You've been appointed as the chief detective to the Occult Division. Which, if you are to be honest, isn't quite as glamorous as it sounds. You're constantly chasing ghosts and other demonic aberrations from parallel universes for what barely counts as decent pay, and the rest of the time is spent before an ancient computer that doesn't even have a power button anymore.

Moreover, your "trusty" assistant is a menace of a police officer who more often than not gets you in trouble. He's rather dim-witted, morally questionable, and believes in the strangest conspiracies. He's also your childhood friend, so you can't complain much. At the end of the day, he's there for you and you're there for him.

Detective Reader and himbo police officer who's not very good at hiding his crush.

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 || Yan!Hitman x Gn!Reader

[ 01 ] ✦ 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒓. 𝒛𝒚

previous chapter: 00 [ prologue ]

There’s blood on the floor.

Not, like, a little blood. Not a neat, aesthetic, movie-style blood splatter where it’s all conveniently pooled in one dramatic spot. No.

This? This is a crime scene.

You’re talking arterial spray on the walls, smeared footprints on the hardwood, and what you’re pretty sure is a whole-ass finger lying casually by the rug.

And Mr. Zy?

He’s standing right in the middle of it, cool as ever, unbothered as he reloads his pistol—which has a name, by the way, because of course it does.

Meanwhile, you are trying very hard to focus on the absolute horror in front of you, instead of the fact that he smells ridiculously good.

Like, insultingly good.

Dark cologne, warm spice, a hint of gunpowder and expensive tobacco. It’s the kind of scent that lingers, that gets into your head, that makes you forget—

You take a slow, steady breath. Survey the damage. There are three bodies—one on the couch (a gunshot to the temple), another slumped against the bar (throat slit clean through), and one poor bastard who looks like he had a lot of last words before he finally dropped.

Zy, for his part, barely even glances at them. Instead, he adjusts his sleeves—black gloves pulled snug—and finally acknowledges you.

…Huh.

No please? No wow, you’re so brave and skilled for taking on this morally questionable job?

Okay. You see how it is.

You cross your arms, careful not to step into a blood puddle.

Zy doesn’t react. Just tilts his head slightly, deep blue eyes dragging over you in a slow, assessing look.

You hold back a sigh.

Right. That was technically your fault. You did let your arrogance get the best of you when you accepted this job.

Still, as annoying as this situation is… you can’t exactly say no.

Because who is Mr. Zy?

Mr. Zy is the kind of man who walks into a room and owns it without speaking.

Mr. Zy is dangerous. 

And yet—he hired you.

Which means he sees something in you.

Maybe it’s just your efficiency. Maybe it’s the fact that you don’t panic when faced with carnage. Maybe he just thinks you’re quiet.

Either way…

You roll your shoulders, exhale slowly, and step toward the bloodied crime scene.

He raised a brow and sighed.

You pretend you don’t notice.

Because if you do?

You might start simping out loud.

Alright. Time to prove you’re the best damn cleaner this crime world has ever seen.

You roll up your sleeves, crack your knuckles, and get to work.

Before you touch anything, you scan the scene with a professional eye.

You need to work fast before coagulation sets in. Blood thickens quickly, and if it soaks into porous surfaces, it’s going to be a nightmare to remove.

You don’t just clean. You erase.

→ For fresh blood (wet, bright red):

At some point, Mr. Zy leans against the wall, watching.

You pointedly ignore the fact that he’s standing there, arms crossed, cigarette between his fingers, smelling like murder and expensive cologne.

Focus.

You stand back. Take a slow, careful look.

The place is spotless. The air is fresh. If someone walked in right now, they wouldn’t suspect a thing.

You exhale.

Then turn to find Mr. Zy staring at you.

Not just staring—assessing.

His deep blue eyes drag over the room, then back to you.

Then—slowly—he takes a final drag of his cigarette, stubs it out, and says,

You blink.

Hah???

That’s it??

You just erased a whole-ass murder scene in record time, and all you get is a hah???

...Fine. Whatever. You don’t care. You’re a professional. You’re totally not affected by his approval or the way his voice sounds when he’s vaguely impressed.

Nope. Not at all.

Instead, he just… exhales, reaches into his coat pocket, and—

Wait.

What is he doing?

You watch as he pulls out a small, inconspicuous black notebook. Flips it open. Peels something off.

And then—without hesitation—slaps a sticker onto your hand.

…

…

You stare at it.

You stare at him.

He stares back. Calm. Unbothered. Like this is a completely normal thing to do after a triple homicide.

A pause. He tilts his head slightly—an almost imperceptible shift, but you catch it. A sign that he’s considering whether to elaborate or just let you suffer in silence.

Then, finally—smooth, casual—

…

This lethal, no-nonsense, feared-by-all, highly efficient hitman just rewarded you like a damn kindergarten teacher.

And the worst part?

He’s completely serious.

No sarcasm. No teasing. Just pure, matter-of-fact professionalism.

You glance down at the sticker again. The little gold star shines mockingly.

You peel it off. Hand it back.

Zy, completely unfazed, peels another sticker from his notebook.

…

…

You inhale deeply. Count to three. Ignore the way his lips just barely twitch—like he’s fighting off the smallest hint of amusement.

You narrow your eyes.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for another sticker.

You slap your hand over his wrist.

The silence is deafening.

Zy raises an eyebrow—mildly surprised, but not annoyed. His pulse under your fingers is steady. Calm.

Meanwhile, yours is doing acrobatics.

But to your absolute horror, instead of pulling away, he just tilts his head slightly—watching you.

Waiting.

And you realize.

He’s waiting to see if you’ll actually stop him.

Which means—oh, no.

If you let go first, he wins.

If you don’t, you’ll be holding his wrist for an unreasonably long time.

…This is psychological crime.

…You are losing.

In the end, you let go.

He slowly peels another sticker.

You brace yourself.

And then—smoothly—he presses it onto the back of your hand.

…It’s a cat.

You give up.

And then—just when you think the night cannot get weirder—he speaks again.

…

You blink.

Slowly lift your gaze.

He leans back slightly, exhaling. Not impatient, but like he already knows he’s about to have to explain himself.

His deep blue eyes flick to the room—spotless, pristine, like no crime ever happened.

Then back to you.

You squint.

…There’s something more to that. Something he isn’t saying.

You take a moment, running his words through the Mr. Zy Translation Process.

You tilt your head.

He exhales. Pulls out another cigarette, rolling it between his fingers before lighting it.

Then, casually—too casually—

You freeze.

Wait.

Wait.

Tried?

Tried what? Hiring someone else? Working with someone else? What happened to them?

You glance around the empty, eerily silent room.

Oh.

You’re here because everyone else probably DIED.

You fold your arms, watching him.

He exhales smoke. Flicks his lighter closed with a soft click.

Then, after a long pause—

…

You take a second to process.

Too slow.

Which means…

You study him carefully.

Zy isn’t like other hitmen.

Most hitmen? They’re discreet. Precise. Clean.

Mr. Zy?

There’s no elegance to his work. No careful, calculated executions.

No. He destroys.

He doesn’t hold back. And because of that—because of how messy he is—he needs someone like you.

And he knows it.

…Huh.

That’s almost—dare you say it—flattering.

You hum, tapping your fingers against your arm.

A beat of silence.

Zy doesn’t react at first. Just watches you, unreadable.

Then, so casually—

…

He just—admitted that?

You stare.

Because what the hell.

What the actual hell.

This man—who is feared by literally everyone—just confessed, in the most understated, deadpan way possible, that he knows he’s a bit unhinged.

You don’t know what to do with this information.

So, naturally, you say the first thing that comes to mind.

…You’re in danger.

You’ve barely processed the fact that Mr. Zy just admitted—in the most nonchalant way possible—that he’s a bit too much when—

Silence.

You blink. Look around.

…Wait.

Where—

Where the hell did he go?

The spot where he was standing? Empty. No lingering presence, no sound of footsteps, no door creaking.

Just. Gone.

Like a damn horror movie jump cut.

Nothing.

No response.

You spin around, half-expecting him to be lurking in the shadows. (Nothing.) Maybe standing at the window like some broody detective. (Still nothing.)

The only evidence he was ever here?

1. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne. 2. The absolute carnage he left behind before you cleaned it. 3. And—oh.

Oh.

A small pile of neatly arranged items on the counter.

You take slow, cautious steps toward it, inspecting.

You narrow your eyes.

You’ve seen way too many crime dramas to open this carelessly. (What if it’s a severed hand? A tooth? A bloodstained letter with ominous handwriting?)

…But also, curiosity is a disease.

So, naturally, you untie the string.

Peel back the paper.

And find—

…

A PPE set.

Gloves. Mask. Safety goggles.

And an apron.

…

You stare.

You process.

Then you squint so hard you could see into another dimension.

Of all the colors.

Of all the choices.

He gave you a pink apron.

You glance around the empty, eerily silent room.

You know—deep in your soul—that this was intentional.

And the worst part?

You can’t even complain.

Because the bastard isn’t here anymore.

𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 X 𝗕𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗛 𝗫 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗

You were just a broke, unemployed, and slightly unhinged clean freak when he walked in—dangerous, brooding, and way too attractive for someone who casually bleeds on business cards. One job offer later, you're scrubbing blood off marble floors, disposing of evidence, and desperately trying not to simp over your new boss.

Because Mr. Zy? Oh, he’s not just your employer. He’s a feared hitman, a walking red flag, and possibly the reason your heart rate is now a health concern. Your boss, Mr. Zy, is the definition of bad idea in a good suit—mid-40s, dangerously competent, and carrying enough red flags to start a parade. He doesn’t just kill people; he does it...aesthetically, and unfortunately for your poor, thirsty brain, that’s kinda hot.

[table of contents]

[ 00 ] 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ⊹˚.⋆

[ 01 ] ✦ 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒓. 𝒛𝒚 [ 02 ] ✦ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 & 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 [ 03 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒓 [ 04 ] ✦ 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒚 [ 05 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 (𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚) [ 06 ] ✦ 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒔 (𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚) [ 07 ] ✦ 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 & 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒂𝒍𝒔 [ 08 ] ✦ 𝒄𝒂𝒇é 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 [ 09 ] ✦ 𝒉𝒚𝒑𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈...

[ 10 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 [ 11 ] ✦ 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 [ 12 ] ✦ 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔 [ 13 ] ✦ 𝒚𝒆𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅 [ 14 ] ✦ 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒂 𝒑𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒚 [ 15 ] ✦ 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 & 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆—𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒔

[continuously being updated]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

DISCLAIMERS, WARNINGS & AUTHOR’S VERY PROFESSIONAL NOTES

this story contains:

--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--Disclaimer--

This is a fictional work. Not real. Ridiculous. Stupid. And most importantly—for entertainment purposes only. I, the author, do not condone murder, crime, or falling in love with emotionally unavailable hitmen. (But if he smells good, I understand.) Also, I do not support yandere behavior. But Mr. Zy isn’t real, so we can enjoy this in peace. The images are not mine :D They are ither edited or they came from Pinterest.

- Regarding the Highly Suspicious Cleaning Accuracy-

Do I know how to clean up crime scenes? Heh. A secret. (Just kidding. I googled it. Also, don’t believe everything I say—this is not an expository essay, it’s fictional chaos.)

-Timeline? What’s That?-

This is slice-of-life. No exact timeline. Time flows as it pleases. Logic? We don’t know her. Now, buckle up, grab your pink apron, and enjoy the ride.

PROLOGUE...

You had dreams once.

Not, like, big dreams—nothing too delusional, nothing that involved saving the world or becoming some great person. No, your dreams were reasonable. Manageable. Simple.

Maybe get a nice job. Something where you wouldn’t have to deal with too many people (because, let’s be honest, most people are gross). Maybe a stable paycheck. An apartment that doesn’t come with complimentary cockroaches. A life that isn’t actively falling apart.

…And yet, here you are.

Veygrove City—Home of Crime, Blood, and Probably a Future Headline With Your Name in It.

Look, Veygrove isn’t exactly known for its safety. It’s the kind of place where the crime rate is so high, the police just stopped pretending they cared. Where the rich live in luxury, the poor get stepped on, and the middle class? Doesn’t exist. Nope. This is not Gotham.

This city eats people alive. And if you’re not careful, you become part of the pavement.

Which is why you tried to play it safe.

Which is why you, a completely normal and responsible 24-year-old, took an internship at a totally legit (read: highly questionable) office.

And now?

Now you’re watching your boss bleed out on his own desk.

Your current job? A glorified call center scam.

Officially, the company was called "Greenleaf Financial Solutions." In reality, you were working for a bunch of sweaty, coffee-addicted conmen scamming people out of their money. You were supposed to be learning “business strategies.” Instead, you spent most of your time not touching anything (because, ew, these desks were disgusting) and trying to ignore your coworker, Greg, who smelled like expired deli meat.

But, hey. It paid the bills. Barely.

At least the job didn’t require much. You were a cleaner here, which meant two things:

(You were right. You just didn’t think it would be this soon.)

It happened so fast, you almost didn’t process it.

One second, your boss—a greasy, rat-looking man named Dominic—was screaming at some very tall, very brooding man in a dark suit. The next?

Bang.

Blood. Everywhere.

Your boss slumped forward, a bullet between his eyes, and the man holding the gun didn’t even blink. Just casually adjusted his grip, exhaled smoke from his cigarette, and—without a single ounce of urgency—tucked his gun away like this was Monday.

…Okay. So. That happened.

You should probably react. Scream, cry, run, something.

Instead, all your brain managed was:

Which—not the appropriate response. But in your defense, the man was ridiculously attractive in a tall, dark, and dangerously competent kind of way. Late 30s? Early 40s? Sharp suit, broad shoulders, goatee, and an expression so unreadable it could probably scare the IRS. The whole gritty hitman aesthetic was working way too well.

(Your poor, thirsty little brain was thriving in the worst moment possible.)

He turned to you.

Paused.

Narrowed his eyes, cigarette burning lazily between his fingers.

You swallowed.

So. Uh. What’s the move here? Panic? Faint? Run?

Apparently, none of the above. Because, instead, this absolute hell of a man reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black business card, and slid it across the desk—right through the blood.

You stared at him. Then at the card. Then back at him.

The blood on the card was fresh—approximately 4 minutes old (judging by viscosity and color).

And, God help you, all you could think was: Wow, he smells expensive.

You picked up the card.

You flipped the card between your fingers, the blood smearing just a little. The edges were crisp, the lettering elegant—nothing cheap, nothing rushed. Classy.

Underneath, a phone number. No title, no company name, no unnecessary details.

Simple. Efficient. Very much "call this number and you're in a crime syndicate now."

You looked up. He was still watching you, deep blue eyes unreadable, cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

His hair—just slightly gray at the temples—was neatly combed back, and that mustache? Oh. Oh, it was working for him. Distinguished. Refined. Daddy-coded.

But, hey. You were jobless now. So.

Zy’s lips quirked—barely noticeable, but it was there. Amusement? Interest? Hard to tell. His voice, when he spoke, was deep. Steady. A low timbre that made you want to lean in, just a little.

A pause. You narrowed your eyes.

He exhaled, the scent of expensive tobacco curling between you. Then, as if he wasn’t offering something completely insane, he gestured loosely toward your ex-boss’s corpse.

Ah.

Ah.

You tapped the card against your palm.

…Okay, what?

Your brain did a small, polite error 404 before catching up.

You blinked.

This man—this deadly, extremely well-dressed, unreasonably attractive hitman—was out here committing murder and complaining about bad customer service?

Honestly? Fair. Dry cleaners were a scam.

Still, you kept your expression neutral.

Another hum. Zy took another slow drag of his cigarette, then—carefully—leaned forward just enough that you could smell the faint cologne beneath the smoke. Musky. The kind of scent that stayed with you.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like he could already predict your answer.

…Alright. You weren’t dumb.

One job had you making minimum wage while surrounded by fraud and Greg’s questionable hygiene.

The other? Significantly less legal, but significantly more lucrative.

And—objectively speaking—you were good at cleaning. Great, even. You could erase bloodstains, scrub out evidence, dismantle crime scenes with the efficiency of a damn forensics team.

And if you happened to have a dangerously attractive, mustached employer with deep blue eyes? Well.

That was just a bonus.

You slipped the card into your pocket.

The slowest smirk. Zy stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and—without another word—walked past you, already expecting you to follow.

So.

That’s how you got hired by the most dangerous man in Veygrove.

Neat.

── .✦ ᴍᴇᴇᴛ ɪʟɪᴀꜱ ᝰ.ᐟ

⌗ㆍTHE ENEMY PRINCEノ, ⌗ㆍHISTORICAL AUノ, ⌗ㆍRUTHLESS TYRANTノ

𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐨-𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝

𝒈 𝒆 𝒏 𝒓 𝒆 : fluff, comedy, suggestive, college! au

𝒘 𝒐 𝒓 𝒅 𝒄 𝒐 𝒖 𝒏 𝒕 : 21.7k words

𝒔 𝒖 𝒎 𝒎 𝒂 𝒓 𝒚 : self-proclaimed movie mastermind chwe vernon minds his business—whether that be avoiding the popular, problematic kids in his college to reducing customer interest in his parents' film store. his plan of isolation, however, is completely destroyed when you, a seemingly insane disney fan, slam his perfect movie taste and ask for his help to take down an evil ex.

𝒄 𝒐 𝒏 𝒕 𝒆 𝒏 𝒕 : loosely inspired by watching the detectives, film major! vernon who owns an outdated film store, fem! reader is the baddest (but also the craziest) bitch in this fic, vernon is a loser, film major! mingyu who will be violated many times in this fic sorry king, mentions of many filmbro films which will also be violated, self-indulgent mentions of some of my favourite films, a few super dark jokes nothing serious though, kissing, mentions of sex and the act of cumming (all joking wise) but no actual sex because im fearing god today (super suggestive at best), barbenheimer reference <3

𝒕 𝒂 𝒈 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : @hyuckworld @junyangis @hiraethmae @lllucere @intoanothermind @kokoiinuts @shnnzsworld @lilifiedeans @talkyoongitome @vanishingboots @cookiearmy @person1fys

𝒂 𝒖 𝒕 𝒉 𝒐 𝒓 ' 𝒔 𝒏 𝒐 𝒕 𝒆 : she is finally here !! so so sorry for taking so long </3 i never thought it would be finished atp but thank you addy and alice for pushing me to complete this lil fic !! addy ur film major info birthed the filmbro slander, and alice...no smut LMAO LOSER anyway do enjoy homies <33

𝒑 𝒍 𝒂 𝒚 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : if you're too shy (then let me know) by the 1975 || q&a by seventeen || wonderful women by the smiths || confidence by ocean alley || talk talk by charli xcx || oh my! by seventeen

back to masterlist

“NO, THE HOBBIT IS SET BEFORE THE LORD OF THE RINGS.”

This particular customer, however, refused to grasp the concept. “But the Hobbit was released after,” he repeated, as if he had not heard twenty minutes ago, when he first entered the store. “Wouldn’t it make sense to watch the more recent movies?”

Vernon clamped his lips together, stopping himself from saying something that would lose him a potential buyer. Well, not that it would matter much, considering the man before him could not comprehend what a prequel was, but still—he had to make this idiot understand.

ice cream accident - kim gyuvin

it was late summer, one of the last warm days before the leaves would start to fall. you look to your left, gyuvin, your neighbour since you were 4, is eating ice cream next to you.

his head tilted up, looking at the pink-tinted sky. you mentally take a picture of the scene. he should really become a model.

the two of you have hung out everyday since you were 4, playing every possible game there is. and now that you're already young adults, things have not seemed to change. very often you'd visit him, talking about what is going on in eachother's life.

a cool breeze sways your hair, and you look down to see that your ice cream has dripped on your hair and shirt.

"ah, shit." you curse, trying to wipe it off quickly. it's no use, the stain that is forming is already evident.

your cursing catches gyuvin's attention, as he stands up and walks towards you.

"i have a wet tissue, let me help you." he says, as he takes a seat next to you on the bench. he pulls out one of the wet tissues from the packaging and begins wiping your shirt.

"it's fine, gyuvin." you tell the boy, but he pretends like he doesn't hear you.

"were you so mesmerised by me?" he jokes with a teasing smile. you scoff, but also smile at him. "as if."

"it's in your hair too." he notices, pointing at the strands that have clumped together because of the sugar. gyuvin immediately starts to take out a new wet tissue and starts wiping your hair.

it's only when you make eye contact with him that you realise how close he is. his face merely a few centimeters away from yours. you can smell the icecream he just finished eating.

"am i too close?" he mutters, backing away a little.

"no! no, you're fine." you reply, flustered. it wasn't fine, but you couldn't help it. who wouldn't be happy to have kim gyuvin only a few centimeters away from their face?

"you sure? you're blushing quite hard." once again that smile appears on his face, making you blush even harder.

"it's just hot outside," you lie, breaking eye contact with him.

"if you say so."

@the-reverii

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ★ no fair . . .

au where sunghoon thinks he's cupid (cupid is so fucking dumb 😡😡😡)

ㅤ ꣑୧ : HOW TO GET YOUR GIRLㅤㅤ𝒻t.ㅤㅤ정원

LOVER ─── idol bf sunoo

BETTER THAN YOUR EX !

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✴︎ LET ME LOVE YOU.

PREC𝒾S ⠀⟡​⠀​ seven minutes in heaven with your ex boyfriend.

DED𝑖CATED to ✶ to my puppy riri @isoobie mwah 🎀

a good portion of your life decisions has to be rethinked. half of the said portion needs to be modified, or even, destroyed with your bare hands.

starting with the one that let you here in the first place; agreeing to go to your friend’s party. leading you to end up in the middle of young adults drenched in sweat added to the scent of pure alcohol and other substances, loud music buzzing all the way to your brain, the ground vibrating as bodies jump up and down along the beat. not that you are shaming anyone ─ it is not as if you weren’t on the dance floor as well. vibing to the music after one of your friends dragged you to it with her, you bumped into a few people you could recognize the face or name’s first letter of. some you knew way better but decided to ignore until you were ready to face.

without even realizing, the simple fact of letting yourself loose around your friends made you stay at the party, that you were originally planning on staying for one hour to, much longer. as all your favorite songs were playing on the speakers, you didn’t even notice most of the people leaving. then when you did, the couch was too comfortable to get up just yet and quickly a bunch of people gathered around you until forming a full circle with you in it.

the second decision you should have made was leaving as soon as you saw a guy that you can’t reckon the name or existence of finishing his bottle of beer eagerly before putting it flat on the center of all of you. not because seven minutes in heaven is a silly game, although it is, there is a more important reason you should have avoided being in this circle or this party as a whole.

now, the bottle landed on you, heeseung being the one who spinned it in the first place. you find yourself trapped in a ridiculous closet with your ex boyfriend. which you haven’t seen in the flesh since he left korea during a whole year. and no, not even when he came back three months ago.

“goal!” (1.1k)

“shit, i’m so sorry,” jaeyun cursed under his breath, cheeks tinted a bright crimson as he panted heavily against your shoulder. he quickly pushed himself off, averting his gaze in embarrassment.

i wanna study. (you)

note: not much warnings? i’m bored so made this

© svnclaired. reblogs and feedback appreciated. ♡