Dirty Deeds || Kim Hongjoong x FemReader

Crime Scene

After a long while of smexy sex, we lay in my bed.

Hongjoong pulls me in close to his chest, his chin resting on my head. "I just had sex with my girlfriend," he says into my hair.

"Yes you did," I say back with a smile.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, content with this feeling of having someone by my side.

Lined up in front of 12 year old me were three men with black fabric over their faces sitting on old wooden chairs. They sat with their backs hunched forwards and their hands bound behind them.

"Why am I here?" I asked my father who stood beside me with an easy sense of pride.

Wordlessly, he passed me a long knife.

"Do you know what to do with this?" He asked, almost eager.

"These are used tot hurt people.... to kill them." I said hesitantly.

"That's right." He bent down to my level, "I want you to pick one of these bad men and stab them right in the heart." He turned me to him, looking deep into my eyes. "Can you do that for me?"

I shook my head, trying to give the too-big knife back to him.

"Y/N," He warned, "You need to do this. You don't want to disappoint me do you?"

"No. But I don't want to hurt anyone."

"But these bad men hurt other people. They hurt me and your mother. If you kill them, you're stopping them from hurting anyone else."

His manipulative words made me stop and think for a moment. I didn't want anyone to hurt my parents, despite everything, I still had that naive childlike love for them.

But I didn't know what these people had done to hurt my parents. To me, that mattered.

"How did they hurt you?" I asked innocently.

"They did bad things." My father said simply.

"Like what?"

"Things you're too young to understand." He paused. "But if you do what I ask, you'll soon understand."

My father stood back up and took a few steps away from me.

I turned to the faceless, silent men in front of me. 

To me, they have no meaning. No identity. How could I justify ending a life without a face, a reason?

"Do they have names?" I asked my father.

"Those are not important." He said and gave me a slight push forwards.

Balancing the knife in my hands, it felt too big, too heavy.

No kid should bear the burden of holding such a weapon in their hands.

I took a few cautious steps towards the men. One I could faintly hear whispering something to themselves in another language I didn't yet recognize.

Another's leg was violently tapping at the floor, echoing with each tap.

Each step I took made me sicker and sicker.

Looking back to my father, tears almost burning in my eyes, I said, "I don't want to do this."

Cursing under his breath, he stomped up to me, ripped the knife from my hands, effectively making small cuts in them and made me watch as he stabbed each man in the heart. One after another.