#finger print and face detection

[mbloody4]

bloom at your own risk, for the power forsaken in your sensual touch shall not heal your wounds deep in your territorial mind.

[mayabonni]

Ballot Counting Management Software by HRsoftBD

[reiding-writing]

hi!! can you write more of the banter between enemy!reader and spencer but like now he goes beyond limits and like tells her the team would be better without her in their lives or something drastic and then she either goes missing or badly injured by the unsub??

404. /spencer reid/

if spencer is going to continue shutting down all of your ideas for leads in front of the team, then you’re going to track the unsub down yourself. you don’t need his approval anyway.

s1!spencer x enemy!reader 5.8k angst. series masterlist. main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, spencer is a real twat, details of kidnapping and grievous bodily harm, catatonic trauma response. imagine this like halfway through season one.

The moment you step into the precinct, you feel it in your chest—a tightness, a heaviness. It’s not just the fatigue of being called in at 3 a.m. or the smell of stale coffee and desperation thick in the air. It’s the kind of tension that says we’ve been chasing ghosts and getting nowhere.

You glance across the briefing room. The local PD is gathered awkwardly along one wall, arms crossed, faces pinched with defensiveness. They’re not happy to have the FBI here. You don’t blame them—getting sidelined in your own case is a bitter pill to swallow. But this unsub isn’t playing fair.

“This is the third victim in two weeks,” the lead detective mutters, flipping through crime scene photos projected onto the wall. “Each time, the unsub leaves a note. Always handwritten. Always addressed to us. Sometimes directly to me.”

Morgan leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s taunting you,”

The detective scoffs. “He’s gloating. This one said, ‘You didn’t catch me last time. What makes you think you’ll get it right now?’”

“Classic narcissistic behavior,” Elle murmurs. “But there’s more to it,”

Hotch’s voice is calm but pointed. “He’s not just showing off. He’s testing you. He wants to see if he can outsmart us next.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking from photo to photo. The unsub’s pattern is clean, almost surgical. No evidence left behind, no usable prints, no DNA. Victims all abducted within ten miles of each other, murdered within 48 hours, left posed—like the unsub wanted the scene to say something.

Spencer sits to your right, scribbling notes in that tiny chicken scratch of his. You pretend not to notice the way he looks over at you when you suggest a geographic clustering theory.

“I think we should be focusing on the clusters—if the unsub’s circling familiar territory, it could give us a window into their comfort zone. Maybe even a home base,”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “Or they’re using the local geography as a red herring. Throwing us off on purpose. Which is more likely with his intelligence level,”

You grit your teeth. “Or maybe you just don’t like when someone else has a theory first.”

There’s a flicker of tension across the table. JJ coughs awkwardly. Spencer finally glances over, his eyes sharp behind his curls.

“Just trying to eliminate bias,” he says flatly. “You might want to try that sometime.”

It starts small. A glance. A jab. You throw it back, and the fire spreads.

—

You and Spencer used to be good at this—banter, playful jabs, mutual intellectual sparring. It was light. It was fun. 9 months of almost playful hatred. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being any of those things.

You know why, you both do. But you’re still too stubborn to actually address it. So now, every briefing is a minefield.

“He’s organised,” you say, tapping a finger on the evidence board. “He’s probably keeping souvenirs. There’s no way he’s not revisiting these crime scenes in some capacity,”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s a reach. He’s already getting his fix from the letters. Revisiting is more common in disorganised killers with obsessive traits. But, by all means, let’s base our strategy on assumptions,”

You round on him, the heat rising in your chest. “You always do this—cut people down because they didn’t quote a research paper in their suggestion. Not everything is from a journal article, Reid. Some of us work off instinct

He doesn’t blink. “That’s a shame.”

The room stills. You can feel everyone watching you now—JJ's uncomfortable glance, Morgan’s frown, Hotch’s silent disapproval. Elle shifts like she wants to step in, but thinks better of it.

You clench your jaw. “Just because your IQ is the highest in the room doesn’t mean your word is law,”

“And just because you talk louder doesn’t make you right,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gideon’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “We are not here to flex egos. We’re here to stop a killer.”

You force yourself to look away, biting down on every retort itching to escape. Spencer doesn’t say another word either, but you can see it in the way he tightens his grip on the pen—he’s not finished. Not even close.

—

By midday, the briefing is over and you’re elbow-deep in case files, staring at photos of victims and crime scene reports that blur together. You’re trying to hold onto the idea that this is about the work, not about him, but Spencer’s voice grates in your head like static.

“Victim number two was killed in a different manner,” you point out, “which might indicate a loss of control or a change in the unsub’s emotional state,”

Spencer scoffs from across the room. “Or it might indicate that your profiling is, yet again, based on faulty interpretation,”

You look up slowly. “You’ve got a real talent for being insufferable,”

He shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts,”

“You’re not pointing out anything. You’re just undermining me. Again.”

He walks closer now, arms crossed, eyes full of cold disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being right, you’d actually be useful,”

Your jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “And maybe if you got over the sound of your own voice, we wouldn’t waste half our cases cleaning up your messes,”

Spencer steps in even closer, and now it’s personal. “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You go off instinct like it’s a badge of honour when really, it just makes you sloppy,”

You fire back without thinking. “You’re emotionally stunted and completely incapable of functioning outside a textbook,”

The words hang in the air like a punch.

Silence spreads. The local cops glance over from their desks. One of them murmurs, “Damn,”

Then Gideon slams his hand on the table.

“Enough,”

His voice is sharp, final. “Both of you. I don’t care how long this has been brewing—this is not the place. You’re acting like children, and you’re making this entire team look like amateurs,”

You glance down, throat burning. Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s stone-faced, but you can tell from the twitch in his jaw that he’s stewing.

Gideon’s not finished. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you unless it pertains directly to the case. Are we clear?”

You nod. Spencer doesn’t move.

“Are we clear?” Gideon repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer mutters.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

As you start gathering your files, Spencer’s voice cuts through the tension one more time—this time quieter, but not quiet enough.

“You know, we probably would’ve caught him already if you weren’t dragging us down.”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze.

The room goes dead silent.

Spencer looks away like he didn’t just say it. Like it didn’t just split something open.

You don’t respond. Not with words.

You finish collecting your files, slam the folder shut, and walk out of the room without a glance back.

—

You don’t say a word as you walk out of the precinct. You don’t slam the door or stomp your feet—there’s no drama, no outward explosion. Just a quiet, ice-cold silence that coats you like armour.

Let them think whatever they want. Let him think he won.

You move with purpose, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. You’re done trying to reason with people who have no interest in listening—especially a certain genius with a superiority complex. You tried to play by the rules, work within the team, but apparently the team doesn't think you have anything worthwhile to offer.

Fine. You’ll do it on your own.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—JJ, probably, or Hotch, maybe even Gideon trying to pull you back into line. You ignore it. Instead, you pull out your notes, flipping through the photographs you took earlier, the ones the team waved off as nothing—redundant, too similar to previous kills, “unremarkable,” Spencer had called them.

But they weren’t. Not to you.

The unsub had made a mistake. A small one, but a mistake nonetheless.

In victim three’s crime scene photo, the position of the body had been ever so slightly rotated compared to the first two—enough that most wouldn’t care, wouldn’t notice. But the shadows were wrong. There was too much light coming in through a window that didn’t face the same direction as the other houses in the neighborhood. And the blood pattern—it had streaked upward at an angle.

Someone had moved the body. After the kill.

You’d mentioned it in passing. Spencer had dismissed it as “grasping at straws.”

Well, straws were all you needed.

—

You hole up in a dingy motel room a few blocks from the latest crime scene, spreading every case file and crime scene photo across the bed like a map to something only you could see. Your eyes flicker between documents, stringing together tiny inconsistencies—the make and model of the air conditioner in victim four’s apartment, the mismatched doorknob in victim one’s home, the off-center towel rack in number five’s bathroom.

The unsub didn’t just kill these people. He replaced things. Adjusted details.

Controlled them, even after death.

You flip back through the files, heart hammering now, and scan the addresses again. You map them out on the motel’s bedside notepad, drawing circles, checking distances between the apartments and the kill sights. Mixing and matching scenes chronologically or otherwise. And then you stumble on it.

A perfect crescent, not random but intentional. All ten locations arced around a center point—a forgotten stretch of suburbia with an abandoned cul-de-sac, a place zoned for housing development ten years ago that never got off the ground.

It’s the only place the unsub hasn’t struck yet.

It’s also the only place that could tie them all together.

You glance at your phone again. The screen is blank. No new calls. No new messages. Not from the team. Not from Spencer.

And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t need him to validate you. You don’t need anyone.

You grab your gear, shove your files into your bag, and drive.

—

The cul-de-sac is quiet.

Not in the way quiet neighborhoods usually are, but dead quiet. No birdsong. No dogs barking. Just a biting, eerie stillness that settles in your bones the moment you step out of the car.

The houses are in varying states of decay—some half-built and gutted, others with boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. You grip your flashlight tighter as you move through the overgrown path between two units.

You keep your gun low, your ears straining for sound.

The data you gathered had pointed you to the house on the far end—the only one with signs of recent activity. The windows had been cleaned. The door, repainted.

You creep up the porch, careful not to make a sound. Your breath clouds in front of you, and the air feels colder here somehow. Heavier.

You reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

Unlocked.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

The interior is dark, but not untouched. A table in the front room is neatly set for two. Plates. Silverware. A bottle of wine. It looks more like a dinner party than a murder scene.

You sweep the room, clearing corners, keeping your steps light. Nothing jumps out at you, but your gut won’t stop twisting.

Then you notice it.

On the wall.

A photo.

Your heart stops.

It’s you.

Snapped from the side, no more than a few hours old. Shot through the window of your hotel room, small map of the city in hand. The image is taped to the wall with surgical precision. Below it, a tiny note, one you have to walk right up to to read.

Congratulations.

You barely have time to react.

There’s a sharp sting in your neck.

You reach up instinctively, but your fingers are already clumsy. You turn, try to raise your gun—but the world tilts violently.

A face emerges from the shadows. Smiling. Calm.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says, almost apologetically.

And then everything goes black.

—

You drift in and out of consciousness. Time becomes slippery—your mind fogged, your limbs numb. Every now and then you feel something cold against your skin, a tug at your wrists, the uncomfortable pinch of something sharp near your ankle.

When you finally come to fully, you’re tied to a chair.

Hands bound behind your back. Ankles strapped to the legs of the chair with zip ties. Your head throbs, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth—blood, probably.

The room around you is dimly lit. It’s not the main house anymore. You’ve been moved.

It looks like a basement. Concrete floors, unfinished walls, a single exposed bulb hanging overhead.

There’s a table nearby, neatly arranged with tools—not weapons. Instruments. Brushes. Tweezers. Surgical gloves.

You inhale shakily. You’ve seen what hems done with them before.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind you.

You flinch as he steps into view.

The man is unremarkable in every way. Tall-ish, average build. Brown hair, clean-shaven. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget within minutes.

“You came here thinking you’d be the hero,” he muses, walking around you like he’s inspecting art. “They all do. You think your badge makes you invincible.”

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to conserve what little energy you have, mentally calculating your options.

He crouches in front of you, smiling. “You found me. That makes you smart. Smarter than the rest of them, maybe.”

You meet his gaze, steel in your voice despite the pain. “They’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replies. “I’ll lead them right to you if I have to. Whether you’ll be salvageable though, is up for debate,”

He walks to the table, picking up a small silver scalpel, running a gloved finger down its edge.

“A portrait is a powerful thing. It’s like capturing a snapshot of a person’s soul. Of course no true portrait is taken without the proper preparations being put in place first.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t show fear.

You just stall.

“They’re going to kill you,” you say evenly. “The second they find out what you’ve done, you’re done.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then I guess we better speed things along,”

—

The sun had long since set when the rest of the team finally packed up for the night. The precinct lights buzzed with the kind of fatigue only unsolved murders could generate. Tension still clung to every surface, like dust no one could wipe away.

You’d been gone for hours.

And no one noticed.

Gideon assumed you’d taken some space after the confrontation—he’d scolded you both sharply enough in front of the local cops to warrant that kind of retreat. Morgan figured you’d gone to cool off, maybe back to the motel, maybe to follow up on a lead solo out of spite. JJ worried but didn’t say anything, not wanting to stir the already tense dynamic. Elle even offered to call, but Hotch had waved it off.

“She’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

And Spencer?

Spencer hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d returned to his paperwork, methodically scribbling notes, analysing patterns, and doing everything in his power to ignore the hollowness you’d left behind.

He told himself you were being petty. Immature. Childish, even. Storming off like a petulant child after a simple observation.

But by morning, the quiet had stretched too long.

The motel clerk confirmed you never came back last night. Your room key remained untouched. Your bed, still made. Your rental car, gone.

JJ’s face turned white. “She always checks in. Always.”

Morgan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She would’ve called if she was going somewhere. Even if she was pissed.”

Elle was already reaching for her phone, scanning through emergency numbers and local hospitals. “We need to start looking now.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, reaching for his radio. “She wouldn’t go dark this long, not in the middle of a case. Not without telling someone.”

Then Gideon walked in with a manila envelope in his hand, face grim. “We just received another message.”

Everyone stilled.

He handed it to Hotch, who opened it slowly, bracing himself. Inside was a note—typed, this time—and a single, polaroid photograph.

JJ read it aloud, voice catching:

“At least one of the FBI Agents you corralled to help was intelligent enough to track me down. Too bad they weren’t prepared for the aftermath.”

Hotch turned the photo toward the group.

You.

Bound, unconscious, head lolled to one side in what looked like a concrete room. Your face was bruised. Blood smeared your temple. Your hands were zip-tied behind you, your body slumped forward like a discarded puppet. The lighting was dim, shadows slashing across your figure like jagged teeth.

A basement. A storage room. Somewhere hidden, somewhere wrong.

JJ gasped.

Morgan swore under his breath.

Elle closed her eyes and muttered, “No…”

And Spencer—Spencer leaned forward slowly, brows knitting as he examined the image.

“We need Garcia to enhance it,” he murmured, already reaching for his phone. “Maybe we can track down the camera. Or a reflection. Or—”

“Well,” he added suddenly, voice clipped, “She obviously wasn’t that intelligent if she got caught,”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

The entire room turned toward him.

“What did you just say?” Morgan snapped.

JJ’s mouth dropped open. “Spence—”

But it was Gideon who moved first, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, “and I will bench you for the rest of this case.”

Spencer blinked. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Gideon cut him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want action. You think you’re the smartest person in the room? Good. Prove it. Use your genius to get over yourself and find her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything anyone had felt since the case began.

Spencer stared down at the photo, jaw clenched.

And then, finally, he swallowed his pride and got to work.

—

He isolated the enhanced image on the screen of his tablet, pushing aside his guilt and anger like clutter on a desk.

Don’t think about what you said.

Don’t think about the way you looked when you walked out.

Don’t think about the fact that you might not be okay.

Focus. Analyse. That’s what he’s good at.

“Lighting first,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.

He zoomed in on the image, filtering the background. The bulb overhead was exposed, casting distinct shadows.

“That angle suggests a single overhead source,” he muttered. “No side lighting. Probably a basement. At least eight to ten feet deep underground.”

He paused, adjusting the contrast on the image. “There’s no natural light at all, which rules out windows. Walls are unfinished. Cinderblock. Mortar lines are tight… That’s not a pre-’80s build. It’s too clean,”

Morgan leaned in. “So what—newer construction?”

Spencer nodded. “Late 90s or early 2000s. This wasn’t improvised. It was planned. It’s structurally sound, like a finished or semi-finished basement that’s just… been stripped down,”

Elle pointed to the corner of the image. “What’s that? Right behind the chair,”

Spencer zoomed in again. “It looks like… rust. A drainage pipe, maybe. Industrial-grade. Not common in most basements unless there’s risk of flooding. That, combined with the cinderblock, suggests this could’ve been built in an area prone to high groundwater. Maybe even flood plains,”

JJ frowned. “We’re not near the coast,”

“No, but if you look at the housing map…” He switched to a digital layout of the neighbourhood. “This cul-de-sac was supposed to be part of a larger development. Half of it was never completed because the land didn’t pass inspection,”

Hotch narrowed his eyes. “He’s in one of those unfinished units,”

Gideon nodded once. “Then we start there. We canvass the entire development. We don’t stop until we find her.”

Spencer looked at the photo one last time. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He thought of what he’d said—we would’ve caught him if you weren’t dragging us down—and suddenly it sounded less like a petty jab and more like a curse.

He looked up at the team.

“I’m coming with you.”

Hotch nodded. “Good. You’re going to lead the search.”

—

The SUV was quiet on the way to the development site. No one played music. No one made jokes.

Spencer sat in the front seat, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against his knee. He was trying not to picture you in that chair. Trying not to imagine what the unsub had done in the hours since that photo was taken. But he couldn’t stop the images.

You, bloody and bound.

You, unconscious and alone.

You, thinking no one was coming.

He had no right to worry.

No right to be scared.

But he was.

The words echoed in his head.

“She obviously wasn’t that intelligent.”

He wanted to take it back. Shove it into his mouth and swallow it down until it never existed. But that’s not how words work. They cut, and they cling, and they stay.

When they arrived at the development, the team split up fast. Morgan and Elle took the north end. JJ stayed with local officers to coordinate grid sweeps. Hotch and Gideon led the way into the southern row—newer units, all empty.

Spencer broke off on his own.

He had a gut feeling. It didn’t feel smart. It didn’t feel strategic. But it felt right.

And for once, he let himself trust that instinct.

The fifth house in the row was quiet.

Too quiet.

The front door was slightly ajar. No visible signs of forced entry. No sound from inside.

The front door creaked open under Spencer’s hand. The house was stale with disuse—thick air and thin silence. He moved cautiously through the entryway, gun raised, heart a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner felt wrong.

Footsteps pounded behind him seconds later—Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon falling in silently. Elle and JJ soon followed through the back, their weapons drawn, movements swift and precise.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak.

Second floor.

Hotch motioned with two fingers, and the team surged upward.

They found him in one of the back bedrooms. The unsub.

He was standing in front of a half-boarded window, arms crossed, calm like he was waiting for them. No fear. Just smug, eerie satisfaction, the kind that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too late,” he said simply.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. “On the ground! Now!”

But the unsub didn’t comply. He moved fast—reaching for something under his coat.

Hotch fired first. A warning shot into the drywall, forcing the man to freeze mid-movement. Morgan lunged in, tackling him with a grunt. They struggled, fists swinging, feet skidding across the half-carpeted floor.

Spencer stood back, watching the scuffle like it was underwater. His fingers twitched against his sidearm, but he didn’t fire. Couldn’t. His eyes were already scanning—behind the man, past the empty bedframe, to the blood on the floor.

He wasn’t thinking about justice. He was thinking about you.

By the time Gideon and Morgan got the cuffs on the man, Spencer was already moving—down the stairs, through the hallway, toward the door at the far end of the house.

There was a lock on it. Heavy. Old.

Spencer kicked it once. Nothing.

Twice.

On the third kick, the door gave way.

The basement smelled like mold, metal, and something sharper—sweat, maybe. Or blood.

The light flickered overhead as he stepped inside.

And there you were.

Slumped in the same position as the photo, tied to a chair, your wrists bound so tightly they’d gone purple. There was blood at your temple. Bruises down your neck. A split lip. Dirt smeared your cheeks. Rips in your shirt.

But you were breathing.

Barely.

Alive.

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief.

“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked. “Hey. You need to be conscious right now,”

Your eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Spencer's voice dropped lower, to fend with a failed attempt at lightheartedness. “You’re at a higher risk of permanent brain injury if you’re unconscious, and I doubt you need that on top of all of your other issues—”

His hands trembled as he reached for the zip ties, too afraid to touch you at first.

Morgan burst in behind him. “We need medics! Now!” he shouted up the stairs.

JJ’s voice echoed from above. “They’re already pulling up!”

Spencer carefully cut the ties, his fingers brushing your wrist. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

He looked at you again, eyes searching for any sign of recognition. A flicker of life. Of you.

Nothing.

When the medics finally came, they moved with military precision, lifting you from the chair, strapping you onto a stretcher. You didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“Low blood pressure. Likely concussion, threads pulse,” one of them said quickly, checking vitals.

They spoke in clipped medical shorthand as they wheeled you out. The words blurred in Spencer’s ears.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, in that grimy basement, staring at the chair you’d been tied to. The blood smeared into the floor. The shredded zip ties left behind like bones.

He should’ve stopped you.

He should’ve known something was wrong last night.

He should’ve said something—anything—besides the venom he’d spat.

His hands curled into fists.

Upstairs, he could hear Morgan shouting at the unsub as he was dragged away.

“You think you’re clever? Huh? You think this makes you some kind of genius?”

The unsub just smiled. “She came to me.”

Spencer’s stomach turned.

—

Outside, the late morning sun was rising, casting long shadows over the front lawn as paramedics loaded you into the ambulance. JJ stood nearby, arms folded tightly, barely breathing.

Elle was silent, her eyes rimmed red.

Hotch was speaking with local police, organising statements and chain of custody. And Spencer stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable.

He didn’t go to the ambulance.

Didn’t try to see you again.

He didn’t think he deserved to.

You were silent. Still unresponsive. Not out of stubbornness, not anger, but trauma. Something had shut off in you, and Spencer didn’t know how—or if—you’d be able to come back from that.

He hadn’t just pushed you away.

He’d left you alone long enough to almost die.

—

The hospital was a cold place. The sterile white walls seemed to hold no comfort, and the bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, as if trying to shatter the fragile quiet of the room.

But the team couldn’t shake the relief.

You were alive. Not unscathed—far from it—but alive. The doctors assured them you would recover physically, though they hadn’t made any promises about the mental scars.

But there was a sense of something else in the air, something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Gideon paced outside your room, eyes shadowed by a tiredness that went deeper than just the case. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face taut with unsaid words.

Elle was in the hallway, sitting on a chair with her head in her hands, her phone still in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the house. JJ hovered near the nurses’ station, keeping herself busy with menial tasks, but her face was pale—gripped by some invisible weight.

And Hotch, though outwardly composed, carried the same heavy air of guilt.

But no one felt it as sharply as Spencer.

He was pacing in the hallway, arms stiff at his sides, a muscle in his jaw twitching with every breath. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since they’d arrived at the hospital, and though he’d checked in with the doctor, he hadn’t really listened.

Spencer’s mind was still replaying the look in your eyes when you were pulled from that basement—the emptiness, the unspoken words, the brokenness. And for the first time, he was painfully aware of the distance that had been wedged between you.

The anger, the insults, the barbed exchanges—it hadn’t been just his defence mechanism, and he hadn’t realised how much damage it had done until now.

But now you were silent, and Spencer could feel the full weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a vice. You were the one who’d been hurt the most—physically—and still, it was his words that had broken you.

—

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

You were propped up in bed, the sterile white sheets bunched around your body. Your face was bruised—still swollen—but your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing there. No emotion. No spark. Just an emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill.

Spencer hesitated, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

You didn’t move when he sat in the chair next to the bed. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. Your gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused, distant.

For a moment, Spencer just watched you. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

It was only when he spoke, his voice sharp and broken, that the silence shattered.

“What you did was reckless and idiotic,” he said, his tone colder than he intended. “You could’ve died. You left without backup, without even thinking about the risks.” He swallowed, forcing his words to keep coming. “You could’ve—you should’ve—asked for help.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Something—anything—but there was nothing. You didn’t even blink. You just stared ahead, lost in the haze of your own mind.

Spencer’s fingers clenched into fists. “You think this is some kind of game? You think you’re invincible?”

Still nothing.

He leaned in slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. But you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who matters here. This isn’t just about you.”

Nothing.

The silence stretched on, a taut wire between the two of you, the gap between him and you feeling like an abyss. Spencer couldn’t stand it. His gaze dropped to the floor, a wave of shame crashing over him.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to fix it.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid felt like he was completely and utterly lost.

—

The team began to gather in the waiting room outside your room, and no one spoke. Even the air felt thick, like the stillness before a storm.

It was Elle who finally broke the silence. “I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. “She… she won’t even look at us.”

Hotch, though normally composed, looked exhausted. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the situation. “She’s been through hell, Elle. We can’t just… expect everything to go back to normal.”

Gideon looked up from his place near the door. “No, it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “But I’ve seen this before. Trauma like this… it changes you.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the door to your room. “She’s going to need time, and we’re going to need patience. But we also need to acknowledge what we did wrong,”

The room grew quieter, each member processing the truth in their own way.

Morgan, who had been pacing with his hands in his pockets, spoke up. “Spencer’s not handling this well. But none of us are.” His voice was strained, but it held a sense of certainty. “We didn’t see it. We didn’t see how bad it was getting for her.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, guilt flooding her expression. “We should’ve known. We should’ve stepped in. The way she and Spencer were fighting—it was too much. We should’ve told them both to stop before it got to this point,”

“I’m just…” Elle’s voice wavered. “I’m just so angry at him. How could he say those things to her? He was the one who pushed her.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and hurt. “He acted like he didn’t even care, like she didn’t matter

Hotch sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “We all failed her in some way.” His eyes flicked to Gideon. “And now Spencer’s struggling to process the fact that it’s his words that have hurt her the most,”

Gideon nodded slowly. “There’s no way to fix it right away. But what matters now is how we move forward. For her. Not for us.”

[dark-l-angel]

Omg love you know what I have been thinking of? You know that trend on TikTok of filling a t-shirt with painted missed on some type of symbol ?

A while ago I saw a girl putting her paint kisses on a Batman symbol shape, and I just thought of dick grayson’s reaction.

I’m not one for cheesy things, but I just imagine doing that shirt for him (with a nightwing symbol ofc) and I just know he would be over the moon 😭

A/N : the Batboys getting gifted a shirt with a symbol kissed all over by you? Awww 💕🥰

Batfam x Reader - making them a kiss-painted shirts

You didn’t mean to start a war. Really.

It began as a silly idea, something you saw on TikTok: paint your lips, kiss a symbol onto a shirt, and gift it to someone you love.

So naturally… you made five.

Five shirts. Five symbols. Five completely different reactions.

Dick Grayson :

You saved his for last. Blue paint, the Nightwing symbol sketched lovingly across the chest. Every inch of it smudged with perfect, pouty kisses.

You don’t even get a full sentence out before he scoops you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

"You kissed the bird?"

"I kissed it a lot."

"You kissed the bird."

He’s spinning you in the kitchen, laughing like a man who just got proposed to.

"I’m never washing this shirt. I’m wearing it to bed. I'm wearing it to my funeral. Babe, you just made me a relic."

He takes a photo of it next to his abs. Posts it. Captions it: "She kissed me. On the bird. I win."

Jason Todd

You’re not sure how he’ll react, so you play it cool. His shirt is black, the bat symbol in red, your kisses in blood-red paint like lipstick stains on a crime scene.

He stares.

Long.

Silent.

Then:

"You do realize I’m gonna wreck this shirt jerking off to the idea of you doing it, right?"

You smack his arm. He grins like the menace he is and tosses it over his shoulder.

"Make me one with your real lipstick next time. And wear nothing but heels and a red lingerie while doing it."

Tim Drake

You hand him his shirt during one of his 3 a.m. caffeine binges, expecting a distracted glance.

Nope.

His tired eyes snap wide the second he registers the symbol… covered in crimson lip prints.

"Wait. Wait. You did this? With your mouth?"

He holds it like it’s a sacred text.

"This is… statistically speaking, the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. Do you have any idea what this’ll do to my oxytocin levels?".

You shrug. He immediately pulls you into his lap, shirt in one hand, your waist in the other.

"New rule. You don’t do arts and crafts for anyone but me."

Damian Wayne

You had to custom-print a tiny “R” logo for his, but it’s the only one with perfectly centered, crimson kisses all around it.

When you give it to him, he squints. Tilts his head.

"Did you damage your lips during this process?"

"No?"

"Hmm. Then I suppose I have no objection."

He immediately puts it on.

And doesn’t take it off.

For like, two days.

You catch him in the mirror, touching one of the kiss marks with the barest hint of a smirk.

"You have excellent aim, Beloved."

Bruce Wayne

Now this one? You expected confusion. Embarrassment. A gruff "thank you."

What you didn’t expect was the silence.

He stares at the bat symbol covered in red lips. Your lips.

He touches one with his gloved fingers like it's sacred.

"…You kissed every inch of it."

"Yeah."

"On purpose."

"Yeah, Bruce, that was kind of the point."

He sets the shirt down. Walks to you. Cups your face like you’re the only thing in the world not made of shadows.

"Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

Needless to say… he doesn’t wear it in public.

But he keeps it in the Batcave.

Right next to his suit.

Framed.

The conclusion my lovely lil kitten is:

no. You didn’t mean to start a war.

But now they’re all in quiet competition, seeing who gets the most kisses next time. Jason’s trying to make you paint his helmet. Tim’s trying to code a program that lets him detect how many lip marks are truly present. Dick’s commissioning a second shirt. Damian’s been spotted sketching his own designs for "future projects with your mouth" and Bruce? Bruce just added a lock to the Batcave display case.

You win, baby.

You always do.

[covenofagatha]

A dance with death (and her wife) (Part 2)

A look into Agatha and Rio's home life, and you are reeling from having The Witch and Lady Death in your motel room

Word count: 4200

Warnings: mentions of murder, manipulativeness, light gaslighting

The same morning you get called to Westview, Agatha Harkness wakes up to find her wife, Rio Vidal, staring at her. 

“If you were going to kill me, how would you do it?” Rio asks, and Agatha raises an eyebrow. 

“Good morning to you, too,” she groans, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look at Rio, who is lounging in the chair in the corner. “How long have you been watching me sleep?” 

Rio shrugs. “You make it sound like I’m some serial killer who’s about to murder you.” Her eyes widen conspiratorially and Agatha snorts before plopping back down. 

“She’s getting here today, you know,” Agatha says and she can hear Rio’s breath hitch. 

She leans forward in the chair. “When do you think she’ll come see me?” The eagerness is evident in her voice, and Agatha knows how she feels. 

“Once we pull off our little ‘Welcome to Westview’ stunt tonight? I bet no time at all,” Agatha answers. 

Rio grins, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and picks up the skeleton mask sitting on the dresser. She fiddles with the strings and holds it up to her face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that Miami director books the appointment himself. Do police detectives usually include a business card to their wife’s therapy practice in their information file to the FBI?” 

“Better hope he doesn’t just pull her off the case,” Agatha remarks, ignoring the question, and finally gets up out of bed and walks past the bouquet of purple azaleas on the vanity. “He’s pretty serious when it comes to protecting her. Especially after…” 

“No,” Rio cuts her off and Agatha looks at her wife in surprise. Rio puts her mask down, stands up, and walks over so she’s face-to-face with the older woman. She reaches a hand out to put it gently around Agatha’s throat, who doesn’t even flinch. Rio smirks and drags her hand downward so it’s resting over her heart. “We’re finally getting what we want. Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for this? For her? I’m not letting her go.”

Agatha tilts her head to the side, thinking for a second. “If I were going to kill you, I’d fill a syringe with air and inject it into your bloodstream under your toenail. The death would mimic a heart attack and the track mark would be almost impossible to find. I’d tell the authorities that you were under so much stress as a therapist that it eventually took a toll on your body,” she says slowly, clinically even, watching Rio’s hazel eyes get dark. 

She hums and looks down at Agatha’s lips. “You really know how to make a lady swoon.” Rio gives her a quick peck and leaves the room so her wife can get ready for work. 

On her way to the kitchen, Rio steps into the spare room in the hallway and takes a deep breath, feeling the tension seeping from her muscles. The table in the middle of the room is covered in vials, all Agatha’s doing. They don’t call her The Witch for nothing, Rio thinks. She picks up her own dagger and twirls it between her practiced fingers while she admires the handiwork on the left side of the room. 

From ceiling to floor, the wall is completely covered with you. Every single case file you’ve profiled for, pictures of you from now all the way back to your childhood, transcripts from Quantico and college. Rio’s favorite photo hangs front and center, the one of the scar you got from dealing with the Scarlet Killer, all rough and jagged. 

Rio would’ve made it prettier. 

Patience, she reminds herself. 

The trap has been laid. All that’s left to do is wait. 

***

You turn the entire motel room upside down, scourging for anything else the killers may have left behind: a camera or a listening device, or maybe even a clue. 

Nothing. 

And then you kick yourself for touching everything because now you can’t even test for prints. Plus, it’s a motel room so you’re not sure you’d be able to narrow it down. 

The phone is in your hand dialing Tony back before you can think. He doesn’t answer and you slam it down on the bed in frustration. 

They were here. The Witch and Lady Death were in your room. 

You draw the blinds and deadbolt the door, making a mental note to ask the front desk to change the locks. How did they get in? How did they know you were going to get food? 

A cold feeling sinks into your bones. They must be watching you. 

And what’s to stop them from coming back? This time though, when you’re in the room? 

Anyone could be next. Agatha’s words echo around in your head and you didn’t realize just how true they are until now. 

You don’t realize you’re hyperventilating until you feel dizzy and gag. Then you run to the bathroom and puke into the toilet. Wiping a hand across your sweaty forehead, your mind spins with what to do. 

You could call the police, but you don’t think they would do any good, especially after you’ve tampered with evidence. There were no cameras in this motel, you had already checked. 

Pacing back and forth, head in your hands, you try and try and try to think of what to do. 

And finally you think of something. 

You punch in the number and hold the phone up to your ear. 

It rings three times and then there’s a click. 

“Dr. Rio Vidal’s office, if this is an emergency please hang up the phone and call 911. If not, this is Dr. Vidal, how can I help you?” 

You take a shaky breath and press your fingers to your forehead to stave off the incoming headache. “Um, yes, hi, I was calling to see if I could make an appointment? The sooner, the better.” 

There’s shuffling and then tapping of keys on a computer. “What’s your name?” When you say it, you hear a sharp inhale and then a cough. “Sorry about that. How does 1 pm tomorrow sound?” 

You blink. You didn’t realize you’d be able to get in that fast, but you suppose in a small town like Westview, not many people are going to therapy. “Yeah, that would be great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Thank you.” 

“Bye, Agent Y/L/N,” she says. You frown. You never told her you were an agent. But you figure it’s been announced that you’re coming, so you brush it off. 

You take a quick shower and then get into bed, trying to relax and maybe get some sleep. You promised Tony you’d get five hours a night, but you’ll be lucky if you even get one. 

At every groan and creak, you jump and grab your gun, sitting up completely alert. It’s always the wind or a tree branch or the building settling. 

You lay under the sheets, hand gripped around your weapon, and you don’t sleep a wink. 

When you get to the station the next morning, the first person you see is Agatha. She looks up at you, takes in your new outfit, and smiles brightly. 

The killers replaced all your clothes so you had no choice but to wear the new ones until you’re able to go shopping. You wouldn’t be surprised if they laced the fabric with something and you end up dead before lunch, but it’s snowing today and you had nothing else to wear. 

“Have a good first night in Westview?” She asks and you cautiously glance around the room. 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” You ask urgently, voice low. Concern flits onto her face and she nods and stands up. She pulls you into the evidence locker. “They were at my motel last night,” you hiss. 

Agatha’s hand flies to her mouth. “The killers? Are you sure?” 

You nod furiously. “I had left to get food and when I came back, the door was open and they had packed my suitcase with all new stuff—” You motion down at your body and she checks you out again. “—and perfume and then they circled ‘lovers’ on a sticky note I had to tell me their relationship and they left the flower on my table!” 

“Slow down,” Agatha says and you realize you’ve been talking so fast that you haven’t taken a breath. She puts her hands on your shoulders. “Did you see them? Did they come back?” 

“No, not yet at least. I don’t understand, if they wanted to kill me, why not just wait until I was there? Or asleep?” 

“Maybe they didn’t want to kill you,” Agatha suggests. “Maybe they just wanted to send you a message or something. It’s pretty big news that we have a profiler from the FBI here to help stop them.” 

You frown. “So they wanted to let me know they’re not scared of me?” 

She shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. Who knows what they’re thinking. But the most important thing is that you’re okay. We can send over some officers later to test for evidence, if you want.” 

“It’s no use, I tore the place apart last night,” you say, shaking your head at your own stupidity. She squeezes your shoulders. 

“Hey, don’t worry. Like you said, if they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Let’s go out there and work on catching them so you and everyone else in Westview can sleep easy, yeah?” 

You nod, feeling a little better but then you pause. “Agatha, are you afraid?”

Something flickers in her eyes before it's quickly replaced by humor. “I think they know better than to break into the home of a decorated detective such as myself,” she says haughtily and you can’t help but to laugh. She chuckles too, but then something in her face changes. 

Before you can ask what’s wrong, she leans in and sniffs up your neck. You freeze and find all the air in your lungs gone. 

“New perfume?” She mutters. 

You had put it on this morning without even thinking about it as your usual had also been taken. Thanatos. The Greek personification of death. 

Or as Freud defined it, a person’s urge to die. 

“Yeah,” you stutter. Agatha finally pulls back and her blue eyes are dilated. You find your gaze dropping down to her mouth again and you want to feel her lips on yours. 

“You said they packed your suitcase with all new stuff,” she says in a hushed voice and your heartbeat picks up. “Did they give you that too?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, and instead of looking disgusted, like you thought she would, she looks excited. 

She leans back in and presses her face into your neck and are you imagining her lips ghosting against your skin or is that really happening? It feels like your entire body is on fire. 

They trail up, light as a feather against your jugular vein, and she’s at your chin when the door slams open and you jump back. She winks and then she’s turning on her heel and walking out. It’s an officer, trying to book evidence, looking very confused. 

“Making friends, Miami?” He jokes and your face flushes before you quickly leave the room before finding Agatha and the rest of the detectives back in the room with the case information. 

You tirelessly pour over every single detail for the next few hours to no avail. You toss out theories but Agatha always finds something that doesn’t add up and you’re always back to square one. 

But then it’s time for your therapy appointment, so you drop your pen down to the table and gather the pages of your chicken scratch to throw in your bag. 

“I have to head out,” you say hastily and Agatha glances up. 

“Hot date, superstar?” She teases and the memory of her mouth on your neck burns through you. 

You shake your head. “Just uh, going to the doctor.” 

She raises an eyebrow daringly and smirks. “Have fun.” 

You give her a tight smile and then you’re in your car driving to the office. There’s people walking on the street on your route and you can’t help but wonder which of them might be the next victim. 

It’s always been hard to not get too attached to the people in the towns you work at. Looking at them, knowing tomorrow they might not be alive, it takes a toll on you. 

That’s part of the reason you get so attached. The waiting, the not knowing. It eats away at you. 

Dr. Vidal’s office is tucked away in the corner of a string of workspaces in a building, and you feel something weird in your stomach as you walk up the steps. For the third time in the past 24 hours, your scar sears with a pain you haven’t felt since right after. You have to stop and breathe deeply before opening the door. 

A woman sits at the front desk typing on her computer. She barely even looks at you and you stand at the desk for a moment before clearing your throat. 

“Um, hi, I have an appointment for one? I’m Y/N,” you say and it’s like she’s finally realized someone’s standing there. 

She hums in acknowledgement and scrolls until she finds your name and clicks. “The doctor will be with you shortly.” 

You tap the desk and go sit down, wiping your palms on your pants. It’s only a few minutes before a door opens and your name is called. 

Walking into the room, the first thing you notice is the thick smell of nature. And then you see plants everywhere. Bookshelves line the walls, full with books and pots of every type of plant and flower you’ve ever seen. Your eyes narrow, but you don’t see anything purple. 

And then you see Dr. Vidal sitting behind a large desk. You tentatively take a seat in one of the chairs across from her, squirming under her intense gaze. She’s an attractive woman, hair pulled back into a tight bun and brown eyes that seem to stare into your soul. There’s not a hair out of place on her desk; everything is meticulously organized and right where she needs it. 

You clear your throat. “Big plant lover?” You say, and it’s an incredibly awkward way to make a first impression. You’ve never been good at therapy, or with uncomfortable silences. 

But she doesn’t seem to care, finds it almost amusing. Her tongue pushes against the inside of her cheek and she settles forward. “So, what brings you to therapy?” 

You don’t even know where to start. “I just got to town, and um, oh – I’m a profiler, by the way, for the FBI. I’m here working on the case with The Witch and Lady Death.” 

“Lady Death?” Dr. Vidal asks, giving you an intrigued look. 

“Oh, we figured out that there’s actually two killers. That’s what I nicknamed the other one, because apparently she’s been seen with the bottom half of a skeleton mask on her face. Wait, this is all confidential right?” 

“Of course,” she assures you, voice smooth as honey. “Anything you say here doesn’t leave this room unless you threaten to hurt yourself or someone else. So, you’re here about the case?” 

You nod, playing with the hem of your sweater. “Yeah, you could say that. I sort of have some obsessive tendencies when it comes to cases like these, and I just wanted to get ahead of them before I spiraled again.” 

“What does a spiral look like for you?” 

Chewing on your nail, your gut twists and you can feel Wanda’s knife jabbing into you. “I stop eating, stop sleeping. The work consumes me, I can’t take a break. I don’t want to take a break. There’s just this overwhelming need to catch the killer and I won’t stop – I can’t stop – until I find them. It can be dangerous.” 

She nods and writes something down in her notebook. “Why did you become a profiler?” 

“To help people,” you answer immediately. “I like reading the killers, figuring out what they’re thinking, getting inside their heads and beating them at their own game.” 

“When did you start knowing you wanted to do this? Why not just become a detective or something?” 

This one takes a bit longer to think about. “I don’t know, I just remember being a kid and wanting to…” You trail off, suddenly feeling confused. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what I was going to say.” Something is weird, wrong even. What were you thinking of? 

“No, don’t apologize,” Dr. Vidal says, laying her hands on the desk with wide eyes. “You wanted to what as a kid? What happened that made you want to think like a killer?” 

A dull ache starts to throb against your skull the harder you try and think about it. “I don’t know,” you repeat, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not thinking like a killer, I’m figuring out the way their brain works. So I can catch them.” 

She leans back and crosses her arms. “What do you feel when you think like them?” 

“What does this have to do with–” But you’re cut off by a blinding burst of pain and then glimpses of something you can’t quite explain flash through your mind. 

Snow. 

Trees. 

A clearing in the woods. 

Red birds flutter from the branches, startled by something. 

You hear your name and the images are gone. Dr. Vidal is watching you closely, breathing heavily. “What was that?” 

Shaking your head, you try to make sense of what just happened. Memories or hallucinations? “Um, sorry, I don’t know. What was the question?” 

Her eyes are dark and they remind you of Agatha’s in the evidence locker. How she had leaned down and smelled the perfume you were wearing. You shift in your chair. 

“I was asking what your coping mechanisms are for when you start to feel yourself spiraling,” she says, and you’re still a little foggy, but you’re pretty sure that’s not what she asked. 

You think you might be going crazy. “My boss back in Miami was pretty good about recognizing when I needed to take a step back. I’m trying to not get too involved and make sure I’m eating and staying hydrated and sleeping enough. And I’m here, so I think this should help.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Vidal says with a smile. “If you ever start to feel too drawn in, take three deep breaths and then do the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Are you familiar?” 

You almost roll your eyes. That’s exactly what they told you to do during your mandated therapy. Name five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste. It was meant to ground you and reduce your anxiety. 

“Yeah, I’ve tried it a few times, but it didn’t really work for me,” you admit and she waves dismissively. 

She quickly scribbles something down and rips out a chunk of paper, sliding it across to you. “This is my cell,” she says. “Call me anytime, day or night, if you ever need to talk. Sometimes that’s the best way to calm down. I know you’re new here, but do you have anyone else, maybe someone you’ve been working with that you could talk to if you need to?” 

“There’s this one woman I work with that’s pretty nice. She’s the main detective on the case, so I think I could reach out if I really needed to,” you say and she looks pleased. 

“Detective Harkness?” Dr. Vidal asks. 

In a small town, people are bound to be familiar with each other. “Um, yeah, do you know her?” 

She smirks. “Very well. She’s quite attractive, don’t you think?” 

The question catches you off-guard. Is everyone in this place weird? “I mean, sure, of course. Are you allowed to say that?” 

“Well, she’s my wife so I would hope so.” 

Your mouth drops open. Her lips on your skin, ghosting along your neck, filling you with heat and a need for more. “Oh, I’m so sorry for saying that, I had no idea, obviously. We just work together.” 

“Don’t be, doll. I’m sure the two of you would make quite the pair,” Dr. Vidal says, and you ignore the possible unprofessionalism at the pet name. She doesn’t seem offended at all, only fascinated. 

You shift in your seat again while trying to figure out what to say. “Well–” you start, but she cuts you off. 

“Let me guess, she’s been flirting?” 

Fuck. What do you even say? Is Dr. Vidal going to be mad, say she can’t treat you anymore? It’s not your fault, you hadn’t done anything. 

She scoffs. “You’re such a pretty young thing, I can’t blame her. You’ll have to come over for dinner with us some night.” 

“Um, is that allowed?” You ask, blinking slowly. You have absolutely no idea what is going on. Is your therapist suggesting a threesome with you and her wife and woman you’re working with? 

“Getting a meal with your support system? Why wouldn’t it be?” When she phrases it like that, it’s hard to find an error with her logic. 

You shrug. It would be nice to be able to talk freely about things. And you’re sure Agatha has told her about the case already. “Yeah, okay.”

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” 

The question weighs on your mind as you chew on your lip and debate whether or not to tell her about the images you just saw. You don’t remember ever being in those woods. “Do patients ever, I don’t know, see things while they talk to you? Like false memories or something?” 

This gets her attention. “What did you see?” 

“Snow, and woods, and a flock of birds. I don’t know, it felt familiar but I’ve never…” You try to put it into words, but you don’t know how. 

“What happens when you try to follow that memory?” She asks and you close your eyes, but there’s nothing. 

“I–I can’t. There was like a pain in my head when you asked about what made me want to think like a killer, and then I saw it, but it’s not happening now.” You sound defeated, a testament to your frustration. 

Dr. Vidal frowns. “Do you know what repressed memories are? And I never asked you that.” 

It’s like the floor tilts under you and you stare blankly at her. You can only focus on the latter part. “No, you did, I remember…” You start to breathe heavily, panic rising in your chest, and she comes over to rub at your back. “I don’t understand.” 

“It’s possible you’re feeling a little overwhelmed by all this. I think you need to go home and get some rest. Did you sleep last night?” 

It makes sense to you now. You didn’t sleep at all, your brain is just playing tricks on you. ���No.” 

She nods. “Go home. Take a nap. Let’s book a follow up, though. See if we can get to the bottom of those images.” 

You choose to come back in three days in the afternoon again and then you drive back to the motel. Your exhaustion suddenly weighs a ton and all you have to do is stumble in your room, collapse on the bed, and you pass out. 

The snow crunches underneath your boots as you trode through it. Branches claw at your legs through your pants and the wind whips your cheeks. 

It’s cold, but you can’t feel it. 

Where are you going? You don’t know, but your legs do. They take you through the woods into the clearing. 

You stand alone for a few minutes and then you hear someone – something? – approaching. 

A purple wolf. 

You crouch down to your knees and it saunters up to you. One eye is a piercing blue, the other is hazel. 

So familiar, yet otherworldly. You don’t understand. 

It opens its mouth to say something, and you’re leaning in to make sure you hear it, when –

Your phone rings and it jolts you awake in a cold sweat. You roll over in bed to find you’ve been asleep for hours. You reach for your phone when you realize that you’re completely naked. 

How did that happen? 

When you were younger, you know you had problems with sleep-walking, but you would always keep your clothes on. You file that away to talk to Dr. Vidal about next time. 

“Hello?” You say groggily, not even checking who’s on the other line. 

“It’s Agatha,” the voice says and it’s like a bucket of cold water gets thrown on you. “There’s been another murder.”

[hunn1e-bunn1e]

could I get Dazai x Jessica rabbit male reader? Like reader is taller is feminine and intimidatingly sexy and Dazai endearingly is his “roger rabbit” in this situation, male reader is disinterested in me and woman alike to try to woo him and is polite but firm with he’s not there for you he’s there for someone else. The. Dazai comes strutting in and hangs on male reader’s should with love struck eyes and everyone is like “how the fuck did you end up with him-?” And male reader is like “He makes me laugh”

Dazai Osamu - Jessica Rabbit-Like Male Reader 

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

This is ADA Dazai and not PM Dazai since you didn't specify in your ask what time frame you wanted this in. This is my first time writing Dazai so I apologize if I didn't capture his character properly. I also wrote this headcannons in second person for a change, let me know if you like this more than the usual. I hope I did your ask some justice, Anon. The lyrics quoted in this one are from the song “Why Don't You Do Right” written by Joe McCoy and sung by Peggy Lee. —Benny🐰

Warnings -> Suggestive, Mentions of Suicide, Reader will have descriptions that correlate with the character 'Jessica Rabbit'

                                                                                                   

🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒•♡•🍒

❝𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞, 1922-- 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖜𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖒𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖆 𝖋𝖔𝖔𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖞𝖔𝖚❞

. . .

🎙   When Dazai and [Name] first met, you can imagine what the first thing the bandaged man said to them was, of course, asking to commit double suicide with him. The tall and seductive stranger giggled and declined, thinking the bandaged man was simply making a morbid joke, but he planted a sweet kiss on Dazai's cheek and made his way down the street and out of the ADA detective's line of sight. The way the taller man's hips swayed as he strutted away had the brunette staring after him with wide eyes, sparkling with interest.

🎙  The two met again and subsequently exchanged contact information as well as planned a date during one of the investigations he was a part of. Something about the murder of a guy that happened in the club that [Name] performed in and the perpetrator being an ability user. After the investigation wrapped up, Osamu made sure to rizz him up and once again coax them into a double suicide, to which they again chuckled at and denied. For the mentioned date, Osamu took them to the movies them out to eat at the Uzumaki Diner before walking them home and being sent off with a kiss.

🎙  Now the two are married; two years going strong. Dazai makes sure to show up to every single performance his husband has at whichever club it happens to be at; oftentimes skipping out on his paperwork in order to do so. Dazai does make sure to tell [Name] that he in no way needs to come and see him at the ADA just in case, for their safety. Occasionally though, the seductive club singer does pay the bandaged man a workplace visit; usually dropping him off lunch or just to spend time together after being apart for a while.

🎙  Most times [Name]'s visits end up with him sitting sideways on his husband's lap while listening to him talk about his day in an animated fashion. Trailing his index finger up and down Osamu's chest slowly and sensually; the natural seductive smile playing on his lips. [Name] smothering the brunette in tons of kisses; leaving prints of his painted lips all over his husband's face and staining the bandages wrapped around his neck. Feeding each other whatever Osamu decided to grab from the vending machine on the other side of the room.

🎙  Speaking of the ADA; those in the agency still can't wrap their heads around how the two got together in the first place. [Name] is a drop-dead gorgeous sex symbol of a man who has a flourishing career as a club singer and Dazai is... well himself. Poor Atsushi nearly had a stroke trying to process the two being in a loving and stable relationship. How the bandaged man and his husband interact also seems to leave a few select people feeling painfully single and Dazai absolutely revels in their suffering. The man definitely plays up his interactions with [Name] just to get a rise out of them. When Kunikida asked the tall man just what he saw in his husband he answered that Dazai made him laugh.

🎙  Overall, the two have a very loving and stable relationship. Despite Osamu's want for death, [Name] makes him feel like life may be worth living just a little while longer than he thought. Every night that he spends in his husband's embrace is another night he feels safe, loved, and protected from the haunting memories of his past actions and those he's lost. Although... most nights the two of them don't get to sleep until late into the night.~ All Osamu's doing I'm sure, the scoundrel.

. . .

❝𝖂𝖍𝖞 𝖉𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖔 𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙, 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖉𝖔? 𝕲𝖊𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖌𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖞 𝖙𝖔𝖔❞

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🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Reblogs are appreciated ~ 𔓘

Wanna see similar content? Check out my Masterlist!

[petrov88]

Kathir was a handsome young man living in the bustling city of Mumbai. He had always been popular among girls, but deep down, he felt something missing - an unexplainable yearning for men that he couldn't quite put into words.One day, on a whim, Kathir decided to get a bold new haircut at a trendy salon. The stylist convinced him to try a messy, asymmetrical look with choppy layers that framed his face. As Kathir gazed at his reflection, he noticed a certain allure to this edgier version of himself.On the subway ride home, Kathir caught the eye of a pierced and tattooed man sitting across from him. Their gazes locked, and Kathir felt a jolt of electricity course through his body.

The stranger flashed a charming smile, revealing a silver stud glinting in his left eyebrow. Kathir found himself captivated by the mysterious man's rugged beauty. As the train lurched forward, the stranger stood up and approached Kathir.Hey there, cute haircut, he said, his voice low and smooth like honey. I'm Raja.Kathir's heart raced as he shook Raja's hand, feeling the warmth of his touch. Thanks... I just got it done, he replied, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in his stomach.Raja leaned in closer, his breath tickling Kathir's ear. You know, that style really suits you. Makes your eyes pop even more. He paused, then added, And those lips... perfect for kissing.

Kathir stumbled home in a daze, his mind reeling from the encounter with Raja. As he passed a street mirror, he froze in horror. There, reflected back at him, was a completely different person - his face now adorned with multiple piercings, each one glinting menacingly in the sunlight.Panic set in as Kathir frantically tried to wipe away the metal studs, but they remained stubbornly in place. His hands trembled as he approached the bathroom mirror, bracing himself for the worst.The image staring back was surreal yet undeniably real. Kathir's once pristine features were now marked by industrial-style piercings - a barbell through his nose, rings in his eyebrows, and even a hoop in his lower lip.

Kathir's shock turned to disbelief as he stepped inside his apartment. Everything seemed to have shifted, as if he'd entered a parallel universe. His wardrobe, once filled with crisp business attire, now held a rainbow of vibrant clothing - neon tank tops, tight jeans, and even a few skirts.In the center of the room, his tailored suit hung on a rack, but instead of its usual charcoal gray, it was a hot pink number with flashy gold buttons. Kathir's eyes widened as he picked it up, the fabric surprisingly soft against his skin.As he explored further, he discovered his dresser drawers had been raided, their contents replaced with an array of colorful accessories - chunky belts, studded chokers, and enough eyeliner to paint a small town. Even his bedding had transformed, now sporting a playful print of cartoon characters in various states of undress.

Overwhelmed, Kathir collapsed onto his newly reupholstered bed, the plush velvet enveloping him like a sensual embrace. He buried his face in the pillows, inhaling deeply, and was surprised to detect a faint scent of musk and leather.As he lay there, Kathir began to notice subtle changes within himself. His senses felt heightened, and his skin tingled with an unfamiliar heat. He became acutely aware of the piercings adorning his face, the metal cool against his flushed cheeks.Suddenly, a wave of arousal washed over him, leaving him breathless and hardening beneath his pants. Kathir's mind raced, trying to comprehend what was happening to his body and his desires. He reached down to adjust himself, his fingers brushing against the growing bulge, when a knock at the door shattered the intimate moment.

Kathir groaned in frustration, not wanting to be disturbed in his state of confusion and arousal. But the persistent knocking continued, growing louder and more insistent.With a heavy sigh, he reluctantly made his way to the door, adjusting his disheveled appearance as best he could. When he opened it, he was greeted by the same pierced and tattooed man from the subway, Raja, standing in the hallway with a mischievous grin.Well, well, looks like someone's embracing their inner rebel, Raja teased, his gaze roaming over Kathir's altered appearance. I must say, the makeover suits you. Though I think we're just getting started...Before Kathir could respond, Raja slipped past him into the apartment, his presence filling the space with an electric energy.

Kathir watched in amazement as Raja sauntered into his living room, his own outfit shifting before Kathir's eyes. The tight black jeans and band tee disappeared, replaced by a snug pink button-down shirt that hugged Raja's muscular frame.The shirt was a vibrant fuchsia hue, adorned with tiny white polka dots that seemed to dance across the fabric. It was a far cry from Raja's previous attire, yet somehow, he pulled it off with effortless charm.Raja caught Kathir's gaze and smirked, clearly enjoying the effect his new look had on the flustered young man. He sauntered closer, the scent of his cologne mingling with the heady aroma of Kathir's own arousal.So, what do you think? Raja asked, spinning around to show off the shirt from every angle. Like it?

Kathir swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he took in the sight of Raja's provocative display. The pink shirt accentuated the man's broad shoulders and chiseled chest, making Kathir's pulse race with a mix of excitement and trepidation.I... uh... it looks great on you, Kathir managed to stammer, his eyes darting between Raja's face and the tantalizing expanse of skin revealed by the shirt's open collar.Raja chuckled, the sound low and husky. Glad you approve, he purred, closing the distance between them until they were mere inches apart. You know, I've always had a thing for pretty boys in pink. And you, my dear Kathir, are looking particularly delicious today.

Kathir's breath hitched as Raja's warm breath ghosted over his ear, sending shivers down his spine. He could feel the heat radiating off the other man's body, mixing with his own feverish desire.I... I don't understand what's happening to me, Kathir admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. These changes, these feelings... they're so intense, so overwhelming.Raja's hand came up to cup Kathir's cheek, his thumb stroking gently over the metal stud in his lower lip. Maybe that's because you're finally embracing your true self, he suggested, his eyes gleaming with a knowing intensity. Let go of your inhibitions, Kathir. Allow yourself to explore these newfound cravings.

Kathir's resolve crumbled under Raja's tender touch and persuasive words. With a shaky nod, he surrendered to the intoxicating sensations coursing through his veins.I want to, he breathed, his voice thick with longing. I want to experience everything, to discover who I really am.Raja's smile was triumphant as he leaned in, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to Kathir's. Then let's start with a kiss, shall we?Without waiting for a response, Raja claimed Kathir's mouth in a searing, passionate embrace. His tongue delved past Kathir's parted lips, exploring the warm depths of his mouth with confident strokes. Kathir moaned softly, melting into the kiss as his body responded eagerly to the stimulation.

[jayflrt]

against the world

PAIRING ▸ park sunghoon x fem!reader x sim jaeyun (ft. park jongseong)

GENRES ▸ fluff, angst, psychological, horror, thriller

WARNINGS ▸ profanity, murder, descriptions of gore, unrequited love, found family, friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, mc is an unreliable narrator

SUMMARY ▸ if you could change anything about your life, it would be meeting park sunghoon.

WORD COUNT ▸ 14,064 words

PLAYLIST ▸ back to black by amy winehouse • the french library by franz gordon • perfectly splendid by the newton brothers

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hello !! this fic is a rewrite of one of my first horror fics that i’ve written :') it badly needed reworking and i completely changed the ending. i hope you guys enjoy my spooky szn contribution ♡

THE TRUTH WAS, YOUR LIFE BEGAN TO FALL APART EVEN BEFORE YOU MET SIM JAEYUN. 

You realized this as you woke up, face pressed against the ice-cold, concrete floor of a holding cell; when the guards dragged your uncooperative, limp body into an interrogation room; when you were face-to-face with Detective Lee Heeseung and handcuffed to a cold, metal table as he read your Miranda Rights. The handcuffs dug into the flesh of your wrists, but you only fought against them once and gave up as soon as you realized they wouldn’t give in. You just wanted to thumb away the crusted blood staining your hands and pick out the flakes under your nails.

The room was foreign to you. It was something you’d seen in movies and read in books, but you never fathomed the idea of being in an interrogation room yourself. There was a two-way glass that you aimlessly stared at, wondering who was listening in on the other end. 

You couldn’t figure out just how you ended up in this situation. Everything was smooth in your memory up until your supposed arrest—a tear in the fabric of your recollection. You hardly remembered what happened on the way to the police station or when you were getting booked in. You dug your palms into your temples and then pressed against the soft flesh under your eyes, frustrated by the stunted gears in your head. As much as you begged than to click and start spinning, they remained stuck and rusted in place. 

But you couldn’t ask the brooding man standing over you. You couldn’t look up into his cold, unforgiving eyes. After all, he knew you were a murderer. 

“There’s no use in lying to me, Y/N,” Detective Lee said gruffly with a gaze like steel, “the prints match.”

You drummed your fingers against the table—a habit that was rooted in your anxiety. Your fingers were stained and pruned like roses, and as hard as you tried to paint the table red, it only flaked off. You were sure your heartbeat was faster than the tapping of your fingers, your mind perhaps speeding off twice as fast.

Your stomach twisted. If Jaeyun was going to prison, too, then you could no longer protect him.

There was a limit to how much he could take; you knew that being thrown in the slammer would be intolerable for him. You knew you needed to get to him immediately because Jaeyun was the guy who felt too little and too much at the same time—the guy who looked for the part of him that ran away, who self-destructed when he felt the world closing in on him.

After all, Jaeyun was a stick of trinitrotoluene lit at both ends. 

You worked up the courage to look Detective Lee in the eye, which made him stiffen up, biceps flexing under his white button-up. 

“Where’s Jaeyun?” you asked. 

Detective Lee’s lips pressed into a thin, grim line. Cutting into his pale cheeks. You decided that couldn’t be a good reaction. 

You continued, “He didn’t do anything, I swear. He was just there. He didn’t do anything.”

“If you cooperate with us, then you can see Jaeyun again,” the detective answered in a clipped tone. “I can sit here all day and wait.”

Cooperate. You hated that word.

You knew Detective Lee was just trying to sugarcoat your betrayal. You knew he was looking down on you, ready to push you to your limit. 

But there was nothing you could do in this room. There was no way for you to escape or talk your way out of it to see Jaeyun. You knew quite well that staying silent would only prevent you from making sure your boyfriend was okay. 

You had no other choice but to work with Detective Lee. 

“Will you at least make sure he’s not hurt?” you inquired, to which Detective Lee agreed with a nod.

“I’ll ask again: Will you cooperate?”

You stayed silent. You despised your old habit of shutting down like this, but you couldn’t help it.

Detective Lee sighed and sat in the chair across from you so that you both were eye-level with each other. “Listen, Y/N, you’re young. This murder investigation—this is serious stuff, okay? We just need to know the full story before we jump to any conclusions and make a false arrest. Can we start from last night?”

Deep down, you understood. But it’s all too fresh—too soon. The grief had yet to settle. The recollections of blood and lifeless eyes poisoned your head; it was all you could see when you closed your eyes.

You sounded hollow when you said, “It didn’t… start from last night.”

Detective Lee acknowledged this and leaned forward, hands clasped in front of him. “Then let’s hear it from the beginning.”

If you could change anything about your life, it would be meeting Park Sunghoon.

Your first meeting was at the age of fourteen. Moving schools was an unexpected shift in your life, and you didn't expect to find many friends at your new school. Starting new in the beginning of the year was one thing, but entering unknown territory with people already acclimated in their respective groups was another. 

People flocked to comfort, and you were sure that no one would want to step out of their comfort zone to bring a stranger into their friend group.

And then Sunghoon swooped in, like an angel sent from the heavens.

Initially, he was awkward. You were both fourteen-years-old and going through the initial stages of puberty—all voice cracks and awkward intervals of growth stunts. Sunghoon was soft-spoken and didn’t have many friends when he approached and befriended you. 

It started when you both found out you shared a love for novels. You spent hours talking about your favorite books, and Sunghoon shared his dream of wanting to craft the perfect story. Oftentimes, Sunghoon would share some of his writing with you, and then his eyes would sparkle upon hearing your feedback. 

You two were classmates, sitting right next to each other in the back of the classroom, conveniently right next to the door. You got to know Sunghoon slowly—the same gradual feeling of starting to care for someone. You knew his boundaries, though, because you were aware that you could never be the closest to Sunghoon. He and Park Jongseong were attached at the hip, and you couldn’t lie to yourself; you felt like a third wheel in the beginning.

But there was some comfort in the security of your friendship.

“It’s you and me,” Sunghoon would tell you, “the two of us against the world.”

You knew you should have been grateful to have made friends in the first place, but you didn’t exactly know if you belonged with them. As comfortable as you felt, there was always a whisper in the back of your head, telling you that you would never be their number one.

You would never be anyone’s number one.

“I don’t understand girls,” Jongseong said one day, hands tucked behind his head as the three of you were hanging out in Sunghoon’s room. You were flipping through some comic book that Sunghoon had laying around, and you shifted uncomfortably upon hearing the question. 

“You don’t have to.” Sunghoon’s eyes flitted from you, and then back to his phone. He swiped through some apps, but you could tell he wasn’t really paying attention judging by the glazed-over look in his eyes. “Girls make no sense at this age.”

Jongseong nudged you. “You have anything to say about that, Y/N?”

To be honest, you didn’t understand yourself much either. You were just starting to go through puberty, and it wasn’t ideal for a teenager as young as you to only have guy friends. You couldn’t relate to any of the girls your age, nor could you ask them if they were going through the same changes you were. 

You were acquainted with several girls, of course, but you never got close enough to ask what feelings and experiences they had. You wanted to know if they were becoming as conscious of themselves and others like you were, but you kept those questions bottled up since you only had Sunghoon and Jongseong.

“Nope,” you replied. “I couldn’t tell you.”

You supposed Jongseong was having girl problems again, and it all clicked because lately, he had been hanging around a pretty girl in their class. They were cute together and clearly into each other, but you could pick up on the issue: Jongseong was on the down-low about their relationship. More importantly, he had been on the down-low about it around Sunghoon, which had to have been breaking some sort of best friend code.

Jongseong asked, “You like anyone, Hoon?”

Hoon, your brain echoed, and you imagined yourself using the name as casually as Jongseong did. It sounded awkward coming from you, though. Friends gave each other nicknames, right? What if you gave Sunghoon a nickname? How would he react?

Sunghoon flushed behind his phone screen. You could tell he wanted it to go undetected, but you caught a glimpse of his flustered expression before he was able to compose himself.

“Oh, not really,” he replied with an air of indifference. “I dunno. I guess I haven’t really been looking.”

“How about you, Y/N?”

You faltered for a moment before you realized you had been addressed. It was a normal question; you should have expected it, but it hit you like a tornado and your mind was swirling. Dating had crossed your mind a few times, sure, you had never prepared an answer because you thought it was going to be straightforward—a simple “yeah, there’s a few cute guys in class.” But that wasn’t the case this time, and you were wondering why there wasn’t any clarity in your head.

Come on, Y/N, you urged yourself, as if you were complaining to multiple, uncooperating attendants working in your brain. Just say something—anything. 

Your mind was blanking, though, and you were scared. You couldn’t quite grasp why your stomach felt like a never-ending pit, but it only worsened when you couldn’t spit some guy’s name out. You wanted to open up your skull, thoroughly examine your head, poke at the areas refusing to work, and figure out who you couldn’t just list some attractive guy in class; on top of that, you wondered why you couldn’t just flat-out refuse the statement and claim that there was no one you were interested in.

You were struck with a painful realization that there was only one person you could think of.

Sunghoon.

No, no, no, your brain and your heart screamed at each other. Get ahold of yourself.

You quickly decided that it was just a passing feeling that you needed to suppress until it went away. It was just stupid teenage hormones and puberty making you feel this way and starving you of affection that you didn’t actually need in the first place. If you didn’t get a hold over yourself, you were going to crumble and ruin the good things you had going.

You internally convinced yourself that everything was fine. There were plenty of teenagers your age who had moments of weakness like this with their guy friends. You just needed to branch out more, that was all. 

Sheepishly, you replied before the boys could chew you out, “There’s no one I’m interested in right now.” 

You weren’t a very good liar, but as long as Sunghoon and Jongseong were sold, you were content with how things were. 

Your group expanded when you turned fifteen, and you and Sunghoon grew closer—maybe even closer than Sunghoon and Jongseong were. 

You were laying down in your bed one night, breaking into sobs when you realized that you needed more than one hand to count the number of friends you had now. Your shell was broken and your world was bigger. You normally lived like your uphills were mountains and your downhills were cliffs, but, lately, the mountains were getting easier to climb and the downhills weren’t that big of a drop. You didn’t need to stop and catch your breath or worry about hurting yourself on the way down.

You never felt lonely anymore. If Sunghoon or Jongseong weren’t free, you would call Nishimura Riki to catch grasshoppers in the creek with you, or you’d go play video games with Yang Jungwon. Kim Sunoo called you nearly every night to bother you, but you didn’t mind. You liked them; they made you feel important, like you were wanted.

“Come on,” Sunghoon teased Jungwon one day as he was blushing over some girl. “What are you being so shy about?”

“It’s embarrassing!” Jungwon complained, and you giggled over how a flush of red started creeping from his ears to his cheeks. “I’m not a smooth-talker like you are, Hoon.” 

Sunghoon snorted. “I’m not a smooth-talker.”

“He’s practically, like, bulletproof,” Jongseong chimed in. “We can’t tease him about anyone. He just brushes it off.”

“I’m not bulletproof,” Sunghoon argued, but anyone could see the pride behind his expression. “I’m just not interested in anyone right now.”

You thought you had finally squashed the weird, gooey feeling that arose in your chest every now and then whenever Sunghoon came close. It was primarily due to the fact that Sunghoon was a respectful individual who didn’t try to weasel his way into your personal bubble as he pleased. That was probably for the best because you were sure your brain would go haywire if Sunghoon was too close for comfort.

And then there was Sim Jaeyun. 

Jaeyun entered your circle pretty easily. With his radiant personality and warm presence, it was no shocker that he was accepted by the group instantly. He possessed some odd charm that drew people to him, and you couldn’t seem to figure just how that worked. You were almost jealous of him, honestly, with how much of a social butterfly he was.

Out of all of them, Jaeyun seemed to take a particular interest in you. It drove you crazy, though, and you couldn’t figure out how to get the guy to stop teasing and messing around with you. The others couldn’t figure it out either; you just weren’t as bright and bubbly as Jaeyun was, so it was odd that he kept nagging the one person whose wavelength wasn’t on par with his. 

Sometimes it was cute—endearing even—but sometimes it was just flat-out irritating.

“Hey, Y/N.” Jake grinned, and his voice was all light and airy as he approached you. “What’re you doing for the summer break?”

“Probably sleeping in, hanging out with the others, and some more sleeping,” you replied, hardly sparing him a single glance. 

You were too focused on clearing out your locker of all the books and papers you had tossed in during the year. Gotta keep this, gotta throw this away, gotta return this one, you rattled off in your head, mentally preserving a reminder of your various items. But Jaeyun knew how to push your buttons and grab your attention. He never took your deflection without retaliating back. That was one of the many reasons why you found it so difficult to be around him.

“And hanging out with Sunghoon, huh? Have you realized it yet, or are you still pretending it’s not there?”

You closed your locker with a swift swipe of your hand, revealing Jaeyun’s smug expression. Your eyes were practically bugging out of your sockets as you stared him down. Somehow, you knew exactly what he was hinting at, but you refused to spell it out for him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you questioned, but Jaeyun was already walking away from you. He was turned away, but you could visualize that stupid smirk of his like it was carved into your memory.

Jaeyun was smart. Too smart.

Your summer was filled with laughter, beach trips, and shy glances at Sunghoon. He drove you around places and you sat in the passenger’s seat next to him, toes curled in your shoes because you were so overjoyed. The car was always loud with music and laughter, and whenever it was silent, it was because everyone else was sleeping on each other after a long day of being outside.

You still masqueraded around, playing the role of Sunghoon’s best friend who definitely had zero romantic feelings toward him. It was quite hard when you had to pretend like your heart didn’t flutter whenever Sunghoon’s fingers brushed against yours.

“Sunghoon,” Jaeyun would complain, rousing laughter from everyone at how impatient he was, “are we there yet?”

“You’re so annoying,” Sunghoon retorted, clearly as a joke. You couldn’t help but laugh at his outburst, but it quickly died on your lips once you caught a glimpse of Jaeyun winking at you in the side mirror.

Jaeyun had a mischievous glint in his eyes when he said, “But you still love me, Hoon.”

Oh. 

He was trying to make you jealous. 

You fought down the urge to laugh at him. You might have been harboring a small crush, but you were never the jealous type, especially not over petty things like this. There was one little thing, however, that you couldn’t seem to shake.

For some reason, the anticipation to call Sunghoon by a nickname made you anxious. You never tested it on your tongue; it just floated around in your head. However, when you addressed him as Hoon one day, your heart skipped a beat when Sunghoon responded with a smile that rivaled the brightness of the sun.

You grew closer to Jongseong, too. You didn’t feel like the third wheel with him and Sunghoon anymore; you felt like you were all at the same level of closeness. You and Jongseong hung out sometimes without Sunghoon, and despite a few awkward pauses in your interactions, you two warmed up quickly and you learned how to joke around with him easily. 

Jongseong wasn’t all stiff and dry like you were initially afraid of; rather, he was surprisingly fun, and every time you learned something new about him, like how he adored cats but was allergic to them, you were even more amazed. 

It wasn’t just Jongseong, though. You and Sunghoon grew far closer than ever before, whether that was for the better or worse. 

Sunghoon only lived a street away, so it was convenient to hang out, and when you didn’t hang out with him, you two called each other. You could see him unravel in front of your eyes; he became visibly more comfortable when it was just the two of you—smiling, laughing, and bursting into laughter with tears of unrestrained happiness. 

It wasn’t just the jubilant memories that tugged you two closer, though. It was also the despair.

In the first place, it was an accident that you even happened to break down in front of Sunghoon.

You two were in his room when it happened, and things were as they always had been before you sensed the calm before the storm. You joked around as usual and passed the time by playing video games. Sunghoon was perched on his usual spot in the corner of the bed. You looked over at him and realized how close you two had become as friends.

Friends. Just friends.

It was right at that moment when you realized that this wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to just be Sunghoon’s best friend. You wanted to be the reason why he smiled, the one to make him blush, and the one he could share his pain and happiness with. 

But your feelings were the scariest thing you’ve ever had to face, and you felt ashamed for even wanting to cross the line drawn between you and Sunghoon.

You couldn’t dare bring yourself to confess. You were almost positive that Sunghoon didn’t feel the same way, and you would be risking a fall-out in your current relationship if you admitted anything. What if Sunghoon ended up hating you? What if you lost him and all of your other friends? What if you weren’t the closest person to him anymore?

That was why you felt like Sunghoon was in another dimension, always a layer away. Always.

This was your own fault. You were the one who fell for your best friend. You were the one who did this to yourself. You broke your own heart.

You couldn’t help it when you started falling apart in front of him. It started with a broken cough that was supposed to cover up a sniffle. You were thankful for the loud battle sounds in the game that drowned out your quiet sobbing. But the video game didn’t stop Sunghoon from noticing your shaking hands gripping the controller.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m okay.”

Your voice is so shaky, so broken. Sunghoon knew you were crying before he could see or hear it.

He paused the game and put the controller down, but your eyes were still trained on the screen, hands shaking as you clutched the controller until you were white-knuckled. Sunghoon was on edge—panicked. Although, it was a different kind of panic from all the times you would be stressing over an assignment and Sunghoon would offer some lame piece of advice in return.

“What happened? What’s wrong?” His tone was frantic now as he searched your face for an answer.

You smiled, although faint melancholy was tucked away in the curl of your lip. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Now, I know that’s not true.”

Your smile broke. It was so unfortunate that Park Sunghoon had to have a heart so big.

You could almost hear Jaeyun in the back of your head: Have you realized it yet, or are you still pretending it isn’t there? 

You started crying, and it wasn’t something soft with a gradual crescendo. It was loud and all at once, like a wounded animal. Your hands shook more, and you finally dropped your controller, burying your fingers into your roots, as if tugging your hair hard enough would make it all stop, as if it would hurt more than the ache in your chest.

Sunghoon was quick to get off his bed and slide to the ground, right next to you. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and it only made you feel ashamed. You stiffened up and shrunk back, hoping he wouldn’t notice how you tensed up at his touch. You could hear your own heartbeat, but you were pretty sure you were hyperventilating at a faster pace than the pounding in your chest. The world under you moved, bounced, so you decided to lean into Sunghoon.

The logical half of your brain informed you in a calm, clipped manner that you were having a panic attack. The other half meanwhile was screaming and shutting itself down. 

Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, and one thing you can taste, you tried telling yourself, but your senses overwhelmed you completely. Your tears were blurring your vision, you couldn’t hear anything but your sobs, and your lungs felt as if they were on fire. 

“Y/N, talk to me,” came the softest voice that eased the painful ringing in your ears. 

“I can’t,” you stuttered out. “Not right now.”

You wish you hadn’t let it get to this point. You were completely humiliating yourself in front of Sunghoon right now. This was the one thing you couldn’t let him find out about. 

Your heavy gasps grew more labored. You then curled into yourself, sweaty hands tugging and knotting at your hair. And, shit, you couldn’t breathe. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” you repeated again and again, like a broken record. The desperation in your voice was so ugly.

There was something fierce in Sunghoon’s eyes, like he was ready to protect you from anything or anyone that tried to hurt you, but there was also softness in his voice. “You know, you can tell me anything. Whatever it is, I’ll hear you out. I don’t want you to suffer alone, Y/N.”

With a small smile, he added, “It’s just you and me, right? The two of us against the world.”

That only made you cry even more. You just replayed Sunghoon’s words in your head, like it was your favorite song.

“Alright.” You breathed in real deep, through the aching chest and everything. “It’s really stupid.”

“If it makes you cry this hard, it can’t be stupid.”

You bit your lip, embarrassed. “I think I like someone—someone I can’t have.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond for a moment, and it rattled your brain. He probably was wondering this underwhelming confession warranted a breakdown from you, and you couldn’t blame him. However, it was the only way you could avoid lying to your best friend without giving him the whole truth. 

For a split second, you wondered if Sunghoon simply just didn’t hear you. But you didn’t want to repeat yourself; you didn’t like repeating yourself. 

To your surprise, Sunghoon just smiled. “Do I know them?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words were stringing together in your head to form a coherent sentence.

“Uh, well, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready,” Sunghoon continued. He flushed and flicked his thumb under his nose—an awkward mannerism of his that you grew to love over the years. “Actually, I think we’re in the same boat. There’s someone I like, too. Someone I can’t have.” 

His words bounced in your skull. Settled. Bounced again.

“Really?” you spluttered out, and it took you a moment to recuperate from the heavy sadness that was filling your chest. You brought yourself to ask, “I mean, you’re so popular, so why don’t you just ask them out?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not? Are they dating someone else?”

There was a sad smile on Sunghoon’s lips when he answered, “No, Jongseong likes her, too.”

At the age of sixteen, you realized that you couldn’t get over Sunghoon, but you could suppress your heartbreak and lingering feelings. 

It physically hurt to think about how deeply ingrained your concept of friendship was with him, and the possibility that Park Sunghoon would never think of you as more than a friend. You two had shared too many experiences—worn each other’s shoes and walked miles—to ever become more than what you were.

Nothing would ever change.

You were hanging out by a creek near Jongseong’s house. It was just the two of you—no Jaeyun to poke fun at you, and no Sunghoon to distract you. It was just the two of you, and it was somehow so easy to be with Jongseong like this. You could laugh with your stomach and smile with your eyes without feeling the need to close up or shut down. 

“It’s getting annoying, isn’t it?” Jongseong asked under his breath at one point. When you shot him a puzzled look, he clarified, “Sunghoon.”

You picked up on Jongseong’s annoyance toward Sunghoon over the past few weeks, but his words confirmed your suspicions now. You wondered if it was geared toward the girl they both liked—whoever she was. 

You never thought to ask, mainly because you didn’t want to know. Either way, if Sunghoon wanted to share, he would’ve done so already. 

You swallowed down the lump in your throat, trying to grab at words and shove them together, but you genuinely didn’t know what to say. 

It had always been you, Sunghoon, and Jongseong. You never thought about them turning on each other. The very idea made you feel sick to your stomach. 

Over the past week, you had seen Sunghoon’s indifference toward Jongseong, but you were too afraid to ask about it. Your friend group was slow to pick up on it, but you noticed the way Sunghoon would purposely avoid conversing with Jongseong, or the way Jongseong would walk quickly past him if they crossed paths. It was odd, though, because everyone knew that Sunghoon and Jongseong were the best of friends—inseparable. How could you hold onto someone for so long and just let go of them like that?

You recalled that Jongseong and Jungwon went over to talk to Sunghoon about his moody behavior, but Jongseong never told you whether the talk went well or not. You figured it just never happened because Jungwon called in sick the very next day. 

You prayed that he would hurry up and get over his cold. He had been out sick all week, which checked out since everyone was getting sick around this time of the year. Jungwon would know how to get Sunghoon and Jongseong to reconcile. He was always the friend that helped everyone patch things up. 

“You guys are best friends,” was all you could say. “You’ll make up in a few days, right?”

Jongseong clicked his tongue loud enough to make your skin crawl. 

But you didn’t want to drop it this time, you asked, “Seriously, what happened between you guys?” 

For a moment, you wondered if you should’ve brought up what Sunghoon confessed to you—about him and Jongseong liking the same girl. But this couldn’t have been about that; Sunghoon would never let a girl get between his friendships. 

“Sunghoon’s hiding something dark,” Jongseong blurted out. “I don’t think I can get him out of this one.”

“Something dark? What is it?”

“I don’t really know—”

“Jongseong,” you cut in. “If you know something, then just say it. He’s my best friend, too.”

Jongseong shifted uncomfortably, restless. He was silent for a long period of time, so you just waited for him to collect his thoughts. Uneasiness bursted from the tips of your fingers and crawled under your skin. You felt the heat of the sun against your face, so you looked up and covered your eyes with a hand, blinking back red. 

“If Sunghoon did something unforgivable,” he started in a murmur, “would you forgive him?”

“I don’t know,” was all you could say.

“Yeah,” Jongseong replied, his terse words nearly making you flinch. “I don’t know, either.”

The sun grew hotter against your face, and all you could see was blood red behind your eyes. 

You didn’t know how exactly it started, but you slowly started to find solace in Jaeyun.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you were starting to care for him a little more than the people around you. You were starting to get swayed by him—the things he said, the way he looked at you—and it scared you a little.

But Jaeyun felt safe. He felt like home.

You two called at night, sometimes. You weren’t normally one to be vulnerable in front of others, but you shed some tears in front of Jaeyun a couple of times.

The only other person you had cried in front of was Sunghoon.

“It’s kinda sad,” Jaeyun told you one day. You two were spending the afternoon studying together at his place, and you were feeling self-conscious because you were starting to regret not dressing a little cuter. “I’ve known you for a year, but we’ve only gotten close now.”

“I don’t think either of us cared about deepening our friendship back then.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You think I didn’t want to be closer? How do you think I picked up on you liking Sunghoon?”

“Because I was obvious about it?”

“No, idiot, because I like you.”

You blinked a few times until you fully processed his words. I like you, your brain repeated, and then you reprocessed the information. 

No, there was an ‘idiot’ before that. Not only were you liked, but he thought you were stupid, as well. 

You became painfully aware of your knees touching Jaeyun’s, but you still couldn’t wrap your head around the idea of him liking you romantically. You had never been in this position. Since your crush on Sunghoon had been one-sided for the past few years, you never expected to be on the receiving end. 

“You…” you trailed off, floundering to find something to say—something that wouldn’t make you sound stupid or mean. You settled with, “You, too?”

His eyes beamed with hope. “For a year now.”

Your world was so small before. It was just you, Sunghoon, and Jongseong. 

Before you could even wonder if there was space in your heart for Jaeyun, you realized that you had already let him burrow his way in there.

“Can I kiss you?” Jaeyun asked. 

You couldn’t help but breathe out a laugh, and every once of nervousness slipped away. You always thought you could attain this level of closeness with Sunghoon, but maybe your relationship with him was just that fragile—where you could just grab the string binding you two together and snip it completely. 

But it was different with Jaeyun. 

“Yeah,” you answered, smiling, “you can.”

And then, with Jaeyun’s breath fanning your lips, you felt Sunghoon completely dissolve from the impounding thoughts racking your brain. Right now, it was Jaeyun and only Jaeyun. 

You leaned in first, cupping his cheek and pressing your lips against Jaeyun’s soft ones. It was weird, kissing for the first time, but he leaned into it instantly so that your movements were less awkward and more guided. 

A fire blazed inside of you, burning hotter than imaginable. You didn’t expect Jaeyun to drive you this crazy—to crave more, to want more. You drew back before you slid your hand into his hair, although you were tempted to go further when his pillowy lips peppered soft kisses along your jawline. 

But you didn’t want to go overboard or ruin anything by going too fast. You settled for leaving another chaste kiss against his lips before pulling back, and you were delighted when you saw how pleased Jaeyun was. He was practically glowing. 

From then on, you and Jaeyun had a relationship that extended past something platonic, but it wasn’t like you two were official. Naturally, you ended up confiding in him over everything. 

While Sunghoon still held a place in your heart as your first love, you grew to care for Jaeyun, who kindled a gentler fire in you. Sunghoon, on the other hand, left you burned and scarred. 

You didn’t want to rush into a relationship, mainly because you didn’t want Jaeyun to think he was a rebound, and he respected that. So he waited for you to figure out your feelings and let your heart choose who was right for you. 

You weren’t stupid, though; you knew that chasing after Sunghoon was a hopeless cause.

You and Jaeyun drifted about in a limbo-state of your relationship. You two went on a couple of dates, got to know each other at a deeper level, and spent a lot of time together. He became the person you thought about when you were falling asleep and when you woke up in the morning. 

You two got along surprisingly well, and you wondered why you ever had doubts about him in the beginning. Sure, Jaeyun still got on your nerves at times, but you just found it funny after the wave of annoyance passed. 

Your friends started to talk about how close you two were and frequently brought up the idea of you two dating. Of course, you always denied it, enjoying the privacy you and Jaeyun had. 

But as your relationship blossomed into something more serious, you decided that you didn’t want things to stay casual any longer. So, you asked him out, and Jaeyun, being the lovesick puppy he was, accepted without a second thought. 

You thought about how much had changed in your life. Sunghoon stopped hanging out with you completely, resorting to being alone most of the time. Everyone was concerned about his behavior, but after several attempts of failed confrontation, they all collectively gave up. You and Jongseong still kept an eye on him, using roundabout ways to find out how he was doing; it was the most you two could do given how little opportunity you had to talk to him. 

You didn’t share many classes with Jongseong anymore, but you two were still close, even after your “two of us against the world” friendship with Sunghoon had gone to shit. 

Jongseong was kind, though, and despite how he was rough around the edges, he was gentle enough. 

But he knew that Sunghoon was hiding something dark, and that alone made you somewhat nervous around him. 

You felt unsettled the entire day, but when your group chat started flooding with texts about Jungwon in the middle of the night, you felt an icy chill travel down your spine. 

It was all over the news. The whole story about him being down with the flu was just a cover-up while authorities were looking for him.

You felt nauseous. 

HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT FOUND DEAD NEAR WOODS. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.

The 16-year-old boy was found dead at the scene. The parents of the deceased student have identified him as Yang Jungwon. As of now, there are no leads, but authorities have ruled the case as a homicide. 

Police have asked anyone with information to contact their local police department.

You read the headline again. Over and over again until your vision was blurry and the words were convoluted. Your fingers were raw and bitten down to the nail bed by the time you were able to put your phone down so that you could just cry into your hands. 

By the time you got around to reading the details, grimacing at the descriptions of mutilation done to Jungwon’s body and how his body had been decomposing for weeks now, you had to run to your toilet and dry heave everything out. 

You weren’t the closest to Jungwon or anything, but imagining such a bright person meet such a horrific end wasn’t easy to process. For hours, you ignored all of the calls and texts and attempts to comfort from your parents. You stared straight at your wall—so terrified that your chest hurt and your breathing was ragged. 

Later that night, when the world was quiet and dreaming, you received a text from Sunghoon. 

sunghoon: Hey sunghoon: I’ve been thinking about you. Are you doing okay? sunghoon: I haven’t been a good friend lately, I’m sorry sunghoon: It’s still the two of us against the world

There was a time when those words made you feel like you were on top of the world, soaring high over the clouds. 

Now, though, all you could feel was a horrible sensation of dread.

It had been months since Sunghoon and Jongseong’s falling out. 

You were seventeen now, but you felt hollower as you aged. Sunghoon showed up to school and lingered within your group silently, only contributing when spoken to directly. He didn’t approach you anymore or ask to hang out after school. Actually, no one knew what he did after school. He would head straight home and then go completely off the radar. 

Gone off the rails, as Sunoo called it. 

You cried several nights over it. You felt like not only was your best friend slipping away from you, but Sunghoon’s disconnect from the group would soon make you pull away, too. You had Jaeyun, of course, but nothing felt the same anymore. With Jungwon dead, the group felt tense and gloomy. You all started hanging out with other people and slowly stopped responding in the group chat. 

Part of you realized that Sunghoon’s detachment was because you didn’t reply to him the night Jungwon’s murder was publicized. Back then, you suspected that Sunghoon could have been behind it, judging by your conversation with Jongseong earlier. It all added up in your head, but the only thing that was stopping you from believing it fully was that you couldn’t fathom Sunghoon ever doing something so evil. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with him,” you whispered into the phone, even though there wasn’t anyone around that you were worried about listening in. “He’s shutting me out now. Something must’ve happened to him.” 

You heard Jaeyun hum and contemplate for a moment before he replied, “Maybe he just needs space.” 

“I think something happened between him and Jongseong,” you admitted, “but I can’t imagine Jongseong saying anything that would make Sunghoon ignore him for this long.”

“It must’ve been serious, then.” 

“But… but it’s Sunghoon; he’s”—you paused as you recalled what Jongseong once called him—“bulletproof.”

There was a pause.

“I guess that’s the problem with being bulletproof,” Jaeyun spoke gravely. “People think they can just keep shooting.”

What Jaeyun told you that night kept replaying in your head over the next week—over and over again. It hit you a little too hard, and you waited to confront Sunghoon about it. You wanted him to know that he could be vulnerable, too. But you couldn’t even speak to your best friend these days. He had been avoiding everyone like the plague.

You assumed it had something to do with Jongseong, but when you talked to him about it, he was hesitant to get into it.

“You’re the closest person to him,” you told him. Today was colder, and you rubbed your hands together for warmth as you and Jongseong stood by the gates after school. “I think if you guys sit down and talk things out, then he’ll start being himself again.”

“I was the closest person to him,” Jongseong corrected with a scoff. “Plus, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to talk about? What about your friendship?”

You couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth. Anger roiled deep in your chest, and you were too furious to realize that Jongseong only looked dejected in response. If he wasn’t going to explain what happened, then you couldn’t understand what was eating away at their relationship. 

“There is no friendship, Y/N,” he said slowly, in a voice so low that it sounded like the calm before the storm. His words made everything come to a halt, and you felt like time itself had frozen. “I suggest you let go of Sunghoon, too. You’re hanging onto someone who’s beyond help.”

“But I don’t know what you know!” you exclaimed. “I can’t let go of someone just like that, Jongseong. I need answers.”

He was quiet before he asked, “Do you remember when Sunghoon stayed over at your house once when we were fourteen?”

“When his house caught on fire?” you recalled, but the memory was sort of hazy for you. All you remembered was how you were in complete awe that Sunghoon was unscathed and unbothered by the incident. 

“Yeah,” Jongseong’s voice was grim as he said, “and I bet he never told you that he was the one who started that fire on purpose.”

It was like a punch to the gut. You could only shake your head blankly, lips parted in disbelief. 

He continued, “When we were fifteen, he thought it would be fun to plan out a murder without getting caught—”

No.

“—and, at sixteen, he actually did it.”

No. No. 

“Jongseong,” you whispered, your voice smaller than you intended, “was it…” 

“Jungwon?” He said the name so carefully, as if the world would explode into nothingness if he did. You had been gnawing at your lip so hard that you drew blood, yet that couldn’t distract you from the haunted look in Jongseong’s eyes. “Yeah, he killed Jungwon.”

You felt like you had just been doused with ice-cold water. 

“I shouldn’t have brought Jungwon with me. I knew Sunghoon was gonna do it to someone, but I didn’t know…” He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath that racked his entire body. “I didn’t think it would be him. I brought Jungwon to talk him out of whatever was going on, not to…” Jongseong stopped himself again, covering his face with his hands to wipe away the tears that had started to fall. 

It’s you and me, Sunghoon’s voice chimed in your head. The two of us against the world.

You thought your world had been shattered, but then you realized that it had actually been broken for a long time.

That night, you asked Jaeyun to come over, and he arrived at your door in record speed.

You two were sitting on your bed, controllers in hand, but the screen was off and neither of you were even in the mood to play. You must have trusted him more than anyone by now because the words started spilling with no preamble. You ended up explaining most of your conversation with Jongseong after you had Jaeyun swear on his life that he wouldn’t tell a soul.

Of course, you didn’t expect any normal person to compliantly come to terms with the fact that their friend murdered their other friend, but Jaeyun was a bit different when it came to you. Instead of accusing you of lying or denying the truth, he believed you wholeheartedly. You couldn’t tell if he was patient with you, or if he was just horrified by everything you had told him. 

It had been an entire year since Jungwon had been found dead and the case closed as an unsolved murder, but your words sucker punched Jaeyun like it had just happened yesterday. 

Jaeyun’s tone was urgent when he said, “We have to tell someone.” When he noticed your hesitation, he shook his head at you with a disapproving frown. “Y/N, this is serious. This is Jungwon, my best friend.” 

Your mouth went dry. “I-I know, it’s just—”

Jaeyun didn’t have to cut you off. You froze right when you saw tears welling up in his eyes.

“Y/N.” He said your name gently, but you still flinched. You had never heard your name being called with so much despair. “If Sunghoon really murdered Jungwon, then I can’t keep this a secret.”

“Give me a few days,” you pleaded. “I just want to hear Sunghoon out. No matter what he says, I’ll come with you to testify.” 

He shook his head immediately, eyes fierce. “You are not going anywhere near Sunghoon—not after what he did to Jungwon.”

“Then let me ask Jong—”

“Y/N,” Jaeyun interrupted, letting his hand slide over yours. His eyes were full of concern when he asked, “How do you know you can trust Jongseong?” 

Your hands started to shake.

“Y/N,” he said again, “if Jongseong took Jungwon to see Sunghoon, what do you think he did after Sunghoon killed him?”

Your pulse raced.

“If Jongseong knew about Sunghoon’s behavior for this long, why hasn’t he ever done anything?” 

All this time, you thought your world had grown a little bigger ever since you met Sunghoon and Jongseong. 

But you were living in a fantasy by yourself. 

Not so long after your talk with Jaeyun, your phone rang. You were in the middle of finishing up your history paper when you saw the caller ID flash across your screen.

It was Sunghoon.

You didn’t even give yourself time to think about it first. You just picked up the phone immediately. It was an old habit; you saw Sunghoon and accepted the call without a second thought. You never expected Sunghoon to ever call you again, so you didn’t exactly have any practice in rejecting his calls.

“Y/N?” came the familiar voice of Park Sunghoon—gentle, but almost like he was a caged animal.

“Sunghoon?” You swallowed hard. “Uh, how are you? It’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, but you weren’t sure what he was apologizing for. “It was supposed to be the two of us against the world.”

You frowned. “Sunghoon, what’s going on?”

Instead of answering your question, Sunghoon hesitated before saying, “We should catch up sometime. You can read part of the story I’m writing.”

You paused, and before he could ask if you were still there, you replied, “Yeah, sure.”

“Right.” Sunghoon sounded like he had more to say. You almost didn’t catch it because he was so quiet, and the last thing you heard before he hung up was a quiet, “Bye, then.”

Your deepest regret was answering your phone later that night.

It was hours after Sunghoon called you. Jongseong was more of a texter, so you were surprised when his caller ID flashed across your screen. It was definitely not a reasonable hour for a high school student to be out and about, but nothing could have prepared you for what you heard on the other side of the line.

Jongseong was sobbing. 

The sound chilled you to the bone. You never heard Jongseong cry, but this didn’t feel normal; this cry was frantic and mangled, like he was spiraling out of control. 

“Y/N, you have to come over quickly,” Jongseong begged through broken sobs and heavy breaths. “Please, Y/N, I don’t want him to hurt anyone else.”

“Jongseong, calm down. Tell me what’s happening.”

“You have my location, right? Just hurry. Please.” And he hung up. 

In a daze, you called Jaeyun and asked him to pick you up. 

“I really think we should just call the cops,” Jaeyun offered, almost pleading. “I don’t know what’s going on with Jongseong, but this sounds sketchy, Y/N.”

Pitted fear festered in your throat. You knew something was off, but you weren’t sure if you could handle losing Jongseong, too. You had gotten so used to not being alone that you were paranoid of returning to having no one. 

“Call them as soon as we get there,” you said. “I just need to make sure Jongseong’s okay.” 

Jaeyun pressed his lips into a thin, grim line, but he kept driving. 

It was a port that Jongseong’s location directed you to, and discomfort crept into your limbs as soon as Jaeyun pulled into the area. Maybe you should’ve stayed back where it was safer and let the police handle everything, but you must have been a fool. It was just that Jongseong’s cries echoed in your head whenever you started having second thoughts.

You could hear him before you saw him.

Jongseong’s soft sobs could be heard from behind a metal storage unit, and you and Jaeyun inched closer carefully after getting out of the car. Your heart dropped to your stomach; you were dreading the worst, and when you turned the corner into the closed area Jongseong was in, you realized that the sight before you was the worst it could get. 

Sunghoon’s body.

You waited for his chest to rise, but not even a shallow breath escaped his blue-tinged lips.

It took you a moment to reorient yourself and realize that Sunghoon wasn’t just passed out, he was dead. 

You saw the blood pooling around him and the wounds piercing his torso, staining his white shirt, but you wanted to believe your mind was playing tricks on you. You convinced yourself that Sunghoon was going to get up any second now and start laughing, and then Jongseong would join in and tell you it was all a joke. 

But that wasn’t the case.

It wasn’t fear that overtook you—not an overwhelm of emotion—it was numbness. You stared at Sunghoon’s body as he bled out onto the concrete, blood pooling into the cracks in the ground. You felt an odd sort of disconnect. 

You tilted your head to see Sunghoon’s face turned to the side against the concrete. His blank eyes just stared into nothingness, and you realized that you would never get to see Sunghoon’s warm, sincere gaze ever again. You were never going to see his bright smile. You were never going to hear his contagious laugh. You were never going to read the wonderful stories he wrote. 

You supposed your life was always meant to be a tragedy. 

“H-Hoon?” Jaeyun choked up behind you. He was staring down at Sunghoon’s lifeless body in horror before his expression was slowly replaced with anger. “Jongseong, what the hell did you do?!”

“It was self-defense, man,” Jongseong whimpered out before his body was racked with sobs again. “He pulled a knife on me out of nowhere. I tried to stop him, but he was trying to kill me. I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t—” He exhaled shakily. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared at Sunghoon.

“Come on, guys,” Jongseong pleaded. “I can’t go to fucking prison. I’m eighteen now; it’s not juvie, it’s a life sentence.” You didn’t know what he was getting at until he requested the unthinkable, “Help me get rid of the body.”

You wanted to puke. You eyed the shiny metal soaked in blood that Jongseong was clutching. You were never going to see Sunghoon again. You were never going to hang out with him over the weekend. You were never going to hear his voice again. 

“Get rid of the body?” Jaeyun raised his voice, exasperated. “What the fuck are you gonna do when they realize he’s gone missing? You just killed someone! This is on you, Jongseong, not us!”

“Are you going to help me get rid of it or not?!” Jongseong tugged at his hair. “Just help me throw him off the dock, and we can all walk away from this.”

You watched helplessly, horror-stricken. “I… I can’t.”

“The body’s gonna float and show up somewhere,” Jaeyun countered with stony eyes. “They’re gonna catch you.”

Jongseong looked terrifyingly pale. You wondered if it was just the glow of the moon, or if he was also holding in his urge to puke. “I’ll just cut his stomach so he sinks.”

Disgusted, Jaeyun scowled. “You’re a monster.”

You watched as Jongseong tried hauling Sunghoon’s body before giving up and dragging him by the legs. You shot Jaeyun a warning look, mouthing for him to call the police before Jongseong noticed. He lingered back to do so while you followed Jongseong to plead him to stop. His arms gave out as soon as he stepped onto the planks, and he let Sunghoon’s lower half collapse onto the solid wood. 

“Y/N, help me cut open his stomach,” he ordered, hardly sparing you a glance. If he did, he would have seen how horrified you were.

“Oh,” you said, voice wavering, “that’s… that—that’s his…” 

“Y/N, help me.”

“Jongseong,” you begged, “please… please stop.”

He paid you no attention, though. You felt ghastly as Jongseong used a paring knife to make an incision on Sunghoon’s stomach. The smell was putrid. You screwed your eyes shut as the metallic smell of blood invaded your nostrils. Your nausea plunged into your gut, and you had to fight the pervasive urge to hurl.

A stream of Sunghoon’s blood made its way to your shoes, staining the soles. 

Jongseong was cutting your old best friend open. 

The dread had kept you numb for this long, but it was when reality settled in that you finally lost it. You couldn’t handle it anymore and pitched forward over the edge of the dock, throwing up until you were heaving up bile. You sobbed through it all, mournful and low, and your friend paid you no attention while he was cutting through flesh. 

When Jongseong was done, he wiped at his cheek, leaving behind a smear of blood. Sunghoon’s blood. You stared at him, and you had never been more terrified of him in your life. 

And then you really noticed Jongseong. You noticed how Sunghoon’s blood was coated all over his hands, how he hardly had any scratches or bruises on his body, how merciless his eyes were as he stared down at his old best friend. 

The realization that washed over you was frightening. 

“Sunghoon didn’t actually try to kill you, did he?” you managed to warble out. “You killed him yourself.”

A deep silence from him followed—heavy and wretched. Sunghoon’s blood was so dark that it nearly looked black under the dim light, and you could only stare helplessly until Jaeyun made his way to the dock, placing his hands firmly on your shoulders. 

Jongseong turned to you and Jaeyun, clutching his knife tightly. You could hardly recognize the boy in front of you. You never truly understood the term “paralyzed by fear” until you saw the crazed look in Jongseong’s eyes—cold and haunting. 

Jaeyun’s eyes glistened with tears and his throat was thick with emotion when he said, “Jongseong, please—just hang on and… and we can talk this out.” 

The hand gripping his knife started shaking. “You won’t tell anyone, right? You guys won’t snitch on me, right?” When there was no response from you or Jaeyun, Jongseong’s desperation grew stronger. He turned to you with his eyes big and terrified. “Y/N, come on, we’ve known each other for years. You know I—”

“Shut up!” Jaeyun yelled. His protective grip on you tightened. “Cut the bullshit, Jongseong. The police are gonna be here soon, and they’re gonna take you straight to prison once they see what you did to Hoon.”

It was like a switch flipped in him. A distant part of your mind wondered if you could get everyone out of this—somehow bring Sunghoon back and go back to your normal life—but you immediately shut down that fantasy as soon as Jongseong’s eyes darkened. 

In the darkness, you could make out an amused expression on his face. His smile took on a cold edge. 

“Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll just have to get rid of you two before the police get here, then.”

You felt like your world slowed. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears. You could tell Jongseong was walking closer to you while Jaeyun was desperately trying to tug you and get you to run, but you were frozen in place. You wanted to believe that your old friend wouldn’t actually hurt you, but then you didn’t know what to think when he raised his knife. 

It had all happened so fast. Too fast. 

In your brief struggle as Jongseong tried to stab you, you heard a sharp gasp that tore you from your haze, like you had just been drenched in cold water. Brutally sober. You tried to push Jongseong off of you, but he was too heavy, too limp. Jaeyun shouldered his way between you two and shoved Jongseong back, grimacing when his skull hit the wood with a thud. 

You heard one last, strangled gasp from Jongseong before he stopped breathing. The last star in his eyes twinkled until it dimmed for good. 

Jongseong laid flat on the dock with his knife piercing his chest.

As you heard police sirens go off in the distance, Jaeyun wrapped his arms around you before you finally broke down into his chest. 

Your best friends were dead and your world was broken beyond repair. 

“So, it was self-defense?” Detective Lee asked, his piercing eyes boring right into yours. “Purely accidental? You had no intention of harming Park Jongseong?”

You shook your head. “I still couldn’t process the fact that he killed Sunghoon, so I didn’t think he’d actually try to hurt me.”

You wanted to cry. You bit your chapped lip, but all you could taste was blood that you doubted was even there. You couldn’t even say Sunghoon’s name without seeing that radiant smile of his stained with deep red. 

You sucked in a shaky breath. “I’ve told you everything I know. Can I see Jaeyun now?”

Detective Lee eyed you for a moment. Finally, you saw some sort of sympathy in his gaze, although you felt sort of repulsed that you were being pitied in this state. The detective muttered something about him being back later, and he left the interrogation room, leaving you handcuffed to the table. 

A minute passed by. Another. Several more. 

You were pretty sure it had been at least an hour or two of staring at the wall, but the passage of time felt meaningless now. You could wait hours, even days, but you didn’t think you would ever be ready to confront what cruel reality awaited you. 

You were so tired of everything, so exhausted that you didn’t even think about your parents until now. Were they here? Were they informed about your arrest? They must have been worried sick all night. 

When the door opened, your head shot up. 

“You’re free to go, Y/N,” Detective Lee said, pulling out a key to uncuff you from the table. 

You were frozen. You just stared up at Detective Lee with your jaw hung open. 

“I know this took awhile, but there was no security footage at the scene to confirm your story,” he elaborated. “But your stories matched up, and we found more evidence in the trunk of Jongseong’s car that he had been planning this murder.” 

He helped you to your feet and escorted you out of the room. You were able to pick up everything they took from you before you were locked up in the holding cell—your keys, wallet, and your phone. Then, you were taken to the waiting room where your parents were seated at the far end. 

At the sight of you, they all but leapt from their seats to rush over, hands cupping your face and arms embracing your weak, battered figure. There was so much love in their eyes, and their fear over possibly losing their daughter replaced any anger they had toward the situation. However, you wouldn’t have been surprised if you ended up getting an earful the next day. 

“Mom, Dad,” you whimpered out, suddenly overcome with emotion. You were immediately aware of how weak and pathetic you felt. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” your father silenced you by rubbing your back in soothing circles. “Jaeyun’s family wanted us to let you know that he’s okay, too. They just took him home about ten minutes ago.”

You were slightly disappointed. Part of you was hoping that he would wait for you, but you figured Jaeyun’s family would have wanted to go home right away. You definitely would have felt better if you got to see your boyfriend in the flesh to make sure he was alive and well, but you weren’t going to complain now. 

There was still a ghost of a smile on your lips as your parents walked you to their car. They gushed and gushed about how glad they were about you being safe and sound, and about how they never would’ve expected Jongseong of all people to end up being a murderer.

You were happy to be alive, of course, but you felt so empty. 

You pulled out your phone to try and text Jaeyun, but, as you thought, it was dead. 

“Mom, can I use your phone?” you asked, and you dialed Jaeyun’s number immediately as soon as she handed it to you. You had it memorized because it was a combination of numbers that was fairly easy to remember. 

It rang four times, and by the fifth ring, you were scared that he wouldn’t pick up. But then, it beeped.

“Hello?” Jaeyun answered. “Who is this?”

It was like a huge weight was lifted off of your shoulders once you heard his voice. Despite Detective Lee informing you that Jaeyun was, indeed, alive, you felt more reassured hearing it from your boyfriend himself. You wanted to cry then and there, but you didn’t want to make your parents worry unnecessarily. 

You forgot you were even supposed to respond when Jaeyun spoke again, “Is anyone there?”

“Jaeyun, it’s me,” you mumbled softly. “Y/N.”

You heard him suck in a sharp breath. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

Jaeyun gave you the breakdown of how his experience went, which took a completely different turn than yours. After receiving medical attention, they brought him back to his holding cell to sleep for hardly a few hours. The detective interrogating Jaeyun tried to build trust with him, telling him they wanted to help and just needed his confession. They lied about already having evidence that he killed Jongseong, but Jaeyun denied it and told them the whole story. He was only free to leave after they cross-examined his story with yours. 

“Jesus,” you whispered into the phone, breathing out a small laugh. By now, you were already parked at your house and walking to your front door. “This is so fucked up.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “but we’ll get through it.”

“Yeah, Jae. Us against the world.”

Sim Jaeyun spent nine hours being questioned by authorities. 

He knew the nature of the crime that occurred was complex, and he was still reeling from the loss and betrayal that left a deep wound in his chest, but there was something that terrified him still. 

It wasn’t the murderous look in Park Jongseong’s eyes, or the blood completely drained from Park Sunghoon’s face. 

Rather, what scared Jaeyun the most was that he spent so long pining after you and getting to know you at a deeper level. He genuinely fell hard for you, even though you had monsters in the closet. He thought he knew almost everything about you, like how you were a terrible liar. 

Yet, you had just lied about everything that went down last night for nine hours straight. 

What scared Jaeyun the most was how clueless he had been about who you really were.

Truthfully, he was also in the wrong for going along with your lie. It was definitely going to bite him back one day. In the moment, though, he was far too much of a coward to go against you. Although he was able to get Jungwon the justice he deserved and allowed his family to finally be at peace with answers, Jaeyun still felt horrible. He just remembered the desperate look in your eyes as your face and hands were stained with blood, begging him to protect you. 

Jaeyun’s downfall must have been that he liked you too much to say no.

It was true that Jongseong called you in a panic, begging you to show up at the port as quickly as possible, and it was true that you wanted Jaeyun to drive you there instead of calling the cops first. 

Jaeyun knew deep down that you were making the wrong choice, but he had hope that you knew what you were doing. Truthfully, although he liked you a lot, he was still wary about how you felt toward Sunghoon. He just couldn’t understand how you were still unconsciously protecting him after hearing what happened to Jungwon. He knew that you wanted answers, but Jaeyun was worried about how you’d react once you got them. 

The real story—the one neither of you told the detectives—never started with Park Jongseong killing Park Sunghoon.

It really started when you and Jaeyun arrived at the port to see that no one was around. It was eerily quiet, and Jaeyun was starting to regret not turning around and heading straight for the police station. When you two got out of the car, you walked several feet down the line of shipping containers before returning to Jaeyun with a confused look on your face.

“I don’t see either of them,” you said, but then your eyes grew unfocused as you stared at something—or, rather, someone—behind Jaeyun. 

He turned around to see Jongseong walking over to the two of you in a calm fashion, as if he had no other care in the world. The port was relatively an open space, so he had no idea where Jongseong could have emerged from. Jaeyun rolled his neck, more frustrated than anything. 

“Jongseong!” you called out. 

When he neared you two, Jongseong shoved his hands into his pockets. “Oh, you brought your boyfriend.”

“What’s going on?” you urged. “Is it Sunghoon? Did something happen to him?”

“Wow, that hurts, Y/N.” Jongseong barked out a laugh, but nothing about his tone sounded sincere. “I call you in the middle of the night and all you can think about is Hoon? Wow. How do you feel about that, Jaeyun?”

Jaeyun didn’t respond. He just glowered. 

Nothing about this felt right. 

You stammered, “I-I just assumed—”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” Jongseong cut you off with little regard for your excuses. “Sorry to say this in front of your boyfriend, but imagine how I feel when the girl I’ve liked for years only cares about my best friend.” 

The air went still.

Your voice was barely a whisper when you asked, “Excuse me?” 

Jaeyun pursed his lips together, and, for a moment, he thought his tongue would start bleeding if he bit it any harder. Sunghoon liked the girl that Jongseong liked, and if that girl was you, then Jaeyun was worried that he already lost you. He knew for months that he would never truly have you the way he wanted. Your feelings for Sunghoon were stronger, and although Jaeyun was able to pack his insecurities into a tiny ball and shove it down his throat, it was all coming out now. 

His uneasy heart shattered into a million pieces once he caught a glimpse of your expression—hopeful and longing. And it wasn’t for Jongseong; it was for Sunghoon. 

“Now that’s a great expression,” came an overly-enthusiastic voice from Jaeyun’s right.

Park Sunghoon was leaning against one of the shipping containers, arms folded across his chest before he uncrossed them and made his way toward the three of you. He must have been hiding behind the containers this whole time because Jaeyun hadn’t seen him at all before. 

The situation was getting increasingly uncomfortable. Jaeyun wanted to shrink back when Sunghoon suddenly took great interest in him, keeping his eyes fixed on him instead of you or Jongseong. He used to have such bright and happy smiles, but, this time, Jaeyun almost thought his grin had been sliced into his face with a blade.

Sunghoon slung an arm over Jongseong’s shoulder. “Wow, Jae, now I really wanna see the look on your face when you’re in total despair,” he crooned, almost mocking. Jaeyun’s blood rushed in his ears when Sunghoon’s tongue swiped across one of his fangs. “You should’ve seen the look on Jungwon’s face.”

Jaeyun lunged before he could even think, but he stopped himself as soon as you held onto him, stopping him from hitting Sunghoon. 

And that was when he knew he already lost you. 

“Don’t,” you insisted.

“Are you serious?” he breathed out, brows knitting into a frown as he looked down at you. 

Shame clung to your throat, keeping your mouth shut, but Jaeyun was more concerned now about the sharp blade pointed at his throat.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Jongseong had a paring knife pointed straight at him, and Sunghoon’s smile never faltered. They were clearly on the same side. There was a reason why Jeongseong never did anything about Sunghoon after killing Jungwon. 

Jaeyun felt stupid for not putting it together earlier.

“I’d listen to your girlfriend,” Jongseong warned. His voice crawled all over him, freezing Jaeyun cold to the bone. “You might as well hear us out before you die here tonight.”

“Can’t exactly let you two run off now that you know what happened to Jungwon,” Sunghoon added.

“Jungwon was our friend,” Jaeyun hissed. “He was my best friend, you sick freak! What did you do to him? Why? He’s never… he never did anything wrong!”

“You’re right. He didn’t do anything wrong,” Sunghoon confirmed, surprisingly calm and collected. “In fact, he exceeded my expectations. It was a great performance, actually.” Jaeyun clenched his fist tight—so tight that his nails dug into his palms and drew blood—and Sunghoon took notice of this with a delighted hum. “You should’ve heard him scream, Jae. I had my doubts about him at first, but when he was begging me for his life, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

You were distraught. “Sunghoon, you—”

It all happened in seconds, like a rubber band finally snapping after being stretched too thin. Jaeyun used his elbow to knock Jongseong’s arm out of the way, and he shoved Sunghoon as soon as he found an opening, driving his hands into his ribs. He heard you cry out, but Jaeyun could only see red until he was dragged back up by Jongseong, the sharp blade of the knife being pressed to his throat. 

“Stop!” you cried. “Leave Jaeyun out of this! You wanted me, right? Just let him go. Please.” 

“I don’t think so.” Sunghoon wrapped an arm around you. “You two already know too much, and Jongseong and I have been waiting for this finale for years.”

Your eyes had a faraway look in them for a moment before you turned your attention back to Jongseong. “You told me…”

“I told you that when we were fifteen, Sunghoon thought it would be fun to plan out a murder without getting caught,” Jongseong filled in the blanks for you, a haunting smile playing on his lips, “and I was in on it.”

Sunghoon tutted. “But you got it all wrong, Y/N. It wasn’t Jungwon’s murder that we were planning; it was yours.”

You looked up at him in horror.

Jaeyun struggled against Jongseong for a moment, face taut with unbridled anger. He just wanted to get to you. Get Sunghoon’s filthy hands off of you. 

“I’m a writer. I write stories,” Sunghoon continued. “Isn’t it a great twist? Convincing my childhood best friend that I loved her all this time, only to reveal that she’s gonna die at my hands.” He scoffed. “Jungwon was just at the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was good practice. I was too careless back then. I shouldn’t have left all those drawings and papers out like that when he came over, but now I’m gonna finish the job properly.” 

Your breathing was shallow. Jaeyun could see the flood of despair racking your body with soft sobs and quick pants. Your gaze fell to the ground, and Sunghoon peered to catch a better look at you. 

“Good,” he praised. “That’s what I wanna see. Wow, that’s great, Y/N. I can’t wait to see more when—”

“Get the fuck away from her!” Jaeyun yelled, grunting when Jongseong pressed the knife harder against his supple skin. 

With an exaggerated flourish of his hands, Sunghoon raised both arms and backed up as if he was a deer caught in headlights. He wore an easygoing smile, yet something sinister was tucked behind the curve of his lips. Your inconsolable self stayed fixed in place, staring helplessly at your shoes.

“For the past two years, I’ve been isolating myself from the friend group for the sake of this story and its ending,” Sunghoon said. “I think I deserve a little fun right now, Jae.”

“Fuck you,” Jaeyun spat. “You deserve to go to Hell.”

Sunghoon took a step closer to Jaeyun, ducking his head so that they were at eye-level with each other. Jaeyun tried to struggle against Jongseong once more, but he froze when the knife pierced his skin. He felt something trickle down the column of his neck, and he soon realized it was his own blood. 

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Sunghoon mocked a pout. He lowered his voice by an octave, only for Jaeyun to hear. “Competing with a childhood friend is brave, I’ll tell you that.” 

Jaeyun’s blood boiled. To his surprise, Sunghoon gestured for Jongseong to let go of him. He took the paring knife from his friend and handed it to Jaeyun. 

“Take it,” Sunghoon said. “Why don’t you try killing me? You wanna get back at me, right? I killed your best friend, after all.”

Owlish, he blinked back at Sunghoon, almost absently. Jaeyun really considered it for a moment—like, really considered it. Some part of him wanted to senselessly beat Sunghoon up until he was unrecognizable, but the morally righteous side of him knew that he could never stoop to Jongseong or Sunghoon’s level. 

Jaeyun took the knife by the handle, weighing it in his palm experimentally before chucking it away—far from both Sunghoon and Jongseong. Jaeyun was pretty sure he could overtake Jongseong if Sunghoon turned his back, but he wasn’t sure if Jongseong had another weapon up his sleeve. He heard the blade skid and scrape against the concrete, and he could only hope that Sunghoon and Jongseong being distracted by him would give you time to escape. 

But Jeongseong immediately stopped you as soon as he saw you picking up the knife, and he let go of Jaeyun to grab ahold of you. Jaeyun tried to yank Jongseong back by the back of his shirt, but Sunghoon grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head against the metal of one of the shipping containers.

Jaeyun’s world was thrown off-balance. The ground bounced, tilted, swayed. He was so dizzy and disoriented that he couldn’t tell if his head was spinning or if he was collapsing. 

The corners of his vision grew hazy with white splotches dancing around. Jaeyun tried hard to focus, making out some of the yelling that was going back and forth, but he couldn’t think at all when a newly-formed cut on his forehead was getting blood all over his face and hands. 

He doubled forward, falling onto his knees. Jaeyun had to stay there for a while and ride out the intense waves of vertigo until he was stable again. When the world finally returned to its normal axis and stopped bouncing under him, Jaeyun lifted his head to see you and Jongseong screaming at each other.

And Sunghoon was on the ground.

He stumbled over, and it was as if the white noise in Jaeyun’s ears had drowned out everything in the background. He couldn’t see or focus on anything except the pained look on Sunghoon’s face as the color drained from his neck. Blood was gushing from his jugular vein, and he was digging his palm into his neck to put pressure on the wound. 

“—you stabbed him!” you screamed at Jongseong. Your voice was hysterical; Jaeyun had never heard you sound so desperate, not even when he was being held at knifepoint. 

“Fuck, Y/N, I wouldn’t have hurt him if you didn’t pull on my arm!” Jongseong yelled back. He sank to the ground, simultaneously dropping the knife and dropping his head between his knees. 

The sight was miserable to watch. Jongseong wailed loud and mournful until he couldn’t take it anymore, doubling over so that he could throw up until nothing but bile was coming out. When it seemed as though he had nothing else to heave out of his stomach, Jongseong sat up for a brief moment. You and Jaeyun watched as his eyes rolled back almost instantly, falling onto his back and hitting his skull against the concrete. The exhaustion must have finally caught up to him, and you two didn’t have long until he was conscious again.

Jaeyun turned his attention back to Sunghoon, watching his life bleed out of his body slowly. For some reason, an odd disconnect came over Jaeyun, and he bent down to help apply pressure over Sunghoon’s wound. At first, Sunghoon gritted his teeth, but even he knew when to accept help when it was needed. 

Sim Jaeyun was pretty sure he was broken beyond belief by now, but it was impossible for him to ignore someone who was dying right before him. 

Even if he murdered Jungwon. 

“Y/N, we need to get him to a—” 

Jaeyun cut himself off when he looked up at you to see that your expression had changed. Something was different. You looked like numbness had seeped into your body, coiling around your heart until you couldn’t feel anything. The way you looked down at Jongseong, clutching his knife tightly, made Jaeyun worry.

“Y/N,” Jaeyun said again—slower, “whatever you’re thinking… please put it down.”

It didn’t seem like you were listening, though. Almost as if your body and brain were at two different places. 

“Y/N—” Jaeyun shuddered when you brought the knife down, driving it straight into Jongseong’s chest. 

Jaeyun’s stomach lurched. He watched as Jongseong struggled for his life, hardly conscious as you repeatedly stabbed him over and over again until Jaeyun was yelling at you to stop. He was sure he would never be able to close his eyes again without hearing Jongesong’s blood-curdling screams and seeing Sunghoon’s face drained of color. 

“Wow,” Sunghoon choked out. One last amused look crossed his face before it fell apart painfully. “I told you, Jae, there’s no competing with a childhood best friend.” Jaeyun flushed with anger, but it dissolved quickly when he realized Sunghoon’s breathing got slower, shallower. The look on his face was one of someone accepting their untimely death. “Thanks for the show, though.”

In his arms, Sunghoon took his last breath and went still.

It wasn’t grief that Jaeyun felt. It was something far greater.

“Jaeyun, I—I didn’t mean to,” you sobbed out, shakily holding up your bloodstained hands. “It was self-defense! I tried to stop him, but he was trying to kill me, and then he… he killed Sunghoon. I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t—” You exhaled shakily. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

Jaeyun didn’t respond. He just stared at you in disbelief. 

“Come on, Jae,” you pleaded. Oh, so it was Jae now. “You have to help me get rid of their bodies. I can’t go to prison!”

“Get rid of the body?” Jaeyun raised his voice, exasperated. “Y/N, they’re dead! We have to tell the police everything. I mean, what are you gonna do when your prints match?”

Your lips pressed together in a grim line. “Your prints are on the knife, too.”

Were you blackmailing him? Jaeyun couldn’t believe what he was hearing from you. He never expected you, of all people, to be the one to throw him under the bus like this. He had trusted you with his life before, and you threw it all away in seconds. 

“Are you going to help me or not?” You looked toward the dock over the water. It was a good enough distance for you to drag Sunghoon and Jongseong’s bodies over to, but Jaeyun sure as hell didn’t want to get involved. “Just help me throw them in the water, and we can both walk away from this, Jae. We can go back to our lives, okay?”

He shook his head sadly. You just sounded like a stranger to him. 

“Please, Y/N,” he pleaded, tears stinging his eyes, “please stop this. You have to turn yourself in.”

But his resolve was shaky. Jaeyun knew that he would still be booked once they found his prints at the scene, and there was no telling what you would do to protect yourself. By now, Jaeyun wouldn’t have been surprised if you somehow pushed the crime onto him. 

“Jae, listen to me,” you insisted. Your eyes were wide and brimming with tears, and Jaeyun couldn’t help but think you looked a little crazed. “We can both get out of this, but you have to help me out here. We’re gonna tell them that Jongseong killed Sunghoon before we got here, and then he chased us until we ended up stabbing him out of self-defense. I mean, that’s all this was, anyway! It was self-defense!”

A distant part of Jaeyun’s mind wondered what happened to you. He wondered if you had always been this way, perhaps keeping it tucked away. In the end, you were still trying to protect Sunghoon in your own way. You were still trying to protect some fragment of his golden image.

“It’s you and me,” you whispered, kneeling down by your boyfriend’s side until you were cupping his face with your hands, staining his cheeks with Jongseong’s blood, “the two of us against the world.”

Just hours ago, Sim Jaeyun looked at you like you were his entire world.

And now, with your bloodstained hands holding his face, there was unmistakable fear behind his eyes as he looked up at you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ thank you so so much for reading if you made it all the way to the end !! i would lovee for you to guys to share what you thought, but just to point a few things out, jake's pov was the unfiltered version of what went down that night. the dialogue from mc is similar to jongseong's because while she painted him out to be the villain in the end to protect sunghoon, it was really her who said those things. originally this had a happier ending but i'm a lot more satisifed with this one actually. i hope you guys liked it !! <3 also i am deciding against using my permanent tag list this time because i haven't used it in a year and don't know if anyone exactly signed up to read horror 🧎‍♀️

[natalievoncatte]

The palm-print panel was cool under Lena’s touch. She pressed her hand to the rectangular plate next to her front door and waited for the brief moment it needed to scan her skin. The door unlocked with a meaty thump and she pushed it open with her other hand, absently checking her phone as she stepped inside. As the system scanned her biometrics, it detected stress and dimmed the lights, automatically turned on the television to an abstract screen saver with cool tones, and began to play an arrangement for a violins to soothe her nerves.

She kicked off her heels and walked barefoot into the kitchen, where she skipped the countertop wine cellar and pulled out the half-empty box of Trader Joe’s vintage that she’d taken a liking to thanks to Kara. She pours herself half a tumbler full as a silent fuck you to her mother and took a swig, then walked out into her living room to sit down in the gloom for a few minutes and think.

Supergirl was sitting on her couch, head flopped back over the back so that her hair fanned out across the white leather. She sat splayed with her knees apart and legs out, arms resting on her thighs. Lena wasn’t sure if she was awake.

As she drew closer, she caught a small gasp. Supergirl had a black eye, and there were scrapes on her cheeks and the backs of her hands, the blood barely crusted. Both her hands and her face were bruised and she had a tiny split in her lip.

Lena placed the wine on the table, nerves jangling when the bottom rattled against the pale marble from the shaking of her hand. Her heart raced as she drew closer. Supergirl had taken off her cape and draped it over the couch. It was none the worse for wear but was covered in scorch marks.

Suoergirl’s broad chest heaved once and she let out a long, pained sigh.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Supergirl.”

She let out a little laugh, wincing. “Do we need be so formal?”

“I don’t have anything else to call you,” Lena said, coolly. “Mind if I ask why you’re in my apartment?”

“You don’t lock the balcony doors. You should.”

Lena sighed and folded her arms. “I said why, not how.”

Supergirl didn’t look at her.

“I just got the snot beaten out of me. Everything hurts.”

“I didn’t think that was possible.”

How was it possible? Curiosity tugged at her, but concern shot through it, making her fidget with her hands. Lena hated fidgeting. It made her look weak, and she could still remember the pain when Lillian cracked the ruler across her knuckles to break the habit.

“Can I have some wine?”

Lena swallowed hard.

“Sure,” she said.

She went to the kitchen and poured. When she returned to the living room, Supergirl was sitting up, hunched forward and leaning on he knees. Lena started a little at the sight. Sitting that way displayed the wide, muscular set of her shoulders and arms, especially her meaty biceps. Her back was a rare sight -she wore a cape, after all- and just as exquisitely muscled.

She was looking at her hands, at the damage to her muscles. Lena offered the glass and she took it. Her fingers were warm when they brushed against Lena’s, strangely soft.

Supergirl took a long pull of wine and smacked her lips, then winced.

“It’s times like this I wish I could get drunk.”

“You can’t?”

“Not on wine and not for very long.”

“Interesting.”

“So I have a problem,” Supergirl said. She was still looking at her hands.

“And that is?”

“I have to call off work tomorrow. These will heal, and I’ll look exactly the same. I don’t get scars anymore. But they’ll be visible for a day or so.”

“I see.”

“But I have to get brunch with someone, and they’ll be able to tell. Concealer won’t do much for this.” She touched her eye, wincing.

“Wait here,” said Lena.

She came back a moment later with some wash clothes soaked in cold water on a tray. Hands still shaking a little as she placed it on the table. Tenderly, she took one of the washcloths and dabbed the back of Supergirl’s hands, cleaning away the grime and dried blood from the abrasions.

Supergirl sighed. “That feels good. Thank you.”

“May I?” said Lena.

Supergirl hesitated, doubt flashing deep within the endless depths of her blue eyes, but she turned to Lena and tilted up her chin. With shaking fingers, Lena cupped Supergirl’s face gently and used a fresh cloth to clean and cool the cut on her lip. Supergirl closed her eyes and sighed.

Lena’s eyes wandered up, to the small mark above her eye.

“You don’t scar. Did you get that on Krypton?”

“Yes. I slipped and fell when I was a little girl. You should have seen me. I bled all over.”

“Must be nice, not getting hurt anymore. Not feeling pain.”

“I still feel it.”

Lena paused.

“I feel every bullet and blow and bomb blast just like anyone would,” said Supergirl. Just because it doesn’t harm me doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” said Supergirl.

She opened her eyes -eye- and looked at Lena reverently, one pretty blue eye glittering while the other remained bruised shut. She smiled a lopsided, honest smile, looked at Lena in a dreamy, almost adoring way that-

Wait.

“Oh my God,” Lena breathed.

“Hi,” said Kara.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” Lena whispered. “Oh my God, what happened, how did this happen to you? You’re hurt!”

“I had a tough time with a very determined alien and had to worry about civilians,” said Kara. “It happens.”

Lena’s pulse raced and her breath quickened. Her gaze darted, searching and noticing every detail. She was so beautiful, and she was so Kara.

“Why now?” said Lena. “Why this time?”

“I don’t know.”

Lena bit her lip, and the tiny gesture had a noticeable impact on Kara. Her eyes widened and her gaze fell to Lena’s bottom lip, then flicked back up.

“So your brunch,” said Lena. “That was with me.”

“Yeah. I thought about cancelling but I can’t. I needed to see you now.”

Lena shifted closer on the couch, until they were hip to hip.

“Why?”

“Because I just got punched in the head by an alien with big stupid bone spurs coming out of his fist and I need to see you. I won, by the way. It was really cool. I ripped a fire hydrant out of the ground and hit him with it.”

Lena looked her up and down. Her jaw began to quiver.

“Oh God. Is it worse than it looks? Are you hurt worse than you look, Kara? Are you…”

Kara shook her head, then winced. “No. Not that bad, promise. I just…” she sighed. “I’m tired of going to lay on a sunbed and going back to my empty apartment and spend a sick day napping on the couch.”

Lena let out a slow breath. “So you came to see me.”

“Yuuup,” Kara said, slowly.

Lena shifted awkwardly in her seat. Kara slowly reached over with her now clean hand and curled her fingers around Lena’s chin.

“Lena?” she whispered. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

Kara turned and leaned into her, pressing the slightest, lightest kiss to Lena’s lips, not a quick peck but something slow and soft, warm and inviting.

“Ow,” Kara muttered.

“Kara,” Lena whispered.

“I have any idea. Since I can’t make brunch… how about breakfast?”

Lena leaned against her, gently draping her arms around her as they fell back into the soft cushions together.

“Okay.”

[chaniceroses]

Bad Boys Ride or Die (Armando x Reader): Part One

Another day... another morning. Time seems to be passing you by without allowing you to catch up and you feel as if your life is slowly running its course. It’s been about an hour since you have woken up but since the sun is always aligned with your window before work, that’s how you knew it was time to get up and get ready. The birds chirping, neighbors mowing their yard and arguing. A continuous cycle that you sometimes wish would end. You laid there in your soft, silky sheet until you heard a knock at your door. Getting up, putting on your cheetah print robe, you slipped on your house shoes and walked over to your door.

“Who is it?” You asked, holding on to the door knob.

“It’s us, who else would it be?”, a familiar voice answered with a slight chuckle.

You sighed while unlocking the door, opening it to see two black males standing there making eye-contact. They were the ones “training” you for the detective spot.

“What do you guys want? You know this can’t be an everyday routine, right?”You laughed walking away towards your open kitchen. 

“Make sure you shut my door and lock it, I don’t need anyone else barging in.” You continued leaning against your counter-table.

“Get used to it y/n. Since we are training you, and you are going to be with us all of the time…we might as well hang over each other's houses and be friends.”,Mike answered taking a seat

“Mike, we haven’t done any training”. She’s basically a tag-along.” Marcus replied looking through his phone.

“Tag-along? Please don’t get me started..”, you scoffed looking at Marcus and then at Mike.

You stared into Mike’s dark brown eyes, while examining his body features. Mike Lowery is his name, a tall light-skinned black male with a goatee mustache, smooth skin-texture, soft plump lips, ears that kind of sticks out with a tiny earring that brings out his face. 

“Imma guess that you like what you see.”Mike smiled, walking up towards you. He towered over you. It made you feel some kind of way but then again nothing at all. You turned to look at Marcus, to see him shaking his head into his hands. 

“Hmm…no.”, you laughed, patting him on his chest and then walking towards your bedroom. “Give me an hour and then we can head out.”

“Forty-five minutes since you just pulled that bullshit.”, Mike replied sitting down next to Marcus while he laughed .

“Two words for you…Married. Man.”, Marcus recalled pointing to the ring that was on his finger.

“You’re right.”

You could hear their conversation the whole time however, you didn’t pay attention because there were other things on your mind regarding your job. You know it isn’t time to choose just yet and to make a decision that could change your life and your relationship with your “partners”, however you also know that the sand is slowly slipping. 

Time had passed and you were heading out when you noticed your living room window was slightly opened, you stared at it for a moment then walked over to shut it and left. Before you knew it, you were in the backseat of Marcus’s and Mike’s car on the way to work. This was their way of getting to know you better, training you and “being generous”.  However, the ride to the precinct slowly had put you in a trance, reminding you of your last conversation between you and Captain Howard before he was murdered…

“Captain!!!” You yelled walking up towards him. “Anything for me to do, check up on, investigate ... .alone”, you whispered, moving your focus from him to Marcus and Mike. Conrad Howard was his name and he was the one who had partnered you with Marcus and Mike since he considered them to be“ experienced” in what they do.

“What are you talking about y/n?”he asked, raising one of his eyebrows while folding his arms.

“Heyyyyy! Captain… what do you think about-” before Mike could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Howard putting his finger up to Mike.

“Did he just-”

“He did.”, Marcus sighed looking at Mike, you and then at Captain

“I was just wondering…if you had any files that needed to be looked at. Or maybe if I need to go somewhere and investigate…something.”, you pleaded.

“I have one file that needs to be-”

“No Cap that wouldn’t be necessary. We can go to the range and practice our shots and ride around to ensure that everyone is safe.”Mike interrupted, looking at you and Marcus.

“I actually have some files to look at myself, Mike.”, Marcus shrugged, walking off towards his desk.

You looked at Mike and watched as he looked at you, then at Captain and left.

“He’s a guy who loves action. He’ll be okay however, I want to talk to you though, Walk with me?”Howard suggested pointing towards the hallway.

“Sure what’s up?”, you asked, keeping up the pace that he was leading.

“I was wondering if you have decided what you wanted to do. With your position here. I know that you don’t need the training but you know it's “protocols”. It’s not me.”, he explained looking through the papers that he was carrying.

You were taking in what he was saying. You entered the portal about a month ago since you came from a different district, however the point still stands. Different opportunities have been thrown at you when it comes to your career and where you are right now, since you’ve been in the game for years. You would think it would be easier however now it has left you stuck. Leaving the precinct and becoming an international agent, stay and be a detective or retire and finally have a family with someone you love, decisions…decisions.

“I haven’t decided yet, so many options and personal things to think about.”, you replied, walking at the same rhythm as your boss.

“Listen…between you and I. Go with what you think is the worst.”, he replied, stopping in his tracks.

“Excuse me?” you replied confusingly tilting your head.

  “You wouldn’t be confused with what you wanted to do, if it was the best option. So go with what you are avoiding.”, he answered, looking up at you through his glasses.

“Not to take advice from you, noted.”, you thought, turning your focus towards the meeting that was happening down the hallway.

“Look, it may not make sense right now but later it will. Trust me.”, he reassured walking towards the room that a meeting was happening in.

“We’re a huge family here. Even if we hate each other’s guts. And with Mike and Marcus… They like you, and I can tell that they’ve somewhat gotten attached to you…which never happens. So ignore the things that are said especially with whatever comes out of Mike’s mouth.”, He continued pointing at you then walking into the meeting.

You watched as Captain walked into the meeting while waving the files that he was looking at earlier.

 “They like me.”, you mocked, while turning around. “They don’t even know me.” you laughed walking back towards your desk.

You must’ve gotten lost in your thoughts because when you looked forward. Marcus was turned around in his passenger seat looking right at you.

“I’m sorry?”, you asked, looking at Marcus to Mike and back at Marcus.

“What do you have planned today?”Marcus asked, looking at you with confusion across his face.

“Um, I have office work that I need to catch up on. I guess I can do that today.”, you replied, grabbing your phone from your purse.

“Office work?”Mike and Marcus replied in unison. Pure disgust crawled across their faces. You thought to yourself if you said something wrong, or maybe if it was your body expression. 

“You’re telling me that you don’t want to get in any action. Hurt people ... .fight!”Mike yelled, paying attention to the road while also taking quick glances at me through the rearview mirror.

“Mike, not everyone loves violence but y/n you should want to get some type of action..y’know. Office work. Really?”Marcus added, looking at the pedestrians going on about their day.

“I mean, if I can avoid it then yeah, I wouldn’t want to deal with it but of course sometimes it just comes my way.”, you replied scanning through downloads on your phone.

“See…I’m not the only person that attracts danger.”Mike laughed while looking at Marcus.

The rest of the ride was pretty chill besides Mike and Marcus arguing over past events with Mike dating Marcus' sister and operations that nearly blew up in their faces and their sex life. After what felt like forever,  you made it to the precinct and were instantly met by the loud voices of cops everywhere and a huge meeting happening down the hallway.

You, Marcus and Mike stared at each other confusingly, trying to figure out what was going on until a police officer came up to stop in front of you.

“They’ve been in there for hours, no one knows what’s going on.”, the cop said, staring at Marcus and Mike and then back down the hallway.

You stared at the people that were in there, making eye-contact with someone who was sitting at the head of the table.

“I’m sure it's nothing. I’m going to my desk.”, you replied, turning to Marcus and Mike and then leaving. You knew it wasn’t just “ nothing” because since Captain Howard was killed barely anyone has used that meeting room unless there was a hostage situation, or something between those lines. However, there were people from different districts in there and paper was scattered everywhere. Everyone seemed obnoxious and worried.

After a couple twists and turns down the hallway, you made it to your desk and flopped down onto your seat to be greeted by paperwork that needed to be looked through.

“What is all this?”, you whispered, opening one of the files and looking through them.

Before you knew it, all you saw was a stack of papers flying across your face onto the table. You looked up in shock to see Mike standing there with a smile across his face.

“You said you wanted files so there you go.”Mike laughed standing behind you.

“What do you want Mike? Because I am not about to look through all of those files, I'd rather be around Marcus all day and listen to him complain about his sex-life.”, you replied sitting down at your desk.

“That’s not what you said earlier.” Mike replied.

“How do you even know that? Mike, you've been telling y/n about my sex life?”, Marcus snapped getting up from his desk.

“Hell no. I-”

“I was in the back of the car. Earlier… when you guys picked me up after coming to my house which has been everyday for the last month.” you interrupted straightening up the files.

“Oh.” Marcus replied, covering his mouth. “I mean that shouldn’t even be a problem, Mike and I go over each other’s places all of the time.” he continued looking at Mike and then back at you.

“Hold up, how did you guys even know where I lived?” you asked leaning back into your chair while making direct eye-contact with them.

You watched as Mike leaned against your desk, gave Marcus a “really” look and then back at you.

“You’re smarter than that so we’re going to pretend you didn’t just ask that question…okay sweetie.”, he replied in disappointment while looking at you.

“That was a blonde moment.”, you thought to yourself. “Well guys thank you for bringing me here but I have work to do.”, you continued pushing Mike’s files to the side.

“I guess I'll grab these and put them back on my desk then.”, he stated grabbing them and putting them on top of his table.

Marcus and Mike caught the social cues that you were giving them and started analyzing the paperwork that was on their desk. They were cool people to be around. Fun and wild but also annoying and extremely obnoxious. They made you nervous due to not being able to know their next move. You scanned across the room and watched how every single person lived their lives. Some looked completely stressed, others looked as if they hadn't slept in months and the rest seemed to be taking each day slowly.

You brought your eyes towards Mike to see him typing things into his computer. You watched how his veins showed through his hands and the way his shirt compressed onto his body. You turned to look at Marcus with his eyes already piercing into yours. He was staring the whole time.

“What?”, you asked looking back at him. You watched as he shrugged you off and went back to work.

The rest of the morning was filled with everyone trying to figure out what the meeting is about, and flashbacks of your last conversation with Captain Howard. You’ve only been in Miami for a couple months now after leaving from a different precinct, and very little has occurred. This will be a long year.

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

ii. evidence of absence.

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. ft. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 semi-graphic descriptions of blood, death. wc. 5.5k.

previous chapter ↜ i. tie a cherry.

The morning sky hangs low, leaden and bruised, casting shadows that stretch like spilled ink down the alleyway. Rain clings to every surface, transforming the cracked pavement into mirrors, reflecting nothing but gray. The body lies at the epicenter of all that grayness, starkly illuminated under the harsh beams of forensic lamps.

You stand silently near the crime scene perimeter, boots slick with rainwater, breath misting gently into the frigid air. Even beneath the thick wool of your coat, the chill seeps into your bones, lingering alongside an uncomfortable, gnawing tension.

Across from you, Mingyu rises smoothly from his crouched position near the victim. He crosses the alley in a few purposeful strides, his expression unreadable, and silently offers Jeonghan a small, sleek, familiar card.

Jeonghan frowns, squinting at the black and crimson lettering. “Velvet Eden…?”

Mingyu nods slowly, voice low and careful, almost apologetic. “She’s a regular. I do recognize her. She was new around six months ago, when I first started infiltrating.”

You shift slightly, chest tightening as the words sink in. It’s strange how quickly dread coils around the edges of familiarity, like ivy reclaiming an abandoned building.

“And last night,” Mingyu continues, eyes flickering momentarily toward you, guarded yet quietly protective, “right after we got there—a group of vampires arrived. Suits, expensive, polished. Different energy than usual. Hungrier, colder. Dangerous. I didn’t recognize any faces, didn’t catch names…but the vibe was off.” His jaw flexes briefly, tension visibly threading through his shoulders.

You remember the moment vividly. Mingyu’s silent shift at the bar, his shoulder brushing against yours just enough to signal caution, subtly shielding you from prying eyes. A flash of silver cufflinks catching the club’s low lights, the cold glint of predatory eyes tracking your movements. You swallow hard, the faint taste of last night’s amaretto lingering on your tongue, mingling strangely with the acrid aftertaste of adrenaline and unease.

When you meet Mingyu’s gaze again, understanding passes silently between you—a low, instinctive hum of tension. You’re not sure what exactly you’re walking into, only that whatever it is, you’re already deeply tangled in its grasp.

You exhale a slow, measured breath, peeling your gloves off sharply, fingers stinging briefly from the cold. “We need footage. Not from inside the club—they won’t give us anything unless we subpoena, and even then, they’ll wipe it clean.”

Mingyu nods curtly, gaze following yours to the surrounding buildings. “Exterior cams?”

“Exactly,” you say, eyeing the narrow brick apartment building looming on one side and the shuttered print shop tucked against the other. Their security cameras look cheap and poorly maintained, but anything’s better than nothing. “Check flank angles. We might get lucky and catch whoever brought her here. Move quickly, before the footage loops.”

Without another word, Mingyu departs swiftly, long strides eating up the pavement as he disappears into the hazy morning fog. Jeonghan watches him go, eyebrows arching in silent amusement as the tall vampire melts easily into the shadows between buildings.

Then, with a grin that somehow manages to be both teasing and empathetic, Jeonghan turns toward you, eyes twinkling mischievously. “So,” he drawls, deliberately playful, though you can sense genuine curiosity beneath, “tell me about last night.”

You blink at him, breath misting in the cold air. “What’s there to tell?” You shrug, feigning disinterest. “We were just establishing my presence.”

Jeonghan snorts softly, rolling his eyes. “Oh, I know that part, idiot. I want the real details. Like, why you and Mingyu are suddenly drowning in weird nervous energy. The guy’s practically glued to your hip.”

Your eyes drift briefly back toward the body, now carefully shrouded in plastic, forensic techs quietly murmuring as they move carefully around the scene. You sigh, relenting just a bit. “It was fine,” you say softly, voice barely audible above the distant murmur of radios and traffic. “We had drinks, established a cover…then went into a Red Room. There was a camera inside—very visible—so we had to sell it.”

Jeonghan leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Define?”

You glance sideways at him, heart speeding uncomfortably. “We made out. Briefly.”

Jeonghan’s mouth forms an exaggerated ‘O,’ eyes sparkling. He chuckles softly under his breath, clearly entertained but trying—and failing—to suppress his amusement. “And?” he presses again.

“And then he fed from me.” You swallow thickly, throat tight with the admission. “That was the whole point, after all.”

Jeonghan tilts his head, expression carefully neutral but eyes gleaming with intense curiosity. “Painful?”

You pause, chewing the inside of your cheek, uncertain how best to convey the truth. “At first, yes,” you admit quietly. “But then…it felt—” Your voice trails off, embarrassment creeping up your neck in a hot rush. “I don’t know how to explain it in a way that isn’t…uncouth.”

Jeonghan smirks faintly. “Get to the point.”

“It was like the best orgasm I’ve never had,” you finally mutter, voice dropping to a whisper, cheeks hot. “Like pure ecstasy. I can’t explain it better than that.”

He blinks once, twice—and then bursts into low, muffled laughter, shoulders shaking with amusement. “Oh, interesting,” he says finally, grinning broadly. “And how do you feel today?”

You sigh, rubbing your hands together, staring at the wet pavement as you gather your scattered thoughts. “Everything feels…sluggish,” you admit slowly, “like my nerves are dipped in tar. But last night—I felt something I didn’t expect. It was exciting. I realized we’ll have to do it again, maybe multiple times…and that thought didn’t scare me. It thrilled me.”

“So you’re horny for him?” Jeonghan deadpans.

Your head snaps up, eyes widening with immediate horror. “Jeonghan!”

He laughs openly, teeth bright against the gloom. “What? I mean, I’m straight, but I’m not blind. Mingyu’s literally drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark, mysterious, ancient vampire charm? He’s got enough skin in the game. Hell, even I’d probably get flustered.”

You roll your eyes, irritated yet undeniably flustered yourself. “We were undercover, Jeonghan.”

“Uh-huh,” he chuckles. “Sure you were.”

Your cheeks still burn as Mingyu returns swiftly, slipping easily beneath the police tape and handing you a short handwritten note. “They’ll send the footage to the precinct before lunch,” he says quietly. His gaze brushes gently across your face, checking silently for distress, for damage. You soften slightly under his careful attention, heart stumbling traitorously.

Jeonghan slaps Mingyu cheerfully on the shoulder as he passes, smirking broadly. “You’re driving her, bloodsucker. She’s too cold to handle it.”

Mingyu doesn’t protest, merely nodding softly, his expression faintly amused yet somehow quietly pleased. You don’t argue either. The thought of slipping into the warmth and quiet of his car is too inviting to resist.

The drive back is heavy with silence—not uncomfortable, exactly, but thick and charged, your skin prickling with a strange awareness of him. You watch raindrops streak down the window, keenly aware of the quiet sounds of his breathing, the subtle flex of his hands gripping the wheel.

Inside the precinct, the warmth does little to ease the lingering chill in your bones. You pass through the maze of half-cubicles and incident boards, past the coffee station that always smells like burnt rubber and despair, until you reach the far end of the corridor. Your shared office is quiet. Dim, except for the gray light pushing in through the blinds and the faint hum of your space heater struggling to do its job.

Technically, it’s your and Jeonghan’s office. But since Mingyu’s temporary transfer from Organized Crime, you’ve cleared space at the other half of your desk—two monitors now sit side by side, paperwork stacked in tidy columns between. His things are minimal: laptop, notepad, one perfectly aligned pen. Everything else, he borrows. Including your charger, your stapler, and occasionally, your patience.

He doesn’t say anything as he sits, only exhales through his nose, tired. You do the same. The click of your chair wheels is the only sound for a while.

You try to work—really, you do. Your eyes skim line after line of log reports, flicking past duplicate aliases and half-scrubbed membership rosters. Your highlighter drags across familiar names in a haze of yellow, but nothing sticks. The words blur into nothing. It’s like trying to read underwater. Every sound feels muffled, distant. The warm hum of the space heater barely cuts through the chill pressing against your spine.

And then—you feel it.

Stillness. Not tension, exactly. But deliberate, settled quiet.

You look up.

Mingyu’s watching you from across the desk—not with the sharp, clinical scrutiny of an investigator, but something slower, more careful. Like he’s waiting. Not to be heard. To be understood.

“Can we talk?” he asks, voice pitched low enough that the heater almost swallows it. But you catch it. You’re already listening.

You nod once, the motion small. “Of course.”

He leans forward slowly, bracing his elbows on his knees. His hands flex in his lap—just once, then still. The weight in his posture is subtle but unmistakable. Something about him feels older in this moment. Like he’s dragging something from deeper down.

“It’s about your blood type,” he says, and the words fall into the space between you like a stone into deep water.

You blink, posture straightening, a flicker of something cold brushing the back of your neck. “Okay…”

Mingyu’s eyes flick to yours, steady. Apologetic. “It’s RH-null.”

The words don’t hit at first. You just stare at him, waiting for more.

“…Okay,” you echo slowly, cautious. “And?”

A breath leaves him—sharp, but quiet. Not frustration. Not impatience. Just the weight of explaining something he wishes he didn’t have to.

“It’s rare,” he says. “Exceptionally. One in six million. Most vampires will go their entire existence without even smelling it, let alone tasting it.” He pauses, throat working once. “It’s not just rare. It’s potent. Dangerous. Loaded.”

You blink again. The implications begin to ripple outward—slow at first, then faster.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he adds quietly, gaze flicking down to the edge of the desk. “Fear, in a place like that is about as good as an open wound. I knew what your blood could do, and I knew what that room would feel like with you in it. I needed you calm. I wanted to be honest, but…”

“But you weren’t,” you finish for him—not sharp, not angry. Just quiet. Steady.

His jaw tenses faintly, the muscles flexing once beneath the clean line of his cheek. “I should have been.”

You lean back slightly in your chair, exhaling through your nose. It’s not that you’re upset—though the pulse behind your ribs has started to speed up. It’s more the ground shifting beneath your feet. Something you thought you understood—something you thought you had a grip on—suddenly redefined.

“You have to tell me these things,” you say, and though your voice is still even, it carries the weight of something non-negotiable. “Even if it’s scary. Even if you think I’ll panic. We don’t have room for secrets between us—not in there. It's too dangerous.”

His gaze snaps back to yours. There’s no defensiveness in it—only remorse. A soft, wounded kind of acknowledgment.

“I know,” he says. “And you’re right.”

The silence that follows is thick, coiled with the kind of tension that doesn’t come from anger—but from understanding. From the long, uneasy reconciliation between what’s been kept quiet and what needs to be spoken.

“So,” you say slowly, fingers curling against the hem of your sweater, “if I’m… if I’m this potent—this tempting—what does that mean for feeding? Is there a risk?”

The question hangs between you, and for the first time, Mingyu’s composure fractures—barely. A flicker. The barest bristle of offense. You hadn’t meant it that way, but the reaction is there before you can walk it back.

His voice, when it comes, is calm—but edged with something tight. “Not with me.”

You hold his gaze, steady. “I wasn’t implying—”

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. The tension bleeds off him like mist in the sun. “I know you weren’t. I just… I need you to understand that even at its worst, even if every instinct I have is screaming for more—I won’t lose control. Not with you. Never with you.”

You study him.

The way his shoulders have gone still again, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth. He looks… pained. Not because you doubted him, but because you even had to ask.

And you hadn’t meant it like that. Not really. You trust him. You do. But trust doesn’t erase instinct. Not yours. Not his.

“The first feed is always the hardest,” he says after a beat. “The bond hits raw. Unfiltered. It softens with time. You’ll adjust. So will I. It gets easier.”

You nod slowly. That makes sense. It tracks.

But there’s a part of you—small, hidden—that doesn’t want it to get easier.

You don’t want to lose the sharpness of what happened between you. The way it had caught you off guard. The way your body had sung under his mouth, his hands. The way your name had trembled in his throat like it meant something more than duty.

You don’t say it.

But the way his eyes linger on yours says maybe—just maybe—he already knows.

A long silence settles between you, thick and unspoken but not uncomfortable. Just… real. And then—

A voice from the hallway cuts through it, louder than necessary.

“Knock, knock, kids. I come bearing gifts.”

Jeonghan.

He bumps the door open with his hip, two plastic bags swinging from one arm and a coffee tray precariously balanced in the other. The smell hits immediately—spicy, rich, bright with chili paste.

“You two looked like you were about to expire,” he announces, dropping the bags onto your desk with a dramatic flourish. “Eat. That’s an order.”

He sets the food down on your desk with a flourish. Steam curls from the bags, rich and spicy, the scent of tteokbokki hitting the air like a punch to the senses—red sauce, rice cakes, something slightly sweet, and something burning just enough to make your mouth water.

“You didn’t,” you say, half-smiling despite the tension still riding your spine.

Jeonghan just grins. “I did. And I got real coffee this time. None of that precinct-sludge.”

Mingyu murmurs a quiet thanks, already tearing into one of the containers with the kind of hunger that seems too well-practiced. You’re pretty sure food does nothing for him, as a vampire. Mere indulgence rather than sustenance, perhaps. It makes the corners of your mouth curl into a smile regardless.

You’re slower to start, but when the first bite hits your tongue, the heat is like a defibrillator. The spice shocks you back into your body—the sauce sticky and sweet, the rice cakes chewy and warm. It spreads through your chest like thawing out from the inside.

For a while, no one speaks. Just the occasional scrape of chopsticks against the plastic container, the low sound of Mingyu swallowing beside you, the hum of Jeonghan’s laptop fan kicking into life as he checks something on-screen. The heater whirs steadily in the background, and the room is suddenly smaller. Warmer. Realer.

It’s almost peaceful. The kind of quiet that settles like a blanket, made heavier by exhaustion and the faint spice of sauce still clinging to your tongue. The lull of food and fatigue creates the illusion of stillness, of calm—like maybe, for once, everything can just stop.

Then Jeonghan’s laptop pings.

The sound cuts through the room like a blade. Sharp. Surgical.

All three of you still at once. Chopsticks freeze mid-air. Breaths hold. Jeonghan exhales, a sigh that sounds too steady to be anything but forced, and he swivels his chair with practiced ease. He clicks once.

Footage Received: 5 attachments.

You don’t realize how tight your grip on the container has become until you feel your knuckles ache on putting it down. Without a word, you rise, drawn toward the screen like gravity itself has shifted. Mingyu is already moving in sync, silent, his body casting a long shadow across the desk as he leans in beside you.

The first video stutters into life.

The timestamp blinks in one corner—barely three hours after you and Mingyu had walked out of Velvet Eden under the syrupy haze of red light and too many half-formed thoughts.

The alley appears first. Dimly lit. Unremarkable. Then—movement.

Seo-yeon.

She stumbles into frame, clutching herself like she’s trying to hold in something vital. Her gait is uneven, shoulders hunched. Every part of her screams discomfort. Vulnerability. And then—behind her—a second figure.

A shadow that glides more than walks. Sleek. Fast. Purposeful.

You don’t breathe.

Seo-yeon turns. Tries to retreat. But it’s too late. Her mouth opens like she’s going to scream, but no sound escapes before her body crumples. The figure is already on her.

The attack isn’t clumsy. There’s no wild grappling, no chaotic blur of limbs. It’s measured. Precise. The shadow descends with a kind of reverence—like feeding is a prayer, not a crime. There’s no blood spray. No mess. Just the steady, sickening intimacy of lips at a throat and a body going slack beneath it.

Then—black screen.

You’re left staring at the monitor’s dark reflection. Your own face stares back at you in the gloss of the laptop. Your features look warped. Pale. Drawn. The hollow curve of your mouth stays open a beat too long.

You look like someone who’s just watched a girl die.

But it’s not horror that sits in your chest.

Not really.

It’s recognition.

You know what it’s like now—to be the one beneath the mouth, the hands. To feel that sharp, electrifying prick of fangs, and then the drop. The sudden, inexorable fall into something vast and hot and bottomless. It doesn’t feel like death. It feels like drowning in pleasure so deep it defies logic. You’d felt it yourself. Still feel it, sometimes, in phantom echoes that hum beneath your skin.

You remember Mingyu’s mouth. The way his breath had ghosted across your skin before he bit. The way his hands had held you—firm but careful, like you were something fragile and treasured. The way your body had gone soft under his touch, your thoughts obliterated by bliss.

The figure in the video wasn’t careful.

But they were experienced.

You wonder, in some deep, sick part of you, if Seo-yeon felt it too—just for a moment. If, before the end, it felt like something else. Like being chosen. Desired. Consumed.

Your stomach churns.

You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to drown the thought in breath, but the taste of last night still clings to the back of your throat. Amaretto. Velvet. His mouth.

And then, the shame hits. Heavy. Crawling.

You’re standing here, mourning a stranger through the lens of your own memory. Not because you knew her. But because your body remembers how good it felt—and part of you hates that. Hates that you know.

“It’s clean,” Mingyu says, voice low and even, like he’s speaking from behind glass. “Efficient. Whoever did it… knew exactly what they were doing.”

His voice is close. You hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten.

You swallow, the dryness in your throat like sandpaper. “It wasn’t just a kill,” you murmur. “It was a ritual.”

The words hang there, suspended between you.

Jeonghan mutters something—maybe a curse, maybe a prayer—but it sounds far away. Distant. Muted beneath the buzz that’s started in your ears. You can’t pull your eyes from the screen even though it’s blank now. Black as the inside of a coffin. But your mind keeps playing the footage on loop.

Seo-yeon’s stumble. Her turn. The way she dropped.

You shake your head once, sharp, like it might clear the images lodged behind your eyes.

“She hesitated,” you whisper. “Right before. Like she sensed something. But she didn’t run.”

Mingyu is already moving, sliding back toward his desk with the focused calm of someone trying not to let adrenaline short-circuit his logic. “We need names,” he says, fingers flying across his keyboard. “Anyone who left after us. Anyone unaccounted for in the hours after. Timestamps, aliases, everything.”

The calm from earlier is gone. The warmth of food, the easy jokes, even the sting of the pepper sauce on your tongue—it’s all been stripped away. The air is colder now. Hungrier. You slide back into your chair without thinking, the muscles in your body moving like they’re working from memory rather than command. You start parsing data. IDs. Door logs. Code scans. Anything that might offer a trail.

It feels like falling face-first into a blizzard—white noise, frantic movement, eyes that can’t blink fast enough.

And then—

“Captain’s in today, right?” Jeonghan asks, his voice quieter now, like he’s asking for permission he already knows he’ll get.

Mingyu doesn’t look up. “Let’s go.”

The captain’s office is a glass box at the end of the bullpen, lit only by the thin gray wash of daylight and the soft glow of his desk lamp.

Choi Seungcheol is exactly the kind of man you’d want steering a ship like this — calm, grounded, deeply competent. You’ve seen him lose his temper exactly once, and it was the kind of quiet that makes people start looking for exits.

No shouting. No slamming fists or storming down hallways.

He’d stood in the middle of the bullpen with a file in his hand, one that detailed a botched cross-jurisdiction sting—agents left hanging, one dead, two hospitalized—and just… stopped moving. Not a word for almost thirty full seconds. Everyone around him froze like animals in a clearing, instinctively bracing for something worse than fury.

And then he’d walked, slowly, to the whiteboard. Picked up a marker. Erased the entire operation detail by detail with clinical precision. Rewrote the command chain. Scrapped half the team and reassigned the other. All without ever raising his voice. That was the day you realized Seungcheol didn’t get angry.

He got surgical.

You reach his door first, knocking twice on the door before easing it open. The blinds are half-drawn, pale daylight slanting through the narrow gaps and striping the floor in sharp lines. Inside, Seungcheol is already looking up from the open file on his desk, one hand loosely curled around a black ceramic mug, steam still rising from the top. His sleeves are rolled past his elbows, exposing forearms marked by faded scarring, burnished skin, and the faint shimmer of a ward tattoo just beneath his wrist.

He doesn’t smile, not quite, but there’s something gentler in the way his eyes settle on you—something solid, like stone worn smooth by water.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” he says, voice low but warm. “Come in. Sit.”

You don’t wait to be told twice. Jeonghan sinks into the chair to your left with a theatrical groan that goes unacknowledged. Mingyu takes the far seat, posture neat and precise, arms folding loosely over his lap. You ease down between them, suddenly aware of the weight in your shoulders, the cold still clinging to your sleeves.

Seungcheol takes a sip from his mug, then sets it down with the same deliberate quiet he does everything. No wasted movement. No performance. Just a man who’s seen more than most and carries it like a steady hum beneath his skin.

“Alright,” he says. “Walk me through it.”

Jeonghan starts. He always does. Sharp, efficient, fluent in the rhythm of command. The second victim. Same profile. Same cause of death. Same link to the club. He lays it all out in quick, clean lines, like pinning evidence to a corkboard with invisible thread.

You follow, adding detail where needed—the exterior footage, the shadowed figure, the precision of the kill. You don’t dwell on the emotional weight of it, but Seungcheol sees it anyway. His eyes flick to yours when you mention the time stamp, the bloodlessness of the scene. He nods once. Just once. Like an anchor thrown into deep water.

Mingyu rounds it out. He names the names TARU flagged, lays out the narrowed timeline, the roster shifts inside the club. And then, calmly, clearly: your plan.

Another appearance. No contact. No feeding. Just visibility. Presence. You’re not spooking the hive—not yet. The idea is to be seen again, to be remembered. To deepen the illusion that whatever bond they saw that night wasn’t staged.

Seungcheol listens without interruption. Fingers steepled loosely, elbows resting against the worn leather arms of his chair. His gaze flicks occasionally to the file, but mostly, it holds on each of you in turn—assessing, not doubting. Measuring for strain.

When the room quiets again, when the last thread of your plan has been laid bare, he leans back in his chair and exhales slowly. His mouth tugs downward—thoughtful, not displeased. His voice, when it comes, is calm. Grounded.

“I don’t hate it,” he says.

You catch the faint twitch of Jeonghan’s mouth—approval, disguised as smugness.

“But,” Seungcheol continues, “if we’re sending you back in, you’re not going in blind. I want wires this time. Low-gain. No ambient bounce. One channel only.”

Mingyu nods once. “I’ll get Soojin to prep the kit. Subdermal adhesive, low profile.”

“Good,” Seungcheol says. “Keep it tight. No chatter unless it’s urgent.”

He pauses, eyes flicking briefly between the three of you. His focus lingers longest on you—not questioning, just observing. There’s a steadiness to him that doesn’t ask for explanation. It just holds space for it.

“You think they’ll recognize her again?” Seungcheol asks, voice quieter now, his focus fixed on you.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, your eyes flick to Mingyu. A silent handoff. There’s something careful in the gesture—not avoidance, but deference. You’ve already had this conversation once, in the hushed stillness of your shared office, with the heater buzzing and the weight of truth pressing in around your ribs. This time, it’s his to carry.

Mingyu straightens slightly in his seat. Not tense. Just composed. A breath drawn slow before he speaks.

“They’ll recognize her,” he says. “Not just her face.”

Seungcheol’s brow furrows faintly.

Mingyu continues, more deliberate now. “Her blood. It’s rare. RH-null. Most vampires go their entire existence without even smelling it. It’s… potent. Like walking into a crackhouse with a loaded needle in your pocket.”

Across the desk, Seungcheol’s expression doesn’t change immediately. It holds—curious, parsing, neutral—but there’s a subtle shift in the set of his jaw. The kind of movement that only registers if you’ve spent enough time learning the small ways he telegraphs disquiet. His thumb taps once against the ceramic of his mug, then stills.

“RH-null,” he repeats, slowly, like the words are shaped strange in his mouth. “That’s… not on any of our briefings.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Mingyu replies. “There’s barely any data. Less than fifty documented humans worldwide. It’s not something you screen for. It’s just… there. And when it is—it changes everything.”

You watch Seungcheol closely as he processes it. His eyes settle back on you, and for the first time since you walked in, something flickers behind them. Not doubt. Not distrust. But concern—clean and quiet, the kind that’s heavier than it looks.

“She didn’t know,” Mingyu adds. “Not until 20 minutes ago.”

A beat. Then another.

“And you still want to send her back in?”

Mingyu’s jaw flexes, but his voice stays steady. “I wouldn’t put her in danger. I wouldn’t let anyone else, either. But they’ve seen her now. Smelled her. If she disappears, they’ll start asking questions we can’t answer. It’s safer to move forward than to pull her out.”

He hesitates then, just slightly, and for the first time, there’s a note of something almost vulnerable in his voice—low and certain and close to a promise.

“I’ll keep her safe.”

Seungcheol doesn’t speak immediately. His fingers curl loosely around the handle of his mug again, but he doesn’t lift it. Just holds the weight of it in his palm like it anchors him.

You watch his gaze shift—once to Mingyu, once to you, then down to the edge of the case file still splayed open in front of him.

When he finally exhales, it’s slower this time. More thoughtful. But his voice holds.

“Then we stick to the plan,” he says. “You stay close. You don’t deviate. And if anything, anything feels off—”

“I pull her out,” Mingyu says.

“Good,” Seungcheol murmurs. But this time, there’s a crease at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t there before. The first faint outline of tension begins to settle. Not distrust. Just a quiet, unwanted understanding of how quickly the variables have changed.

The bullpen feels different tonight—less like a workspace, more like a staging area. Wires, tape, and surveillance equipment spread across the desk between you and Mingyu, while Jeonghan and Soojin busy themselves with last-minute checks.

Mingyu stands quietly under the fluorescent lights, expression patient, eyes focused ahead. Jeonghan circles him once, critically eyeing the loose silk shirt he’s wearing before sighing dramatically.

“Shirt off, Romeo,” Jeonghan says, flicking his fingers dismissively. “This’ll only take a minute.”

Mingyu shrugs easily out of his button-down without protest. The silk slides from his shoulders like water, catching momentarily at the sharp lines of his collarbones, down over the lean muscles of his chest and stomach. Your pulse stutters traitorously. Even under the stark overhead lighting, Mingyu looks carved from marble—broad shoulders, a defined chest, lean abs that flex faintly as Jeonghan presses cold adhesive tape against his ribs.

You blink and force your gaze toward Soojin instead, suddenly hyper aware of your sweater bunched around your ribs, her cool fingertips brushing gently over your skin as she secures the transmitter pack against your hip, hidden neatly beneath the waistband of your skirt.

Still, your attention drifts back to Mingyu. Just briefly. Just enough to catch him watching you, his gaze heavy but unreadable, something softer and warmer than professionalism lingering just behind the careful set of his mouth. You feel heat rise to your face, threatening your composure, and quickly glance away again.

Mingyu doesn’t say a word—he never does—but there’s a subtle, pleased shift in his posture. You have the uncomfortable realization he can probably sense exactly how much your heart rate just spiked.

“You okay?” Soojin murmurs, mouth curling knowingly at one corner. Her tone holds a touch of amusement, but you appreciate her discretion.

“Fine,” you whisper back, a little too quickly.

She only hums lightly, pressing the hem of your sweater neatly back into place before smoothing her hands over your miniskirt. “All set.”

Jeonghan clears his throat sharply, pulling you both back to attention. Mingyu tugs his shirt back on, buttoning it with methodical slowness, each movement somehow drawing your eyes back despite your best efforts. You clench your fists once, twice, focusing hard on Jeonghan as he holds up two slim earpieces and explains quickly:

“These are strictly one-way. Surveillance hears you, you don’t hear us. Less feedback—harder for the vamps to pick up.” He pauses meaningfully, looking between you and Mingyu. “Meaning you’re on your own in there. No audio cues from us, so pay attention to each other.”

Mingyu nods silently, securing the earpiece with practiced ease.

“Just one more thing,” Jeonghan continues, voice tighter now, losing its usual teasing edge. “Tonight you mingle, observe, eavesdrop. You don’t engage unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. If your gut says bail, then you bail—no heroics. And no splitting up without letting the other person know. If you feel like you’re in danger, your code word is ‘I’m feeling dizzy’, and if you need to abort, you’re ‘going for a cigarette’. Out clean, no breach. Understood?”

Your stomach knots briefly. Mingyu shifts just slightly closer to you, the warmth from his body pressing faintly into your space. His skin ran cooler than yours, but not cold. Not dead. Like marble left in the sun—still solid, still unyielding, but capable of warmth when you stayed close long enough.

Jeonghan hesitates, flicking his gaze quickly between you both, his eyes narrowing. “And absolutely no feeding tonight. I don’t care how much Velvet Eden pushes it, you decline. Clear?”

“Clear,” Mingyu echoes, low and steady.

Your mouth feels oddly dry, remembering the last time—the rush, the dizzy heat, the dangerous intimacy of it. You look up, catching Mingyu’s gaze again, and you see it reflected clearly there: he remembers, too.

“Clear,” you echo quietly.

Jeonghan hands Mingyu his jacket, and with a last careful look over the wires, gives a short nod. “Alright then, be careful. If anything feels off, signal to each other and get out. Good luck.”

Luck, you think ruefully, is probably the last thing you’ll need.

You fall into step with Mingyu as you leave the bullpen behind, the precinct feeling suddenly smaller behind you. His hand brushes lightly against your back, guiding you toward the elevators. It’s casual enough to seem natural—but it still makes your pulse jump, just slightly.

“You ready?” he asks quietly, once the elevator doors close behind you both.

You glance up at him, heart quickening again, and find his eyes steady on yours. Concerned, careful, warm—everything you shouldn’t be counting on right now.

“As I’ll ever be,” you answer truthfully, your voice tight with nerves.

Mingyu nods slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before he looks resolutely forward again, jaw set, expression sharpening into something determined.

“Then let’s get this over with,” he murmurs, quiet and grim, as the elevator carries you down into the night, toward Velvet Eden.

next chapter ↝ iii. dizzy.

click here for tag list submission / removal.

[sstrwngers]

lamb to the slaughter

Chapter 1 - 493 words

warnings: general show warnings, mention of rape, if more, please let me know ❤︎

“You will eat the flesh of your sons and the flesh of your daughters.” — Leviticus 26:29

Your head was bowed, your hands perfectly upright, and the tip of your middle finger just inches from your forehead. The old, creaky record player you found at an estate sale filled the dimly lit living room with soft music. It was just you and the meal you had prepared.

You gave thanks for the food before you, then opened your eyes to admire the spread: fresh market potatoes, cut with precision; seasoned, slightly burnt broccoli from the bottom of the fridge; and the centerpiece—a medium-sized cut of flank steak. Garlic, onion powder, salt, and pepper were all you needed, cooked to a perfect 120 degrees. Biting into the meat was a moment you lived for, melting on your tongue like pudding. But the man you took it from was anything but perfect—a serial rapist with a penchant for animal abuse. Yet here he was, on your plate, and he tasted wonderful.

While most would grumble about cleaning up after a meal, for you it was a second reward. How thoroughly could you tidy your little kitchen? How much evidence of murder could you wash down the drain? This was when your thoughts were most ordered, quiet, and reserved. You could reflect on who you had killed and why. A smile crept to your lips. You didn’t often revel in your kills, but this one was special—he tasted so good.

────────────────── ♱

A woman was found six stories below a hotel. Legs broken, blood everywhere. Her head lay at an awkward angle, her eyes fixed on the hotel’s water fountain. Scenes like this never bothered you. Maybe it was your years profiling for Miami Metro, but really, it was your after-hours hobby. Forensics came and went, but your gaze often followed Dexter Morgan. Something about him felt off—the way he held himself, the way he spoke. It reminded you of yourself, and that couldn't be good.

Detective Quinn stood beside you, rambling about alcohol in her hotel room, something you’d already deduced. “Ms. L/N, would you quit staring at Morgan's biceps?” His tone was teasing, but the last part of his sentence was low enough for only you to hear.

“Well, Detective Quinn,” you replied with a smile, “I’m just ensuring our team does a good job.” You winked and turned your attention back to the fountain. Something about it was drawing you in; it felt important.

Standing before the fountain, eyes closed, you heard soft footsteps approaching. “For such a man, your steps are remarkably quiet.” You turned to see Dexter standing before you, silent, his gaze shifting from the body to you. “And now you’re being quiet too, I see,” you said, facing the fountain again.

There, something in the water caught your eye. You reached in, the cold water up to your elbow. “Are they looking at us, Dexter?” You didn’t look at him.

“No.” His voice was rough. “Test this for prints. Don’t tell a soul, do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

[shuenkio]

𝓡𝓸𝓬𝓴 𝓦𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓨𝓸𝓾 | 엔.하.이.픈 .☘︎ ݁˖ 제이

Paring: Jay X M!reader | Genre: Angst

Synopsis: Situation-ship being awkward between the two that left the fans wondering what was going on, until it was burning a lil too much.

Cw: none, fluff angst without plot?

Non proof read | Eng is not my first.

This is a work of fanfiction, do not throw unnecessary tantrums on this nsfw/sfw blog. ©Shuenkio

A♡N: Laterally wrote this at night, after thinking I should at least update something which is now this is my first update in the new year >:)

The dim yellow light filled the small room, comfort and peacefulness with the long lamp fire, yet the tension didn't get along with the vibe. The awkwardness between this situation-ship boyfriends are put in the same room together, to reflect for what they had done during today that making none other than the fan worries, breaking the internet, and a lot of people assume this and that, the leader and the manager couldn't help but to make the right choice.

Back then, during the debut time weren't they the closest, the sweetest of all everyone but now after getting into a private relationship, it turned out to be crispy as if the sugar pie got burned ? Turns out they had made a dumb decision by ignoring, not interaction, the awkwardness between the both in order to protect their love from the company. Well that only works for the eyes of the boss but not the supporter. The pierce eagle eyes are everywhere, as if a detective in a bird form flows above the sky watching their move every step. Not only in real life, the internet is far worse.

The tension continued to grow, it was so thick that no one dared to breathe, to break this awful silence. As a result m/n push the boundaries by making the first move.

"Okay hyung, let's drop the act. This cannot be carried on, the plan only works for the company but the fans are something... It went viral and shit— soon the company would know at the end. We must...do something " looking down, though it seems to not be working at this time, the rose in a cage of glass did not grow into a velvet bright Beautiful flower at all, but it is going to be dead if one, didn't do anything from now.

Meanwhile Jay, also puzzling for both, what should they do next, drop the act and be normal? Like they used to during those old times? Will it work, the fan won't worry anymore? While being an idol, fans are the most impactful of their career, can't not be left out, and do anything like we wanted to, yet to please them with something they wanted. It's horrible just to imagine, however Jay seems to snap and understand why fans are worried, because he actually did it a bit far, he's not going to blame m/n since all along, this was the idea he was suggested. He needs to carry all by himself which he Glad too.

Seeing the upset and longing expression on his lover's face, Jay felt like he just got hit by a bus. He needs to make it right, to turn this shitty situation ship into a healthy bloom again.

Intertwined with m/n's fingers, Jay pull him closer as he gently let m/n's head on his tone chest while whispering.

"I'm sorry you have to go through my shit, our shit. This is all my fault, let's give us another chance hm? This Jay will make us become unstoppable again, even If I need to pay a fortune— even my heart" Jay claims, the determined in his burning eyes prove he can make both of you run on the right path again. Your boyfriend is Jay park of course.

Feeling his warm heartbeat, m/n didn't let go, continue to stay in his lover's chest for god knows how long before sneaking in his hands, and wrapped around like vice, afraid it'll slipped again. This is their once loved life experience now, which no one would want to walk on the same shoe again.

"let's rock together, I won't let it happen again from now on, nothing can stop us for one more time right?" Then a heartwarming forehead kiss, print on m/n's forehead In such a romantic way that it grows on their brain. As both pressed together, savoring and cherishing this moment.

Love win all?

[baby-tini]

GHOST FACE DAZAI 👀

Ghostface!Dazai!!!!

DARK CONTENT AHEAD

Ghostface!ADADazai, who calls you all throughout the day, sometimes he's just breathing deeply into the phone as he gets off to the sound of your whimpers and crises of fear.

Ghostface!ADADazai, your trusted, reliable, co-worker who plays the detective and says he's gonna help you catch this guy but you can't tell anyone else because they have enough to worry about and you especially can't tell Ranpo.

Ghostface!ADADazai, who leaves you all kinds of gifts at your front-door and acts surprise when you tell him the "weirdo" left you roses, but he tells not to throw anything because it could be used as evidence, of course, Dazai's a detective and a genius, no one's gonna be able to lift a single print off the glass vase that holds your favorite flowers.

Ghostface!ADADazai, who offers to let you stay at his place for a while just so that he can makes sure you're okay and safe, and you know you're safe with Dazai, he's a trusted detective and all.

OR!!!!

Ghostface!PMDazai, who you've hired in order to catch the "creep" who's been stalking you because the ADA isn't doing anything about it so you've had to turn to the Port Mafia.

Ghostface!PMDazai, who comforts you, pushing your face in his chest as you cry into his jet black suit as he holds the box with one of your friends hearts in it, their body disgustingly disfigured in their apartment. Your brain flashing the image in both of your heads repeatedly.

Ghostface!PMDazai, who keeps you at his apartment which you have no worries being in, given that he's an executive and he has a trigger finger in his highly secured apartment. He assures that you're safe and you believe him, he hasn't given you a reason not to.

Ghostface!PMDazai, who isolates you when all your friends and family are dead and gone. Who fucks your worries away when you have your little crying spouts about your friends and family being gone. When will you understand that he's the only one you'll ever need and now that he's made that physically possible, he needs to make you understand mentally.

[carolmunson]

LGDW!eddie x reader

it’s a long line. like, long long — and you just have to get this sweater for your mom and you can come back another day for it because ‘that’s just how marshall’s works babe, i’ll never see it again.’

but the line is wrapping around the store and the heat is blasting and some kid is playing with a singing toy that keeps doing the same song over and over and over again. he can feel a bead a sweat drip down his back under his flannel and leather jacket and that’s what sets him off.

“i’ll meet you outside,” he grumbles, cracking his neck on one side.

“where you going?” you ask, looking up from your phone.

“gonna have a smoke,” he replies with a sigh.

your face sours, “ew.”

he huffs, annoyed, and he hates to act like that with you. but he’s feeling bitchy and didn’t even want to run this errand in the first place. days away from winter break and these kids are on his last nerve. so much so that he’s picked up smoking again even though you hate it.

the cold air feels good on him when he steps outside. marshall’s. more like mars-hell’s.

he leans against the honda, fishing the camels out of his jacket pocket. he taps the bottom against his ringed fingers but the cigarettes don’t budge. still plenty in the pack.

another sigh and he opens it, looking at them and then looking back at the doors of the store.

you won’t wanna kiss him after he has one. that’s your rule, he has to wait. and beyond it being like — mindblowingly hot when you tell him what to do — he doesn’t want to give up a chance to kiss you when you meet him outside. he’d been so snippy the whole shopping trip. he knows you’re feeling it. he knows he bumming you out by being bummed out.

looking back down at the cigarettes he grits his teeth, because he could really use one. he sniffs the inside of the box and closes it, zipping it into the inner pocket so it’s more work to grab.

he starts the car so it’s warm when you come out, tooling around on his phone while he waits. he waits a while — and you look sad when you come out with your bag.

“come ‘ere,” he says when you get closer, holding his arms open.

“no, you know the rule,” you scrunch your nose at him as you try to dodge his hug, trying to sneak around.

“i didn’t have one, i promise,” he pleads, big brown eyes shining in the parking lot lights, “get over here, lemme lay one on you.”

“nah, i don’t want a grouchy kiss,” you say back, but ever step you take he gets in front of you. no getting around it, you gotta go through it, “a grouchy grinchy kiss. ya grinch.”

“suddenly my heart has grown three sizes. please let me kiss you or i will go into cardiac arrest, this is abnormally fast growth,” he begs, “my dying wish.”

“you’re so stupid,” you laugh, finally meeting in the middle and letting him tuck his arms under yours, no cigarettes detected.

“oh so you really didn’t have one,” you raise your brows, “i’m impressed.”

“i thought this would be better,” he murmurs, plush lips pressing innocently against yours. he lets a breath out through his nose, exhaling whatever tension he was holding in his neck and shoulders at the feel of your kiss.

he smirks when he breaks away, “well damn, maybe it is.”

“i should give you a 3d print of my lips for christmas or something,” you joke, making your way over to the passengers side door.

“i…” he considers the thought, blushing, “something to think about.”

when you both get in the car, he turns the heat off, pulling out of the parking lot.

as you pull onto the highway, it begins to snow.