HIM BEFORE
SUM. a twisted love story between you and im baekjeong… before ikfc.
(BLDHS MLST) . im baekjeong x female reader · angst, toxic relationship, blood mention, possessive/controlling behavior, one-sided love(?)
notes. another sort of backstory au because why the hell not?? originally this started out as a little mini series about after his mother died but i guess this is still…kind of…that…..? idk but it’s a bit long so get comfortable <3!
you met him on a tuesday.
it had been raining — that heavy, ugly kind of storm that felt like the sky was cracking open just to bleed on you. your umbrella had flipped inside out, the wind screaming in your ears as you cursed at the metal bones snapping under pressure. you were soaked through, your socks squishing in your shoes, and all you wanted was to make it to your shift at the flower shop without collapsing.
he was leaning against the alley wall near the back entrance. hoodie dark with rain, cigarette unlit between two fingers, head tilted slightly like he was studying you.
he looked like trouble.
not the kind of trouble that starts fights in bars or steals wallets on trains, no, this was worse. this was the kind of trouble that pulled people in like gravity, made you forget what breathing felt like without him.
you shouldn’t have looked at him. but you did.
you turned your head and met his gaze; sharp, unreadable eyes like burnt-out stars. he smirked, lazy and dangerous. “you got a lighter?”
you shook your head. “no. and smoking’ll kill you."
he chuckled, low and slow. “so will a lot of things.”
his voice felt like smoke, too. curling around you. sinking in deep. you didn’t know it then, but he’d already started sinking his teeth into your life. you never told your coworkers about him. not at first. but you saw him again. and again. every day. always nearby. he didn’t say anything. just stood across the street or leaned against the window of the flower shop, arms folded, face unreadable. watching you. it should’ve creeped you out. it should’ve made you feel like prey, instead, it made your pulse race in your throat.
because he didn’t look like someone hunting you. he looked like someone who had already decided you belonged to him. “that guy outside?” your coworker whispered one afternoon, after catching you staring. “he gives me… serial killer vibes.”
you pretended not to hear her. kept trimming stems, arranging white peonies like you weren’t thinking about him — his eyes, the way he never looked away first, like he didn’t have anything to be ashamed of.
“i mean, yeah, he’s hot,” she added. “but, like, murder-you-in-your-sleep hot.”
you didn’t respond. you just pressed the flowers deeper into the bouquet. because you knew she was right. and still, you couldn’t stop waiting for the next time you’d see him.
the first time he stepped inside the shop, it was dusk. the sky outside was bruised purple and orange, the storm clouds retreating into the horizon. the air smelled like wet pavement and crushed leaves. you were alone, counting bills behind the register, the doorbell chiming soft and sharp.
you looked up. and there he was. dripping rainwater onto the tiles, hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. his hair was damp, strands falling across his forehead, and he looked more myth than man. your throat tightened.
he walked straight up to the counter, silent for a second. not much was said. just his name. baekjeong. his voice was calmer this time. less smoke. more steel. you gave him your name like it meant something. like it was a secret you didn’t mind him having. his smile stretched slow. “pretty name,” he said.
you hated the way your stomach fluttered.
baekjeong walked you home that night. you didn’t know why you let him. you told yourself it was fine, he seemed calm, he didn’t do anything wrong. but part of you already knew you were past the point of return. you kept walking, side by side, through half-empty streets. the quiet between you wasn’t awkward — it was charged, like something electric simmering under your skin.
at your apartment door, you tried to thank him. but he leaned in.
kissed you.
it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was full of want, of hunger, of something dark curling at the edges. he tasted like rain and danger and something you shouldn’t want but craved anyway. your back hit the door. his hands were already on your waist.
and you didn’t stop him. he didn’t leave after that.
not really. he stayed the night, came back the next day. then again. then again.
before you realized it, he was a permanent shadow in your life. said you reminded him of someone. you guess it’s why he stays.
he left a toothbrush on your sink. a knife in your kitchen drawer. a loaded gun under your bed. you found it one night when you were changing the sheets. metal, cold, heavy in your hand. you stared at it for a long time before putting it back. you didn’t ask him about it.
you didn’t ask where he went when he disappeared for hours, or why he came back with new bruises and busted knuckles and a fresh stack of cash in his pocket. you didn’t want to know.
you were too far gone. when people asked about him, your friends, your family, even the landlord who saw him through the security cameras, you lied. “he’s quiet,” you said. “he’s sweet.”
but you knew better. he wasn’t sweet.
he was a storm with a pulse. a ghost with a grin. and you were the idiot who’d let him in.
he liked to touch you like you were breakable. like you were his.
fingers on your throat, jaw, thighs. kisses that felt more like branding than affection. when he held you, you forgot what pain felt like. he made love like it was a promise and a threat all at once. like he’d burn the world down if it ever tried to take you from him.
one night, baekjeong came home with blood on his collar. you were on the couch, reading. the second he stepped inside, you smelled it — metallic, sharp. he didn’t flinch. didn’t offer a single word.
just walked past you, into the bathroom, left the door open as he washed his hands like he’d done it a thousand times before. you stood in the hallway, frozen. and then, slowly, you followed. you watched the red swirl down the drain.
and you still didn’t ask.
because a part of you, a dark, hidden, twisted part, didn’t care. he kissed you that night like he was saying thank you. like you were his salvation and his sin all at once. and you let him. you let him drag you down with him. because you were already drowning. and he made it feel like flying.
sometimes you’d wake up and he’d already be gone.
no note. no explanation. just the lingering scent of cologne and smoke on your sheets, the faint heat of his body still trapped in the mattress beside you. you’d lie there for hours sometimes. staring at the ceiling. wondering if today was the day he’d vanish for good.
but he always came back. sometimes bleeding. sometimes silent. sometimes with bruised ribs and dark eyes and a kiss that felt like a threat and an apology wrapped together.
you stopped asking questions the day he came home with someone else’s blood under his nails and said your name like it was a prayer. like saying it would keep him from breaking entirely. you just held him that night.
you held him while he told you nothing. you didn’t need to know. your love had already gone past needing reason. he called you his angel, but you didn’t feel like one. not when you helped him burn the clothes that night in the alley behind your building. not when you bleached the bathroom sink at two in the morning and said nothing about the crusted red at the drain’s edge.
you didn’t even blink when he kissed you right there, knuckles raw, jaw tight, and told you, “no one’s ever done this for me.”
you weren’t sure if he meant the cleaning or the silence. but it didn’t matter, because he pressed his forehead to yours and said, “i’d kill for you.”
and you knew it wasn’t a metaphor.
you stopped going out during the day.
you started keeping the blinds closed.
you stayed in his world — the dark one, the quiet one, the one where nothing else existed except the two of you, pressed tight in a bed that never quite felt clean. “you don’t have to stay,” he told you one night, lying on his back, one arm draped over his eyes. his voice was rough, worn. like it had been scraped across gravel.
you were curled against his side, your cheek on his chest.
“you don’t want me here?” you asked.
he scoffed, “i do.” then softer, quieter, “that’s the problem.”
you traced circles on his stomach with your fingers. “you’re not the problem,” you whispered.
he didn’t respond.
the police showed up two weeks later. plainclothes officers. polite, too polite. they knocked, asked questions. had photos. he wasn’t in any of them. but the look in their eyes told you they already knew.
you lied. played dumb. played soft.
they left empty-handed. but your hands were shaking when you closed the door. he stepped out from the bathroom a moment later. his face was blank.
you should’ve been scared. instead, you reached for him.
because you loved him.
you loved him like gravity, like addiction, like something you couldn’t scrub from your bones. you loved him even when he didn’t come home for two days straight and you spent the nights curled on the floor by the front door, staring at the lock. you loved him even when he showed up bloody and silent, handed you a burner phone, and said, “if anyone asks, we were together the whole time.”
you didn’t ask why. you just said, “okay.”
because you loved him. and love, you’d come to understand, didn’t need to make sense. it didn’t need to be rational. it just needed to be real.
you started dreaming about him dying.
it wasn’t always graphic. sometimes it was just the echo of sirens, the way his name cracked over a police radio. sometimes you’d see him walking ahead of you in your dream, and no matter how fast you ran, you couldn’t catch him. other nights, you watched him bleed. on pavement. in your bathtub. in your arms. the worst ones were when you woke up, reaching out for him, only to find cold sheets and the thudding silence of absence. those mornings made your chest hurt in a way that felt like mourning.
even though he was still alive. still coming back. still yours.
he didn’t like to be touched when he was angry. but he never hurt you. never yelled.
you could feel it in the room — the tension, the rage humming just beneath his skin. he’d pace. clench his fists. go quiet.
one night, after a call you didn’t hear, he didn’t say a word, just stood in the kitchen, jaw tight, knuckles white around a glass of water that it might just shatter in his bare hand. you approached carefully, barefoot on the tile.
“baekjeong,” you whispered. “what happened?” he didn’t answer, you reached out.
his hand snapped up, gripping your wrist, hard. enough to bruise, enough to make your body flinch. he met your eyes. and then he let go, stepped back.
you didn’t leave. you stepped closer again, slowly, and wrapped your arms around his waist.
“i’m here,” you said. whether he wanted to hear it or not.
you found a stack of money under the bed one afternoon. thick bands. rubber-wrapped. unmarked.
you sat there for a long time, staring at it. it didn’t feel real. it didn’t feel like something someone like you should ever be holding.
but you didn’t tell him you found it. you didn’t ask where it came from. you just put it back. because it was easier. because if you opened your mouth, he’d know you were worried.
and maybe he’d leave. and maybe you’d let him.
but you’d already accepted it — all of it.
whatever he did. whoever he was.
you loved him anyway.
baekjeong never took you to his world. you never saw where he went, who he worked with, what his real life looked like.
all you knew was this apartment. this space.
this pocket of existence where he stopped pretending and just… existed. he didn’t have to lie here. he didn’t have to bluff or run or hide. with you, he was just baekjeong.
the man who hummed under his breath while brushing his teeth.
who kissed your neck in the mornings before work. who wrapped his arms around you like you were his only anchor. but outside of these four walls, he was someone else entirely.
someone dangerous.
someone feared.
you didn’t want to meet that version of him, because maybe then you’d stop loving him, and you weren’t ready to let him go.
you started lying for him more often. to friends. to your mother. to yourself. he was gone for longer stretches now. he stopped telling you when he’d be back. you stopped asking.
you just stopped until it became that you no longer waited for the lock to click and he’d step through the door and everything in you exhaled at once.
you stopped. he never came back. you stayed and he disappeared like he was never here. like he never even existed. like he never walked into the flower shop and told you his name.
and still, you fucking loved him.
