#Machine Mandate

[rhetoricandlogic]

Machine Mandate (series) - Benjanun Sriduangkaew

I have loved this author forever because the prose is so outstanding, you rarely find anything in this league. Winterglass is still my fave but this series is outstanding, too. The characters are exclusively female, nonbinary; it's sci-fi; lesbian romance/relationsips. The topics are personhood (yes, some of the characters are AIs - real AI's, not the current, mislabeled stuff). Warning tho: graphic violence in some parts, dto. sex. Nevertheless, this has been an auto-buy author for a long time for me.

[knightforflowers]

they put crosses on the doors to try and keep me out

[sacredfixation]

LOKI VERSUS CREAM

Loki eating just the cream after loudly judging it is peak “I don’t actually hate it; I just need to analyze it so it feels like I have control over my life” behavior.

He’s sitting there, dissecting the texture like he’s Gordon Ramsay trapped in a dystopian food critique nightmare. “do you think they manually whisk it?” Sir, you’re in a timeline-policing bureaucracy eating neon-green cafeteria pie. Why are you like this?

And it’s the way he keeps spooning JUST the cream after all that dramatic commentary. Like, he’s sitting there going, “It’s unsettling,” but at the same time, he’s shoveling spoonfuls of the stuff into his mouth as if he’s contractually obligated to figure out its exact molecular composition before the scene ends.

He’s spooning out the cream like it’s some precious substance, gently probing it as if the world depends on his ability to understand its texture. DARLING ITS OKAY YOU CAN STOP

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

hmm liu bang being a verified member of the baby-tosser's club is not as cut and dried as i thought, apparently it's only mentioned in xiang yu's biography but is omitted in his. that's a conflict of interest if i've ever seen it. that being said, u gotta admit nothing about han gaozu make this seem at all out of character for him.

[ozzycide]

nine inch nails one of the bands ever i think !!

[joelletwo]

[ID: graphic of a classic self-serve soda fountain with multiple dispensers, text "one hole per beverage ✅," and a coke freestyle machine with one dispenser and drink flavor selections made via touchscreen, text "unholy drink cloaca ❌"]

i can't stand these new fountain machines they dispense watered down piss

[surfeit-of-stoats]

The AI remains where xe is, nearly pressing up against her. Even this close there is still no physical evidence xe is anything other than what the haruspex surface suggests: a Thai woman in her prime with dermal implants, decorative but nothing more. There’s nothing in the eyes, no electric coronae around the pupils or some buzzing radiance that emanates from the irises. The eyes, Numadesi thinks, humans are obsessed with divining a deep truth from them. Pointless, of course. A person with mastery of their face can hide anything and the eyes are no more communicative than the mouth, the creasing of the brows or the clenching of the fists.

— Now Will Machines Hollow the Beast, Benjanun Sirduangkaew

[milfbrainrot]

i wonder if part of healer and knower's seeeeemingly at-odds dynamic is that healer is one of the only other people who knows what happened to the last watcher. everyone else probably believes she departed the train in the middle of the night, but knower is the one who found her... so then what happened to her body? it was probably healer's job to handle it and with such a confronting image healer can't understand how knower remains so stoic about someone she had loved.

[ellipsus-writes]

The internet was supposed to be a place for connection and creativity. But it’s being flooded with AI text, algorithmic hostility, and platforms turning against the creatives who made them vibrant in the first place.

Tech giants have gone all-in on AI at creators’ expense. Google’s AI is baked into everything, prioritizing machine-generated slop over human work. Microsoft Word now suggests AI-generated “improvements” on every new line.

The Trump administration’s massive AI investment means there’s little incentive for tech giants to slow down the exploitation anytime soon. (Meta? Just caught training AI on 81.7 TB of pirated books.)

Big tech isn’t waiting for legal mandates to censor content—its platforms are restricting creative expression to appease political and corporate pressure, manufacturing consent in real time.

Read our full post over on the blog!

- The Ellipsus Team xo

[futurefind]

//s.o to the fact Sasume liably picked up sign language after she stopped speaking for some years

key word being after bc she didn't overtly communicate at all that entire time :')))

[no-144444]

꩜summary: this is new... a different kind of new

꩜pairing: lewis hamilton x fem! reader

Lewis’s life was fast-paced, his heart was closed until further notice, and he didn’t really care for entertaining people he’d just end up hurting. That’s what he thought, anyway. 

Ferrari offered him a lot of new things. A new teammate. A totally different team dynamic. A totally different experience. Not always good, but always new. That’s what he’d been lacking in Mercedes. He needed another chance, just one last chance at a championship, and Ferrari was meant to give him that. 

It wasn’t meant to give him this. These… uncontrollable feelings. For you. His fucking press officer. You stood there all day, phone in hand, recording what he said to the media, going through press plans with him, but somewhere between the announcement in January 2024, and Monaco 2025, he’d stopped looking at you like another cog in the Ferrari machine that made his life easier, you were the sweet girl he spoke to all day. You talked him through all of his frustrations, helped him with media appearances. You made cringey jokes about things he liked. You made jokes about him and Nico. you made him talk to Nico. You gave him advice. You hugged him after a race, the good and the bad. You didn’t push too far, not that it was even possible for you to do that. He didn’t care what you did, once it was with him. He asked you out back in July, he was shocked he’d waited that long. You shot him down immediately, terrified of losing your job. He went straight to Fred and got his (reluctant) blessing, and you agreed to one date. One date became two. Two became four. Four became a boyfriend you hadn’t planned to get. 

“Busy tonight?” he asked as you walked through the Ferrari motorhome beside each other. You hated when he openly flirted with you, specifically on race days, because eyes were usually on him. You felt the stares from the others in the press team. Half of them were your friends, and they supported you and Lewis, saying you two were perfect for each other. The other half were a bit more traditional, they liked to believe the whole ‘drivers are untouchable unless you’re a model’ rule, and you weren’t a model. Not that you weren’t gorgeous, they just believed you had no right being with him, mostly out of jealousy. You pretended it didn’t bother you. He reminded you it shouldn’t.

“Flying home,” you answered casually. “My mom wants to see me before Barcelona,” you admitted. “You?”

“Flying with you,” he shrugged. You hit his arm. He chuckled. 

“Lewis, you are trying to give us away!” you gritted out. “Shut the fuck up. And also, no. You’re not meeting my family yet.”

He pretended that didn’t bruise his ego. “Why not?” he chuckled as you pushed him into his driver’s room, that adorable scowl on your face. “Come on! We’ve been together for-” you covered his mouth with your hand. 

“Do you have to scream, Lewis?” you scoffed, unimpressed. He smirked against your hand. “And I haven’t properly prepared you to meet my family, so no.” 

“I don’t need to be prepared,” he spoke, gently pulling your hand off his mouth and pressing a kiss to your palm. “I love you, I’m sure I’ll love them too.”

You rolled your eyes, mumbling something to yourself as you crossed your arms. 

“What was that?’ he challenged, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“Nothing,” you fake smiled. 

“Uh-huh,” he nodded teasingly. “Come on,” he pressed a soft kiss to your neck. “I love you,” another kiss. “I want to meet them,” another kiss. “You’ve met my parents-”

“I met your dad, by accident, and almost cried! I was so stressed,” you reminded him, your arms curling around his neck. His hands travelled lower, squeezing your ass, as you squealed against him. He really appreciated the Ferrari-mandated skirts. Like, really appreciated them. “Lewis, come on, be serious.”

“I am serious,” he pulled back, looking at you. “I’m serious about meeting your parents, and I’m serious about you. You understand that, don’t you?”

You rolled your eyes, avoiding eye contact. “Lewis, come on. I’m your press officer. This is a fling. A lovely fling, but a fling. It’s not like I'm expecting a ring out of this,” you shrugged, like you didn’t believe him. 

“Baby,” his voice was low, almost annoyed. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Lewis,” you smiled. “But I know a press officer and an F1 driver don’t end up together, I’m not stupid-”

He groaned, and kissed you. It was one of those perfect, Lewis kisses you’d gotten so used to in recent months. He kissed you like he hadn’t drank water in days, and you were his oasis. Like you were everything he needed. Like he didn’t want it to end. He pulled back, holding your face. “How did that feel?” he asked, irritation creeping into his tone. “Fake?” 

“Lewis, I didn’t mean to upset you-”

He pulled back completely, pacing his own room. He had no idea why this made him so crazy. Well, actually, yeah, he did. It was because he had never felt like this for anyone. This intoxicating, ridiculous love that consumed his very being. That unconditional support you gave him, anticipating what he needed after races or bad days. It had him thinking about you all the time. Wanting you near him all the time. Wishing for nothing more than to be able to kiss you after a race at the barricade, like all the other drivers could. Though, that last one wasn’t going to happen, considering in the HR contract you guys signed, you could lose your job if you went public (which pissed him off to no end). “I adore you,” he stared at you with pleading eyes. “I want you, for life. I’m not going to propose right now, but I love you. And I mean that. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smiled, pulling him into you, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “I know you love me. It’s just… hard to block out the noise sometimes,” you admitted. 

“Please block it out,” he smiled softly. “I’ll help.” 

“You’re too good to me-”

And he kissed you again. You knew love. He knew love.

navigation for my blog :)

ferrari masterlist

so close to what masterlist

pop queens mixtape

[evieelyzabethh]

a college!jayce oneshot would be sooo goood. I love the way u write and the details u add! angsty,fluff,smut i dont mind. Just anything is fine with me 🤞🤞

be warned, this is incredibly self indulgent because I just finished my exams and desperately need to get dicked down by my slightly pervy husband...anyway

collegeau!Jayce is usually the one requesting the rewards for his "hard work", but being the kind, perceptive boyfriend, he has known exactly what you need in these very trying times. When he realized he couldn't talk you down from your all-nighters, he stayed up with you, mini fridge stocked with energy drinks and his coffee machine on stand-by when you got tired of the cold drinks. He's there with you for your hours long library visits, biding his time by making you good luck origami cranes or listening to you teach him the concepts you're studying for practice. If you need silence, he quieter than a mouse, if you need someone to talk to, he's all ears.

By the time his finals are done, yours aren't. There must some cruel force in the universe that mandated not only exams, but papers, projects, and presentations all be placed into your lap with rather constricting due dates and very short turn-around periods. The struggle was manageable enough when you were both going through it, but now that he's reached the end of the tunnel alone, he misses his girlfriend. Now, he sees you eating sleep for dinner and nearly going cross-eyed from the countless hours you've spent going back and forth between your textbook, your laptop, and your notes.

Any word he'd say would be hypocritical. To try and convince you to take it easy and come back to bed would be hilariously insincere considering that the trenches look identical for the both of you. But now his head is clearer, and he's forced to watch your increasingly slouchy posture and hope your poor heart can stomach the insane amounts of caffeine you've ingested in such a short period of time.

Eventually, all the papers have been turned in and he's waiting anxiously for you outside of the lecture hall where your final final just took place, and you look alive for the first time in weeks, but you're still a bit sluggish. Ain't shit funny til those grades populate, so you find it within yourself to smile but there's still a fragile week ahead of you when you really could cry at any given moment if pushed hard enough.

This just won't do, though!!! collegeau!Jayce believes he has thoroughly failed as a boyfriend as he watches you, sprawled out on his bed, some show mindlessly droning on in the background, continuously refreshing your email and course page. So much so, that he plucks the phone right from his hands and throws it into one of his messy drawers. And you try to grab it, though not making it very far as his long strides catch up to you rather quickly and your being hoisted over his shoulders and thrown back onto his bed, exactly where you belong.

See, besides the obvious torture of watching you torture yourself; Jayce has not gotten off in weeks; he would feel guilty if he wasn't able to be there for you because he's too busy jerking off in the bathroom while you're hard at work. So, he was being the good boyfriend, the one who's pleasure is completely derived from your own and he can't even try to make himself feel good if you aren't. But now, the hard times have passed, and he cannot fathom holding off any longer than he already has.

"Jayce-" And thank fuck you decided to wear a skirt today because if he had to fiddle with jeans, he would've lost his damn mind. "Jay, get off." He looks up at you with the biggest, brownest puppy dog eyes you ever did see, hands held where you could see them. "You really want me to stop?" No, of course you don't. "I wanna see if my grades been posted." He rolls his eyes so deeply you'd think he was searching the very wrinkles of his brain for a fuck to give.

His large hands move over your thighs, hypnotizingly playing with the hem of your skirt, the crotch of your terribly thin panties, rubbing his thumb what he's really been craving for the worst part of these past two weeks. "I really don't care." If he weren't so impatient, he would've been smoother. Maybe kissed you until your head got all fuzzy, gave more attention to your tits, maybe he would've bothered to actually remove any of your clothing.

collegeau!Jayce who is just so messy and couldn't be paid to give a shit as he's eating you out through your panties. It catches you by surprise, the voracious way he plunges in, nose knocking at your clothed entrance as he licks and sucks at the growing wet spot forming. You grab at his hair, which only grows his already painfully hard erection. "Ngh.", is all that comes from his mouth. It was initially meant to be some sort of plea, pull it harder, please, but for his request to be heard, he would've had to pull away. He would rather die than do that before you gushed over his tongue.

He's making out with it, aggressive with the way he pushes himself further and further into you and his canines nick at the fabric until it inevitably tears right through. Both of your moan's echo around his walls along with the squeaking of the bed with the sheer force that he ruts his hips into it. "Sometimes, I really think you hate me." The accusation vibrates straight through your pussy, making your body shake before the words even hit your ears. "No -ah, fuck, I don't." He nods into you. "Only explanation for denying me heaven."

collegeau!Jayce who is a munch before all else, his fingers leaving prints on your thighs that are already wrapped tightly around his head, his other hand pressing down on your waist. You had this annoying habit of squirming away from him, cries about it being too much falling on deaf ears. He is a firm believer there is no such thing as too much of a good thing, only people who don't believe they deserve the abundance of good coming to them.

Jayce is that abundance, sucking on your clit until it becomes too much and you shake in his strong hands, your hips fighting against his calm hands that try to rub soothing circles into your skin. "Quit running from it, baby. Jus' want you to feel better. Don't you wanna feel good? Hm?"And the tears eventually start flowing. Your just overwhelmed, you haven't had your brain properly shut off in months. "Jay, too much." But he's not done yet, instead, he tries to indicate through touch what he would whisper in your ear. You can take it. You deserve a little treat, a nice reward. His pretty girl just needs to be loosened up, just needs to think a little less, and as the best boyfriend in the world, he's going to make that happen.

[rottenpumpkin13]

This is a weird request but what if Sephiroth’s fans pleaded for the man to have an OnlyFans? 😂

Sephiroth logs into his Shinra-mandated PR social media account only to discover his mentions flooded with desperate pleas:

"PLEASE JOIN THE GLORIOUS PLATFORM OF PREMIUM CONTENT SHARING 😭" "General PLEASE I BEG YOU 🙏" "I would pay REAL MONEY to see you do anything. Anything."

Curious, he clicks the link to the platform. The description is vague: "A personalized subscription space where creators share exclusive glimpses into their lives." No images, no examples. Sephiroth assumes it's for fans of artisanal weaponry or macro photography. Perhaps baking. He signs up under the username: SephirothExclusives. He solemnly vows that all proceeds will go to war orphans and veteran support programs. Meanwhile, Angeal BURSTS into Lazard's office, wheezing, sweat on his brow, holding up his PHS:

Angeal: It's been sent to the SOLDIER internal mailing list, Sephiroth's subscription page link!

Lazard: Dear Gaia. How many views?

Angeal: Three hundred thousand in seven minutes!

Lazard: Oh no, I hope his nude photos at least look tasteful—

They brace themselves, open the link… and are met not with scandal, but confusion. Sephiroth's page content includes:

• Photo 1: A perfectly symmetrical shot of the industrial coffee machine in the mess hall. Caption: "The liquid is thick, hot, and keeps me up all night."

• Photo 2: Close-up of a materia shard glinting in the sunlight.

Caption: "Raw. Uncut. Pulsating with energy."

• Photo 3: A photo of him holding a long tree branch he fashioned as a sword. posted at 6 AM. Caption: "Morning wood."

• Photo 4: A photo of Angeal, shirtless, sweaty after a sparring session, drinking from a water bottle. Caption: "Unbridled thirst"

• Photo 5: A carefully lit image of Sephiroth adjusting a single glove, his fingers tugging it tight over his wrist. Caption: "I like it snug. Full control is essential."

• Photo 6: Candid photo of him seated on a bench reading a book on war tactics. Caption: "I like it when it's thick and full of strategy."

• Photo 7: An innocent image of a Shinra-issue towel twisted and hanging from a hook. In the background, Cloud Strife is seen catching his breath after training. Caption: "Wet. Twisted. Wrung out after intense exertion."

Lazard wants to kill him.

[technofeudalism]

Have US citizens been deported by their own government? After investigating this question for our exclusive report on Al Jazeera I can honestly say yes they are. Research by Jacqueline Stevens, a political scientist at Northwestern University, shows that up to one percent of all detainees at immigration detention centers are US citizens.   It’s hard to know exactly how many citizens get deported every year. If that one percent figure was constant throughout all deportations – that would mean 4,000 US citizens a year are deported. While that’s a high estimate, the fact that it’s happening at all demands clear and urgent answers.   Stevens says it’s an indicator of the abuses that are rife throughout the deportation machine. “It’s a symptom of the lawlessness of the deportation legal system. If US citizens go into the system with their full civil rights and they’re unable to challenge their unlawful deportation that tells us a lot about the more precarious situation of everybody else who may not have the same rights as a citizen.”

...

Despite their records, both also have strong evidence of their citizenship.  Andrés’s evidence was so strong that the government eventually let him back into the US and issued him with a passport card and certificate of citizenship. The certificate says he became a citizen in 2002, six years before he was deported. But that was only after he spent nearly three years in Mexico.   An Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or ICE, spokesperson told us that Andrés never mentioned in his deportation hearing that he was a citizen. But he did mention it in his interrogation. Still ICE officials didn’t look into his claims – despite viewing with him a photo of his father showing he was a citizen.   Andrew Free is Robles’ lawyer. He says alarm bells should have sounded for those asking the questions during that interrogation but that it’s hard to stop the deportation machine once it begins: “When you look at the records that ICE created where Andres is claiming he’s a US citizen, and then not three months later the US is putting him on a plane and walking him across the US-Mexico border, it seems that something had to have broken down.” Free also blames deportation quotas. “Right now the Obama administration wants to deport 400,000 people per year. It wants to put 34,000 people in detention centres per night because Congress has mandated that,” he said. “People were looking for a reason to detain him. That was what they were measured by and that’s what the government and Andrés got.”

15 Jun 2014

[the-californicationist]

Cali Cali bo-bali banana fana fo-fali me my mo mali! Cali!

I'm three Budweisers in and got an itch for alpha Price with a sudden need to breed (yay! Surprise rut!), and there's his sweet smelling omega neighbor who he's been keeping at arm's length because he's a professional dammit and has complete control of his urges, thank you very much.

Honestly, I just wanna see Mr. "I'm Married to My Job" lose it and show back up on base abashed and mated, and also ridiculously proud of his lil omega's claiming bite, because "she turned into a wildcat, lads. I couldn't stop her." *wink-wink*

Or not. I'm happy with any smutty Price fic you bestow on us, really. I'm just being weirdly specific because— alcohol = horny thots. 🍺😏🥴🫠

Drunken hugs 🫂 from Random Thot

RTG!! You are the most amazing person, and every time I see your pfp on AO3 or tumblr, I just get all gooey inside. Thank you for the ask! I wrote (and fully deleted) this fic three times because I wanted to get it right. I just pray that I could deliver. <3 <3 Hope this is what you were hoping for!!

MDNI/NSFW -- TW: damsel in distress, ABO dynamics, knotting, fuck-or-die scenarios, CNC, fluids, PIV sex, female OC

Glory, Glory

It was his last beer of the night, and he was ripping it apart. Curling, soggy shards of the torn label were stuck under his thumbnail, darkening the translucent edge and making it look dirty. They littered the sticky, lacquered bartop like ugly snow, falling in a tiny, chaotic mess. His hands were more than just dirty, the captain thought to himself as he used his wide thumb to itch at the glue-covered glass, rolling little, paper shards away from the smooth surface to reveal the amber liquid swirling within. The captain’s hands; they were covered in blood. Not innocent blood, but blood all the same. They’d never be clean again. 

But, that was the job, and he was good at it. His hands were a direct reflection of his hard work. Killing evil bastards kept the world safe. Some poor sob in a factory could clean out the glue-painting machine that pasted these fuckin’ labels on all of these bloody beer bottles because of one unshakable truth: John Price was good at killing evil bastards.

Unfortunately, the killing would need to wait until after the mandated leave window closed again. His argument with Kate still grated inside of his head. He could almost hear her harsh, Yank accent in his ears.

“What do you want me to tell payroll, John? You can’t be here. You’ve got too many days. Go home. See your mom.”

“I see her plenty, Katie. Let me run that ops gig with Keller. C’mon. I’ll do overwatch,” he tried his best to weasel his way back into a bit of active duty.

“You’d be the world’s most expensive overwatch. Hell no. Here’s your ticket,” she shoved an envelope in his hands, “...and your money,” another envelope, “Go the fuck home, Captain. That’s an order.”

An order. More like a toothless threat. 

But, alas, here he was, staring at a freshly shaved, buzzcut version of himself in a filthy pub mirror, undressing bottles left and right. 

“Another, mate?” The barkeep pointed to his almost-empty drink, making a slight grimace at the paper graveyard that was sprinkled across his bar.

“No,” John sighed, pulling out a few notes from his wallet, “I’m off.”

“Happy Christmas,” the barkeep took the bills and didn’t bother to look up again, setting himself to sweeping the torn strips off of the surface, preparing for the next paying customer. 

“You, too,” John muttered, tugging his black wool beanie over his ears before braving the classic cold, wet, and windy Liverpudlian night. 

He didn’t live far. John’s mum had kept up his loft down by the docks, but it certainly didn’t feel like home. Home wasn’t real. Not anymore. As he walked along the Mersey’s edge, he peered into the black water, wondering if he’d ever truly go home again. 

All of a sudden, he heard a shrill scream. Every sense that had been dulled by his lager was now as sharp as a blade and set on its edge. Again, a high-pitched shout pealed through the night air, beckoning him back to his heroism. That keening was the sound of some evil that needed stamping out, and he was hungry for it. 

He sprinted through the warehouse district, chasing the noise of scuffling, ducking behind alleys and abandoned garages, looking for the source. Finally, there was a flash of red that caught his eye, so he ran towards it, his mind making sense of the scene in front of him. 

Voices were jumbled and mashed up together, barely registering in his mind.

“Out here in a fuckin’ heat. Dumb bitch! C’mere.”

“She’s got a knife!”

“C’mere, you little slag. Get –”

In the middle of three huge, stinking Alphas, a tiny Omega was struggling, arm outstretched, brandishing her knife at them to keep them at bay. John came up behind the biggest one, some bald fuck with a dirty coat, and dropped him, cracking his spine in two places with well-placed fists, and breaking his jaw on his way down to the ground, leaving him groaning on the concrete. 

One of his mates, a older man with thick, black eyebrows, lunged at Price, a look of indignant surprise on his face. The Omega screamed, her red coat yanked back over her face by the third man, her knife clattering to her feet. Price focused on Mister Eyebrows, dodging a lazy haymaker before popping him twice in the nose, drawing out his blood and knocking out at least two of his front teeth. Then, John grabbed him by the collar, pulling his jaw into his raised knee and listening to the satisfying splash as he fell into a murky puddle. 

Finally, he set his sights on the last Alpha of the pack whose ropey arm was looped across the Omega’s neck, choking the air from her lungs. He growled at Price, his scent turning to rancid fear,

“Stay back! She’s mine, you big bastard.”

The captain had nothing to say. With a practiced ease, he side-stepped her assailant, breaking the elbow that controlled her throat, making him release her immediately. The evil bastard stumbled back, hand outstretched, bargaining for his life, 

“Wait, wait. I’ll share her with you, how’s that? I’ll even let you have first go!”

A deafening howl came out of his mouth as Price’s boot heel made contact with his kneecap, forcing it to snap at a terrible angle. John’s hand shot out and grabbed the man by the hair on the crown of his head, tugging cruelly at his scalp. Without mercy, John slammed his face into a nearby bollard, and the howling stopped.

It was quiet again aside from the Omega’s trembling breaths. She had recovered the knife and was now pointing it towards John with shaking hands and wide, determined eyes. 

“You alright, love?” Price asked, holding his hands up in a sign of peace, edging towards her in gentle, predictable steps. 

“Y-yeah… Stay! Stay right there,” her voice was bright and clear, and he could hear her strength laced through her words. He stopped in his tracks, respecting her wishes.

“What are you doin’ all the way out here, darlin’?”

“They dragged me over here from Baltic Fleet,” she straightened up, getting her bearings, wiping the blood from a small cut in her cheek, “Fuckin’ bastards. Thank you, by the way.”

“Jus’ doin’ my job,” Price shrugged, waiting for her to lower the knife even further before he continued his approach.

“Police?” She asked, a little confused. 

“Not exactly,” Price smiled, offering a hand out to her, “John Price, Captain of His Majesty’s RAF service.”

“Oh,” she studied him for a moment, and then her eyes fell to the hand, ready to bite but deciding to shake it instead. 

When he touched her skin, Price felt her fever. Shocked, he tightened his grip, not meaning to startle her but too surprised by her temperature to ignore it.

“Christ, love. You’re burnin’ up.”

As quick as a flash, she yanked her hand out of his grasp and retreated back towards the wall of the warehouse behind her, scooting her way towards the corner to get out of his range, ready to bolt. She didn’t respond, but John watched as she wiped her brow, dotted with sweat and covered in concern. 

“Hey,” he moved forward again protectively, “You can’t be out here alone. Not like this. At least let me walk with you. I’ll stay ten paces behind. It’s not safe.”

“I’m fine,” she said with more strength in her voice than what she was ready to produce.

“You’re not. You’re in a bloody heat. When did it start?” He watched as her knees began to tremble, and against her obvious wishes, he helped her sit on the warehouse deck, letting her keep the knife so she could feel safe. 

“Yesterday…” She closed her eyes, trying to shake it off, “It’s… I’m fine. It’s never this bad.”

Now that he was close to her, Price was smothered by the scent of her body. The Omegan glands in her neck smelled like thick, wild honey, and her heat was mixing with her aroma, turning an already sweet smell into a lucious, decadent gourmand, pulling him in like quicksand. 

“C’mon,” he helped her up, “Where’s your place? I’ll get you close.”

The clang of her knife made him glance up to see her eyes closed and her mouth slack. She was out, too weak to withstand the fever and the physical exertion. 

Price felt his body react to her need. He was filled with rage, white and hot, at her situation. Those goddamn monsters were trying to take advantage of her in this vulnerable state. She should be home in her nest, being taken care of by her Alpha, covered in soothing oils and cool compresses, her needy little cunt stuffed full of his knot, staving off these symptoms and enduring them for her. Instead, she’d been hunted, chased, made to fight for her dignity out here in the middle of the docks. Something else inside Price’s chest curled around his anger. 

Possession. 

He tried to shake it off, knowing it came from being unmarked, but it had been so many years as a lone Alpha that he knew how to control it. Or, at least he thought he did. 

Now, though, he found himself pulling at the neck of her coat as he held her in his arms, invading her privacy to check for a bite. He felt the shame wash over him as he covered her skin back up. He had no business searching for a mating bite. She was not his Omega, and he was not her Alpha. 

After a few minutes out in the chilled wind, he made it to his apartment. Thankfully, it was late enough that his neighbors weren’t outside to witness what looked like a literal kidnapping, and he shuffled her inside without much trouble. Price lay her down on his long, leather sofa, careful to rest her head on the soft arm. He went to the kitchen to retrieve a cold rag and pressed it to her forehead, hoping to hold back the fever for as long as he could.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Wake up,” he whispered, trying to gently shed her coat and sweater, peeling her layers off to bring her temperature down to a more manageable level. 

She moaned, her eyes wrenching shut even tighter, her face twisted in pain,

“My head…” She sighed, desperate for some relief. 

“I know, love. C’mon,” John propped her up a bit, moving the rag so that the coldest parts would be against her skin, “What’s your name? I can find an address. Do you have your purse?”

“They… took it? I don’t… I dunno…” She muttered, obviously having a hard time stringing her thoughts together, “I don’t feel so good.”

This was not ideal. Price knew what came next. A high fever, exhaustion, fatigue, nausea, increased heart rate, and then… 

“Alpha?” Her eyes were open, glassy and dark, the pupils fully blown, looking up at him with an outpouring of unfathomable need. Her scent rolled off of her in mind-altering waves, shoving Price’s carefully-built walls out of the way and sending shocks of desire straight to his heart and his fat, growing cock. 

“No, baby. I’m not your Alpha. Who is he? Can you give me a name?” John asked, checking her coat pockets in a rushed panic. He was running out of time. 

“Alpha, please… I need… Help me, please,” her shaking hands reached under his jacket and shirt, her knuckles rubbing against his furry belly, her strong fingers digging around for his belt buckle, getting right to the point. 

Price felt the room flex around him, and he tried to breathe in air that wasn’t saturated by her vanilla spice, searching in the deepest recesses of his mind for some semblance of his self control. 

“Easy, love. I can’t m–mmngh!” Her mouth slotted over his as he tried to protest, stopping his heart and his words at the same time. 

She was heaven. Her smell was making his skin tingle all over his body, down his arms and up his legs, rushing to his central, sacral core. And her taste was even better. His little cinnamon roll, so sweet and warm, burning for him like a flame, hot and ready to scar him for life. 

“Mngh… Love, mmm… Wait…” Price held her back, using more force than he thought he should need, surprised by her sudden power. 

“John…” He met her eyes and found a particular clarity within them. She was coming out of her haze. But, it wouldn’t last. This was his final chance to keep her from doing something she would regret. 

“Darlin’, I can’t. I’m not your Alpha.”

“You smell like you are,” she mewled, rubbing her wounded cheek across his engorged neck gland, spreading his scent all over herself. 

“I can’t,” he moved away from her, trying to hold her in his arms for comfort rather than to bask in her expressive heat, “My work… I can’t leave you here, pretty girl.”

She sobbed out, trying to hold back from writhing against his body, doing everything she could not to make it harder for him to turn her down. Her eyes were rimmed red and pink from exhaustion, and she was staring down at her own hands, vibrating with tremors, slurring her words,

“Just lock me in the bath. I’ll run cold water. I’ll be fine…”

Something ancient and feral snarled in Price’s mind. 

No.

“No,” he said, involuntarily, the voice in his head escaping from his throat. 

“Please… I can’t stop myself… I want your knot, Alpha. Lock me up before I do something to you… Something you don’t want…” She could barely put two words together. Every thought was a struggle. He was losing her again. 

He grabbed her and held her to his chest, clutching her like water in his palm, using all his strength to keep her with him,

“I want you, love. I want… Fuck, I need you.”

All of a sudden, the energy around their bodies stilled. That cracking, sparking electricity that bound them together was roiling just beyond John’s consciousness, ready to surge. But, he stayed perfectly still, waiting to see what she did next. She locked eyes with him and leaned in close, as if she would kiss him. But, she didn’t. She dipped her head down until she found his Alphic gland, swollen and bruised purple from him holding back his lust, nuzzling at it with the tip of her nose, rooting against him, testing his patience, checking to see if his temperament was true. Then, when he let her sniff him in his most potent spot, when she knew his soul was as pure as his scent, that he was true, she sucked his flesh between her lips, drawing his musk onto her tongue.

She’d accepted him. He reeled from it, unable to hold back a groan, his cock jerking against his zipper, thrashing to escape, flooding with hot blood and threatening to fill his knot before he’d even had a chance to taste her. 

John pulled her mouth off of him and stared at her eyes again, in awe of her beauty, his mind swirling and yet perfectly sharp, begging her darkly,

“Give me your neck, Omega.”

The ritual had begun, and as she swept her hair away from her shoulder, pulling it around her back, she bent for him, arching her head down in a submissive bow, revealing her Omegan mating line. It looked like a keloid scar, the raised skin swollen and painful, like a pounding vein that ran from below her earlobe down to the top of her shoulder, full of her hormones and thick with her magic. One bite, and he would be in her thrall, pliant to her every whim, beholden to her needs until her heat had run its course. 

Price had never given his bite to anyone. It had been easy to abstain. In fact, in his youth, he had a hard time understanding his mates’ commitments to their Omegas, scoffing at their lack of duty to their stations, doubting their commitment, and - moreover - doubting their loyalty. He remained a captain through and through, and he’d never made room for anyone or anything else. But, here he was, his teeth aching in his jaw, bigger and sharper than they should’ve been, his every sense heightened and taking her in like a drug, compelling him to punch through her delicate flesh and suck her nectar deep into his belly. 

The feeling of her skin against his lips was enough to send a chill through his body. He was cooling from the inside out, and his body needed her heat. She was forcing a rut to take hold in him, and he could feel himself changing for her. Then, he bit down as hard as he could, breaking the thin seal of her mating line with ease, feeling the searing mixture of her oil and her blood filling his mouth and throat like a ripe plum, wet and sweet, and promising pleasure if he chose to swallow her. 

He drank from her for as long as he dared, taking her in long, slurping gulps, letting her essence coat his throat, feeling the hot fluid burn inside of his chest and down into his stomach where it pooled and lingered, warming him up from the inside out. 

“Alpha…” She moaned, raising her hand to cup his cheek as he sucked her life into himself, rubbing her thumb so softly over his shut eyelashes that he barely felt it. 

John pulled away from her, his eyes fluttering open, her bright orange blood iridescent with her mating oil, making the red cells burn bright like a fresh-cracked yolk, gleaming, trapped between his teeth like gold. He watched it drip down her chest, staining her clothes, and he began to tear them off of her. She let him, limp and mute as he peeled her open, making her naked and pulling her into his arms. 

He carried her into his bedroom, kicking open the door and busting the bolt through the strike, splintering the wood and not giving a shit about the damage. John lay her in the middle of the mattress and set to surrounding her with whatever softness he could find; his shirts, his blankets, even his scarves. Anything warm and comfortable was added to the nest, giving her as much support as he could before standing back to admire his work. 

She eyed him from her recumbent throne, commanding him with her gaze. John stripped off his shirt for her, raking it up his back and over his shoulders, feeling as if he was moving his body for her and only for her. All of his motions, even his ragged breaths, were only escaping from his lungs because she wanted them to. His buckle clattered apart, and he popped open the button of his jeans, lowering the zipper in a sharp, metallic rip. 

Once free, his heavy prick flagged, leaping forward and pulsating for her, proudly showing her his gleaming head. He was drooling an unrelenting stream of iridescent precome, his balls tight and full of Alphic oil, ready to coat her warm insides with his shining sex. 

John climbed onto the bed, his face focused on her wet mound, admiring the plumpness of her, imagining her - in every delicious way - like a tender peach. He crawled to her, his mouth still stained neon orange from her gland, and he smeared her wet quim all over his lips and tongue. He wasn’t licking her so much as he was wearing her like warpaint, moving his nose and cheeks through her to ensure he was soaked in her heady slick, his body making wild, unbridled choices purely on instinct.  

“Yes, baby, please…” Her voice went straight through him like a bullet, tightening his cockhead to an uncomfortable degree, and it jerked against the mattress in protest. Her hands were in his hair, scratching through his scalp, encouraging him to sink his tongue deep inside of her hole. 

John obeyed, helpless to her desire, his mind wiping clean and being rewritten by her will. He was swimming in her scent, drenched in her slick, and gasping against her pussy, his eyes fixated on her form as it writhed above him. When she met his eyes, she bit the inside of her lip, crying out for him, rewarding him for his prostrated fealty. Then, she began to rock her hips against his jaw, fucking herself on his face, and he let her use him to her heart’s content, staying strong and sure, allowing his body to be used, objectified and glorified by it. 

When she began to come, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He followed his tongue inside of her with two of his thick fingers, pressing against her walls, pushing her over the edge. She bolted upright, wrapping her thighs around his face, smothering him with her body, trapping him breathless between her legs. Her whole being trembled for him. He could feel the shimmer of her very soul, rattling and writhing with her siren-like keening. And just when he started to see spots in his vision, needing air just a little less than he needed to please her, she lay open for him, blooming outward like a flower, releasing him from a limbo he longed to return to, oozing with a stream of rainbow-tinted come, the Omegan oil within her womb escaping to advertise its promises to her mate. 

Without knowing why, John found himself lapping it up from her pulsing hole like a hound, swallowing mouthful after mouthful and grunting with each pass of his broad tongue. 

“John, I need... Please, put your knot inside me. I’ll be good…” She begged, tears shining at the corners of her eyes from her come-drunk bliss, her hands plucking at her nipples and trying to soothe herself down from her high. 

“My pretty girl wants this knot, yeah?” John grinned devilishly, dipping his finger into her over and over and licking it clean like she was a jar of endless honey, “Wants me to breed this gorgeous cunt…”

At that comment, she spread her legs even wider for him, opening up for him like a blossom for the sun, ready to take whatever he had to give her. It was mesmerizing for John to see her like this. Everything about her was filled with intoxication and need. He was just a vessel for her pleasure, pouring himself into her to make her full again. Dizzy and drunk with adoration, he notched his girth at her entrance, struggling to fit even his cockhead within her. 

“Fuck… so bloody warm…”

Her body was burning him with every millimeter he sank into her, the heat of her tight sex in such high contrast with his cool rut. It felt like he was swimming in a roiling pot of sugary caramel, clinging and cloying and sticking to every part of him, and yet it was not enough. He needed more. His hips thrust forward, savage yet steady, reaching deep inside of her like an anchor, rushing to settle himself within her darkness. 

The way his Omega cried out this time was different, and it snapped him to her attention, his mind immediately sensing a new need. 

“Love, tell me what you need.” He purred, his mouth kissing her lips and her neck, lapping at the now-healing wound his own fangs had made, talking to her between long licks of his tongue, “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You’re so big. I’ve never…” She sounded ashamed. 

Price slowed to a creeping pace, focused fully on her face, 

“Never had a knot before?”

She shook her head, her eyes full of worry. John wrapped her up in his arms, dragging himself out of her slowly before filling her up again as carefully as he could.

“Tha’s alright, baby. You’re mine, and I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Feels like I’m burning alive,” she sighed, her brow furrowing with distress, “John, I need… I don’t know how…”

“Look at me, alright?” He helped her focus her eyes on his, “Don’t… Just stay with me, right here. You’re gonna come for me, and then… I’ll give you what you need.”

“Please,” she whimpered, her voice so small. 

Price set himself on a path with a purpose. He used his hand to rub small, rhythmic circles beside the rigid body of her clit, coaxing her pussy to drop even more slick around him, using every ounce of willpower he had left not to let his knot slip inside of her prematurely. His thrusts were jerky and restrained, but he felt her begin to rock back and forth with his hand’s movements, bringing her closer and closer to her glowing joy. 

“Good girl,” he praised her, watching her as she began to fall apart around him, “Tha’s my good little Omega. Come for your Alpha just like that. Just… mmf-fuck! Like that! Holy fuck.”

The feeling of her slick pussy clenching and twisting around his cock’s tugid body was enough to make him see stars. He felt almost sick with pleasure, his whole core lighting up like a roaring fire, spitting and aching to bury himself within her. 

At the end of her crescendo, he felt himself let go of the chain, and he rutted his knot inside of her, humping himself forward ruthlessly, his body contorting itself to fit her needs. His knot sealed him within her, and although he was not yet orgasming, he was filling her with his come, the creamy flow of it spilling out of his tip, filling her hole and coating his prick from inside of its hungry little sheath.

“Your come… I can feel it inside of me. Oh, my God,” she sighed with some sort of relief, her eyes rolling inside of her head, her arms losing their strength, and her back arching towards him, lifting up as if she would float right into Heaven. 

And just like that, her fever began to abate. With his knot stuffed inside of her, locking his seed within her hole, his Alphic oils could soothe her heat, bringing her back to the realm of consciousness and delivering her from her wild state. 

“John,” she lay back, her hand pressed to his cheek. 

He didn’t answer her. Instead, he bent forward on his elbows and kissed her mouth, chastely at first, and then languidly, exploring her taste. When he did finally pull away, she was awake and alert, sated and happy. He smiled down at her, 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he whispered, wiping her hair back from her face. 

“Hey,” she smiled back at him, wrapping her ankles around his back for comfort, not knowing that it was just enough to set his cock on edge again, his Alphic instinct rejoicing at the feeling of being trapped by his mate. 

“You alright?” John asked, a tinge of worry at the edge of his voice.

“I am now, thanks to you,” she sighed, tucking herself in beneath him, rubbing her hands along his ribs and the soft fur of his back and arms, feeling every bit of him as if she was seeing him with her touch, “You saved me, Alpha.”

“Aye,” he nudged her jaw with his nose, asking her wordlessly to give him the vulnerable softness of her neck. She obliged, and he spoke to her between sucking kisses, “All mine. My Omega. Innit that right, baby?”

She was practically lambent beneath the scrutiny of his possession, rolling in it like a wave in the sand, captured by it and surrendering to the riptide of his unbreakable grip. She nodded, humming her ascent, her expression turning a little rueful right at the end of his kisses. The sorrowful timbre of her voice broke his heart, 

“I’m grateful. But, I know this isn’t what you wanted, and I’m so sor–”

“No,” he kissed her words away, feeling his length throb inside of her, urging him to kiss her again, “No, love.”

“I won’t bite you,” she promised, her gaze still full of apology, “You won’t be stuck with me.”

“Bite me, Omega,” he bent his head and buried his face in her shoulder, giving her his gland in total surrender, “Go on. I’m yours.”

“John…” She hesitated, but he could feel her body flood her hole, excited beyond measure at the thought of binding him to her as her mated Alpha. 

“Go on,” he commanded in his smoky growl, holding her tighter and bracing for the ecstasy of her teeth.

He felt her lips first, and his balls tightened, ready to fling him into a messy orgasm as soon as he felt his gland shatter in her mouth. Her Omegan teeth wouldn’t break the skin, but he knew she was strong enough to crack the shell around his swollen node. The anticipation of her bite was wrecking his mind, and he was gasping for breath by the time he felt her jaw set itself against him. 

“Baby, please…” He whined in her ear, his hips thrusting in short, jerking thrusts, unable to move much with his knot still trapped up inside of her, holding his gushing come in her hole, pushing it into her womb from the sheer volume of it. 

Her teeth connected, and he could hear his unbroken shell give way beneath her strength, the hormones inside of it rushing through his system like wildfire, burning through his veins and making him scream for her. At the same time, John felt his core throw him into a raw orgasm, his whole body trembling above her, wringing himself from the inside out. 

“Alpha,” she sighed, licking his neck to comfort him, “My Alpha…”

“Yours, baby. All yours.”

— — — — — 

The new trainees filed out of the gym, sweaty, bloody, and eager to be out of the captain’s sight. Price had run them ragged, forcing them to spar with practice weapons, pitting them against each other in a strained, exhausting competition. Ghost and Soap sat with Gaz as they eyed their commander, their eyes glued to the fresh bite mark on his neck, shocked into a silent stupor. 

“I cannae believe it. Mated? To which lassie?” Soap asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think he’d ever take a mate,” Gaz marvelled.

“I thought he was savin’ himself for marriage,” Ghost quipped, earning himself a scuff from Soap.

Price made his way across the mat, pulling his sweaty shirt off his back to trade it for a clean one. The red welts and nail-marks across his shoulders and down his belly made Gaz let out a low whistle. But, his commander’s glare stopped him mid-note. 

“Wha’s that, Garrick?”

“Nothin’, sir. Just… admirin’ your battle scars,” Gaz smiled, wishing his two teammates would stop snickering so loudly. 

“Looks like a hell’uva fight, Cap,” Ghost added, looking everywhere but into Price’s icy eyes. 

“Wha’s her name?” Soap asked outright, skipping over the double entendres and going right for the point. 

Their captain sighed, zipped up his gym bag, and stood in front of his three officers, glaring down at them with a look that was on the border of dead-seriousness,

“If I told you that, lads, I’d have to kill you.”

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

iv. parlay.

summary 𓄧 every oath has a cost. every touch has a consequence. sent deep undercover into one of the city’s most illicit vampire clubs, two detectives must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire — and survive the consequences when pretending stops feeling like pretending.

and some hungers, once fed, are impossible to starve.

tags 𓄧 detective!au, vampire!mingyu x human!reader. slow-ish burn. fake dating. friends/coworkers to lovers. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 mentions of death and autopsy, discussion of rituals. wc. 7k.

previous chapter ↜ iii. dizzy.

Mingyu remembers the first time he saw you—four years ago, fluorescent banquet-hall lighting bruising the air at some interdepartmental mixer no one wanted to attend. He was two months out of the Vampire Crimes and Affairs Division, collar too stiff, tie a shade too expensive for a room that smelled like lukewarm canapés and bureaucratic small talk.

Nice tie, you’d said, deadpan—one brow cocked as if you could already sense how out of place he felt. Bit fancy for an HR-mandated pissing contest. Then you’d smiled—quick, bright, entirely unthreatening—and asked if his new peers were playing nice, if he missed V-CAD’s twenty-four-hour blood banks, if vampires really could clear Olympic hurdles on a whim and, if so, why he hadn’t gone pro. In under five minutes you made him feel less like a cautionary tale and more like a man who just happened to drink his dinner through a straw.

After that, your paths kept brushing: joint task forces, midnight hand-offs, homicide briefs that smelled of grief and copy-machine toner. He heard the whispers—ice queen, hardass, ego-killer—but they bounced off the picture he’d already drawn of you in his head. Two years later, when the brass pinned new silver bars on your collar and bumped you and Jeonghan to Detective Lieutenant, he finally saw the steel that made lesser men mutter heinous bitch. He saw it when a veteran captain tried to talk over you and you shut him up with nothing more than the lift of your left eyebrow. He saw it when you spent forty-six straight minutes dismantling a murderer’s psyche in the interrogation room until the man wept into his cuffed hands, begging for the comfort of a cell before you’d even pulled out your first piece of evidence. He also watched you press a travel pack of tissues into a grieving mother’s hands while you stroked her knuckles twenty minutes later. 

He can’t pin the moment colleague became something else. Maybe it was the day a rookie muttered a half-slur after briefing and Mingyu wordlessly dropped a disciplinary memo from Kang on the kid’s desk—your silent enforcer. Maybe it was every building you two cleared on opposite wings, trusting a flicker of the other’s eyes more than radio. But he knows the moment certainty crystallized: Eden’s first night, your pulse under his mouth while you whispered feed off me like an oath. Duty blurred, gravity bent, and he wanted—achingly—to wake up with that scent of copper and skin in his lungs for the rest of time.

Now: fluorescent conference room, 8 a.m. light slicing through Venetian blinds, and you sit across the table, shoulders square beneath yesterday’s fatigue, eyes raking Min Seo-yeon’s autopsy report. He sees the way the words carve into you—how you lean closer, almost protective, as if the report itself were a body that deserved gentler handling. That fierce absorption is what first drew him, long before longing stitched itself into his ribs: your capacity to carry terrible things and still keep a hand free to steady someone else.

He watches that heat consume you now.

The glow of your laptop burns your barely rested eyes while you scroll through the report—again, as if repetition might conjure a pulse in the dead woman’s throat. Dark crescents cling beneath your eyes; your hairline is still damp from the shower you forced yourself to take at dawn. The precinct around you hums, but you’re marble-still, jaw set like a drawn bow.

You drag your gaze down the report one more time even though every word is already branded behind your eyes: primary exsanguination, secondary healed punctures, probable consensual feeding. The clinical phrasing curls in your stomach like sour milk. Wonwoo’s data packet of burner-phone messages waits beside the keyboard, but you can’t open it yet; you need one clean breath first.

It doesn’t come.

Instead you look up—and catch Mingyu watching you.

His hands are folded on the tabletop, thumbs worrying a phantom seam. The overhead fluorescents silver the faint scars at his knuckles. His eyes—dark, steady, impossibly gentle—don’t flinch when you meet them. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t watching you like someone might watch a star collapse quietly under its own gravity. Like he’s worried you’ll fold in on yourself if he blinks.

His hands stay still now, perfectly still, like moving might disturb something delicate. Like you are that delicate thing. And maybe, just maybe, you are—because the autopsy report still burns in your periphery and the sour churn in your stomach won’t settle and Seo-yeon is gone, completely and truly gone, and you’re sitting here trying not to crawl out of your skin because you’ve felt what she felt. Or some twisted, bright-shadowed echo of it.

You lower your gaze, press your fingers to your temples like it might dam the tide behind your eyes.

You don’t cry. Not in rooms like this. But the sting lingers.

Mingyu shifts in his seat—not loudly, not obviously, but just enough to draw your attention back. His foot bumps yours beneath the table, deliberate and grounding. You glance up again, and this time, the line of his mouth breaks just slightly.

A question. Unspoken, but there.

You okay?

You give the smallest nod. Not really. Not entirely. But enough.

He accepts it like a promise and doesn’t push.

You flick through the last batch of screencapped messages and sigh—loud, frustrated, the sound dragging from the back of your throat like it’s been waiting there all morning. You lean back and press both hands over your face. Hard. The kind of pressure that makes little bursts of stars bloom behind your eyelids—if you push hard enough, one of them might spell out the answer.

Nothing.

Just black, and static, and the low, simmering churn in your stomach.

You drop your hands and look up. Mingyu watches you quietly, still, like he’s afraid to disturb whatever you’re building in your head. Wonwoo’s behind his screen, scrolling, expression unreadable.

“She trusted whoever killed her,” you say finally. Your voice is rough. Flat. “Between these messages and the way she looked at her killer in that CCTV clip… this wasn’t some randomised attack. Not a little opportunistic feed.” You gesture to the file, the stills. “She didn’t run. She turned.”

Mingyu’s brow furrows. He’s quiet for a second, thinking, then nods slowly.

“She looked less…” His voice lowers, thoughtful. “Less scared. More… discomfort than fear. Like she was hurt. Like she was realizing something too late.”

The words land hard. Like they know something you don’t.

Wonwoo’s fingers clack across his keyboard. “TARU’s triangulating the burner her loverboy was working off. We’re pulling cell tower dumps, traffic cams, working on locating close friends.”

You nod once, sharp. “And we’ve got nothing on the guy?”

He exhales through his nose, leans back in his chair with a shake of his head. “He’s a ghost, so far. No ID. No footage. No receipts. We’re hoping traffic cams will give us something—face, car plate, even a jacket.”

You’re about to say something else when Jeonghan, leaning with one arm braced on the arm of his chair, speaks instead. His tone isn’t unkind—just direct.

“We’re passing this down to Seokmin and Soonyoung.”

You glance up, startled. “What?”

“They’ll keep digging into Seo-yeon’s side of things,” he says. “You and Mingyu need to stay focused on the trafficking angle. That’s the priority. The bigger picture. These deaths aren't happening in a vacuum.”

Your throat tightens. You know how this works. You do. Minor threads—personal connections, unactionable leads—get handed off. You’ve done the handoff yourself, more times than you can count. But this doesn’t feel minor.

It feels deliberate.

It feels like a message.

But you don’t argue.

You just nod. Once. Curt. Your jaw ticks.

Jeonghan watches you for a beat longer, his gaze perceptive in that way you’ve always hated and needed in equal measure. “Don’t get too attached,” he says, more gently now. “We’ll find out what happened.”

You don’t say anything. Just look back down at the report, fingers tightening around the edge of the screen until the LCD bleeds.

Mingyu’s presence is its own kind of ballast—quiet, unflinching, a constant weight that steadies the room without ever demanding space. He’s settled across from you at your desk, angled slightly off to the side in the second chair that never quite belonged to anyone but has somehow become his. His posture is casual, long legs stretched out in front of him, but there’s a sharpness to the way his eyes scan the screen, a coiled readiness in the set of his jaw. He’s not relaxed—he’s prepared.

For nearly an hour, the two of you work in tandem, barely speaking. The clack of your keyboards forms a syncopated rhythm, broken only by the soft scrape of a pen on notepad or the occasional creak of your chair. A spread of files fans between you—printed membership logs, fragmented surveillance stills, notes scribbled in shorthand you can both read in your sleep.

You comb through aliases, cross-checking flagged names with criminal databases and archived case notes, but your mind drifts more often than it should. To the club. To the corridor. To the way Mingyu’s voice had coiled around you like a tether, pulling you back from something you didn’t want to name.

Eventually, he nudges your calf under the desk with the side of his boot. Not a kick. Just enough to pull your focus.

“This guy, Han Jiwoo. Name ring any bells?”

He rotates his laptop toward you, and you lean in. The image on screen is grainy, pulled from old footage, but the shape of the man’s face is distinct. Angular cheekbones, eyes slightly too close-set, and a pale scar beneath his left eye like a thumbprint of old violence.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He was working the door last night. Didn’t even flinch when we walked in.”

“Exactly,” Mingyu says, tapping the laptop’s edge. “I clocked him signaling to one of the floor runners during the bar convo. Subtle. Could’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching.”

You sit back in your chair, tapping your pen against your knee. “You think he’s just security?”

“I think he’s part of the movement chain,” Mingyu replies. “Low-rung maybe, but he’s more than a bouncer. Could be hands-on during transfers. Auction prep, maybe.”

You nod slowly, already reaching for your keyboard. “Let’s flag him. I’ll have TARU pull movement data—any shifts in the back corridor cameras, deliveries, anything that doesn’t align with club hours.”

He logs the note with two quick keystrokes, then leans back slightly, his gaze drifting to you again. “You good?”

The question is gentle but pointed. You nod once, eyes still on your screen.

But he knows. Of course he does.

The silence between you settles again, but it’s no longer weightless. You can feel his attention like static—low-level, constant, reassuring.

It’s not until the door creaks open and Jeonghan leans against the frame, arms crossed and one brow arched, that the rhythm breaks.

“Wonwoo’s on his way up,” he says. “He’s got something from the drop box. Says it’s priority.”

That gets your attention.

You and Mingyu trade a look—brief, unreadable to anyone else—but it’s enough. The temperature in the room drops by half a degree, focus sharpening like a blade between you.

Ten minutes pass before the knock sounds—a gentle, measured tap, but it lands like a bullet. You sit up straighter, heart nudging at your ribs.

Wonwoo steps inside with the kind of careful economy that always precedes bad news. He’s wearing gloves, black nitrile, already smeared faintly with powder from the envelope he holds delicately between two fingers. It’s matte black, unmarked, sealed with a plain strip of wax.

He says nothing at first—just crosses to your desk and lays it down like a body. His movements are deliberate. Controlled. But there’s something in the corners of his eyes that snags your breath: unease.

It takes a lot to rattle Wonwoo, which is exactly why your pulse picks up.

Mingyu leans in slightly, his forearm brushing yours. Grounding. Not accidental. 

“It came from the OC dropbox they assigned when you first went undercover,” Wonwoo says, tone clipped but calm.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He’s speaking to Mingyu, like it’s safer that way.

“No stamps. No tracking,” he continues, glancing down at the envelope between his gloved fingers. “I had it dusted before I brought it in—prints, heat mapping, fiber scan. Clean. Not just wiped. Manufactured without trace. No printer-tracing dots either.”

He finally looks up, meeting your gaze.

“Whoever sent this wanted it between them and God.”

You reach for it slowly, thumb brushing the seal. The paper is heavier than you expected. Smooth, expensive, thick as cardstock and faintly ridged like skin that’s been too long under pressure. Cold to the touch. It feels like something you’re not meant to be holding.

Jeonghan crosses the room, his footsteps soft but sure, and stops behind you. He says nothing, but you feel the weight of him there—his silence alert and bracing, like a hand braced between your shoulder blades. You peel the flap open with practiced care and draw the contents free.

Your stomach flips the moment your eyes land on it.

A card. Dense, matte black, so dark it seems to swallow light. The ink on it is embossed in deep crimson, glossy and wet-looking, like it might still be bleeding.

VELVET EDEN CORDIALLY INVITES YOU TO PARTAKE IN

THE RITE

25 SEPTEMBER 2025. FROM 12:00 AM

Discretion is mandatory. Consent is absolute. Bonds will be honored in blood & trust.

The language is archaic, ceremonial. A script that looks closer to a brand than an invitation.

You read the last line again—bonds will be honored in blood & trust—and your fingers tighten faintly at the edge of the card.

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice barely above a breath. You extend the invitation toward Mingyu without looking at him.

He takes it with the same quiet care, his brow furrowing as he scans the wording.

“It’s old vampire phrasing,” he says, finally. “Symbolic. Traditional. ‘Blood and trust’—that’s not poetic. That’s a vow. A witnessed bond, something public. Ritualized.”

He hesitates, and when he speaks again, his voice has gone flatter.

“A Rite, capital R… usually means a feeding ceremony. It’s formal. Observed. The kind of thing that hasn’t been done outside of pureblood circles in decades. If they’re reviving it, it’s not for tradition—it’s a message. A power play.”

You swallow hard.

“Private?”

Mingyu shakes his head once.

“No. Center stage. Everyone watching. No curtains. No booths. You’re not just part of the crowd. You’re the event.”

The cold that rushes through you is immediate and full-bodied, like ice water poured down your spine. This isn’t subterfuge anymore. It’s not even seduction. This is theatre. Ceremony. The kind of thing meant to be consumed by an audience.

And you’re the show.

You brace a hand on the desk to steady yourself, exhaling slowly through your nose. You take the card back from Mingyu, willing your fingers not to tremble.

“There’s more,” Wonwoo says, and you can tell by the way his voice gentles that he already knows what kind of weight this next part carries.

He reaches into a manila folder tucked in his underarm, unfolding two thick packets of paperwork and laying them out in front of you. The pages are crisp, heavy with legalese.

“I found these a few days ago, and flagged them as unusual. They didn’t match any of Eden’s posted events, but… this invite triggered something. I think they’re connected.”

You skim the headers.

NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT. PARTICIPANT LIABILITY WAIVER. CONTRACTUAL CONSENT DOCUMENT.

The clauses are worse.

Clause 4.3.2: Participant acknowledges that consent may be interpreted contextually within the ritual’s performance.

Clause 7.1: The host assumes no liability for physical, emotional, or supernatural injury incurred during participation.

Clause 9.6: Breach of confidentiality may incur legal, supernatural, or discretionary penalties at the host’s discretion.

Every clause tightens something in your chest, slow and mean. Your eyes keep moving, but your breath slows, like your body is trying to shield you from the content even as you absorb it.

You set the papers down carefully and flex your fingers once on the wood. The pads of your fingertips tingle with cold. Your pulse echoes up your throat like thunder through stone.

Wonwoo leans lightly against the desk, voice low. “I ran them by the DA. Nothing illegal on paper. But airtight. Like, corporate horror airtight. If something happens in that room, they’ve covered every possible angle. If you bleed out on that floor, they walk.”

Silence settles, dense and unmoving.

You hand the envelope to Mingyu to double-check. Just in case.

He tilts it, slides his fingers in once more—and freezes.

“Wait.”

He reaches in, slow and precise, and draws out something flat and glossy.

It’s a photo.

No, not a photo—a still. Security footage.

And you know it the moment you see it.

It’s you. And him. Your first night inside Velvet Eden. The Red Room.

You’re straddling Mingyu’s lap, his mouth at your throat. Your head is tipped back, mouth parted, expression loose with euphoria. You’re holding him like he’s the only thing tethering you to the earth—one hand buried in his hair, the other curled tight around his shoulder. Mingyu’s hand is curved low on your waist, splayed just above the curve of your ass. His other arm anchors you across the back, pulling you closer, deeper.

If not for the fact that you’re both still fully dressed, anyone looking at this frame out of context would assume it was something pornographic. It practically is.

Jeonghan lets out a low whistle. You can’t look away. The burn rising in your cheeks has nothing to do with fear.

If you weren’t already nauseated by the implications, the embarrassment alone would’ve done it.

Wonwoo doesn’t flinch. He’s already seen it. Already processed it.

“It’s not a threat,” he says simply. “No message. No watermark. Not even a burn tag. This wasn’t leaked or meant to expose anything.”

“Then what is it?” Jeonghan asks, frowning.

Wonwoo meets your gaze. It’s steady. Unblinking.

“It’s an invitation. They see you. They see a bond. And they’re asking you to prove it.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything. Not yet. But when you glance at him, his jaw is tight, his mouth set in a hard line.

You try to breathe through it. Try to find the voice that always rises in moments like this—the calm, level one. The voice that says: Here’s the plan. Here’s what we do.

But it doesn’t come.

A single thought finally surfaces through the chaotic churn of your mind, slicing clear and sharp through the tangled knot of anxiety.

You lift your head, meeting Mingyu’s gaze head-on. Your voice is steadier than it has any right to be, edged with suspicion and a bone-deep confusion you can’t shake.

You ask it because you have to. Because it’s the only question still spinning in your brain after the invite, the waiver, the photograph burned into the backs of all your eyes.

“Why?” you say, your voice quieter than intended, but it still cuts through the low hum of tension in the room. “I’ve been in that club twice. I can count on one hand how many people I’ve spoken to. Why would they trust me enough for this?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He’s still holding the invitation, thumb running along the blood-red lettering like it might peel back something useful. His gaze flicks up, settling on you with that same quiet focus that never fails to make you feel both exposed and understood.

“They don’t,” he says finally, voice low. “This isn’t trust. It’s… curiosity. Your blood—it’s something to parlay. Something rare. They want to see if you’ll give it up. Possibly not just to me.”

You feel your pulse hitch. Mingyu sees it, because of course he does.

He swallows. “They want to know how far you’re willing to go. If you understand what it means. What you’re worth to them.”

He doesn’t need to finish the thought, but he does anyway.

“They’ll bleed you like an animal,” he says, the words bitter in his mouth, “and call it ceremony.”

Jeonghan shifts beside you, no sudden movement—just a sharp inhale, like he’s trying to keep a lid on something hot. One hand lifts to rake through his hair, the other tightening at his side. His jaw ticks, tension wound so tight it practically hums through the air between you.

“No,” he says flatly. “No fucking way. I’m not signing off on this. Not without taking it to Seungcheol.”

“Han—” you start.

“I don’t care how many fancy envelopes they send,” he snaps, a rare crack in the even-keeled tone you know by heart. “You’re not walking into that place on a stage like a sacrificial lamb. That’s not a mission. That’s bait. That’s suicide.”

A silence follows, not awkward, but full—thick as wool and humming at the seams.

You’re still thinking it through, ticking through every possible variable like your hands are already on the fuse box.

Wonwoo, still half-leaning against the desk, clears his throat. “She’s been bait this whole time,” he says, not unkind, just… blunt. Like a scalpel rather than a hammer. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, but if we execute this right, it’s the closest we’ll get to working out what the hell they’re doing. This isn’t a booth feed. This isn’t a night of flirty bloodletting and veiled threats. It’s an invitation to meet the bones of their whole operation.”

You nod slow, but certain. “Wonwoo’s right. We’ve been chasing ghosts for weeks. This could be it.”

Jeonghan looks at you like you’ve gone mad.

“You can’t actually be considering this,” he says, voice low, incredulous. “What’s your plan when it goes south? When the lights go out, and there’s a dozen vampires between you and the door?”

“I won’t let it get that far,” Mingyu cuts in, sharp and certain.

Jeonghan’s gaze rounds on him, the air between them snapping taut.

“Your charm isn’t going to stop a room full of clinically insane vampires from sucking her dry, Mingyu.”

“It’s not going to get to that,” Mingyu shoots back, leaning in, jaw tight.

“Because you’ll stop it?” Jeonghan spits, almost laughing. “Because you’ll say the magic words and they’ll all roll over and play dead?”

“I’ll be right there,” Mingyu shoots back. “I’m not letting her walk into anything I can’t pull her out of.”

The room falls quiet again, but this silence is colder—tense in a different way. Like the air’s been pulled too tight over something sharp.

You exhale slowly. Force your hands to unclench. “Can you guys stop talking about me like I’m not in the room?”

Both men look at you. Different expressions, same protectiveness bleeding out in stubborn lines.

“I’m not signing up to die,” you say. “I’m not suicidal, and I’m not stupid. But if they want a show… if that gets us in the door—really in—we have to take it. This could be the first actually solid lead we get.”

The only sound is the distant hum of the precinct beyond your office, muffled and far away. In here, you’re all caged inside a single moment, one tick of the clock stretching into eternity.

Jeonghan’s shoulders rise and fall once, tension still bleeding through every line of him. Mingyu doesn’t move, but his fingers flex at his sides like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you, just to make sure you’re still intact.

Wonwoo just nods, the barest tilt of his head. “If we do this,” he says, “we do it right. No assumptions. No improvisation. We’ll run every possible outcome. We’ve got… what? Just over twenty-four hours to plan.”

“Agreed,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the desk but mind already spinning.

Jeonghan mutters something under his breath and finally sits back down behind his own desk, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Cheol is going to hate this.”

“He’s not going to love it,” you agree, “but he’ll see the logic.”

You feel Mingyu shift across from you. Not closer. Not further. Just there. Present. Solid.

“We do it together,” he says, not looking at anyone in particular, but the words land anyway. “All of us. Every step.”

The room isn’t cold, not physically—the precinct runs too hot, if anything—but there’s a stillness that creeps in whenever Seungcheol says nothing.

The file rests in the center of his desk. Your invitation to the feeding ceremony. The waivers. You feel its weight even after you’ve set it down. Even after you’ve sat back in your chair and folded your hands in your lap like they don’t twitch under his gaze.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t look at you, either. Not in a way that would make this harder. His attention is on the invite, the wax seal you’d carefully cracked, the too-elegant scrawl of Mingyu’s name.

The silence ticks by. You’re used to Seungcheol’s quiet. It’s never empty—he fills it with thought, with calculation.

Eventually, he leans back. “Explain.”

You do. You and Jeonghan. You don’t get into the argument you had. There’s no time and no use for it here. The summary is clinical. Targeted. Precise. An invitation extended to your undercover identity, a chance to gain rare access to the most protected inner circle of Velvet Eden. Exclusive. Dangerous. High stakes. Higher reward.

You mention the NDAs. The liability waiver. You mention the parameters of the ceremony—public, but intimate. Feeding as a ritual. Feeding as spectacle. You pass him the CCTV still. That’s when he lifts his eyes.

It’s the first time in years he’s seen you flinch.

Not a wince. Not overt. Just a small disruption in your stillness, barely there. But enough.

He doesn’t comment on it. Just places it facedown on his desk.

Instead, he says, “Jeonghan?”

The shift in his voice tells you he’s already noticed the tension in him. Jeonghan sits straighter, jaw tight.

“I think it’s reckless,” he says. “We don’t have the control we need. If anything goes sideways—if either of them get exposed, if the room closes in—we’re not getting them out fast enough. And it’s not like we can plant backup in there. Not without compromising the entire operation.”

There’s a beat. His gaze lifts to you, unreadable. Then back to Seungcheol again. “I don’t like it. At all.”

Seungcheol nods, slowly. His expression doesn’t change. He turns to Mingyu.

Mingyu meets his eyes. His voice is low. Measured. “There’s risk, but we’re out of safe options. The inner ring moves quietly. This is one of the few ways we can draw them out. The invite was personalized—it’s rare. It’s bait, but it’s also leverage.”

“And you’re the one who’d be feeding?” Seungcheol asks.

A pause. Then Mingyu nods. “I’m fairly certain, yes.”

You feel it then—something settles in the room. Something inevitable.

Wonwoo speaks next, unprompted. “We can set up every safeguard possible. Trackers. Deadman switches. Remote feeds. We’ll be working with limited visibility, but not none. If they go forward with this, I’ll pull from every department we need. No red tape.”

Seungcheol finally looks at you. “And you?”

You nod. “It’s dangerous. But we can manage it.”

He watches you for a long moment. That same unreadable calm. You can’t tell if he’s measuring your certainty or mourning it.

“Alright,” he says. “Then I’ll back your call. If you both feel you can handle it, we’ll run with it. But if either of you change your mind—even last minute—we pivot. We’ll find another way.”

You exhale. A knot loosens in your chest you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Seungcheol leans forward, folding his hands over the papers. “I’ll sign off on the prep work. But I want to be in the loop until this goes down. One misstep, and we pull you out. Understood?”

You both nod.

Meeting adjourned.

You step out of Seungcheol’s office. The operation settles on your shoulders like lead. Wonwoo breaks off down the corridor immediately, already tapping notes into his phone as he goes, preparing to update TARU on the adjusted strategy. Jeonghan pauses beside you, exhaustion evident in the set of his jaw, before he nods once and turns toward the bullpen to brief the rest of your team.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and glance up to find Mingyu’s eyes already fixed on you, something gentle yet unreadable in his expression.

“I guess I should probably read through these again,” you say, lifting the folder containing the waiver and NDA, the papers heavy enough to feel almost absurd in your hands. “Figure out exactly what rights I’m signing away before I put my name to it.”

Mingyu hesitates for only a moment, shifting his weight slightly before speaking up, voice low but steady. “Can we talk first? Just us?”

You nod immediately, ignoring the way your heartbeat picks up a notch at the quiet intensity behind his words. “Yeah, of course.”

He follows you back down the hall toward your office, footsteps echoing behind yours. You can feel the tension emanating from him even without looking—like a cord drawn tight between you. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s your own nerves feeding into him, or his bleeding into you, but the anxiety is palpable enough to almost taste.

Your shared office is quiet, the usual chaotic energy now muffled beneath the heavy blanket of tomorrow’s uncertainty. Mingyu steps in after you, closing the door softly behind him, and the click of the latch makes you flinch despite yourself. You gesture toward his usual chair at the end of your desk, watching as he settles into it carefully, like he’s wary of breaking something delicate between you.

“Are you doing okay?” he finally asks, gaze meeting yours openly, with an earnestness that makes something in your chest ache.

“I’m handling it,” you answer honestly, sinking down into your own chair, the leather sighing beneath you. “But I won’t lie, Mingyu. This is…” You pause. The truth is too raw, too close to the surface. “…a lot.”

His expression softens almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes flickering with understanding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly in recognition of your honesty.

“Look, I don’t even fully know what we’re walking into,” Mingyu admits quietly, leaning forward so his forearms rest against the desk between you, bridging the distance. “I’ve heard about these ceremonies, sure, but I’ve never attended one—never been trusted enough to be invited. Until now.”

You swallow around the dryness in your throat, grateful for the steady, grounding weight of his presence across from you. “We need a solid game plan, then.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees without hesitation. “But before that—I need to know your boundaries. Clearly. I need to know how far is too far, what’s off-limits. This isn’t like any other undercover op we’ve done before.”

You press your fingertips gently into your temple, trying to ease the tension there, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. It’s difficult to maintain professional neutrality when everything inside you feels so deeply unsettled.

“I trust you implicitly, Mingyu,” you say quietly, feeling his eyes on you, patient and unwavering. “But if I’m being completely honest… I’m scared. Not just about the risk or what might go wrong. I’m scared about us. About what tomorrow could do to our partnership, to how we work together afterward. This…this level of intimacy…it’s more than we’ve ever had to navigate.”

You pause, biting down gently on your lip to prevent yourself from admitting more, but it’s too late—the vulnerability has already slipped past, raw and unguarded. You brace yourself for discomfort, for tension, but Mingyu just watches you steadily, and then something softens in his eyes, something achingly gentle.

“I get it,” he says quietly, with no trace of judgment or awkwardness. “And it’s okay to be nervous. Hell, I’d be worried if you weren’t. This isn’t just an undercover assignment, it’s… well, it’s something completely different. It’s pushing us both into uncharted territory. But the one thing I’m sure of—the one thing we can hold onto—is that no matter how far we have to push it, we’ll take care of each other. I promise you that.”

His voice is quiet. Steady. The knot in your chest loosens. The sincerity behind his words grounds you, reminds you that this isn’t something you have to navigate alone. It’s more than a reassurance—it’s a lifeline extended when you need it most.

He doesn’t reach for your hand. He just hooks his pinkie out, subtly, simply, like it’s the most natural thing in the world now. Like it means everything.

Your breath hitches—then a quiet, surprised laugh slips out. Real. Comforting. You loop your finger through his without a word.

His smile is big and warm and a little crooked. Like he knows what it means, too.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words slipping free before you can stop them. “I needed to hear that.”

And for the first time, you realize Mingyu’s nervousness mirrors your own. That maybe you aren’t the only one whose carefully constructed boundaries have started to fray beneath the intimacy of this mission.

You feel yourself begin to relax, a subtle loosening of the muscles along your spine, as if just his presence, his quiet sincerity, is enough to make you feel less alone in this.

“Alright, let’s get through this paperwork,” he finally says, easing back into his seat, expression resolute again, professional. “We’ll work out exactly what we’re up against, figure out our signals, our limits—and we’ll do it as a team.”

You nod, reaching for the pen, and he moves closer instinctively, leaning in as the two of you start to work through the documents. The quiet rhythm of his voice explaining clauses, his patient tone guiding you through the legal and vampire-noir jargon, the steady warmth radiating from his presence—all of it serves to gradually dissolve the anxious tension that had knotted itself in your bones.

Halfway through, your shoulders feel lighter. Your heart steadier. Beneath the fear, something stronger rises. Something that holds everything together.

Trust.

Trust that Mingyu will watch your back, that he won’t let you fall—and maybe, just maybe, trust that whatever this mission dredges up between you won’t be something either of you regrets.

You glance up at him briefly, catching the warmth in his dark eyes as he continues carefully explaining the next waiver clause. A quiet, private smile slips from you, and Mingyu returns it immediately, as if he’s been waiting all along for you to finally feel safe enough to let your guard down.

Maybe the lines have blurred. Maybe they’ll blur even further tomorrow.

But for now, here with him, that doesn’t scare you quite as much anymore.

The projector clicks on with a low whir, its glow bathing the precinct’s war room in a dim, cold light. Maps and floorplans ripple across the glass board at the front—Velvet Eden’s rough schematics, layered with TARU’s annotations, timestamp overlays, and sensor-blind zones.

You stand off to the left, hands clasped behind your back, the satin of your deep crimson skirt whispering as you shift your weight. The off-shoulder corset clings to your frame like it was sewn on, the hem of the skirt brushing your heels as you turn to glance across the room. Your hair is pinned back just enough to expose the vulnerable line of your neck—and the discreet, steel-sharp hairpin nestled behind your ear. A gift from Soojin.

“Something slim,” she’d murmured earlier, handing it over with a meaningful look. “Not poisoned. That would be sick. But pointed enough.”

You’d taken it with a nod, hoping you wouldn’t need it but grateful all the same.

Mingyu is at your side, silent and composed, but you can feel the simmer beneath the surface like heat trapped under skin. His black shirt is tucked in, the top three buttons undone, revealing the faint glint of his collarbone and the fine silver chain resting against it. The sleeves are rolled once, casually, like he’s giving the illusion of ease while ready to strike. His slacks are tailored like sin—clean lines over a body built like temptation.

Together, you look lethal.

Jeonghan is the first to break the tension. He whistles, low and amused, from his seat at the edge of the table.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Should’ve sent a camera crew. You two look like a fucking Vogue spread.”

A ripple of laughter passes through the room. Even Seungcheol cracks the corner of his mouth into a dry smile. You glance at Mingyu, and despite yourself, you both smile—just for a moment. Because it’s funny. Because it’s absurd. Because yeah—you do look good. And the room needed a moment to breathe.

Then you turn back toward the board, posture straightening, your voice sharp enough to slice through silk.

“Alright. Let’s keep this tight. Tonight’s invite-only. Very little recon to go off. We’re walking in mostly blind.”

You nod to Mingyu, who steps forward and flicks to the next slide.

“This is the only part of the floor plan we’re confident about,” he explains. “We know the ritual won’t be held on the public floor—there’s a lower level beneath the private wings. VIP access only. We believe that’s where this is happening.”

Wonwoo, posted near the back, adds, “We’ve got audio feeds set on the north and west wings. One North stairwell. Entry and exit points are covered. But inside that sub-level? We’re dark.”

“So,” Jeonghan cuts in, all business now, “you’re gonna be relying on what?”

Mingyu glances at you. You take over without missing a beat.

“As you guys know,” you begin, eyes sweeping the room, “vampires have heightened hearing. Mingyu and I can’t communicate verbally—not to each other, and definitely not to you. That leaves us with hand signals. We have three.”

You hold up a hand, fingers steady—only because you’ve trained them to be.

“First—if either of us scratches the inside of our left wrist, we need help. Subtle. Just a shift in body language. Easy to miss unless you’re watching for it. We’ll handle it between ourselves.”

You pause, letting the room absorb it.

“Second—if Mingyu adjusts his chain, or I touch my necklace, it means abort the mission. No breach. We extract clean, fast, quiet.”

A glance to Mingyu. He nods once.

“Third,” you say, voice steadier now, “if Mingyu tugs on the back of my corset or I tug his sleeve, it means danger. Immediate. We’re compromised. You breach. Loud.”

A ripple of quiet runs through the room—not fear, exactly. But tension, crystallizing.

Jisoo leans forward from tactical’s corner. “Okay. But if we lose visuals on the sublevels—which, let’s be real, we will—how does that help us? Or you?”

You let the silence stretch for a beat, then flash a sharp smile. “I’m so glad you asked, Jisoo.”

Wonwoo doesn’t miss a beat. “She’ll be wearing a gold wristwatch. Slim, analog, vintage Omega style. Custom-modified.”

He steps to the screen, flicking through schematics until a wireframe of the watch appears—highlighting a barely visible pin on the crown.

“The time adjustment dial functions as a panic transmitter. One tap means nothing. Two taps could be a glitch. But three?” He taps the screen gently. “Three means live. We come in. No backsies.”

Jeonghan nods approvingly. “That’s hot.”

“Hotter than dying,” Soojin mutters without looking up.

“We tested the signal strength,” Mingyu adds, calm and precise. “Frequency’s tight. No bleed. Doesn’t register on vampire auditory range. No ambient feedback. It’s quiet. Clean.”

Jisoo exhales, nodding once. “Alright. Still risky as hell, but I’ve seen worse.”

“Cleaner than that bust in Anyang that time,” Jeonghan teases. Jisoo rolls his eyes, but there’s no venom.

Seungcheol grunts. “It’s not about clean. It’s about possible. If she hits that transmitter—”

“We go,” Jisoo finishes. “I know. Team’s staged two blocks out. Stealth gear. If you give the signal, we’re coming in hard and loud.”

Wonwoo clicks through a few more images—photos of the club, of figures caught briefly on camera. “We’re looking at a crowd of maybe thirty, max. Most are upper-rank. If they suspect you’re not who you say you are, you’re worse than exposed.”

The words settle in the room like lead.

But you don’t flinch.

You feel the hum of Mingyu beside you—not just nerves, but heat. Focus. Purpose.

You’ve run countless operations before, and so has he. But none like this. None that demand this kind of performance. This level of vulnerability. This blurring of lines.

And still—you know he’ll keep you safe.

And he knows you’ll do the same.

You flick your gaze across the room once more. These are your people. Your family. And tonight, they’ll be your last line of defense.

“Any final questions?” you ask, voice calm but commanding.

“Just one,” Jeonghan deadpans, eyes glinting with mischief. “Are you guys planning on attending the Met Gala next year?”

Laughter again—tighter this time. Everyone’s running on adrenaline. But they’re ready.

You glance down at your wrist, adjust your earring, feeling the weight of the hairpin tucked in the coil of your updo.

Mingyu leans slightly closer, not enough to touch, but enough for his voice to find only your ear.

“You ready?”

You nod once. Then, without looking, you hook your pinkie against his. He doesn’t react for a beat. Then you feel it—his finger curling gently around yours, solid and warm and unshakable.

A breath escapes you—half nerves, half laugh.

“Let’s get raunchy,” you murmur, and he grins like he’s already survived it. You laugh, but it doesn’t reach your stomach. There’s no room left in it. Just nerves.

You return your attention to the team, hands clasped together as though it might help ground you to the spot. “Let’s roll out, guys. We’ll see you on the other side.”

next chapter ↝ v. the rite. (coming soon)

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