Crime Aesthetic Novels & Stories

It's probably the effect of the weed, or maybe we such good friends that we make each other laugh so hard? Nah, it's definitely the weed. "I'm pink," Ashley says, continuing with this little game. "Because of my hair." She starts to play with the ends of her mostly pink hair. "I'm grey, the color that's between dark and white," Kristen says. "Because I'm the innocent one here but I'm also moving to the dark side." She starts to giggle. "You are definitely going to the dark side." Tatiana agrees with her. "I still can't believe you are a virgin though."

I tell myself, cutting yet another straight line. This isn't so bad, it's not harming anyone. I'm not being bad, I'm being such a good girl I'm not evil, I'm not like her. I lean against the bath tub and tug the glass deeper into my skin, a smile spreads across my face when all I see is crimson, it's addicting. I need to see more of it, and feel less and less of the heartache. I need the crimson to numb the pain for me, to make me forget, even if it's just for a few seconds, I need it. I crave it, it's an obsession, an addiction that I've kept to myself because no one will ever understand it or how it makes me feel when my skin is adorned in crimson art.

"Come here. I’ve been waiting for you. You seem to enjoy making me wait these days, Ara?" I blink innocently at him as I lift my head from his chest. “Do I?” He growls. "You know you do, but it’s fine. I love waiting for you." And like that, he makes me melt in his arms as he presses a kiss to my lips before he breaks away and pulls me inside, shutting his door. ~ I add the final touches to his jaw before I lean back in my seat with a smile, loving how the painting turns out. I look over it to Alex. "I’m done."

“I heard you moaning earlier with Mason. Maybe you’re still worked up.” Her gaze dropped slowly, taking in my daring makeup — the smoky eyes and bold red lips — and the scandalous lingerie that left almost nothing to the imagination. The lace bra barely contained my nipples, and the panties hugged my ass like a second skin. “Don’t you like it?” I asked, forcing a playful tone as I leaned against the doorframe. “I was just… trying something new.”

“What are you thinking for the stormy aesthetic?” Harper asked curiously, holding up the deep winter swatches which include the colours: midnight, olive, expresso, silver, grey, charcoal, mocha, wine, brick red, ruby, Boysen berry, fuschia, magenta, mustard, honey, Ocea, dark green, forest, jungle, royal purple, mulberry, purple, royal blue, Aegean, and ceru lean. Knox snatched the swatches from her hand, spreading them across the desk like he was dealing a winning hand in a high-stakes game. His parrot green eyes darted over then, his lips moving silently as he processed each colour. “Stormy aesthetic,” he repeated, tasting the words. "Aye, it's got tae feel heavy. Atmospheric. No' just dar

He had a broken mask on the table before him. "It's *craft*. Highly refined, repetitive, flawless craft. The masks are identical. The waystones are cut with geometric precision. This isn't the work of zealots in a cave. This is… production." Elara, her hands shaping an imaginary form in the air, added. "There's an aesthetic. A cold, minimalist beauty. The silence they preach… they make it *artful*. They're not just destroying. They're… curating emptiness." Artful emptiness. Curated silence. The concept was chilling. It suggested not mindless drones, but a creator. An artist of the void.

I bang on a pot with a spoon, singing a off-key nursery rhyme at the top of my lungs. It is a war of aesthetics. A battle for his soul fought with color and sound. My creations are not good. They are not beautiful. But they are true. They are real. They are us. And their sheer, mundane, clashing joy is a dissonance the Muse cannot tolerate. It feeds on refined sorrow, not on messy, loud happiness. The clash of our creations—his dark perfection, my bright chaos—creates a psychic static that shakes the workshop. The Muse flickers, its beautiful form destabilizing. It cannot process this. It cannot consume this.

She froze. “…You designed these?” “Yes.” “Holy hell.” She grabbed a sketch, eyes devouring every line. “These aren’t pretty. They’re violent. Emotional. Intimate.” “Exactly.” “I’m in,” she said instantly. I raised a brow. “That’s not how interviews usually go.” “Then you’ve been interviewing the wrong people.” We laughed. Aria specialized in rare stones—unusual cuts, imperfect clarity, dramatic hues. She believed flaws created character. “I don’t do safe,” she said. “I do unforgettable.”

“He’s surrounded by people who give him answers. I need to be the one who gives him questions.” I spent the next three days buried in my role. I became Aria Vance, art consultant, with a ferocious single- mindedness. I compiled a digital portfolio of pieces I knew would appeal to his stated aesthetic— bold, minimalist sculptures, stark black-and-white photography, hyper-realistic paintings that showcased technical mastery over emotional expression. Everything was sharp, clean, and controlled. But I also slipped in two other pieces. One, a small, haunting

The point was… The street artist known as Black Crimson seemed to speak straight to my soul with every showpiece he delivered. He only worked in the spray paint medium and kept it strictly to three colors: black, white, and red. The image-half of his two-part murals always showcased some modern-day fairy-tale retelling, and the text-half had a famous quote that was somehow tied into the picture. The quotes he chose could be silly or deep, but they were always meaningful and enlightening, and I somehow felt as if he’d written them directly for me. Every time.