đđđđđđđ - Stalker Idol Kim Seokjin x (f)Reader 13K words
đđđđđđđđ: Yandere i literally donât know if it counts in this fic, Dub-con kissing & touching, Stalking, Age gap (reader is mid-20s, Jin mid-30s), Obsessive and Sadistic behaviours, Jin's a family man?? & more?
đđ Synopsis: You have a stalker. Good news: you don't have to pay for shit. Bad news: you have a semi-harmless stalker. What you don't know is that it's someone whose face you see every time you walk to work. And he gets really jealous when you find a lover.
Ronni Rambles: This originally started as a crack fic/soft yandere, and it turned into⌠whatever this is. I lowkey donât really fuck with this writing and think it couldâve turned out better, but Iâve decided to just post it anyway.
I also wanted to share this clip of Jin.
You have a stalker. Apparently, having one now is like owning some expensive breed of pet. Something to almost flaunt and completely harmless â at least that's the impression you are given by the police.
Except this pet preorders your favourite coffee at the cafe across the street, breaks into your home regularly, leaves behind expensive gifts, knows things he shouldn't and makes you food that you always make sure to throw out.
You are not an idol. You are not famous.
Before, you were barely active on social media, but now you don't even dare to like an Instagram post. You remember it so clearly: one month into this whole shitstain of a situation, you liked a post about a new book coming out from an author you follow. The next day after work, you came back home to it lying beside your bed on the sidetable.
The book wasn't supposed to be out for another two months.
The worst part, nobody takes it seriously.
Shivers still run down your spine when you recall the first incident. You work as a nurse in the biggest hospital in Seoul. After graduating from medical school just recently, you quickly learned that your work is highly unrecognised. And that the shifts are truly that gruelling.
You were coming home from your usual night shift, all tired, eyes barely open, already dreaming of a hot shower and your comfy bed, not even caring about the daytime light. Once you entered your house, slipping off your sneakers and dropping your bag to the floor, you walked past your kitchen, going straight to the bathroom, when your eyes caught a Tupperware filled with what looked like your favourite meal.
Practically melting in place, you decited that you should responsibly eat first. Placing the container in your microwave to heat up, you almost completely missed the note.
You curse your tiredness, quickly tearing off the paper and setting a timer on the microwave, watching as your food begins to spin beneath the yellow light. Leaning against your counter, you fumble with the note in your hands, looking down to see who left you the meal.
It was probably Mei, your roommate.
I made your favourite, since you looked particularly tired today, yet still absolutely gorgeous, like always. âSJ
The microwave beeped, signalling that the food was heated up, but you remained frozen, now widely awake, still staring at the unfamiliar handwritten note in your hand.
You don't have a roommate anymore. You moved out three months ago. And even if she had dropped by, which was not unusual, this is definitely not your friend's barely legible handwriting. No, this one is neat and most definitely unfamiliar, just like the initials SJ that were signed below.
You looked around your apartment. Everything looked in place. For a moment, you eyed the door. Had you opened it yourself, or was it already unlocked? But then you shook your head, seeing your keys barely not falling out of your bag, remembering that you, in fact, used them.
You live on the fifth floor. And the door was locked. You are sure of it, and you are even more sure of the fact that you locked it before clocking into your shift.
Did someone not only break into your house, but locked the door after themselves too?
In the end, the police couldn't do anything when you snapped out of your initial shock and tiredness and called the emergency phone number.
Nothing else was messed with or left behind, and they asked you repeatedly if you were sure you didn't know an SJ, if this couldn't have been a prank from your friends, or if you were simply just too tired.
As if you being tired had anything to do with a fucking container of food with a weird and stalkerish note attached, just appearing out of nowhere in your home and leaving no trace. You did call Mei to be sure, but she confirmed your suspicions. She was even out of town. The morning ended with them just taking the note and you crashing at your old roommate's empty place for a couple of days.
A week later, you had to move on with your life and went back to sleep at your apartment. Your first day back, you went straight to work, a couple of days earlier having traded shifts with a single mom who wanted to come to her daughter's rehearsal and asked if you could do a switch with her. It meant that you would need to do a double shift, since you were also scheduled for the night after.
You had stopped sleeping in, only barely getting the needed hours in, a thing that had been happening ever since the break-in, to which the cops still had no leads on â the security and street cameras picked up nothing, and you doubt that they even did anything with the note.
So, you had extra time and thought, why not grab the usual coffee that you treated yourself to every once in a while? It was a ritual which you did only when you woke up earlier, since technically you couldn't afford it.
But when you came up to the counter and placed your order along with your name, the barista began smiling and said, "Oh, your boyfriend came in and already took care of you."
"Myâ my boyfriend?" You stammered.
The girl blushed, "Sorry, he didn't say he was your boyfriend, I just assumed it so. But he did leave a name."
A pit formed in your stomach.
You swallowed, "What is it?" Your words came out more as a whisper, but the barista still caught it, answering, "SJ. Does that ring a bell?"
She probably noticed your face because her excited expression dropped, and she added less enthusiastically, "He left you a note. Do you want it?"
You must have nodded, even if you don't remember so, because she grabbed a paper near the register and handed it to you. It said:
Sorry if I scared you, darling, that was not my intention. I just wanted to take care of you. But I know that coffee makes you feel better, so don't worry, from now on, it's always on me. It's a cute place. I sat in your favourite place on the second floor, and it makes perfect sense why it's your favourite. I kept imagining us having our first date here. âSJ
Your eyes flew up to the corner couch upstairs that overlooked the whole cafe. He had been here? And he knows your favourite spot?
Police were called shortly after. And again, they were useless.
Of course, not before giving you false hope. They interviewed the barista and collected recent camera footage. You also found out that the payment information and instructions about you were given on the phone. So, the police again gathered the note, and both the phone number and the credit card info that he left behind to pay for your future coffee orders.
Apparently, it was like an open tab kind of thing. Unlimited coffee for you for life. Or at least until the bank account ran dry.
Your stalker insisting on paying for things in your life became a common thing. Over months, it stretched out to your favourite bookstores, vintage shops and even your favourite more expensive clothing store that you sometimes treated yourself to.
You have come to the conclusion that each time, he has someone else drop off the notes. So, basically, untraceable. Because with every store, just like the cafe, he left handwritten messages. The workers, who always had different stories, had no idea how the notes ended up at the shops, since he technically made all of the instructions on the phone.
Darling, you always beat yourself up for spending so much money on books, so don't worry, buy as many as you wish, I have money for you to spend.
I think this necklace holder would look perfect on your vanity, right? It even matches your mirror. P.S. Would you prefer your future home to be a more classical architectural finish, or do you wish for a completely old-fashioned one, just like your current apartment?
Darling, you deserve every piece of clothing your heart desires. Also, I asked them to put aside a dress that should look absolutely gorgeous on you.
They were always signed by SJ.
How did he know that you felt guilty for spending an outrageous amount of your salary on books that just usually collect dust?
How did he know that not only were you planning on buying a necklace stand, but also that it would perfectly match your vanity?
And how did SJ know the correct measurements for your dress? How did he know that it would flatter you perfectly?
You did try on the crimson dress. You don't really know what compelled you. Maybe you wanted to prove to yourself that he didn't know you at all. So, with shaking hands, you asked for a dress they should have put aside for you and locked yourself in a changing room.
The silk dress was perfect. Not only was it comfortable, but you know that in any other situation, you would have felt truly confident in it. It fit your body flawlessly. The length of the dress was perfect. It ended just below your ankles, yet you weren't tripping over it. Even the neckline fit your chest exactly.
Once you realised that, you quickly tore the dress off. Left it in the changing room and hurried out of the store, fully set on never stepping another foot in it.
But the next day, after your shift, you came back to the dress lying on our bed, along with red-bottomed heels. You couldn't find it in yourself to even think about how he got in here, or try on the heels.
You knew that they would fit perfectly.
Of course, all of those questions you had about how he knew these personal details and preferences had a simple answer. He was your fucking stalker. He has likely followed you, broken into your home countless times and snooped around in your things, your closet.
Over the months, the gifts kept reappearing. More containers of Tupperware filled with delicious-smelling food that, each time, you had to throw out, too scared of them being messed with. Though a logical part of you would argue that if he really wanted to do so, he would simply mess with any of your groceries.
He has also, without fail, left you flowers every day that you would pointedly also throw out. Going as far as even dumping them outside to make sure that he noticed.
Not that it steered him away. Still, after every shift, you would come back to a fresh bouquet of your favourite flowers positioned beautifully in one of your vases.
There was always more stuff. Expensive shampoos and perfumes which you would always donate to the women's shelter. Beautiful jewellery that was just your style, books he'd think you might like. Your favourite bottles of wine and snacks.
In any other situation, you would have loved being spoiled like this, especially after a hard shift. But this wasn't any other situation.
This was your stalker.
The first non-food present that he left in your apartment as this whole thing started was one that unnerved you the most.
Because it showed that he actually knew you.
You had just lost a patient. A kid, too. Your first. The firsts are always the worst, you know that, but it didnât make it any easier.
The tears started way before you entered your apartment, but only then did you let yourself fully break down. You were a sobbing mess, you didn't even bother actually going further inside. Your legs gave out in the hallway.
You did everything you could, you know that. The brilliant doctors that you assisted did too. But it just hurts so much.
But then something caught your eye from where you were hunched over on the floor. A book. A thin book with a white cover sat on your kitchen counter. A book that you definitely didnât leave there, because you donât even own one like that.
Slowly pushing yourself off the floor, brushing away the tears, you cautiously walked over. A gasp left your lips when you read the title. It was Il Piccolo Principe. The Italian version of The Little Prince.
Your mom worked as an Italian translator and loved to read you books in the said language. This particular one was your favourite. You wanted to bring this with you when you moved out, but you couldnât find it anywhere. The book held the type of comfort that no one, but your mom could offer you.
But she wasnât here, she wasnât even alive.
You started sobbing again, but picked up the book. Unconsciously, you found yourself practically falling into your leather armchair, the book still in your hand.
The tears keep falling, but your breathing shallowed. A note peaked out from under the cover. With shaking fingers you pulled it out.
This book was my favourite growing up. I know you like to read stories when you feel down and have some children's books stashed on your shelves in Italian for that, so I thought it could bring some comfort to you. âSJ.
The sobbing returned. You are just not sure what was at fault. The dead kid, you being exhausted and missing your mom, or the fact that you share a thing of great comfort with your stalker.
You fell asleep on that armchair. When you groggily woke up to the sun setting, you found yourself wrapped in the blanked that you brought with you when you moved from your childhood home.
It was pulled over you snuggly, almost like a hug.
You donât remember going to your bedroom to retrieve it, but your hungry stomach quickly pulled your thoughts aside. And you never thought of it since.
The police were absolutely futile. They said that the phone numbers and the credit card information were dead ends and that the top-notch cameras you had installed, which cost you way too much money, had caught nothing.
It really did not make sense to you. After all, your stalker left behind so much. There must be something, some sort of trace. But the police found nothing and could not help you at all.
They said they couldn't really do anything, especially afford to station someone outside your home like you asked, because the stalker had not even hinted at harming you, therefore, they couldn't extend their help more.
You remember one of the police men saying, "You aren't the only one with a stalker. It's a really big problem here. At least yours wasn't writing rape fantasies to you."
This is what Seoul has come to. And it's bullshit.
The best they could offer was giving you access to more secure apartments. They were pricey, but you had no choice. You simply resold a bunch of stuff that your stalker had left you behind and accumulated enough cash to sign up for the new lease.
When you finally moved into your more protected apartment, you only had just one peaceful shift, after which you came back to an unaltered home.
You really did think that it was all over.
Then, exactly 24 hours later, you turned on your kitchen lights and halted in your step when you found your favourite flowers sitting on a counter and another note.
Except the flowers were wilted and the vase was from your previous apartment, one that you thought you had sold. You did not want to take it back home, since it felt tainted by your stalker.
The note was stuffed between the nearly dead petals, and it read:
Darling, if you didn't like my gifts or your apartment, you could have just told me, and I would have bought you everything new. âSJ
Something caught your eye in the living room, and dropping the note on the counter, you slowly and dreadfully dragged yourself over to the other room, switching the lights on.
The living room floor was half covered in designer duffle bags. And in them was all the stuff you thought you sold to get the money for your new apartment that was supposed to stop SJ from getting to you.
That night, you didn't call the police. You didn't even bother throwing out the flowers. By this point, you were just tired and annoyed. You didn't even mention it to the other nurses back at the hospital.
Now it's been six months.
You had thought about moving away, but that would be career death. You were a fresh nurse, you had a contract with your current hospital. You couldn't just leave.
You have given up completely. Instead of throwing out the flowers, you would simply bring them over to the hospital, vase and all, knowing that SJ would just get you a new one the next day.
Before work, you would always stop by the coffee shop, where your stalker rolled in a new credit card for you, and you would buy coffee for yourself and your fellow nurses.
Oh, and you were still living in what was supposed to be police protected and overseen apartment complex, because your stalker has payed your rent for a whole year.
When you were told so by your building's manager, you just mumbled, "Whatever," before stuffing your credit card beck into your wallet and taking the note he had left for you.
I know you canât afford to live in this complex, and it is my fault you moved here, so I took care of it for you. P.S. Itâs only for the rest of the year, since I canât imagine you wish to live here for longer. âSJ
At least your savings were growing.
Honestly, by this point, you really did not know what to do. You couldn't really even complain.
Was your home's privacy violated? Sure.
But did you have to pay for any of your pleasures or rent anymore? No.
Were you being harmed? No.
Were you probably being watched? Yeah, probably.
You were still careful. Checked for hidden cameras every week or so, even if you always came up empty. Made sure you didn't encourage anything more by replying or even truly acknowledging his presence.
And sadly, that furthermore put a stop to you feeling comfortable enough to let loose and masturbate every once in a while.
You win some, you lose some.
Now you simply throw the notes out and stuff his âpresentsâ in the extra storage space of your closet.
Of course, you were curious. On some sleepless mornings, when you weren't completely dead after a night shift, you would look up stuff on the internet.
Like how expensive was this new thing that your stalker wrapped in expensive packaging and a crimson silk bow was. And he always left behind a note for you, in which he said that it reminded him of you, or that he thought that you would have liked it.
Your eyes would always bulge out of your head once you saw the retail price. Your stalker once wrote that he had money for you to spend, and he was not exaggerating.
He was abysmally ugly. That's what you had decited on. Because the guy clearly had money and was quite a romantic if you would take his gestures and notes as anything other than creepy stalker behaviour.
You had also tried to figure out what SJ could possibly stand for. But that was fruitless, considering that pretty much the only thing that popped up was that idol Kim Seokjin from BTS.
One night, when you were particularly drunk and tried scoping the internet for something new, you came to the conclusion that your ugly stalker must be the idol known as World Wide Handsome.
The next day, you woke up with a nasty hangover.
You couldn't help it, you almost got used to your stalker.
Then, Mikey happened. He was a cardiac doctor, that you shamelessly made heart eyes every time you saw him pass in the corridors. It's not like he knew of you or even glanced in your direction. After all, even though you worked on the same floor, you two were in different units.
It was just fun to giggle with your fellow nurses about how the scrubs looked positively delicious on him. It was one of the few moments during the day when you weren't working, and your mind wasn't wrapped around that creep that stalking you.
You were sitting in the cafeteria, pushing around your food that you made half asleep last night. You know so, because instead of salt, you used sugar to season your cooked vegetables. You canât help it as your mind drifts back to the food SJ left you last night.
It was kimchi. You love kimchi â it smelled homemade too, reminding you of when you were little.
And it smelled soo good. Yet the food in the Tupperware container was the one line which you promised yourself not to cross with him.
It felt too... domestic.
"Is the cafeteria food actually that horrible?"
A voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You lift your eyes and meet a pair of warm brown ones that peek past slightly longer, bleached white hair.
It was Mikey. You automatically blush, "Oh, umn no. Sadly, it's my own food." And the thoughts of my creepy stalker.
His brows furrowed as he sat down on the seat opposite you. You take note of his own packed lunch. "Surely it can't be that bad, then."
You wince, "Don't hold your breath."
He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you, and you almost melt into your seat. Okay, this is actually happening. You are talking to the Mikey Miraculous â a nickname one of the older nurses came up with as she rolled her eyes at you guys, practically drooling over him.
Using his metal chopsticks from home, he picked some vegetables from your container. You watched as his nose quickly scrunched in distaste, and he swallowed.
You start chuckling, "I warned you."
Mikey grins too, still mulling the taste in his mouth, "Is that... sugar I taste? It's definitely... non-conventional."
You sigh, half laughing at your mix-up, half in mortification as you let your face drop into your palms out of embarrassment. "I was tired after a shift."
When you glanced up, the cardiac doctor in front of you was smiling fondly along. You couldn't help but feel yourself blush some more before quickly changing the topic to his packed lunch.
Mikey was amazing. Like, pulled out of your fantasies, amazing. He was a really nice guy, a good doctor and a pretty decent cook. Sure, some of his food was a bit burned and over-spiced, but it was the thought that he always pretended to make extra for you that really mattered.
The next shift, he spotted you in the cafeteria again and handed you a lunch box identical to his, making the excuse of making too much. And you really thought it was a one-time thing.
But as the weeks passed, you had settled into the routine of the two of you eating together at the cafeteria, his homemade food. You really liked Mikey. You even found yourself touching yourself a few nights in the fantasies of him.
The mornings after, you would always wake up mortified and jump to check for possible hidden cameras the stalker had left behind.
You would never find them.
And to your joy, he even asked you out a few times. You really wanted to say yes, but it was either that your schedules didn't align, or you would be just off from a double.
Mikey, as ever, was the most understanding and would not even question, once you would utter the cursed words, "Double shift."
Until one Friday night, the both of you had Saturday off.
To say that you were ecstatic was an understatement. And by the looks of it, Mikey was excited too, as during your shared lunch, he gushed over a new under-the-stars bar that opened up in the city.
It was pretty close to the hospital, and since neither of you owned cars, you settled on walking there. The conversation surprisingly never dulled and he even followed the sidewalk rule. The walk was great, truly.
Until it started raining. And it was raining so hard.
You didn't even think about it. And that was your mistake. You simply noticed that if you took a left, your own apartment was just a couple of minutes away.
So, before you knew it, you were opening your apartment door, taking off your shoes and leading Mikey into your kitchen. Only then did you stop and start thinking that maybe this was a mistake.
Because a fresh bouquet of flowers and a new black box wrapped with the usual crimson silk ribbon were placed on your kitchen counter. As always. Quickly speeding up you snatch the box and place it underneath the table on one of the unused chairs, hoping that Mikey didnât notice or would not ask questions.
"Do you have some sort of flower subscription or something?"
You quickly look over to Mikey, confused and slightly on edge, "What?"
He laughs, awkwardly scratching his head and motioning to the bouquet on the table, "It's just that I always see you bring in flowers to the ICU. And now you have some fresh ones on the table."
"Oh," you let out. You did not know he saw you doing that. You glance at the flowers again. You couldn't tell Mikey about SJ. You should, but not right now.
Right now is just too perfect.
And you want to forget about him right now.
You force out a laugh, "Yeah, kind of."
He nods in acceptance of your semi-not-exactly explanation before clapping his hands and looking around.
"So, is this the infamous kitchen?"
You don't have to force your grin right now, "Yeah."
Mikey begins rolling up his sleeves. "How about I make you something in front of your eyes this time? I promise, my magic works much better when I have a pretty lady helping me."
Shaking your head, you copy his action, pushing your own sleeves up, "I enjoy your lunches already, Mikey."
He points finger guns in your direction, "But you don't love them. Yet. Now what do you have here that we can use?"
Laughing at his antics, you sneak a blushing glance at him, opening up your fridge and cupboards. You're excited to cook with him, you've always thought it was such a domestic action.
You were so excited that you even missed the way one of your overhead lamps, right in front of you, blinked on red.
The next morning, you woke up a tiny bit sore and blissfully happy.
You and Mikey cooked together, and then the two of you slightly burned food when you started making out. Ate, made out some more and then had brilliant sex.
When you woke up, he was already gone, and while your mood had dropped a bit, you brushed it off quite easily. He probably got a call-in. He hadn't left any note, but then again, your phone was dead, so you probably just left you a message there.
And truthfully, with the whole SJ situation, you've started to see any type of romantic notes as wholly unappealing.
Deciding to head to the kitchen for a glass of water, you plugged in your phone, not bothering to check the messages immediately. It was your way of playing cool, for no one but yourself, in particular.
Sipping water and already daydreaming about your next date with Mikey, your eyes catch a glimpse of something underneath your kitchen table, on one of the chairs.
Pulling one back, you are met with another gift your stalker had left you, the one you quickly hid from Mikey.
Shrugging your shoulders, you place your glass on the table and pull the signature red silk bow that always adores the boxes. You don't really get what your stalker's obsession with the decoration was. By now, you have a drawer just full of those ribbons beside your bedside table.
But then again, you don't even get his hyperfixation with you.
You can't figure him out at all. Not that you are trying all that much.
Unlike usual, you read the note first.
Darling, you sounded so sweet last night that I couldn't help but buy you this. I can already imagine you wearing this and unravelling in my hands. âSJ
The neat handwriting left a harsh taste in your mouth. This note was at least a day old, so that meant he was talking about how you pleasured yourself when you thought you were alone and that he not only listened, but possibly watched you.
Could he have seen you and Mikey yesterday?
A pit forms in your stomach. This wasn't the first dirty note like this, but this one fully confirmed your theories. He definitely had surveillance on you. And this note was of a sexual nature, so maybe you could finally try the police again.
You realise that the black box is still unopened. You glance at the note again. He imagined you wearing this and unravelling. As you pull the lid off, you already have an idea of what could possibly be inside, and you are not proven wrong.
Lingere. Crimson lingerie.
Glancing at the discarded silk on the counter, you realise they're the same colour. You roll your eyes. It seems that your stalker has a colour preference.
You are not exactly the biggest fan of such underwear, considering that most fabrics are scratchy and uncomfortable and usually make you feel more insecure than confident.
Yet for some reason, you pull the panties out, feeling the fabric between the pads of your fingers. You feel your brows rise, but you don't know why you are so surprised. You know that SJ is rich as fuck, it only makes sense that the lingerie would be good quality and feel expensive.
You snap out of it pretty quickly.
Dropping the underwear back into the box, you gather the silk thread and head back to your bedroom to throw the box into storage, beside all the other stuff. Before walking over to your phone, you stop by your bedside table, open the drawer and drop in another crimson silk ribbon.
You are not exactly sure why you have kept them. Maybe it's just your frugal mom's effects, who would always save up this kind of stuff.
Shutting the drawer, you pushed yourself to the other side of your bed to where your phone was. And when the screen blinked open, you were met with no new messages from Mikey.
Huffing, you let yourself completely fall back into bed. Maybe after all, Mikey wasn't as amazing as you thought.
You spent the Saturday distracting yourself, trying not to sulk at the fact that Mikey ditched you. But by this point, you were used to men being disappointing.
You weren't supposed to have Sunday off too, but one of the nurses offered to switch shifts with you. And not wanting to see Mikey just yet, with half a mind settled on confronting him and maybe even being petty enough to embarrass him in public, you agreed to a consecutive day off.
You spent the whole weekend inside, which meant much to your pleasure, with no new flowers or other gifts from SJ.
Yet Monday came around, and so did your night shift. Except you hadn't run into Mikey once. Which meant that he was avoiding you.
The thought made you amused. You wished he was scared to face you now. It made you feel better. At least, that was until you overheard one of the doctors gossiping with the charge nurse. Or more like complaining.
"Yeah, honestly it's pissing me off. I was supposed to have these two days off, even booked myself a spa, only for Mikey to not fucking show up and get a call in when I was peacefully sleeping. I'm gonna kill him when he finally shows his face."
Slowly sliding in beside Rey, the other senior night shift cardiac doctor, you ask, "Mikey wasn't clocked in to work?"
She shakes her head. You bite your lip. Now that's weird.
Mikey has always been really passionate about his work, and he even joked with you that sometimes on days off, he hopes to be called in to work.
"Wait, weren't the two of you supposed to go out Friday?"
You look up to the older nurse, "Umn, yeah?"
Rey, beside you, snorts, "Did you break the poor guy's heart or something? Is this why he hasn't shown up for work?"
Sarah, the charge nurse, scoffs, cooing, "Oh, please. Our Y/n is a sweetheart."
"Iâ no. I didn't break his heart," you stumble over your words, answering Rey, suddenly very confused. "He did stay the night, but when I woke up, he was gone."
"Maybe it was a family emergency then," Sarah offers. You just shrug along, not really knowing what else to say.
It makes the most sense. But then he would have at least notified the hospital. And he definitely could have sent you a quick message. Before the unease that your thoughts started fuelling you could fully get a hold of you, a shout of a code was yelled out from one of the patient rooms, and you rushed to grab a crash cart to assist.
Your shift consisted of two more code blues. Thankfully, all three patients pulled through, and Rey even called you a lucky charm, because you havenât had a code that you werenât able to resuscitate yet, now, almost seven months since you started.
Itâs not like you havenât lost any patients, but the unit seems to be set on holding you as a sign of luck.
But in life, you didnât feel lucky. Especially not as you unlocked your front door and noticed a bouquet of your favourite flowers and another box, this time, the colour of it was a rich gold, wrapped in the signature crimson silk ribbon.
Dropping your bag on one of the dining chairs, still in your dark blue scrubs, you begin to pull the box in your direction. And that's when you freeze, actually taking note of the flowers. They looked wrong.
They werenât wilted per se, but something was off about them. As your fingers move the golden box in your grip, a weird, almost slushing sound seemingly echoes through your empty home. It even weighs⌠wrong.
Suddenly, it seems as though everything is wrong.
You even feel your own breathing scatter. Softly shaking your head, you take note that the neat handwriting and the letters SJ are not as usual tucked in between the silky crimson ribbon. Another alarm goes off in your head, but youâre not sure what to make of it. You glance at the flowers again.
And then it ticks for you.
Bringing the vase closer and momentarily abandoning the box, you take a closer look at the flowers. The edges of them are painted an unnatural, slight red. You hadnât noticed at first, because the flowers themselves were a burgundy colour. A shiver runs down your spine.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Something is wrong.
It echoes in your head, yet you are lost. You donât know what to do. What to make of the flowers, of the sinking feeling in your stomach.
Pushing the vase back a bit, you glance one more time at them before looking back down at the golden box sitting in front of you. The words your mom used to always tease you with resurfaced in your head: âCuriosity killed the cat.â
âBut satisfaction brought it back,â little you would always cheekily add on.
But you are not as lucky as a curious cat.
You pull the crimson silk, watching as it falls apart from the box as usual. Pulling the lid off, you are not sure what to expect. But nothing could have prepared you for what was staring back at you.
The inside is stuffed with some kind of black plastic tissue paper that keeps liquid from seeping out. On top is a carefully placed heart.
A real human heart.
It doesn't even look old, yet not fresh either. The tissue decay is evident, yet the organ is not fully wilted.
And before you could even start to question whose vital organ you are staring at, a bloody hospital I.D. badge already answers, neatly tucked in just beside the heart.
You only catch a glimpse of the photo, but that's enough.
Mikey's kind, brown eyes, which are crinkled slightly as he smiles for his identification photo, are burned into your brain forever.
You gasp, the reality finally smashing into you as you stumble a few steps back. You find yourself clutching the collar of your shirt, not knowing what to do. You try to regulate your breathing, eyes wide. With your hands gripping the fabric, you clearly feel them shaking against your body.
Almost crumbling to the ground, you back up, hitting the counter behind you instead. Terrified, you choke, staggering forward, barely standing in the middle of your kitchen. Without your own consent, your eyes snap back to the bouquet of flowers.
The tips are painted crimson.
Oh no.
Your heavy breathing doesn't slow down. Instead, you are aware that you are on the verge of fully hyperventilating. If you're not already.
Fuck, you need to call the cops.
And to get out of this city. Never mind, you need to get out of this fucking country immediately. Maybe you can stay with your aunt in the Netherlands?
You begin to nod to yourself. Yes, yes, that's exactly what you will do. You won't even pack any bags to make your stalker suspicious. You will go straight to a police precinct and then out of this fucking country.
"You really don't like my gifts that much, do you?" A dark, low and confident male voice chides. It holds some amusement, yet not the harmless kind. One of complete coldness.
You freeze. You don't breathe, you don't budge, you don't even dare to blink. You are not sure if you truly just heard that voice, or if it's your mind going completely haywire.
You feel yourself regaining some of your senses after a second. Slowly, you turn your body to your dark living room. The lights are off. But you still see him.
How can you not? It's almost as if the shadows themselves surrender to him, wrapping neatly around him.
He's sitting in an old leather armchair, which you dragged from your previous apartment. From the silhouette, you can tell he's tall, long legs confidently crossed over each other as he leans back in what used to be your favourite place in the apartment.
He fits in the chair perfectly. Like it's his place. Until now, it used to be yours. Your mind uses phrases like it used to be, because you will never look at the seat the same. Before, you would be cooped up in that armchair with a blanket and an oversized hoodie and spend countless afternoons reading your books.
You read the copy of Il Piccolo Principe he left for you there.
Your digits linger above the light switch. But you don't need to turn on the lights, because he begins to stand. As he comes up to his full height, still multiple steps away from you, you already stumble back.
You need to run. To get the fuck out of here.
But it's not like you have the time to. In just two purposeful strides, your stalker, SJ, stands before you. And that's when you truly gasp.
Heâs definitely not abysmally ugly as you thought. No, heâs not some old creep or an overgrown teenager living in their motherâs basement. No, heâs even more than just handsome. Like World Wide Handsome.
The dark, neat hair could have him mistaken for anyone. Even the fair skin, too. But those eyes and lips make you feel sure that you are not.
You know him. Of course, you know him. Everyone in this goddamned country does. You walk past his face where he advertises for Gucci every day on your way to work.
"I asked you a question, darling."
You are truly speechless. Kim fucking Seokjin is currently tilting his head and looking down at you, brow raised, clearly not amused.
Kim Seokjin, a beloved idol, a millionaire with fans all over the world, is your stalker. He must be truly sick and twisted, then. You need to get away. Now.
Not knowing what to do and trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating into a panic attack, you try to turn away from the idol, but you don't even make it a step before he grips your elbows and pulls you back to face him.
He tsks, "What do you think you are doing, Y/n?"
You force yourself to look back up to him, not even fully comprehending the fact that he knows your name, trying to find any feature that would at least confirm the fact that you are not completely out of your mind.
The only thing you managed to stutter out is, "Youâ you are..."
The idol seems pleased that you are bewildered. In fact, he looks absolutely delighted. Of course, that quickly changed when the next words that leave your mouth are not about him, but about that damned doctor who had claimed more of your attention away from him than he allowed.
"You mudered Mikey."
He rolls his eyes, but nods once, almost absently, as though you had commented on the weather instead. His fingers brush against your scrubs. You shiver.
"I got rid of him," he simply says.
A beat of silence passes. You don't think you are breathing.
"I don't like sharing,â he adds as if heâs talking about how itâs going to be cloudy today. Not an ounce of remorse crosses his face. If anything, he seems faintly inconvenienced that you're making him explain something so painfully obvious.
You begin mindlessly shaking your head. Oh, Mikey...
It seems as though Seokjin can read your thoughts. His thumb brushes beneath your eye before delicately tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so gentle it almost makes you forget what he's actually done. That he's your stalker.
"You do understand," he murmurs, almost tenderly. "That it's your fault I had to kill him."
Not his fault. Your fault.
Like he had simply cleaned up a mess you'd made.
You blink up at him, eyes wide, "Iâ are you fucking insane?"
Now that fully pisses off Seokjin. It's weird how you can find yourself easily reading him even if nothing dramatically or explosively changes.
Just something enough for every instinct in your body to scream. The pleasant curve of his lips doesn't disappear. His eyes do. It's like they empty right before your own.
The warmth drains from them until they become cold enough to make your stomach twist.
Then, without warning, he yanks you flush against him. Completely. The force is way greater than you expected. Having been completely caught off guard by the action, your hands fly to his hard chest to keep steady.
He's strong. You've heard rumours that idols are usually lanky. But the hardness under your hands and his strong hold on you argue otherwise.
As you stare at him in shock, not knowing what to expect next, a scary fact enters your mind. He's older than you by at least half a decade, if not more. You are not sure of his age.
He's what, in his thirties? You have just entered your mid-twenties.
But that means that he was in the military. All of them went. It was kinda a big deal for the country. Your father worked in the military before he passed. So, unlike most people, you do realise what they are trained to do there. From building strength to learning how to kill for their country.
And even if he says that he wasn't the one who personally plucked out Mikey's heart, he was emotionless and even proud enough to make you want to wrench. He made sure that not only did it happen, but personally delivered Mikey's heart to your home.
"You wouldn't eat the meals I'd spend hours making for you. Fine," his voice remains infuriatingly calm, snapping you out of your thoughts. "I told myself you were nervous. I told myself you needed time. I was patient."
Each sentence is accompanied by a small nod, like he's recounting sacrifices only he bothered to notice.
"So much more patient than anyone has ever deserved."
His jaw tenses, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. For the first time since revealing himself, something cracks beneath that composed smile.
âBut you deserve it, darling,â he mutters softly. Like the admission costs him something too.
The name makes you want to puke. Youâve seen it scribbled in his notes countless times, but actually hearing him say it with such adoration is making you sick.
"Yet, then you decited to act out. And I had to watch.â
The words come quietly, almost thoughtfully, as though he's recalling an unpleasant memory rather than confessing to stalking you. To watching you.
He is most definitely insane.
Your stalkerâs hand tightens around your waist, and you feel his arm muscles. He's much stronger than you. Even if you tried, your chances of slipping out of his grip are slim to none. Seokjin's fingers dig deeper into your side, possessively. "I had to watch you laugh with him."
He spits the last syllable in a way that makes your breath catch in your throat. The pure hate that you notice in his dark irises is enough to remind you that he, in fact, butchered Mikey.
A humourless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
"You laughed so easily with him."
His gaze drifts over your face, searching every inch of it with unsettling familiarity. "I don't think you've ever smiled at one of my gifts like that," his accusation isn't bitter. It's... disappointed.
Like you've failed some invisible expectation you never knew existed. His thumb strokes absentmindedly over your hip before his eyes meet yours again. You feel another shiver run down your spine.
"And then," he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower. "You didnât even bother hiding the way you shamelessly stared at him."
The words linger between you. But your mind is somewhere else. Your keys. You need your keys.
When you first told your old roommate about your stalker, the next day she sent over a keychain that looked like a cute figurine, but in reality it was a secret emergency button.
You didn't even toss your bag to the ground as usual. It was just a few steps away on a dining room chair.
"You looked at him like..." your stalker's words make your attention snap back over to him. Soekjin lets out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head. "Like he had earned it."
His expression hardens for only a fraction of a second.
"As though I do not exist," He almost laughs.
Your entire body stills. Your brows knit at his sick portrayal of amusement. Everything about the man in front of you makes you sick. The keys are now forgotten in your mind, as eyes wide, you fully stare up at him. Your next breath is also painfully caught in your throat.
Seokjin's smile widens just enough to make your stomach churn. Because you recognise that the emotions displayed on his face donât match the true meaning behind his expression.
"I had to watch as he cooked for you. As you ate together, like a real couple," his tone is pure cynicism. His fingers lingered in your hair. He suddenly pulls at them, not to harm you fully, but you make you whimper in pain.
"That was supposed to be us."
You see the way his angered expression changes, slight satisfaction entering his face as you let out another pained sound from his antics. You want to cry.
Bipolarly, he follows with another soft brush of fingers along your cheek. It ends another round of shivers down your spine. You forcefully close your eyes, shaking your head, trembling, wanting to inch away from his touch.
He stole your favourite childhood book. Now he's stealing your favourite acts of domesticity. Every time you thought of a couple cooking together, you could see your parents. You remember the way your dad would softly tread his fingers into your mom's hair.
Seokjin's large frame hovers over you, one of his hands pulling you flush against him by your elbow. His other hand is almost delicately, like you are some fragile thing, skipping over the skin of your face. His voice lowers into something almost conversational, with you feeling him everywhere you don't want to.
"You behave as though I don't matter. But I see you," he says. "I see you smiling softly at my flowers after a hard day at work. I see you spraying the perfume I chose for you."
His voice drops lower, more gravely. "I know you keep my ribbons."
You are horrified. Because you are not sure if this is his twisted take on reality or if you actually became so domesticated by his stalking. Before, you were only aware of how desensitised you were to the traces of his presence.
Seokjin's eyes burn into you. "I know because I look after you, darling."
His confession isn't whispered. It's not even a confession. You knew he was always there. You knew, and for some reason, you didn't try to take more measures. If you had, maybe you wouldn't be in this situation right now.
Maybe Mikey would not be dead.
The tall man in front of you offers you the truth proudly, "As far as I was concerned..." Another slow drag of his fingers over your skin. This time itâs the hand that cages around your hip. "...we were making progress."
You are not sure how to reply, absolutely terrified. He's crazy.
Seokjinâs fingers slide up your arm almost tenderly. Like someone dusting off an expensive antique. "I've spent months making sure no one frightened you."
He gazes at you as if you are something worth millions. "Making sure you got home safely."
His eyes never leave yours. "I solved problems before you even knew they existed."
His smile softens. "And then..." his grip suddenly tightens hard enough to make you wince. "...you invited another man into our home."
His words register almost immediately.
Your apartment.
He called itâ
Ours.
And it clicks for you. His mind doesn't even need to be as sick and twisted as you've already seen. He was the one who ran you out of your old home. And he is the one paying the lease for this very apartment currently.
A chill runs down your body. Do you even own this place?
He waits. He actually waits.
Head tilted ever so slightly, eyes studying your face with infuriating patience, as though he genuinely expects you to help him finish recounting your own misbehavings.
His thumb continues absentmindedly stroking your waist while he watches panic slowly spread across your features.
"I did, didn't I?" You mutter.
Seokjin's eyes widened ever so slightly. Then the tips of his lips curve up a bit more. It's almost like he's proud of your admission.
Only he doesn't realise why you are appeasing him. You've caught a glance at your bag again. The emergency keychain is back on your mind.
The moment of contentment morphs from his face into something else as he lets out a quiet sigh. It's one of pure disappointment. A smile slowly curls across his lips. Not warm. Not kind.
"You kissed him."
The words are soft, one would deem them almost affectionate. But you know better. They slam into your chest harder than any scream ever could. Silence stretches between you.
You can't even bring yourself to deny it. What's the point? He watched you. You know it. He knows it.
Once again, Seokjin acknowledges your thoughts as if he could read them. His gaze never leaves yours, his voice lowered and dark, "I saw that too."
Every muscle in your body locks. Your stomach twists so violently you think you might throw up.
Your eyes scatter back to your bag before you scold yourself and quickly glance back up to him to not give away your plan. Your stalkerâs fingers tighten ever so slightly around your hips, making you look into his dark eyes.
You feel his gaze travel down to your lips.
"You smiled into the kiss,â the words sound almost curious. "As though you actually wanted him touching you."
Disgust flashes across his face for only a second before disappearing beneath another pleasant smile.
"I tried to be understanding."
He nods to himself, as though reassuring his own conscience.
"I told myself you didn't know any better."
His eyes darken. "But then..." his thumb presses firmly against your hip, hard enough to make you flinch. His lips quirk up ever so slightly. You realise he likes you like that, flinching like a scared animal in his grasp. "...you let him keep kissing you."
A shaky breath escapes your lips.
"I wonder," Seokjin muses, watching your expression with morbid curiosity, "if you'll still taste like him."
The blood drains from your face.
"Oh, darling..." he laughs. He actually laughs, and for a moment you feel like a small, flimsy animal about to get mauled. His laugh is not loud. It's just one soft, satisfied chuckle. "The look on your face."
His thumb brushes a tear from beneath your eye you didn't even know had formed. His smile grows impossibly softer. "Worth every second of waiting."
Before you can take another breath into your lungs, Seokjin closes the remaining distance.
One hand buries itself in your hair, fingers tangling at the nape of your neck. The other cages you against him, leaving nowhere to retreat. His mouth crashes against yours. Not with affection, it feels like ownership.
The force of it steals your breath as much as your balance, your back jolting against him when instinct makes you recoil. His lips are cold. Soo cold. Itâs like heâs dead.
Teeth clash, but he doesnât even care. Oppositely, he seems to be enjoying your resistance. Yet doesnât allow the distance. His grip only tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
A muffled sound of protest escapes you. He feels it. You know he does as the corner of his mouth curls against yours. As though your resistance is exactly what he'd expected. What he wanted.
The thought makes you feel even more disgusted, even if the kiss is making your head cloudy.
In just few minutes, in this one horrid conversation, that felt more like his monologue, youâve had a terrifying realisation. Your stalker has learnt you. He doesnât just know you.
He recognises your expressions. He answers your thoughts before you even voice them.
And somehow, you can read him too.
Itâs like you know him. Even if you really donât.
When you try to turn your head away, to break apart your lips from his, his hand in your hair tightens just enough to stop you. Not enough to injure, only enough to cause pain, to remind you that every movement is his to permit. You wince from the strong pull, your skull burning. The way he kisses you deeper tells you that he practically loves it.
Your lungs burn. Your heartbeat pounds so violently it drowns out everything else. You need air. You are suffocating.
He pulls back just a centimetre before kissing you even harder. Yet you manage to sneak out a pleading, "Jin, please."
The plea is just a little more than a broken whisper. But it seems to do it for him as something flashes across his face. Satisfaction. You can practically feel the way his body responds to you simplifying his name.
His fingers dig into your skin more possessively. His eyes soften with the kind of tenderness that makes your stomach turn. But he doesn't let go. No. He bites your lip and draws blood. You whine out, telling yourself that itâs from the fear and pain.
You plead for him to let you breathe again, and he finally does, pulling back. Barely. His forehead touching yours as he studies your expression with quiet fascination.
"There..." his breathing is perfectly steady. "Now he isn't the last man who kissed you."
His thumb traces the corner of your mouth, wiping away nothing at all. "That's much better."
Yes, much better, you invardy sigh in relief. What the man in front of you doesnât realise is that in all the pushing you did, you subtly turned the two of you around.
Now, just a step behind you are the dining chairs. The keys, as always, are barely keeping their place in your bag. And maybe you are lucky, because the emergency keychain is dangling out.
You now only need to simply wrap your fingers around it and push the bottom of the figurine. You find the confidence to do so, since his gaze never leaves your face.
Trying to play it off, you somehow escape his grasp and stumble into one of the dining chairs. Your hands rest on the table, and you let your head fall into them, your hair falling off your shoulders and obstructing your face from his view.
It works perfectly. Seokjin does not stay away from you longer than a moment. Instead, he comes to stand beside you, his fingers softly but forcefully pulling your face out of your hands in his direction.
Your hands fall from the table, one conveniently falling just beside your bag, fingers practically brushing over the keychain.
You feel his eyes roam all over your face, loose strands of hair stuck in your skin and hiding your eyes from him. He makes sure to pull those to the side so that he can stare right at you. You must look like a mess. You still feel your throat burning from the kiss, and the redness is probably evident in your eyes.
The way your stalkerâs lips curl at the sight, your stomach flips, and you finally make sense of him. Heâs a sadist. He must be one. He seems to enjoy your pain, at least.
At the same time as the realisation crowds you, your fingers find and press the panic button. It softly vibrates under your touch.
A sign that your signal was received.
A struggling breath of relief escapes you. You feel Seokjinâs gaze drop back down to your lips again. This is when you feel confident enough to ask, after all, help is coming.
"Why would you do this to me? Do you even know me?"
He tilts his head, looking almost amused by your confusion, "I do."
He can probably sense that you are about to argue, so Seokjin speaks again, "I could tell you your personal information, how your mother died in a car crash and your father from sickness."
His gaze pins you in place. "But that's not what you mean, do you, darling?"
When you don't answer him and only stare back, his grip on you moves to your chin, forcefully lifting your head towards him. "Mhm, jagi?"
Absolutely terrified, you manage to stumble out, "N-no."
He hums, pleased. Then, âYou became a nurse because you want to help and assist people, just like your mom did with her translating. You prefer your coffee black. You would eat kimchi over anything else. Your favourite way to decompress after a hard day at work is by wearing clothes that are a few sizes too big, playing music in the background and reading an old book with a glass of white wine. You find books that have a murder in them more interesting. And you only read the ones from a female perspective."
You canât help but softly gape at him. He hadnât even faltered or looked like he was trying at all to recall your pleasures. Seokjin smirks, noticing your quietness.
But the next words that leave his lips make you stop breathing. If you weren't sitting down, you would have faltered to the floor.
"Now, I did just as you desire," he lowers his gaze to match your eyesight, slender fingers still tilting your face to him. "We have a murder in our love story now."
Your breathing ceases completely. So, it is your fault that Mieky is dead.
Seokjin doesn't pay attention to your gasping.
âI've already imagined you enjoying all of those other things with me. Back in my apartment, I have a window seat where you could watch people down the street, wearing my clothes, of course.â A hand slithers around your spine, âI would hand you a glass of wine and settle in beside you.â
He leans down, pressing his nose into your hair, âThen I would kiss you like this.â His words are followed by the trail of his lips descending to your neck. He finds a particular spot, and you feel the way he presses bruising kisses there. You try to squirm, horrified by his revelations and trying to get away from him. But his hold is unrelenting.
Suddenly, he bites down. You whimper out of pain and something else. You feel him chuckle against your skin, satisfied, âAnd youâd make noises like this too.â
You are not quite sure when you did it, but your fingers are wrapped in his dark locks. You pull the end of his hair to cause him the same paina nd ache he did to you. But Seokjinâs eyes flutter almost pleasantly as he looks up at you. The position that the two of you are in leaves unwanted flutters in your stomach.
Seokjin is practically kneeling in front of you, hunched over your figure.
âYou thought of all that?â You practically whimper. Once again, the tips of his cold, plump lips, which are a bit swollen from practically eating you alive, twitch upwards.
âOf course, darling.â
You stutter, âWhâ why would you?â
The satisfied expression melts off his face, and he buries his head into your collarbone again, pressing painful kisses on your skin. You forget to breathe. You try to focus on the pain.
You sigh, in what you are not too sure. He glances up at you momentarily. The way he looks at you makes you shift in your place, squeezing shut your eyes. Remember the way he responded to you when you referred to him with a shortened version of his name, you try to get some information out of him with it.
Softly pulling at the ends of his hair, you make him look up at you again.
"Jin, I need to understand why you have done all of this."
He sighs, relenting, his eyes staring so deeply at you that you almost choke. You saw the way his dark eyes as if gleamed when you called him that. One of his fingers tugged pleasantly at the string of your hospital-issued scrub pants.
"It was when I took a break during a solo shoot. There was a park right on the other side of the street. And I saw you."
Your brows knit, not sure where he's going with it. But then you remember that there was indeed a park on the back end of the hospital where most staff exited. Where you exited.
"Some kid fell from one of the playthings. He started crying, but his careless parents must not have noticed." Heâs so intensely staring at you. And the way his fingers slowly pull you even closer to him leaves you breathless.
It seems that Seokjin is very good at making you struggle at a simple body function.
âBut then I saw you walk over to the little boy, help him up and soothe him,â he murmurs softly. âYou told him that you were a nurse, and you pulled out some tissues and cleaned his scraped knees, wiped his runny nose. You calmed him and then ushered him back to play, promising that it was okay to get hurt."
You stare unblinking at the man in front of you. At your stalker. The thing is, you do remember that happening. It was right after your very first shift at the hospital. You were exhausted, already dreaming of your bed, when the kid fell right in front of your eyes.
It was no big deal. You are a nurse. It is your job to aid people, including little scared kids who scraped their knees from being too reckless.
"It was fate. You are meant to be with me," he says, smiling brightly. It seemed that he truly wanted to share his joy with you.
Now he's talking about fate? You were getting serious whiplash from him.
"Because as I walked past the spot where you helped that boy, your I.D. badge layed."
You recall that too. How, when you tried clocking into your second shift, you realised that you had no idea where your badge was. Only the charge nurse caught hold of you before you could panic and tell you that a janitor found it during the mid-day shift.
"The badges had flimsy pins. They fall off all the time," Sarah reassured you.
And you had never thought about that incident again. But that must be how he tracked you down. After all, the badge had a few cards attached to it, one that even held more personal information.
Suddenly, he laughs, genuine happiness displayed in his eyes as he peers down at you to hold the same eye level. His touch is strong and all-consuming. It's like he knows you are trying to bolt out of his touch.
"And then suddenly, another image popped up in my head. Of you raising and taking care of our son." his fingers severely dig into your hips. "I knew it right there and then, that I needed to have more of you. All of you."
You are not sure you heard him right.
Does he even know you don't really like kids?
They're not necessarily annoying, but they do take up a lot of energy. Way more than you currently harbour. Or you have ever had in life, to be honest. And you don't even want to think about bringing someone into this life to whom you wouldn't give your all and more.
Back then, your simple nursing and maternal instincts kicked in. You didn't think twice about calming the little boy, no matter how tired you were.
But that was all that was.
Seokjin must have noticed your wide and scared eyes at his confession of the future he has thought of for the two of you. He shushes and coos to you, softly brushing his slender fingers along your pale skin. "It's okay, darling, don't be scared. We have plenty of time for our family."
Yup, Kim Seokjin is insane. Without a doubt.
âButââ you voice is slightly shaking. You swallow, forcing it to stay steady. You don't get this at all. âWhy wouldnât you approach me normally then?â
You feel almost sad when you ask the question. After all, if he approached you, especially back then, when you hadn't done any research about SJ and wouldn't have recognised him immediately, you still would have definitely liked his advances.
You've already admitted to yourself that if he wasn't your stalker, all of the spoiling would have definitely pleased you. That the gestures would have been romantic if they werenât unwanted.
Seokjin ticks, yet his fingers are still gentle. âThe company keeps us in quite a tight cage. Theyâre not that stupid. After all these years, they caught on to our⌠less-than-ideal fixations.â
You watch to scoff. Instead, the words, âSo, you are aware that you are twisted for doing this," tumble out of your lips before you can even realise what you are saying.
Another round of shivers runs down your spine. You think youâve made a mistake. Youâve had to go through a training course before starting to work at the hospital on how to deal with mentally unstable people.
And antagonising them or acknowledging their unhealthy behaviours is not the way to go.
But Seokjin doesnât seem to be triggered. He simply smiles, âUnlike what you think, Iâm not actually insane, darling.â
Your pulse pounds so violently you can hear it.
Didn't he create a whole ass future with you? You wanted to scream at his face that he is, in fact, mentally unwell, because he already envisioned having a son with you, based on a maxim two minute interaction you had that did not even involve him.
He fucking took the fact that you simply like murder mysteries and decided it was a green light enough to kill the guy you were seeing!
You canât help it. Knowing that help is coming and that heâs going to be seized by the authorities soon, the anger and frustration that have built up over the months are resurfacing.
âNo?â You ironically ask. âBecause the sick future that you have planned, without my consent, and the heart youâve carved out of a guy I liked, beg to differ.â
Now Seokjin ticks. The mention of your dislike of his planned future and your feelings for Mikey seem to do the trick. One moment you are sitting on one of the dining room chairs. The next, you are harshly pulled up and pressed against the kitchen counter.
âYou keep mentioning him,â he spits harshly. âI donât like it, Y/n.â
This is the second time he has called you by your name. It feels just as bizarre as the first time. But this time itâs the emotion with which he says it.
While his words show his anger, the way he uttered your name seemed like he was warning you. Almost pleading not to mention Mikey again.
So, you do.
âAnd I donât like the fact that you murdered and mutilated Mikey.â
Seokjin lets his hand skim beneath your dark scrubs, again, your stomach. But not lower. Just enough to steal your breath away.
âI didnât murder him,â he says lowly, and you stare at him. His eyes are dark. You canât even find a hint of brown in them. His soft touch overwhelms your senses, and you want to puke.
To vomit him out of your system.
His lip curled into something fascinatingâ you push those thoughts down quickly. Fascinating? There should be absolutely nothing fascinating about the sick man in front of you.
His voice softens into something almost intimate, âI just watched.â
You close your eyes, not daring to look at him again. No, he disgusts you. Heâs vile, he doesnât even seem to hold any empathy or awareness. Seokjin lets you look away from him, his hand flexing slightly over your stomach.
"You're so warm," he murmurs, his fingers skimming over your skin. You hate his touch. You hate it because, for some reason, it feels like heâs imprinting himself onto you.
You swallow, trying a different tactic, suddenly afraid of what more his morbid imagination will have him do with you. "You shouldn't have done it like this. You didnât need to do that toâ"
Seokjin cuts you off immediately. âDidnât need to do that to Mikey?â his tone is full of disbelief. Like he doesnât understand how you would even think so.
One of his hands goes to cup your cheek, and out of instinct, you blink open your eyes again. Itâs as if his gaze is searching for something. And the way he even so slightly tilts his head, you know that he figured it out.
Your stomach drops. What if he has figured out you called for help? What ifâ
âIt seems that that pathetic boy is not out of your head yet.â Your brows knit. A harsh breath escapes you. You feel his gaze drop to your lips once more.
âI need to make you fully forget him then,â his touch is searing. His digits drag lower than you would ever allow. You almost gasp. He beams even harder, a thought pleasing him so much that he even voices it aloud to you.
"Maybe we should start our family earlier, mhm?"
Your eyes widen. Just by his tone, you know that he means it. That the thought of you being pregnant by him excites him.
You begin to shake your head, âNo, please, SeokjinâŚâ
His lips twitch when you say his name. But your plea does not steer him away. Instead, he softly murmurs, "I've imagined this happening in many different ways, jagi,â your heart skips a beat at the name. You tell yourself itâs because the insinuation of his words is so foul.
Seokjin kisses the bridge of your nose. You let out a shaky breath. "I thought it would be maybe a bit later, after you have gotten to know me better, but I donât mind.â
"I could still take it slow," he whispers against your lips, sweet like a promise to sneak in an extra scoop of your favourite ice cream just for you. "And kiss you until you forget how it felt to breathe without me.â
You let out a shaky breath. Because for some reason, you fully believe that he could do that. You are already struggling to do in his presence.
Seokjin nudges your hair aside and presses a soft kiss to your neck. Then another. He kisses the bruise he left earlier. Then he leaves one just beneath your ear.
"You'd be so sweet under me," he murmurs. "Soft. Shaking. Finally mine." Another kiss lands on a sweet spot that connects your neck and collarbones. You favourite spot. "Full of me."
You gasp. Not sure if it's because of the way his lips feel on you or because of his words. Or both. You feel him smirk against your hot skin, leaving a trace of where his lips soiled your skin.
He hums, "You'd like that, darling?"
He feels you slightly tremble when his cold lips brush against that spot. His teeth softly catch your skin, but don't break it. Seokjin does it playfully, as if to give you a glimpse of how he can make you feel.
You choke on air and shudder against his cruel lips. His. He thinks of you as his. Seokjinâs hips shift-barely. But enough for you to feel just how badly he wants you.
But the reason why horror is sweeping into your gut isnât because of his touch. Itâs because at first, you don't push him away.
His touch feels too good. Too intoxicating.
You begin to forget about the flowers and the edges of their petals, which are painted crimson. The thoughts of Mikeyâs heart resting in the golden box surrounded by silky crimson ribbon begin to fade away.
But then something else happens. Something you already forgot about. The door breaks open, voices and commands to freeze and get away from the girl fill the room.
But all you feel is Seokjinâs piercing gaze. He looks like you have stabbed him in the back. Heâs almost gasping as a police officer roughly pulls the idolâs hands away from you and cuffs his wrists behind his back.
âYou are making a mistake.â
The words would appear to be directed at the government officials. But you know better. For some fucking reason, you can read Seokjin well. Just his piercing gaze is enough to tell you that those words are for you.
Theyâre a final warning.
Heâs giving you a chance, you realise. To tell the police that there has been an error.
You stay silent. But you donât look away. Itâs like the look he gives you forbids you to breathe. You can still taste him on your tongue. Feel the trail of his cold lips on your collarbones. Behind your ear. The bruise. The soft touch of his digits brushing against your cheeks.
Another police officer, this time a female one, enters your vision, blocking your view of Seokjin. She asks if you are okay. Promises that itâs all over. Apparently, she has worked on one of your calls.
She says something else, gently rubs your shoulders. But all of that fades out as you catch another glimpse of your stalker. Of SJ.
You hear someone is the background mumbling, âIs that notâŚâ
You shake your head, as if trying to shake off this whole situation, hardly breathing. You should be relieved. Itâs all over. Yet with one final glance at Seokjin, you realise something terrifying.
Heâs too calm.
Ronni Rambles pt2: Idk how I feel abt this fic, since it is my first one-shot, but I do have an idea for a part 2, so lmk if you guys want one â if you want to be a part of my taglist, you can do so by messaging me on my profile, or in the comments.
And I REALLY appreciate the likes and reblogs sm since they spread my work!! Including your opinions!!
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