, and the warmth of Hannibal’s palm cups your buttocks with a tormenting friction, both threat and tease at once.

While you hate him—are in terror of him, always—your form is increasingly enamoured by his touch as though it knows that it must be so, or die.

“No need to thank me for performing my duty to you, Little One,” says Hannibal, into your ear. “For you belong to me, and to Will, and you must never forget it.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #tw noncon #tw csa #tw abuse #tw drugs #tw captivity #dead dove do not eat #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #darkfic

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