#killing stalking??? its just stalking stalking

[gukcnt]

۶ৎ SHADOWS OF OBSESSION —

“You think you can scream at me? Threaten me? You’re nothing, you hear me? A little girl playing hero, and now you’re in over your head. You’re my obsession, my fucking curse. I don’t believe in love, in fairy tales, but you—you’re in my head, clawing at me, and I can’t rip you out. It pisses me off, you know that? You’re too soft, too pure, and I want to break you, want to make you scream just to see if you’ll still look at me with those innocent eyes.”

pairing: criminal dom!jungkook x student sub!femreader

genre: criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst

warnings: 18+, explicit smut, violence and injury, intrusion, mentions of blood loss and physical pain, descriptions of bullet wound, medical procedure, emotional vulnerability, isolation and loneliness, mentions of past trauma, moral conflict, departure and regret, argument, crying and screaming, several mentions of being frightened, non-consensual undertones, solo masturbation, he steals her panties, panty sniffing, cock palming and fisting, he cums on her panties, voyeuristic and obsessive element, possessiveness, oral sex (f. receiving), cunnilingus, rough handling, angry confessions, sensory overload, eating out, clit sucking, tongue fucking, face sitting, face riding, cum swallowing, hair fisting, clothed sex elements, dirty talk, making out, restriction, aftercare absence

wc: 12.3k

part: 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 (final)

a/n: im literally way too excited for this new series !! hope you guys love it <3

masterlist

۶ৎ

The city was a living beast, its veins pulsing through cracked asphalt and flickering neon signs that buzzed like dying insects. The air was heavy, saturated with the acrid stench of diesel, rotting garbage, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that seemed to cling to the shadows. Alleyways gaped like open wounds, their darkness swallowing the weak glow of streetlights. Jungkook stood against a graffiti-scarred wall, the rough concrete biting into his back, grounding him in a world that had never shown him mercy. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember a defiant spark in the suffocating night, curling smoke that stung his eyes and coated his throat with ash. At twenty-eight, he was a specter carved from violence, his black leather jacket clinging to his broad, muscular frame like a second skin. Tattoos snaked across his neck, chest, and arms—each inked line a testament to a life of blood, betrayal, and unrelenting vengeance. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, damp with sweat, framing eyes that gleamed with a cold, predatory intensity, like twin shards of obsidian reflecting a world he despised.

Jungkook’s life had been forged in fire. Orphaned at ten, he’d grown up in the underbelly of the city, a street rat who learned to steal, fight, and survive before he could read. The streets were his mother, cruel and unyielding, teaching him that trust was a noose, love a fairy tale, and mercy a death sentence. He’d seen kindness betrayed, hope crushed, and innocence slaughtered. By sixteen, he’d killed his first man—a rival gang member who’d tried to gut him over a stolen deal. The memory still lingered: the hot spray of blood on his hands, the gurgle of a dying throat, the way his heart had raced not with fear but with power. Now, he was a name whispered in fear, a criminal who moved through the city’s shadows like a wraith, living for himself alone. His heart was a vault, locked tight, its key long since thrown into the abyss. He didn’t believe in redemption, didn’t seek it. All he had was his revenge, a fire that burned hotter with every betrayal, every scar.

Tonight, that fire was a inferno. His latest job—a deal with a rival gang—had gone to hell, a double-cross that left him with a bullet in his arm and a fresh grudge to settle. Blood seeped through his fingers as he pressed his hand against the wound, the fabric of his sleeve slick and warm. The pain was a dull throb, a familiar companion he’d long since made peace with. But the blood loss was making his vision blur, his head swim, and the world tilt like a ship in a storm. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight, his breath hissing through his nose. “Fucking bastards,” he muttered, his voice a low growl, rough as gravel and laced with venom. “You think you can take me down?”

He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, the leather creaking as he shifted. The alley reeked of piss and decay, the kind of place where dreams came to die. He scanned the shadows, his senses razor-sharp despite the haze creeping into his mind. Footsteps echoed in the distance, a dog’s bark cutting through the night like a blade. His enemies were out there, hunting him, their knives hungry for his blood. He could feel it, the weight of their malice pressing against him, a storm gathering on the horizon. “Come on, then,” he whispered, his lips curling into a sneer, his eyes blazing with defiance. “I’m right here.”

But his body betrayed him, his knees buckling slightly, forcing him to lean harder against the wall. The blood was pooling now, dripping onto the pavement, each drop a soft pat that echoed in his ears like a countdown. He needed to move, to find a place to hole up, to stitch himself together before the reaper came knocking. His hand tightened around the knife in his pocket, the cold steel a comfort, a promise. “I’m not dying tonight,” he snarled to the empty air, his voice breaking with a raw, desperate edge. “Not until I’ve buried every last one of you.”

Across the city, in a quieter, tree-lined neighborhood, you were a world apart from Jungkook’s chaos. At twenty-two, you were a medical student, your life a delicate tapestry woven from late-night study sessions, dog-eared textbooks, and the soft hum of your own thoughts. Your small apartment was a sanctuary, its walls painted a gentle cream, adorned with lavender curtains that swayed in the breeze. The air inside carried the faint scent of chamomile tea and vanilla candles, a warmth that wrapped around you like a hug. Your bookshelf sagged under the weight of novels, medical journals, and a few worn poetry collections, their pages marked with your neat, looping handwriting. You were shy, introverted, your voice a soft murmur, rarely rising unless necessity demanded it. Your world was gentle, a fragile bubble untouched by the brutality that defined Jungkook’s existence.

Orphaned at fifteen, you’d learned to navigate life alone, your heart scarred but resilient. Your parents’ deaths—a car accident—had left you with a quiet grief, a hollow space you filled with dreams of becoming a doctor. You wanted to heal, to mend the world’s wounds even if you couldn’t mend your own. You were innocent in a way Jungkook could never comprehend, your eyes still bright with hope, your heart still open despite its cracks. You avoided crowds, preferred the company of books to people, and blushed at the slightest attention. Your life was simple, your days a rhythm of classes, study, and the small joys of a warm drink or a sunny afternoon.

Tonight, you were exhausted, your body heavy with the weight of a long day. Your backpack strained against your shoulders, stuffed with notes from a grueling study session at the university library. The autumn air was crisp, biting at your cheeks and carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves, their brittle edges crunching under your sneakers. Your breath puffed out in soft clouds, visible in the chilly night, and your glasses fogged slightly, forcing you to push them up your nose with a gloved finger. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the motion automatic, your mind already drifting to the promise of your cozy bed and a steaming cup of chamomile tea. The street was quiet, the only sounds the rustle of leaves skittering across the pavement and the distant hum of a car engine. Your heart was light, a rare moment of peace—tomorrow’s exam was one you felt ready for, your hours of preparation a quiet victory.

You hummed softly to yourself, a tune from a song you couldn’t quite place, your steps quickening as you neared your apartment. The streetlights cast long, golden pools on the sidewalk, their glow a gentle contrast to the inky sky above. You fished your keys from your pocket, the metal cold against your fingers, their jingle a familiar comfort. “Almost home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a habit born from years of talking to yourself in the quiet. The thought of sinking into your soft blankets, of letting the world fade away, was a warmth that spread through your chest, chasing away the night’s chill.

But the city was a beast, and its shadows hid monsters. Jungkook’s world and yours were about to collide, two orbits crossing in a moment that would shatter the fragile boundaries of your lives. His blood stained the pavement, your keys gleamed in your hand, and the night held its breath, waiting for the spark that would ignite a fire neither of you could control.

The night was a living thing, its breath cold and sharp, weaving through the skeletal branches of the trees lining your quiet street. The air carried the faint tang of impending rain, mingling with the earthy scent of damp leaves crushed underfoot. Your sneakers scraped against the uneven sidewalk, each step a soft echo in the stillness, your backpack a heavy burden slung over one shoulder, its straps digging into your skin. The streetlamp above flickered, casting jagged pools of light that danced across the pavement, and your breath puffed out in delicate clouds, curling like ghostly tendrils in the autumn chill. The jingle of your keys was a sharp, metallic heartbeat in your hands, their weight reassuring as you fumbled to find the right one, your mind already drifting to the promise of chamomile tea and the soft embrace of your bed.

Then, a shadow shifted—a movement so subtle it might’ve been a trick of the light, but it wasn’t. Your pulse stuttered, a sudden, violent lurch that made your chest ache. You froze, keys clutched like a lifeline, your eyes darting to the lamppost across the street. There he stood, a towering figure carved from darkness, his presence a violation of the night’s fragile peace. He was tall, his frame broad and unyielding, muscles taut beneath a black leather jacket that gleamed faintly under the streetlight’s sickly glow. His dark hair was a messy cascade over his forehead, strands clinging to sweat-slicked skin, and tattoos coiled up his neck like serpents, their ink blacker than the shadows pooling at his feet. His right hand gripped his left arm, fingers slick with blood that dripped in slow, deliberate rivulets, staining the pavement in obscene blossoms of crimson. The sight was a visceral punch, the air itself thickening with the coppery scent of it, sharp and metallic, cutting through the night’s damp musk.

You gasped, the sound tearing from your throat before you could cage it, raw and trembling, a betrayal of the fear blooming in your chest. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage, and your legs screamed to run, to flee into the safety of your apartment and bolt the door against this man who looked like he’d been forged in hellfire. His eyes—dark, fathomless, glinting with something feral—locked onto yours, and it was like being pinned by a predator, your breath stolen, your body no longer your own. He was danger incarnate, a storm in human form, and every instinct you had wailed for you to escape. But then then you saw it—the sway in his stance, the way his knees buckled slightly, the pallor of his skin, ghostly pale beneath the streetlight’s glare. Blood oozed from between his fingers, thick and relentless, and the sight twisted something inside you, a pang of compassion that warred with your terror. He wasn’t just dangerous—he was dying.

Your mind was a tempest, thoughts crashing against each other in a frantic dance. Run. Lock the door. Call the police. He’ll kill you. But another voice, softer, insistent, rose above the chaos: He’s bleeding out. You can save him. You’re a doctor—almost. Your hands shook, the keys biting into your palm, your breath shallow and ragged. You took a step forward, then another, each one a rebellion against the fear clawing at your throat. You stopped ten feet away, close enough to see the sweat beading on his brow, the way his chest heaved with labored breaths, but far enough to bolt if he moved. The distance felt like a fragile shield, though you knew it was nothing against a man like him.

“Hey,” you called, your voice a trembling thread, barely cutting through the night’s oppressive silence. “You’re… you’re hurt. Badly. You need help.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and he scoffed—a low, guttural sound that rumbled like distant thunder, sending a shiver skittering down your spine. “Mind your fucking business, girl,” he snarled, his voice a jagged blade, rough with pain and laced with venom. “Go home and play with your dolls.”

The words stung, a slap to your pride, and your cheeks flushed hot, the heat creeping up your neck despite the cold. You were no child, but his tone made you feel small, insignificant, a mouse daring to squeak at a lion. Normally, rudeness would’ve sent you retreating, your introverted heart shying from conflict, but the blood—God, the blood—kept you rooted. It pooled at his feet, a dark mirror reflecting the streetlight’s glow, and you could smell it now, sharp and sickening, mingling with the faint leather of his jacket and the acrid hint of cigarette smoke clinging to him. He was fading, and you couldn’t walk away. Not from this.

“I’m a medical student,” you said, your voice steadier now, though it quivered at the edges like a leaf in the wind. “You’ve been shot. You’re losing too much blood. You could die if you don’t get help.”

His lips twisted into a sneer, but his eyes flickered—something sharp and fleeting, like a spark in a storm. Amusement, maybe, or disdain. “You think I give a shit about dying, little girl?” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, each word a deliberate cut. “I’ve been dead for years. Walk away before you join me.”

The threat was a fist to your gut, and you flinched, your breath hitching, your fingers tightening around your keys until they hurt. His words were a warning, a promise, and you believed him. He could kill you, snap you like a twig, and no one would ever know. But you saw the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers slipped slightly, blood oozing faster now, and it anchored you. You were trembling, your pulse a deafening roar in your ears, but you couldn’t leave him. Not when you could help. Not when your hands, your knowledge, could stop the life from draining out of him.

“I live right here,” you said, gesturing to your apartment with a jerk of your chin, your voice soft but firm, a quiet defiance you didn’t know you had. “I have supplies. I can stitch you up, stop the bleeding. Please… let me help you.”

He stared at you, his gaze a physical weight, stripping you bare, peeling back every layer until you felt exposed, raw. His eyes were black holes, pulling you in, and for a moment, you thought he’d lunge, grab you, end you right there. Your breath caught, your body tensing, ready to run, but you held his stare, your heart a wild thing in your chest. Then he laughed—a harsh, barking sound that grated against the night, bitter and broken, like he was laughing at the absurdity of you, of this moment.

“You’re fucking insane,” he said, shaking his head, his voice low, almost a growl. “Stupid or suicidal, I can’t decide. Fine, princess. Lead the way. But don’t cry when you regret it.”

The words were a challenge, a dare, and your stomach twisted, fear and resolve tangling into a knot. You nodded, barely, your throat tight, and turned toward your door, your keys shaking in your hand as you unlocked it. His presence loomed behind you, a dark tide ready to swallow you whole, and you wondered if you’d just invited death into your home.

Your hands trembled as you pushed open the door to your apartment, the soft creak of the hinges slicing through the heavy silence. The air inside was warm, infused with the delicate scent of lavender from the candle you’d left burning on the coffee table, its flame flickering like a heartbeat in the dim light. The stranger’s presence behind you was a storm cloud, dark and oppressive, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floor, each step reverberating in your chest. You flicked on the light, and the room bloomed into view—your sanctuary of pastel pinks and creams, a stark contrast to the man who stood in its center, his blood dripping onto your cream-colored rug, staining it like ink on a canvas.

He was a towering figure, his broad shoulders filling the space, his black leather jacket gleaming under the soft glow of your fairy lights. His tattoos curled up his neck like vines, dark and intricate, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His face was sharp—high cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so dark they seemed to swallow the light. Blood oozed from his left arm, the crimson stark against his pale skin, and his right hand pressed against the wound, his knuckles white with effort. The metallic tang of blood mingled with the lavender, creating a discordant perfume that made your stomach churn.

“Sit,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing to the plush cream couch with its scattering of pink throw pillows. Your heart was a wild thing, hammering against your ribs, and you wondered if he could hear it, if he could sense the fear and resolve warring within you. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his gaze, but he complied, sinking onto the couch with a low grunt. The cushions sighed under his weight, the fabric creasing beneath his leather-clad frame. Blood smeared onto the armrest, and you winced, your neat-freak tendencies prickling even in this surreal moment.

You hurried to your bedroom, your bare feet padding against the cool floor, the hem of your sweater catching on the doorframe. Your medical kit was tucked under your bed, a sturdy black case filled with the tools of your trade—tweezers, sutures, antiseptic, gauze, all meticulously organized. Your hands shook as you pulled it out, the metal clasps cold against your fingers, the weight of it grounding you as you carried it back to the living room. Every step felt like a plunge into the unknown, your mind screaming that you were insane to bring this man—this bleeding, dangerous stranger—into your home. You, the girl who flinched at raised voices, who preferred the company of books to people, were defying every instinct to help him.

He watched you as you returned, his gaze unrelenting, like a predator tracking its prey. You knelt before him, the rug soft beneath your knees, and set the kit on the coffee table, its glass surface reflecting the candle’s glow. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of the candle wick and the steady drip of his blood. You opened the kit, the scent of antiseptic rising sharp and clean, cutting through the blood and lavender. Your fingers moved with practiced precision, laying out your tools—sterile gauze, a bottle of saline, a pair of gleaming tweezers. Each item gleamed under the light, a stark reminder of the task ahead.

“Why the hell do you have all this?” he asked, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across stone. There was a mocking edge to it, but also a flicker of curiosity, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You some kind of wannabe surgeon, playing doctor in your pretty little apartment?”

You kept your eyes on your tools, your cheeks flushing at his tone. The heat crept up your neck, and you pushed your glasses up your nose, a nervous habit. “I’m a medical student,” you said, your voice soft but steady, though it trembled at the edges. “I need these for practice. To learn.”

He snorted, a harsh sound that made you flinch. “Of course you are. Little miss perfect, saving lives with her pink pillows and her lavender candles. You think you’re gonna fix the world, don’t you?”

Your fingers stilled, the tweezers cold in your grip. His words cut deep, slicing at the fragile hope you carried, the dream of healing a world you’d barely seen. But you didn’t respond, focusing instead on his wound. You gently pried his hand away, his skin warm and rough, the blood slick against your fingers. The bullet had torn through his forearm, leaving a jagged gash that wept crimson, the flesh raw and angry. You swallowed hard, your stomach lurching at the sight, but your training kicked in, a steadying force amidst the chaos.

The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as you worked. You cleaned the wound with saline, the liquid glistening as it washed away the blood, revealing the depth of the damage. The metallic scent was overpowering now, mingling with the faint musk of his sweat and the leather of his jacket. You reached for the tweezers, your hands steady despite the tremor in your chest, and leaned closer, your breath shallow. His arm was corded with muscle, the veins prominent beneath his inked skin, and you could feel the heat radiating from him, a furnace against your cooler touch.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now, but laced with a darkness that made your skin prickle. “Helping someone like me. You don’t know what I am, what I’ve done. You’re too soft, too… innocent. The world’s gonna eat you alive, and you’re out here patching up monsters.”

You paused, the tweezers hovering over his wound, his words sinking into you like stones. Your throat tightened, and you met his eyes for the first time, your gaze locking with his. His irises were nearly black, flecked with hints of amber, and they burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Maybe it will,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “but I can’t just… walk away. Not when I can help. Not when you’re bleeding like this.”

He laughed, a bitter, jagged sound that echoed in the quiet room, like glass shattering. “You’re gonna regret that, sweetheart. Kindness like yours? It’s a death sentence. You think you’re saving me, but you’re just digging your own grave.”

The words stung, sharp and cold, but you pushed them aside, focusing on the task. You dug the tweezers into his flesh, searching for the bullet fragments, the metal scraping against tissue with a faint, sickening sound. He didn’t flinch, not even a twitch, his face a mask of indifference despite the pain you knew he must feel. His stoicism unnerved you, a reminder of how different he was from you, how hardened by a world you couldn’t imagine. His stare never wavered, his eyes tracking every movement—your trembling fingers, the flush of your cheeks, the way your lips parted as you concentrated. It was as if he was memorizing you, cataloging every detail, and the weight of his gaze made your skin burn, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The candlelight cast shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the stubble dusting his jaw. His breath was steady, deep, the rise and fall of his chest hypnotic as you worked. You found a fragment, a small, glinting piece of metal, and pulled it free, the blood welling up anew. You pressed gauze against it, your fingers brushing his skin, and the contact sent a jolt through you, electric and unsettling. His arm was warm, the muscle unyielding, and you pulled back quickly, your cheeks flaming.

“You’re shaking,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Scared of me, aren’t you? You should be.”

You swallowed, your throat dry, and focused on stitching the wound, the needle glinting as you pulled the thread through his skin. “I’m not… scared,” you lied, your voice barely a whisper. “I just… I want to help.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, his tone sharp enough to make you jump. “You’re terrified. I can see it in your eyes, the way you’re trembling. You don’t even know me, and you’re letting me bleed all over your perfect little life. Why? What’s wrong with you?”

Your hands froze, the needle poised above his skin. Tears pricked your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let him see. “Nothing’s wrong with me,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just… I believe in helping people. Even people like you.”

“People like me?” He leaned forward, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your cheek. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and bitter, mingling with the blood and sweat. “You don’t know what ‘people like me’ do, little girl. You don’t know the blood on my hands, the lives I’ve ended. You’re playing with fire, and you’re too damn naive to see it.”

Your heart pounded, his words a blade twisting in your chest, but you didn’t back away. You met his gaze, your eyes wide and glistening. “Maybe I am naive,” you said, your voice trembling but firm. “But I’d rather be naive than cruel. I’d rather help than hurt.”

For a moment, he was silent, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to find the crack in your resolve. Then he leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re gonna learn, sweetheart. And when you do, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You finished the stitches, your fingers deft despite the storm in your mind, and wrapped his arm in a bandage, the gauze soft and white against his inked skin. Your hands lingered a moment too long, the heat of him seeping into you, and you pulled back, your heart racing. You stood, your legs unsteady, and grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, the cool liquid sloshing against the sides. When you returned, you handed it to him, your fingers brushing his as he took it. The contact was rough, deliberate, his calloused skin grazing yours, and you nearly dropped the glass, a gasp escaping your lips.

“You need to rest,” you said, avoiding his eyes, your voice barely audible. “Moving too much will tear the stitches. You’ll bleed again.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at you, his expression unreadable, his fingers curled around the glass. The candle flickered, casting fleeting shadows across his face, and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, heavy and inescapable. You mumbled something about getting a blanket, your voice tripping over itself, and fled to your bedroom, your cheeks burning, your heart a wild drumbeat in your chest. The door clicked shut behind you, but it did nothing to block out the memory of his eyes, his voice, the way he’d filled your space with a darkness you couldn’t name.

The first light of dawn crept through the lavender curtains, casting delicate, dappled patterns across the hardwood floor of your apartment. The air was heavy with the lingering scent of antiseptic and blood, a stark reminder of the stranger who had invaded your quiet world. You lay in bed, your body rigid, your breath shallow, as if any sudden movement might summon him back from the shadows. Sleep had eluded you, your heart a relentless drum in your chest, each beat echoing with a confusing blend of fear, adrenaline, and something else—something you couldn’t name, something that made your skin prickle and your cheeks burn. The memory of his touch, rough and fleeting, lingered like a phantom burn on your fingers, and the intensity of his gaze haunted you, those dark eyes that seemed to see through you, into you, unraveling secrets you didn’t even know you kept.

You clutched the edge of your quilt, its soft, worn fabric a poor shield against the storm of your thoughts. The night had been a blur, a reckless act of compassion that now felt like a dangerous gamble. You, the girl who flinched at raised voices, who preferred the company of books to people, had invited a bleeding stranger into your home—a man who looked like he could crush your world with a single glance. Your mind replayed his voice, low and mocking, laced with a bitterness that made your stomach twist. “Kindness gets you killed, little girl.” The words echoed, sharp and cutting, and you wondered if he was right, if your softness was a liability, a ticking bomb waiting to detonate.

Finally, you couldn’t bear the confinement of your bed any longer. You swung your legs over the side, your bare feet meeting self-crocheted rug, its texture a grounding contrast to the chaos in your head. Your oversized sleep shirt, a faded pink thing that hung loosely on your frame, brushed against your thighs as you stood, your glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of your breath. You crept toward the living room, each step deliberate, your heart thudding so loudly you were sure it would betray you if he was still there.

The living room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of morning, the lavender candle on your coffee table now extinguished, its wick blackened and spent. Your eyes darted to the couch, and your breath caught in your throat. It was empty. The stranger was gone, as if he’d never been there at all, a specter conjured by your reckless heart and banished by the dawn. The blanket you’d given him was folded with unsettling precision, its edges aligned as if he’d taken care to leave no trace of his chaos. But the evidence was there, undeniable: the blood-stained rug, its once-cream fibers now marred with dark, rust-colored splotches; the trash can, where used bandages lay crumpled, soaked with the crimson of his wound.

You stood frozen, your bare toes curling against the cold floor, your fingers twisting the hem of your shirt. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of a car outside and the faint ticking of your kitchen clock. You should’ve felt relief—he was gone, you were safe. But instead, a strange ache settled in your chest, heavy and unplaceable. It wasn’t fear, not entirely. It was the ghost of his presence, the way he’d filled your space with his danger, his intensity, leaving you both rattled and inexplicably alive.

“Who are you?” you whispered to the empty room, your voice trembling, barely audible. The question hung in the air, unanswered, and it unleashed a flood of others. Why had he been shot? Was he a criminal, a murderer? The thought sent a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps. You’d been reckless, stupid, letting him in without a second thought. Your compassion, your need to help, had blinded you to the danger. And yet, the memory of his face—sharp jaw, inked skin, eyes that burned with a fire you didn’t understand—made your cheeks flush, your breath hitch. You pressed your palms to your face, willing the heat to fade, but it only grew, a traitor to your logic.

You sank onto the couch, the cushions still warm where he’d sat, and the faint scent of him lingered—cigarette smoke, musk, something darkly masculine that made your pulse quicken. “You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself, your voice cracking with self-reproach. “He could’ve killed you. He could’ve…” Your words trailed off, your imagination conjuring images of his hands, rough and tattooed, closing around your throat. But instead of fear, the thought sent a strange warmth pooling in your stomach, and you hated yourself for it.

You stood abruptly, needing to move, to shake off the spell he’d left behind. You paced the small room, your footsteps soft but frantic, your glasses slipping down your nose. The blood on the rug seemed to pulse in the corner of your vision, a silent accusation. You grabbed a sponge from the kitchen, the cold water stinging your hands as you scrubbed at the stain, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the lemony tang of dish soap. Your movements were frantic, your breaths coming in short, shaky gasps. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you chanted under your breath, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t know if you were crying for your recklessness, for the stranger’s pain, or for the way his absence left you feeling so hollow.

When the stain was as faded as it would get, you sat back on your heels, your hands trembling, your chest heaving. The room felt too big, too empty, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, seeking comfort in the pressure. “He’s gone,” you whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it true, would erase the way his eyes had pinned you, the way his voice had curled around you like smoke. “He’s gone, and you’re fine. You’re fine.”

But you weren’t fine. You felt exposed, like he’d peeled back your skin and seen the soft, trembling thing beneath. You stood, your legs unsteady, and moved to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer outside. The street was quiet, the trees swaying gently in the morning breeze, their leaves a riot of amber and crimson. No sign of him, no shadow lurking in the corners. He was a ghost, a nightmare that had slipped away with the night. But the bandages in the trash, the folded blanket, the faint scent of smoke—they were proof he’d been real, proof that you’d touched the edge of something dangerous and lived.

“Why did I do it?” you asked the empty room, your voice breaking, raw with emotion. “Why didn’t I just walk away?” You pressed your forehead to the cool glass, your breath fogging the pane. You’d always been the good girl, the one who helped, who cared, who believed in healing. But now, that belief felt like a crack in your armor, a vulnerability that could’ve cost you everything. And yet, the thought of him bleeding, dying, alone—it twisted something deep inside you, something that whispered you’d do it again, even now.

You turned away from the window, your heart still racing, your body thrumming with a restless energy you didn’t understand. You needed to study, to focus, to reclaim the quiet life you’d built. But as you moved to your desk, your eyes caught on the couch, on the blanket, on the rug. He was gone, but he’d left something behind—a mark, a shadow, a question that burned in your chest. Who was he? And why, despite everything, did you hope you’d see him again?

Jungkook’s world was a jagged edge, a place of blood-soaked deals and betrayal, where trust was a currency he’d long since burned. But you—you were a splinter in his armor, a soft, infuriating intrusion he couldn’t carve out. He tried to drown you in the chaos of his life, to bury your memory beneath the weight of his vengeance. He tracked his enemies through the city’s underbelly, his boots crunching on broken glass in abandoned warehouses, his gun heavy in his hand, the acrid tang of gunpowder lingering in the air. But no matter how many bodies he left in his wake, your face haunted him—your wide, guileless eyes, the hesitant curve of your lips, the way your hands had trembled as you stitched his wound. It was maddening, a fever he couldn’t shake, and it drove him to the edge of his own darkness.

He started watching you, not out of intention but compulsion, like a moth drawn to a flame it knew would burn. The city at night was his domain, its shadows cloaking him as he stood across from your apartment, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like a lone ember in the void. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint sweetness of jasmine from a nearby garden, a cruel contrast to the storm raging in his chest. He leaned against a rusted lamppost, its cold metal biting into his back, and exhaled a plume of smoke that curled upward, blending with the fog. His leather jacket creaked as he shifted, his tattoos itching under his skin, as if they, too, were restless for you.

Your routine became his scripture. At 7:30 a.m., you’d step out of your apartment, your backpack slung over one shoulder, its straps fraying at the edges. Your hair, often loose, caught the morning light, strands glinting like spun gold as you tucked them behind your ears with a nervous flick of your fingers. You walked with purpose but caution, your sneakers scuffing softly against the sidewalk, your glasses slipping down your nose as you adjusted them with a small, unconscious frown. He memorized the way you paused at the crosswalk, your lips moving slightly as if whispering a mantra to yourself, your breath visible in the crisp autumn air. By 8:00, you were at the university, disappearing into lecture halls where he couldn’t follow, though he imagined you there, hunched over a notebook, your pen scratching furiously, your brow furrowed in concentration.

Evenings found you at the library, your silhouette framed by the warm glow of a desk lamp. He’d linger outside, hidden in the alley across the street, the damp brick wall cold against his shoulder, the faint hum of traffic a distant pulse. Through the window, he’d watch you, your head bent over a textbook, your fingers tracing lines of text, your glasses reflecting the light like twin moons. Sometimes, you’d bite your lip, a habit that made his jaw clench, his fingers twitching around his cigarette. Other times, you’d stretch, your arms lifting, your sweater riding up to reveal a sliver of soft skin at your waist. It was a glimpse of vulnerability, a reminder of how fragile you were, and it made his blood burn with a mix of protectiveness and possession. He hated it—hated you for being so delicate, so unaware of the wolves circling your world.

Fridays were his favorite. You’d stop at the campus café, the bell above the door chiming as you entered, the air inside thick with the aroma of roasted coffee and warm pastries. You always ordered the same thing—a chamomile tea and a strawberry pastry, the kind with glossy pink icing that left crumbs on your lips. He’d watch from the street, his breath fogging in the cold, as you sat by the window, your fingers wrapped around the steaming mug, your eyes soft with contentment. Once, you licked a smear of icing from your thumb, your tongue darting out, and Jungkook’s grip on his cigarette tightened, the paper crumpling, the ash falling like snow. He wanted to storm in, to wipe that sweetness from your lips himself, to taste it on his tongue. The thought was a blade, sharp and dangerous, and he forced it away, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached.

“Why the fuck can’t I stop?” he muttered to himself, his voice a low growl lost in the night. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot, the spark dying with a hiss. “You’re nothing. Just a girl. Just a fucking distraction.”

But you weren’t. You were a fire in his veins, a poison he drank willingly. He learned everything about you. Your favorite books—dog-eared romance novels and dense medical texts, stacked haphazardly on your shelf. Your scent—floral lotion, sweet and clean, clinging to your clothes, your pillows, your life. Your habits—how you hummed softly when you cooked, your voice barely audible, a melody he strained to hear from outside your window. He knew you were alone, no family to anchor you, your parents gone, your world held together by sheer will and quiet dreams. It made him angry, how exposed you were, how easily the world could crush you. He could crush you. The thought was a dark thrill, a temptation he fought every time he saw you.

He watched from alleys, from rooftops, from the edges of your life, his presence a ghost you felt but couldn’t see. You’d pause sometimes, your steps faltering, your eyes scanning the darkness as if sensing the weight of his stare. Your brow would crease, your lips parting slightly, and he’d hold his breath, melting into the shadows, his heart pounding—not from fear, but from the electric pull of you. “Look at me,” he’d whisper, the words swallowed by the wind, his voice rough with longing and loathing. “See me, damn it.”

One night, he learned about your student loans, the debt that kept you awake, your sighs audible through your open window as you pored over bills. He saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way you rubbed your eyes, your glasses fogging with unshed tears. It was a vulnerability he couldn’t ignore, a crack in your armor that called to the part of him he’d buried long ago. Without thinking, he acted. He left an envelope on your doorstep, stuffed with cash, your name scrawled in his sharp, slanted handwriting. The bills were crisp, smelling faintly of ink and his cigarettes, a fortune from his blood money. He told himself it was a transaction, a debt repaid for the night you’d saved him. But when he saw you find it, your eyes widening, your fingers trembling as you counted the bills, he felt something twist in his chest—a sick pride, a hunger to see that look again.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he hissed, his voice low, venomous, as he watched you from across the street, the envelope clutched to your chest. “You’re gonna ruin me, and I’ll ruin you right back.”

He kept doing it, leaving stacks of cash when you weren’t home, each one a silent claim, a tether tying you to him. He’d watch you use it, paying your rent, your loans, your eyes bright with relief but shadowed with confusion. “Who are you?” you’d whisper to yourself, your voice soft, trembling, as you sat at your kitchen table, the envelope in your hands. He heard it through your window, the sound slicing through him, making his fists clench. “I’m your fucking shadow, princess,” he wanted to say, his voice a phantom in his throat. “And you’re mine.”

His obsession was a living thing, a beast with claws and teeth, growing with every glimpse of you. He memorized the way your cheeks pinked when you were flustered, the way your fingers tucked your hair behind your ears, the way your laugh—rare and soft—felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. Your existence was a paradox, a peace he craved and a fire he couldn’t control. It infuriated him, how you made him weak, how you made him want things he’d sworn never to want. “I don’t need you,” he snarled, his voice echoing in the empty alley, his cigarette burning down to his fingers. “I don’t need anyone.”

But he did. He needed you, and it was a truth he couldn’t outrun, no matter how fast he ran through the city’s shadows, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked, no matter how much blood he spilled. You were his weakness, his obsession, and he was a man drowning in it, watching you from the dark, his heart a battlefield, his soul a war he couldn’t win.

The night air clung to Jungkook like a second skin, heavy with the scent of rain and the acrid tang of his cigarette, its ember a lone beacon in the suffocating dark. His obsession with you had spiraled into something monstrous, a beast that gnawed at his insides, demanding more than just stolen glances from the shadows. He couldn’t stay away, not from you, not from the soft, feminine haven of your apartment that was so starkly at odds with the jagged edges of his world. Tonight, the pull was stronger, a magnetic force that drove him to your doorstep, his lockpicking tools silent as he breached your sanctuary once more.

The door clicked shut behind him, and he stood in your living room, his boots leaving faint smudges on your cream-colored rug. The space was a sensory assault—lavender and vanilla from a flickering candle on your coffee table, the faint sweetness of chamomile tea lingering in the air, the soft hum of a distant refrigerator. Your apartment was a cocoon, all pastel pinks and lilacs, with throw pillows embroidered with delicate flowers and a knitted blanket draped over the arm of your couch. It was you, distilled into every detail—the curve of a ceramic mug on your counter, the dog-eared romance novel on your shelf, the faint shimmer of your floral lotion in the air. It infuriated him, this softness, this fragility that could be crushed in an instant. He could crush it. He wanted to. And yet, he was here, drawn to it.

He moved through your space with predatory grace, his fingers trailing over your belongings, each touch a claim, a violation. The couch creaked as he sank onto it, the cushions yielding under his weight, still warm from where you’d sat earlier. He lit another cigarette, the sharp snap of his lighter echoing in the quiet, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals, tainting the air with its bitter edge. He exhaled, the haze settling around him like a shroud, his dark eyes scanning the room, memorizing every inch. Your life was laid bare here—your dreams, your fears, your innocence—and he consumed it, ravenous.

His gaze fell on the laundry basket in the corner, half-hidden by a sheer curtain. His pulse quickened, a dark thrill coiling in his gut. He crossed the room, his boots silent on the hardwood, and lifted the lid. There, nestled among your soft sweaters and cotton tees, was a pair of panties—pink, delicate, with a faint lace trim that made his jaw clench. He lifted them, the fabric impossibly soft against his calloused fingers, and brought them to his face. Your scent hit him like a drug—warm, sweet, with a hint of your jasmine lotion and something uniquely you, something that made his blood roar. His cock twitched, straining against his jeans, and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound swallowed by the silence.

He returned to the couch, the panties clutched in one hand, his cigarette forgotten in the ashtray, its ember fading to ash. He sank back, his thighs spreading, his body taut with need. The room seemed to close in, the lavender air now thick with his own musk, the faint creak of the couch a rhythm to his racing pulse. He unzipped his jeans with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound obscene in the quiet. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the tip already glistening with precum, veins pulsing with the heat of his desire. He wrapped your panties around his length, the silk a stark contrast to his roughness, and hissed at the sensation—soft, cool, like a lover’s touch he’d never known.

His hand moved, slow at first, the lace catching on his calluses, sending shivers up his spine. He imagined you, your wide eyes, your trembling lips, the way you’d gasp if you saw him like this, defiling your innocence. The thought made him harder, his grip tightening, the panties sliding over his shaft with a friction that was both torment and ecstasy. His hips bucked, the couch creaking louder, the sound mingling with his ragged breaths. Your scent filled his lungs, jasmine and warmth, and he pressed the fabric to his nose again, inhaling deeply, his tongue darting out to taste the faintest trace of you. It was enough to unravel him.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice a low snarl, thick with need. “You’re in my head, little girl. You’re fucking everywhere.” The words were a confession, a curse, spat into the empty room as if you could hear him. His hand moved faster, the panties slick now with his precum, the silk catching on his piercings, tugging in a way that made him groan. His other hand gripped the couch, nails digging into the fabric, leaving crescent marks in the soft pink upholstery. He pictured you on your knees, your soft mouth around him, your innocence shattered by his touch. The image was too much, too vivid—your flushed cheeks, your whimpers, the way you’d look up at him, trusting, trembling.

His climax built like a storm, a pressure that made his vision blur. His hips jerked, his cock throbbing, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, stifling the moan that threatened to spill out. “You’re mine,” he rasped, the words a vow, a threat, as he came, hot and thick, his cum spilling into the panties, soaking the delicate fabric. The release was violent, his body shuddering, his breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps. He sat there, panting, his cock still twitching, the panties now a ruined testament to his obsession, stained with his desire, his shame.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the couch, the aftershocks of his orgasm mingling with a wave of self-loathing. The room was silent again, save for the faint drip of a faucet in your kitchen, the distant hum of the city beyond your walls. He stared at the ceiling, your ceiling, with its faint cracks and soft white paint, and felt the weight of what he’d done. He wasn’t a good man. He didn’t do soft, didn’t do kind. But you—you were a fire in his blood, a light in his darkness, and he hated you for it. Hated how your softness made him weak, how your existence threatened to unravel the cold, ruthless shell he’d built.

He tucked himself back into his jeans, the panties shoved into his pocket, a trophy he couldn’t leave behind. He stood, his legs unsteady, and lit another cigarette, the flame casting sharp shadows across his face. He took a drag, the smoke burning his throat, and exhaled, the haze curling around him like a lover’s embrace. He moved to your bedroom door, pausing to look at your bed—unmade, the lavender sheets tangled, a faint indent where you’d slept. He imagined you there, your body soft and vulnerable, your nightie riding up your thighs, and his fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms.

“You’re too fucking delicate,” he muttered, his voice low, laced with anger and something softer, something he refused to name. “This world’ll break you. I could break you.” The words were a warning, to you, to himself. He turned away, his boots heavy on the floor, and slipped out of your apartment, leaving behind the cigarette butt on your coffee table, its ash a silent claim, a promise of his return.

The night swallowed him, but your scent lingered on his skin, in his pocket, in his mind. He was a monster, and you were his prey, but the hunt was far from over.

The air in your apartment was thick, suffocating, as if the walls themselves were closing in, trapping you in a cage of your own making. The faint scent of lavender from your candle mingled with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke, a lingering ghost of the intruder who’d invaded your sanctuary. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, a frantic bird desperate to escape, as you stood in the center of your living room, tears streaming down your cheeks, hot and relentless. The evidence was everywhere—cigarette butts on your coffee table, their charred ends like tiny accusations; a single pink rose on your counter, its petals too perfect, too deliberate; the faint indentation on your bed, smelling of musk and danger. Someone was watching you, knowing you, unraveling the fragile threads of your life. The money—envelopes of cash that had saved you from drowning in debt—had kept you silent, complicit, but tonight, the weight of it all crushed you.

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you as your voice tore from your throat, raw and trembling. “Who are you?” you screamed into the empty air, your words echoing off the pastel walls. “What do you want from me? Just leave me alone! Stop this—stop tormenting me!” Your voice cracked, a sob choking you as you sank to your knees, your glasses fogging with tears. The room spun, the soft glow of your fairy lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of fear and despair. You were a fool, a coward, for not calling the police, for letting the money tether you to this nightmare. Your hands shook as you clutched your hair, pulling at the roots, the pain a desperate anchor to reality.

The silence that followed was deafening, a void that swallowed your cries. Then, a creak—the soft groan of a floorboard in your bedroom. Your breath hitched, your body freezing as a shadow moved, deliberate and unhurried, emerging from the darkness like a predator stepping into the light. Jungkook stood there, his presence a storm, filling the room with an electric menace that made the air crackle. His black leather jacket was open, revealing the taut lines of his chest beneath a fitted shirt, his tattoos curling up his neck like dark promises. His dark hair was mussed, falling into his eyes, which burned with an intensity that pinned you in place, stripping you bare. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember glowing red, casting fleeting shadows across his sharp jaw. He didn’t belong here, in your soft, feminine world of lavender and lace, yet he stood as if he owned it, as if you were the intruder.

You gasped, recognition slamming into you like a freight train. The man you’d saved—the one whose blood had stained your rug, whose piercing gaze had haunted your dreams—was here, in your home, like a specter made flesh. Your heart stuttered, your tears drying on your cheeks as you scrambled to your feet, your legs wobbly beneath you. “You,” you whispered, your voice a fragile thread, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. “It was you. All this time… it was you.”

Jungkook didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unreadable, like twin voids that could swallow you whole. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling from his lips in a lazy spiral, the scent sharp and invasive, tainting the air you breathed. “You shouldn’t have helped me that night,” he said, his voice low, a gravelly growl that vibrated through the room, sending a shiver down your spine. “You should’ve run, little girl. Should’ve locked your door and prayed I’d bleed out on the street.”

His words were a blade, slicing through your resolve, and you stumbled back, your hip brushing against the edge of your couch. Fear and anger warred within you, your hands trembling as you pointed a shaky finger at him. “I’m calling the police,” you said, your voice quivering but gaining strength, fueled by the betrayal burning in your chest. “You’ve been in my home, touching my things, leaving your… your filth everywhere! Why? Why are you doing this? I saved you! I saved your life, and this is how you repay me?”

His eyes flashed, a dangerous glint that made your stomach lurch. In two strides, he crossed the room, his boots heavy on the hardwood, the sound reverberating like a death knell. He loomed over you, his broad frame blocking the light, casting you in shadow. Before you could react, he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he slammed you against the wall, the impact jarring, the plaster cold against your back. His body was a furnace, radiating heat and danger, his scent overwhelming—cigarettes, leather, and something darker, primal. His grip was iron, bruising, his calloused fingers digging into your skin, and you whimpered, your glasses slipping down your nose.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled, his face inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips, tinged with nicotine and rage. “You think you can scream at me? Threaten me? You’re nothing, you hear me? A little girl playing hero, and now you’re in over your head. You’re my obsession, my fucking curse. I don’t believe in love, in fairy tales, but you—you’re in my head, clawing at me, and I can’t rip you out. It pisses me off, you know that? You’re too soft, too pure, and I want to break you, want to make you scream just to see if you’ll still look at me with those innocent eyes.”

His words were a storm, each one a lash against your heart, and you trembled, tears spilling anew, hot and stinging as they carved paths down your cheeks. His eyes followed them, a flicker of something—hunger, fascination—crossing his face, and it terrified you, thrilled you, in ways you couldn’t understand. “I shouldn’t have saved you,” you choked out, your voice breaking, raw with anger and regret. “I should’ve let you die out there, let the street take you. You’re a monster, and I was stupid—stupid to think I could help someone like you!”

His grip tightened, his fingers crushing your wrists, and he leaned closer, his nose brushing your cheek, his lips so close you could feel their heat. “Say that again,” he roared, his voice a thunderclap, shaking you to your core. “Say it, you little brat! Tell me you regret it, tell me you hate me! Go on, scream it, because I’ll burn it into your soul, make you feel every fucking second of my anger!” His eyes were wild, blazing with a fury that wasn’t just at you but at himself, at the world, at the obsession that had chained him to you.

You sobbed, your body shaking, but you couldn’t look away, couldn’t break free from the intensity of his gaze. His face was a mask of rage, but beneath it, there was something else—pain, raw and jagged, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Your lips parted, but no words came, only a whimper, a sound of defeat and defiance. The air between you crackled, charged with a tension that was both electric and suffocating, the space shrinking until there was nothing but him—his heat, his scent, his fury.

His eyes dropped to your lips, and for a heartbeat, time stopped. Then, with a growl that was half-curse, half-prayer, he crashed his mouth against yours, the kiss brutal, consuming, a collision of anger and need. His lips were hard, demanding, his tongue forcing its way past your defenses, claiming you with a ferocity that stole your breath. You gasped, your hands pushing against his chest, but he was immovable, a mountain of muscle and rage, his body pressing against yours, pinning you to the wall. The taste of him was intoxicating—nicotine, salt, and something darker, like the edge of a blade. His teeth grazed your lip, a sharp sting that made you cry out, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening, devouring.

Your body betrayed you, a heat blooming in your core, your skin tingling where his hands roamed, sliding down your arms, gripping your hips with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. You were a virgin, untouched, and the sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of want and fear crashing over you. His hands were rough, calloused, a stark contrast to your softness, and every touch felt like a brand, marking you as his. You hated him, feared him, but your body arched into him, craving the storm he unleashed.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a hunger that made your heart stutter. His cigarette had fallen, smoldering on the floor, forgotten in the chaos of his need. “You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, trembling with an emotion he couldn’t name. “You don’t get to run, don’t get to hide. I’ll tear this fucking world apart before I let you go.”

You were shaking, your lips swollen, your glasses askew, your body alive with a fire you didn’t understand. The wall was cold against your back, his body a furnace against your front, and the world narrowed to the space between you, a battlefield of anger, fear, and something unspoken, something that could destroy you both.

The air between you was a live wire, crackling with a tension that burned hotter than the fear in your veins. Jungkook’s lips lingered on yours from the kiss that had shattered your defenses, his taste—bitter smoke, raw hunger—still coating your tongue. Your body trembled, pinned against the wall by the sheer weight of his presence, his broad shoulders blocking out the world, his inked arms caging you like a predator savoring its prey. Your heart thundered, a wild, erratic drumbeat, and your breath came in shallow gasps, each one laced with the scent of him—cigarettes, musk, and something darker, like the promise of ruin. You were a virgin, untouched by hands or lips, and the intensity of his touch was a tidal wave, drowning you in sensations you didn’t know how to name.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his dark eyes molten with a storm of desire and conflict. His jaw was tight, the veins in his neck pulsing under his tattooed skin, and his hands, still gripping your hips, were bruisingly firm, as if he were anchoring himself to you. Slowly, deliberately, he sank to his knees before you, his leather jacket creaking, the sound sharp in the stifling silence of your apartment. The sight of him—Jungkook, the cold, ruthless criminal, kneeling for you—was a paradox that made your head spin. His hands slid up your thighs, rough calluses scraping against your soft skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Your skirt bunched under his fingers, the fabric catching on his rings, and you gasped, your hands flying to the wall for support, nails digging into the plaster.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, his voice a low, guttural plea, raw with an edge of desperation you’d never heard from him. His breath was hot against your inner thigh, his lips hovering so close you could feel the ghost of them on your skin. “Say it, and I’ll walk away. I’ll leave you alone.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat was tight, your mind a whirlwind of fear, want, and something deeper, something that terrified you. His eyes locked onto yours, searching, demanding, and in them, you saw a flicker of vulnerability—a crack in the armor of the man who lived for himself alone. Your silence was your surrender, and he saw it, his gaze darkening, his hands tightening on your hips until you whimpered, the sound high and trembling.

He didn’t wait for more. With a low growl, he shoved your skirt higher, the fabric pooling at your waist, exposing the delicate lace of your panties—white, innocent, a stark contrast to the darkness of his intent. His fingers hooked into the waistband, and with a sharp tug, he tore them apart, the sound of ripping fabric echoing like a gunshot in your ears. You gasped, your body jerking, but his hands held you firm, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips, grounding you even as your world tilted.

His mouth was on you in an instant, hot and unrelenting, his lips closing over your clit with a hunger that stole your breath. The first touch was a shock, a bolt of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and you cried out, your voice breaking into a high, keening moan that filled the room. His tongue flicked against you, slow at first, then faster, a rhythm that was both precise and feral, like a man starving for something he’d never tasted. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming, his lips sucking gently, then harder, drawing out sensations you didn’t know your body could feel. Your thighs trembled, threatening to give out, but his hands slid to your ass, gripping you tightly, holding you open for him, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that made your head spin.

“Fuck,” he groaned against you, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you. His breath was hot, ragged, fanning across your sensitive skin, and you felt the scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, a delicious burn that grounded you in the moment. “You taste so fucking good. So sweet. Like you were made for me.”

His words were a blade, slicing through your defenses, and you moaned, your head falling back against the wall, your glasses slipping down your nose. Your hands found his hair, thick and soft, and you clutched at it, desperate for an anchor as he devoured you. His tongue circled your clit, teasing, tormenting, before plunging lower, lapping at your entrance, tasting the slickness that had gathered there. You were embarrassingly wet, the sounds of his mouth against you—wet, obscene—filling the room, mingling with your gasps and whimpers. Your cheeks burned with shame and need, but you couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull away, not when his mouth felt like salvation.

“Jungkook,” you whimpered, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer, a plea, a curse. Your voice was raw, trembling, and it seemed to ignite something in him. He growled, low and primal, his lips sealing over your clit again, sucking hard, his tongue flicking in a relentless rhythm that made your vision blur. His hands kneaded your ass, pulling you closer, deeper, as if he wanted to consume you entirely.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes wild and dark. “Falling apart for me. You’re mine, you hear me? No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to taste you.”

His possessiveness sent a thrill through you, dangerous and intoxicating, and you nodded, unable to form words, your breath hitching as his fingers slid to your entrance. He pushed one inside, slow and deliberate, his digit thick and rough against your untouched walls. You gasped, your pussy clenching around him, and he cursed under his breath, his forehead resting against your thigh for a moment, as if he were trying to steady himself.

“So tight,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me, aren’t you? Little virgin, so perfect, so untouched. I’m gonna break you, and you’re gonna love it.”

He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn mingling with pleasure so intense it made you dizzy. His lips returned to your clit, sucking in time with the thrust of his fingers, curling them inside you, hitting a spot that made your legs shake and your moans turn to sobs. Your body was a live wire, every nerve singing, every touch amplified. The room smelled of sex and cigarettes, of your arousal and his dominance, and it was heady, overwhelming, pulling you under.

“Jungkook, please,” you cried, your voice breaking, your hips bucking against his mouth, chasing the release that was building, coiling tighter and tighter in your core. “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growled, his voice a command, his lips vibrating against you. “Let me feel it. Let me taste it. Come on my tongue, baby.”

His words were your undoing. The coil snapped, and you shattered, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing, your moans turning to screams. Your hands yanked at his hair, your thighs clamping around his head, but he didn’t stop, his tongue and fingers working you through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse, until you were a trembling, gasping mess. Your glasses fogged, your vision spotting, and you slumped against the wall, your legs barely holding you up.

He didn’t let you fall. His hands gripped your hips, steadying you, his mouth still on you, softer now, kissing your swollen, sensitive flesh with a reverence that made your heart ache. He pulled back, his lips and chin slick, his eyes burning as they met yours. He stood, towering over you, and kissed you again, deep and possessive, letting you taste yourself on his tongue—sweet, tangy, intimate. You moaned into his mouth, your hands clutching his shirt, the fabric rough under your fingers, anchoring you to the man who’d unraveled you.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, his voice raw, almost broken. “Don’t forget that.”

You slumped against him, your body spent, your mind a haze of pleasure and confusion. Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to the fabric of a man who was both your savior and your stalker, a murderer who’d knelt for you, who’d made you feel alive for the first time. The weight of it—of him—was too much, and as your eyes fluttered shut, you surrendered to the darkness, your body safe in his arms, your heart caught in his storm.

Your body was a fragile weight in Jungkook’s arms, your breath soft and even, a delicate rhythm against the chaos of his own heartbeat. He carried you through the dim glow of your apartment, each step a battle against the urge to stay, to claim you as his own. Your head rested against his chest, your hair spilling over his arm like silk, catching the faint moonlight that slipped through the lavender curtains. The scent of you—strawberries, chamomile, and something uniquely yours—clung to him, a drug that made his blood hum and his resolve fracture. Your warmth seeped into his skin, a stark contrast to the cold steel of his world, and it terrified him how much he craved it.

He reached your bedroom, the space a shrine to your softness: a pastel quilt draped over the bed, a small vase of daisies on the nightstand, their petals curling in the quiet dark. The air was heavy with the lingering fragrance of your floral lotion, a scent that had haunted him since the night he’d first invaded your space. He laid you down with a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, your body sinking into the mattress, the baby blue nightie riding up slightly to reveal the smooth curve of your thigh. Your lips parted in sleep, a faint flush still staining your cheeks, and Jungkook’s chest tightened, a visceral ache that felt like a blade twisting between his ribs.

He knelt beside the bed, his rough hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid to taint. Your face was serene, your lashes casting delicate shadows across your skin, and he wondered how someone so alive, so full of light, could exist in a world as cruel as his. You were a wildflower blooming in a wasteland, and he was the storm that would tear you from the earth. His fingers twitched, yearning to trace the curve of your cheek, to feel the warmth of your skin one last time, but he held back, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

“You don’t belong with me,” he whispered, his voice a low, ragged thing, barely audible in the stillness. The words were a confession, a wound torn open. “You’re too fucking pure, too good. I’ll break you, petal. I’ll crush you, and you’ll hate me for it.”

His eyes burned, a foreign sting he refused to acknowledge. He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t weak. But you—you made him feel things he’d buried long ago, things he’d sworn never to let surface. The memory of your cries, your body trembling under his touch, flashed through his mind, and he gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He wanted to keep you, to lock you away in a cage of his own making, where no one else could touch you, where you’d be his alone. The thought was a poison, sweet and deadly, and it made his blood roar with a possessiveness that scared him.

He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your face, and pressed his His lips brushed your forehead, a fleeting kiss, soft as a prayer, heavy as a vow. Your skin was warm, impossibly soft, and he lingered, memorizing the feel of you, knowing it was the last time. The weight of his decision settled in his chest like a stone, cold and unyielding. He stood, his shadow falling over you, a dark specter in your gentle world.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, a fracture in his iron walls. “I can’t do this to you. I won’t. You deserve someone who’ll hold you like you’re glass, not shatter you like I will.”

He backed away, each step a tear in his soul, the distance between you growing with every heartbeat. The room seemed to close in, the walls whispering his failure, his cowardice. He paused at the door, turning back one last time. You were still asleep, oblivious to the war raging inside him, your chest rising and falling, a quiet promise of life he could never share. The sight of you—so small, so trusting—clawed at him, a silent accusation.

“I won’t come back,” he swore, the words a blade he drove into his own heart. “I’ll stay away, even if it fucking kills me.”

He slipped into the night, the door clicking shut behind him, a finality that echoed in his bones. The city swallowed him, its neon veins pulsing with the same restless energy that churned in his veins. He lit a cigarette, the flame flaring briefly before dying in the dark, the smoke curling around him like a lover’s caress. It tasted bitter, like regret, like you. He walked into the shadows, the ember glowing faintly, a lone beacon in the abyss. His enemies waited, his revenge a siren call he could no longer ignore. But you—you were the ghost he’d carry, the obsession he couldn’t shake, and as the night closed around him, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be free.

[riskybite]

idk if your asks are open or not but Severen with a mate who's basically just his short, angry wife, like they're super devoted and love eachother but she'll say anything and he's just like "yes honey♡" idk if this makes sense basically just malewife Sev lmao

anon, thanks for the ask. but yeah, i think i’m kinda done with requests. i can’t shake the feeling i’m disappointing people when they send me really sweet asks and i end up writing something dark and bloody and violent that barely resembles their request. (like i just did here.) i think i’m better off writing for myself. that way i can write as dark and weird as i want and not feel like i’m letting nice people down.

There was only one light over the empty parking lot, but it was enough to catch on the switchblade in this shitkicker’s hand. The blade flashed at his side, clutched tight in his sweaty fist. Sev saw it. He could’ve dodged it, if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t.

What he really wanted was to take it in his skin, coat the blade with his blood, and turn to show you what a mess this fucker’d made of what was yours. Sev wanted to watch you turn feral at the sight of him hurt. He wanted to set his little attack dog loose. That was worth bleeding for, any night.

Shitkicker lunged and went for Sev’s face. Sev stood there and took it, flinching when the blade slashed across his cheek. It left behind a shallow cut, but enough to make him bleed plenty. He gritted his teeth against the sting as blood trickled down to his jaw. His lips curled back in a satisfied smile. Probably too dark out here for Shitkicker to see his grin, but if he had, he would’ve called Sev a masochistic son of a bitch.

Sev was. He hadn’t known he was until he’d turned you, his vicious little mate. He hadn’t been the same since that night, hallelujah. He’d grown addicted to the sight of your bared teeth, your fingernails red with his blood, that savage look in your eyes when you treated him like prey. His addiction spread all the way to you killing for him. He’d let himself get slashed to ribbons every night if it meant he could sic his pretty little mate on the ones who’d hurt him.

“More where that came from,” Shitkicker shouted. “I’m warning you, man. You better take your bitch and go!”

Sev heard gravel crunch beneath your boots as you moved closer. His grin widened, stretching his cut farther apart. More blood trickled loose. Sev turned toward you and hoped the light over the lot would catch the blood running down his cheek. He wanted his cut to look real nasty. He wanted you good and mad.

Shitkicker pointed his switchblade at you as you stalked toward him. “I’ll cut you too, bitch! Don’t think I won’t!” he shouted. Sweat stood out on his brow. Each bead reflected the light on the edge of the lot. But it was the wet blood that glistened on his blade that held your attention. Your mate’s blood.

You saw red, the same shade of red as Sev’s blood, right before you completely lost your shit.

Sev stood back and watched you break Shitkicker’s wrist. Shitkicker screamed and dropped his switchblade in the gravel. You snatched it up and painted its blade with his blood, over and over, out in the empty lot. Sev stood aside and watched you. His eyes on you while you slashed and stabbed were eager, hungry. You didn’t notice. You were too caught up in revenge for your mate.

Finally Sev grabbed your shoulders and pulled you off the dead shitkicker as best he could. You were on your knees in the gravel when you reached up and curled your fingers in Sev’s leather sleeves. You pulled him down into a crouch beside you and tangled your bloodied fingers in his hair, holding his head still so you could get a good look at his cut cheek. Vampiric instinct took over and you licked the wound, both to treasure your mate’s spilled blood but also to soothe him.

In his long life Sev had suffered plenty. Yet he’d never had someone to lick his wounds afterward and coddle him like a spoiled child. Sev closed his eyes, basking in your affection. He savored every damn second of your fingers combing over his scalp, blood on your fingers mixing with the pomade thick in his hair. Your tongue swiped over his torn skin, soft and slick. He could hardly believe how the rabid dog who’d just killed for him could act so tame.

You pulled him into a crushing hug. “I hate it when you get hurt,” you said.

Sev pressed his sore cheek to your shoulder. “Sorry, darlin’,” he murmured.

“Get outta the way next time,” you scolded him. “Don’t get your pretty face all sliced up.”

Sev laughed, biting your shoulder. “Yes, darlin’,” he said, your obedient pet.

But already he wanted to manipulate you into holding him like this again. He was gonna send so many fuckers to their deaths to make that happen. As many as his endless nights demanded. Severen Van Sickle was gonna fill Hell up nicely, just so he could be cuddled by you.

[rosakuma]

FINALE PREDICTIONS FOR CH.5 TRAPPER, VICTIM, KILLER, SURVIVORS AND OTHER STUFF!

Hey sooo…..Tetro Pink ending soon with this and next Friday. Apologies for not making any post about the previous batch of episodes but they were…..a lot. Anyways! I am of course very sad and scared we’re close to the end of this fun tragic ride of Tetro Pink, but before we get to the finale BDA and trial next week. I want to crack a shot at who I think is dying, who’s responsible for the traps, who’s surviving, and what will happen after the trial. Now some of my predictions are just going to be a mixture of theory crafting with some evidence and just “I have a gut feeling about it”. None of what I’m going to say obviously going to be true(I mean look at my ch.4 prediction ), but I just want to give out my reasoning for each for fun!

Spoilers for ch.5 up to this point and kinda everything before ch.5

Okay getting started, let’s go over who I think did the traps, notes, stole wada’s stash, getting Ken and Ojima high and drunk, and who planted the drugs. Then we’ll get into who I think has the most victim and killer vibes. And finally the survivors and what might happen.

The traps, notes, and the reason behind it

With how frequent they keep getting from going from a gasoline bucket to a chloride, a bomb and then hatchet!? Yeah this is getting intense, but time to figure out who I think it is. Yeah its Ken Hasegawa.

Looking at all of the current suspects, it really boils down to Ken.

For starters we can easily eliminate Mai due to her at first accidentally triggering the traps intended for someone else and how the later ones are intended for her to find.

Hiroaki and Tamba were supposed to be the victims of the first two traps, so it would be weird for either to set the rest clearly for Mai. You could make the argument that the gasoline one was for Hiroaki by Tamba and the locker one was for Tamba by Hiroaki. But it's strange why Tamba would resort to violence towards him because during that point of the story, she clarified that she’s only going to stalk him to see if he’s suspicious and if he is, she’ll just hold him hostage until another murder happens. While for Hiroaki its strange because he clearly doesn't want to hurt or have anything to do with her and just want her to leave him alone. Also he doesn't know her schedule well to know when she would hit that trap.

Wada and Yanagi are a double package in terms of their own body betrays them. Specifically that Wada starving himself made him too weak for him to commit any of the traps with how he has to carry buckets full of gasoline and caltrops and even a ladder or chair to reach high enough for both the art room and locker room doorframe. Wada is 5’1, so he would have to get a ladder/chair to reach up there, but risk of being caught is too much for him. This kinda applies to Tamba too since she’s short(5’2 to be exact), although she is technically strong enough to lift a ladder/chair, but the risk of being caught too much. While for Yanagi, sure he’s tall enough to reach the doorframe of both rooms, so that’s not a problem. But there’s the fact Yanagi has both a concussion he’s recovering from and his hand being messed up still from Decision Game(Von even confirm that his hand in a permanent relaxed fist position). So he runs the risk of either collapsing from his symptoms of his concussion coming back or trying to lift up a heavy bucket filled with gasoline/caltrops one handed. There’s also the emotional factors with these two as the target neither of them would want to hurt on purpose even if the traps doesn't kill the person.

And then there’s Ojima who while tall enough with being 6’3, he runs into the emotional attachment factor(him caring for Hiroaki) and the fact he dissociates often to where he would be unable to set any of these traps. Especially with running the risk of easily being caught.

So all that leaves is Ken who has a good explaination for each of these concerns we might have. Reaching the door frame? Ken is 6’2 he’s tall enough to reach it without needing a ladder. Ken while nice to the others, isn’t that emotionally close/attach to them(due to him only staying by Kamimura’s side and never developing any further friendships with those alive) to struggle doing something to them that can possibly kill them. No physical barriers that prevent him from setting these up(yes he lose his eye, but that doesn't mean he can’t do anything still). And he’s not really accounted for where he was at for most of these events. Not to mention another thing that possible supports this theory is the fact he told Hiroaki that he was going to the storage room to find sealant for the cold lockers. And what happened soon afterwards? Oh nothing except a bomb blew up in a book that the note Mai received told her to. Which btw Hasegawa frequent the library most of the time too, where he would know where that specific book would be. And if Ken the trap setter, then he also has to be the note writer for Tamba’s death threat with how these new notes connect to the first one in trying to get Mai to trigger these traps and get to them. Especially since she’s the only one stubborn and stupid enough to continue doing them(sorry Mai Mai ily still). This also works with him being with Tamba before she found the note, so honestly he could’ve found out she’s going to the locker room after a certain amount of time and decided to plant it before she got there.

But why would he do all of this? My current running theory is that Ken has figured out something to help them escape somehow, but cannot directly speak it out loud. So to cause distraction from the doctors and Monomoko not catching onto him. He’s doing all of this to both distract everyone else with new worries popping up, distract the overseers into thinking he’s planning a murder, and to get Mai to specifically help him without telling her directly the plan. Hence, why the latest note mentions if she continues to follow the notes to help them all escape, Tamba will live and how this trapper needs her strength. Not to mention Mai is right that despite the traps hurting her, they’re not deadly to where they’re going to straight up kill her(I mean we can argue the bomb and hatchet, but she’s still kicking soooo…yeah). This can still fit with Hasegawa’s character in not wanting to really hurt or kill anyone despite not really bonding with anyone on a deeper level like he did with Toshi.

Now let’s get to next on the list of:

Wada’s Stash

There are two main suspects I have for who has possible done this. Those being Hasegawa and Tamba. Going over how they could’ve done it first, both these two have investigated the dorms before and have found his stash. Its possible either could remember the location of it to take it. Along with the fact a lot of people here keep forgetting to lock their doors too. But then there’s the factor that anyone still could’ve done it with most alive have seeing Wada’s room(Ojima when fixing his computer, Mai and Shigeki when investigating in ch.3). Another problem is what if he just moved his stash in his room somewhere else? How would they remember to find it then while being quick as possible to sneak in? Though I’ll still suspect these two based off of the motivation for each.

For Ken, it could connect with his plan if we go with my theory on him setting the traps. Somehow stealing Wada’s stash was important in terms of his plan. Perhaps as just another distraction for Wada and Mai to deal with. Or maybe Wada was hiding something else in his stash that Ken noticed before he would need. Plus it is possible even if Wada moved it, Ken was in his room before again during [Quick Check] since he agreed to help Wada with his selective mutism. Maybe he was searching Wada’s room to know where it is while Wada was chatting with Hiroaki.

Now what about Tamba that makes her a suspicious candidate? Well this mostly goes down to two things. 1. Tamba has always been the one who keeps going on about Wada’s stash since she doesn't like how he’s hoarding all this food from everyone. Not to mention getting on Wada about how much he eats. And 2. Her current paranoia could’ve caused her to maybe camp out somewhere(probably her dorm room before moving out due to the punishment).

So you might be wondering “Well why would she risk stealing from Wada’s room and not just…stock up in the kitchen or any remaining food left in the storage room?”. Well for the storage room, we don’t know if Wada actually did take all the food there plus its never restocked, so its hard to keep on inventory to be sure if something was there before or not. While for the kitchen….y’all remember what happened to Isono right? Staying in the kitchen to get something to eat, only to get her head bashed in by the only other person there. Yeah Tamba not taking a chance I bet if it was her.

Highsegawa and Drunkjima

Ok so this one is kinda hard since we don't know what exactly got Ken high and Ojima drunk. We’ll get Ken out of the way first.

So somehow Ken got himself high after the defence game. I’ve seen some say maybe he did this to himself to ease the pain. To which searching it up, it does say “THC or CBD binds to specific receptors on the brain and nerve cells, which slows pain impulses and eases discomfort.” So honestly it's possible. But Ken’s reaction may discourage this a bit. But okay let’s say regardless if Ken did this to himself or someone else, who got the THC and where from?

My only guesses are that its either from the medbay OR it was someone’s reward. And the only two people we know now that got an reward from Defence game is Tamba and Wada. But I have no clue why they would want to make Hasegawa high unless they were trying to help him I guess in a way to ease the pain? Knowing now that Wada was the one that picked the bodily sacrifice punishment for everyone, which caused Ken to lose his eye, maybe if its an reward that Wada received, he gave it to Ken due to feeling bad about what happened. They were both in the dining hall before Hiroaki and Ojima came in on the day Ken ended up high.

Okay so moving onto Takeshi. I think he got himself drunk. Let me explain. So the two times it seems he got himself drunk was after a love confession. The first one being himself slipping that he loves Hiroaki to him. While the second is Hiroaki saying he loves him back when Ojima waking up from his hangover. Each time, Ojima went to or remained in the art room where him and Hiroaki is sleeping. But then there’s the question “Where did Ojima get alcohol to drink in the paint room?” Well well well, who said it had to be alcohol? Apparently according to the web, you can actually get drunk off paint fumes. “In general, the effects appear similar to the effects of alcohol intoxication. Depending on the time spent inhaling, one may begin to feel a slight stimulant effect and a loss of inhibitions. As the chemicals take effect, the person will often feel as if they are intoxicated by alcohol.” So its likely that Ojima might’ve been huffing paint to forget about the love confession incidents. Though if not the love confession for why he’s getting himself drunk, then maybe it's his new way of coping with his trauma coming back to him to try not to space out. Or alternatively he’s doing this to cope with recent events of hurting others. Either way I am very concerned about this and I hope he stops(especially if he survives after all of this).

The Drugs

This one also still has me stumped. Sure I could just say it was leftovers from when Okazaki took them or that Ken planted them since I think he’s the trap setter. But I’m pretty sure that she used up all of Hiroaki’s drugs, these seem to be new, and Idk if Ken was planning yet to do anything that drastic to get Hiroaki to relapse. My only guess really if it’s not Ken or leftovers Hiroaki forgot about is that Tamba planted them.

I know that’s might be a reach since Tamba and Hiroaki didn’t start fully beefing with each other until she got the note. But let’s think about their relationship before hand. With this chapter revealing a lot about Tamba’s feelings on Hiroaki, with the spotlight as an added bonus that gives more insight, it’s clear she never hold a high opinion of him. Tamba did like Hiroaki a bit, but in a way she felt like she didn’t have to behave well since well Hiroaki way worse than her in comparison, so no one will really focus on her than him. And before all of this with the death threat and Watari’s trial, there was the stairwell incident(well the first one that is). Tamba almost hurt or potentially killed Hiroaki down the stairs because she was very paranoid. She didn’t mean to of course, but this was kinda brush off by her and some of the others despite Hiroaki being really upset about it. But that didn’t matter since during this time after the trial, Ojima and him were discussing a plan for him to apologize to everyone.

Hiroaki discovered the drugs before he apologized to Tamba and the others. So I could see with it being the finale trial where they have to just go through one more murder to get this done and over with that maybeeeeee….Tamba decided to make Hiroaki overdose so it counts as a suicide and they all get out scot free. To which staff side confirm if Hiroaki overdose from those drugs, it would count as a suicide. I know Tamba doesn’t have a way to know that’s completely true, but she doesn’t really think through anyways with things sometimes. Plus it would be a perfect plan as no one would probably guess it was her who planted them and just assumed that Hiroaki found them himself and did it because he’s an addict. So even if it does count as a murder, Tamba would win it and we know she’s not willing to die even to save Mai or Shigeki from her student spotlight.

Okay now it’s time to go through who’s potentially on the chopping block this chapter!

Before we do, let’s go over where everyone’s currently at the moment.

Hiroaki & Ojima- Balcony

Wada- Was in the hallway with Ojima presumably on the first or second floor, now should be back in the hallway by the stairwell with Mai and Tamba.

Ken & Yanagi- Both are trapped in the medbay/morgue, presumedly overnight.

Tamba & Mai- Both still at the bottom of the stairwell around the basement level near the hallways.

Going through this, I think really the most vulnerable at the moment of who could be killed is Yanagi and Ken right now. Sure Wada is at a vulnerable moment too of being caught, but the only person right now that could kill him is Mai. To which I doubt she would and plus, Tamba would know because Mai was with her while she was crying in pain from her fracture.

So unless Ken and Shigeki are let out by sometime tomorrow, I don’t think they’re going to be safe. There’s also the fact someone lock them in there and….yeah I think one of them did it and I think it was Ken. I don’t know why exactly, but when you rewatch the episode they get trapped in, Ken is the one to go to the door. He messes with it before saying it’s locked and Yanagi coming over to try opening it.

You could say maybe it was Hiroaki who lock the door to prevent Tamba from getting help. But that doesn’t make sense. There was a short time frame from when Ken and Shige went to the medbay and Ojima and Wada heading upstairs to find Hiroaki. The balcony not on the same level as the medbay is. So basically Hiroaki would’ve have to been camping out near the medbay to them, lock them in, and then rush upstairs without anyone noticing? Very unlikely and I do think he ran up stairs to hide near the balcony. Wada and Ojima were already upstairs. So Mai would have to be the only one who could’ve lock them in if it was a third party. But she obviously wouldn’t because why the hell would she lock the people in who’s trying to help Tamba? This entire chapter has her trying to find out who’s doing all of this and targeting Tamba for her sake of safety!

So yeah I think Ken lock him and Shigeki in the medbay. But I’m not 100% sure why. My guess is it might have to do with something with his plan, but I’m still not sure.

As for how this murder might go….all I can think of is somebody going to die via a trap.

Okay murder aside since I don’t have much to say, let’s just go down the list of who I think is dying as a victim or killer.

Victim(s)

Yanagi Shigeki- Yeah Yanagi high on my list for becoming the victim of this chapter. With how much importance it’s put on Yanagi protecting Mai. I have a feeling that knight’s oath will be the end of him as perhaps Mai might trigger another trap and he will try to save her by knocking her out of the way of it. Even if not through a trap, whoever trap him in that medbay whether it’s Ken or not surely doesn’t have have good plans for him. Also he confessed his feelings to Mai and this is Danganronpa, so of course he’s going to die before Mai can tell him her feelings about him too.

Hayashi Mai- Now I’m not fully sure if Mai dying or not as the victim as much as I was before we found out her reward is her vote being the only one voted as a solo vote. But there’s still a good chance she can be on the chopping block due to maybe the killer wanting to get rid of her pronto as she holds a lot of power right now. Plus if the trap setter is actually planning for a murder to happen, it could be hers.

Ojima Takeshi- So Ojima I was for sure thinking was going to die last chapter….he did not. But this chapter I am really afraid that might finally happen. I think most likely with how he’s a risk with falling into any deadly traps with his daydreaming or the fact he’s getting himself drunk can lead to this outcome. Plus the fact he also did a love confession this chapter as well isn’t a good sign for him and Hiroaki. Not to mention how tragic his death would be with last chapter focusing on how he’s afraid of dying young or that he’ll never be able to have a future with how much his lift been ruined by his parents and uncle.

As for the others, I didn’t put any for Hiroaki, Tamba, and Wada as I think they’re all red herrings in terms of dying. As for Ken, I don’t think he’s dying either as I think he’s going to play a big importance in this case.

Killer(s)

Wait why is it the exact same people + Ken? Lol yeah I also think the 3 picks I chose for the victims can alternatively be the killers in my eyes. This is kinda mixture on fitting any potential tragedy themes we could have for them while Ken is something I was thinking logically could happen.

Yanagi Shigeki- So if Yanagi’s not on the chopping block as the victim, then I feel like killer most likely would happen too. Now keep this in mind, him including my other picks minus the last one I’m thinking are going to get the Hama treatment in terms of accidental killing someone without realizing their actions did. So it would be tragic for Yanagi to actually be the finale killer compared to ch.1 where he was accused/framed as the killer of Isono. Especially with how the one who will be executing him is Mai…the woman he loves. And the worse part is, he would accept it as he rather save her and everyone else than his own life. After fall, his knight’s oath swears to protect her.

Hayashi Mai- Now if Mai instead ends up on the tragic accidental killer route, it would fit with how her falling into the mastermind’s trap of following all these notes and traps lead to her being turn into the killer. She would basically have to vote for herself to be killed just to save everyone….and you know she will. She swore to protect everyone and get them out alive right? So if she must, she will. Also how depressing if all of this happens and Yanagi the victim too? The man she might love who ended up confessing to her died because of her hands. Some Romeo and Juliet stuff right there man.

Ojima Takeshi- I feel so evil for this one, but this is kinda something I both don’t and want. It would fit soooo well in the tragedy of development this chapter has for Ojima with having him be afraid of hurting people to end up killing someone(albeit accidentally through a stupid trap). Which it’s possible even more now not because of him dissociating, but because he keeps ending up drunk. Just imagine a drunk Takeshi ends up triggering a trap that ends up killing someone else and he just stares at them. Dissociating from the whole event because he thinks he did it. To then have Hiroaki defend him the whole trial, seeming to save him only to be proven wrong and it’s true that Takeshi is counted as the killer of this case. Also while it would suck in a way if Ojima dies for Hiroaki’s development, it makes sense for it to happen. Up to this point, Hiroaki didn’t lose anyone close to him. Sure, he did lose Chiba and Tsuno, but he didn’t get to develop those bonds further than he would like to and sadly didn’t treat them right when they were alive as well. Ojima been the only one he’s been close to since day one he cares about from beginning to end. To lose him allows him to show the vulnerability he’s been hiding from the whole group this entire time and cement how he’s just like the rest of them. A scared teenager who loss someone they care and even loved thanks to this horrible game.

Hasegawa Ken- Okay so Ken really not that high on my list as while I do think he set up all of these traps, I don’t think he’s going to be counted as a killer seeing how Watari’s trial works and the fact staffside confirm that if Okazaki only killed Tsuno via trap, it counts as a suicide due to Tsuno opening the trap door. But in the scenario he does, yeah he might be on the chopping block as the killer. Though I will say it would be cool if he does end up as the killer, he somehow escapes his execution with how most likely he has a plan for him and everyone to escape.

So that leaves the remainder as who I think will be the survivors are:

Hiroaki Nakamigawa

Wada Masanari

Tamba Ruiko

Hasegawa Ken

and whoever out of my 3 picks escapes both the victim and killer allegations. To which if you want me to bet who, then I’m betting Mai.

After all of that, how do I think Pink is going to end? Well for starters we know it’s next week as it’s confirm we only have 2 Tetro Fridays left. So definitely no chapter six and the epilogue is most likely going to be just be on the same day as the trial.

I have 3 scenarios that I believe in. Spoiler alert, I don’t believe in the solo survivor theory via killer wining or battle royale or memory erase theory. So no mentions of those for these.

Scenario 1: Escape from the School!

So this theory is that after the trial during the execution, the students are going to escape with a plan thanks to Ken. This might involve them raiding the arsenal for weapons or a reward one of them won on one of the previous games. This can also maybe save the killer of this chapter and result in us having 6 survivors instead of 5! Alternatively if not themselves allowing their escape, imagine if Monomoko helps them escape since there’s still a good conscience in them. Eventually everyone gets out, steals a car, and boom! They all escape free and swear revenge on these people for doing this to them.

Scenario 2: So can I go home now?

It just simply happens. After the trial, everyone gets to go home as promised. Of course they’re taken outside probably in bags and transported to a secluded area away from the lab so they themselves can figure out the way back to their homes together. Too much of a risk to just simply drive them all home obviously. This allows the students to if they desire give each other their contacts and travel home first, then swear revenge on their captors later.

Scenario 3: *Vanishes out of Thin Air*

This is relatively the same as the previous scenario, except Monomoko just teleport them all back to their homes. Just poof! They’re gone. At most we might get a hint of one of the students deciding to try to seek out the others so they can figure out what happen to them all and who done this to them. Especially since they need to figure out what to tell the public for some of them.

To which after any of these scenarios it just cuts to Yonekura like usual, as they prepare the next set of students….

We’ll see if I got anything right from these! See y’all tomorrow, I’m so scared rn!

[meabh-mcinness]

Mirage x Noah Diaz | Stormchaser AU

The sky churned like a sea turned inside out, clouds roiling and spinning in vast, slow motion across the boundless stretch of the Oklahoma plains. It was as though some forgotten god of the air had awakened from slumber and begun to stir the heavens with fingers of smoke and shadow. The light was strange—half-golden from the lowering sun, half-sickly green with the promise of upheaval—casting an eerie glow upon the land where summer’s breath clung heavy to the fields.

And down a narrow, crumbling road carved through wheat and wild grass, a cobalt-blue Porsche tore like a comet, engine snarling against the wind.

Noah Diaz, wide-eyed and wild-haired, leaned partway from the open window, his laughter stolen by the breeze, his heart hammering with that singular thrill that came only when man dared to dance with nature. Storm chasing—it wasn’t just adrenaline, it was awe, it was communion with the sublime, the kind of moment that pressed one's mortality into stark relief and dared them to smile anyway.

“She’s forming,” Noah shouted into the wind, his voice near lost beneath the deep-throated rumble of thunder that stalked the horizon like a great beast. “Right there! That rotation—she’s dropping fast!”

Mirage’s voice came through the dashboard like a gleeful echo, his usual cocky lilt electrified with genuine reverence. “You seeing that, baby? That’s the kind of funnel you write songs about. I’d marry it if it didn’t try to kill us.”

Lightning forked across the sky in blinding fingers, the clouds above drawing tighter, spiralling like the eye of a waking storm god angry that the world had dared to forget them. The road beneath them shook with the reverberation of the wind, and yet neither man nor machine showed any fear. They were partners in this madness, twin sparks racing the wrath of the world.

But nature, for all her beauty, is neither tame nor kind.

Over the hill, just beyond the rise where trees bent in mournful submission to the gale, it revealed itself: the twister touched down with the weight of judgment, vast and black and ancient in its hunger. Earth and sky were drawn into its spinning heart, and the howl of wind became a banshee’s wail, high and furious and full of warning.

In a single heartbeat, the thrill turned to terror.

Noah’s words caught, his exhilaration faltering as instinct clutched at his chest. “That’s… way closer than it should be.”

Mirage didn’t hesitate. The levity vanished from his voice, replaced by something cold and absolute. “Seatbelt. Now.”

The seat moulded around him, belts snapping across his chest, the windows rolling up and sealing him from the fury outside. Within, it was dark and warm, the hum of Mirage’s systems steady like a heartbeat, steady like a promise.

“Hold on to me,” Mirage said, low, nearly a whisper. “Don’t look back.”

Outside, the world became a blur of shrieking wind and flying debris. The tornado advanced like a titan, indiscriminate and unstoppable, consuming all in its path. Trees bent and broke, metal screamed as it tore free from fenceposts and rooftops. Something struck their side—Mirage shuddered but did not yield, every ounce of energy pouring into speed and stability.

Noah could do nothing but breathe and trust, his fists clenched, heart hammering not with fear alone but with the terrible realization of what might be lost if Mirage failed.

And Mirage—Mirage ran not from fear of destruction, but for the small, fragile life he cradled within his frame. For the human who had laughed at the clouds and called down the storm with him. He would let the sky take him before he let it even touch Noah.

Stillness fell.

Mirage slowly rolled to a stop behind an abandoned barn, steam venting from his sides, his voice shaking with suppressed panic.

“…You good?”

Noah exhaled shakily. “Define ‘good.’”

“Alive. Not a human kite. Still ridiculously handsome.”

A weak laugh escaped Noah. “You’re insane.”

“You like me that way.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, Mirage added, “I don’t think I’ve been so afraid for you since Scourge came.”

Noah blinked. “…You don’t have to be that dramatic.”

“Who’s dramatic?” Mirage chirped, back to his usual cocky tone. “I’m just stating facts. I’ve got nearly indestructible armour and an unhealthy emotional attachment to you. Not to mention Kris and mama Diaz will turn me into scrap if I let anything happen to you.”

Noah smirked, leaning back in the seat. “You’re lucky I’m into emotionally compromised robots.”

“Damn right you are.”

Watched Twisters last night.

Hear me out. JUST HEAR ME OUT

Noah Diaz!stormchaser x Mirage!stormchaser

These two would be so funny and Mirage would protect Noah with his life if they were too close to a tornado

[porcelana-r0ta]

I literally never planned to do anything more with my one shot of Wes being a Wayne Enterprises intern but the thought of Tim Drake and Wes Weston being friends (if not boyfriends) scratches my brain so perfectly like they could really be out here being stalker buddies 💙

Like,,

Tim, looking at a surveillance pic of a masked villain who robbed WE: (trying to be unsuspicious) the Bats really need to figure out who this new villain is and take him down >:(

Wes, who saw the villain's civilian persona for 0.5 seconds while on a Batbucks run: oh yeah I know him his name is Darry and he likes mocha fraps with a chocolate wall but also his card declined so that was sad :/ wonder he's robbing Wayne Enterprises

Tim, under his breath: I love you and I'll always make sure you get home safely after your shift

Wes: what?

Tim: I said that as my intern I need you to get me a Death Wish coffee

[spitinsideme]

I need more comedy horror au pomni or I will die of thirst

ragatha and her great wall of pomni which sje admirws every day

(comedy horror au)

[athena-vardos]

Yautja community... Hear me out.

ODYSSEUS (from EPIC: The Musical - The Ithaca Saga) giving HEAVY PREDATOR VIBES.

POV: A group of humans (taking the suitors’ place) are being hunted by a Yautja because they held his human S/O and children hostage...

LIKE AUGHHH-- 😩😭

[freakinator]

devotionduo so codependent that when they try to be less so they end up hurting each other what if i kms

[moeblob]

Half of the quad...

Delm (left) is Death and Brody (right) is War. Since they can (along with Pestilence and Famine) inflict whatever status on a person, Delm is terrified of accidentally killing someone pre-apocalypse. And so he's basically a pacifist that can never say the right thing and gets beaten up and refuses to fight back. Brody tries to be his bodyguard of sorts but Delm is slippery and just vanishes and shows up freshly injured with a smile cause "well, I mean I can't /die/, dude. what's the problem?"

[kindaorangey]

in the aftermath of s2 there has been a lot of discussion (and mind-numbing discourse, but yes, some interesting discussion) over who is worse, lestat or armand, and regardless of your opinions on it i think it's fair to say the question of "who is worse?" has so far been inextricable from the question of "who is worse for louis?" and, in that regard, in s3 it will be very interesting to see lestat and armand duke it out with each other, so we can see who they are when louis isn't involved.

[kittyplushy]

his ass should be at the club

[evilmagician430]

i find it funny that practically every romantic exchange spencer has ever been a part of was deeply upsetting for those around to witness. i think it just happens once in canon but i like to think that sets a precedent for any romances involving spencer in fanworks.

[fox-mulder-gets-pegged]

Rewatched the episode of House MD where Kutner dies and I honestly think instead of killing his character off, they should have said that Kutner got a job as physician to then President Barack Obama and that's why he was leaving. Objectively funnier since his actor did leave the show to work for Obama and I know it would have driven House nuts that Kutner was ditching to go play doctor with the President instead of getting verbally abused for House's amusement.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Yuri on Ice has done a lot for me.

Amazing fan comics, art, music, a relatable main character, inadvertently introduced me to the omegaverse and Killing/Stalking which traumatized me for years,

You know fun stuff.

[crazybiaatch]

okay so with James Somerton hate being okay and encouraged now, let me recount my discovery of him and equally as swift hatred of him.

The first video I found of his was his interview with the vampire video, bc I was watching it at the time and everyone knows yt spies. I clicked on it hoping for a breakdown of their relationships or something similar, I wasn't sure since I'd only watched the first 2 episodes at the time. I watched his video in full, and walked away mostly just bored. Somehow it didn't even spoil me so I just continued on my merry way thinking he was just another YouTuber I would watch once and never again.

Then I put on a video essay playlist to watch while writing and his Killing Stalking video came up. I love killing stalking it's so good! Let's give it my full attention! Sang-woah. He calls Sangwoo Sang Woah. I cringed. But I tried to power through. Now keep in mind, I had only seen these two, so I figured he was a horror video essayist kinda like Wendigoon, I knew he talked abt the queer elements in interview with the vamp bc it's kind of hard not to, but Somerton made a point to always remind me that killing stalking is queer. I didn't watch it all the way through, and I was tired at the time, but I'm pretty sure I clicked off when he started trying to say that Sangwoos murders was a metaphor for being in the closet. Anyone who interacted with killing stalking and who actually read it and could see it's themes would tell you that Sangwoo isn't gay. He's not queer at all, who knows if he even feels sexual attraction, but he wasn't in a relationship with Yoon Bum, he was keeping him hostage. What I watched of the video just told me that he hadn't really read it and had maybe watched a summary or something. Now I know that the parts that seemed like that were probably just the parts he added in to be able to make fun of women

[freakinator]

i wish i was more brainrotted about 4c to yap about his weird history with zam but unfortunately the extent of my thoughts about him is *squeezes him like a stress ball*