#I just want to write something carnal. Something vicious that it loses words into the imagery I cast into this parchment | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-darklings · 3 years

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╱ i only love it when you touch me, not feel me.

pairing: jean & clara verse: npfh word count: 3.1k+ warnings: nsft, bathroom/mirror sex (because that's who they are as people), rough sex (but they're both so into it I'm not sure it even counts), cockwarming. notes: so this was written all the way back in January but it's the first piece of what I considered to be the real beginning of their dynamic (which I've expanded upon in ASE) despite writing them a lot prior to this point. it's also the first time I ever tried to write from jean's pov so enjoy. this is not super explicit and more character exploration because apparently smut is good for those. as always, any feedback is loved and appreciated 🌿 ✨

He’s never cared much for his name.

Or, more accurately, never cared what sentiment it was spoken with. He’s heard his name being called lovingly, with hatred, suspicion, fear, and hatred alike. Moaned desperately and worshipped—latter he’s always preferred the most.

“I'm not going to touch you unless you beg.”

Clara, however, has an infuriatingly persistent ability to make him crave his own name. From her mouth specifically.

Jean could fuck her until she’s barely coherent and it still won’t be enough. This woman fights and fights, and doesn’t give him an inch of ground. All liquid flame and viciousness, and he can’t help but wonder where the hell she’s been hiding all this time.

With Camorra, a sly voice reminds him, Giovanni De Stefano’s deadly little matchstick. So good at death.

She is. She's a master at death and maybe that’s what makes this so fun, so good, and addictive. Why he irritatingly finds his blood burning whenever he sees her. Why he looks forward to every occasion their bodies touch. Whenever those dark eyes fixate on him and pin him in place, a monster deep down stirs, purrs at her presence. His desire is a monster with its own life, its own insatiable appetite for her.

Jean prefers when she pins him with her lithe body—eyes flashing and teeth bared, a powerful but dangerous package of hunger.

He had expected her to be meek. Broken. Especially after Tokyo. She’s proven to be anything but. Even at her worst, she’s still a sharpened blade. A danger, a promise of destruction. Damaged, certainly, but unbroken and unyielding. The more he learns about Tokyo the more his head rings with but one downright greedy thought.

The Viper hasn’t taken another lover since then. No one has touched her or tasted her since her rebirth. No one has fucked her, brought her to the edge, made her moan and shudder. Given her an escape and a release. Satisfied her.

No one knows the scrunch of her nose or the way her lips part softly. A whisper of air slipping free with every slow, lingering kiss against her throat.

Expect him.

His hips stutter at that thought. It always makes him feel good. To know that he alone has claimed some tiny part of her. Jean knows full well it’s only because she allowed him to claim it but that’s its own kind of buzz. He likes how she burns. How she yields only when she wants to. Liquid flame melting into his body like she was made to fit in his arms.

It’s sex at the end of the day. It doesn’t have to or even need to have meaning—he would know—but she makes it mean something. Emotions aside, she challenges him with such acute precision, he can’t help but come and meet her in the middle; an unending battle of wills. For all the dullness and predictability of their world, she’s a tempest, utterly untamed.

“And would you prefer if I begged?” he whispers against the shell of her ear, watching their reflection—the way they fit, the way she leans into him, trust, trust, trust, that he won’t let her fall, and they exist in these tiny victories. “Mmh? Ma vipére.”

He hums with a wolfish grin, his words throaty, pressing another greedy kiss against the back of her neck, then side, his lips dragging over her soft skin. “For you, I might,” he adds slyly, meeting her stare in the bathroom mirror again.

He might be losing, but she's losing quicker.

Clara doesn’t answer right away—a clever, careful thing that she is, his viper—and they watch each other for a moment, his pace slowing.

The bathroom door is closed, secured with one of her blades, they don’t need to rush but Jean wants to. He can savour her later, in their bed, where she’s his and his alone, where he can do everything to her. If only because he knows she’s no better. Because any scrap of pleasure she will return with an intensity that will leave him bloody.

She has in the past. His back is a colourful tale of her ravenous hunger. The Viper likes to mark him. It likely pleases her, to know she has her venom in his system in the form of her sultry whispers, kisses and moans. Blazing eyes and coil of her limbs around his.

Clara’s stare is, as usual, burning—an almost physical thing. Even like this, with him so deep inside her—and fuck if she isn’t hot, and slick, and welcoming in ways he quite remember fitting with others, and there've been plenty—she doesn’t lose her proud edge. She enjoys it, getting under his skin. Pushing him. Melting the ice, she once murmured with her mouth pressed against the taut skin of his lower stomach and sinking ever lower. Testing his self-control with her mouth wrapped around him, and her tongue searing and wet; a viper delighting in her poison spreading so effectively.

It does say something about his self-control because, despite the temptation, he doesn’t simply fuck into her until they’re both lost in pleasure so deep they can’t get out of it.

The skin of her chest is flushed, her swollen lips parted, her expression slacker with pleasure but she still stares him down.

His fingers sink into the cut of her hip, pushing her harder against the cold marble of the bathroom sinks, rolling his own hips, and it makes her shudder in his hold. So Jean presses another hungry kiss to her pulse, lets his teeth scrape against it, sucking on it. Prodding at the weak spot masterfully. He can be mean, too. She likes it when he is. Just as much as he likes it when she lets those sharper edges of hers out.

Her strong legs hold her upright but she clenches around him in reply and fuck, fuck, fuck, what is it about her?

All he wants to do is bend her over this fucking counter and fuck her until she’s screaming his name. Not that it would do him much good. Clara is as likely to let him do it as she is to graze her blade across his throat for trying. He would be lying if he said the thought of that fight doesn’t thrill him, makes him want to try it anyway. He’s only managed to get a drop on her like this a few times. Sink himself into her from behind so deeply she hadn’t been able to shake him off till she was sated and panting with pleasure.

Then, of course, the viper had tightened her grip on him in return, paying him back in kind with her bite and her venom.

The bite he enjoys a little too much. The venom is becoming… a concern.

He’s worked for years to remove any ties, any weaknesses, from his life. No one can ever have anything on him. He’s the one with the web, he’s the one who controls others. Sly implication and whispers and they’re oh, so destructive but she…

Jean snaps himself inside her, pulsing and so hard he has to grit his teeth. Clara’s hand seeks purchase desperately, her fingers snapping behind herself. Breathing deeply, she lets her nails sink into the back of his neck—firm, near painful—and he hisses through his teeth, pulling away from the hollow of her neck.

“You would like it, won’t you?” he gasps into her ear, and her nails sink deeper, so he fucks her harder. His hips are merciless against the soft skin of her thighs. Yet Clara stands unmoving, near silently goading him with her resilience and coyness. She’s so fucking wet. He’ll need a cigarette after this, or three. “On my hands and knees, non? Vicious vipère. Give in first.”

“No.”

He almost laughs at that. At the caustic hiss of her voice. Of course, she won’t. It’s why even though he’s gotten her, it makes him wonder if he truly has. If he ever will.

The more he has her, the more he wants her. And it’s a dangerous thing. To want, to crave, to hoard her the way he does.

“Then I’ll just fuck you harder, chérie.”

He wraps around her tighter, nibbling on the shell of her ear, dragging his other hand between her thighs. He feels the muscle there, the strength, he likes those legs around his waist and head too. Usually when her taste is hot on his tongue and she’s a squirming, hateful mess above him, tearing at his hair as hard as she can while she grinds onto his face.

He sucks on the curve of her neck at the memory, nibbling, wanting nothing more than to mark her with his teeth as she marked him this morning. Crinkled eyes and a content smile when she curled around him after. A predator satisfied with her hunt.

She’s addictive.

Usually, it’s the other way around. Maybe still is. But he can’t let it go much further than this. A carnal need and nothing more than that.

If he knew about this, about her…

Jean doesn’t allow the thought conclusion.

She’s nothing, he repeats to himself with every push and every strangled exhale, just a means to an end.

She never once looks away.

Clara gazes at them, takes in the way he moves in her, her eyes hooded and intent. Daring him. Even after she confessed to him how that man used to watch her. How it made her abhor every touch, despise being watched. She watches him—them, joined, with his fingers hard against her clit, drawing more of those little gasps of pleasure that sound like music to him—and he can’t help but stare too.

He should take advantage of the weakness, prod it and scrub at it until he can bend her to his will, but he loves her fire too much. Covets it like a man starved—and they both are, aren’t they—starved for more. Each other.

He wants her. For more than just a quick fuck. More than just a means by which he can bury his problems. Just more, more, more. And it sickens him, but it also makes him feel strangely relieved as well, that realisation. The acceptance of it. He would never admit it to anyone but himself but he does. It forces him to feel raw, unbalanced. He hasn’t felt like this in years. He hates it but it also makes him feel high, alive.

In revenge, he sucks on the smooth skin again, lets his teeth bite and nibble, releasing her hip and burying his fingers in her pulled-back hair. Chestnut strands loosen in his iron grasp and he only does it because he knows for a fact she doesn’t have any sharp pointy metal hidden up there. He watched her get ready. Her graceful, supple body was an open invitation for him. A sight to admire, and he did. He worshipped her with his attention, letting her know without a word how every curve and every freckle of hers sang to him. Beguiled him further.

He pulls on Clara’s hair, forcing her chin upwards, at an angle, and she still defies him. Still glares and brims with power.

A strangled pant escapes her at the change of angle, in how he slams back into her, her nails slicing into his neck. Jean hopes she draws blood even if he would have to get creative about explanations later.

“Jean.”

It’s a breathy, bewitching thing—snaring him, pulling him deeper into her, and he audibly gasps a breath, feeling even more starved. Now he wishes to claim a litany of those tiny, appreciative exhales of his name. He feels the muscles in his lower stomach grow tauter with every thrust, with every taste of her skin, and the sounds of their shared pleasure.

They penetrate the air, echoing off the walls, and they are as animalistic and as intensive as the pleasure they create.

“What?” he groans appreciatively, their eyes still locked, and heat between them sweltering. She drives him insane. He’s removed emotional attachments from himself years ago—didn’t even realise he’s still capable of them—but nothing about her, them, makes sense. She’s the one thing he can’t predict or control. “What do you want? Tell me.”

Drive me to the edge, he wants to goad her, tugging on her hair again, and he manages to dislodge a moan from the back of her throat, push me, claim what you want.

“You,” she whispers in teeth-clenched defeat but to him, it’s a symphony. This time, he won. He knows she’ll get him back. Twice as badly most likely. But saints above, did he win? She’s so open and warm, the scent of jasmines and earth mixing with his cologne and musk of sex, and he pushes into her deeper till they’re completely pressed into each other. Moulded into one being. “You.”

He feels every tense muscle in her body, and his fingers slip from her hair, curving around her throat instead, and a flutter of a smile appears, coy and knowing.

Fuck.

The things this woman does to him.

He speeds the already merciless pace until she’s a shivering mess inside his embrace, clinging out of sheer stubbornness alone. Deeper, deeper, deeper—a cruel part of him is set on planting himself inside her very marrows, so she will never be able to feel or know another lover. Not even the Italian, a voice deep down snarls. It’s so wholly and truly selfish yet he craves it. If he is to lose this game between them, he will make her lose first. Make this need between them mutual until neither of them knows where one ends and the other begins.

Jean can’t look away from her, certainly not when pushes and pushes, not when he feels her throat bob under his hand as she swallows. Wanting and needing and trusting his touch. He feels her quivering, her muscles tightening, whispering to him that—

Her orgasm washes over her like a tidal wave—slow but so intense that for the first time, he feels Clara’s legs tremble. His hold on her constricts, steadying her, and his viper withers in his embrace, a beautiful undoing. He lets her ride her orgasm out, watching her mouth, her fluttering lashes, the bead of sweat clinging between the dip of her breasts.

It's then—watching her, memorising how she looks like this; relaxed and glowing—that his own orgasm finally overpowers him. For a moment, Jean finds himself robbed of sight because she washes everything away. He spills himself inside her, letting her feel his pleasure this time. He moans for her, splinters for her, lets the world fade away just for a moment.

This is his gift, he wants to tell her then, the fact that when it’s them, it’s just them alone. There’s nothing else outside of her and he’s never allowed another this close, not since…

But he can’t adequately put that into words for her, nor does he want to. She can’t know. He hopes there will never be a day when he has to explain everything to her.

If she knew him—saw all the festering darkness like a rotting carcass out in the open—she would hate him. It would be better if she did. Maybe her hatred would make it easier to let her go.

He can’t think of that right now.

Instead Jean sinks his teeth into the slim arch of her throat, savouring the appreciative gasp she releases, dragging her nails down the side of his neck. He promised her this morning he will return the favour sooner rather than later after all.

He laps at the bite with his tongue—heat, sweat, and remnants of her soap tingling his tongue—and looks up from beneath his lashes. Her eyes appear black with pleasure. He can barely see blue in his own.

Two monsters, a thought comes then, unbidden. It’s as pleasant as it is seductive. Mainly because he knows he’s right. Cut from the same cloth, sewn into being by similar hardships, and capable of such awful things.

He’s still semi-hard inside of her but his grip on her throat loosens—and the thought she trusts him enough to let him touch her like this is thrilling enough—his palm journeying downwards. Clara sighs quietly when his palm settles against her lower stomach, and he pushes gently, savouring the breathless gasp that follows. He has to choke one back himself. She feels like heaven. Or hell. A mix of both. Still, he keeps pressing, letting the pressure sit there, feeling himself twitching inside her. Them, joined together at the seams, and the heat between them overbearing. They could go again but he doesn’t want to move just yet. It feels good to be inside her like this; a promise of more gratification sitting snugly between them.

His nose drags up the length of her neck, and he buries his face in Clara’s hair, inhaling deeply. She’s wearing his favourite perfume tonight. Something warm and deep with jasmines blooming in his lungs. If it were her, she would go on a whole monologue, breaking each chemical ingredient down and every scent used in creating it.

He likes her distracted, mind-boggling dialogues. Then nearly scoffs at the mere thought. Since when? Since when does he give a shit about something like that? It serves no purpose to him and he doesn’t waste time on things that don’t.

Because it’s her, comes the sinking realization, because she says these things, so they matter.

Merde.

He tenses when her hand settles on top of his, pushing once, harder. Another soft sigh leaves her while Jean doesn’t bother biting back his groan of appreciation at the flare of fierce hot pleasure.

Clara’s mesmeric expression arrests something inside of him when he spots it. For a second, his vision blurs and the black dress drips into white, and she wears that same peaceful expression as she sinks into a river and doesn’t resurface. A dream that haunts him near-nightly now.

He blinks and then he’s back in the bathroom, his arms still around her. She’s here, with him, and his grip constricts further. He can make it work. He’ll find a way.

When has he ever compromised?

She means nothing, he tries to convince himself once again now that he’s back from his high.

But as he peers her—tiniest of smiles on her face, her freckles a roadmap for him to re-examine, loose strands of dark hair framing her flushed cheeks—a voice scratches itself from deep inside his chest.

A voice he hasn't heard in years, not since he called somewhere earthier and greener his home.

Liar.

an: head empty, just them. I could go on about them for five calendar months but hope you all enjoyed this little peek inside his head. ASE does contain Jean's pov so you'll def be seeing/learning more about him outside of just smut dfjhgdfg

#original writing #original prose #spilled prose #oc x oc #oc writing #writing #s: almost love #c: jean #c: clara #nsft

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floofsta-x · 6 years

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Blood On My Hands (For You) [E]

genre;; dark / realistic fantasy, 1920s mob / mafia!AU, serial killer!AU

pairing;; Mainly Chae Hyungwon x Lee Minhyuk [Hyunghyuk]. Also, Shin Hoseok x Son Hyunwoo [Showho] and some Lee Jooheon x Im Changkyun [Married!Jookyun].

plot ;;

After Minhyuk’s first mob kill, his initiation as you will, he discovers that he can see the grim reaper: Hyungwon, the one who brings finality to the souls of hell-bound dead. Once the initial encounter is past, Minhyuk can’t get him off his mind. Quickly, his desire grows to see, touch--and maybe kiss--the tall, handsome, dark-haired man. So, he turns to some very questionable methods.

Based on this Reddit prompt.

⚠️ warnings;; violence, blood/gore, criminal activity, murder….angst…um maybe a bit of fluff? Smut, smut to an end (unwillingly fucking a man to kill him)...Good God just….hold on

words;; 14,914 (15k)

author’s notes;; so this fic was written for the 2017 MX Halloween fic exchange on AO3! It was based off a prompt given to me by @dirtyretrowrites, and I had a really really fun time with it. I don’t get a chance to write anything quite this dark very often. That said, this fic you might notice is not as refined as my others. Welcome to Bry writes raw! I thought that by only doing minimal editing and not my usual, extreme regimen, I could capture a little more of the dark, gritty theme. Anyways! Enjoy!

am I so primal? am I so cruel? I'd do anything to be closer to you. is it so carnal? is it a sin? I'll go to hell for my hands on your skin. vicious contention, I drive myself mad, all for a lover that I'll never have. is it so wicked to want you this much? desperate and dangerous, just for your touch? I'll be a slave, I'll be a killer, do anything that I have to do. I'll be a saint, I'll be a sinner, I put this blood on my hands for you. ⟶ Blood on my Hands - HIDDN and LEVV.

Lee Minhyuk ran for his life. Adrenaline coursed through him, and all he could hear was the pounding of his feet and his heartbeat in his ears.

The night was warm and calm, a direct contrast to the feelings tearing apart the tall, platinum blond’s heart at that moment. He and his three buddies had only made it out of the alley, but already he was gasping for air. There, they stopped, giving Minhyuk a chance to run a hand through his hair and sink down against a brick wall. Somehow, his racing mind had three thoughts going simultaneously: fuckfuckfuck, what the hell just happened, and I didn’t sign up for this bullshit. His legs wanted to take him far, far away from anyplace, and yet he felt frozen to the spot. Paralyzed, even.

“Good work, men,” a low voice, familiar though now suddenly unrecognizable, cut through the air. “I had a feeling that the deal was dirty, so I’m glad we came prepared.” All eyes turned to the tall, slender young man in a pinstripe vest. “Minhyuk, you work very nicely. You’ve more than passed your initiation ton–Minhyuk?”

Minhyuk hadn’t realized that his hands were coated thickly with blood until he had felt something wet drip down his head. Now he pressed a hand to the alleyway wall, and it left a print. Standing there, trembling, tracing the impressions of long, slender red fingers with his gaze, he was re-living things he had tried so desperately to forget, though it had only been minutes, well, actually, hell—seconds ago.

That man–I stabbed him–

The world fell away as his senses were flooded with memories: taking out the plain black handkerchief (so he wouldn't leave prints), and the feeling of a dagger thrust into his hand. The victim hadn’t even seen a moment of what was coming. Minhyuk stole up behind him and encountered tensile resistance when he plunged the knife deep into the other man's neck. As he had twisted the blade cruelly, there was a croak of pain, perhaps one last weak cry for forgiveness. A red, red stain had washed from the center of the wound, running in wet streaks down the back of the poor bloke's dark suit. Then Minhyuk had finished the job with a thrust through the heart. After that, all he needed to do was push, and a bloody corpse lay on the ground, eyes open, never to move again.

It was not something he had wanted to do, but when he had been told—he went. After all, if he refused, they could kill him. Such was the mob. Dirty, dastardly, hiding in the deepest shadows.

After a moment of dead, eerie silence, the leader hissed to his comrades. “We don’t have time. Leave him here, and he’ll come around. We’ll see him back at the house, soon.”

Minhyuk wasn’t sure how long he sat there, unmoving. It might have only been seconds; but it seemed like hours, days, an eternity perhaps. Some small part of him realized how alone he was after the three other pairs of feet scurried away. Yet, he couldn’t find the will or way to follow. His brain was still whirling at what seemed like hundreds of miles an hour, trying to come to terms with himself, stuck in a cycle of never ending confusion and revulsion.

When he finally snapped back fully to the present, he found himself terrified and shivering, even through the wool of his suit. It crossed his mind that perhaps the temperature had dropped to below freezing; but almost a rebuke came back. No, that wasn’t possible. There was a telling absence of steamed, frozen breath. He was just going into shock, that was all. Something deep inside him screamed that he had to get up and move before he froze to death here. So, he did. Minhyuk pushed himself to his feet and stumbled in a direction—which happened to be the way he had come, back towards the grisly scene of his first murder. His sluggish feet carried him to the alleyway, though every ounce of him did not like the idea. His eyes widened, and he immediately realized that saliva was flooding his mouth. As if his body was in rebellion, he doubled over and lost the contents of his stomach to the ground.

Goddamn. Fuck. Fuck this. All he could do was sit there for a moment, choking and gasping, until he finally straightened up and headed forward once again, making sure to avoid the pool of vomit. Somehow, he was still convinced that going to see the dead man might perhaps be smart, after all. Peace could wait for him there, and he'd pour out his heart, maybe confess his guilt—to a policeman or two eventually, he didn’t really care. He knew he had fallen too deep. The fate was inevitable, anyway. Minhyuk had a small circle of “friends” and some meager possessions in his name, but really nothing to lose. Jail, and a life sentence for first degree manslaughter, might be a better experience than what it was made out to be.

The night was still deathly silent, like all life and sound had moved away at the circumstances that had taken place not too long ago. Minhyuk had his eyes firmly fixed on the gap that led back into the alleyway as he slowly but surely made his way there.

No police sirens were in earshot, and the crime scene was still relatively fresh, so he was stunned to find someone hovering over the dead body. The blond pulled himself back into the shadows once he saw, and covered a mouth to stifle a gasp and heavy breaths. It certainly wasn't anyone he recognized right away, from his days mingling with mobmen, anyway. The stranger was tall, having a couple inches on Minhyuk, and skinnier too, wearing a long, loose trench coat and fedora hat. One could barely see a peek of fine dark hair underneath. He was illuminated in the light of the full moon shining overhead. For a moment Minhyuk stood, unmoving, as this almost unearthly figure knelt to brush his hand over the corpse’s pale, cold brow.

Then, a distinct baritone voice hit the blond’s ear. He almost immediately knew it was the stranger's, though he couldn’t see lips moving. It was lilting, perhaps a little bit smug, and as mysterious as the man himself.

“I know you’re there.”

Minhyuk had to bite back a gasp when the tall man turned to face him. He was...handsome. True, dark circles curved under his eyes, and something seemed off. (The reason wasn't quite apparent straight away.) But it was immediately of interest that his lips were pristine and plump. They might be cracked a little bit perhaps, but still were so, so enticing. His facial structure, as well, was perfect. Not to mention his figure...he could be a model for some high end clothing catalog.

The mob man had no choice but to speak now, after so obviously having been caught. Nervously, he swallowed and cleared his throat. Despite his best effort, his voice came out weaker than he wanted. "S—so what if I am? What does it mean to you?"

"Murderers...don't usually come back." An intense, scrutinizing gaze went right through Minhyuk and into his deepest fears. Damn, there was also, unexplainably, a sudden desire blooming within him at that very moment, the more his gaze shifted across the stranger's face and form.

The platinum blond couldn't bring himself to speak for a while. Eventually, though, he managed to stutter at least something. "I—don't—u...understand?"

"Why would you want to see the aftermath of your own crime?"

"Wait--you think I killed him? You have to be joking. I'm an innocent passerby."

The stranger guffawed. "Look, don't even try lying to me. There's blood on your hands. On your face. Down the front of your suit. Even in your hair, for Chrissake." He turned away, staring into the dark at the other end of the alley. Minhyuk wasn't completely sure how the next whisper reached his ears and didn't die, even in the stale air.

"Besides, your image is imprinted on his soul."

Nothing the tall man said or did was threatening, but somehow Minhyuk on high alert. The nudge in his brain that this could be dangerous seemed to finally be getting through to him. Instinctively, he stepped forward, acting on fight impulse. It wasn't really out of boldness, but a sudden and intense fear. He thrust his hand deep into a coat pocket, ready to pull the silver revolver that was there. "Wh—who are you, anyway?"

Seemingly undisturbed by Minhyuk's sudden, intense body language, the tall boy held his ground. "Of course. Naturally, you want to know." Strained, he sighed and continued, with much difficulty, "Once...a long time ago, I was called Chae Hyungwon."

Even as it hit his ear for the first time, a burning need overtook Minhyuk to never forget the name. Somehow, it described its bearer so well—whispering of prosperity and delicacy, high class and bearing. He could be a prince. Still, he hadn't asked the most important thing. "And what are you doing here?"

"Well...there is a title, a position, I call my own, but I don't believe humans quite know it the same way we do."

"Humans? Are you saying you're not?"

"I was, once. But now...I am simply a messenger to this corrupt and evil-filled Earth. I clean up messes and that is all."

"Yeah...no. You're not making sense. Are you here to drag the body away?"

Hyungwon chuckled lowly, mirthlessly. "I don't deal with physical evidence. I'm here for this mess." When he snapped his fingers, next to him rose a smoky, grayish-pale mass, which churned and swirled to take the shape of a man, screaming eternally, mouth open in an unnatural, unhinged manner. Its features became sharply defined, even in the low light. Quickly, it became obvious that it was an exact match to the figure laying on the ground.

Minhyuk suddenly wanted to throw up again. "That's—"

"His spirit." Somehow, that lilting baritone still cut through the blond's incredulous muttering. "I am what you mortals call, perhaps...a grim reaper."

"But you are not grotesque in the least." Admittedly, at the words, the image of a hooded, robed figure with a scythe and skeleton face had come to Minhyuk's mind. "Perhaps a little pale and heavy-eyed, but..." Honestly, you're one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

"And that is where the human definition of a grim reaper has gone astray. We are not ghastly. We walk among you." Almost before he had registered it in his mind, Minhyuk found himself face to face with the taller man. "Our appointed purpose is to guide the souls of the unsaved dead to their eternal rest in hell."

The blond's jaw was stuck open, unable to utter even a sound, in a moment all thoughts replaced by those of Chae Hyungwon. He was even more ethereal up close. All his muscles urged him to just reach forward, touch him, every inch of him, indulge a sudden and insatiable desire and curiosity.

But the moment was shattered by a woman's scream. She and her boyfriend turned into the alley, probably to make out, and froze at the sight of the dead, bloody body. In moments, they noticed someone else was still there as well. Then the couple was back out again, pounding feet thrumming on the sidewalk outside.

"I better go," Hyungwon sighed. "I have lingered too long as it is."

Minhyuk's eyes shot open, and he reached forward to grab the almost too-warm forearm of the taller boy. "Wai—wait, will I see you again?"

It was the other's turn to seem almost surprised. For a long moment he pondered what to say, before admitting, "Perhaps. Wherever I am needed, I will be." Then dark, stately Hyungwon was disappearing, fading into the shadows, gone without a trace.

"Minhyuk, come get ready for supper."

The calling voice jerked Minhyuk out of his reverie on the couch, and stirring slightly, the blond sighed. "Alright, give me a moment, Kihyun-ah."

A couple of weeks had passed since the whole alley incident, and as expected, nothing had come from the sudden and terrible death of the mob man, at least from the police. No investigation was made, no charges pressed. Not even a blurb about it was put in the daily newspaper. Minhyuk could feel the effects in his own life, though. Some of the higher-ups, and also those in his level of prestige, were more willing to look him in the eye or acknowledge his presence. He was finally considered a mob brother, after close to seven years of slaving for it, day in and day out. He hadn't chosen the life, but that was all he had now. Ever since he had been pulled in by him. Minhyuk cringed and growled under his breath at the thought of the man who insisted on being called sir, and...was practically the reason for everything that had gone wrong in his life. Even, perhaps, his very genesis.

But that was an issue for later. Minhyuk, having taken a moment like he said, pushed himself up and wandered into the kitchen, where five place settings were laid out his friend's kitchen table. Four pottery plates, and one paper. The very top of a booster seat poked up over the edge of the tablecloth. Yoo Kihyun was setting out everything they'd need for Bulgogi, a slight smile playing across his normally-serious expression. "Make yourself comfy. We'll dig in as soon as Jooheon, Changkyun, and Yujin are here."

Minhyuk did as he was told, pulling out the chair farthest from the booster, not the one with Kihyun's jacket draped over the back, either. In the midst of his friend's trips back and forth to the table, the blond felt himself start to drift off into his own thoughts again. Chae Hyungwon... As much as he had tried to forget the grim reaper entirely, Minhyuk had been unable to. The sight of his strained but handsome face hovering near his own was the ever persistent ghost of a memory. He desperately wanted to touch him, and probe deeper into the mystery of his tall, slender presence. The problem was though, how he was going to be there when Hyungwon appeared? He could go to nursing homes and things, places where fresh death was thick. But all at once it came back that the reaper had said it himself: "Our appointed purpose is to guide the souls of the unsaved dead to their eternal rest in hell." So simply old and dying dead would not work. The sudden violent death of criminals was needed instead. An idea started to tickle at the back of his mind.

At that moment, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. Both boys didn't flinch; they both immediately knew who it was. Two low and laughing voices were the confirmation. Then, right on cue, a small face peeked around the corner. Minhyuk couldn't help but smile brightly, and a warm feeling filled his heart. "Oh!" He exclaimed, cutely. "Is that a Yujinnie I see?"

"You're right! It's me!" A five year old girl giggled and hopped into the doorway. The blond man held his arms out, and she ran right to them. "Uncle Min'ook!"

"Yujinnie!" The girl planted a gentle kiss on Minhyuk's cheek, and he smiled brightly, hugging her close, warmly, tightly.

Moments behind her were a familiar pair of dimpled faces: Jooheon and Changkyun. Their fingers came untwined as they stepped in to greet their friends. "Now, now, Yujin, Don't crush Minhyuk in that strong grip of yours," Changkyun teased.

"I won't, Koon-ah!" She said, and promptly turned to crawl up Minhyuk's chest, making grabby hands. This time it was toward the other, short, black-haired man, standing nearby with a towel over his shoulder. "Uncle Ki'oon!"

"Hello, cutie." Gingerly, Kihyun took the girl from Minhyuk, setting her on his aproned hip and booping her nose. "How are you and your dads?"

"P'etty good."

By then, everyone had their affectionate gazes fixed on Yujin's glowing face. Her cuteness was irresistible, even to people as hardened and tested as all four of the older men were. They all had seen and done their fair share of shit for the mob. Jooheon, for instance, was a sniper, and had taken out some pretty prominent city figures. Changkyun had been a male prostitute before dedicating himself solely to his boyfriend and now husband. Kihyun could cheat at poker like it was nothing, and had a golden ear and tongue for intel. Not to mention seduction skills worth boasting about. And Minhyuk...well, you, reader, already know about Minhyuk. But, seeing this now, nobody could believe that. The four of them were together for one purpose and one purpose only: to celebrate the smiling and giggling bundle of cute joy that was the two youngest boys's adopted daughter.

In minutes, all five of them were seated, and Kihyun was cooking the first round of meat. Of course, the first few pieces went to the little girl, who widened her eyes at the taste. "This is really good! T'ank you, Ki-yoon-ah!"

"Of course, Yujin." Kihyun seemed to be glowing at the little girl's praise. She had them all wrapped around her little finger. When Jooheon and Changkyun had decided to adopt a child a couple of months ago, none of them had been prepared in the slightest for the wild ride that awaited them. First, they went to a few orphanages, looking at potential matches, but it wasn't until the last one that things fell into place. Yujin had taken to them like a duckling to water. They had fallen head over heels and though the process to bring her home was long and complicated, they had persevered. Now she was an irreplaceable part of the family.

In no time, it seemed, The meat, rice, seaweed and water was gone, and everyone—most particularly the older boys—were leaning back in contentment. Kihyun looked ready to fall asleep, as well as Jooheon. However Changkyun still seemed pretty lively, and so did Yujin. "Play with me, Koon-ah." She begged, reaching her arms out for her younger dad.

"Alright, missy." The soft maknae scooped his daughter up into his arms.

"Uncle Min'ook-ah!" Little arms reached for Minhyuk as well. "You too!"

"After I do the dishes and help clean up. Ok?" Giving her a promise and a kiss on the forehead seemed to satisfy her. Nodding, she pushed on Changkyun's shoulder, nudging him to the living room. He only stopped for a moment, to lean over and peck Jooheon on the lips, before they were wandering out.

Minhyuk wasted no time in starting to collect dirty plates and taking them to the sink. It was a potentially long job, but he didn't mind. It was the least he could do to repay his close friend for the food. Also, it gave him a few more seconds of silence. Eventually, Kihyun and Jooheon moved away from the kitchen, allowing the blond some head space. He couldn't get the events of his initiation and the following strange encounter out of his head. He was almost totally lost in them—it was a miracle he didn't drop anything or break dishes.

Some time passed, exactly how much, Minhyuk wasn't sure, before little, running footsteps came into earshot again. Sure enough, Yujin came barreling around the corner. The blond couldn't help but grin as he dried a plate and set it with the others, to be put away later. "What are you doing, squirt?"

"Shh. I'm hiding from Koon-ah!" With that, she gave a giggle and dived forward, hands scrabbling for Minhyuk's calves. The feeling of small, chubby fingers on his ankles made the blond's heart warm and his smile grow. Maybe one day, he'd be able to have a child of his own, a small person who'd he selflessly give his love to—

In my dreams.

"Uncle Min'ook?" The five-year-old's voice startled him out of his thoughts. Minhyuk glanced down to see her curious eyes on him again. "W'acha t'inkin 'bout?"

"Oh, nothing, Yujinnie," he smiled encouragingly, the best he could. "Just grown-up stuff."

She didn't quite seem to be convinced, though; and a brief second later, she asked a question that flipped Minhyuk's world upside-down.

"You've seen him, haven't you?"

She could have been talking about anyone, but for some reason, Minhyuk's heart nearly stopped at the question. "Seen who?" he replied, continuing to force a pleasant expression.

"The tall, nice man...in dark clothes. He has big lips, too." She traced her mouth, as if her own was thick and luscious as well. For talking about someone who dealt with death and damned souls, her voice wasn't any less cheery than before.

Some bile rose to the blond's mouth, and he forced it back down, making his throat burn. He managed to choke a question out, somehow. "Is he really handsome?"

"Yeah-yeah." Yejin nodded vigorously. "You did meet him!"

"Yes." His answer came carefully. "Have you?"

A little 'mhm' sound was her confirmation. Now Minhyuk couldn't wet his lips, and he was too parched to speak. Yujin's voice came out in almost a whisper, and she shuffled her feet. "I was still at the or'panage, and one night I couldn't sleep, so I decided to get up. He was in the hall. I was scared at first, but he was so nice. He smiled at me and gave me a pat on the head."

"Why was he there in the dark?"

Yujin furrowed her eyebrows, mood shifting. "He said that after he was gone, I wouldn't have to cry anymore. And Mrs. Matron died."

Was this really real? Was anything anymore? A plate came close to slipping out of his hand, and he couldn't help but gape. Faintly, in the back of his head, Minhyuk recalled that Mrs. Matron was the mean, cruel former orphanage headmistress, who had treated the children like slaves. Because of the mob, he knew a lot of evil, dastardly people, but he couldn't imagine one who looked down on and wanted to exploit even the smallest orphan child. Some of the things that Yujin said sometimes about her put his stomach in knots and made his blood run ice cold.

In a moment, however, his mind returned to the tall grim reaper. Hyungwon had...shown her affection? He hadn't as much as let the corners of his mouth tip up in Minhyuk's presence, but somehow the idea of him smiling to a little girl wasn't alien at all.

But then, suddenly:

"You like him, don't you, Uncle Min'ook?"

The blond's mind went blank, and he scrambled in his head for an answer. Thankfully, he didn't have to, as just then, Changkyun peeked around the corner and locked eyes with his daughter. "Yujinnie!" He chortled. "There you are! You're a good hider. Or, maybe Minhyuk hyung is just a good hiding place, huh?"

There was a bright giggle, and the girl ran to the younger man's arms. "He is a good hiding spot." After another moment, she piped up again. "I was telling him about the tall man!" Something went through Changkyun's eyes, maybe alarm. "You know him, too, don't you, Uncle Min'ook?" She was so eager; Minhyuk almost felt bad for choosing to ignore the question and not say anything. Dropping his eyes to the dishes, he instead turned to put a few away.

The younger boy hummed disapprovingly. "Maybe we should get you home and to bed. The last time you talked about the tall man, you were so sleepy you couldn't keep your eyes open."

"But it's true!" A gigantic pout appeared, and a few tears as well. "He said his name was 'ywon—'yugwon—or something."

"Hyungwon," Minhyuk murmured under his breath, and Yujin snapped her head around.

"See, Koon-ah!"

"Let's talk about this with Jooheon later, ok?" Though Changkyun's voice was calm and even, relaxed and unstrained, Minhyuk could feel his intense gaze. It drilled into the older's head like a factory machine. It was all too clear that he didn't believe Yujin's story, and was trying to chastise his hyung for entertaining it. Who in their right mind would do the opposite? It was ridiculous—to someone who had never met a grim reaper before.

When Minhyuk returned to his small apartment that night, jumbled thoughts swirled in his head. He got all ready for bed and climbed under the covers, but ended up laying awake. He thought that he had been in a confused state when he left, but that was nothing compared to now. There were all these questions prodding him, answers he needed to obtain. What of Chae Hyungwon? Where was he now? As much as Minhyuk knew it was wrong, and he was being irrational, he hoped that the tall boy was thinking of him at least a little. What was this new feeling, like butterflies blooming at the thought of the tall grim reaper's presence? Puppy love? Lust?

For all the mess in his head, his heart beat to one thing and one thing alone: No matter what it takes, I will find him again.

The blond tossed and turned for a long time before finally, around 2am, he finally paid attention to the tingling in his restless legs and got up, flipping on the lamp at his bedside. Without really knowing why, but with a purpose lingering in a dark corner of his mind, he approached his closet. There was a safe stashed away in the back corner, and he pulled it open. The object he needed was right at hand, wrapped in a particular, black, bloody handkerchief—the knife. He had pulled it from that first victim, perhaps as a token of sorts. But now, the more Minhyuk stared at the dried blood on the blade and traced its sleek, deadly shape with his gaze, he grew to see it not as a weapon and instrument of death. It was a chance. A chance to make all his dreams come true. Something inside him was screaming that this was what he needed to finally find peace, to set the wrongs in his life right. To rid the world of some little evil.

The next day, Minhyuk walked into the hideout with the dagger strapped to his leg, its sharp point grazing his thigh. Jabs of pain, and a small trail of blood that soaked into his sock reminded him what he was supposed to do. He was determined: in order to see the love of his life again, and settle a personal vendetta, he'd become a living nightmare to those who'd wronged him and his family. Starting, of course, with the man formerly known as his father's best friend. Ah, what a lying title. Bang Jeongmin was in all reality, a traitor, one of many. Minhyuk knew who all of them were by now—there was Jeongmin-hyung and seven others, plus him.

See, Minhyuk's parents had been part of the mafia, too. Not just his father, but his mother as well. Mr. Lee, senior was a bootlegger, making dangerous and highly illegal runs between alcohol-soaked territories and ones under prohibition; he was well-known to all the speakeasy owners in the area. Mrs. Lee, on the other hand, sometimes masqueraded as a prostitute and could use her way with men to get whatever intel she needed from the police. Quite a few attempts at justice were foiled thanks to her talents. They weren't bad people, just desperate ones who found themselves tangled up in shady activities. Each simply had a will to survive and their own, fallible human heart. This was clear in what happened with Mrs. Lee once her future husband started to woo her. She knew right away that he was the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and resigned from her life of deceit. Faithfully, she waited for him every morning, afternoon, and night. Though she still helped where she could, she didn't do many of the things she had before, no matter the offer or opportunity. All she wanted was happiness with her husband.

Mr. Lee never failed to come home to her, either. By all outward appearances, their life was peaceful and content. They were very much in love, and got married fairly soon after their romance began. It seemed that nothing could keep them apart.

Oh, people tried. First there was the fact that after getting married, some men seemingly took it upon themselves to hurt Mr. Lee. He started to appear more frequently with fresh, bleeding cuts and bruised eyes. It eventually became so bad that his face was constantly marred, almost unrecognizable. Despite Mr. Lee's tolerance and patience through this abuse, it didn't stop, like he hoped. He was still working so hard to make sure the mob's every need was met, and yet they still often beat him. He began to suspect some bigger player was involved in all this. In particular, there was one big man who looked at the bootlegger with an especially malicious eye. His name was Mr. Cha Jaemin, and he was a new player, a star in the underground. It seemed that every single woman in sight pined after him and his empire. Yet, he was infamous and wanted because he was ruthless, and his venomous smile was enough to instill fear in the heart of everyone. It wasn't like Mr. Lee could just pin everything on the rising kingpin, though. A motive, if any, was unclear, and he couldn't directly prove it was him ordering the beatdowns.

Mrs. Lee, meanwhile, was suffering greatly as well. Her husband was now a far cry from the man she loved and had married. At least his personality and heart hadn't changed. To her, he was also still so handsome. Still, she worried, though for a long time she was too scared to ask about details, keeping her questions far away from everyone, even the mob contacts she still had. The frequency with which she pulled him to the bathroom and applied ointment and bandages was getting to her, though, and it finally broke her spirit completely. There was a night when, crying and sobbing into his shoulder, she implored him to tell her why he was always so beaten up. If there was anything she could do to make it stop, she wouldn't waste a second.

That was just the thing, though. He was afraid that if he spilled everything, there would be terrible consequences. "The higher ups have decided they like to pick on me, for some reason," he said softly, caressing her cheek. "Don't worry about me. It'll stop once they realize that they owe me nearly everything they have." Then he leaned down for a passionate kiss. He could barely keep from hissing in pain when his lip tore open again, but all he wanted was to soothe her with gentle touches, and satisfy her need for more when it burned hot in her breast and core.

One night, she waited and waited up for him. 1am passed, but he still wasn't there. It was the first time in years he hadn't returned before midnight, and though Mrs. Lee tried her hardest not to worry, she couldn't sleep. Laying in bed, tossing and turning, she prayed to a higher power that he wasn't dead or dying, just truly held up at work. Even, arrested and in jail. Anything was better than not being able to see her husband again.

The door creaked open. She was facing away, and for a moment she held her breath and let a smile play on her lips, expecting to hear the telltale signs of Mr. Lee getting ready for bed before a warm body slid in next to her.

But instead, rough hands grabbed her shoulder, pulling her over onto her back. The faces of several men glowered over her, and a cool cloth was pressed to her mouth and nose. She tried to struggle and fight, but suddenly she was being pulled down, down into blackness...

This was what she had told thirteen-year-old Minhyuk in her last days. Despite his young age, he could remember everything about how she looked lying in a hospital bed, an unknown affliction tearing the rest of her life from her. Minhyukie had been crying and unable to say a word, listening in horror as she had proceeded to relate how she had woken up the next morning to a red-faced, incredulous, and livid Mr. Lee stroking her forehead. A broken man, he could barely keep from crying. Pain washed through her every nerve, especially between her legs. Of course, it didn't take her long to realize that she had been drugged and gang-raped.

It wasn't until the traumatized boy was older that he learned exactly what that implied, and, more importantly, why it had happened. See, Mr. Cha had been in love with Mrs. Lee, and only wanting her for himself, became irrationally angry when she had fallen for her husband. Selfish and full of desire, he indeed had been the one giving orders to treat Mr. Lee dirty. When that didn't work, next he organized a group of his closest men around him, with the sole intent to force their way into the Lee household and violate the young wife. If that horror story wasn't enough, Mrs. Lee became pregnant and birthed a baby boy nine months after the incident: Minhyuk.

Now, twenty-three years later, the mogul was the one and only object of Minhyuk's blinding hate, but also his boss and one of the richest and most powerful men in the city. The blond felt so ashamed that he had looked up to him as a mentor, before this dark twist had come to light. Minhyuk could potentially be—and probably was—Mr. Cha's son, and that made the young man sick. Hell, he had nearly lost his lunch and dinner all over the ornate office rug when at the age of sixteen, he had pulled Minhyuk into his office and used a claim on Minhyuk's true paternity to rein the boy in. Afterwards, there were plenty of situations where it was brought it up again. It was an effort to keep Minhyuk loyal and compliant, and so far, it had worked.

After the deathbed confession, Minhyuk had slowly come to realize that his parents were completely aware of this, but had treated him like their child anyway. That touched the young man's tender heart (or whatever was left of it, anyway) and made tears flow on so many occasions. To Minhyuk, Mr. Lee would always be his true father, not that ugly man who was loving, but in all the wrong, twisted ways.

Somehow, Minhyuk managed to convince himself that this was the true reason he was going to start his crusade to "murder in the name of good". It wasn't just because he longed for another encounter with Hyungwon. Though yes—he wanted to see the man again. Some considered him to be death itself, but it brought the blond strange new life.

It was all too easy to lure Jeongmin into a trap. All it took was the tantalizing promise of premium Cuban cigars. Minhyuk hated them, but he knew that others, including his target, would do anything for them. "Lemme see the goods first," The older mob man demanded when they met in the sandy, grimy alley, the same one the first murder had gone down in. Minhyuk grinned and casually held out the open box filled with the tidy rolls of tobacco, a treasure he had worked hard for.

Jeongmin reached for them, but the younger pulled away at the last moment, tsking. "Where's my payment?"

As the traitor grumbled and reached into his pocket for his wallet, that was when the blond made his move. In nearly the exact same place he made his very first stab wound, the bloody knife plunged deep into Jeongmin's skin. Surprised at such a powerful and sudden move from the normally-meek and timid Minhyuk, his eyes went wide, and he croaked the beginning of his murderer's name. The familiar blood ran across the blond's hands, and he gripped the handle firmly and pulled it forward, through quivering flesh. In brief seconds, the grizzled mobster was lying on the ground, pale, cold and unmoving. Minhyuk stood, trembling, trying to get over the waves of shock and adrenaline, like the time before. Unconsciously, he ran his hand through his hair, getting the part bloody and wet.

When he glanced up, Hyungwon was standing there in the moonlight, staring at him. "You again," He said in that lazy drawl, and knelt down to wave his hand over the dead man's face. Minhyuk couldn't help but notice the gray mist that swirled up as he did so.

He chuckled. "Of course it's me. Who else would you expect?"

"I take thousands of murdered souls every day, sir—"

"Minhyuk's the name. Lee Minhyuk." A strange, wide smile grew on the blond's face. "And if that's true, than you remember me. I'm flattered."

Hyungwon's eyes widened, mouth falling open. "Okay, right. Minhyuk. It's not a wonder I didn't forget. You can see me. Not everyone has that honor."

In the moment, a few questions rushed through Minhyuk's head: Why were he and Yujin able to see Hyungwon, after all? Perhaps death was simply as lonely a fate as it was said to be, and they had happened upon the reaper at the brief point in time when he was making his call. Still, as soon as the musings were there, they were gone again, replaced by a single, voiced thought. "You know, I'm going to keep killing until you see me how I see you."

Hyungwon's eyebrow perked, and he glanced up. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Until you realize how beautiful you look bent over a dead body." Honey-laced words slipped out before Minhyuk could stop them.

It was easy to miss the small smirk that formed on the reaper's face, but it certainly did not go unnoticed by the human. "Did you just confess to me?"

"Perhaps I did."

"Hm. I'll have to mark this down as one of the more interesting experiences I've had in my years on the job."

"It better be the last time someone says anything like that to you, too." Minhyuk growled. Suddenly overtaken by boldness, he stepped forward, over the corpse, to tug on Hyungwon's white collar. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the grim reaper bent over all too easily. Their lips met in a one-sided, rough kiss. When they pulled away, the shorter man's eyes were heavy with want. Almost, need. It pained him to see Hyungwon walk back into the shadows and vanish. Though Minhyuk's lust in the moment gave him more of a rush than killing, he also wanted to keep teasing, have the beautiful boy keep him at arm's length for a long time to come.

As Lee Minhyuk watched the blood wash down the drain that night, he stroked himself and violently came to fantasies of the ever-so-tantalizing, otherworldly heat of death's harbinger. Talk about a guilty pleasure.

So, Lee Minhyuk became a serial killer. As the number of times he killed rose, the line between the bliss of seeing his enemies' deaths and encountering death itself blurred together. He always got a kick and a rush out of how they always agreed to meet him alone, thinking that there was absolutely no way that Lee Minhyuk, the pansy, could hurt them. Then when the first metallic kiss of the knife reduced them to a babbling mess, their eyes opened wide. Right after that thrill, another always came. For a while, seeing the grim reaper was enough, though he remained distant, quiet, and passive. Thus it was that Minhyuk's life became one of thirst, for blood and the gaze of Chae Hyungwon.

At some point, people within the crime ring realized that there was someone picking them off, systematically getting rid of certain individuals. After the sixth man fell, Mr. Cha decided that enough was enough and they needed to catch this psycho son of a bitch, now. He might have also been aware that his own life was hanging in the balance, but under the guise of caring for his men, he decided to put one of his lackeys on the case. The appointed scapegoat would start probing around to see if anyone was helping this killer, and what he was being paid for taking out those on his hit list. Well, that lackey happened to be Shin "Wonho" Hoseok.

Just like many others, Hoseok was a good guy who had gotten tangled up in bad situations. Some of the victims had been, too, before their untimely demises. So understandably, he was scared. He came into this new position—a promotion, of sorts—knowing that it might put him on the list for elimination. He was grateful, however, and prepared. So, Wonho listened attentively to what his boss had to say. Mr. Cha passed a few documents over, mostly crime scene reports taken from the police files. All of these violent and systematic killings had been assumed to be syndicate-related, and so the paid officers on the force had kept hush-hush so far, out of the public news, not bothering to follow up on investigations.

The handsome, yet strong young man set straight to work, poring through the files. Then he started to stick his hands in the muck, calling his contacts one by one. Because of his sexy body and cute smile, he could get pretty much whatever he wanted, from anyone he set his sights on. Still, it didn't seem to matter, as all he found was fear like his own. So many people were scared that they'd be next, that somehow this twisted, knife-wielding figure would find them in the night and end their lives prematurely. Wonho couldn't find anyone willing to admit they were paying an assassin, and he doubted that anyone he talked to was lying about not knowing anything of that nature, so he quickly became stuck. And with time not on his side (another two men had been slain while he talked to everyone he could think of) something had to be done. He had no choice but to go to his last resort. It would be a long shot, he knew, and very risky, but if he was persistent, things might just pay off.

So, on a Tuesday afternoon, he strolled into a stone building downtown and made his way to the third floor, where a cozy lobby was tucked away. The petite brunette secretary frowned when she looked in her book and saw he hadn't called in advance.

"I'm very sorry, sir, but Mr. Son rarely sees clients without an appointment."

"That's okay," Hoseok said, cheerily. "Can't hurt to ask, huh?"

"He's busy right now," she seemed to be growing ever more flustered and annoyed at Hoseok's sunny smile. "You don't have much of a chance, sir--"

"I'm willing to wait." Promptly, Wonho went to one of the hard chairs in the lobby, set his folders on his lap, and started to glance out the window, knowing that looking at nothing would set her at unease.

Though the girl behind the desk still huffed at him for a while, his hard work paid off, eventually. It only took a half-hour, too. Muttering something like fine, she sighed and picked up the telephone at her side, holding down the receiver hook and waiting for a moment. Presently, there was a click, and a male voice floated through, faintly: "Yes, Miss Hani?"

"Mr. Son...I know that you usually don't take walk-ins, but there's a young man out here who won't leave. He's staring out the window, driving me crazy, and I swear his pout is something even the most hardened of men can't resist—"

"Alright, well if he's so insistent, send him in, then." (Wonho cheered inwardly, but he fought the smile that wanted to grow on his face.)

"Of course, sir." As the secretary set down the phone, her eyes drifted back up to Hoseok, who had stood to await directions. "Down the hall, on the left. It's pretty hard to miss his name on the window. Knock before you go in."

The mafia man gave her a deep bow and polite thanks, and made his way closer to the office he needed. He passed two doors before stopping in front of where Son Hyunwoo, Private Detective was carefully hand-painted on a frosted pane in gold letters. Despite his outwardly cool and collected countenance, the files couldn't seem to stop shifting in his hand, and he was sweating underneath his collar. If he was caught associating with anyone but his brothers, he would be killed for sure, and not by the serial murderer. The only thing Hoseok felt could help him now, though, was a fresh, experienced pair of eyes, and he had come to some of the best ones in the world. South Korea's resident sleuth, Son Hyunwoo wasn't just a household name in his own country; the man was famous internationally. He had an uncanny ability to crack the toughest cases, even some that were decades cold. No wonder he had been so hard to find and see, people off the street must often demand his services.

Hoseok raised his fist, knocked firmly three times, and was greeted by a flat "come in". He didn't need a second prompting, turning the burnished brass knob and slipping into the room. Usually, he wasn't one to be shy, but all of a sudden Wonho was aware of a pair of eyes on him, and the weight this meeting carried. He could barely look at the investigator's desk, let alone the man himself, as he turned toward it and bowed. "Son Hyunwoo? I'm Wonho. I'm sorry to bother you, if you're busy right now. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

A warm and rich (though slightly robotic) voice hit the mobster's ear and melted there. "It's fine, and you're welcome. Please, no need to be so formal. Take a seat, would you?" Immediately, Hoseok scrambled to do as he was told, settling down in a hard wooden chair again before gathering the courage to glance up. When he finally was able, he couldn't stop a gasp from slipping his lips, and his eyes widened. The detective was--handsome. He had dark hair and broad, muscular shoulders that reminded Wonho of his own. They were filling out an almost-too-small white button up shirt and suspenders. His lips were parted a little, head popped up from a pile of paperwork. Thick glasses framed his eyes, and his pen tapped gently on the desk. This was him? The world-famous sleuth and warrior for justice? It had to be, Hoseok thought. He had the same voice as on the phone, and the name was on the door and also a desk placard, so there was no room for doubt.

"Something wrong? What is it?" The detective asked after a long moment of silence.

Shaking his head side to side to clear the jumble of thoughts, Hoseok chuckled. "Sorry. I just--wasn't expecting someone so young."

And hot.

"Well, what did you think you'd see?"

"Ah--I really can't say. Someone graying I think, the picture of a grizzled veteran. Or, maybe tall and skinny, like Sherlock Holmes. How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-four," Hyunwoo replied. "Yeah...many people are thrown the first time they meet me."

"I mean, it's not that you don't look like a P.I, and a damn good one at that too. It's just that your reputation precedes you...makes you seem older, more experienced, ya know?"

"I know." Something akin to sadness flitted across the detective's face, but then he squared himself and gave a curt nod. "But I promise that I'm every bit as good as what they say in the papers."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." Probably good in bed, too, Hoseok thought fleetingly, but shoved it down. Now the two men wore matching smirks. "Well, um, that said...let's get to the point, huh?"

Hyunwoo leaned back and gestured for Hoseok to continue. The mob man swallowed. "Before I ask...I need to make it clear that if you choose to help me, you might be making enemies with the law. You'll be saving lives, but depending on where you stand, whether those lives are worth saving is...questionable." Turning and rummaging around in the pocket of his coat, he produced three one hundred dollar bills and laid them on the desk. "Here's some money for your trouble, don't worry, it's mine. Take it as a little promise, and payment of a walk-in fee...though I doubt you have one in the first place."

Something glinted deep behind Hyunwoo's pupils. Though anyone would have expected it to be about the cash, Hoseok realized with a jolt that wasn't the case. The detective seemed to be more interested in the hand that paid it, and his eyes narrowed, searching Hoseok's face. "Okay...I'm intrigued. Go on."

"I don't mean to dance around anything with you, and that said, I think you should first know that I work for Mr. Cha Jaemin."

"As in, rules the city and the black market...Kingpin of crime, most wanted on every list, Cha Jaemin?" Hyunwoo seemed incredulous.

"The one and only." Anyone even close to the police and crime in this city knew the big boss's name. Just speaking it had a way of instilling fear into people. "But this is not for him. This is for the boys...my brothers, if you know what I mean. See, there's been someone picking us off, and we're not quite sure who. He's murdered eight of us in the last three weeks." Hoseok leaned back and flipped open the file on top of his pile, turning it toward the investigator.

Hyunwoo took it, and scanned the document briefly. "Police reports...where'd you get these?"

"Mr. Cha has his ways." Hoseok, himself, wasn't sure how. Perhaps a dirty cop or inside man snuck them out for him. "Some of the men being killed are close to the Boss, and have at one point or another been his close friends. But the reason I'm here, talking to you, is..." Pulling out another file, Hoseok opened it and placed it on top of the other. "This is Moon Jongup...or was Moon Jongup, a buddy of mine before the Mafia killer ended his life. He was a good guy...just a runner, pulled into crime against his will. He had a wife and unborn child, who now are without a husband and father. There are a lot of us who are scared, Mr. Son, because we're in the same boat. We have families and dreams just like any other person, and we're afraid we're going to be next."

The detective paused, staring at the photograph of Jongup's bloody body. It was a long minute before he spoke again. "What about you, Wonho?" His voice rumbled quietly. Hoseok swallowed when Hyunwoo's gaze met his again. "Why are you here, asking me for help?"

"I'm the one being paid to work the case, but not in this way. Mr. Cha is convinced that this is a paid hitman and sent me to talk to people, but I've probed my entire web and still nothing. I've run out of viable options. Besides, I have people I want to protect, too."

"So, then I take it that Wonho isn't your real name."

It meant protector. Hoseok had started calling himself that, and it stuck with everyone. He could have, should have, denied it. It wouldn't have been a stretch to smile wistfully and pass it off as coincidence. For some reason, however, he already trusted Hyunwoo. "Yeah, no, it's not." The mobster sighed and dropped his gaze. "My given is Hoseok--Shin Hoseok."

"That one fits you, too." The mobster dared to glance up, and had to stop and get his heart beating again. Hyunwoo was smiling, showing white teeth and crescent moon eyes with wrinkles on the outsides. Damn that cute expression. Maybe Hoseok shouldn't have trusted the detective with his knowledge, because all of a sudden blush was rising to his cheeks.

The moment was fleeting, and sorely missed as Hyunwoo's expression set, determination flashing behind his eyes. "Alright. I shall help you, no matter the consequences to my practice or reputation. If there is one man like you we can save...It will be worth everything." The detective offered his hand, and Hoseok met it with a firm grip. Happiness danced on the younger man's face. Tears were gathering in the corners, tears of relief, that was. Maybe together, they'd be able to take down this killer. They traded files, and Hyunwoo took the others and started combing. "So...what makes you so certain that this is one man doing all these by himself?"

"I don't know. There's not really any concrete proof, other than the patterns are similar and the victims' connections. Most of us--who kill, or have killed at one point or another, do it in much the same way. So yes, it could be a couple or few separate individuals. I just have a feeling about it being one person, someone no one would suspect, and that's why he's been so successful thus far."

"Fair enough. You know, looking at all these pictures side by side..." Hyunwoo pulled a couple and laid them out in front of him. "The placement of the knife wound, dominant hand, and position of the bodies all point to a single murderer as well. A...serial killer, at the stage this is at."

"God...just as I'd feared. We have a lunatic on our hands."

"It seems so."

He wouldn't admit it to himself, but for Minhyuk, it boiled down to the fact that he was getting pretty desperate. Every kill, and every day that passed, only brought him closer to his goals, but at times it didn't seem to be enough. He tried everything he could think of, no matter how inane or complicated, but still the object of his affection was transient and out of reach. Hyungwon didn't return his love, though he did seem to be opening up. It gave the blond hope, but he needed more time, precious hours, days that he might not have. The list of the original nine left alive was always shortening. Plus, he could feel himself growing in favor with Mr. Cha. The Boss often asked for Minhyuk to come into his office, only to tell him something inconsequential and send him away again, or "have him around" (the younger man heard from others what this would lead to, and strangely, he wasn't fazed). The killer inside of him starting to unintentionally look for other motives. One he found was a dogfighting ring using family pets stolen out of yards. Those who showed up to watch often bet which canine would die first. All those poor slain dogs made Minhyuk's soft side hurt and anger flare, and soon the illegal matches had to stop because spectators and organizers were too afraid.

Then things got out of hand—the body count expanded to fifteen. It was getting harder, as well, to lure victims out in the open. People started to notice that the mafia killer had a pattern. Men who usually were unafraid of anything now ducked for cover, and paled at the mention of the string of murders. Confusion reigned, above all, regarding the identity of the killer, and people scrambled to make accusations, all false ones. Minhyuk found himself almost drunk on this feeling of power, no matter how anonymous it was. He now enjoyed the feeling of blood on his hands, thick and warm, almost hot. Also, the sight of red mixed with clear water, swirling down the shower drain, became a constant he depended on.

Hyungwon, of course, wasn't aware of all of this, or the human's vendetta. He had his job, and that was it. Time to linger was not afforded him. Still, the grim reaper was all too conscious of the obsession. After that second meeting, and Minhyuk's kiss, the taller boy tried to keep himself detached and cold, hoping it would go away. That quickly became a flimsy wish. Time and again he was sent to collect another slain soul, and as soon as he arrived on the scene, knew who had done it. The blond's pattern was all too clear, and he would always be waiting. It was getting harder to ignore the urgency in the human's fleeting touches. He often grabbed Hyungwon's hand and begged him to stay, if only for one more minute. The puppy-like eyes and little pout was hard to resist, so perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise when it happened for the first time, and Hyungwon found himself acquiescing. A heart still existed in his chest, after all, even if it wasn't beating. Rolling his eyes, he pulled Minhyuk into a hug, though it wasn't warm--literally. (The reaper was practically undead, so he didn't have body heat.) Minhyuk didn't seem to mind though, nuzzling into the taller's neck and squeezing him affectionately in return. That seemed to placate him until their next meeting, when again the shorter asked to be held, and again Hyungwon gave in.

The tall grim reaper hadn't always been this way. Once upon a time, he had been a twisted double agent. Though he started out working just for his own country, with time, greed became his vice. No one could resist the handsome soldier's charms and good looks. Soon he was playing every side he could for money and power. Minhyuk was a murderer, but Hyungwon had been so much more. One of the curses of him "living" to walk the earth and collect souls was that he could remember and name off every one of his kills, conquests, and underhanded activities, even two hundred years after he had committed them. On that last day, he walked into his bed-chamber at night, shut the door behind him, and was met with the point of a knife digging into the nape of his neck. He didn't need to know which one of his enemies was there lying in wait, because it really didn't matter. He challenged the person in the darkness to just get it over with already, and they had. (It was a woman, whose husband Hyungwon had fucked and killed a few weeks before.)

He expected to go to hell, but didn't imagine it to be full of ashen-pale, tangible people, beings that could almost be alive. At his curious gaze, they steered him away from the lines of other straggling souls and brought him to a lavishly-furnished room. These were the quarters of the shining deity, Lucifer. That day he had learned that he could see death, so he was to become death, himself. Some people earned it, like in his case, with all the wrong they'd done in their brief Earthly stay, and others just never lost the ability to look upon the face of a reaper after growing out of childhood. Hyungwon would still have a body, and a memory, but his emotions and free will would be stripped completely. Or, so Satan told him. Now, though, as the reaper carried out orders, cursed to do the same wretched thing for the rest of eternity, something was different. He wasn't supposed to be feeling anything, and yet he was. Was he truly changing, or...maybe, was Minhyuk changing him?

Because despite the reaper's determination not to get too close, somewhere along the way, the man who murdered to see death was causing a stir in his chest. Sometimes Hyungwon could swear that blood coursed languidly through his veins once more when he emerged on crime scenes that were so clearly the blond's. It had been a long time since the reaper had been needed like this, but that wasn't quite convinced that this was the sole reason why Lee Minhyuk succeeded in breaking him down. The shorter boy was not the kind of person Hyungwon would have liked to see in life, but death had changed him, and he came to appreciate the kinder things in the world. Certainly, one of them was how cute Minhyuk's smile was, another the change in his countenance when he saw the grim reaper, and yet another his uneven blink. Then there was the aesthetic side. Hyungwon came to look forward to stepping out of the mist, into the night, and seeing how the moonlight fell on the soft features of Minhyuk's face. Even the blood that often dripped from his hands was sexy, and how the other always got his hair red and wet from running his fingers through it. Before long, Hyungwon realized that he was majorly screwed. Because despite how he knew it was so wrong to love the human, he couldn't help the fact that he had taken over his entire existence. It was only a matter of time until he would crack.

One fine, breezy night, Hyungwon emerged upon a familiar scene. A body was laying on the ground, knife embedded in that well-placed spot on the neck, as like so many times before. There was one crucial thing missing, though: the murderer. Hyungwon about panicked and was going to look around, but then a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. A body pressed into his back, and lips, hot and full, moved against his shoulder. "Hello, sexy boy," Minhyuk murmured into the wool of the reaper's long trench coat.

So many times, Hyungwon had considered returning the murderer's affection, allowing himself to fall in love. But he could never bring himself to. There was too big of a rift between them, and it made things even more painful when they were close like this. Sighing, the taller tried to hold out. "You know there's no way we could possibly be together—"

"Fuck that." The hug became a vice grip, and the grim reaper jumped. He had never heard Minhyuk angry before. "We're together now. What if we could, even it's just for seconds at a time? Do you want me like I want you?"

Damn, the guy could be so needy sometimes. Hyungwon rolled his eyes and turned around in the shorter's arms. Then, half-closing his eyes, he leaned down and caught those red lips with his own. At first, Minhyuk didn't respond, but presently, perhaps out of instinct, he reciprocated the kiss, moving slowly against the reaper's mouth.

"...oh," Minhyuk gasped when they broke. The taller boy smiled slyly, reveling in the fact that he had caught the other so off-guard he didn't know what to say. Hyungwon knew that the murderer had probably dreamed of that moment.

"Now." The reaper wriggled his way out of the embrace. "I have a job to do, so if you'll excuse me..."

A soft whine slipped involuntarily out of Minhyuk's mouth, and he scrabbled forward to wrap Hyungwon in a hug again. "No, Wonnie, one more minute...one more kiss? Pleeease?"

Nights where Minhyuk was clingy like this were the grim reaper's bane and joy, all at the same time, it seemed. He clicked his tongue and shook his head at the blond. "Alright. Just let me go for a minute. There's a soul that kinda needs to be taken care of, or else you'll have a ghost on your ass for the rest of your life."

Hyungwon felt the grip on him hesitantly loosen, and he went to where the newest victim lay face-up on the dirt. As usual he waved a hand over the dead guy's face, and the grim reaper felt the spirit join his own, disappearing into him. Then he returned to Minhyuk's embrace.

"Does this mean...that you'd say yes to being mine?" The puppy eyes were on, and like always they could make the most hardened heart soft. "I know you told me there was no way we could be together, but if I asked you to reconsider, would you?"

The serial killer's tone was pleading, almost desperate, and it took Hyungwon aback. He had to pause and consider it. If this was anyone else, he'd probably laugh and insist on no. "I--I still am having trouble hoping. But I do want you."

Minhyuk reached up to kiss him. "All I need is these small moments. Even if I'm a fool to depend on them."

"But what about when we can't see each other anymore?"

"When I know that, will be the moment I can't go on living. I'll give myself a taste of my own medicine, turn my knife on myself..."

"No, no, don't say any more, you'll be lost to me forever," Hyungwon silenced his boyfriend with a thumb to the lips. "Yeah...just--enjoy the time you have. I'll think of something, ok?"

And so Hyungwon and Minhyuk started to work out the problems that came with being from two completely realms--the dead and the living--and how romance worked then. It was a lot of standing together, the human half-snuggled under Hyungwon's trenchcoat, breathing in his scent. The reaper's noodle arms held everything together, and kisses were frequent. Minhyuk didn't mind the lack of heat in his boyfriend's embrace, because the passion was there in place. If he wasn't in love before, he was now.

The grim reaper was at a loss. He pondered every possible way they could be together, but there was nothing. A couple times he prayed for something to be shown to him. Not like anyone would hear, even Lucifer. He was just at his wit's end.

Minhyuk didn't expect the day to come as soon as it did. He knew the times he saw Mr. Cha staring at him were getting more frequent, and the time spent close to him hit stretches of three hours straight or more. Still, one night, when the Boss sent for him at nine-thirty pm, a strange time and not at all like usual, something felt different. Perhaps, more final.

The kingpin always demanded that his men arrive within twenty minutes of the summons. Consequences were harsh if one did not comply, so Minhyuk made extra sure he wasn't wasting even a second. The man standing watch brought him upstairs, to a familiar wooden door. The blond had to draw in a long, slow breath of air before pushing it open. To say he was nervous was a huge understatement. If this was the night he was going to murder Mr. Cha, he better make sure it happened, because he only had one chance. If the boss was any less than shocked and surprised, Minhyuk probably wouldn't live to see the next day.

Almost immediately, an imposing figure came into view, behind a fortress of a wooden desk. The room was dark, except for the moonlight through two picture windows, on either side of the large oak construction. A single lamp also shined. All caution and concern rose to the forefront of Minhyuk's mind, and suddenly his feet wanted to run. Despite his intentions, far away from here was the best place to be now. Still, with a mental effort, he made himself stay still, and then bend at the waist toward his employer.

It might be strange for some to imagine someone like Cha Jaemin to be reading a book about legitimate business, and yet he was. Setting it down and taking off his bifocals, the boss crooked a finger in the blond's direction. "Ah, Minhyuk. Come here." The young man obeyed, dipping his head respectfully as he approached the big hunk of oak. Mr. Cha's gaze, tinged with something that sent a sweep of distaste and anxiety through the younger man, swept him appraisingly. Obviously, there was more than mild curiosity in it. Something glimmered behind the kingpin's eyes. The only little comfort he had was a letter opener on the desk, gleaming and calling his name as it sat by a stack of mail.

"You remind me so much of your mother," he said at last, pushing himself up from the chair to walk around toward Minhyuk's side. The killer was all too aware that he was being caged in against the oak desk. He turned so that he could face his boss head-on.

"You have her cheekbones, complexion...lips..."

By this point, the two of them were pretty much pressed together; Minhyuk leaned back as far as he could, but it was still no use. The older man reached over to swipe one rough thumb across Minhyuk's jaw, before the latter found himself pulled into an unwanted kiss. Of course, this wasn't completely unexpected, but that didn't make it any less repulsive. At least, hopefully, his momentary tense state made things a little more believable. The young man struggled within himself for a moment before allowing himself to melt into the kiss, eyelids drooping closed. If he pretended that the rough nibbling on his bottom lip was Hyungwon, and not his boss, it made things slightly better.

A slap on the ass elicited a gasp from the younger, and he popped his eyes open to see lust in Mr. Cha's dark irises. "You taste like her, too...absolutely perfect."

Their lips reconnected, and a pair of greedy hands pressed their bodies together. The creepy crawlies in Minhyuk's belly only intensified as he felt something stiff poke his thigh. It was in that moment that reality caught up, and it took all he had to not throw up in the jackass's face. This is actually happening...we're about to--

Mr. Cha pushed him back onto the desk. After a solid thirty seconds of fumbling with the younger's belt and pants button, he was able to slip one hand underneath the fabric. The other worked up Minhyuk's dress shirt, undoing the buttons and exposing milky pale chest. The blond did not want his cock stroked, but allowed it. In addition to letting his mind blank, he did everything in his power to keep from moaning and groaning, biting the inside of his lip. Still, how his body showed pleasure was a more automatic thing, so nevertheless he was hardening under his not-father's hand. Minhyuk scrabbled for a grip and stability and tried to claw at the other's chest too. Instead of acting as a signal to back off, as intended, though, it only seemed to make the older man more greedy and impatient. Of course, this was Cha Jaemin, who always got what he wanted and never took no as an answer. Though the mob boss didn't realize it, the younger's desperate gestures, that practically screamed get off me and you sick fuck, were a last chance to save himself.

But, again, much to both Minhyuk's horror and pleasure, he went completely ignored. Mr. Cha was all in. Now, there was only the need for the perfect moment.

"Fuck, do you know how beautiful you are? I guess I should have known, though, you are my legacy, after all." This affirmation, punctuated by ugly, heavy breathing, was followed by a smirk that managed to be lewd and sly and evil all at the same time. "On the desk for me, pretty boy."

The blond obeyed, though every fiber of him screamed not to. They were moving like a freight train, and honestly, if Mr. Cha's life wasn't hanging in the balance, the younger would be jumping out the window right that moment. Rough hands gripped Minhyuk's waist, pulling him ever closer to the edge. The blond didn't need to look down to know that his boss's hard cock was prominent through his slacks. Minhyuk's was straining his own fabrics, too. When his pants and underwear came down and off his legs, the cold air that hit it brought some semblance of much-needed relief. Then the crime boss was unzipping his own fly, and again the younger man couldn't look. He didn't even want to think about it.

Minhyuk was finally able to get the letter opener in a position ideal for the task at hand. Luckily, Mr. Cha was so engrossed in his sick pleasure that he didn't notice. "God, look at your ass...why didn't I make it mine before?" A rough finger, coated in oil, filled him up, and at that point it was impossible to imagine it was Hyungwon anymore.

The digits were a countdown: One, and then a few seconds later, two. The blond's killer instinct shoved down his instinctive pleasure reactions, and left him staring intently, anticipation and adrenaline building.

Three.

The sharp silver blade glinted in the moonlight of the office, and like twenty-one times before, it hit its mark. The force was more brutal, too, since Minhyuk was, physically, very close to the victim. For the first time that evening, a grin grew across his face as Mr. Cha immediately went flaccid, and pulled his fingers out of the younger man.

Normally, at this point Minhyuk would break the 'numb' that came with being stabbed by jigging the knife around in the wound, but he had some things that the boss needed to hear. "That's for my mom," he growled. "Like the other eight were for her, too."

"Y--you," Mr. Cha was finally able to croak, and giving a grunt, the younger boy ripped the letter opener back out of him. "You--'re the,"

He didn't finish, because this time Minhyuk found a second point: slightly left of middle, in the older man's chest. Cha Jaemin choked and spit up blood.

"Yeah, yeah, it's been me this whole time...didn't think I'd do anything, huh? That I would never be a threat? You could just gloat that you created me with that dick of yours, use me like an animal, and then move on with your life? Like you have with so many others? No, I've taken things into my own hands. I'm sick of living under your thumb." Now was the chance to cause him pain. The younger boy clamped a hand around the crime boss's throat, preventing him from making much more than a croak while Minhyuk twisted that motherfucking letter opener with everything he had. He stopped only when he knew the guy was at his pain threshold. "You'll never be my father. My surname's Lee. Go to hell and suck on that cock of a fact."

In addition from not being able to breathe because of Minhyuk's strangely strong hand crushing his windpipe, Mr. Cha was already bleeding from the neck, and struggling with a pierced lung. His terrified expression cemented in time when he choked on blood one last time and the last breath left his body.

That was it, the younger man realized in the moment. The deed was done.

Once again, Minhyuk found his hands covered in blood. He didn't mind, though. Shoving Mr. Cha's body off of him, he let it hit the floor with a thud, and the younger boy shakily got up. Turning, he grabbed a pen from the desktop, and a piece of paper, letting his thoughts and reasons flow out onto the page. He wasn't quite sure why he did, it just was something he needed in the moment. The note was finished quickly, since he had been planning what it would say for as long as he could remember.

Then, afterwards, he summoned up everything he had and headed for a couch by the window on the other side of the room. The momentary burst of strength waned quickly, however, and finally exhaustion crashed in. The mental strain of everything was too much, and he collapsed on the soft cushions, running a hand through his hair, head lolling back. His naked chest heaved up and down, rising and falling in broken time with his panting. The lingering adrenaline, and how he was still painfully hard and exposed to the world, made his face flush red. There was also the feeling of being prepped but un-penetrated, the wet of the oil nearly driving him crazy. Thought after thought after thought sped across his conscience, coming and going before finally he blanked out completely.

One more time, he opened his eyes and glanced over to where Mr. Cha Jaemin laid on the floor, cold and dead. Then he let his weighted lids fall. Everything was over, thank God. The last thing he wanted in life was done and squared away. He had revenge for his mother and father, revenge for himself.

The blond sat there for what seemed like an eternity (much the same as the first time he had killed). Then, there was a sound: the office door opening. Light, familiar footsteps only barely disturbed the calm atmosphere that had settled over everything. Minhyuk thought he heard a second of hesitancy, and a quick, stunned breath. It could have been the ghost of a reaction, though, because in moments clothes rustled as Hyungwon knelt over the mob boss's body. Minhyuk, in his mind's eye, could see that slender hand waving over the dead face, gray mist disappearing into his palm, and suddenly, he was turned on again. Moaning a little, he bucked unconsciously into the air. Never had he wanted a touch more, for someone's fingers around his cock. It made him want to jerk himself off, but something held him back.

More soft footfalls echoed through the silence, coming closer. Fabric chafed again, and something heavy and woolen was laid over the couch; a coat. Slightly warm lips brushed the blond's. Then, so gently that the human might have called it a dream, his undead boyfriend's hand wrapped around his member and started to pump. Minhyuk felt a jolt of pleasure course through him, and dragged his eyes open to the heavenly sight of Hyungwon straddling him, pupils blown and lips trembling with desire.

"Fuck," the grim reaper muttered. "You weren't kidding when you said you'd do anything."

Minhyuk was barely able to smile and shake his head. He had told his boyfriend about the vendetta during the nights they stood close, huddled together over a murder victim. "No..." He felt like he could burn up at any moment, and Hyungwon's grazing touches weren't enough. "Shit, Wonnie, don't tease...I need you..."

The grip on his dick tightened, and lips drifted down the blond's neck, sucking at a bruise Mr. Cha had made. Still, death's voice was snappish and concerned, though it didn't lose its lazy tendency. "You knew this would happen, hmm?" Minhyuk nodded. "Why didn't you mention it? I could have done something. You belong to me."

An unwanted, disbelieving chuckle slipped out of the murderer's mouth. "Can't fool me, Wonnie. You might be here for souls, but you're not the killer of the two of us. That's why I've gotta do it."

"Not quite true." Hyungwon dusted kisses along Minhyuk's jaw, and the latter could feel the smirk on his face. "It's painful in the extreme for the other person, but I can steal a soul prematurely. Once the soul is gone, the body cannot function."

"That's the cruelest thing I've-ah--ever heard."

"Yeah, it's pretty messed-up."

"I would ask if you'd do it to me, but--"

"Shh, shh." Hyungwon went to silence him with his own lips. "Let's not talk about that now. Just relax. God, I really wish I could fuck you into the couch so hard your soul wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow."

"Me, too, but...your hand is almost as good, baby." Minhyuk gave a shudder and gasp when the reaper swiped his thumb over his slit, and immediately afterwards dived into a more passionate kiss. "I wanna touch you, too," he whined, gently dragging his hand over the front of Hyungwon's pants.

"Then touch me."

The blond's fingers were shaky, but he managed to undo the button and slide underneath the layers. It might have been his imagination, but was the vein on the underside of his boyfriend's length throbbing a little?

Hyungwon slowed his strokes on Minhyuk as the pleasure started to register. Having someone touch him like this was better than he remembered--or maybe it was just because this was Lee Minhyuk, the serial killer who could see death, and consequently fell in love with death--and death had fallen in love with him, too.

Something occurred to the tall boy in that moment, something he hadn't thought about until now. "Minhyukkie? What if I told you that--that we could be together forever?"

It was hard to breathe, let alone speak, when they were constantly wasting air in heaving pants. Minhyuk was drawing closer to his end, and Hyungwon felt--stiff--

"You're hard," The former murmured in awe, and the grim reaper's eyes widened.

"What?

"You're literally, erect." Minhyuk said, breath ragged. His cock twitched under his boyfriend's hand. Simultaneously, Hyungwon's did, too, and that was when the taller realized that it was true. He even had precome starting to bead on the tip. I'm dead, I shouldn't be able to-- permeated his mind for a split second, before Minhyuk grabbed his chin, gazed into his glazed eyes, and pleaded, earnestly:

"Wonnie, please, please fuck me."

Who would Hyungwon be if he didn't heed that request? Soon his own clothes were draped over his coat, and he was positioned between Minhyuk's spread legs. The blond was spine-down, laying on the couch, waiting with breathing uneven and so much lust in his eyes. Hyungwon pressed the head of his cock into the already-lubed and prepped ring of muscle, and pushed himself firmly in, coaxing a moan from the human. "Sh--shit. Your ass is to die for, all over again."

The reaper started slow, picking up pace as Minhyuk asked for more. Their moans filled the silence, broken curses and phrases of adoration, until unexplainably, Hyungwon's train of thought from earlier returned. "W--what if I told you that we could be together forever?" Too wound up to reply properly, the blond just listened, knowing he'd probably go on, and he did. "I didn't realize until now, but you can see me...the only ones who are able are children, and...those destined to become re--reapers themselves."

"So you're saying--when I die--"

"You'll be the same as me, and we won't be separated by the burning chasm." Hyungwon dove in for another kiss, and his hand slipped to Minhyuk's cock, slipping up and down it at a critical pace. The human tightened his grip around his boyfriend's neck and moaned loudly as he finally came, spilling across his own belly.

Minhyuk's orgasm sent the reaper over the edge, too, and his cum filled his boyfriend's ass. For a moment, death felt that he was in heaven.

"Together forever," came a shaky voice underneath him. "What are we waiting for?"

☛ E P I L O G U E

"So...this is it, huh?"

"I-I think so." Hoseok stuttered in reply, picking up a piece of paper from the desk, white sanitary gloves gently touching the corners. "This note seems to be the end-all...he even admits to having murdered twenty-one people for revenge, and love. I have no clue what that means though, or what the context is?"

"Yeah, Damn...we'll probably never know for sure." Hyunwoo whistled and glanced at the scene in front of him. After so much sleuthing together, time in the lab, and finding a bloody handprint on the wall of the alley where the first two murders had taken place, the two of them had finally felt comfortable enough to come to the Boss and present their findings. However, it wasn't to be, because instead, they had opened the door on a fresh, brutal scene. Two men had met their end, one was Mr. Cha and by familiar knife wound, and the other, their prime suspect, Lee Minhyuk, apparently of natural causes. They were both naked from the waist down, the former facedown on the floor. The detective had seen some pretty strange things in his lifetime, but this was at another level.

"Oh my God." Wonho sucked in a breath, and Hyunwoo snapped his head around just in time to watch his eyes widen. "Fucking-listen to this:

'Mr. Cha Jaemin will never hurt anyone again. I am glad. Such scum does not deserve to walk the Earth, let alone hold power over people. He claims me as his son, and I might very well be, as he violated my mother and I was born nine months afterwards. I found myself at his mercy again tonight, and though my current state might be conflicting, I would never allow the same thing that made me, in me...'

"um,

'good thing I have my sweet love Death to help me through. He should be here any minute, and everything will be alright.'

"This is crazy. I mean it's always been obvious that the Boss was off the deep end. But Minhyuk, I did not expect this at all..." the younger man swallowed, pink tinting his cheeks. "I guess I should have told you this before, but I knew him...just a little. Mutual acquaintances-you know."

"That's okay. You didn't need to say anything. It wasn't important to the case. Actually, I'm proud of you for not letting yourself drag emotion in. We had conclusive physical evidence that he was the murderer, and now it's all confirmed."

"Yeah...I guess. He was actually a pretty nice guy, family had been in the Mafia for years, so when he tried to disassociate himself he got sucked right back in again. His smile could light up a room. Cared for his friends, too...Yujin called him Uncle Min'ook."

"Jooheon and Changkyun's daughter?"

"Right." Glancing over at Minhyuk's body (now partway covered by a white sheet), Hoseok sighed and frowned. "Well, I'm not going to question it. What's over is over. I really don't think there's much more to solve, here...our lives go on as normal."

There was something final and sad in his words, an undertone that Hyunwoo understood. In that moment, he knew he needed to do something. The older, taller boy's eyebrows knitted together, and in seconds he had crossed the room, enveloping Wonho in a backhug. "Hoseok...I thought that my actions were clear, but maybe not. Just because the case is over...I don't want this--" he gestured between the two of them, "to end. I'm not letting you walk away, like nothing. I've really come to depend on you, and...I think...I might be, falling in love with you." Hyunwoo bit his tongue, knowing he'd taken a risk, and this could go either way.

Wonho tipped his head back to rest on the detective's strong shoulder, and their fingers laced together. "Yeah, me neither," he confessed quietly. "I wanna keep seeing you...being with you."

"Then be my boyfriend," Hyunwoo begged. "There's nothing I'd love more."

A wide, white smile spread across the mobster's face. "Of course. Gladly." Wonho turned around and pulled the detective down to him for a shy kiss. When they broke, the younger melted at the little crinkly eyesmile he was met with.

But then Hyunwoo's face fell. He sucked in a big breath and murmured, "Oh."

"Hm? What's wrong?"

"Your boss is dead. So, doesn't that technically make you unemployed?"

"Well-yeah." Hoseok lifted an eyebrow in confusion. "But that's not a big deal, I can just find another job now."

"You don't have to, if you come work with me. You can be my personal assistant, like John Watson to Sherlock Holmes--and we can fuck on lab tables whenever you want--"

"Shut up, you're so cheesy, hyung." Their lips met again, and the younger chuckled, blushing a little. It had happened a few times while they were working in there alone, late at night, and Hoseok would easily admit that it was some of the most spectacular sex he'd ever had. "As long as you wear that sinful white coat. Without a shirt on underneath? God, I'm getting hard just thinking about that."

"I think that can be arranged.”

#Monsta X fanfiction #Monsta X scenario #Monsta X imagines #Monsta X #stanmonstax #Monsta X Minhyuk #Monsta X Lee Minhyuk #Hyungwon #Chae Hyungwon #Monsta X Hyungwon #Monsta X Chae Hyungwon #Monsta X Halloween fic exchange #fjkdfklds I HAD FUN WRITING THIS????#It's very dark and gritty and...intense....I hope ahhh

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