#Worx

[obscurideer]

Commissions for @glowoboros!!

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

i. tie a cherry.

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

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

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

warnings 𓄧 mentions of blood, death, feeding. 

wc. 5.3k.

You’re not entirely sure when this case became your case. One minute it was a ghost rumor, something passed down through precinct whispers—Velvet Eden, the kind of place that exists on the fringe of the city and the law. The next, a body turned up in Sector 6, hollowed out and discarded like trash. And suddenly, the case had a heartbeat.

Organized Crime called in Homicide. Your name was already circled in red ink. You barely blinked. That’s the job, after all. Blood, bodies, and bad decisions. Cases involving vampires usually landed in V-CAD, the Vampire Crimes & Affairs Division, but this one bled into too many departments.

You’ve worked vampire cases before—civil disputes, rogue feeders, one or two cold-body cleanups. But Velvet Eden isn’t that. It’s something older. More indulgent. Less law, more religion.

Still, you weren’t expecting this.

You weren’t expecting a private, invitation-only vampire sex club with a feeding floor and velvet-lined red rooms. You weren’t expecting to slip into the role of arm candy for a six-foot-two vampire with a face like sin and a bite to match. And you definitely weren’t expecting him—Kim Mingyu. Calm. Commanding. All lean lines and quiet power. The kind of man who could make a room stop breathing just by walking into it.

He doesn’t feel like a stranger. You’ve crossed paths on enough cases for that. He’s always been kind, grounded, smart. The kind of vampire who makes you forget to be afraid.

But none of that changes the fact that in ten minutes, you’ll be walking into a club full of predators, pretending to be his prey.

And he’ll have to feed from you.

Your stomach flips, but you keep your face neutral as street lights streak gold across the windshield. Mingyu’s driving—one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He’s dressed in all black, shirt unbuttoned just enough to get one thinking. The silk catches the light. His scent—smoke, earth, and something inherently warm—bleeds into the leather interior of the car. You’re hyper aware of every inch between you. It feels deliberate. Loaded.

You glance out the window and try not to think about the heat climbing the back of your neck. The dress you’re in—deep wine, cut high on the thigh, open at the back—was chosen for how it clings, how it tempts. You’re not used to dressing for hunger.

“—you hearing me?” Jeonghan’s voice slices through the quiet, speakerphone crackling from the center console. You jump, just slightly.

“Loud and clear,” you answer smoothly, though you hadn’t caught half of what he said.

“You’re about to enter a location with zero backup,” he says. “But this isn’t a takedown. You’re gathering intel, building rapport, and staying alive. Right now, as fresh meat, you’re not to leave Mingyu’s side and he’s not to leave yours. Understood?”

“Understood,” you mutter.

“Hey.” Jeonghan’s voice softens. “If anything feels off, pull out. No hesitation. No pride. Just say the word.”

Beside you, Mingyu shifts slightly, glancing over at you. “You won’t be alone in there,” he says, voice low. Steady. Reassuring in a way you feel in your chest. You meet his eyes for a half-second longer than you mean to.

You nod. “I know.”

And the thing is—you do. You’re not afraid of him.

“We’ll mingle for a little, suss out the vibe and you can get a feel of the place. I’m warning you, it’s fucking weird, dude. You’re pretty good at commanding a room, but even I get on edge here. You’re probably gonna see a lot of things you’d rather not, but you have to keep your cool or they’ll smell it on you.” Mingyu fixes you with a quick, firm look before returning his attention to the road, jaw tense.

Then Jeonghan chimes in again through the phone, voice crackling slightly, “Head to a Red Room when you’re both ready, and do your thing.” There’s a beat of silence, and then he stutters. “Just do whatever you have to do to pass off that you’re a real couple. Don’t be shy.”

The line clicks off. Silence floods the car for a moment before Mingyu speaks again, quieter this time.

“Hey, uh…” he clears his throat, fingers tightening around the wheel, “I know this is kinda personal, and I swear I wouldn’t ask unless it was important, but…” He glances at you again, expression serious now, if not a little sheepish. “When was your last cycle?”

Your head tilts. “What?”

“Your period. I just need to know if it’s close. Not to be weird. It’s just—” he exhales sharply, embarrassed but pushing through, “Fresh blood, especially menstrual, it hits different to some of them. Like sharks in water. And your baseline scent’s already gonna be… kind of a problem.”

You frown. “Kind of a problem?”

Mingyu hesitates. You see it in the way his jaw flexes, in the pause before he answers.

“Nothing to worry about right now. You’re just… you smell different, that’s all. Good different,” he adds quickly, then curses under his breath. “Not good like that—I mean, objectively. Biologically. I’ll handle it. Just… I need to know if I should be ready to get a little more aggressive with anyone who gets too close.”

You sit back against the seat, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “I’m about a week out. Why?”

“That’s good,” he murmurs, nodding. “Less likely to trigger any, uh… complications.” Another beat. “And I won’t let anyone touch you. No matter what.”

There’s something about the way he says it that sends a little pulse through your stomach. Something protective. Something possessive. But it’s quiet between you again, save for the hum of tires on the asphalt and the low rhythm of your heart starting to thrum harder in your ears.

Velvet Eden doesn’t look like the kind of place that would house everything you’ve been warned about. On the outside, it’s sleek and minimalist — black marble facade, no signage, just a long awning and two impossibly tall bouncers standing like gargoyles at the doors. You can’t hear any music from the street, but the air smells faintly metallic and sweet, like someone poured sugar into rust.

Mingyu circles the car into a private lot tucked to the side, a space clearly reserved for regulars or VIPs. He glances at you once more before he cuts the engine, his jaw tense again, unreadable in the low amber wash of the dashboard lights.

“You good?”

You nod, but your fingers curl tighter around one another in your lap.

“You look good,” he says then, more gently. He doesn’t say it like a compliment. He says it like a reassurance. Like armor.

Your dress is a deep, wine red — sleek, skin-hugging. It dips low at the back, a single strap across your shoulders like a whisper. Mingyu had said something about blending in, about being convincing, and you figured that looking like the kind of girl a vampire would die to touch wouldn’t hurt.

Your perfume clings to your skin in layers — burning cherry and palo santo — warm, smoky, almost edible. Mingyu had commented on it in the car earlier, murmuring, “You got a thing for cherries or something? The dress, the perfume…” and you’d laughed it off, heart thrumming like a live wire.

Inside, the club is thick with it. The heat. The scent. The sound.

Everything is dim and red — not in the trashy, cheap kind of way, but in that disorienting, luxe way that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into another world entirely. Smoke coils in thin tendrils from incense trays tucked into shadowed alcoves. There’s velvet everywhere — couches, walls, the bodies of dancers. A pulse of low music hums from the speakers, winding, slow, heavy with bass. Something deep and sensual is playing. It moves like honey — like hips swaying under silk.

And the smell… Blood. Sex. Sweat. Clove smoke. Burned sugar. You can taste it on your tongue before anyone even speaks to you.

Mingyu’s hand finds the small of your back as he guides you through the crowd. His palm is warm and heavy, protective, but not possessive. You know he’s playing the part — the tall, slow-moving, effortlessly dominant boyfriend — but the way he hovers at your shoulder, the way he watches everyone who even glances at you for a second too long… that’s not acting.

You’re not the only human in here, but you might be the only one who isn’t visibly owned. Others are draped over laps, bent at the neck for easy access, some seated dazed and blissed out on silk cushions while their partners — vampires, all of them — sip at their throats or wrists like they’re nursing a fine wine. And the vampires — gods, they’re beautiful. Ethereal. Almost unreal. Pale or dark-skinned, pierced or painted, wrapped in leather or lace or nothing at all. All sleek limbs and fanged smiles, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

You realize, slowly, that you are being watched.

The kind of watching that makes the hairs on your arms rise. The kind that pins you open like a butterfly.

Mingyu leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Keep walking. Keep your chin up. Let them think you belong to me.”

You do. And with that thought comes a sharp, unexpected heat curling low in your belly.

The bar glows a sultry amber, lit from beneath so that every bottle looks like it’s filled with gold, or blood. You lean lightly against it, hyper-aware of the press of Mingyu’s presence just behind your right shoulder. His stance is casual — one hand resting on the edge of the bar, the other just barely brushing the side of your waist — but you can feel the unspoken claim in it. Like he’s drawing a line in the sand with his body alone.

Two menus slide across the bar top.

One is printed in gold foil — cocktails, wine, flavored syrups, things with whimsical names like Sunset on Rue and Liquid Kink. The other menu is black — matte, velvet-touch paper, with minimalist script and coded language: A-negative, fresh. AB+, altered. RH-null, euphoric. You don’t let yourself look at that one too long.

“I’ll have a zero amaretto sour,” you say when the bartender — a tall vampire with golden irises and a scar over his top lip — raises a brow in question.

Mingyu hums low behind you, a small sound, almost lost beneath the beat of the music. “Cherries again,” he murmurs, voice teasing. “You’ve got a type.”

You glance at him. “Or a brand.”

He smiles, and it’s too soft for this place. Something about the crescent curve of his eyes when he looks at you makes your pulse do something stupid. Play the part, you remind yourself. Girlfriend. Established. Not nervous.

The bartender glides your drink over, and Mingyu steps in a fraction closer — not crowding, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his chest brushing your back when you move. Enough that no one would dare slip in between you.

He leans in, not speaking, just watching the room over your shoulder. His lips are close enough to brush your temple. “You’re doing good,” he says quietly. “Natural.”

You sip the cocktail. Sweet, tart, a little sharp on the back of your tongue — a distraction, but only just.

You feel Mingyu’s presence behind you, steady and warm, his breath grazing the curve of your jaw as he surveys the crowd.

Then, on impulse — maybe it’s the drink, or the heat in your blood, or the need to take the edge off this place — you reach for the maraschino cherry skewered on your garnish pick.

“Watch this,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

He blinks, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What?”

You pop the cherry into your mouth, chewing slowly, then slide the stem between your lips.

Mingyu goes quiet.

You don’t say anything—just meet his eyes for a long beat as your tongue works quietly, the stem moving behind your teeth with practiced ease. He leans in slightly, brow furrowing, and it takes him a few seconds too long to realize what you’re doing.

When the stem reappears, it’s knotted. Perfectly. Sitting balanced on the tip of your tongue like a challenge.

You flash him a quick smile and set it on your napkin with delicate precision.

Mingyu huffs a breath through his nose — surprised, impressed, something darker curling behind his eyes.

“That’s a dangerous skill to have,” he murmurs.

You shrug, casual. “Crowd pleaser.”

And that’s when a new voice slips in — smooth, low, and edged in silk.

“So this is her.”

The woman standing beside you is tall, statuesque in midnight-blue velvet. Her skin is flawless, eyes the color of aged wine.

She doesn’t address Mingyu first. She addresses you.

“That was clever,” she purrs, her voice dripping with amusement. “Not many humans know how to use their tongues quite so… effectively.”

Mingyu doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. “Alba,” he says with a polite nod. “Didn’t think you worked Fridays.”

“I don’t. I heard your girl would be here.” Alba’s eyes don’t leave yours. She offers a hand — fingers tipped in glossy black. “Welcome. It’s always nice to see someone… unspoiled.” The words drip with double meaning.

You take her hand. Her grip is cool, elegant, a touch too long. You can feel her evaluating you — scenting you, even — something primal and calculated behind the pleasantries. “She’s got good taste,” Alba continues, eyes flicking down to your dress, your drink. “Sweet with a little bite. Fitting.”

Mingyu lets out a soft huff, amused, but you feel the way his stance subtly shifts, tightening around you. A human might miss it — the way his pupils dilate, the faint flex of his jaw — but you’ve been trained to read detail. He doesn’t like this.

“She’s mine,” he says lightly, but there’s steel beneath the velvet.

Alba smiles. “So you say.” Then she winks at you. “Be careful in here, sweetness. Pretty girls like you don’t always leave with the ones they came in with.”

And just like that, she’s gone — gliding back into the crowd, swallowed by smoke and velvet and music.

You exhale slowly, glass still half-raised to your lips.

“She’s a friend,” Mingyu mutters, and then, quieter: “Sort of. Also one of the club’s top-tier feeders. If she took a liking to you, it’s ‘cause she’s sizing you up.”

You nod once, but your throat is dry.

Mingyu’s fingers find your wrist briefly, grounding. “We’ll stay here a little longer. Then we go to the Red Room.”

Your tongue flicks over your bottom lip, catching the last of the amaretto, and his gaze catches there for half a beat before he looks away again. A group of vampires has entered, sharp suits and hungrier eyes, and you feel the way Mingyu subtly repositions — just enough to block you from view.

Then, casually, he slides a folded twenty across the bar.

The bartender — still all cool disinterest — takes it without a word, disappears beneath the counter, and returns with a small black key. It gleams in the low light, matte and ominous.

Mingyu palms it smoothly, slipping it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He leans close, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear it. “Red Room three. It’s the farthest from the stage. Less eyes.”

A ripple runs down your spine — equal parts anticipation and nerves. This is it. Showtime.

You drain the rest of your drink and set the glass down gently.

Mingyu’s hand rests at the small of your back, guiding, anchoring. “You ready?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you glance at him — at the subtle edge of restraint in his posture, the flicker of something darker in his eyes, like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in.

Then you say, evenly, “Lead the way, boyfriend.”

The walk from the bar to the Red Room feels like it stretches on forever. Music thumps low and thick, bass vibrating up through your heels and into your spine. The hallway is bathed in red light, the kind that plays tricks with your eyes—every shadow, every silhouette, a temptation or a threat. Velvet-lined walls soak up the sound like insulation, but the air still hums with sex and something darker. The scent is overwhelming: sweat, perfume, blood. Cherry and palo santo clings to your own skin, warm and sweet in your nose.

Mingyu keeps a hand at the small of your back as you walk. Not quite possessive, not quite casual. Protective. His fingertips are firm through the satin of your dress, guiding you gently but insistently. You feel the weight of his body heat even without touch. You’re not sure if the butterflies in your stomach are nerves or anticipation.

The door to the Red Room clicks open when the key slides home.

Inside, it’s plush and dim—more boudoir than interrogation chamber, but the camera in the corner ruins any illusion of privacy. A velvet bed, dark as blood, is the centerpiece. There’s a chaise in the corner, a bar cart with cut crystal glasses, and heavy curtains hanging like stage drapes over a wall-sized mirror. The air is cooler than the club floor, but heavier somehow. You can feel it sitting on your skin like humidity.

Mingyu steps in first, eyes scanning the corners instinctively. He’s done this before. You can tell by the way he moves, unhurried but deliberate. He sits on the edge of the bed, arms propping him up behind him. His dark eyes flick up to the camera, then back to you.

He mouths something. Cameras.

You nod. Barely. So small it could be a blink.

He pats his thigh, an invitation—brief and respectful. “Is this okay?” he asks aloud, like it’s just part of the role, but you hear the softness underneath.

You step toward him and straddle his lap. His hands settle lightly on your hips, anchoring you there without pressure. The warmth of his body is ridiculous, like standing too close to a fire. You’re already keyed up and you haven’t even done anything yet.

You can feel your pulse in your fingertips, even though it’s faint. His hands are splayed across your lower back now, his body taut like a bow under you. He’s still pretending to lounge, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he watches you—eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like it costs him effort to breathe.

He leans in, mouth brushing just under your jaw, murmuring into the soft skin there. “We’ve got audio,” he breathes. “How hard do we want to sell it?”

You know the answer.

“Hard.”

You lift a hand slowly, brushing your fingers along his cheek. It’s warm there. Solid. Strangely human. He looks up at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Curiosity catches in your throat. “Can I see them?” you ask quietly. “Your fangs.”

Mingyu huffs a laugh under his breath, low and amused, and parts his lips. It’s not theatrical—no giant vampire daggers—but the twin points are sharper, longer than a human’s. Elegant. Clean.

You brush a thumb across one. He shivers slightly.

You don’t know why you ask. Maybe it’s the tension. Maybe it’s the camera. Maybe it’s the fact that if he’s going to drink from you, you want to offer something that’s yours to give.

“Can I kiss you?”

He nods. “Please.”

It starts gentle. Tentative. Curious. But you lean in again and it’s like a switch flips. His hands slip up your back and yours tangle in his hair. Your mouths move together like you’ve done this a hundred times. The kiss turns deeper, hungrier—less about performance, more about something that feels too real.

He kisses like he was made for it. Like he’s trying to memorize you in pieces. The way your lip catches on his. The sweet citrus of your drink. The scent of cherries lingering between your neck and shoulder.

His hands slide over your thighs, your hips, your spine—firm, reverent. You thread your fingers into his hair, tug just a little, and he gasps against your mouth like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

And then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Can I feed off you?” You nod. 

“No,” he says, voice rough now, unsteady. “I need to hear it.”

Your lips part, your throat working around the heat curling low in your belly. You feel flushed, dizzy, his presence overwhelming every nerve. “Feed off me,” you say, voice barely audible but clear.

He watches you for a moment longer, then shifts his mouth to your neck. He keeps eye contact as long as he can, nose brushing your pulse point. His fangs pierce you with the precision of a surgeon—just a second of pain—and then—

Bliss.

It’s like heat unfurls in your veins. A deep, low-burning euphoria pulses through your limbs, wrapping you in cotton. You’re not sure what noise leaves your mouth but it’s a moan, helpless and heady. Mingyu groans against your throat, low and reverent, like he wasn’t expecting you to taste like this.

Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer as he drinks. You feel his body tense under yours, like he’s trying to keep from shaking. He only feeds for a minute or two, but when he pulls away, he looks absolutely wrecked. Blood on his lips, lips parted. Eyes dark. You slump against him, dizzy and high and somehow… warm.

You slump against him. Dazed. High on him. He wraps his arm around your waist and lets his weight fall back onto the bed, taking you with him.

Neither of you speak for a while. You’re not sure either of you can.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You don’t answer right away. Just lay a hand across his chest and stare at the ceiling, your body buzzing with the aftershock.

“I think,” you finally say, voice hoarse and half-drunk on whatever the hell just happened, “I just saw God.”

Mingyu huffs a laugh, more breath than sound, the warm vibration of it rumbling against your cheek. He wraps his arm tighter around your waist, drawing you closer like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That tends to be the case,” he murmurs. You don’t think you can move. It takes a concerning amount of brainpower just to keep breathing. To remember that you’re supposed to be undercover. That you’re not supposed to actually melt into your partner’s body like you were sculpted to fit there.

You peel your face off the crook of his neck after a minute, blinking blearily at the ceiling. Your voice is rough around the edges when you manage to push out, “You… do this a lot?” It’s not really jealousy. It’s curiosity. Maybe the tiniest sliver of something sharper under your tongue.

Mingyu stiffens almost imperceptibly under you, just for a second. Then his thumb moves in a slow, soothing arc along the small of your back.

“No,” he says simply. “Not like this.”

You shift slightly to look at him. His face is open, honest.

“I’m careful about who I feed off,” he continues, voice low and even. “Consenting donors. Only when I need it. Never like—” he cuts himself off, like the words are too heavy. “Never like this. Velvet Eden isn’t somewhere I would have chosen to set foot in, if not for….” He trails off, eyes flickering briefly to where the camera watches over the moment.

You realize, as the words sink in, that this isn’t normal for him either. That he’s feeling the same rawness buzzing under his skin.

He keeps talking, maybe to fill the charged silence.

“I don’t like the way most vampires treat feeding.” His jaw ticks, a tiny sign of frustration. “It’s supposed to be… mutual. Respected.”

Your chest tightens a little at the way he says it, like it’s something sacred to him. Not just biology. Not just hunger.

You’re silent for a moment, absorbing it, feeling his heart beat steady against your palm. It’s slower, duller than yours. Just barely there. “I’m glad it’s you,” you whisper before you can second-guess yourself.

Mingyu smiles then, soft and crooked, and it’s devastating. His hand finds yours where it rests over his heart, intertwining your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Me too,” he says.

You lie there a little longer, both of you pretending you’re just resting. Both pretending you didn’t just tear a seam in something vital.

The ride back is… quiet. Not awkward. Just different. Like you’re both holding something fragile between you and neither of you wants to drop it.

You sit with your head leaned slightly against the window. The city passes by in soft golds and blues, headlights flickering across your skin. Mingyu’s hand rests on the steering wheel, the other flexing on his thigh like he’s thinking about something but won’t say it.

You speak first.

“We’re going to have to go back soon.”

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing over. “Not for a few days, though. It’ll look too eager if we come back too quick.”

You nod.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he doesn’t even hesitate. Parks the car. Gets out. Walks you to the front. You fish your keys out of your coat pocket, hesitating at the lobby door.

“I’m fine,” you tell him.

“I know,” he says, but doesn’t move.

Then, after a pause: “Can I come up? Just to make sure you’re okay. No weird shit, I swear.” He grins, trying to soften it. “Scout’s honor.” You laugh, and it sounds more real than anything has all night.

Inside, you flick on the light in your small but warm apartment. Mingyu lingers by the door. Doesn’t sit. Just looks around like he’s cataloging every detail. Like knowing this part of your world is another way to protect it.

You toe off your shoes. Toss your coat over the arm of the couch. Mingyu’s still standing, hands in his pockets, watching you gently like he’s trying not to spook a deer.

“You can sit,” you tell him. He does. Perches on the edge of the armchair like a man not sure how long he’s staying. “I meant it earlier,” you say, voice quieter now. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Mingyu meets your gaze. For once, he doesn’t deflect with a joke. Doesn’t tease. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Comfortable. Dangerous.

When he gets up to leave, his fingers graze yours when he hands you the coat you forgot to hang. And the look in his eyes—heavy, unreadable—sticks with you even after the door clicks shut behind him.

He doesn’t start the car right away.

Just sits there, fingers curled loosely around the wheel, the engine off, the streetlamp casting gold slats across the dash. Your building looms to his right. He watches your window for a moment, but the blinds are drawn.

The taste of you still lingers in his mouth.

Not just the blood—though God, that alone was enough to scramble something vital in him—but you. The way you looked at him. Touched him. Said his name like it meant something. The way you curled into him after, without fear.

He shuts his eyes and breathes in deep through his nose, trying to clear his head. It doesn’t work.

You’re still there.

Not just on his tongue. Not just on his skin. But somewhere deeper. Under the sternum. Behind the ribs. Burrowed into a place he didn’t realize was vulnerable.

This was supposed to be routine. Strategic. Controlled. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Mingyu opens his eyes again. Stares out at the empty street. Taps his thumb against the wheel once, twice, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t even want to name.

Then he finally exhales. Just once. Quiet and shaky. And starts the car.

You wake up warm. Heavy-limbed and a little tangled in the sheets, like you’ve been caught mid-dream. The echoes of it cling to you — soft touches, parted mouths, someone whispering your name against your skin.

Mingyu.

You drag in a breath, sharp and sudden, and shove yourself upright just as your phone vibrates violently against the nightstand.

Jeonghan’s name flashes across the screen.

Then again. And again.

By the third call, you fumble to answer, croaking out something close to human.

“There’s been another body,” Jeonghan says without preamble. You can hear the scrape of tires on wet asphalt, the low mutter of radios in the background. “Get up. Get dressed. Mingyu’s on his way to pick you up.”

He hangs up before you can even curse him out.

You throw yourself into clothes on autopilot — slacks, a thick knitted sweater, the softest thing you own that still passes for professional. Your whole body feels wrung out and hazy, muscles sore in places you didn’t know you had. Not painful, exactly. Just… different.

By the time you’re pulling on your jacket, headlights cut across the front of your building.

Mingyu’s SUV idles at the curb, a faint halo of condensation blooming from the exhaust. He climbs out as you approach, tall and solid against the pale wash of streetlamps, and holds out a coffee cup.

“Dirty chai,” he says. His voice is quiet, like he’s not sure how loud the world should be around you yet. “Jeonghan said it’s your favorite.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. He’s not cold. Somehow you thought he would be — vampire and all — but the warmth of him seeps into your skin like secondhand sunlight.

“And these,” he adds, pressing a couple of small sachets into your other hand. Liquid iron. “They’ll help.”

You manage a half-smile. “You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs, almost shy. “You did the hard part.”

The drive to the scene is short, cut with the soft shuffle of the radio and the occasional tap of Mingyu’s thumb against the steering wheel. Neither of you says much. The air feels weighted, taut with things unspoken.

It’s still dark when you arrive, the city trapped in that brittle pre-dawn chill that bites through every seam of your clothes. You huddle deeper into your sweater as you approach the perimeter, where yellow crime scene tape flutters weakly in the breeze.

Jeonghan is already waiting, gloved up and scowling into his clipboard.

Mingyu falls naturally into step just behind your shoulder, close enough that you feel him there without needing to look.

“Female victim, mid-twenties, no ID yet,” Jeonghan says as you join him. He barely glances up. “ME’s still working on the preliminary cause of death but… it looks familiar.”

You duck under the tape, shoes crunching on damp leaves. The alley is narrow, hemmed in by aging brick and chain link fencing, and the body is slumped against a dumpster.

You glove up quickly and move closer.

Her skin is bloodless. Sickly pale. Clothes torn and stained. But it’s the marks at her throat that stop you cold — two perfect punctures, just above the collarbone.

Your stomach twists sharply.

You glance sideways at Mingyu — and find him already there, studying the scene with an intensity that borders on feral. His mouth is a thin line. His shoulders rigid.

He steps in carefully between the forensic photographer and the ME, crouching low. You watch as he scans, gloved fingers deftly poking through the victim’s scattered personal effects. It’s methodical, clinical — but there’s something under it too, something sharper, heavier.

The crease in Mingyu’s brown deepens as he pulls a wallet out of her left coat pocket, flipping it open.

“Name’s Min Seo-yeon,” he says, voice tight. He hesitates — just a fraction — before pulling a small slip of glossy card from the wallet’s inner pocket.

Velvet Eden.

Membership card.

The blood in your veins goes ice-cold.

next chapter ↝ ii. evidence of absence.

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Tehehehe 😼

[womensworldtour]

Mur de Huy, La Flèche Wallone Femmes, 2025

[marcelskittels]

PUCK PIETERSE & DEMI VOLLERING Tour de France Femmes 2024 - Stage 4 🎥 via uci_wwt / 📸 by clippin_media

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Limited edition print of Jeff Buckley by photographer Kevin Westenberg taken during a press shoot at The Worx Studios, London in March 1994.

Kevin recalls, "My only proper photo shoot with the man at The Worx Studios in King’s Cross.  It was also a stormy day of ups and downs due to an interview that had gone down just prior to his arrival at the studio.  Much discussion of his estranged father when the subject was supposed to be off limits got him insane in the membrane.  Would have liked to have had many more chances to photograph Jeff but fate didn’t work that way.  I do still every once in a while seem to find other gems from that day, like this one.  Always puts a smile on my face."

Kevin Westenberg's limited edition prints are signed, numbered and available in the following sizes:

[atomicjellycat]

You know there was some talk about how there might be some mild spookies in the new digital circus episode

BITCH TH FUCK IS THAT

HELLO????

So nonchalant, absolute chad behavior fuckin gotem

I love this fuckin project so damn much

[tadejpogacar]

LOTTE KOPECKY Team SD Worx-Protime / Training Camp 📸 by Dario Belingheri/Getty Images

[wereallgonnadieintheend]

saw someone post their cycling memes and figured id share mine too

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

vi. someone to come home to.

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

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

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

warnings 𓄧 mingyu is annoying. wc. 8.8k.

previous chapter ↜ v. the rite.

8:31 a.m.

For the first time in weeks your alarm isn’t the villain; you’re already awake, blinking at the slow-moving ceiling fan while the digits on your phone change from 8:31 to 8:32. Your body feels… doughy is the word that lands—soft and over-proved, like someone poked you in the night and left fingerprints behind. You slept through, though. A glorious, uninterrupted seven hours that should taste like victory, except there’s a syrupy weight behind your eyes and a slow pulse thrumming in the muscle of your left thigh where Mingyu’s fangs had broken skin last night.

Stop thinking about it.

You stretch anyway, toes pointing beneath the covers, and the stretch sparks memory—his hand braced high on your hip, the cool press of his mouth, the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when you didn’t flinch. Heat crawls up your neck. It shouldn’t. It’s biology, procedure, the Sanctum’s gilded pageantry. Still, the phantom of that pull lingers: a light static in your blood, a hitch in your breath that turns your pulse into a metronome set half a beat too slow.

You drag a palm down your face, trying to smear away the fog. Wonwoo’s briefing is in an hour-and-thirty; Mingyu will be there, crisp and professional, maybe even polite, but… retreating. Not cruel—just folding himself smaller, the way you do with origami evidence bags when the corners don’t line up. You don’t know which version of him you’ll meet in Central Crimes today: the one who kissed you like it was equal parts apology and promise, or the one who’ll file himself behind a ballistic-glass smile.

Either way, you remind yourself, coffee exists, adrenaline is free, and your badge still pushes open every door that matters. You swing your legs out of bed and press bare feet to the floor—

—and the pulse in your thigh answers, a soft echo of last night’s bite.

You breathe through it, cataloguing the sensation the way you would any other piece of evidence: one residual ache, non-threatening; mild cognitive haze, likely to clear with caffeine; emotional variable, to be locked in the drawer until further notice.

Uniform. Holster. Keys. Coffee. Work. Everything else—especially the memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your skin—goes in the unsolved bin for another day.

By nine-fifty you’re striding into the bullpen—heels this time, not knitted socks—radiating just-caffeinated-enough efficiency. The conference-room door is ajar; voices drift out. Soojin, Wonwoo, Jeonghan. You push in.

Jeonghan’s eyes lift first. No teasing grin today, just a swift, genuine: “Hey. How’re you feeling?”

“I slept—very literally—like a log,” you say, dropping your tote beside a chair. “Pretty sure I didn’t move an inch. It was fantastic.”

Soojin pops a double thumbs-up, ponytail bobbing. The gesture sparks a real laugh out of you—loose, bright. You slip into the seat beside Jeonghan, only then noticing the empty chair across the table.

“Where’s our beloved Senior Special Agent?”

Wonwoo snorts—an honest-to-God snort that startles even him. “Slept through his alarms. He won’t be long.”

Your frown pinches deep enough to blur the edge of your vision. Mingyu—late? The man’s half nocturnal, doesn’t need REM cycles to function. You tamp down the disquiet as Wonwoo clicks a remote, projection lighting the wall. While they wait, they circle back to you: candle placement, exits, number of guards, any iconography you remember. You answer cleanly, clipboard-calm, even as a rogue memory of Mingyu’s mouth on your thigh flickers like a faulty bulb.

Ten minutes in, the door opens with a hush of hinges. Mingyu slips inside, all six-foot-three of muted disarray: collar slightly askew, tie folded into his jacket pocket instead of around his neck, the front of his usually sleek hair creased by what must have been a very stubborn pillow. Only those who know him would catch it, but it’s there—the infinitesimal tell that something’s off.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, offering a quick nod to the room. “Alarm malfunction.”

He settles opposite you, eyes skating past yours in a tidy arc before landing on the files. The faint scent of sandalwood shampoo drifts across the table—fresh shower, rushed. He flips open his notebook, pen poised, shoulders squared like a soldier falling into rank, and the briefing rolls on.

But the space between your chairs feels climate-controlled: a few degrees colder than the rest of the room, threaded with last night’s unanswered questions. You straighten a page in your folder, meeting Wonwoo’s next prompt, and decide the chill can wait. For the next hour, at least, you will be every inch the lieutenant who does not notice when her partner forgets his tie.

Wonwoo dims the lights with one knuckle tap on the wall panel, and the projector coughs grainy gray across the screen.

“North-corridor camera,” he says—matter-of-fact, like it’s any routine stakeout feed. Except the image that sputters to life feels nothing like routine.

The stairwell swims in glitchy pulses: bulbs strobing, pixels ghosting. On screen there’s a faint tide of light at the top of the steps, and then you appear���red satin slipping into view, heels whispering on stone. You’d forgotten how deliberately you moved, cat-quiet, half-predator and half-prey. One beat behind, Mingyu emerges, a tall shadow in borrowed tuxedo black.

Jeonghan’s chair creaks as he leans forward. No one speaks.

The camera catches the moment you stop on the landing. You pivot just enough that your eyes flick up—straight into the lens, a flash of calculation before your expression shutters. Mingyu’s head tilts toward yours, mouth shifting. Wonwoo slows the feed and bumps audio; the microphone offers only a tinny hiss, but you remember exactly what he said.

You trust me?

A breath. Your nod.

On screen Mingyu lifts a hand—forefinger grazing the curve of your hip like a reassurance no one else was meant to see—and the two of you slip past the velvet curtain. Pixels smear as the fabric settles, then the frame is empty except for dust motes jittering in LED static.

Wonwoo lets the empty corridor run for three long seconds before skipping ahead a few minutes. A new timestamp blinks. Haewon glides into view now, pearl hair bright even in grayscale. Taeyong follows, his silhouette cutting a sharper line—hunger in the set of his shoulders even with the audio scratchy. They descend without a pause, no hesitation at the landing, and vanish through the same curtain. Unremarkable movements, as Wonwoo promised, but your stomach knots anyway; you remember the weight of their attention like cold hands on the back of your neck.

The footage ticks on in real-time silence until Wonwoo fast forwards through forty-seven long minutes of an empty stairwell, the velvet curtain hardly stirring. Then shadows bloom—pairs of silhouettes filing upward, laughing in muted grayscale. You and Mingyu are among them, indistinguishable from any other couple if not for the brief moment his hand hovers at your elbow.

Nothing else moves.

Wonwoo keeps the clip rolling until the timestamp reads 1:04:58. Twenty seconds later the feed cuts—not a glitch or static smear, just pure blackout. Midnight black. 

The blackout hovers on-screen like a held breath. The timestamp crawls from 01:05:46 … 01:06:59 … 01:08:41, nothing but a rectangle of absolute black. You feel the whole room lean closer, as if collective squinting might coax an image back.

At 01:09:00 the picture snaps alive.

The stairwell curtain is shut tight. The sliver of light you remember bleeding onto the steps is gone—snuffed like a candle—and the sodium wash of the main floor looks suddenly colder.

Jeonghan breaks the hush first. “Camera malfunction?”

Wonwoo shakes his head without looking up. “Only feed in the entire network that flat-lines. No errors, no glitch markers. Somebody killed it on purpose.” A sly twist to his mouth. “And whoever did so is a moron.”

“How so?”

Keys chatter. A new window blooms across the projector—main-floor coverage from a ceiling corner, the stairwell mouth framed just out of the shot. Timestamp rolls 01:05:00.

Fifty-six seconds pass.

At 01:05:56 light slices across the floor, and a man staggers out.

He doesn’t stride so much as spill into view, like he’s been poured from a too-small vessel. Left leg drags; the heel scrapes-skips-catches on tile. His right hand slaps the wall, fingers splaying wide, then slides down, leaving a greasy smear you feel in your teeth. Every step is an argument with gravity—body pitching forward, yanking itself upright again in the same breath.

Your pulse snaps awake. That is not how Eden’s patrons walk; that is how survivors crawl.

Jeonghan mutters, “What the fuck,” the words thin and airless.

Mingyu sits taller, the metal legs of his chair squealing against his weight. For the first time since the briefing started, he meets your eyes—wide, alert, the unspoken did you see that ricocheting between you.

“There was no one left down there,” he says, voice low.

“Not anyone we knew was there to begin with,” you answer, but your gaze is already flicking to Wonwoo. “You got another angle?”

“Is water wet?” He’s halfway through the keystroke.

The second view flares up—camera mounted diagonally, catching a full frontal as the man lurches beneath a light fixture. Wonwoo freezes the frame.

Blood blotches his collar, some fresh, some rust-brown. Dark streaks mar the chest of a once-white dress shirt. Up close the man’s face is a catalogue of disorientation: lips parted, eyes blown wide and unfocused, skin blanched beneath the smudge of something darker on his cheekbone. He looks hollowed out, as though someone scooped the certainty from behind his eyes and left the shell walking.

An electric hum seems to fill the room as Wonwoo clips the still, drags it into facial-rec software. Thirty seconds tick by—each one a hammer on your sternum—before the computer pings, bright and final.

MATCH: KIM JINHO

STATUS: MISSING PERSON

DATE FILED: 14 JUNE

CASE STATUS: COLD

Soojin’s pen clatters from her hand. Jeonghan exhales a single stunned laugh that isn’t laughter at all. Mingyu’s grip whitens around his pen, knuckles like marble.

You sit back, heart thudding in your ears, and let the enormity settle: a dead case just climbed the wrong staircase—alone, bleeding, and very much alive.

The still frame of his face—bruised, dazed, mouth slightly open in mid-breath—sits in sharp contrast beside a pristine photo pulled from a license file. In it, Kim Jinho is smiling. Warm, a little tired, like someone who hasn’t slept enough but still remembers joy. That version of him is gone.

The room is still. Silent in the kind of way that buzzes in your ears. The image of Jinho—bleeding, slack-jawed, all wrong—lingers on the projector like it might move again if you blink.

Wonwoo breaks it, voice low but clear. “His boss reported him missing when he didn’t show up for work the next day. He was never seen or heard from again. Bank, phone records—everything went dark. Metro suspected foul play, but they had nothing to go off. No known enemies, no debt, no trace. So the case was closed. He just vanished.”

He clicks through files on his laptop, screen flashing documents too fast to read. “I’ve scoured every record we’ve pulled from Eden. Membership logs, drink orders, sign-ins. Not a single trace of him. Not even a guest pass.”

The silence after that is heavier. The kind that settles in the joints. You glance across the table and catch the look on Mingyu’s face—calm, but carved in tension. He leans forward, arms braced on his knees, jaw so tight it pulses at the hinge.

“So, what,” he says, voice even but too controlled, “they’re keeping him down there?”

It lands like a gut punch. Not a theory. A possibility. A practice.

You hear it in him—the edge. The quiet horror. He’s not scared for himself. He’s scared of what it means. What it confirms.

Jeonghan speaks next, but the usual humor is gone. His voice is flat, low. “Him… and who else?”

You feel it then—your pulse skittering. Your mind running in a dozen directions at once, 1,305 thoughts refusing to thread into coherence. You think about the look in Jinho’s eyes. The blood on his collar. How no one followed him up the stairs. How many stairwells you haven’t had access to. How many faces you haven’t seen.

Then Soojin cuts in, sharp as a scalpel.

“We’re missing something inside,” she says. Calm. Intent. “Think about it. Knowing what we know now—Eden is curated. You only see what they want you to see. We’ve been watching from the inside, but maybe we need to be watching from the outside, too.”

You narrow your eyes. Something catches. The thread pulls.

“All those doors,” you murmur. “Corridors. Half of them don’t match the floorplans we’ve seen.”

“Exactly.” She nods once, pulling her hair into a tie with an elastic from her wrist. There’s something hard in her eyes now. “They have to lead somewhere. We just haven’t seen where yet.”

Jeonghan leans in slightly. “What are you thinking?”

“We did a TARU op across from Eden last year,” she says. “Abandoned office building, mostly vacant. We set up in the south wing, but the north wing has a direct visual on Eden’s entrance. Front and side. Clear line of sight.”

Wonwoo’s already pulling up overlays, city grid flickering across the projector. “High floors. Reinforced glass. It’s perfect.” He zooms in. “We’d get coverage of every entry point. Even that sketchy delivery bay on the west.”

“So we stake it out,” Soojin says simply, her voice like a hammer driving in a nail. “Two nights. Minimum.”

You nod slowly, spine catching up with your adrenaline. “Okay.” You push back from the table. The chair wheels creak sharply in the silence. “We have a living victim on tape. That resets the clock.”

You start issuing orders like breathing.

“I want TARU scrubbing every feed for ten minutes after his last sighting. Soo, cross-reference every hospital intake after one-thirty a.m.—anyone matching his description. Injuries, shock, no ID, the works. Mingyu, draft a supplemental to Metro’s cold-case file, attach this footage and time-stamp all anomalies. Jeonghan, delegate the re-interviews to second rank. Friends, family, neighbors. If he had any prior contact with Eden, we need to know about it. I’ll talk to Cheol about arranging the stakeout for tonight and tomorrow.”

You pause just long enough to inhale.

Then Wonwoo, voice quiet but unmistakably firm, adds: “I think you and Mingyu should take the stakeout.”

Your head lifts slowly. “Why?”

“You know the faces best. The rhythms. The building. If something looks out of place, you’ll pick it.”

Your eyes flick from Wonwoo to Mingyu. Mingyu is already looking at you, expression unreadable—but neutral. Controlled. You can’t tell if he agrees or if he’s just resigned to the suggestion. Your stomach twists.

You think of the elevator. The space between you. The word lieutenant, dry and unfamiliar in his mouth. You think of being locked in a surveillance room with him overnight. Of what might be said. Or not said.

But you’re a professional.

You swallow the knot in your throat and nod.

“Seems fair.”

It’s quiet again for a beat. Everyone lets it settle—lets the weight of the mission tip forward. Mingyu doesn’t look away. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching.

For the rest of the morning, he’s present. Polite. Efficient. But every second of it feels like you’re being held at arm’s length.

He doesn’t meet your eye unless he has to. He doesn’t speak unless it’s about the case. And even then, it’s clipped. Cordial. He holds folders out instead of passing them directly into your hand. When you cross paths by the precinct’s industrial printer, he nods like you’re HR.

It grates. Not immediately. Not enough for you to call it out in the middle of the war room while surveillance is being catalogued and Jeonghan is elbow-deep in post-it notes. But it builds.

By 11:30, you can’t hear anything over it.

By 12:15, your jaw is aching from the way you’re clenching it.

By 1:00, you’re not even pretending to make conversation anymore.

At 1:47, Seungcheol checks his watch and says, “You two are off the clock until ten. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

You nod. Say thank you. Avoid glancing at Mingyu because you know he’s already on his feet, gathering his jacket and the files he never seems to leave without.

And then you feel it. That last crack in your patience.

You watch him move ahead of you toward the lifts, all long strides and measured calm, like he hasn’t been driving you half-insane all goddamn day.

No apology. No acknowledgment. No hey, sorry for being weird after drinking your blood in front of a cult. Nothing.

It’s not cruelty. That would at least make it easier. It’s the way he keeps retreating into his professional self—his tactical self—that eats at you. Like he’s trying to re-draw a line that never really existed to begin with. Like pretending you’re just partners will make everything else fall back into place.

You press the heel of your palm to your brow as the elevator doors close behind him. The war room hums around you. The case board buzzes faintly under fluorescent lights. Someone’s pouring stale coffee two rooms down.

You sit with it.

The burn. The silence. The widening space.

And you decide, plainly:

You are not spending six hours in an abandoned surveillance room tonight with a man who won’t talk to you unless it’s through case notes and technical jargon.

So you grab your things. You head for the exit.

The parking-lot lights buzz overhead, casting pale cones across concrete pocked with oil stains. You hit your stride hard, sock-boot heels echoing like gunshots. Mingyu’s already at his car, keys half-raised, when the noise makes him glance back.

He sees it’s you—sees the set of your shoulders—and turns fully, posture squared.

“Are you planning on still being an ass by the time we pull up to that office,” you call, breath white in the late-autumn air, “or do I need to take Jeonghan instead? Because I am not spending six hours alone with you if you’re gonna keep being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

You bark a laugh. “Could’ve fooled me, Kim. You’ve never called me Lieutenant in full seriousness—ever. Yesterday you drained my femoral artery, and today? No iron sachet, no ‘how are you feeling,’ no work-husband routine. Nothing.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it, scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “The Rite… threw me off,” he says at last. “Standing waist-deep in something that ugly—feeding in front of them—felt like every stereotype I’ve spent a decade outrunning. That I’m savage. Mindless. Like I can’t be trusted. Not by them. Not by you.” His voice drops. “And watching you become part of it—” He shakes his head. “It hurt. I hated it.”

You fold your arms, anger cooling into something heavier. “Look, I can’t—won’t—work with a partner who shuts me out. We’ve been friends too long for that. When you ice me, I start wondering what I did wrong.”

His shoulders sag; the fight’s gone. “You didn’t do anything. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m… working on it.” He meets your eyes, earnest and raw. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Soft now, you step closer, close enough to catch the warm spice of his cologne. “Don’t do it again. Talk to me next time. I always have time for you—you know that.”

He nods, vow etched into the line of his jaw. “Next time I talk. No shutdowns.” Then, a small hopeful tilt to his mouth: “Ramen apology? My treat—extra noodles.”

You roll your eyes because it’s impossible not to, but your lips betray you with a smile. “Fine. But I’m ordering the expensive gyoza, too.”

His grin breaks wide—relief, affection, something that might stick—and the tension leaks off your spine as he unlocks the car. Six hours in a dark surveillance room suddenly feels survivable again.

The office is dead quiet, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. Blanketed in the low, humming hush of night, save for the distant buzz of a halogen streetlamp and the occasional shuffle of cars rolling down the avenue two stories below. You’ve both gone mostly silent, heads bent to your tasks. Surveillance feeds flicker across the laptop in front of you—grayscale, grainy, but sharp enough for ID. One angle on the front entrance. One on the side alley. One grainy thermal on the roof. Wonwoo really pulled strings to set these up, and you’d bet your badge he hasn’t told anyone.

Mingyu’s crouched by the window again, camera braced steady between his hands. Every few minutes, he lifts it to his eye, lens glinting as he lines up another shot through the slit in the blackout film covering the glass. Click. Click. Click. You know the sound now. Not the high-pitched plasticky shutter of cheap tech, but the heavy, satisfying snap of a camera made for precision. He works like he’s built for it—controlled, quiet, absurdly focused.

You watch him from the corner of your eye and think, unfairly, God, you’re kind of hot when you concentrate.

It’s not the first time tonight the thought’s snuck up on you, but it catches differently now. More specific. Sharper around the edges.

You remember, years ago, during some downtime in evidence processing, you’d been talking about vacation plans you’d never take. He’d said he liked film photography. Old school. Thirty-five millimeter. Something about how the act of slowing down made him feel more present. More human.

You’d never seen him do it before—not like this—but watching him now, it’s easy to imagine him somewhere quiet. Not in a suit. Not in this world. Just a camera in his hands and nothing else on his mind.

He hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Neither have you.

And you’re okay with that.

There’s something deeply grounding about this version of him—the one that exists when you strip everything back. No club lights. No performance. No feeding, or cover, or danger looming thick in the air. Just him, with his shoulder braced against the window frame, sleeves pushed up, brow creased in that soft way it always is when he’s trying to blend in with the silence. It’s the kind of quiet that tethers you to the room. To him.

Eventually, when the sidewalk thins and the doormen lean a little heavier into their posts, the rush dies down. Somewhere between midnight and one.

Mingyu settles back with a sigh, camera still slung around his neck, fingers laced loosely over his stomach as he sinks into the old rolling office chair behind him. The seat groans in protest, wheels creaking against the cracked tiles. He scrolls idly through the playback on the camera’s tiny screen after a while, pausing on a few faces from the Rite that he recognizes. Another thread for the board. Another name for the web.

Then, without looking up, he speaks.

“If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?”

You blink.

The question is so unexpected it catches on the air between you like a fishhook. Suspended. A little too sharp, but soft around the edges.

You glance over, lips twitching into a smile. “Jesus Gyu, what brought that on?”

He finally lifts his eyes, mouth curling at the corner. “I like asking loaded questions. Cuts the small talk out.”

You raise a brow. “Deep thoughts from the surveillance chair?”

Mingyu shrugs. “Picking people’s brains is my favorite pastime. Didn’t have many hobbies, but that one stuck.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s a strange sincerity to it. A glint in his eye. He’s not looking at the monitor anymore.

You look back at your screen. Stall, just for a second. Let the question root itself.

And then, you answer honestly.

“Probably that I’m always calculating,” you murmur. “Even when I’m trying not to be. Like my whole body’s waiting for the next thing to go wrong.”

The silence doesn’t stretch. He doesn’t leave you to sit in it.

Instead, he leans forward, forearms on his thighs, chin tilted just enough to catch your eyes again.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Means you see everything.”

You shrug one shoulder. “Maybe. Or maybe it just means I don’t know how to relax.”

He smiles. Quiet. Familiar. “You seem relaxed now.”

And that? Well, that sticks.

You look back at your screen. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam is still.

“Okay,” you say, clicking into the next feed. “My turn.”

He grins, just a little. Proud, like he’s won something. “Hit me.”

“What’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

The question hangs there between you. Light. Casual. But it’s not. It’s not.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his lips together, like he’s rolling the words around behind his teeth, trying to figure out which ones are safe to release.

You glance up at him. He’s watching you. Face open. Eyes a little tired. A little fond. You hold his gaze, just long enough to feel it land. Then you look back at your screen—slow, careful—life tucking something precious into a drawer you’ll open later.

In that moment, he looks full. Of thoughts. Of almosts.

You wonder if he knows. If he suspects that the question wasn’t so neutral. That it was, maybe, a reach. Maybe a whisper of something truer than you’re ready to say aloud.

He huffs a quiet breath.

“Someone to come home to,” he says finally, voice softer than the dark.

And then, to your complete surprise, he laughs. Sheepish. A little shy.

“I mean, not that I even—shit, that sounded way more emo than I meant.”

You don’t laugh. You just look at him.

Because maybe, just maybe, you know exactly what he means.

You go back to the screen.

But your next note is crooked.

And Mingyu keeps glancing over, like he’s not entirely sure if he meant to say it, or if he’s just been thinking about it for so long that it slipped out.

After that, you both fall quiet again—not out of discomfort, not even out of shyness. It’s just late, and the weight of the day settles into your bones like sediment, thick and heavy. Everything moves slower now, softer, like the building itself is starting to exhale after holding its breath too long.

You click through the surveillance feeds with slow, steady fingers. The alley’s empty. The rooftop cam catches a few drifting shadows. Nothing urgent. Nothing strange.

So you ask something that is.

“Do you ever miss it?”

Mingyu glances at you, head tilted slightly. “Miss what?”

“Being human.”

That catches him. You see it in the brief falter of his expression—just a flicker, there and gone. He exhales through his nose, leaning back again in the chair, the old leather creaking beneath him.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “But not in the way most people think.”

You watch him. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just studies the camera in his lap like it holds better answers.

“I miss being treated like one,” he says quietly. “People either romanticise it or villainise it. Think I’m gonna Edward Cullen them into a tragic love story or I’m Nosferatu. The Bill Skarsgård-rip-your-spine-out one, not the classic.”

You huff softly, lips curving. “Lost you a few dates?”

“More than a few,” he mutters, almost smiling.

You glance at him. “I would’ve thought the brooding aura and superhuman stamina would appeal to most girls.”

That earns you a look. Something playful but unreadable beneath it.

“Why?” he says, voice a little lower now. “Does it appeal to you?”

You roll your eyes—half huff, half grin—but the gesture’s a flimsy shield. Of course it appeals. The idea of all that impossible strength and sin-dark devotion trained on you alone sparks low and hot, a secret thrum you refuse to let him see.

You don’t answer. Not right away. Just let your gaze drift back to the monitor.

And in the silence that follows, something unspoken pulses between you. Unacknowledged. But alive.

Then, quietly—

“That’s why I like working with you.”

You glance at him again. He’s not smiling, not teasing. Just watching the screen, fingers idly rotating the camera lens between his palms.

“You never treated me like some tragic immortal. Or a freak. Just… some guy. Some pain-in-the-ass detective.”

He shifts a little in his chair, voice softer now.

“You see the human part. Not the gentle monster. Just… gentle.”

That sits in your chest for a long time after. Warmer than it should be. A little dangerous.

Because the truth is, you do see him. Not as a tragedy. Not as a symbol. Just as someone who deserves to be seen. And there’s space in your heart for that. For him. Maybe more than you want to admit.

But you brush it off, like you always do.

“I don’t know about pain in the ass,” you mutter, flipping to a new page in your notebook. “Pain in my ass, yes. Your legs take up so much space under my desk.”

Mingyu lets out a startled laugh. “Our desk.”

You sigh. There’s no real venom in it. “Case in point.”

And just like that, the moment softens. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it settles. You go back to work. And so does he.

At some point after two, Mingyu sinks further into the chair beside you, legs stretched out long, arms folded across his chest. You can hear the subtle shift of his breathing as it slows, evens out, then dies completely. He’s asleep before you realize he’s not responding to the subtle remarks you make under your breath. It’s not sudden—just a slow surrender, like his body finally decided it was done for the night.

You glance over, and your heart tugs a little at the sight.

He looks so… young like this. Younger than he ever lets himself be around anyone else. There’s no sharpness in his jaw, no tension behind his brow. Just sleep-softened features and the faintest furrow at the bridge of his nose, like even unconscious, some small part of him is still bracing for something. The camera strap is still looped around his neck, and his boots are planted unevenly on the floor, but he looks at peace. Untouched by the darkness you’ve both been steeping in for weeks now. The version of him you’re used to is polished, commanding—undercover but never unarmed. This one? He’s all soft edges and silent trust.

You let him sleep. You don’t even think about waking him.

Instead, you go back to your screen. Keep an eye on the feeds. Glance between the live camera and the notes you’ve been scratching down in the margins of your legal pad. You sip your now-cold coffee, shiver a little under the thinning layer of your jacket. Nothing’s happened for a while, and part of you��traitorous, exhausted—is beginning to think nothing will.

But then, at 3:41 AM, something shifts.

A flicker on the side entrance cam.

You straighten in your chair, suddenly alert. The fatigue that had started to settle over your brain evaporates in one sharp blink.

A van pulls up. Unmarked. Gray. Clean. But it’s not the vehicle that makes your stomach pull tight—it’s the way it approaches. Slowly. Deliberately. No headlights. Just gliding to a stop in the shadows, like it’s done this before. Like it knows this place.

You lean closer, adjusting the camera angle on the feed.

Someone steps out. A man. Not dressed like the usual Eden clientele—no silk, no sequins, no velvet-collared drama. He’s plain. Nondescript. Jeans. Jacket. Black boots. He moves quickly, carrying a briefcase clutched tight in one hand, and without so much as a glance around, he heads straight for the side door.

And disappears inside.

You wait. Watch. Three minutes. Then five. Ten.

Forty minutes later, he re-emerges the same way he entered. Gets in the passenger seat, drives away without fanfare.

Your heart ticks faster, the unease in your gut deepening by the second. You make a quiet note of the van’s plates—partial, smudged with grime—and check the side alley cam again. Still clear. Still quiet.

The only proof that anything happened at all is the lingering hollow in your chest. You know better than to ignore that feeling.

When Mingyu stirs, you glance over instinctively—not out of concern, just reflex. The way you would if a door creaked. If a sensor blinked. But it’s only him, blinking against the dark like he’s surprised he ever let it win.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “Did I fall asleep?”

You nod, not looking away from the monitor. “Only for about two hours.”

He winces, straightening. “You should’ve woken me.”

You shrug. “You needed it.”

He glances at you. You can feel his gaze linger, heavy and warm, before he turns his attention to the screen. “Anything?”

You hesitate. Then nod once. “Van pulled up around 3:40. Side entrance. Guy with a briefcase went in. Came back out 5 minutes ago.”

His brows furrow. He leans forward to study the screen, then lets out a low breath. “You get a plate?”

“Partial.”

“Still something.”

The first trickle of patrons begins to emerge from the club around 4:35. They come in waves—couples clinging to each other, women holding their heels in their hands, a few dazed-looking regulars who always linger too long. The velvet ropes are pulled down, the bouncers retreating inside. Mingyu stands once to snap a few final photos, nothing that sets alarm bells off, just more faces for the board.

By 5:30, the street is almost still again. A light wind has picked up. It carries the smell of damp concrete and night-soured perfume.

Wonwoo’s SUV is idling quietly at the curb when you and Mingyu emerge from the office building. The sky is still the deep, bruised blue of pre-dawn, the streetlamps casting long, syrupy streaks across the asphalt. Mingyu moves slowly, bones stiff from hours spent crouched or perched. You, somehow, feel looser—wired, maybe, but weirdly lighter now that you’ve stepped out of surveillance mode. It’s easier to breathe here, outside of Velvet Eden’s line of sight.

The passenger door creaks open. You climb in and collapse back against the seat with a sigh that deflates your whole chest. The interior smells like stale fries and black coffee—familiar, oddly comforting—and Wonwoo’s got some low, sleepy jazz playing through the speakers, like it’s a soft habit he never unlearned.

“You both look like corpses,” he says after a beat, glancing at you through the rearview mirror. “Wait—” A pause. “Is that offensive?”

Beside you, Mingyu lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “Only if you say it in a Romanian accent.”

Wonwoo hums. “Noted.”

Mingyu gets dropped off first. He gives you a small nod as he gets out—a silent I’ll see you soon—and then turns away, shoulders rolled back against the chill. You watch him for a second longer than necessary, long enough to see him pause under the streetlight, camera bag slung over one shoulder, the faint trace of a smile tugging at his mouth as he disappears around the corner.

Then it’s just you and Wonwoo. 

The car hums low beneath you, warmth pooled in the vents and the faint sound of tires hissing along wet asphalt. The sky is starting to shift—still navy, but lighter at the edges, like someone’s prying open the lid of the world inch by inch. Wonwoo hasn’t said much since Mingyu got out. Neither have you. But there’s something turning over in your chest, slow and insistent, and you figure if you don’t say it now, it’ll keep you up long after you’ve collapsed into bed.

So you speak.

“Noo,” you murmur, your voice scratchy, lips dry.

“Yeah?” he replies, easy. Still alert. Always is when he drives.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Always,” he says, like it costs him nothing. Like it’s that simple.

You hesitate. Thumb presses into the seam of your coat. Then, “Gyu asked me a weird question earlier, and I’m not really sure what he meant by it.”

You catch a flicker of curiosity in the rearview. He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look. Go on.

You clear your throat. “He asked me… if someone saw me the way he sees me, what would they notice first?”

Wonwoo huffs a quiet laugh through his nose. “He’s so strange, dude. So philosophical for someone only turned when the iPhone 6 came out.”

You smile despite yourself, but it slips quickly. “I said that I’m always calculating. Like, chronically thinking.”

“I mean, yeah. Checks out,” he says lightly. “It’s why you get stuck with weirdos who don’t think, like him and Jeonghan.” A pause. “I say that lovingly.”

There’s no bite to it, just a soft affirmation—one that only someone like Wonwoo can pull off. Grounded. Familiar.

He glances at you again, eyes flicking toward the mirror. “Are you asking me to debunk it as a cop, or as your friend?”

You hesitate. “Whichever you think is more helpful.”

He hums again. Then, after a beat, “I think you two could benefit from talking about yourselves more than the case.” A gentle nudge, disguised as casual. “I mean… you’re interested in him, right?”

“Of course I am,” you answer automatically. “He’s one of my closest friends.”

That earns you a full look this time—eyebrows raised, head tilting slightly as he keeps one hand on the wheel. “Don’t be dense,” he says dryly. “I saw the photo that came with the Rite invite. If I were you, and vampiric Ken Doll had my back arching like that, I’d want him too.”

You blink. “Okay. That is… a lot.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Is it wrong?”

You tip your head to the window; cold glass kisses your temple and you let it steal some of the heat still spinning in your cheeks. “I don’t know,” you sigh. “Maybe I have a crush. Maybe I’m just exhausted and too deep in the weeds with him right now.”

“Sounds like both,” Wonwoo answers, voice mild as the click-click of the indicator.

You huff. “There’s nothing to admit, Wonwoo. Mingyu and I— we just work well together.”

He glances at you in the rear-view—one of those quick, super-analyst looks that catalogues and files everything. “You two have run the work-husband-and-wife bit into the ground,” he says. “Fond isn’t a mortal sin, last I checked. It doesn’t revoke your competence.”

“It could,” you mutter. “Feelings make people sloppy.”

“Feelings make people people,” he counters, deadpan. Then, softer: “You’re allowed to be human, Lieutenant.”

You fall quiet, following the streetlights sliding over the headrest like slow comets. “I might be a square, but I’m not blind,” you murmur, “Most girls would find it hard not to let their mind wander if their outrageously conventionally attractive coworker drank blood from their thigh, no?”

Wonwoo shifts one hand on the wheel. The silence stretches long enough that you wonder if he’ll answer at all. Finally, “Agreed. Though, you two have always run a little deeper than radio protocol, don’t you think?”

Your pulse trips. “Meaning?”

He only shrugs, eyes forward. “Meaning I’ve seen worse bets pay off.” A beat. “And I’ve never seen him let you fall.”

The seed lands—small, inconspicuous, impossible to ignore. You stare at his silhouette, at the easy certainty in his posture, and the city keeps sliding past while the thought roots itself, quiet and stubborn, in the space behind your ribs.

You bite your lip, the rest of the memory surfacing now, tinged with something bittersweet. “I asked him something too. After.”

Wonwoo doesn’t speak, just angles his chin slightly, listening.

“I asked… what’s something you only ever let yourself want in theory?”

“And?” he asks.

You pause.

“He said ‘someone to come home to.’”

That finally knocks the wind out of even Wonwoo, just a little. His fingers tighten on the wheel for half a second.

“…Damn, that’s soft. Even for him.” He mutters, soft.

You blink again, too tired to be startled. Your body’s heavy, but your thoughts won’t slow down, still chewing on every word, every lingering glance from earlier.

He pulls up to your building and throws the car in park.

“You’re good at reading people,” he says, cutting the engine. “But you’re even better at overthinking them.”

You open the door, but he twists to face you, one arm over the steering wheel.

“Be kinder to yourself tonight,” he adds. “Sleep. Let your brain rest for once.”

You glance back at him. “Night, Wonwoo.”

He nods. “Night. Tell Barbie I said hi.”

You snort and step out, letting the door shut behind you.

And as you climb the steps to your apartment, your heart is still tangled in the sound of his voice from earlier. That quiet confession. That barely-restrained hope.

Someone to come home to.

And for the first time in a long time, the idea of being that for someone—of someone being that for you—doesn’t feel so impossible. Just… tender. Close.

Maybe even real.

The apartment is quiet when you wake.

Not silent—never truly silent, not with the hum of the fridge, the tick of the kitchen clock, the distant groan of a tram moving down the line two streets over. But quiet in a way that feels reverent. Muted. Like the world knows better than to demand too much of you right now.

It’s already past 6. Pale gold light spills through the slats of your blinds, striping the floor and the side of your bed in long, lazy shadows. The air is warm and still. Your sheets are kicked halfway down your legs, your T-shirt clinging damply to your spine. Everything aches. Shoulders. Lower back. Your knees, from curling too long in a chair not built for overnight surveillance.

For a long while, you don’t move. Your body feels sunken, as though it’s been swallowed by the mattress. Your limbs are heavy, tethered. But it’s your mind that drags hardest, thoughts slow and sticky, caught in the residue of too many hours spent watching the world through glass.

You roll onto your side. Groan softly. Let your hand fumble for your phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up to a text timestamped 8:13AM:

[mingyu]: hope you got some sleep. thanks for keeping me alive through the graveyard shift.

You blink at it. Then again.

A second message follows, sent just a few minutes ago:

[mingyu]: i was thinking of bringing real food over before round two? maybe around 8? lmk if you want anything in particular.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. Then, slowly, your lips curve.

Real food. He’s right—yesterday was gas station ramen, peanut M&M’s, and a questionable bag of jerky that might have been older than the sting op itself. You should eat something. You should shower. You should probably return one of the four emails from your landlord.

But instead, you thumb out a reply.

[you]: i’ll take anything with real nutrients in it. ur a legend thank u. lmk when you’re otw i’ll probably fall asleep again

The reply is instant.

[mingyu]: good. you looked like you were about to pass out in the car. get some rest. i got you.

You let the phone fall to the mattress beside you. Close your eyes again. But sleep doesn’t come easy. Not really.

There’s something itching at the edges of your brain. A conversation. A question.

If someone saw you the way I see you, what do you think they’d notice first?

It keeps looping. Not just the words, but the way he said them. The tone. The almost-too-casual shrug. Like it wasn’t a confession in disguise. Like it didn’t leave your chest aching for reasons you haven’t found the nerve to name yet.

You think of the way he looked when he asked. Backlit by that flickering office light, camera strap draped around his neck, mouth curved into something just a little shy. A little wondering.

You hadn’t lied. You are always calculating. But in that moment, with him, it had felt less like a survival reflex and more like a reflexive scan for proof that you weren’t alone in how much things had changed.

He’d told you something, too. Something soft. Someone to come home to.

It hadn’t sounded hypothetical.

And it hadn’t left you.

Your stomach growls softly. You groan again and drag yourself upright. Shuffle toward the bathroom with a weight in your bones that makes you feel ten years older than you are. The shower is too hot, but it scrubs some of the heaviness from your skin. Not all. Just enough.

By the time you’re drying yourself, the sun has dipped far enough that your kitchen is steeped in a dusky amber. You pull on clean clothes. Pad barefoot into the hallway. Pour yourself a glass of water and sip it slowly, standing at the window.

You can just barely see the skyline from here. Just the edge of it. The world beyond the case.

You don’t let yourself stay there long.

The case is all that matters. That’s the line. That’s always been the line.

But it’s starting to feel blurred at the edges.

You think of Mingyu. Of how he looked when he fell asleep in the chair beside you, just past two in the morning. You’d watched him for a while. Not creepily. Not intentionally. Just… observed. The way the lines of his face eased. The way the tension fell from his shoulders. He’d looked young. Peaceful. Human.

It struck you then—how much trust it takes to sleep beside someone. Especially when you’re not required to. When you’re not faking it.

He trusts you. That much is clear.

The question is—what are you going to do about it?

Your phone buzzes again, right on time.

[mingyu]: nutrients secured. be there soon

You smile.

And this time, it feels real.

The knock comes exactly at eight—two soft raps, a pause, then one more, the pattern you’ve come to recognize as Mingyu’s way of announcing himself without waking half the building. You wipe your palms on your jeans and open the door, already catching the faintest whiff of sesame oil and charred scallion wafting up from the handles of a brown paper carrier bag he’s balancing on one palm.

He smiles, easy, unguarded. “Hope you’re hungry. I may have gone overboard.”

“You? Overboard?” You step aside to let him in, voice teasing even as your stomach growls on cue. “Unheard of.”

He nudges the door shut with his hip, steers the bag toward the coffee table, and you trail after him, noting absently how he fits in your living room now—like the space reshapes itself around his height, his broad shoulders, the clean scent of his cologne. There’s an unfamiliar warmth in your chest as he shrugs off his jacket, revealing a soft charcoal hoodie and jeans, nothing tactical, nothing undercover. Just Mingyu.

“Got japchae, spicy pork, fried dumplings,” he says, unpacking cartons with practiced care. “And tofu kimchi stew. Figured we need real protein if we’re going to stay awake tonight.”

You laugh, dropping cross‑legged onto the rug opposite him. “Were you always the mom friend in the group?”

“One of us has to feed you before you turn into a gargoyle,” he counters, and the banter slots into place with infuriating ease—familiar, comfortable, like the stretch of an old sweater. It almost annoys you how quickly you fall back into it after the way your thoughts have spun since dawn, but you’re too hungry to dwell.

You open chopsticks, passing him a pair. He scoops japchae into a bowl for you, but barely fills his own, taking only a few strands of noodles and half a dumpling. You notice, but you don’t mention it—vampire appetite works on a different clock. The silence between bites is companionable; the clink of bamboo on ceramic becomes its own background rhythm.

“What’d you do after I left?” he asks, voice low, more curious than casual.

“Showered. Slept.” You shrug. “I still feel doughy, though.”

He looks like he wants to chide you but thinks better of it. Instead, he nudges over a carton of pickled radish. “Eat. Then maybe you’ll manage a nap before we go back out.”

You’re aware, keenly, of the ease with which he cares—how he remembers you take your stew with extra scallions, how he turns the thermostat up a notch without asking. Something in you tightens, the echo of Wonwoo’s words. You push the thought aside and focus on the food.

Conversation drifts: a quick rundown of Wonwoo’s meta‑data pull, the latest TARU rumor about micro‑drones, a shared groan about Seungcheol scheduling a briefing at dawn tomorrow. It should feel exactly like every other debrief you’ve had together over cheap takeout. But somewhere beneath the normalcy, there’s a low hum—an awareness that the line between friend and something else is thinning, thread by thread.

At one point, you glance up to find him already watching you, elbows propped on his knees. The expression on his face is soft, thoughtful. It flusters you in a way no hungry vampire stare ever has. You clear your throat and reach for a dumpling, knocking over your chopsticks in the process. He catches them mid‑air with a chuckle, hands steady, eyes crinkling.

“I see coordination is still not your strong suit,” he teases.

“Sleep deprivation,” you fire back, but your voice is gentler than usual. The annoyance has faded, replaced by something quieter—something close to contentment, and it scares you more than exhaustion ever could.

You finish half the stew before the fatigue begins to drag at your eyelids in earnest. The room is warm, the food heavier than you realized. Mingyu’s voice has gone soft, the bass of it settling through your bones. You lean back against the couch, bowl resting on the table, and before you can argue with your body, your eyes slip shut.

You feel him shift beside you, hear the rustle of paper cartons being closed, the gentle clink of dishes stacked. The next thing you know, a folded blanket settles over your legs—his doing, no question—and a pillow you forgot you owned is slipped behind your head.

Somewhere in the haze, you mumble, “I can set an alarm.”

“Got it covered,” he whispers. Fingertips brush your shoulder—light, reassuring. “Rest.”

You should protest. You need to be sharp. But the couch is soft, the room dim, and the last thing you register is the even cadence of his breathing as he lowers himself onto the opposite end, head tipped back, long legs stretched out. A gentle stillness wraps around both of you.

You drift.

Dreams tug at you: two sets of keys clinking together in the bowl by the door. Two wine glasses drying on the rack. His reading glasses (does he even need them?) folded on the nightstand where your phone usually charges. They’re domestic images, mundane and terrifying in their sweetness, and they settle over you like linen.

A light touch on your ankle jolts you awake. Mingyu’s face hovers close, backlit by the hallway glow. “It’s nine,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

You blink, heart thudding, the dream dissolving. The room smells faintly of soy and garlic; the table is cleared. He must have tidied while you slept. You sit up too fast, blanket pooling at your waist. “Shit. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You needed it.” He straightens, offers a hand to help you up. “We’ve got thirty minutes to gear up.”

Your fingers slip into his, warm and steady, and something in your chest clicks into place with a quiet inevitability. You rise, brushing stray hair from your face. He doesn’t let go right away.

For a heartbeat, the apartment is silent except for the faint tick of the wall clock. His thumb strokes the back of your hand once—an absent‑minded gesture that feels anything but casual.

Then he releases you, stepping back. “I’ll load the car. Meet you downstairs?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, voice steadier than you feel. “Five minutes.”

He nods, grabs his jacket, and steps into the hall. The door clicks shut, and you exhale, pressing a hand to your chest like you can calm the thunder in your ribs.

Something has changed—so subtly you almost missed it. Except now you can’t un‑feel the certainty humming through you.

You hurry to splash water on your face, lace up your boots, and lock the door behind you.

Someone to come home to.

You’re not ready to name it. But tonight, as you descend the stairs and see him waiting by the car, duffel slung over his shoulder, head tilted like he’s already clocked your every breath—you think maybe you’re ready to want it.

next chapter ↝ vii. fracture. (coming soon)

click here for tag list submission / removal.

tag list!

@bangtanbolo @ateez-atiny380 @hipsdofangirl @rem-mp3 @minghaofied @gyu-woo @dreamingofpcy @jonginjinyoungjaehyun @gabbwaa @wonu13 @tokitosun @lalataitai @callmehoweveruwatblog @celestialbs @coupsma @bebecauseh

a/n: before anyone jumps me i do just want to state this was dislcosed as a slow burn from day dot 😭 thank ya!

[click4rainy]

Just like that // Kenshi x Reader smut shot.

👽: I’m on a coochie eating spree 🤷🏻‍♀️ (not proof read because I’m lazy 😭)

⚠️: Soft core Bondage, Soft core choking, Orgasm denial, Cunnilingus, Finger fucking.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

★ Kenshi, granted with the sight of sento, still relies on his other senses. and besides his hearing, touch is really important to him. And he does so especially during intimacy. He loves being able to feel your body react to his physical contact, whether it’s goosebumps from kissing your neck, or feeling your heart rate increase after pulling you into his lap. He relishes in it. Keeping this in mind, you were standing in the bathroom, looking in the mirror.

★ Doing your nightly routine, having just gotten out of the shower, towel still around your body as you dapple your skin care on your face, humming to yourself while doing so, kenshi walks in.

★ “Hey gorgeous.” He chimes while pulling you into a hug from behind, kissing your cheek in the process. “You smell good.” He simply said, holding you longer. “Well…I did just get out of the shower, you cheekily replied.

★ Kenshi smiles into the crook of your neck, hands roaming freely, up and down your curves. You turn around and cup his face with both hands. “You’re touchy today.” You remarked. “Yeah, well…” he shrugged, not finishing his sentence, he just pulled you in closer, pressing his lips to yours, causing your heart to skip a beat. you run your fingers through his hair as his tongue slips into your mouth.

★ Tongues intertwining, the kiss quickly gets heated, and Kenshi picks you up with ease. Taking you out of the bathroom and to your shared bed. Laying you down, never breaking the kiss while doing so. You moan into his mouth, his hands are quick to unwrap your towel, and fondle your breasts, causing your nipples to harden immediately.

★ Kenshi smirks, gently pinching and rolling them. “Aha-ahh~.” Your breath hitches as his fingers torture your sensitive buds, feeling a twinge of arousal ping through your body, kenshi keeps his hold, pinning you down to the bed with his weight.

★ “So delicate.~” he coos while bringing one hand down to your soaked pussy, keeping his other at work with your nipple. “K-kenshi…” you whimper, completely at his mercy in such a short amount of time. It was insane how quick he was able to make you melt.

★ He smirks, rubbing your clit with his thumb while simultaneously inserting both his ring and middle fingers inside of your tight pussy. Breathing out a soft moan as his fingers curl, you throw your head back in pleasure. Kenshi abruptly stops his motion, ebbing the build up within. You let out a small pout, confused as to why he would stop.

★ He stood up, making his way to the closet, rummaging for a second before coming back out, shirtless with red rope in one hand, and a black blindfold in the other. Your throat goes dry at the image before you, and you bite your lower lip with anticipation, as he approaches you slowly.

★ “Kenshi…?” You weakly inquire, eyes emarmored by his muscular, tattooed form. you’re quick to assume what he’s to do with the items in hand. “Hm?” He simply hums in response, crawling over your naked form. You swallow, your stomach swarms with butterflies as he places the blindfold beside your head, and unwinds the rope. “Hold out your hands.” He orders you softly.

★ Your eyes were glossed, while you gaze upon your lover's face, it reads serious. So without protest, you bring up your hands, holding them together. “Like this…?” You gently ask. “Just like that.” He swiftly binds your wrists together, then reaches over you to grab the blindfold. “Lift your head up.” You obliged, and he wrapt the soft fabric around your eyes, tying it comfortably.

★ Wrists being bound and vision blocked, you’re in a vulnerable position now. Kenshi grabs your hands and pins them above your head, smashing his lips against yours, he trails his other hand down your neck, and wraps it around, lightly squeezing and causing you to whimper.

★ He nipped at your bottom lip before pulling away. “You’re so beautiful~” he purred into your ear, making his way to your exposed breasts. He worked your left tit with his mouth, swirling his tongue around your perked nipple, sliding his hand away from your neck and down your stomach, he whispers.

★“You’re gonna do everything I say, or else.” His words gave you goosebumps, and you simply nodded. “Say it.” He demands, sliding his fingers between your wet folds, teasing your entrance. You croak out a weak response. “I-I’ll do everything you say…”

★ Satisfied with your submission, with no warning, he pushes two fingers into you, pumping your pussy aggressively, pressing into your clit roughly just like before. “Not like you’d have a choice anyway, being tied up like this~” he reminded, keeping his pace fast and hard, adding a third finger, you let out a gasp as you feel yourself stretching around his digits. “Barely even able to take three fingers, how cute…”

★ Tears began to prick at your eyes, but the fabric of the blindfold absorbed them. You were feeling both pleasure and pain from Kenshis’ ministrations, arching your back, you felt that familiar pang in your stomach. the rope rubbed against your soft skin as you squirmed in your restraints.

★ Feeling your body tense, you thrust your hips, fucking your self further onto his fingers. “Don’t cum.” Kenshi sternly said, feeling you tighten around his digits. You whine, squirming in place as you feel the irritation of holding back your climax.

★ “P-please—kenshi!” You cry out, struggling against the rope as it burned into your wrists. Suddenly he stops, trailing his wet fingers along your lower stomach.

★ “I didn’t tell you to beg.” Your heart feels like it’s about to explode as you’re refused release. You bite your lip harshly, choking back your cries and whimpers. You feel the build up fade for the second time. Your head was spinning from the game he was playing.

★ Feeling his fingers slowly tracing your skin, he teased your inner thighs, causing goosebumps to rise all over your body. You were practically holding your breath at this point, not making a peep, the room was silent, only sounds of the bed creaking occasionally were heard. As you felt his weight shift off of the bed, you were immediately met with confusion.

★ Did he really just get off of the bed? You were about to sit up but Kenshis voice echoed through the room. “Don’t move.” You freeze and take a small breath, staying in place as you’re left with your thoughts temporarily.

★ You feel the weight of your boyfriend getting back on the bed, your thoughts immediately cut. Not being able to see what he was doing, you hear a slight sound of the mattress. Just then, two large hands grip both of your ankles, making you yip. pulling you to the edge of the bed, and spreading your legs apart, you feel your heart pounding harshly.

★ The feeling of rope encasing your ankle, he tied it to the bed frames post. Doing the same thing with the other side, you’re now spread eagle, unable to move properly. If you thought you were restricted before, you would be wrong. With his weight shifting over you, he gently lifted your head, wrapping what felt like a choker? Collar perhaps? It was cold pleather and there was definitely a leash connected to it. He pulled on it, causing you to let out a small sound.

★ Feeling as he lowers himself to your hips, he positions something flat and rounded on your clit, and before you can even guess what it was, vibrations begin panging through your body. You squeal a bit, as your legs tremble, he runs the wand in circles, causing you to twitch every time he hits a nerve. “H-ngh~” you spurt out another whimper, grinding against the wand for more pleasure.

★ Kenshi moves his head between your thighs, kissing and licking them, leaving marks along the way, up until he reaches your trembling core. You can feel his hot breath on your cunt, and it sends a shiver down your spine. His tongue darts out, dipping into your folds, keeping the wand in place as he eats you out. The combination of the vibrations and his tongue movements made your back arch, you squirm in the restraints, as your body reacts to the intense stimulation.

★ Fucking you onto his tongue, you buck your hips, reveling in the euphoric state. Once again feeling that all too familiar aching for release. You can’t help but curl your lips inwards. “Forcing yourself to hold back, not wanting him to stop if you made one wrong move. Kenshi notices your struggle, and smiles against your pathetically creamy cunt.

★ Pulling the leash a bit, eliciting more whining from your lips, he hums against your heat, “Hmmm~ go ahead, cum~” after deeming permission granted, you unravel. Legs shaking as you finally come undone, pulling at the restraints as you burrow the side of your face into the sheets. All the pent up energy was finally flowing out, soaking kenshi a face.

★ Kenshi keeps his tongue's pace though and doesn’t let up on the vibrator. Fervently dragging your high to the point where your mind goes blank. You feel his fingers once again probing your drenched entrance. Hitting that sweet spot with every other thrust of his hand, Your body tensed up as you uncontrollably squirt on Kenshis tongue, pussy palpating, he finally shuts the toy off, kissing your cunt before going out of his way to untie you.

★ You can still feel buzzing sensations on your over sensitive button. Legs twitching ever so slightly. Your hairline was dampened with sweat, and face flushed completely. Freeing your legs and hands, you rub your ankles, feeling the stinging pain they left from rubbing your skin raw, suddenly your blindfold was taken off, and your eyes flutter, adjusting to the light. “You did amazing.” His large hands hold your wrists, thumbs tracing the marks. He brings them up to his lips, placing soft kisses on your sore flesh.

★ “You’re so good for me.” He said. “I absolutely adore you.” After the two of you clean up, Kenshi is quick to grab your sweats and shirt, gently helping you into your clothes, your knees almost buckle, reminding you of the effect he had on your body.

★ He brushes your hair, making sure it’s in a protective style. (Or he just gives you your bonnet) after getting you dressed. He kisses your forehead before laying you back in bed. Getting under the blankets with you, rubbing your back while you drift off to sleep.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

[womensworldtour]

Amstel Gold Women 2025

[marcelskittels]

[englishcarssince1946]

2003 Mac#1 Worx R

My tumblr blogs:

www.tumblr.com/germancarssince1946 & www.tumblr.com/frenchcarssince1946 & www.tumblr.com/englishcarssince1946 & www.tumblr.com/italiancarssince1946 & www.tumblr.com/japanesecarssince1947 & www.tumblr.com/uscarssince1935 & www.tumblr.com/swedishcarssince1946

[music-ntproduction]

Discover the Benefits of Music Worx: A Comprehensive Guide

Are you an artist or DJ looking to make waves in the music industry? Look no further than Music Worx! This comprehensive guide will unveil Music Worx's plethora of benefits, from boosting your music career to reaching a wider audience. Let's dive into how this powerful platform can take your music promotion game to the next level.

How Music Worx Can Benefit Artists And Djs

Music Worx provides a valuable platform for artists and DJs to showcase their work to a global audience. By utilizing this service, musicians can gain exposure and recognition in the industry, ultimately leading to increased opportunities for collaboration and performance.

One key benefit of Music Worx is its ability to connect artists with record labels, radio stations, and music influencers. This networking opportunity can open doors for artists looking to expand their reach and grow their fan base.

Moreover, Music Worx offers detailed analytics that allows users to track the performance of their releases. Artists and DJs can monitor metrics such as downloads, streams, and chart positions, enabling them to make informed decisions about their promotional strategies.

Music Worx is a powerful tool for emerging talents seeking to establish themselves in the competitive music landscape.

The Features Of Music Worx

Music Worx offers many features designed to streamline music promotion for artists and DJs. One standout feature is its user-friendly interface, making it easy to navigate and use even for those new to the platform.

With Music Worx, users can access a vast database of tracks across various genres, providing ample opportunities for discovery and collaboration. The platform allows artists to submit their music directly to record labels and industry professionals, increasing visibility and potential career opportunities.

Music Worx offers detailed analytics and feedback on-track performance, allowing users to make informed decisions about their promotional strategies. The ability to create personalized promo pools for specific audiences further enhances targeted marketing efforts.

Music Worx is a comprehensive tool that empowers musicians to elevate their careers in the competitive music industry.

How To Use Music Worx Effectively For Music Promotion

Are you an artist or DJ looking to elevate your music promotion game? Music Worx is here to help you amplify your reach and connect with a broader audience.

Create a compelling profile on Music Worx that effectively showcases your brand and music style. This will grab the attention of potential listeners and industry professionals browsing the platform.

Utilize the platform's playlist submission feature to get your tracks in front of influential curators who can boost your visibility. Engage with other users by commenting on tracks, sharing feedback, and networking within the community.

Take advantage of Music Worx's analytics tools to track the performance of your releases and gain valuable insights into listener behavior. Use this data to refine your promotional strategies and tailor your content for maximum impact.

By leveraging all of Music Worx's powerful features, you can take control of your music promotion efforts and unlock new opportunities for success in the competitive music industry.

Tips For Maximizing The Benefits Of Music Worx

By following these tips and using Music Worx to its full potential, artists and DJs can maximize this powerful platform's benefits. From accessing new promotional tools to connecting with a global network of industry professionals, Music Worx offers unparalleled opportunities for advancing your music career. Embrace the features, engage with the community, and watch your music reach new heights with Music Worx. Start making waves in the music industry today!

[ganglelovercatlover]

just a little doodle