seen from Canada
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Egypt
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Netherlands
seen from Canada
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Jamaica
WEAK-tober | Day 8: Rot
How Late? 6 months, 11 days
(I'll take a break for week, I said, not knowing that it was a fucking lie)
Category: Gen
Pairing: Wolf Keum & Sam Lee
Tags: #Drabble
Words: 387
Current TW: General Creepiness; Implied Violence
Author's notes: This is honestly a practice I made for one of my other works, "Killer Standards." Which I promise the sequel is still being worked on.
“Sam.” Wolf begins as he twirls the cigarette in his hands; the boy he addresses doesn’t look at him, doesn’t see the expression on his face. “Sam Lee, take a good fucking look at this.”
The air is frigid and cold, the illumination of the moon dares not to even try and bless them with any light. Of course the universe wouldn’t want to acknowledge this, but Wolf would like to think that everyone involved, even the night sky which accompanied them before, would at least be able to look at the results.
Sam does not listen.
And Wolf Keum holds no care for it, so he clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.
Maybe he’s hungry? The boy muses about his companion, knowing full well that it’s most definitely not the case. He just finds it funny, a hilarious situation his imagination came up for him to laugh silently about. Wolf’s lips curl upwards, Maybe it’s the smell?
They just stay there, and that’s alright. He feels rather at ease right now, despite how incredibly silent everything seems to be; the boy could almost imagine he could hear his companion’s own heartbeat despite the distance.
Despite everything.
“Last week… the principal went on for an entire hour about cyber-bullying during assembly. Do you remember the reason why?”
…
“Sam.” Wolf repeats again, without much urgency, lazy coating in the way he speaks. He knows that his companion won't be heading anywhere soon. “Sam, answer when I talk to you.”
But his companion stays silent.
It doesn’t matter, and he continues on.
“I don’t remember why, but there was an assignment that’s supposed to be done… Oh, you damn crybaby.” Wolf sighs, dragging his cigarette as his former annoyance begins build up as Sam fucking Lee starts to sniff like a damn toddler. “Fuck, just stop that already, it’s annoying.”
He really did think that this was a bonding moment full of friendship and all that bullshit, but some people just have to ruin it by being overly emotional.
A slight pause.
Well, at least it isn’t full on sobbing.
So, he forgives it just this once as Wolf stretches his limbs, moving to grab their shovels and get back to work. Yeah, he thinks when he steps over the rot near his feet, It’s definitely the smell.
Killer Standards | ONE SHOT
AO3
Part of the series: a devilishly handsome man (and very bad decisions)
Category: M/F
Pairing: Wolf Keum/ Reader; Jake Ji/ Reader (Implied)
Tags: #Serial Killer AU; #Bad Decisions; #Takes Place Before Canon
Words: 5,309 (edited December 30th 2022)
Current TW: Dark Themes
Summary:
You made the decision knowing it’s a bad one. “You know you’re playing a dangerous game,” The stranger says, the statement underlined with faint amusement and mockery. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he wears novelty around him as easily as breathing. Novelty, you think, in the fact that he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen before. “Don’t you?” You shrug— it’s way past your curfew— and smile. or you make a bad decision
You made the decision knowing it’s a bad one.
“You know you’re playing a dangerous game,” The stranger says, the statement underlined with faint amusement and mockery. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he wears novelty around him as easily as breathing. Novelty, you think, as in the fact that he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen before. “Don’t you?”
You shrug— it’s way past your curfew — and smile.
But it’s a lonely night, and the only company you could find in these empty streets is the stranger in front of you. It’s a bad decision, really, but you're high on your self-imposed stupor. The man in front of you is dangerous, surely, it’s not hard to miss when his question is blunt and entirely honest.
Of course the stranger is dangerous, he can’t be anything else when your instincts scream for you to run.
But, it doesn’t do anything to hinder you.
So, you smile wide and teasing, all the while wondering if it’s a good enough facade to hide the fact that you’ve been wandering for a while; that you’ve been crying before you stumbled upon the handsome stranger; that you’re so tired that if you stopped anytime soon, you’ll be sleeping for a long, long time.
You take a moment to process, before proceeding to continue one of the worst decisions in your life with a bad joke.
“I have killer standards, and this is a once in a lifetime opportunity for me so—”
The sudden laugh stops you.
“Ha!” Something dances behind his gaze and you’re unable to place where the amusement comes from. “Killer standards?”
Yeah. He seems nice enough.
Totally.
If it were a usual night, you never would have done something so immensely stupid, no matter how cute or handsome the stranger was presented. For you, the appropriate time to ever hit on someone would usually be at school, during the day, and definitely not in a creepily isolated street alley.
It’s not a usual night.
Of course it’s not, not when you’re dressed in your favorite strapless dress that reaches just above your knees. Of course it’s not, when you’re walking through the streets in the dead of the night all alone after… after what?
Words couldn’t even begin to describe what had transpired before, the one that led you to ignore all the warnings you were taught about stranger danger.
Smile, you think as the stranger raises his brow, smile.
“Yup.” Your confidence is truly astounding, that it sounds like you might run at any given moment. You feel like you should run. “Absolutely killer standards. Never quite met anyone like you. Have you ever thought about becoming a model?”
He snorts, and you silently grimace at the shit flirting. You’ve done that line before, to someone else.
Again, your thoughts move to the bright orange hair and the soft, warm brown eyes. How he was yours and then not—
“You shouldn’t hit on someone and then be distracted when they return the gesture.” The stranger’s voice cuts through your thoughts. A smile now downturned, a clear cut picture of displeased disappointment. Slowly, deliberately, he runs his hand through his purple hair with a sigh.
Oh.
Oh.
“Sorry,” you begin your lie off with what you think is a flirty smile, “But your face is really distracting.”
He hums noncommittally, his face impassive as looked down the streets, and for what you can only assume is to check if they’re truly alone. Then slowly, the smile is back, and if you didn’t know any better, you would say it almost looked lazier.
More relaxed.
Why?
“Okay,” The words roll off his tongue easily and it’s somehow clear he knows you lied, “I believe you, but it's best not to get too distracted. I’m a bit impatient, you see—“
If his smile sharpens, then you don’t see it.
“—And it’ll be a shame if you missed anything.”
Everything logical screams for you to run away, maybe not flirt with strangers who might be some creep. Any other night you probably would have, you probably would have nervously laughed and tried to talk your way out of the shitty mess you made, as you quietly sent a text to one of your friends to get you.
It’s a smart decision, the greatest decision one could make in this situation. But—
You made the decision knowing it’s a bad one.
Where being potentially stabbed and murdered seems like the better option, the better choice, than the… It doesn’t matter. None of it matters when you can’t sink any lower than you already are.
So you take a step forward, against whatever instinctive reaction you might still have, with a smile that almost seems desperate. Desperate, because some tiny part of you needs to turn back and demand answers from the one who led you here; to this bad decision.
But if you do that, a quiet voice hisses in your mind; scared and lonely and not thinking right; you’ll see that you can sink so much lower than you are now.
The desperation is there because you’re running, and you need something, anything, to ground you from destroying yourself even more because of that person—
Foolishly, you wrap your arms around the stranger’s neck. A grounding, an action that sticks your feet to the floor, a move that damns you to another hell of your own choosing.
Possible hell, maybe not, likely is.
You run a hand through his hair before pulling him down, nose brushing against his. The shock in the other is evident in the tenseness in his muscles, like he’s physically restraining himself from pulling away. His eyes are blown wide and face frozen still trying to come up with an expression; you think he might be smiling.
The cold night fogging his glasses, blurring the gray of his eyes staring down at you.
You move to whisper in his ear, and for a moment, no words come out no matter how much you try. So, you take a deep breath, steady yourself and whisper a single word you could muster. And it sounds like permission given for something you’ll never be able to truly grasp.
“Okay.”
It’s damnation.
“Whatever you say, my very handsome sir.” You look at him playfully, and everything feels wrong as you plaster what you hope could be a charming smile. “I’m all yours if you’d let me.”
Possibly, maybe not, likely is.
You feel his shoulders shake before you hear the laugh, it steals your breath away at how loud and so fucking amused it is, practically jovial. His arms wrap you in a tight hold before you could process what’s happening, the stranger buries his face in the crook of your neck and his breath hot. The shaking won’t stop, and his hold just becomes tighter and tighter.
Like he finally knows what the fuck to do with the idiotic girl who approached him in the dead of night.
Slowly, somehow, somewhere along the end of the sudden laughter fit, you learn how to breathe again. Though the accomplishment is easily forgotten as silence reigns.
There’s only several things that hold no care for the silence. The loud beatings of your heart, the steady rhythm of your breathing, and the stranger in front of you.
He leans back, and this time you remember to keep breathing as he looks down at your person. There’s something absolutely gleeful behind his eyes, his smile so wide and so drunk— There’s a word that could describe it, something important but you can’t seem to remember.
A moment passes.
It feels like an eternity.
You were supposed to follow up with some crap pick-up line after agreeing to stop getting distracted by the past.
Agreeing, you use the word loosely, as if you had a choice not to. Supposedly, you were to be the one to lead the conversation, but you’re unable to come up with words in the face of the stranger in front of you.
The edges of his smile curls up more, it’s unnatural, something that shouldn’t be possible but it is. The next move of his is deliberate, and from what you know during the short time since meeting him, it always is.
The handsome stranger pets your head, one arm still holding you tight, even when he leaned in to place a sloppy kiss on your forehead. It sends a jolt through your body, but the flinch doesn’t deter him from wrapping his fingers playfully around your hair.
He looks at you and— Oh. You remember the word you forgot, the one that could perfectly describe his smile, the look he’s giving you, and it doesn’t make sense. But it’s the only thing that does, because you recognize it.
Drunkenly, gleefully, dreamingly— Of course you would recognize that look, how could you not? And your life is changed.
Altered.
Never will it be the same, and you don’t know how to react to that.
“My name…”
He starts off, voice low, soft and it’s nearly comforting, but still, it’s overwhelming. He watches you like a hawk, memorizing your reaction and even the smallest details through his glasses; one of his fingers trailing forcefully against your lips; you think he may just devour you.
“Is Wolf Keum.”
No words come out, again, speechless. Paralyzed in the unrealism of it all, and it feels wrong to put a name on the presence holding you.
Wolf hums, burying himself into your neck, “... and the name of the girl that declared quite vocally that I had met their killer standards?”
There it is again, the inside joke you don’t quite get, and the not so subtle jab at your sudden quietness.
Where you had stumbled upon Wolf in the dead and night and approached him with loud, nonsensical, and stupid pickup lines to distract yourself, you’re now a stark contrast of before, like a bunny who finally realized that she hopped into the beast’s mouth.
You made the decision knowing it’s a bad one.
Reciprocating the hug that’s almost suffocating, your name easily leaves you along with a bunch of mundane facts about yourself. The flirty tone you used before is gone, too tired to try it and what’s left is just low and faint whispering into the others ears.
Seemingly mundane facts about your life are still so, so dangerous.
Even then, you still talk, casually mentioning the fact that you’re up to go to the convenience store, because you’ve been eating out since your parents left town for a business trip that will last another two months.
It’s downright suicidal.
Wolf listens, resting his head on your shoulder and it’s warm.
Pausing only a few moments when playing with your hair whenever you mention something vital.
Vital in the way that it’s dangerous to tell someone you just met.
Vital as in your address, or the fact that your house only has one camera in the front of the house, whereas the rest of the cameras are down, because during the summer it had broken during a storm and no one wants to fix it anymore. Vital, as in the fact that you’re on summer break and there’s absolutely nobody home who would ever wonder if you went missing.
Because your parents are gone, not coming home till summer is over and there lies the fact that they barely stay. Other than that, there’s no one left.
Not after tonight.
And the fact of the matter is simple.
When you decided to approach the stranger in the dead of the night, you did so for the distraction.
Because the thing that haunts you into walking aimlessly, haunts you.
It’s a suffocating feeling, one you knew would never go away, how it would stay the moment you decided to go home and weep. All you could do would be to run, distract yourself from your reality and act as if you could still breathe easily. But you couldn’t do that forever, it’ll come creeping back just like all those times you read in tragedies.
Then came a solution, you just need something bigger. A better distraction. In the way that everything from before seems small in comparison.
Something bigger than your everything.
It’s its own self-serving masochism.
Your rambling is cut off with a hand pressed against your mouth. Wolf stares at you with the same look as before, he probably finished thinking of what he’ll do to something like you, and you can’t understand why it looks like he hit the jackpot.
It only serving to send a chill goes down your spine, but at the same time, something in you softens. Not because you suddenly care about Wolf Keum, but because you’re too tired to guard yourself. Too tired to care.
With two people in each other’s company for different reasons, and sinister or not, it’ll be your savior. Behind the hand, you smile, kissing his palm as you raise your brow to question.
The actions both surprises him and delights him, as he places another kiss on your forehead, “Let’s get something to eat.” He hums, considering, before saying your name out loud and then frowning. “... Ugh. It’s pretty, but not enough. Not yet at least.”
You move his hand, and you really can’t find yourself to be offended, never did you find yourself overly attached to your name. Lazily, you place a kiss on his cheek, daring in the way that you shouldn’t be.
“How bout a nickname?”
Wolf then returns back to his cheery mood, eyes lighting up and still never straying from you. If anything, he looks proud, as he slowly and almost reluctantly untangles himself from you. Completely out of his grasp, you have the feeling that it wasn’t really the case, that he could snatch you up any moment he wanted.
“A nickname, huh?”
There’s no turning back, and then the realization hits that there was no turning back the instant you stumbled upon him.
“Little rabbit?”
Oh.
It feels as if the sun had died and no one knows it yet, just you. And you walk on eggshells, waiting as each shell breaks but not a thing happens. The nickname is demeaning, almost and maybe even teasing, but likely in the truth the name holds.
Wolf Keum is unperturbed by the nickname he made as you are, rather seeming quite proud of himself. Now a heavy arm wraps around your shoulders, the night is cold, and there’s something unspoken in the air.
There’s nowhere to run, says the arm holding you close. You lean in, taking in the warmth that covers your bare shoulders while knowing that you’ll probably won’t be able to stay awake for much longer; eyelids feeling heavy as you use Wolf Keum as a guide.
It speaks volumes.
The oddities of the night pile up, one after the other, and there always seem something a little bit too off. Everything has been off ever since your world flipped upside down. Now you’re walking with someone you just met in some shady alley to go get something to eat.
Wolf pauses, letting out a small chuckle, before the walk continues.
“You’re not vegetarian,” His tone is casual, with a tiny lilt in his voice, “Are you?”
“No.”
He snickers, then the world is quiet, and it’s terrifying.
It’s only by coincidence, surely, that the paths you take only allow noise from the one guiding you. Surely, the world doesn’t bend for Wolf Keum, for anyone, but you imagine a smug and satisfied smile, and it’s dangerous.
“No, of course not.” He scoffs, amused, might even be charmed.
The walk is steadied and slowed, the position uncomfortable with your vision obscured with how Wolf tucks you into his hoodie. Led blindly, and the uncertainty compels time to go slower. To the other, it’ll certainly be regarded as leisurely.
You want to speak, words scratch and claw at your throat till it aches. Underneath your dress, you’re ridden with goosebumps, waiting while he’s dancing, dancing with glee and leading you in a song only he knows. Nonetheless, you sway along with a song that might as well be your last.
“So, what do you want to eat?” You could feel the small rumble from his throat, how the world snaps back into focus, the striking fact that he speaks like a thunder shot, like a force of nature that can’t be ignored, but the words don’t match, not at all. “Expensive is fine too, but not many places are open at this time—“
You feel him roll his head in your direction, surveilling your reaction.
“—or we could go to a bar.”
You snort.
There isn’t a single smart reason behind it, the fact remains that Wolf had mentioned a bar and your first thought had been that it would be crude for a supposed first date, and it had made you snort.
You could already imagine the curl of a smirk, how Wolf is already raising his brow in a silent question to the joke he’s not in on, and already see the gears turning behind his head trying to understand.
It’s pleasing, even if for a moment, that you could cause a small type of confusion to the man.
A misstep in their little dance.
“A bar?” You make your voice sound incredulous, popping your head up out of his hold to look at him. A fake gasp, “For our first date?”
Wolf makes no movement to change the position of his arm around your shoulder, expression exactly like you imagined, still holding you close to him as your eyes adjust to the bright lights you're suddenly exposed to.
This is good, you think, having been able to know what kind of expression he would make.
But then you see the tiniest flicker of cold calculation, maybe expectancy, in his facade, and you think maybe not. Maybe you're still dancing to his tune, still following his lead obediently.
The smile stays.
He looks at you, thinking, and you’re mesmerized. Wolf tilts his head, and he’s playing the puzzled, clueless man, acting with one brow raised in contemplation, but it’s teasing.
“I'm pretty sure that this is going to be more than just a simple first date.” He says, smile stretching, words drawled. “You approached me first. While it’s the dead of the night, and when it’s so fucking clear that there’s not a single person around to give a shit if I were to break you.”
The terrifying thing about this lies in the fact that his tone doesn’t change at all from his playful teasing.
The arm around you tightens, pulling you closer to whisper. Where his breath is hot on your ear, and tone switching to being sadistically bubbly that it could cut, and you stand there willingly without protest.
“And I still could, you know? Break you, and no one would come running to your rescue. Because I’m not a good man, but a fucking bastard, and I’m sure you knew that.”
Then the arm around you is suddenly gone.
Again, you’re free from his hold, and he’s waiting and waiting and waiting to see what you would do.
Expecting something from you, making bets in his head and watching. He moves back, face impassive, and away from you, and there’s an alley leading to the more populated areas of the streets.
A chance.
An escape.
If you’re quick, you could run to the crowd walking by in a few short seconds.
“I’m Wolf Keum.”
You don’t run.
Instead you take a few steps forward, hand reaching out and a determined look in your eyes. Holding a hand up for the bastard that just claimed he could break you without remorse, to the one who proclaimed that he isn’t a good man.
And, in truth, he can’t be a good man, because no good man would ever play cat and mouse for amusement like he does now.
It’s suicide.
You repeat your name, followed by your home address, number, and names of your parents. Like a damn preschooler reciting lines that mommy and daddy taught them to remember.
“To be honest, meeting you tonight is making me feel like a million bucks.” Your hand is still in the air, empty, “And I really don’t want to lose the opportunity I have tonight.”
When Wolf makes no move other than to watch.
Beckoning for you to take action yourself, to damn yourself and choose him who proclaimed he could break you.
You willingly go to him and take his hand into your own, and you nudge his side with your arm, brow raised and grin wide. “Killer standards, remember?”
Wolf quirks his brow, a grin of his own to match yours. Almost.
“I remember,” and his arm is back, resting comfortably around your shoulders. No longer suffocating in the way that it traps you, but relaxed in a manner that would be intimate, “Quite hard to forget the line that captured my attention.”
And this is it, and it will never be recorded in history, but it’s your fall from grace.
Fall from normalcy and the safety that comes with. It’s the disruption, the first domino falling, and all of it will be from your choice.
“Hey, how about we get some McDonald’s or something?”
Light gleams off his glasses, and you both walk farther and farther, distances away from the crowd on the other street.
The question, it amuses, many things always seem to amuse him further than you thought possible. Then he’s back to before, with that dreamy look that doesn’t make sense.
“How’d someone like you end up with me?”
—you’re crying, sobbing out words and begging—
A pause, then you speak in a toneless and somber manner.
“It’s salvation.”
It stings, claws and squeezes till there’s nothing left. It wrings it out, the leftovers of your personality, whatever was left since the drowning. Truth never cared for feelings even if it killed. How unfair it was, to be at the mercy you can’t control.
So, you turn to elsewhere, away from it and to anything else but that.
—bright orange hair and soft, warm brown eyes. How he was yours and then not—
“For me, at least, you’re everything I need right now.”
Because, you can’t go home, not after that.
It would mean heading to bed with the knowledge that tomorrow would be different, that tomorrow will be a day shaped by loss, and the days after that will be the same. It’s like you’re not real anymore, you don’t exist, and it’s hard to breathe when you feel like you don’t have lungs.
Then you stumbled upon a handsome stranger in the night, shit pick-up lines already falling from your lips, and spent every moment wishing that the stranger’s hair was colored a familiar orange instead of purple, and thought:
‘I guess it wasn’t possible.’
But then the stranger began to talk, and by god everything in you screamed to run as Wolf Keum presented himself.
Abruptly, you’re pulled away, away from your misery and the longing of what’s not there, and thrown into something freezing, something burning, because Wolf Keum is not a man that could be used as an afterthought of another, not one to be overshadowed.
It’s confusing, the emotions you feel inside that rages, conflicting against each other.
The things you’ve been taught, the things you’ve learned, and things that you want.
Wolf Keum makes you want to run. He makes you want to stay.
In simpler words, he’s perfect.
Wolf clicks his tongue, and this time he is truly baffled with former humor bleeding into skepticism, “Salvation?”
The laughter bubbles, begins small before growing, and it’s expected when the laughter becomes unruly and wild. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he doesn’t stop until he lets his embrace go and he’s wheezing on the ground.
“Salvation?”
He says the word again, as if he misheard, and your name falls from his lips repeatedly in a fashion that’s almost frantic to confirm your words.
When you make no move to correct him, no move to lie and say that he’s wrong, it dawns on him that you meant every word you said. It’s deranged, his smile twists, and you can’t back away.
“For real?”
But he doesn’t give you time to answer, your words dying when he sets himself upon you, hands grasping your arms and shaking you.
In an attempt to shake some common sense in you, maybe, you don’t know, but Wolf continues. He sounds furious, he sounds pleased, and he sounds as if he just heard a bad joke but still laughs.
The wide array of emotions coming from him is disorienting.
“Wow,” He’s sarcastic, disbelieving. But then he pauses, thinking, mulling over your words and what it means for him.
It’s enough time for you to move, to act. And a part of you is offended, in some way, it’s insulting for your words to be doubted when you’re giving him everything to take.
“I’m not lying,” You do the unthinkable, because you need him to believe you and to know, and with your voice soft and genuine, everything that shouldn’t be around this man, you hug him and lean in to whisper.
“You are everything I need.”
It’s either this or home, where everything will drag you under.
The silence will suffocate, the ghost of what’s no longer there will devour, and it’ll be so lonely.
You don’t want to be alone.
Where you’ll be staring at shadows and hoping it’ll become someone else, denying and bargaining the reality that’s there. Hours wondering where it all went wrong, recounting the past and the wanting will turn into days, and then into months, and the possibility of it becoming your eternity is there.
It’s easily pictured, imagined, and it’s worse than hell.
The monotony that will destroy you slowly.
(You think you might be crying.)
It’s either this, the unpredictability and uncertainty that comes with Wolf Keum, the danger that could literally kill you. It could pull you apart, you could suffer consequences from the worst of humanity, and you would break.
Easily, perhaps, maybe not so willingly as you are now.
It’s either this, your bad decision, and only this.
Because you can’t, won’t, go home. Not after that, it’s not a choice that you could take, and it leaves only this.
The wrongness, the unknown, and everything that goes against the safety you’ve established in your life.
Wolf Keum.
Maybe he doesn’t believe you, and maybe he’ll leave because of it. Then you’ll be alone, left to rot, and you can’t.
Not that, never that, you can’t go home as you are now.
“Understand?”
And you are so, so tired. The acknowledgment of your reality stings. Your words are softly murmured, and you’re falling.
What did you do today that led to this, but run?
You’ve been running all night, till your breath gave out and you began to walk. Away from everything just because it felt that you can’t do anything but run. You’ve gone insane, trying to heal a fresh wound by drinking from a poisoned chalice.
Merely hoping that it would work just enough to be mistaken as morphine.
So this is the result of your intentional bad decision, falling in the arms of Wolf Keum, the self-proclaimed bastard.
You’re unfeeling as sleep begins to grasp you, eyes heavy, and body becoming weightless. Desperation claws for you to stay awake, but you can’t stay up; not to convince, to confirm, yet the occurrences of the night weigh heavy, it all builds up and your body can’t keep hold out any longer.
If Wolf speaks, you wouldn’t know, his hold is unmoving when you begin to go slack, warmth enveloping as your head begins to rest against his shoulder. Numbly, you whisper the last words you could muster, vulnerable—
Huh.
In his arms is a fragile little thing, and Wolf muses to himself as he watches your steady breathing. Your words replaying in his head again and again, almost like a broken record.
Almost like a promise.
It’s a wonder how you never noticed the stench hidden underneath his clothes, with him tucking you deep under his arm, he had hoped to watch your reaction when you had realized. But you never realized, a real fucking shame, but he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed.
Especially when you breathe so steadily in his arms, a cute little thing, falling asleep from what he could tell was some type of emotional exhaustion, maybe a little bit of something else.
What was it that pushed you to him?
Salvation, you called it, and he brushes your hair away from your face. A tiny bit annoyed that it wiped away the few remaining tears on your face. It’s new, thrilling; it’s all those things and so much more, that someone would offer themselves up to him for slaughter.
(Metaphorically, of course, you can’t just die right after meeting him. It’d be a fucking waste.)
“Rabbit.”
The nickname doesn’t really fit, but it’ll do well for now, and he finds himself giddy at the fact you’re the one who suggested nicknames in the first place. He buries himself in the crook of you neck, letting out a soft sight as he takes you in.
Wolf hums, pulls away while tracing a finger down your neck and to your pulse, before wrapping a hand around your throat. Noting down the difference in size, how small you were compared to him, and he could squeeze and you would stop breathing.
“Stupid bitch.”
It was an accurate description, and it’s one of the first things he thought when you approached him, a stranger in the middle of nowhere.
He had left to take a breather, and was met with shitty pickup lines in the darkest alleyway in the street. Irritation was his first reaction, that he was being hit on by some naive drunk ass bitch, but then he noticed how completely sober you were.
There’s also the fact that one would have to look closely to be able to see him in the dark of the night.
Plus the joke, the absolutely killer joke, and so what if you didn’t actually know what he knew?
It sent his spirits on a high, spiked his curiosity, the irony of it and how literal it could be. His mood only got better and better the more you talked, the more you stayed when he gave you so many opportunities to save yourself.
It’s solely on you that has the misfortune of causing his good mood.
Wolf chuckles at the memory, as he picked you up gently into his arms, careful not to wake you, and visibly croons, “Idiotic fucker, you really have no idea what you got yourself into, do you? Can’t say I didn’t warn you though, and I gave you so many chances to run away— Hell, I would be considered a fucking saint just because of that.”
Then he’s thinking about how you looked at him as if he was a goddamn angel sent from above, as if he saved you from a freezing blizzard. How much that gaze of yours needed him.
He pauses in his steps, holding onto you, unwavering as he thought aloud to himself. Repeating your name to feel how it feels on his tongue. A pretty name, his to take when he deems it necessary to do so.
And there were those words you said, those fucking words and everything that hid underneath it.
It was a promise, really.
An allowance.
“Oh, you clueless motherfucker, I think I might be falling in love.”
Author's notes:
I will be continuing this one day. Just not now. Also, special shout out to my tumblr friends who kept my passion for Weak Hero alive! This story is only possible because of them.
(P.S. I will NOT have a tag list as of right now. A tag list may be opened one day in the future, but you would have to go check my pinned message if it happens.)
WEAK-tober | Day 1: Claws
Category: M/F
Pairing: Donald Na/Reader
Tags: #Drabble
Words: 379
Current TW: None
“You’re beautiful.”
And you state that as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It almost leaves you speechless, awed to the point you might consider taking up a new religion. If you did, you wouldn’t even be surprised, having given up on your mission the moment you set sights on the creature.
The pressure pushing down on you does not diminish, the giant creature above you does not release its mighty hand from your throat; its black claws digging into the skin on the back of your neck.
Outside, the night screeches.
The world is crying and screaming, lighting dances so closely with its thunder that you’re sure you’ll never be able to hear quite so well again as the heavens strike the world again and again. Boom, boom, boom— and the castle remains standing against the wrath of the gods.
This beautiful creature was never meant to be created, and the gods are angry. You are the knight, the holiest and most faithful, and you are the knight sent to kill the monster prophesied to destroy the order of all beings.
But…
You’re crying, and you do not understand why, barely understanding who you are anymore; only knowing that you cannot lift your sword against something so beautiful. Is this not the epitome of the world? To rid the world of such treasure… is it not too cruel?
When the creature releases his hand from your neck, you are still awed.
It tilts its head, and the creature would have been called a man, had it never been sentenced to death. Its gaze of dark scarlet boring into you, long golden hair falling against your cheek—
“You’ve gone mad.” And it looks genuinely confused, and it trails its claws against your lips. It draws blood. “I’ve yet to do anything and here you have completely given up on the mission your gods have given you.”
The creature leans further down, claws trailing back to your neck. It pauses, then moves to pick up the weapon you’ve abandoned and dropped at its feet. The sacred artifact of the church, the only weapon ever created that could have slain the creature and you dropped it at its feet at first sight.
“... and you’re right, I am beautiful.”
You allow yourself to breathe.
WEAK-tober | Day 2: Super
Category: M/F
Pairing: Jake Ji/ Reader
Tags: #Drabble,
Words: 253
Current TW: None
“Oh my god,” Jake says in a tone that either indicates that someone had died, or if he ran out of candy. “I can’t actually believe it.”
The villain wears his signature costume, a rather boring set of casual clothes: a black hoodie and pants; his mask’s the only thing that sticks out despite its plainness. At first sight, it looks like a simple black mask, but you know better now.
You blink once at the villain who decided to let himself into your home without invitation, before deciding that turning off the lights and heading to bed without actually acknowledging the situation would be a rather swell choice.
Jake chuckles, a teasing grin on his face that makes either make his friends annoyed or make his enemies run for the hills. “Aw, don’t be like that– I actually came here to talk to you about something.”
Under the covers of your bed, you groan.
He takes this as permission to plop himself a seat at the edge of your bed, and if you weren’t tired from working, you would have kicked him in the back of his head. “So… I’ve been reading the articles you’ve been writing about me and honestly I am surprised.”
Article? What the hell was wrong with my article?
“Honey, I’m a super villain– One of a kind, really.” He sighs as if he was really disappointed, “This is why I suggested you let me be your editor. You know how much work I put into my villainy?”
WEAK-tober | Day 10: Incandescent
How Late? 6 months, 15 days
I'm slowly building up my fanfiction writing prowess, step-by-step, I say.
Category: Gen
Pairing: Juwon Lee & Kenny Ji
Tags: #Canon Universe
Words: 990
Current TW: Author Chose Not To Use Warnings
Author's note: Please be aware that the Warning: "Author Chose Not To Use Warnings" Does not mean that no warnings apply. Rather, it means that I simply chose not to use them. This work may contain scenes or tones that are offensive, triggering, or etc. Thank you.
He pictures himself composed; shapes his expression into one, at it’s worse, of tolerance, and at it’s best, indifference. It shouldn’t be hard, he reasons, when the situation doesn’t actually affect him in anyway that matters.
Yet, it takes an unreasonable amount of effort to keep himself from sneering down in contempt. A form of respect? Maybe. Not that the bastard deserves it.
Juwon Lee keeps himself perfectly civil.
And the motherfucker who had the audacity to contact him, just smiles serenely. It almost makes him throw the fucker out the window, because as much as he thought Manwol was a piece of shit that was going to get thrown out when the time comes, he had respected them.
Well, respected them enough.
It’s one of those things you have when the competition isn’t completely incompetent, and you sometimes work with them for mutual benefit until one side decides to conquer the other side.
Manwol was fine, really, Juwon doesn’t really care for it besides the fact the fucker in front of him was the reason why it fell. It personally offends him, because the motherfucker is a bitch.
He smiles civilly.
“Bastard, who the fuck do you think you are to call me over to you?”
Kenny Ji doesn’t flinch, as expected from the former executive; or was it arrogance? The fuck sure as hell can’t fight now, so it must be the arrogance that keeps him from flinching.
Probably.
Juwon makes himself comfortable on the chair across, assessing Kenny Ji who sits with his head held high for a fucker on a wheelchair, the brother to Jake Ji of the Union, and the single flaw to Manwol.
He had once used Kenny Ji to bait another fucker into fighting him more seriously, and he had lost. So it wasn’t respect, not really, that kept him civil.
But curiosity kept him civil.
And though he didn’t care much for Manwol, the fact that it fell to an insider means something to him. His loyalty to Changhui Han, to the Cheongang, was a bond forged with blood, and the fucker in front of him threw that away for what?
There’s tradition to be followed, and then there’s scum.
“…” Kenny glares back, but otherwise doesn’t jump to the bait, unlike the brother. “… I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the Cheongang still follows the old rules?”
Juwon pauses momentarily, he stares at the other and thinks. There are several ways this conversation could be going, and none of them are good. He straightens, pushing whatever contempt he had down until it’s buried.
If the bastard is asking about that, then it means something at leasty.
“Yes,” He says, “Always.”
Kenny nods.
The bastard accepts it as if it were expected, and it’s knowledge that one doesn’t need to call an executive of the Cheongang to confirm. No, no one ever calls on an executive relating to the rules unless—
“Good.” The bastard says, “Then you’ll be interested what I have to say.”
“Hey fucker.” And contempt and rage comes to him as easily as breathing, it comes at the words written between the lines, at the arrogance, at the audacity. “Why the hell would something like you have anything interesting to say to me?”
Kenny doesn’t flinch back, if anything, the fucker grinds his teeth together and forces himself to stop from making a good right hook to Juwon’s face.
Ah, Juwon thinks rather sardonically, looking down at the loss so apparent that he doesn't understand how he didn’t think of it before. It’s not that he won’t, it’s just that he can’t.
That’s more than enough reason to believe that something like Kenny Ji didn’t just call an executive of Cheongang for something pointless. The bastard may be a traitor to his gang, but he was also Manwol’s downfall.
Kenny Ji is scum, but not a fool.
“Young entertainment.” The bastard says, and—
Juwon sucks in a breath; anger curling into his gut, and it builds itself slowly. As if it were unsure of what to do between the sinking feeling and the feeling the makes him tense his muscles that prepare him for a fight.
“… In Mapo?”
And when the bastard nods his head without a single moment of hesitance, the fury comes in droves without a moment’s notice. It surges to the brink of an explosion, until there’s ringing in his ears and he’s starting to see red.
Because there are rules.
There is tradition.
And then there is scum.
The composure he crafted before is gone, replaced by him shooting out to grab the bastard by the neck and snarling:
“Explain.”
And Kenny Ji explains, after glaring and snarling back: “Let me the fuck go before you regret it.” He explains about how some group of soon to be dead men decided to fuck off from Yeongdeungpo and into Mapo because they couldn’t do their business anymore. The bastard says some names that Juwon recognizes, says some dates, brings out pictures of faces that he knows, solid proof and—
Then the realization hits.
And Juwon just might throw the fucker out the window, or perhaps, something worse. Because this information wasn’t something that could be stumbled upon, because one would have to know who to look at to see what what was—
He’s incandescent with rage, boiling in a fury that cannot stay contained.
“They started coming to Mapo after the downfall of Manwol.”
Kenny stays silent.
“I see.” Juwon says, and the blazing fury turns frigid, into a process he’s much more familiar with. Anger needs to be productive after all, rather than reckless, and there’s an issue that needs to be dealt with. “We’ll take care of it.”
There’s tradition, Juwon knows and thinks of the rules unwritten that every other gang must follow, and then there’s scum.
Perhaps the flaw wasn’t the bastard Kenny Ji, but the rest of Manwol.
WEAK-tober | Day 9: Bloody
How Late? 6 months, 12 days
AHahhaaha, still keeping this up-- Mostly because I'm avoiding my homework.
Category: M/F
Pairing: Kenny Ji/ Reader
Tags: #Angst
Words: 2,297
Current TW: Author Chose Not To Use Warnings
Author's notes: So there's this one person on discord that I just know likes Kenny angst, and another who hates it. Lmao, so here this is. I'm very happy to be part of the discord, because damn, it is hilarious to watch from the side lines.
The first time he sees you, it’s at some shitty ass convenience store where he and the fucks he takes care of decided to hang. It was one of those days where he takes his subordinates out for something small, just a couple of beers and some chicken, because it’s a lazy day where one could just sit outside on the pavement and smoke.
Some days, one just has to say fuck to that high-end bar that Manwol frequents. There’s a calm about hanging around shitty 24/7 convenience stores; it brings back memories of times when things were simpler.
Kenny watches you walk inside while he drags his cigarette, he’s leaning back on his chair at the outside patio of the store.
Pretty, the leather jacket is definitely a plus in his books. You browse through the store, easy smile on your lips as you talk to someone on your phone—A friend, perhaps? It’s as big contrast from the bad girl outfit you pull of seemingly… which is nice.
Definitely his type.
Fucker #1, who Kenny Ji reluctantly takes care of because of his position, snorts; pulling his attention away from you when he glares at the shit.
“You got something to say, you bastard?”
The bastard still has the audacity to look smug, “She has braces on, and they’re pink.”
“And you…” Kenny drags out as he flicks his cigarette away, stomping on it when he stands; he dusts himself off and pops a mint. “Have no taste.”
He could do charming.
He could also use the excuse to tell his subordinates to fuck off and leave him alone for the rest of the night. It’ll be a nice change of pace, and he’ll get a date out of it.
…
It’s seven dates later, the last date being you teaching him all the ways one could make a gun using a 3D printer, showing off all your stuffed animals you had since a child, and barbecuing at your place because it was cheaper, that he realizes:
Holy shit, that is definitely my type.
It’s also when he realizes that he’s been dating you without realizing it.
What the fuck.
…
“You have a brother?”
Kenny doesn’t know if you told him that before, because it felt like you told him that before and he just forgot. Which would be bad, very bad, because—
You blink, “I never told you?”
“No.” He says, “I don’t think so.”
Your eyes narrow, because for the past several minutes you were talking about this annoying dude that you know, what he did not know that it was you talking about your brother; and Kenny can feel his soul preparing to leave his body.
“For real?”
“Pretty sure.” Well, not that sure, but whatever. Wait… “I would have told you about my own brother if I did—”
“You have a brother?”
Wow.
It’s a full circle.
…
Things with Manwol start falling to shit. Changyeon Lee, the bastard, is being more ruthless than before; but Kenny owes him.
So he goes out and gets his hands dirty.
Kenny doesn’t want Jake to follow in his steps.
Kenny doesn’t want you to know this side of him.
But Changyeon Lee is owed.
…
You find out.
He doesn’t mean for you to find out, but life is shitty enough to throw you right in front of him when he’s doing the shit he does for Manwol. Kenny doesn’t even does this type of job often, he hasn’t bothered with high schoolers for an entire year until now because some fucks called the Un—
It doesn’t matter.
You find out, and he doesn’t follow when you leave with an expression he dares not describe. Manwol and every other fucker out there is watching him for a weakness he cannot afford, he reasons, and keeps the charade up long enough until he’s alone.
He vomits just before he manages to reach your place; the disgust builds itself, and maybe he deserves it.
So he leaves before he could knock on your door.
…
You ask him too meet at a restaurant; one of those Japanese food places that provide private rooms. You like things like that, you enjoy the privacy and kicking off your shoes and sitting cross-legged; though maybe you just want the privacy of breaking things off.
He can’t help but smile and let his shoulders sag in relief when he sees that you’re okay.
You smile.
Any other day, it would have been comforting; Kenny would have been mentally patting himself good job, definitely not blushing, and he’d be able to smile right back.
But he remembers what he did, and now that smile feels less than it ever should be. What would life be like if you decide to look past the deeds he’s done, because you’re kind enough for that. Truly.
Kenny doesn’t deserve that kind of forgiveness.
Not when he knows he can’t leave Manwol; knows that if he stays with you, then it’ll be some kind of fantasy that could be torn down at any moment.
“The kid.” You say, “Did you at least know his name?”
Of course he doesn’t fucking know, he just knew that it was a job that he was assigned to save face; the closest thing to a name for the kid was Motherfucker.
“No, I never really bothered with that.”
Your eyes widen at the admission, and your nails dig into the table; a habit of yours when you’re holding yourself back from being angry or from being excited.
Kenny could guess which.
Fucking Changyeon Lee.
Fucking Manwol.
Fuck all this shit to hell.
And Kenny isn’t one to shy away from accountability, isn’t one to deny that is position in Manwol is a burden his to bear; so he’ll make this easier for you.
“Let’s break up.” He says, determined—
Then you laugh and it’s so much crueler than he ever thought it could be; and Kenny deserves it, and it’ll be so much easier this way to.
“I can’t stand this anymore, fucking bastard.” You sigh, reaching into your purse to toss over one of those cute pink and plastic whatever the fuck they’re called folder envelopes. Your gaze is cold, “Here, read this.”
He takes it, opens the folder and—
There’s a million of things he could have said then, but the words die in his throat. He doesn’t know he’s shaking until you’re holding onto his hand.
Comforting?
No, of course not.
Your nails dig into the back of his hand, it’s too sharp; and when he finally composes himself to look at you, all there is is detachment.
“I had to move the schedule up because of your little stunt.” You say, kissing the back of his knuckle, “But that’s alright, better for the truth to come our sooner than later, right? Better to cut than to hold on.”
The folder drops, spilling its contents throughout the entire floor.
“It’s everything about Manwol.” You tell him as if he didn’t know that two plus two equals four. “You could double-check it if you want. Though I highly doubt you won’t find anything that’s missing.”
Kenny stares at it, he knew the folder was heavier than it should be, but to see the amount of it spread across the floor is another thing entirely. Several pictures, he knows instantly.
He swallows.
“How many copies?”
You let him go with a hum, leaving his side to pick up the files which has fallen. This was planned, he realizes, for a long, long time.
“I have plenty of copies.”
“Why?”
You look at him as if you want to laugh, as if the his questions pains you so that you are torn between hysterics and being furious; you glare at him and in the same breath you smile, and it’s the pain from where your nails dug till it bled that keeps him seated.
“Why do what you do?” You mock, snarling. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous? Don’t you know you hurt people? That the ones you hurt are loved? What did you feel when you hit that kid? What did you think?”
And the disgust builds itself.
“Did you really not know?” You ask him, pleading for what he cannot give; because apologies are useless when it cannot be fixed. “How bloody your hands are because of it, and you don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
You sigh.
He stays seated.
“You’re going to destroy Manwol with this, won’t you?”
Because Kenny doesn’t quite care anymore for what happens to it; and it’s justice at it’s finest. It’s also him, remembering the sea of the nameless and the named of those he hurt; and not knowing who was the one so important to you.
So, yeah.
He’ll deserve everything coming to him; he won’t even care if this was planned since the beginning. Doesn’t have the right.
“No.” You say, “I won’t.”
The confusion must have been evident, that you laugh at him; you’re holding back, he knows, from screaming and crying—
“I won’t, and it’s not because I love you. I don’t.”
Your smile is wry, your smile is sad.
“But because I know that you dug your own grave, that one day that that gang of yours would be the death of you.
Even if not that, I’m not going to go to the press, to the police, or to whatever authority out there that can deal with you fucks; because every week I will do a little thing.
When I do that, these files won’t be sent to every news outlet and to every station. I would do that every week, constantly saving your ass and you’ll know the reason why you’re still walking the streets is because of me.”
And you’re no longer smiling, but absolutely furious. There’s no excuse he could say, no explanation— And all he could do is watch as you break down in front of him and his choices.
“But you’ll be stuck with the knowledge that I could decide any day that it’s not enough, that one day I couldn’t stand the thought of you out there and I just let it happen. Maybe I could forget, maybe there was an accident and I just couldn’t.
How long do you think it will be? A week from now? A month? Several years?
You’re going to live with the knowledge that whatever you build from now could be torn down at any moment. Because this is about you and what you did that cannot be fixed.”
And the long monologue ends, leaving nothing but silence; He doesn’t know who he harmed that made you like this, but knows that it’s on him. If it were any other day, had he been younger or had he not known you, then he would have done anything in his power to burn away all that proof you had thrown in his face and snarled.
But he’s old enough that the awe of joining a gang had worn off into bitterness, and he’s far too fond of your smiles and your company, far too much in love, to take anything more from he than he already has.
And he’s already taken something from you that he cannot remember.
“Sorry.” Kenny says, as if it would change anything. It won’t. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I wish I didn’t.”
That startles a laugh out of you, who has fallen to your knees, who’s crying as quietly as you can because this is not a revenge plan but a shitty attempt at closure; it’s wet and broken laugh.
“You could have been great, you know.” And those words of yours will haunt him more than your monologue of lies; because he knows when you lie, knows that there’s no copies and no carefully crafted long con for his demise.
Yes, the proof your threw in his face took a long time. Yes, he knows that you knew what he did ever since; but he knows that you long since gave up on using it. Because if you really planned on doing that, he wouldn’t know it until it was already over.
“You’re such a lovely person, truly—”
If he had left behind all those things that made him worse, if he had left Manwol, if he had left Changyeon Lee to rot, if he hadn’t hurt someone that you loved; Kenny wonders if you would have stayed with him.
“—But your hands are too bloody.”
You leave him there.
He takes care of the bill.
…
The first time he saw you, it’s at some shitty ass 24/7 convenience store; you’re definitely his type, and he made his move the moment one of his jackass subordinates made some type of snide comment.
It was a good idea at the time, perfect excuse to ditch his subordinates and the leather jacket you wore that day provided an even better on.
You frowned when you paid for the candy you brought to the store counter, thankful while also unimpressed at the same time with how your eyebrows were raised.
It was fucking hilarious.
He had asked you on a date then, doesn’t remember if his clothes were clean or dirty but knew that he smelt of smoke and alcohol, you had asked in return: “What if you hurt me?”
“A pretty face like yours? Never. Plus, I think you could crush me anytime you want and no one would be able to find the body.”
There was a lot of talking after that, plenty of jokes; they were morbid jokes, and before the night had ended, it had led you to ask him this:
“You know, what if I really did hurt you?”
He grinned.
“I would have deserved it.”
WEAK-tober | Day 7: Grease
Category: M/F
Pairing: Jack Kang/ Reader
Tags: #Drabble
Words: 238
Current TW: None
As a Burger Queen employee, you work hours around frying onion rings, french fries, and work about cooking cheeseburgers. It’s all incredibly… messy.
So, you weren’t actually sure how you mustered the courage to approach the handsome customer you served with your number. Bad work ethic you think should have hindered you, and the fact that you’re still in uniform when you bump into him on your way home after your shift.
You hold your hastily scrawled number on a piece of napkin out; your face probably flushed a bright red as you look determinedly at the—wow, he’s really handsome— man.
“Hey.”
You hope you don’t get fired for this.
“Hey.”
The man says back, echoing you with his brow raised and slightly taken back.
You force yourself not to laugh nervously, force yourself to ignore that tall dude behind the recipient of your impulsive decision. Like god, why is that dude snickering so loudly? This isn’t some drama episode, is it?!
“Let’s get coffee sometime.” And no, you did not stutter. “... cause I think you’re cute.”
… or something.
He grins, and you’re pretty sure your heart skipped a beat as his eyes lit up in amusement. “I don’t know your name.”
“Something we could learn over coffee.”
The man pauses, completely ignoring his friend who swings his arm around him— oh shoot, are they gay—? “... but how about this?”
He hands you his phone, “The name’s Jack Kang.”
WEAK-tober | Day 6: Swan
Category: M/F
Pairing: Jimmy Bae/ Reader
Tags: #Drabble
Words: 190
Current TW: Implied Cannibalism (Though, not really?)
“What the fuck did you do?!” Jimmy snarls, slamming his fist onto the table as he points rather frantically at the white bird quacking rather pathetically on the side. And, as if on cue, the bird begins to shriek and run around in circle.
So ungrateful, you think as you stare at your newly manicured nails. You roll your eyes at your summoner’s antics and scoff.
“That, Jimmy Boy, is dinner. Never really expected for it to turn into a swan though…”
And expectedly, the swan tries slamming itself through the glass window to escape.
“YOU TURNED MY SUBORDINATE INTO A FUCKING BIRD!?”
“You said to fix your problems?!” Like really, where did you go wrong with this task this time? The problem was simple, he said, really couldn’t even mess it up if you tried. “And I thought you were hungry?!”
Jimmy just stares, and for a long moment the only sound that could be heard is the swan, banging his head against the window.
You gesture nervously at the bird, “... didn’t you find Harper Ha annoying?”
…
Jimmy sighs, “... Alright, fucking fine. We’re eating that bastard Harper Ha for dinner.”
