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yanderedrabbles · 4 months ago

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Yandere Prison Warden

After getting thrown into jail for a crime you refuse to talk about, one of the wardens takes a keen interest in your past. Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, blood, violence, mentions of child abuse, lowkey kind of sweet, 10k words

Being in jail is no fun. Being in a maximum security prison after being found guilty of homicide? Somehow even less fun.

You've tried to make the best of it. Got some posters to put up in your cell, started a book club, took up macramé. But you can't really paint a veneer of normalcy over incarceration.

It's violent, it's dirty, and most inmates tend to avoid you. And the thought of at least thirty more years of the same routine, day in and day out? Well, that's plain depressing.

Still, some days are worse than others. Today seemed like it was going to be a good day. The cafeteria food was actually hot, an acquaintance shared some gum with you, you managed to get a new book from the library. Things were, if not great, at least bearable.

Until the tour.

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.

Like right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.

It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.

He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.

You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.

And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."

He raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.

He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.

"Explain."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes.

What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."

"How exciting," he deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

He snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.

When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"

He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.

It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.

You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave him your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

He scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

He narrowed his eyes.

"There's going to be a riot,” he said.

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

He must have seen the answer in your face.

He shook his head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Other prisoners were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew, you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.

If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.

The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.

She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.

Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.

"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."

She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.

He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to him without looking at his face.

He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

He started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”

“You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

He sighed and walked away.

You didn't see him again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

He didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?!"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes. How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving.

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She’s a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

He didn't answer.

When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.

Home.

He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.

And he was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

He continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."

It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.

But, you never were very good at following the rules, were you?

#Oops my finger slipped #This was supposed to be a drabble #Yandere Warden #yandere #yandere drabbles #yandere imagines #yandere oc x you #yandere scenarios #yandere x reader #yanderecore #yandere x darling #X reader #Reader insert #Fem reader #male yandere x reader

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pixiefelixie · 24 days ago

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*ೃ༄ 한지성 - "EXHIBIT A" (MDNI)

: ̗̀➛ synopsis: somehow, you two end up partnered on a case. you’re a sharp detective who takes work way too seriously. jisung’s an unserious, dorky cop with a habit of looking at you like you hung the moon. as you finally start making progress with this nightmare of a case, jisung’s just hoping your relationship makes progress too.

pairing: cop!jisung x detective fem!reader genre: friends2lovers, slowburn, mutual pining, fluff, SMUT (minors, do not interact), detective romance, ~8k warnings: jisung is pininggg and reader thinks he's HOT stuff, lots of coffee, murder investigation, hostage situation, blood (very mild but present), tense scenes, profanity, flirting, banter, tension!! smut warnings: oral (m receiving), face-fucking, dry humping, lots of uniform talk, bdsm, light roleplay, usage of handcuffs, rough sex, begging, kinda switch!jisung but dom leaning, praise + degradation mix, p in v, unprotected sex and pull-out method (wrap it up!!), again: no minors. pls consume responsibly 💌

i've been thinking about policeofficer!jisung for the longest time so i hope you enjoy this as much as i loved writing it!

the second you enter the room, files are slammed onto jisung’s desk.

a half-empty coffee cup rattles. across the room, another officer, chan, mutters a quiet “jesus” before going back to his newspaper

jisung’s mid-sentence with hyunjin—something about bad traffic or his broken ac—but the conversation cuts off immediately.

“three bodies. same m.o. we cannot carry on empty-handed like this,” you groan, drop into the chair beside jisung, and lean over like your bones gave up halfway down. your shoulder presses into his. he doesn’t move.

jisung's still got that dumb plastic spoon in his mouth from stirring his instant coffee. “good morning to you too.”

you drop your head back with a dramatic sigh, eyes fluttering shut. “i haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, jisung.”

“you don’t say.” he leans back slightly, shifts just enough to angle his coffee toward you. “you want?”

he lets you take it without protest, watching as you take a sip—grimace—then take another one anyway.

“the victims—one of them was a social worker, one worked at a used car place, one was a bartender. no overlap in job, no overlap in routine. but…” you pause, then reach for the coffee again without asking. he lets you. you take a gulp like it might trigger divine revelation.

“but?” he prompts.

“they all attended the same grief support group. same tuesdays. same community center.”

you glance at him, breath catching just slightly from how fast the words tumbled out. “i only realized after the third body. i’d seen the name before—‘sunridge wellness collective’—but i didn’t think much of it until i cross-referenced next of kin statements and time off requests.”

jisung goes still. then leans back, brows slowly rising.

“no way,” he breathes.

you nod. “i triple-checked it.”

jisung exhales a quiet laugh, still half in disbelief. “you genius,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “actual genius.”

you shrug, trying not to look too pleased, even as heat creeps up your neck. he doesn’t even pretend to look away. just stares at you, open admiration written all over his face—lips parted like he’s trying to find something witty to say and can’t.

you pause. then, very deliberately, look him in the eye. “today,” you say.

he nods along like he always does. “yes?”

you lean in a little, your voice dipping with focus. “you and me. sunridge wellness collective. together. talk to whoever runs those meetings, get a list of attendees, find out who stood out. who stopped showing up after the first murder.”

his eyes flick to your mouth for a split second before he nods, quick, a little too eager. “yeah. yeah, of course.”

he’s blushing. just barely, but it’s there. that pink dusting his ears, the way he fidgets with his pen, suddenly finding it very interesting. you’re already scribbling in your notepad, too keyed up to notice the flush in his ears or the way he’s still looking at you instead of his own notes.

“they meet weekly, tuesdays at 6pm,” you mutter, half to yourself. “if they’re sensitive about confidentiality—”

“we could say it’s part of a wider investigation,” jisung offers, watching you intently.

you nod, pen tapping against the paper. “we’ll split up once we’re there. i wrote down what we need from them. can you check if i’m missing anything?” you slide it over to him.

there’s a pause. you’re already mentally combing through the rest of your notes when you realize jisung hasn’t responded.

you glance up, pen still poised.

he’s just… staring at you. focused in that way he gets when he’s thinking really hard but doesn’t want to say the first version of his thought out loud.

“what?” you ask.

he blurts out, “did you change your earrings?”

your brows lift.

he clears his throat, eyes flicking to your ear. “they’re different. not the little hoops. these are, uh… longer?”

you blink, slowly. “yeah. i changed them this morning.”

“huh.” he mutters, like that explains something deeply complicated. “they suit you.”

there’s a beat of silence.

you furrow your brows, dragging your attention back to the file in front of you. “anyway. we should head out soon. they open at noon, and i want to catch whoever runs the sessions before they get busy.”

“but first,” he says, standing so abruptly his chair rolls back a little. “you—” he points at you like he’s issuing a warrant, “—are gonna sit your exhausted ass down and take a twenty.”

“i don’t need a nap, jisung,” you protest immediately, grabbing the file again. “i just need more coffee and—”

he’s already circling the desk, tugging the file gently from your hand. “uh-uh. don’t make me cuff you to the couch.”

you raise a brow.

he grins. “come on.”

before you can argue again, he takes your hand and pulls you toward the small, beat-up couch in the corner of the office lounge. the thing barely qualifies as furniture, covered in a faded gray throw and the ghosts of past takeout spills, but he guides you down like it’s the nicest place on earth.

you try to stay tense, alert, but your body betrays you. you sink into it harder than expected, your knees weak with exhaustion, head already feeling floaty.

“i said i’m fine,” you grumble half-heartedly as he drops his laptop and boots it up, settling beside you.

“you’re not,” he says softly. “you haven’t blinked since you walked in. you’re talking fast enough to short-circuit my brain.” he slides in closer, laptop perched on his thigh. “now lean. i’ll keep working.”

you open your mouth to argue—but there's a calm steadiness of his voice which makes you give in. your cheek rests against the curve of his shoulder. his blue uniform smells like old coffee and something faintly woodsy. you don’t even remember closing your eyes.

but you do hear him, a few seconds before sleep swallows you whole:

“that’s it. i’ve got you.”

and then—

darkness.

a few minutes later, the office door creaks open.

felix steps in, mid-bite of a granola bar, scanning for jisung—and pauses when he sees you curled up beside him, completely knocked out. jisung’s typing with one hand, the other draped casually across your back. he shoots a glance at jisung, who looks up, sheepish. felix chews, then smiles—soft, knowing.

what was supposed to be a quick visit to sunridge turned into a 4-hour deep dive. the grief group coordinator pulled records, talked through attendees, let you sit in on their latest session. you interviewed three regulars, two volunteers, and tracked down a guy who had dropped out of the group right after the second murder—who, to your surprise, had a history of assault and a sealed psych hold. it was the best suspect you’d had in weeks.

now it’s past nine.

the police station’s dead quiet—just the hum of vending machines and the occasional creak of an old light. you and jisung found yourselves holed up in one of the conference rooms after coming back from the community center, papers spread out on the table between you. a single lamp glows overhead, casting long shadows across the room.

you lean forward, both elbows on the table, voice low and tired. “he also lied about his job. the center told us he works maintenance at the school, but there’s no record of employment there. none. and the timeline fits—he dropped off the radar two days before the second victim was found.”

jisung’s across from you, legs spread, hands rubbing his face like he’s trying to force himself to stay sharp.

you lean in further, voice sharp now, urgent beneath the exhaustion. “jisung.”

his head lifts, eyes locked on you now. “i’m listening, i’m listening.”

without a word, you reach into the folder and slide the photo across the table—grainy, scanned, but clear enough. a man in his mid-forties, average build, receding hairline, narrow eyes that somehow still feel cold even through the poor image quality.

“this is him, hannie,” you say, flat and direct.

his head turns back toward you instantly. the nickname. the tone. he leans forward without hesitation.

you tap the corner of the photo. “kang hyunseok."

jisung’s eyes fix on the photo the moment it lands in front of him.

his fingers brush the corner, but he doesn’t pick it up. just stares. memorizing. narrow eyes, pronounced nasolabial lines, a dull expression that somehow feels too blank. the kind of face that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd—unless you knew what you were looking for.

“this is the one,” you say. “we focus everything on kang hyunseok now.”

but even as the words leave your mouth, you’re already flipping through the folder again—papers rustling, fingers darting like your brain’s moving faster than your hands can follow.

“we need to keep looking. there’s more. but we’re so close. you feel that, right?”

“oh, i feel it,” he mutters, an indescribable tone to his voice.

your brows pull together, confused for half a second—until his eyes flick down to your lips, just briefly, and then back up.

you blink.

he clears his throat, shifts in his seat. “no—yeah—i mean. the case. i feel it. the proximity. i mean—like, in a work sense.”

you blink again, slower this time. “what other sense is there?”

jisung lets out a sharp breath through his nose—half a laugh, half a surrender—and drops his head back against the chair with a quiet thud. “god, for a detective, you’re so fuckin’ stupid sometimes.”

your eyebrows knit instantly. “excuse me?”

you’re quiet for a beat too long, and his jaw tightens.

then, with a snort, he looks away. “forget it.”

you exhale through your nose, sharp. you had no time for whatever this... thing is spiraling into. not tonight.

jisung nods, jaw tense. “we’ll tail him.”

“and the moment he trips,” you add, “we move. no hesitation. i want an airtight case before he even sees us coming.”

he exhales slow, controlled. “good.”

but your shoulders are already sagging. the last forty hours are catching up all at once, like gravity just remembered you exist. you let out a sigh that sounds more like a deflation, and before you even realize what you’re doing, you slump forward and rest your forehead flat against the cool surface of the table.

“god, i’m gonna die in this station,” you mutter into the wood.

there’s a short beat of silence.

then—jisung’s laugh. low and warm and unguarded. it bubbles up so easily it almost startles you. his palm smooths down the curve of your back, steady, affectionate. “don’t die yet,” he says. “we haven’t caught the bastard.”

you let out a low groan, cheek smushed against the table. “i need a drink. not that swill seungmin calls coffee.”

jisung perks up, his hand still lazily tracing your back. “say less.”

you lift your head, barely. “i’m serious.”

“so am i.” he’s already sitting up straighter, that glint in his eye resurfacing. “i saw this bar earlier today, on the way to sunridge. looked new—quiet. kind of divey, your vibe.”

you raise an eyebrow. “charming.”

he stands, stretches, and looks down at you like it’s already decided. “come on. we earned it. it’s my treat.”

you pretend to groan again, but your smile is already cracking through. you shake your head, pushing yourself to your feet.

“god help me.”

clink.

the soft sound of your third round of soju tapping together cuts through the low buzz of conversation around you. the bar is quiet—just the way jisung promised. dim yellow lights hang over worn wood, and the speakers hum some indie ballad you don’t recognize. it’s cozy.

jisung leans back in the booth, sipping first, then raising a brow at you. “so?”

you take your sip, let it linger on your tongue. “i like it.”

he grins. “told you.”

you’re mid-laugh when you glance over at him again—and then it really hits you.

gone is the stiff collar, the badge, the holster. he’s traded it all in for a soft black hoodie, sleeves pushed to his elbows, layered over a white tee that slips right out the bottom hem. thin grey sweats, hair slightly tousled.

and he’s so handsome. in a way that punches the breath right out of you.

you’ve only ever seen him in uniform. and boy was he hot in his uniform. but now—now he looks like someone else. still jisung, but softer. more real.

you roll the glass between your palms, watching the last bit of soju swirl at the bottom. “you know, when i first got assigned to this case,” you start, tone thoughtful, “i wasn’t expecting… you.”

jisung’s head tilts, one brow lifting. “what does that mean?”

you glance at him over the rim of your glass, the smallest smirk playing at your lips. "they told me i was partnered up with someone young, smart, and ‘reactive.’ that’s the word they used. reactive. so i was imagining someone all sharp and broody and... i don’t know. keeps to himself. has maybe… a few cats.”

jisung squints. “so… minho.”

you laugh, “yeah. sure. minho.”

he raises his brows, setting his glass down with exaggerated care. “are you disappointed?”

you scoff immediately, shaking your head. “no.”

jisung blinks, a little thrown by how quickly you said it. “no?”

a beat.

“not disappointed at all.” you pause, searching for the right words. then you glance down at your glass, tracing the rim with your finger. “you pick up on things most people miss. but you're also really fun to work with.”

his cheeks tint pink immediately. like clockwork. he shifts in his seat, clears his throat, but doesn’t say anything.

you smirk a little at his reaction. “and you blush so easily. is that also part of the reactive label?”

jisung groans, tipping his head back dramatically against the booth cushion. “oh, come on, y/n.”

you laugh under your breath, then soften. “the thing is, i’ve just never seen you in action. not when it’s serious.”

he chuckles with that lazy kind of ease that only shows up after alcohol.

you shrug, grinning. “you’re just such a dork. it’s hard to imagine you chasing someone down in full gear yelling ‘get on the ground!’ with that stupid voice you use when you’re out of breath.”

jisung laughs—loud and warm. “stupid voice?”

“you know the one.” you pitch your voice up, overly dramatic. “‘this is officer han, stop resisting!’ like that.”

he nearly chokes on his drink. “okay, first of all, rude. second of all, that’s not how i sound.”

you lean in a little, elbow propped on the table, eyes glinting. “i’m just saying. you’re not exactly the stereotypical cop.”

he chuckles, low and easy, like your words rolled right off him and made themselves at home. “yeah, well,” he says, stretching his arm across the back of the booth, “the uniform does a lot of the heavy lifting.”

you hum, tilting your head thoughtfully. “i'm glad it does.”

jisung raises a brow. “oh?”

you sip your drink, slow. “don’t act like you don’t know. the cuffs, the belt, the radio mic clipped to your shoulder—yeah. it works.”

he blinks once. then twice. “wait, you think the radio mic’s hot?”

you grin. “i think the whole thing’s hot.”

and just like that—there it is again. that pink dusting his cheeks. his hand twitches slightly against the back of the booth like he’s debating whether to fidget or flex.

jisung lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to physically shake off the blush. “you’re drunk, y/n.”

“maybe a little." you grin, propping your chin on your hand. "is it obvious?”

he chuckles again, softer this time, eyes crinkling. “well, you’re terrifyingly honest.”

you tilt your head toward him. “what, can’t handle a few compliments?”

“i can handle them just fine,” he says, a crooked grin forming. “it’s the part where you liked my walkie talkie that’s gonna haunt me.”

you laugh. “it’s the authority. it’s very ‘do what i say’, you know?”

“you like that?”

“i plead the fifth.”

jisung bites his lip with a small smile. just a subtle press of teeth like he’s grounding himself—like he doesn’t trust what might come out if he says something now.

your eyes meet his across the short distance, soft in a way that shouldn’t be allowed. not here. not after everything. not when his brain is already scrambled from the case and the soju and you.

jisung swallows, slow. he would buy you drinks every night if it means you’ll look at him like that. if it means you’ll smile like that, lips glossy from the rim of your glass, voice just a little slurred from being too comfortable around him.

it’s insane. he knows that.

but he wants your attention so bad it aches.

you shift in your seat, glancing down at your watch, then back at him.

“we did great today, but i think we should go,” you murmur. “i need to go to bed.”

jisung laughs, low and warm. “i’ll walk you home.”

you look at him for a beat, and then nod, that same sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “thanks, officer.”

he heads to the counter to pay, tugging out his wallet without hesitation. while he’s busy talking to the waiter, you keep going—because your brain doesn’t know how to shut off, even with alcohol in your veins.

“so tomorrow,” you mumble to yourself, half-thinking out loud, “we check the transit footage again. he left the center on foot, so maybe there’s something on the street cams two blocks down—remember that alley behind the florist’s?”

jisung hums in response, glancing over his shoulder to let you know he’s still listening, even while he signs the receipt.

“and if we can figure out which direction he turned, that narrows the search zone. i’ll run the cctv timestamps. you can pull location logs from his old address—see if anything flags.”

jisung slips the receipt into his pocket and thanks the waiter with a nod. as he steps beside you, you hook your arm through his without thinking.

“—and if there’s nothing from the alley, we can try the karaoke bar on 5th,” you mumble, head tipping slightly as your feet carry you forward, slow and steady. “they’ve got an old security cam facing the back entrance. might catch something if we get lucky.”

jisung hums again, soft. a smile playing at the edge of his lips. he knows you’ll be talking the whole way back home.

you didn’t expect him to move this fast.

kang hyunseok was supposed to be a slow burn—one you’d watch, tail, collect dirt on until he slipped up. you thought you’d spend the next few days building a case tight enough to bury him. you weren’t expecting a fourth victim. not now. not today.

but that’s what changed everything.

you slid into jisung’s patrol car with your tablet clutched to your chest, breath caught halfway in your throat.

“get in,” he said the second he saw your face. “talk to me.”

you didn’t even wait for the seatbelt to click. just pulled up the image.

“transit footage flagged a repeat pattern. different woman. same alley. this was this morning. not last week. this morning.”

jisung’s eyes snapped to the screen.

“she’s not reported missing yet,” you continued, voice fast and clipped, “because no one knows she’s gone. she was headed to work—florist on 5th—last seen twenty minutes before this.”

“and hyunseok?” he asked.

“five minutes behind her. same path. same shirt from the footage we saw yesterday. and look at this.” you swiped to the next frame—rear camera from a delivery truck parked across the street. “he turns off into the alley again. she doesn’t come out. he doesn’t come out.”

jisung was already shifting the gear.

you barely had time to process it before the sirens screamed to life.

“jesus,” you muttered, rubbing your face with your palms.

“we were supposed to watch him. ease in. build it clean.” jisung groaned in annoyance.

“plans change.”

jisung nodded, exhaling hard. he flicked the radio on, voice sharp. “this is officer han jisung. we have a possible hostage situation in progress—suspect kang hyunseok—near the maintenance shed behind daehan elementary. request backup and medic at scene. proceeding now with primary approach.”

you swallowed, hard.

“y/n,” he said, quieter now.

you turned.

“if he’s got her in there, he’s not thinking clearly. i need you sharp. no hesitation.”

“i’m with you.”

the cruiser pulled off into the service lane behind the school. from here, the property looked empty—like any other weekday lull. just wind through the leaves, the faint hum of hvac, and the shed.

you both stepped out.

gravel crunched underfoot as you followed close behind, adrenaline settling in your throat like a second heartbeat. the air felt too still. even the birds had gone quiet.

jisung moved first—body low, steps controlled, eyes locked on the shed like he could see through its thin wooden walls. you stayed just behind him, trying to steady your breathing.

he raised his mic, voice low. “visual on target structure. proceeding with primary approach.”

the crackle echoed, sharp enough to make you flinch.

and then—his hand.

without turning, he reached back and touched you—just a light press against your thigh, above your knee, grounding. protective. his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, warm even through the fabric of your pants. you froze, heat blooming up your spine. he was shielding you—literally putting himself between you and whatever waited inside.

you swallowed hard. didn’t move.

you were both less than ten feet from the shed now. the door sat crooked on its hinges, slats of peeling paint catching in the breeze. faint sounds drifted from inside. a scuffle. a choked sob.

jisung held up his hand—wait—and you stopped instantly.

you could hear everything now. the rasp of someone breathing too hard. shuffling feet. fear. then he spoke through the door, tone level, low.

“mr. kang hyunseok. this is officer han. we know you’re in there.”

silence. your pulse thundered in your ears.

jisung’s voice didn’t waver. “we’re not here to hurt you. but you need to open this door. now.”

still nothing.

then—

shuffling. a soft thud. a another stifled sob.

jisung didn’t flinch. “we’re coming in.”

he gestured, and you moved in sync, pushing the door open carefully. what hit you first was the smell—sweat, mildew, copper. then the sight:

a woman—mid-thirties, bruised lip, hands zip-tied—was crouched in the corner, barely holding herself up.

and behind her, hyunseok.

average build. greasy hair. hollow eyes. he held a rusted boxcutter to her throat, shaking like he’d already made peace with doing something irreversible.

“don’t move!” he barked.

but jisung was already stepping in—one arm up, the other steadying his gun.

“mr. kang. you don’t want to do this.”

“you don’t know what i want,” he hissed. “you don’t know anything.”

“i know you’re scared,” jisung said. “but the second you hurt her, there’s no going back.”

the woman whimpered.

“shut up!” kang shouted, pressing the blade closer. her eyes rolled in fear.

jisung didn’t blink. “look at me. right here. not her—me.”

kang’s stare jerked toward him.

jisung said quietly. “you put that down, she walks out of here alive, and i promise we’ll talk. i’ll listen.”

a flicker of something in hyunseok’s eyes. doubt. maybe shame.

then—

he bolted.

everything happened fast.

hyunseok shoved the woman aside and crashed through the half-open door like a wild animal, the blade glinting once before disappearing with him into the daylight.

jisung moved instantly.

“stay with her,” he barked, already out the door.

you dropped to your knees beside the woman, hands up in calm, open gestures as she whimpered and shrank into herself.

“hey, it’s okay,” you murmured, voice soft but firm. “you’re safe now. i’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

she was shaking so hard her teeth clicked. her wrists were still zip-tied, red and swollen, and a thin line of blood trailed from a nick under her chin. you kept one hand lightly on her shoulder, the other reaching gently for your pocket knife.

“i’m gonna cut these off, alright? then we’re getting you out of here.”

once her hands were free, she collapsed into your side, sobbing.

from outside—you heard it. a shout. a thud. your eyes flicked up. and there he was.

just outside the shed, in the crushed patch of dirt beneath the trees—jisung had kang hyunseok pinned.

one knee pressed firm between his shoulder blades, keeping him flat against the ground, arm wrenched behind his back with smooth precision.

his breathing was steady, jaw clenched, eyes locked down. focused. he had his cuffs out before you even noticed, voice low but clear.

“you are under arrest for attempted abduction and aggravated assault. stay down. do not move.”

kang writhed beneath him, panting.

“stay. down.”

with one hand still firm on hyunseok’s shoulder, he reached back and clipped the cuffs into place—quick, efficient, muscle memory. the sound of metal on metal was sharp in the open air.

hyunseok muttered something under his breath, but jisung didn’t react. he hauled him up just enough to get a better grip, keeping him hunched forward, hands secured behind his back.

and then—sirens.

low at first, then rising—cutting through the stillness of the trees like a warning bell. blue and red flickered through the schoolyard gates, bouncing off the shed’s peeling wood.

an ambulance rounded the corner first, tires crunching over gravel, followed by two black-and-white cruisers that rolled to a stop just a few yards away. doors opened. boots hit the ground.

you looked up just as minho and changbin jogged toward the scene, both in uniform, both already scanning for targets.

“visual on suspect,” minho muttered into his radio, eyes darting to jisung. “he’s got him.”

changbin veered toward jisung without missing a beat. “need a hand?”

jisung gave a sharp nod, handing hyunseok over without a word. you watched as changbin gripped the suspect by the arm, walking him firmly toward the waiting cruiser while reading off something low and clipped under his breath. minho followed a step behind, already on the phone, likely relaying the wrap-up to dispatch.

jisung didn’t move. he just stood there, hand still hovering near his belt, jaw tight as he watched the entire handoff.

only when the car door slammed shut—hyunseok tucked away behind tinted glass—did his shoulders finally drop.

behind you, the ambulance doors swung open.

a medic in navy blue approached, calling gently as she crouched near the woman in your arms. “ma’am, we’re going to take care of you, okay? you’re safe now. you’re going to be alright.”

the woman clung to your sleeve for a moment, fingers weak but desperate. you squeezed her hand.

“you’re okay,” you said softly. “they’re going to help you now.”

she nodded—barely—eyes glassy, mouth trembling. and just like that, she was lifted gently to her feet, guided toward the ambulance with quiet words and steady hands.

you stayed on the ground for a beat, watching her go. something in your chest deflated—not quite relief, not quite closure. just weight.

then—familiar footsteps. a shadow beside you.

jisung didn’t speak. he just stood there, breathing a little too hard, uniform rumpled, sweat drying on his neck.

you looked up at him.

and he looked at you.

for a second, neither of you moved. the weight of it all sat between you—what could’ve happened, what almost did. but then jisung jerked his head toward the ambulance.

“let’s check in,” he said, voice rough.

you walked together—quiet, shoulder to shoulder. the victim was seated now, eyes unfocused, but she turned slightly when you approached.

“she’s stable,” the medic explained, clipboard tucked under her arm. “small laceration to the neck, some bruising, no signs of internal injury. we’ll take her in for observation, run trauma protocols, but she’s lucid. might even be able to give you a statement later today.”

you straightened. “make sure they run toxicology too. if he drugged her, we’ll need that confirmation for the report.”

“got it,” the medic replied, scribbling it down. “any next of kin we can contact?” the medic asked.

you shook your head. “not yet. we’ll pull it from the employee file at the florist’s.”

“alright. you’ll be updated as soon as she’s cleared for statement.”

you stepped back, and without another word, jisung turned on his heel and headed toward his cruiser. you followed, heart still beating a little too loud in your chest.

by the time you slid into the passenger seat again, you felt the comedown start to hit—slow and sharp. your hands were cold.

“did you see him? just—god. fucking mental.” he muttered, jaw clenched.

you reached forward, gently curling your fingers around the front of his vest.

he froze.

his eyes snapped to you, confused, breath caught. “what—”

you leaned in.

and kissed him.

his mouth froze against yours for half a second—like his brain short-circuited—but then his hands found your waist, almost instinctively. the kiss deepened—fast. like all the adrenaline they hadn’t burned off during the takedown had nowhere else to go but here. his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you closer across the console as his tongue slid into your mouth.

you didn’t pull away either. didn’t even think about it. because the windows were tinted. because jisung—officer han, still half in uniform—was making out with you like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

your fingers slid up his chest, skimming the front of his vest, tracing along the straps and seams like you could memorize it all by feel. his breath hitched. his mouth opened more under yours, hungry, desperate, soft in ways you hadn’t expected.

you tugged at the edge of his collar, slipping your hand beneath it, fingertips brushing over the line where his neck met his shirt.

he whimpered. it was soft. barely audible. but you felt it in his throat, in the way his body trembled beneath your touch. he’d just pinned a man to the ground ten minutes ago and now he was falling apart under your hands, lips chasing yours between uneven breaths.

you finally pulled back, just barely—your noses still brushed, breath mingling in the warm space between you.

jisung’s eyes were half-lidded, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. his hands hadn’t left your waist. his thumb was still rubbing slow, unconscious circles against your hip like he didn’t realize he was doing it.

you stared at him for a beat, breathless. then you smiled—small, dazed.

he blinked. “come to my place.”

your smile widened, teasing now. “after paperwork.”

he groaned, head thudding lightly back against the seat. “god. after paperwork.”

you laughed softly, pressing your hand to his chest one last time before settling back into your seat, eyes still on him.

later that night, you found yourself making out with jisung on his couch—somehow still in partial uniform.

the vest was off, discarded somewhere by the door, but his utility belt was half undone, and the top buttons of his shirt were popped open. he hadn’t even bothered changing. neither had you.

it was fast. messy. all the restraint you’d both faked back at the station had dissolved the second the door closed behind you.

now, you were straddling him, knees pressed into the worn cushion on either side of his thighs, your hands tangled in his hair while his fingers dug into your hips like he didn’t know how to not touch you.

he kissed like he worked—focused, deliberate, all-in. but every now and then, he’d let out this quiet, breathy noise against your mouth, like he was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do with it. like the fact that you were here, in his lap, kissing him like you meant it, was short-circuiting every brain cell he had left.

your hands slid down his chest again, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. you brushed over the strap of his shoulder holster, still half-hanging down one arm, and he shivered.

he pulled back just barely, lips red and eyes glazed, breath catching.

“i’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, voice low, still a little breathless. “but you’re so oblivious.”

you blinked, then arched a brow, a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “sorry,” you said, sweet.

“the entire office knew how i felt about you. my god, y/n, i made handcuff jokes in front of them.” he groaned, tilting his head back like he couldn’t believe this was real. you used the angle to your advantage—your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, slow and deliberate. his breath hitched again when your knuckles brushed his skin.

“i wasn’t trying to ignore it,” you murmured. “i was just… so caught up in the case. and everything else. but i liked you,” you said softly. “i like you. the way you say my name when you’re trying not to smile. and how hot you looked today when you arrested that bastard.”

by the time the third fourth popped open, his shirt fell apart beneath your hands—and that’s when you saw it.

the ink.

across the smooth planes of his torso, tattoos, ones you’d never seen at the precinct. fine black lines. delicate design. bold fonts. a kind of rebellion hidden under all that authority.

you dragged your fingers lightly over the ink, tracing the design like it would tell you something about him no report ever could.

“do you…” your voice came soft, teasing, as your fingers trailed down just above his waistband, “still have your handcuffs on you?”

jisung blinked hard, like that pulled him right out of his own body.

you tilted your head, pretending to be thoughtful. “or did you use your last pair on kang today?”

his breath caught. his eyes darkened.

“you’re not serious,” he said, voice low. dangerous.

you leaned in until your lips brushed the corner of his jaw. “i could be.”

then you kissed him again—deeper, rougher this time. your hands slid over his chest, bare now, warm under your touch. he gasped into your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily as you shifted in his lap, grinding down just enough to feel everything through the fabric of his pants.

his head fell back against the couch, lips parted, eyes blown wide.

“jesus,” he breathed. “you’re—fuck.”

you didn’t stop. you rolled your hips again, slow and deliberate, and he shuddered beneath you. his hands gripped your thighs now, tight and grounding, like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“i have a cabinet,” he mumbled, words tumbling out as you kissed down his throat. “for my gear. belt. baton. cuffs. i didn’t think i’d ever have a reason to—shit—take them out for this. didn’t expect you to be such a freak.”

jisung groaned with a breathy laugh, head tipping back as you rocked down again. he was hard beneath you—aching through his slacks—and you were soaked, grinding over him like you’d been waiting for this as long as he had.

your fingers moved like they had a mission, gliding over the lines of ink carved across his chest—lines that had no right to be that fucking sexy. his black slacks tented obscenely, cock straining against the fabric like it was begging for your attention. you traced one tattoo down over his ribs, nails grazing, and watched him twitch.

“you’re hard,” you whispered as you leaned down, nose brushing the skin leading beneath his beltline. “all for me?”

he made a strangled sound, breath shuddering out of him. “yes, y/n,” he groaned, voice cracking, eyes half-lidded and burning. “i’ve thought about this—every night.”

the belt came free with a satisfying clatter, and you popped the button of his slacks open, dragging the zipper down achingly slow while you lowered yourself until your breath was hot through the thin cotton of his briefs. his cock strained against the fabric, twitching when you pressed your lips to it through the cloth, wetting the spot with your tongue, slow and sinful.

he whined. actually whined. “please—fuck—”

you glanced up, grinning against him. “so eager, officer.””

he was unraveling. you could feel it. you kissed down the length of him through his briefs, lips dragging slowly, wetly, before finally tugging the waistband down. his cock sprang free, flushed and heavy, leaking at the tip, and your breath caught at the sight.

his thighs tensed under your palms the moment you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock.

“ah—fuck, yes,” he gasped, voice breaking, hips jerking before he caught himself. his hand flew out to brace against the back of the couch, muscles straining under the tension of holding still, letting you take control. “fuck, that’s—shit, your mouth—”

you sucked slow at first, tongue swirling, hollowing your cheeks as you took him deeper inch by inch, your hand stroking the base. he was hot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of him already addicting, and every time you sank a little further, his breath hitched higher.

you moaned around him, sending a shiver through his body, and then you started to move in earnest. he was panting now, chest heaving, fingers scrabbling against the cushion like he didn’t know what to hold onto.

“i wanna fuck your throat,” he growled, voice like gravel now. “let me, baby. let me take over. let me use that perfect mouth.”

you pulled off, tongue already out, eyes locked on his. drool clung to your lips, chest rising fast as you let go of his cock and rested your hand on his thigh. he stared down, dazed, hand wrapping around himself. he slapped the tip against your tongue twice before gripping your hair and shoving back in. his cock filled your mouth, pushing deep. you gagged, drooled, took it all—moaning as he started fucking your face.

“i won’t last—” he choked, hips slamming.

you moaned again, desperate and messy, clinging to his thighs as he drove in deep one last time and spilled with a shuddering cry.

hot. thick. you swallowed every drop.

when he pulled out, cock twitching, you looked up at him, lips swollen, spit-slicked, breathless.

he just stared. “you’re perfect.”

jisung looked ruined. flushed. utterly lost in you.

but so were you.

“officer,” you breathed, voice low, still rough from how deep you’d taken him.

his gaze sharpened instantly, like his body had been waiting for your voice. “what do you need, detective?”

you dragged your nails slowly up his thighs. “i need you,” you repeated, softer now, almost a whisper. you leaned in close, lips brushing the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, your tongue tracing a line up to his jaw. “to fuck me.”

jisung’s eyes darken at your words, as he gently pushed you away to look into your eyes. “then, i'll give it you in my bed.”

you bit your lip. nodded. “take me.”

and he did.

it was clumsy. he tucked himself back into his briefs with a shaking hand, didn’t even zip his slacks up all the way. his cock was still half-hard,, and he couldn’t stop glancing down at the mess you’d made on him. you reached up and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

he didn’t let go of you. one arm stayed firm around your waist as he half-led, half-dragged you down the hall to his bedroom, your steps uneven, tangled together, like you couldn’t stand to be apart for a second. the door slammed open behind him with his foot, and you stood in front of him, starting to undress.

your fingers found the hem of your shirt, and you peeled it up slow, teasing, inch by inch. you knew he was watching every little movement, every flash of skin, and you reveled in it. the heat of his gaze felt like a physical thing, dragging over your stomach, your ribs.

the shirt hit the floor.

jisung exhaled hard through his nose.

you turned slightly as you pushed your slacks down over your hips, letting them slide to the floor with a soft rustle. the fabric pooled around your ankles and you stepped out of it, bare now except for a lacy pair of panties, clinging to your flushed skin.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, reverent as he stared at your chest.

you crawled onto the bed slowly, as you moved toward him. his breath caught when your knees bracketed his thighs again and you settled in his lap, your fingers curling into his open shirt, dragging it down off his shoulders completely this time.

“you gonna fuck me like you mean it, officer?” you whispered against his ear.

he shuddered. then his hands gripped your ass and pulled you down against his lap, grinding your soaked panties over the outline of his cock through his slacks. but then—he swallowed thickly, voice hoarse against your ear.

“top drawer,” he said, barely more than a growl. “left side.”

you climbed off his lap before you stepped toward the drawer. you crouched in front of it, slowly easing it open. there they were, glinting under the dim bedside lamp. but that wasn’t all. there was a contracted baton, a pair of gloves, a clip-on badge, and two sets of zip ties in a clear plastic bag. you sucked in a breath, pulse racing.

you reached for the handcuffs, metal cold in your hand and you turned around slow. jisung was still on the bed, shirtless now, pants unzipped and bulging. you stepped back toward him, one deliberate step at a time, until you were between his knees again.

he looked up at you, sweat beading at his temples, jaw tight.

“so this is what you want?” he asked low, like he already knew, but he needed you to say it. his hand came up, brushing the inside of your thigh, making you shiver. “you wanna be cuffed, detective?”

you swallowed, your throat dry. nodded once.

he leaned in. his breath was hot against your stomach as his lips skimmed the skin just above your waistband. “you want me to lock you up and make you take it?”

“yes,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the heat crawling up your body.

his hands slid up, over your hips, around to your ass again, and he pulled you closer, tongue flicking out to taste your skin as he dragged his lips up your body.

“you like that?” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “being restrained? helpless?” he took the cuffs from your hands, the metal clinking between his fingers. “soaked just from the idea of it?”

your breath hitched. your panties clung to you now, slick and tight between your legs.

he leaned back just enough to pat the mattress beside him. “on your knees. hands behind your back.”

you hesitated just a second. your knees pressed into the mattress, but you didn’t move to obey right away. before you could even brace yourself, his hand grabbed your arm—firm, fast—and twisted it behind your back, not rough enough to hurt but with zero room to argue. his other hand caught your second wrist in the same movement, and he shoved them together.

you gasped, the surprise of it slamming into your chest. you barely had time to breathe before he pushed you forward, your torso pressed into the mattress, cheek to the sheets, ass up.

“resisting, are we?” he muttered, voice dark with something thrillingly amused as he pinned your wrists into your back. his thigh pressed between your knees, shoving them wider apart.

“don’t move,” he hissed.

you heard the soft metallic click as one cuff clamped closed around your wrist.

“you have the right to remain silent,” he growled into your ear, breath scorching, one knee forcing your thighs apart as he leaned his weight into your back. “anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“do you understand these rights as they’ve been read to you, detective?”

you whimpered in response.

click.

the second cuff locked into place, the steel tight and final around both wrists.

he exhaled, a slow, satisfied sound, his body draped behind you, bare chest grazing your back as his lips pressed to your shoulder.

“you have the right to an attorney,” he continued, every word laced with dark heat as his hands dragged down your sides, cupping your hips, thumbs pressing into the creases of your thighs. “if you cannot afford one…”

he leaned down, his lips grazing the back of your neck, his voice a whisper of smoke.

“…well,” he breathed, kissing your neck, “you can plead for mercy instead.”

“jisung,” you breathed, squirming under him now, your breath catching on the sheets.

he chuckled softly—low in his throat, amused. there was a spark of disbelief in it, too, like even he couldn’t quite believe how far this had gone, how fast. that you'd let him cuff you. that he’d said all that roleplay shit like it was foreplay. that it worked.

and god, did it work.

you writhed, but the cuffs didn’t give. not even a centimeter. cold metal bit into your wrists, shoulders pinned, your body entirely his, and he knew it. you let out a sharp breath as his hands slid back down your side. the fabric tore a little as he pulled your panties past your knees. you tried to twist, to shift your hips, but the cuffs kept your arms locked behind your back and his weight kept you caged.

your breath came in ragged, frantic little pulls.

“jisung—”

“mmm?”

his cock pressed against the crease of your ass, hot and hard again, already leaking. he hadn’t even needed to touch himself much. he was just that gone over you, his body recharged like your mouth hadn’t just drained him ten minutes ago. you felt it drag over your skin, thick and slick and pulsing as he lined himself up behind you, the head sliding down your folds, teasing.

“what do you want, detective?” he murmured, voice husky with wonder.

“please,” you breathed. “jisung, please.”

he groaned. “please what?”

you squirmed again, but his hands held your hips still, his cock rubbing against your soaked entrance, never pressing in.

“fuck me,” you gasped, desperate now, every nerve lit up and begging. “please—fuck me, jisung, don’t make me beg again—”

without warning, he pushed in. you were cut off, jaw dropping open as his cock filled you in one long, unrelenting thrust. the stretch made your vision blur. he was thick, hot, soaked in your slick. he sank into you until his hips were flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt, the pressure absolutely devastating.

“you’re so tight like this—shit, you’re perfect.” he hissed through clenched teeth, gripping your hips so tight his fingers might bruise.

you choked on a sob of pleasure as he pulled back and thrust again. all you could hear and feel was the sound of skin slapping skin and the wet drag of his cock thrusting deep, again and again, as he built up a rhythm that had your thighs trembling.

“i always thought—” he grunted, hips snapping forward harder now, punctuating every word, “—you were too smart. too fucking focused. all business.”

you moaned, muffled and breathless, your cheek pressed to the sheets.

“never thought—” he growled, fingers digging into your hips as he pounded into you, slick and steady, “—you’d be such a goddamn slut.”

your whole body jolted. heat seared down your spine. your cunt clenched around him so tight he groaned, almost lost his rhythm for a second. you couldn’t form words anymore—just ragged, desperate sounds, your lips parting on every moan. another brutal thrust slammed into your soaked cunt and you gasped, trembling, drool smearing the sheets under your cheek.

“not so sharp now, huh, detective?” he breathed, voice feral. “now look at you—cuffed up, dripping on your officer’s cock.”

your cry punched out of you, high and ragged, as his cock struck something inside you. that gummy spot that made your thighs twitch and your eyes roll back.

“i’m so—” you gasped, words slurring, tears stinging your lashes. “i’m so close, jisung—, i’m gonna—”

he moaned behind you, the sound guttural, overwhelmed. “give it to me, y/n,” he panted, hips rocking into you harder, faster, chasing that high right alongside you. “come on, baby, give it to me. let me feel you fall apart.”

that pet name—the softness of it buried under all the roughness—made you feel things. and then his hand slid around your hip.

two fingers pressed to your clit—slippery, fast—and that was it. your whole body seized. your vision went white. you screamed his name, thighs locking around him as your orgasm ripped through you. your cunt spasmed around his cock, squeezing him so tight he choked on a groan and nearly collapsed over you.

“fuck—” he gasped, pulling out in a rush, cock slick and throbbing, already jerking in his hand as he stroked himself just twice more. he came across your lower back, ropes of hot, sticky release painting your ass, your skin twitching from the heat of it.

jisung sagged behind you, one hand braced on the bed, the other still resting on your thigh like he couldn’t bear to stop touching you.

you whimpered and your legs trembled under you, body slack with aftershock, hands still bound tightly behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin just enough to remind you how utterly he'd claimed you.

jisung stirred behind you at once. “shhh,” he murmured, softly. “i got you.”

you felt him shift, heard the metallic jingle of a small key in his fingers. he reached for you, one hand curling gently around your forearm to steady you, then, with a sharp click, the first cuff popped open.

he slid the small key between his lips as he took your wrist out, then let the key drop into his hand to unlock the second one. you felt the tension in your shoulders melt instantly, the pressure gone—but your body didn’t know how to hold itself up anymore.

you collapsed forward with a sigh, arms falling limp to the sheets, your entire weight crumpling under you. jisung caught you, one arm around your waist, the other bracing you as he pulled you gently into him.

jisung eased you down onto your side, careful and slow like you were something delicate. his lips found your shoulder, kissed it—soft, reverent. you let out a shaky breath, still trying to find yourself inside your body.

“i really like you, hannie,” you murmured before you could second guess it. “i don’t just—this wasn’t just—”

“i know, y/n,” he whispered as he pressed another kiss into your back, this one lingering. “i know.”

he curled tighter around you, nosing into the back of your neck, his voice muffled by your skin.

“i’ve wanted you since the first week,” he murmured. “tried not to let it show. i didn’t think i had a shot—thought you were too… good. out of my league.”

you turned your head slightly, enough to glance back at him with a dazed, warm grin. “you’re such a dumbass.”

he laughed, soft and breathless, pressing his forehead into your shoulder.

“maybe,” he said, kissing the back of your neck. “but i’m your dumbass, right?”

you swallowed, pulse tripping.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers brushing a strand of hair out of your face. his eyes were soft now.

“i wanna be yours,” he said. “please.”

you reached for his face with a trembling hand and your thumb traced the edge of his jaw, his skin still flushed and warm from everything he’d just given you.

“i already thought you were,” you whispered.

and then you kissed him tenderly. his smile broke against your mouth like he'd finally gotten something he'd been chasing forever.

and he had. you both had.

the precinct buzzed with the same energy it had every morning—phones ringing, printers humming, officers shuffling case files with half-empty coffee cups in hand. a few feet from the briefing room, jisung leaned against a desk, hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke to changbin.

“no, seriously. the guy was just resisting like no tomorrow. like he wasn’t scared of me, of anything.”

changbin raised a brow. “you’re sure it wasn’t just your face?”

“yeah, okay. remind me to let you talk next time a guy pulls a blade on a hostage.” jisung was in the middle of rolling his eyes when a familiar voice broke through the low chatter of the bullpen.

“morning,” you said, walking up with a folder tucked under your arm. your tone was casual, but there was a glint in your eye—just for him.

jisung’s whole posture changed.

he stood upright. his eyes widened. and a slow smile tugged at his mouth as he turned toward you.

“hey,” he said, voice sweeter than it needed to be.

changbin glanced between the two of you, brow quirking. he didn’t say anything right away. just sipped his coffee, eyes narrowing slightly.

you held out the folder toward jisung. “victim statement’s being transcribed. thought you might want to review the notes before you start interrogation.”

he reached for it—your fingers brushing as he did—and his smile widened.

“thanks,” he murmured. then added, more pointedly, “you always take such good care of me.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. you reached up and rested your hand on his shoulder before sliding it down as you walked off down the hallway. the second your back was turned, jisung—still holding the folder—curled his fist and gave it a single, victorious pump at his side.

the entire office lounge knew. how he once rewrote an entire report because you said you liked his handwriting. or how he almost cried out of joy when you borrowed his pen last month.

changbin didn’t know how jisung did it. but somehow, he’d pulled it off.

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