Discover Top Posts Tagged with #bts vkook

Ambien Amortentia

Serial Killer Jungkook and Detective Taehyung (Dead Dove: Do Not Eat). Ch. 2/5 (ao3 version)

Detective Kim Taehyung's headlights slice through the morning fog, the tires whispering over damp asphalt. He isn't technically sleep-deprived. He's taken the pills as directed. But his body feels wrong, like he is wading through sap. The medication clings to his skin and mind like sweat, dulling the edges of his thoughts. The coffee in his cup holder went cold hours ago, but he reaches for it anyway, grimacing as the bitter liquid slides down his throat.

Taehyung blinks slowly, deliberately, trying to sharpen the road into something that doesn’t blur at the edges. The sky hangs low and purple—an in-between hour where night hasn’t quite left and morning hasn’t fully arrived. His limbs feel both too light, like they might float off the steering wheel if he stops concentrating, and too heavy, as if he's wading through a dream.

Jungkook had only wanted to help. "Just a little more," he'd said last night, kissing the corner of Taehyung's mouth and placing the pill gently in his palm. "You'll finally sleep through the night."

And he has. Sort of. There are gaps. Soft, yawning silences where his memory should be. Patches of darkness stitched together by the sound of Jungkook's voice humming quietly from the other side of the bed.

Now, with the fog thick and clinging to the windshield like breath on glass, Taehyung can't quite remember when he woke up. Only that he is driving. On his way to work. Or something close to it.

The trees bend inward, their spindly fingers reaching. Taehyung squints—is that movement? His perception swims, reality rippling like a stone dropped into still water. He eases off the gas, uncertain whether what he’s seeing is real or just another trick of the medication.

Then, unmistakable, a smear of unnatural yellow, slick and twitching, peels itself from the tree line. The figure bleeds into view like it has been conjured by the fog, crawling, dragging itself across the asphalt. The victim leaves behind a ghastly trail, arterial red against the dull gray of the road.

The brake slams beneath his foot. The car jolts to a stop, pitching him forward and snapping him back. Pain blooms at the base of his skull, bright and clean. A sharp edge through the drug haze.

Red.

Red, and so much of it.

For one disorienting moment, Taehyung wonders if he is still dreaming. The smear of crimson trailing behind the figure looks like paint, not blood—too bright, too deliberate. But the cold air that hits his face when he stumbles from the car is real. So is the wet sound of the person's breathing. The victim's fingernails are torn and caked with dark soil. They've crawled. God knows how far they've crawled.

"I'm—I'm a detective," Taehyung says, though the words tangle in his throat. His tongue feels too thick. Is he slurring? He fumbles for his badge, his fingers numb, his mind rushing. "I'll... get help."

The dispatcher's voice sounds far away, like she is speaking underwater. Taehyung hears himself giving directions, but can't be sure if he's making sense.

"Sixteen minutes," the dispatcher says. Or maybe it is sixty. The numbers blur together like watercolors. 16 minutes until help arrives. 16 minutes alone with a dying man on an empty forest road.

He kneels, and the blood is immediate. It soaks his pants, sinks into the fabric, spreads through the seams. The warmth of it against the chill of the air feels wrong. Visceral and insistent. This is real. All of it. The realization cuts through the drug-induced haze like a light beam. He presses his hands against the worst of the wounds, trying to remember his first aid training. The blood pulses between his fingers, hot and relentless.

"Stay with me," he urges, his voice steadier now. "Help is coming. What's your name?" The victim's eyes flicker, struggling to focus on Taehyung's face. His breath comes in shallow gasps, each one sounding weaker than the last.

"Kim..." the victim manages, the word barely audible. "Kim Namjoon."

Taehyung nods, trying to keep the man engaged. "Kim Namjoon. I'm Detective Kim Taehyung. You're going to be okay." The lie tastes acrid on his tongue. They both know Namjoon isn't going to be okay. The amount of blood, the nature of the wounds. Whoever did this made sure of it.

Taehyung has seen death before. He's worked homicides where bodies lay splayed in violent tableaus. Gruesome scenes. But only once has he witnessed the precise moment when life slips away. Only once has he been the last face someone might see. It feels intimate in a way he wasn't prepared for, being here with Kim Namjoon as he dies on this lonely stretch of road. He thinks of Jungkook and how he dealt with death in his former profession. How many times has his husband watched the light fade from someone's eyes? Does it ever get easier?

The victim's skin has already taken on the waxy pallor of death, lips blue-tinged and trembling. Their eyes stare beyond him, locked on something he can't see. Taehyung wonders what Namjoon sees in these final moments. Is his life flashing before his eyes? Or is he seeing his attacker's face, haunting him even now?

"Who did this to you?" Taehyung asks, his own voice sounding brittle. "Tell me who did this." He needs information—something, anything that might help him find whoever is responsible. He's still a detective, even through the sedative fog, even with blood soaking into his clothes.

The victim's eyes are glassy, pupils dilated to brown pools. Their mouth works soundlessly for a moment before words bubble up, wet and broken.

"Young..." The jogger's voice rasps, wet and cracking. "His face... I— I see his face."

Taehyung leans closer, catching the sickly smell of blood and fertile earth. A young man. That narrows it down to thousands in the area. But it's something. "What about his face? Can you describe him?"

"Moles," Namjoon chokes. "Under his lip. His mouth—" A shudder runs through him. "He smiled... like he knows me. But I don't know him." Namjoon's hand shoots out, grabbing Taehyung's wrist with surprising strength. "Callous... his eyes. Cold. But so bright."

Taehyung feels something stir in the back of his mind, a whisper brushing the haze. Something important. He leans closer, holding onto the victim to give them comfort, the smell of copper and soil flooding his nose.

"Was there anything else?" Taehyung asks, desperately trying to keep the young man conscious, to extract every piece of information he can. "Anything that might help me find him?"

"He was waiting for me," Namjoon whispers, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "Knew my route. My schedule. He knew." His eyes widen slightly, fear giving him one last surge of energy.

And then... nothing.

The pressure is gone. The hand falls away. Taehyung checks for a pulse he knows won't be there, fingers clumsy against the victim's neck. His hand comes away red. He stares at the still body and the blood-soaked neon shirt. The victim's eyes remain open so he shuts them. It feels like the least he can do, this small act of dignity for Kim Namjoon, who died alone on a forest road.

In the distance, sirens wail.

Later—how much later, he can't say—Taehyung sits at his desk, bathed in the cold lights of the precinct. The sedative has mostly worn off, leaving him with a dull headache and a sense of unreality that lingers like smoke. He's showered and changed his clothes, but he swears he can still feel the tacky sensation of blood on his hands. Can still see Kim Namjoon's face as the light left his eyes.

He's typed the same sentence three times.

Victim found at approximately 7:15...

But was it 7:15? And what is the route number? The details keep slipping away, dissolving like sugar in hot coffee. The medication has left holes in his memory, gaps he can't quite fill. He stares at the computer screen, the cursor blinking accusingly at him. He needs to get this report right. He owes that much to the victim.

Lips… young… face… moles… callous.

He was waiting for me.

The victim's words echo in Taehyung's mind. He scrolls through traffic footage, his eyes sliding past frames of nothing. Black roads. Empty intersections. Too clean. Too quiet. The forest route has no cameras. Of course it doesn't. That's why it happened there. That's why the killer chose it. Someone who knows the area. Someone who planned this violence meticulously.

He was waiting for me.

The killer knew this man's route and his schedule. This wasn't a random killing. It was calculated.

Taehyung presses his palms to his eyes, feeling grit beneath his eyelids. The station ceiling seems to pulse, expanding and contracting with each throb of his headache. Everything pulses. He is missing something. Some connection just beyond his grasp. His thoughts feel rubbed raw. The medication hangover and lack of proper sleep make it nearly impossible to think clearly. He needs to sleep, real sleep—not the drugged unconsciousness that passes for rest these days. But how can he sleep when there's a killer out there?

Young. Lips. Callous. Waiting. Moles.

The words replay in his mind. Is that all the victim said? His mind swims, a dull throb echoing the pulse in his vision. The killer let the victim see him, let him see that he has distinguishable marks on his face. Why? He had to know the victim might survive long enough to tell someone.

The description narrows it down but not enough. And he was waiting for him… How did he know? And what of callous…? Are they looking for someone with rough hands? Or did the victim mean the brutality and senselessness of it all? Cold eyes, he'd said. Like taking a life meant nothing to him.

Calculated and callous.

This won't be the last time. The thought forms slowly, pushing through the fog in his brain.

His phone rings out, the melody fracturing the silence like a hammer through glass, as he fumbles it to his ear.

"Tae, are you still at the station?" Jungkook's voice. Soft and sweet. Like a warm blanket sliding over cold skin. A stark contrast to the clinical coldness of the station and the horror he witnessed today. "It's after midnight. How am I supposed to sleep without you? You weren't even here when I got home." There's concern in his voice.

Is it? Taehyung blinks at the clock on his computer. The numbers swim, then settle. It is definitely after midnight. When had that happened? How many hours has he lost to this investigation, to the fog that keeps claiming chunks of his day?

"Tae, are you ignoring your one true love? Can I call you a workaholic now?" His tone is playful, a pout barely hidden. It draws a smile from Taehyung despite everything. Despite the blood and death that clings to him. Despite the exhaustion that weighs on him like a physical thing.

"I'm..." His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "I'm still here. There was an incident. Someone was... hurt." Killed, his mind supplies. Murdered. Left to crawl from the woods with his insides spilling out.

There’s a pause on the other end. A small inhale, barely perceptible.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asks, his voice soft with concern. “You don’t sound well. Did you sleep enough? You know you’re supposed to sleep at least eight hours and not drive after taking your medication. I don’t want you to get hurt. I don’t want you to accidentally hurt anyone else either.” The concern in his voice deepens.

Taehyung feels a pang of guilt. He knows better than to drive under the influence of his sleeping medication, but he'd been called in early, and he'd felt fine when he left. It was only later that the side effects had really hit him. "I'm fine," he lies. "Just tired. It's been... a day." He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling the vertebrae in his back crack as he stretches. His body feels like it belongs to someone else, stiff and aching in places he didn't know could ache. "I could use your soft touches, Kook. Today has been overwhelming." He doesn't elaborate, doesn't mention the feeling of Kim Namjoon's hand going slack in his, or the sound of his last breath rattling in his chest.

Taehyung looks down at his notes. The ink has smudged, the words bleeding into one another. Young. Callous. Moles. He was waiting. The killer is still out there. But he can't bring himself to tell Jungkook now. His husband worries enough as it is.

"I should come home," he says, suddenly desperate to feel something solid. Real. Jungkook is real. Everything else feels like it's made of fog.

"I think that's best," Jungkook agrees. "You need rest and I miss you. It's hard to sleep without you next to me." His voice is warm, wrapping around Taehyung like a physical presence. "I made your favorite stew. It's keeping warm on the stove. And I've got a new prescription for you— something that might help with the insomnia without the side effects."

Always taking care of him. Always looking out for him. Taehyung feels a rush of love for his husband, so strong it momentarily drowns out the horror of the day.

Taehyung begins gathering his things, movements slow and deliberate. Each action requires intense focus. Pick up the notepad. Put it in the bag. Close the laptop. Stand up. Don't fall. His limbs feel disconnected from his body, like he's trying to operate a puppet with very loose strings.

"I miss you too," he says, the words distant in his own ears. "I'm on my way."

"Drive safe," Jungkook says. "I love you, Kim Taehyung." The same words he says every time they part. Like a blessing. Like a promise.

"I love you too, Jeon Jungkook." It comes out rougher than he intended, his voice thick with emotion and exhaustion.

The drive home stretches before him like an impossible distance, passing in fragments. The black inkiness of the road. So many places to get lost. Streetlights elongate into cold, silvery filaments. Turn signals pulse too bright, then too dim. His eyes burn from fatigue, the tang of convenience store coffee bitter on his tongue. His knuckles white and aching. The thought of the forest makes his skin crawl, evergreen-scented darkness still clinging to his clothes like a phantom touch.

But the thought of Jungkook waiting, warm and safe, pulls at him like gravity.

As he drives, Kim Namjoon's words echo in his mind. The victim's raspy final breath replays in his ears, a sound he can't unhear. He should be more alert amid his exhaustion. A sense of duty weighs on him: to ensure what happened that morning doesn't happen to anyone else.

In his rearview mirror, the empty forest road fades into darkness. Somewhere back there, a killer walks free. Somewhere back there, blood still seeps into soil and bark. But Taehyung can't dwell on that now. He needs sleep. Real sleep. Then he can think clearly, can start piecing together the clues that will stop this from happening again.

Ahead is warmth. Ahead is Jungkook.

Jungkook who stayed up late to make sure he's okay, who waits with hot food and gentle hands. He can almost smell the savory aroma of homemade stew, can almost feel the soft cotton of their bed sheets against his skin. Jungkook, who loves him despite the hours, despite the darkness that follows him home from work. Jungkook, who will hold him through the nightmares that are sure to come tonight, whose heartbeat against his back will lull him to sleep like a metronome.

Taehyung doesn't know that the hands soothing him to sleep tonight are the same hands that sliced open Kim Namjoon with surgical precision. Doesn't know that the moles beneath Jungkook’s lip were the last thing Namjoon saw. Doesn't know that his gentle, doting husband will kill again, methodically, joyfully, while he sleeps wrapped in love.

And Jungkook, waiting at home with blood scrubbed from beneath his fingernails and a new prescription for his detective husband—at a slightly stronger dose, to ensure deeper sleep, longer gaps in memory—sets out a bowl of stew, the steam curling into the quiet air.

The bottle of pills makes a satisfying rattle as he shakes two into his palm, the sound like small bones. The new pills sit beside Taehyung's empty place setting, stark white against the dark wood. A natural calm settles over Jungkook as he straightens the cutlery, each movement precise and deliberate. He glances at the clock and waits for his husband to come home.