#high tension

[fanofspooky]

Horror movies by year:

2003

[zoe-darleen]

Locked Evidence

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

you were supposed to file reports, not fall apart in her hands.

locked in an evidence room after hours, the line between professional restraint and months of unspoken desire finally snaps. sharp looks turn into sharper touches. emily presses, you break. it’s messy, controlled, real. and when it’s over, neither of you can pretend it didn’t mean something.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimer and possible tw: mature content

You didn’t plan on ending up here.

You were supposed to be wrapping up a late consult at the local precinct — something routine, something dry. But now you were standing in the small, locked evidence room on the third floor, fluorescent lights overhead, a file clutched in your hand that definitely didn't need this much attention. And Emily Prentiss was across from you, far too close for comfort.

Or maybe... just close enough.

The tension in the room had been building all week. Quiet looks over case files. Accidental brushes of fingers. A low laugh shared too long after a joke ended. It wasn't new. But tonight it had teeth. A pulse. A direction.

And now there was nowhere to go.

Emily leaned back against the counter, one hand braced beside a cardboard box labeled Property of Forensics. Her blouse sleeves were rolled to the elbows. Her hair was slightly undone from the long day. There was a faint smear of ink on her thumb. She didn't seem to notice you staring.

But she did.

She always noticed.

"So," she said, voice low, too calm. "What are we doing here, really?"

You blinked. "Looking at evidence."

She gave a dry smile. "That what we're calling it?"

You didn't answer.

She pushed off the counter slowly. Stepped toward you. Each movement felt like it took hours. Your breath caught in your throat — not fear. Anticipation. Electricity.

Her eyes flicked down to your hand. "You've been holding that same file for ten minutes."

"Maybe I'm being thorough."

"Maybe you're avoiding something."

You laughed, too sharp. "Like what?"

Emily tilted her head. "You tell me."

The air between you was humid with tension. So thick you could profile it. That heady, suffocating kind that clung to your skin. The kind that didn't need touching to feel intimate.

"I think," she said quietly, "we're both too smart to pretend this isn't happening."

You swallowed. "This?"

"The staring. The silence. The way you always stand just a little too close when we brief."

Your throat was dry. "You never say anything."

Emily's mouth curved slightly. "Would you prefer I had?"

You didn't know. You weren't sure.

"I think about it," she said.

That made you look up. Directly. No place to hide.

Emily's voice stayed low, private. "Sometimes in the field. Sometimes at night. I think about what it would feel like if you finally stopped holding back."

You stepped back instinctively — and hit the locked door.

Her gaze didn't waver.

"Is that what this is?" you asked. "Some game?"

She was in front of you now, barely inches away. Her hand rose — not to touch — just to hover, deliberately, beside your shoulder. A warning. A test.

"This isn't a game," she said. "But I'm tired of pretending."

Your pulse thudded in your neck. You didn't move.

"You say stop," Emily murmured, "and I'll walk out right now. But if you don't..."

You didn't.

She kissed you.

God, she kissed you like she'd been waiting for months — slow and hot and devastatingly careful, her hand bracing the door beside your head. Her body didn't press into you, not yet. She kept space, even as her mouth made promises her hands hadn't yet touched.

You groaned into her. Soft. Stunned.

She pulled back half an inch. Her eyes searched yours.

"Still want me to stop?"

You didn't speak. You grabbed her by the collar instead and pulled her back in.

That was all it took.

Emily's hands found your waist, urgent now, fingers sliding under your blazer and gripping the fabric beneath. She kissed like she fought — strategic, sharp, effective. Her mouth moved over yours like she'd mapped it, knew where to go and how long to stay. She made you feel devoured without ever being rough.

Your back hit the door again.

She bit your lip.

You gasped.

"God, you're responsive," she breathed. "You've wanted this."

You didn't deny it.

"I've seen it in the way you look at me. The way you never step back." Her hand skimmed your hip. "You've been aching for this."

She wasn't wrong.

Emily's thigh nudged between your legs and you shuddered. Your hands gripped her shoulders. You kissed her back now, harder, messier with your restraint finally cracking like thin ice.

She chuckled low in your throat. "There you are."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

So you did.

You kissed her like the last word didn't matter — like winning had always meant surrendering. Your hands slid up under her shirt, fingers brushing skin. She was warm, firm, real.

"Fuck," you whispered.

Emily spun you suddenly, crowding you into the wall beside the evidence shelves. Her mouth moved to your neck, her voice all gravel and heat. "You think this is bad now?"

She bit the underside of your jaw.

You nearly collapsed.

Her hand found your belt.

Then paused.

Emily leaned in again, her lips just at your ear.

"Say it," she whispered. "Say you want me."

You gasped, half-breathless. "I want you."

She grinned.

"Good."

She didn't wait after that.

Emily's mouth was on yours again, hotter now, fuller, hungry. Her hands didn't shake, but they trembled with intent. You could feel it in the way her fingers unfastened your belt, in the low hum of her breath when you gasped against her lips.

She was in control.

But not careless.

Every touch was a question.

Every kiss was an answer.

"You want this," she said again, but not like she needed confirmation—like she just wanted you to hear it out loud.

You nodded, dazed. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."

Your pants hit the floor. Hers followed. Shirts tangled between you. Somewhere in the room, your ID badge clattered onto the tile. You barely noticed.

Emily pushed you gently back into the wall, one hand sliding behind your thigh to hitch it around her hip. The motion sent heat ripping through your body like a fuse. Her other hand stayed between you, palming your center through your underwear, slow and deliberate.

You moaned.

She smiled.

"God, you're soaked already."

"Emily—"

She slid your underwear down with a precision that bordered on reverent. Her fingers traced your skin as she did, as if memorizing every new inch. When her hand returned to your thigh, she lifted you just enough to grind her hips into yours.

It wasn't fast.

It wasn't slow.

It was maddening.

"You think the others ever noticed?" she asked into your neck. "How badly I watched you?"

You shuddered. "I noticed."

"Did you like it?"

You didn't answer.

Emily's fingers slipped between your legs.

You gasped.

"Answer me."

"Yes," you choked. "God, yes."

She kissed your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower, pressing her mouth over the place where your pulse beat furiously against your skin.

"I thought about you," she said, each word sinking like a stone. "During stakeouts. On long flights. I imagined this."

Her fingers circled your clit—soft, slow, unbearable. Your hands clenched in her hair.

"Did you ever think about me?"

Your breath broke. "All the time."

She didn't speak after that.

She let her hand do the talking.

Two fingers slid inside you, curling just right, drawing sounds from your throat you didn't know you could make. Her mouth moved against your neck, your jaw, your cheek—kissing you through every stutter of breath, every buck of your hips.

You gripped her tight. She moved tighter.

There was nothing polite about it anymore.

You were moaning into her mouth, your back arched off the wall, your body begging for more without needing to speak.

And Emily… Emily was relentless.

She whispered things you couldn't process.

Called you beautiful.

Said your name like it was prayer and profanity in one breath.

You came with a broken sob into her shoulder, thighs trembling, face buried in her neck. She held you through it, didn't stop, didn't pull away—not until your body stilled and your heart thudded in the silence.

Then she kissed you.

Soft.

Gentle.

Long.

And you kissed her back like you were never going to stop.

—

Minutes later, you sat tangled on the cold tile, still half-dressed, the lock on the door mocking you quietly from across the room.

Emily leaned back against the wall, brushing sweat-stuck hair from her temple. She was flushed. Glowing.

You looked at her.

She looked back.

Neither of you spoke.

Until:

"Well," she said, lips curving lazily. "That was... professional."

You laughed. Broken. Breathless. "Yeah. Real textbook."

Emily reached over, fingers grazing your wrist. "We should probably... you know. Go."

You nodded. But you didn't move.

She didn't either.

A beat passed.

Then her voice, quiet again: "That wasn't just a one-time thing for me."

You blinked.

"I don't know what it is yet," she said. "But it's something."

You nodded slowly. "Yeah. It is."

She leaned in, pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"You're gonna ruin me," she murmured.

You smiled.

"Right back at you."

a/n: probably should try sleeping instead of writing, i‘m kind of embarrassed

[animusrox]

31 Days of Horror Marathon 2024 ↪ Day 22: High Tension (2003) dir. Alexandre Aja

[REVIEW]

[leia-writes-fanfics]

Velocity

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x Reader

Rating: Teen (Adrenaline, Proximity, High Tension)

Summary: A flight on Sgaeyl forces you closer to your Wingleader than ever before.

​The wind roared in your ears, deafening and brutal, but you couldn’t hear it over the pounding of your own heart.

​"Hold on!" Xaden’s command tore through the gale, his voice vibrating through his back and into your chest.

​You were seated behind him on Sgaeyl, your thighs bracketed by the saddle, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The Navy Blue Daggertail banked hard to the left, dodging a jagged spire of rock so closely you could have touched it.

​Your stomach dropped as Sgaeyl tucked her wings and entered a freefall. The G-force pressed you flush against Xaden. You buried your face between his shoulder blades, inhaling the scent of leather and rain, clinging to him as the only anchor in a world spinning out of control.

​"Open your eyes, y/n," he shouted over the wind, his hand covering yours where they were locked on his stomach. "Look at it!"

​You forced your eyes open just as Sgaeyl snapped her wings open, catching an updraft that shot you both toward the clouds. The sudden ascent forced you to grind your hips against him to stay seated. Xaden’s body went rigid against yours.

​A shadow curled around your wrist, tight and possessive, locking you to him even more securely than the saddle straps.

​He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the wild, adrenaline-fueled grin on his face—a look that promised danger and ecstasy in equal measure.

​"Don't let go," he growled, the vibration running straight through you.

​"Never," you breathless reply was lost to the wind, but you knew he heard it.

Velocity Part 2 is [Here]

[jeyssbrain]

His Rules Part 01

Kim Hongjoon x Reader Warnings: None , mention of mami / papi

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

As figure skating captain, Y/N demands absolute precision and control. As an ice hockey captain, Hongjoong treats every rule as a personal challenge. Instead of keeping her distance, she plays his game. From sharp verbal sparring to intense midnight collisions on the ice, their tension is undeniable. But when lines blur and boundaries shatter after a night that changes everything, they realize that resisting each other is futile—leaving them to break every institutional barrier and finally rewrite the rules together under their own terms.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The indoor ice arena at Hanseo University always smelled like a potent, teeth-gritting mix of melted Zamboni slush, industrial cleaning fluid, and the stale sweat of twenty guys who treated personal hygiene like a secondary suggestion. For most people, it was a freezing, cavernous wasteland. For Y/N, it was home.

As the university's premier figure skating captain, Y/N lived by a strict code of discipline, razor-sharp edges, and absolute control. Every single jump was measured down to the millisecond; every rotation was calculated to avoid disaster. She didn’t do chaos. She didn’t do mistakes. And she certainly didn’t have time for the university’s hockey team, who treated the shared ice rink like their personal playground of broken glass and testosterone-fueled demolition derbies.

It was 6:00 AM on a Tuesday morning, supposedly the one hour the figure skating squad had exclusive rights to the primary rink before the hockey boys swarmed the building. But someone had clearly forgotten to check the schedule.

Y/N stood near the penalty box, lacing up her skates with sharp, precise pulls, her breath pluming in tiny white clouds against the freezing air of the rink. Suddenly, the harsh, rhythmic thud of hockey sticks slamming against the rubber-matted hallway echoed through the arena, followed by loud, echoing laughter.

She looked up.

The heavy swing doors burst open, and a swarm of players spilled onto the ice. Leading the pack, sliding across the fresh sheet with effortless, arrogant speed, was Kim Hongjoong.

Hongjoong wasn't even wearing his full gear yet. He wore a heavy, faded black hoodie with the sleeves ripped off at the shoulders, exposing lean, hard forearms wrapped in athletic tape, and his dark, messy hair fell damply across his forehead. He had a mouthguard tucked into the corner of his mouth, and his dark eyes swept across the rink with that familiar, dangerous edge of a guy who looked at rules like they were speed bumps.

He was the alternate captain of the university's hockey team, a brilliant forward with a legendary reputation for reckless plays on the ice and an even wilder reputation off it. He was the kind of bad boy who made campus gossip columns look tame—always skating too close to the line, completely unbothered by coaches, professors, or anyone else who tried to check his attitude.

Hongjoong carved a sharp, aggressive stop right near center ice, sending a spray of fine ice crystals flying into the air, before gliding effortlessly toward the figure skating side of the rink where Y/N was standing.

He leaned his weight heavily onto his stick, bracing his forearms against the top of the transparent plexiglass partition, bringing his face dangerously close to hers despite the barrier.

"Well, look who it is," Hongjoong murmured, his voice a low, gravelly purr that cut cleanly through the ambient hum of the arena lights. He pulled the mouthguard out with a slow, deliberate movement, flashing a crooked, unbothered smirk. "Morning, mami. You’re in our zone."

Y/N didn't flinch. She finished double-knotting her lace with a sharp jerk, stood up smoothly on her blades, and met his dark, intense gaze head-on. She refused to let him intimidate her on her own home turf.

"Check the digital schedule, Kim," Y/N retorted, her voice cool, sharp, and entirely unimpressed by his proximity. "Figure skating has primary ice until seven. Your rowdy crew is twenty minutes early, as usual. Unless your team’s collective clock-reading skills are just as bad as your defensive strategy last weekend."

Hongjoong’s eyes flared with sudden, genuine amusement. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating right through the cold air. Instead of backing away, he leaned even closer, pressing his chest against the glass, his dark gaze tracking every micro-expression on her face with a predatory focus.

"Is that right?" he challenged softly, his voice dropping an octave as that arrogant edge sharpened into something far more dangerous. "Funny, I don't remember the schedule saying anything about you freezing us out. Maybe we just wanted a better view of the real talent on campus."

Y/N narrowed her eyes, a hot spike of annoyance—and an entirely unwanted jolt of adrenaline—sparking straight down her spine.

"Save the bad-boy charm for the student newspaper, Kim," she shot back, stepping right up to the glass so there was barely any distance left between them. "Because if you don't clear this ice in the next sixty seconds, I'm going to use my toe-picks to show you what a real penalty looks like."

Hongjoong’s smirk widened into something slow and devastating. He lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a silent, heavy challenge.

"Threats, mami?" he murmured, pushing himself off the glass with a lazy, fluid flick of his stick as he skated backward, never breaking eye contact. "I love a girl with a death wish. See you on the ice."

The sharp scrape of steel blades carving against the frozen surface echoed sharply through the cavernous arena as Hongjoong spun on his heel, joining the rest of the hockey team clustered near the far blue line. But even from fifty yards away, his presence felt entirely inescapable.

Y/N let out a slow, controlled breath, forcing her racing pulse to steady as she stepped out from the penalty box and onto the pristine, unmarked white sheet of the primary rink. The cold air bit sharply at her cheeks, a welcome shock to her system that helped wash away the dizzying friction of their encounter.

Just ignore him, she told herself, gliding into a long, sweeping edge that carried her toward center ice. He's a distraction. Nothing more.

Yet, as she dropped into her warm-up routine—executing a clean, effortless double axel that landed with a soft, muffled crunch against the ice—she could feel the heavy weight of his gaze burning straight through the space between them.

On the other side of the red line, Hongjoong wasn't even pretending to drill with his team. He leaned casually on his stick, his dark eyes tracking her every movement with an intense, unblinking focus. Every time she executed a spin or caught an edge, he watched with the analytical precision of a predator studying its prey, completely unbothered by the shouts of their head coach demanding they start running line drills.

By 6:45 AM, the rest of the figure skating squad had finally trickled onto the ice, snapping Y/N out of her localized orbit.

"God, what was Kim's problem today?" whispered Minji, her doubles partner, gliding up beside her as they lined up for a synchronized footwork sequence. Minji sneaked a quick, cautious glance toward the boards where the hockey team was now aggressively slamming into each other during a scrimmage. "Every time he skates past, he looks like he's ready to start a riot. And why does he always look at you like you owe him money?"

"He doesn't look at me," Y/N lied smoothly, though a faint, hot flush of color crept up her neck despite the freezing temperature of the arena. She adjusted the straps of her skating dress, her chin lifting defiantly. "He's just bored. And arrogant. A dangerous combination."

"Dangerous is one word for it," Minji muttered with a dry laugh, executing a sharp three-turn. "Half the girls in the journalism department would pay good money to get looked at the way he looks at you when you argue with him. Just be careful, captain. Guys like Kim don't play by campus rules."

"I don't need to play by his rules," Y/N retorted, her voice hard, though her eyes involuntarily drifted back toward the bench.

Hongjoong was off the ice now, sitting on the edge of the players' bench with his helmet tossed carelessly to the side. He was unscrewing the cap of a water bottle, his dark hair damp with sweat clinging to his forehead, his chest heaving slightly under his torn-off sleeves. As if he felt her gaze on him, his head snapped up instantly, locking eyes with her across the width of the rink.

He didn't look away. Instead, a slow, crooked, devastating smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He raised his water bottle in a silent, mocking toast toward her, his dark eyes gleaming with a challenge that promised this morning's run-in was only the very beginning.

Y/N quickly jerked her eyes away, turning her focus back to the routine, but the electric hum of his attention lingered on her skin like static electricity long after the whistle blew to end their shared ice time.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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[homeofhousechickens]

High Tension I missed you

I have been going through a lot recently

But it's nothing like you have had to deal with right?

Hope to see you again soon.

High Tension is a 150 year old Osage Orange Tree that was at some point split down the middle, likely due to a lightning strike or storm damage. It is now growing at such an angle that the wood is under 16 tons of pressure. The tree almost resembles a braided rope as the living wood intertwines with the dead.

[aarontveit]

HIGH TENSION | 2003 dir. Alexandre Aja

[hidatakayama-gif-ch]

High Tension

Grateful for the rare occurrences of spring　　봄의 진사에 감사

Grato pelas raras ocorrências da primavera.

When the season improves, people start appearing💖

계절도 좋아지면 나타나는 사람 💖

Quando a estação melhora, as pessoas começam a aparecer💖

春の珍事に感謝！！ 季節も良くなると、現れる人💖