Idc, normalize kink shaming. Cause y'all be using “don’t kink shame” and “it’s fiction” to excuse being into incest, pedophilia, cannibalism, etc. Like, be so fr, you ship a 14 year old with a 30 year, want to get railed by your dad and want to see two brothers f*ck each other. I don’t engage with things fictionally that I don’t like/wouldn’t want to do in real life. Yes, I’m judging you.
Sorry For the absence... but good news or bad, I broke my ankle so I have a lot of time to write!
Type: Imagine
Character : Jax x reader angst
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Imagine, you've been in the circus for quite a while now. As long as Kinger or Ragatha, but you're still pretty young, well, you're 25 now. Yeah, you joined the circus a long time ago, and very young.
Anyway, imagine that you, Jax, Ribitt, Kaufmo, and I were friends, not the best, but still. After their corruption, Jax became attached to you. Extremely.You were all he had left, poor guy. You ended up dating, and now you're a couple.
You always suspected Jax had derealization issues, and it was confirmed.
"Oh my god, it's real!"
You were there with him.The only time you didn't react was when Caine confronted you with your worst fears. You were the biggest, most imposing shadow, and the one laughing the loudest. After that, he hugged you like you were about to die.
"I...we'll find a solution."
"I think I accidentally deleted Caine...and (Y/n)."
"What do you mean, (Y/n)?" Jax said.
An AI.
You were a fucking AI created by Caine, so realistic that even he'd forgotten about you. It was awful; he was stuck here forever without you.
summary: you meet this gorgeous angel boy named hyunjin in the dead of winter. cute right? turns out he’s a serial killer who’s been quietly removing anyone who so much as glances at your ass. and you… forgive him? wholesome! dumb hoe.
warnings: non idol au, graphic violence, blood, gore, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, attempted murder, toxic relationship, possessiveness, brutal codependency, major character death, both of u lowk die, suicide, obsessive love, masochist hyunjin, sexual content(unprotected p in v don’t try at home, blood, sum freaky shi)
word count: 14k
you’re walking in the city. snow is falling. the sidewalk is a skating rink. no doubt that you’re gonna fall.
but when you do, you’re… caught??
“whoa, hey, i’ve got you.”
he catches you mid fall. totally romantic. omfg hello.
you blink up at him. snow in your eyelashes. breath knocked out of you.
he’s pretty. beautiful. it’s unfair, you’re jealous. soft face, pretty eyes, hair dark but there are little snowflakes in it. what the fuck.
okay, rewind. actually just to about a minute back, but still. you were standing there in the snow, blinking, cheeks pink, eyelashes already wet with snow. you looked… stupid cute. like aggressively cute. like a kicked puppy.
hyunjin noticed you immediately.
he was leaning against a pillar, hands in his coat pockets, watching the snow, the street empty out. he likes empty places. fewer witnesses. fewer people.
then there were you. small. shivering. doing that thing where you hug your coat tighter even though it’s clearly not enough. adorable. devastatingly. you muttered “shit” under your breath, and he almost laughed.
almost.
that’s when you slipped.
and now we’re here. he catches you around the waist, steady, like surprisingly steady. he’s done this exact motion a thousand times. just… not usually to save someone.
“you okay?” he says, soft. calm. angel voice. he could sing you a lullaby like… right now. but instead, he helps you stand back up, stabilizing you.
you nod too fast. adorable. your nose is red. your eyes are wide. he could kill for eyes like that. he has killed for less.
“yeah. yeah. i’m just… wow. ice. fuck.”
he smiles. it’s gentle. beautiful.
“yeah.” he says. “it’s bad tonight.” his hands leave your arms immediately, which is polite and also a little disappointing.
you look around, then back at him. “when will this stop?”
“not till morning.”
you sigh. a little dramatic. very cute. hyunjin notices how your breath fogs, how your hands tremble. he hates the cold. not because it’s uncomfortable, but because cold makes bodies stiff. harder to move. harder to… work with.
he clears his throat. “there’s a cafe a block away. still open. if you don’t want to freeze to death.”
you blink at him. “oh. shit. yeah. that’d be—thank you. i mean. yeah.”
“i’m hyunjin.” he says, a little quick in the realization that he should’ve told you sooner.
“y/n.” y/n🥰🥰🥰😊😊😊😊
you smile at him. aww.
you walk together through the snow. he keeps to your left, taller than you. you feel.. so lucky. you chatter nervously. about the weather. about how your hands are numb and you can’t feel your toes and this is how people die, right? like this? slipping and freezing and being found later by a guy with a shovel?
hyunjin hums sympathetically. “yeah. probably.”
the cafe is warm and dim and smells so good. you look relieved the second you step inside. you shake snow out of your hair like a dog. hyunjin watches. fascinated.
you order hot chocolate. extra whipped cream. marshmallows. cutie. he orders black coffee. he doesn’t need it. he just likes holding something hot.
you sit across from each other. knees almost touching. you bounce yours when you’re nervous. it’s unbearable. he wants to tell you to stop because it’s distracting. he doesn’t.
he listens more than he talks. he always does. listening is how he learns people. how he learns their habits. their rhythms. their weak spots.
that’s how he kills too.
he plans. he watches. he waits.
he’s patient.
with you, he doesn’t feel patient at all.
you blow on your hot chocolate and get whipped cream on your nose. he laughs before he can stop himself.
you look embarrassed. “what?”
“nothing.” he says quickly. “you just—sorry. you’re just… cute.”
you blush a lil. it’s brutal. “oh. um. thanks?”
he nods, suddenly very interested in his coffee.
what is this… pushing feeling inside of his chest? is he sick? fuck, he can’t get sick now. he has a body to bury tomorrow.
you talk about how you love snowstorms. how they make everything feel quieter. how unique they are to you.
“yeah.” he says slowly. “i like that too.”
he doesn’t really, we just made that clear, but after all there are a few positive things about it. like how snow covers footprints. how it slows people down. how it hides things.
the storm is still going on outside. you yawn, tiny. he offers his coat when you shiver again.
you hesitate. “are you sure?”
“yeah.” he says. “i’m fine.”
you put it on. it swallows you. you look ridiculous. perfect.
a police car goes past the cafe window slow. lights on.
you frown, just a little, eyebrows knitting together. “oh.” you murmur. “that’s… not great.”
hyunjin turns his head, sees the car. the officers inside. the way one of them is already on the radio.
five hours ago, he pressed a man’s face into the snow until the kicking stopped. gentle about it, even. the snow did most of the work. it always does.
he hums now. angelic. “yeah.”
you watch the car disappear into the white outside. “whatever happened, i feel sorry. for… whoever, i guess.”
“me too.” hyunjin says.
you sip your hot chocolate, then grimace. “shit. i should be home by now.”
hyunjin perks up internally. home. information. he files it away.
you continue, oblivious. “my washing machine is definitely done by now. i left it running. if i forget my clothes in there overnight they’re gonna smell horrible.”
you live alone. good to know.
“that sucks.” he says gently.
you sigh. big sigh for such a small person. “yeah. i hate being out late like this.”
he hesitates. then, carefully, “if i had my car, i’d drive you.”
you look at him, surprised. suspicious, but not unkind. cute little head tilt. lethal.
“or…” he adds quickly, smoothly. “i could call a friend. he’s nearby. he could drop you off.” (he’s talking about chan. does this have any meaning to the story? no, absolutely not. zero. i’m just saying :P)
you pause. think. he watches your face work through it. you shake your head. “that’s really nice of you. i appreciate it. but i don’t accept rides like that from strangers.”
smart girl.
he smiles, beautiful. “yeah. that’s fair.”
you relax a little. “thanks for understanding.”
god. you’re cute when you’re relieved. like a weight visibly lifts off your shoulders. he wants to put it back just to take it off again.
instead, he reaches for his phone. pauses. then slides it across the table. it’s his instagram profile.
“here.” he says. “if you want. just… so i know you got home okay.”
you blink. look at the phone. then at him. you hesitate again.
“yeah.” you say. “okay.” you type your name in, nails clicking on his expensive phone. god, that’s hot.
“please text me when you get home.” he says, too quickly. then corrects, softer “if you want.”
you smile. small. adorable. he could just eat you up. “i will.”
outside, the snow keeps falling. somewhere a body is being zipped into black plastic. hyunjin feels oddly… distant from that version of himself.
he watches you finish your drink, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like a child. whipped cream smudge again. unreal.
interest, he tells himself. this is interest. he feels interest in art. in killing. in his friends telling stories. this is the same category. obviously.
you stand, tug his coat tighter.
“thank you.” you say. “you’re an angel. seriously.”
“anytime.”
you wave. clumsy. cute. then you’re gone, swallowed by white.
hyunjin sits there long after. phone warm in his hand.
interest.
yeah.
sure.
cutie.
you make it home with your fingers numb and your face aching from the cold. you kick the door shut, kick your boots off, and immediately go to your washing machine. when done with that, you shrug out of the coat.
hyunjin’s coat.
smells good.
you pull out your phone.
you: hey. i’m home. didn’t freeze to death
you: the washing machine smells but it’s okay
the typing bubble appears immediately. he was waiting.
hyunjin: good
hyunjin: i mean good that you’re home
hyunjin: not the washing machine part
you grin at your phone. like a loser. adorable.
you: thanks again
you: seriously
you: for the coat and the company
you: you’re sweet
hyunjin is smiling at his phone. if you could see him right now, you’d think he looks beautiful. typing with gentle hands that have done terrible things.
before he could text, you text again. fuck. he should’ve been quicker.
you: i should probably give your coat back to you
hyunjin looks at the wall of his apartment. at the faint reddish stain still there from earlier.
hyunjin: you don’t have to rush
hyunjin: but i wouldn’t say no
you hesitate. chew your lip. adorable habit. you do it when you’re thinking. hyunjin will learn every one of your habits. he always does.
you: maybe we could meet? soon-ish?
hyunjin: sounds good
you meet two days later. coffee again. daylight. people everywhere. you walk in wearing a scarf that’s too big for you, tripping slightly on the threshold. pfft.
hyunjin stands when he sees you. people glance at him, that’s how beautiful he is.
you blush when he smiles at you. you hand him the coat. “here. sorry it took a bit.”
he takes it. “no worries.”
your fingers brush. electric. stupid. he has killed men without his pulse changing. now it spikes because you touched him accidentally.
you get coffee. you talk. you laugh. you ramble. you apologize for rambling. you’re adorable. he watches the way your mouth moves. the way you tilt your head. the way you listen.
that night, he kills again. slits someone’s femoral artery in an alley and waits for the blood to slow before leaving.
he kills clean when he can. quiet. he talks to them sometimes. apologizes. thanks them for cooperating. presses their eyes shut afterward. always gentle at the end.
you don’t see any of that.
you go on more dates. too many. too fast. walks. food. movies. sitting on your couch with your knees touching. you curl in on yourself when you laugh. you tuck your feet under you. you make small, pleased sounds when you’re comfortable.
he learns all those habits of yours.
he’s creepy. let’s not pretend he isn’t.
you don’t notice how his gaze lingers a beat too long on the way your lips wrap around the straw. how he catalogs it. remembers it. the exact pressure. the little hum you make when the flavor hits right. he’s building a library of you in his head. every blink. every nervous laugh. everything.
last tuesday some asshole on the sidewalk catcalled you while you were walking home. you laughed it off, rolled your eyes, kept scrolling your phone. didn’t think twice. but hyunjin was there. two blocks back. hood up. the guy never made it to the next corner. they found him slumped against a dumpster with a knife still in his throat. clean. precise. no witnesses. hyunjin washed his hands in a public fountain three streets over, then texted you goodnight with a little moon emoji. you replied with a heart. he smiled at his screen for eighteen minutes straight.
he knows your shampoo brand now. not because you told him. he went into your bathroom just to take a picture of everything in there. from your hairbrush to pads, he’s got everything on picture. he bought three bottles of the shampoo. keeps one in his shower so he can pretend the steam is you. jerks off with his eyes closed imagining things with you. cums so hard he has to brace against the wall.
yesterday he “accidentally” bumped into your coworker at the grocery store. the one who always lingers too long at your desk. asked innocent questions. got a name. an address. a routine. that night the guy had a car accident. brakes sliced clean through. he died. hyunjin watched from across the street, heart calm. he means well. you deserve better friends. better everything.
he asks about your day like he doesn’t already know every detail.
you tell him anyway. sweet. completely fucking oblivious.
he listens.
later he’ll go home and add today’s notes to the locked folder on his phone. photos he took from across the street last week. a voice memo of you humming while you walked. the receipt from the latte he bought you today. he’ll stare at it all until his eyes burn.
because you’re perfect.
and he’s going to make sure nothing ever fucks that up.
not even you.
fucked up, right?
he stands outside your apartment one night, hidden by darkness and snowfall, just there. he can’t really see into your apartment from that spot, he just likes being near.
you text him ten minutes later.
you: what are you doing
he freezes. heart slams. instincts flare. he scans windows. doors. shadows.
hyunjin: uh
hyunjin: nothing
hyunjin: why
you: idk
you: felt like texting you
he sighs.
yeah. he gets weird like this sometimes. i mean those short words he answered with. sometimes he doesn’t answer for hours. sometimes when he does answer, it’s short.
“k” “yeah” “later” or he answers perfectly normal.
and then you see him in person and he’s flawless. beautiful. calm. gentle. smiling. it fucks with you.
so this time, you say something. you’re at his place. it’s clean. obsessively so. everything has a place.
you sit on the couch, knees tucked up, playing with the sleeve of your sweater. cute. nervous. honest. “can i ask you something?”
he looks at you immediately. full attention. predatory. “of course.”
you swallow. “okay. well. sometimes you just… disappear. you don’t answer for hours. days, sometimes. and when you do, it’s short. i know you don’t owe me constant attention, i just—i don’t know. it makes me feel weird. and i don’t know if i did something or if you’re mad or if you’re just… i mean, i’m not accusing you. i just want to understand. i care about you, and when you disappear, it messes with my head.”
he doesn’t answer right away.
inside his skull, his fucked up little psycho skull, alarms go off. everything collapses.
disappear. you noticed. you noticed the gaps. the missing hours. the blood time. the him time. the part of him he carefully keeps sealed off, hidden behind that beautiful face you like to touch.
“i’m not mad.” he says. “i just… get busy.”
you nod. you don’t fully buy it, but you don’t push. because you’re kind. because you’re trying. “okay. thanks for telling me.” you stand. “i’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick. then we can keep talking, yeah?”
he nods. “yeah.”
this is his first crush. he doesn’t know that’s what it is. he doesn’t have language for it. he just knows that when you’re upset, his brain screams fix it fix it fix it and when he imagines you leaving, something… explodes in his head.
the bathroom door clicks shut.
the second you’re gone, he loses his fucking mind. his breathing goes shallow. his hands shake. he paces once. twice. thoughts stacking on top of each other, loud. too loud for his liking. you noticed. you might leave. you might be slipping away already. you might see him.
no. no. no.
bathroom. locked door. distance. time for you to think. time for you to decide he’s wrong. weird. off. a creep.
no.
he doesn’t even realize it’s a crush. if he did, maybe he’d recognize the signs. the obsession. the jealousy. the way you’ve become a constant in his head. but he’s never had this. never wanted someone like this. never been scared like this.
you turn the sink off.
the sound jolts him.
his eyes flick to the hallway closet. without hesitation, he goes and opens it.
and grabs the shotgun that he keeps in there.
“fuck.” he whispers. “fuck fuck fuck.”
he’s not angry at you.
he’s terrified of losing you.
the bathroom door opens.
you step out, hands damp, swinging them lightly in the air to dry them off. you look relaxed. hopeful. cute as fuck. like you’re about to continue a healthy conversation with the man you like.
your smile is already forming.
then you look up.
the barrel aimed straight at you.
and hyunjin, standing there, beautiful and shaking and completely fucking gone.
you freeze.
gun. real. pointed at you.
“okay.” you say.
your voice comes out steady. which is insane. good job, y/n. very adult of you.
hyunjin flinches like you shouted.
“don’t—” he starts, then stops. jaw clenches. eyes blown wide. beautiful.
you raise your hands slowly. palms out. fingers still damp. you swing them once, awkwardly, because you don’t know what to do with them.
“hey.” you say. “hi. it’s me. it’s just me.”
he’s breathing too fast. you can hear it.
“why is there a gun, hyunjin?” you ask gently.
he swallows. hard.
“i just—needed it.” he says.
“for what?”
he opens his mouth. closes it. shakes his head. “you were going to leave.”
“i was going to pee.”
“after!” he snaps. then immediately softens, panicked. “not—i mean—eventually. you noticed things. you said things.”
you nod slowly. therapist mode. who the fuck let you have therapist mode. “okay but i didn’t say i was leaving.”
his grip tightens. you hear the faint click of something adjusting. your stomach drops.
“you felt weird.” he says. “you said i disappear. that means you were thinking about it.”
“thinking about what?”
“about me not being enough.” he spits. “about me being wrong.”
you inhale carefully. “hyunjin. i was thinking about communication.”
“i can’t communicate. i don’t know what to do.” he blurts. “you weren’t supposed to—this wasn’t—”
“hyunjin.” you say, firmer now. “put the gun down.”
“i can’t.”
“you know damn well you can.”
“why—why are you talking like that?” god, he’s pathetic.
“because i don’t want to die.” you snap. your voice raises just a bit.
his grip tightens. breath stutters. eyes wild. “don’t yell. don’t fucking yell at me.”
“then stop pointing a gun at me!” you shout.
there it is. raised voice. boundary. consequence.
his brain fucking shatters.
“i didn’t mean to!” he yells back. “i just—i just needed you to understand!”
“understand what?!”
“that i disappear because i’m busy! that i’m not ignoring you, i’m cleaning up! that sometimes i come see you with blood still under my nails and i have to scrub until my hands hurt because i can’t let you see it—”
“what?”
he stops.
realizes.
oh.
oh fuck.
“…hyunjin.” you say slowly. “did you just say blood?”
“i kill people.” he says flatly.
silence.
“…sorry.” he adds automatically.
you stare at him. “you—”
“kill.” he repeats. louder. “people. men. usually. sometimes women. not kids.”
“…you kill people.” you repeat.
“yes.”
“like. murder.”
“yes.”
“with the gun.”
“sometimes.”
you sigh, putting your hands behind your head in stress.
“don’t move.” he says, horrified.
“i wasn’t.” you squeak, putting your hands back in front of you. “i swear. i was just breathing.”
“okay. okay. good. keep doing that.”
this is the worst yoga class you’ve ever been to.
“and then… you come on dates with me?”
“i shower.”
that’s when you laugh. you can’t help it. it bursts out of you, loud and hysterical and completely inappropriate. “oh my god. oh my gooood. i knew something was off. i thought you were like. emotionally unavailable. or secretly married. not a fucking murderer.”
he looks offended. “i’m very emotionally available.”
“you pointed a gun at me!”
“because i panicked!”
“you panicked with a shotgun!”
“don’t!” he shouts. full panic now. raw. ugly. violent. “don’t raise your voice at me, i can’t—i can’t think when you do that—fuck—”
he backs up, then forward, then slams his shoulder into the wall. a picture frame crashes. glass everywhere.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you.” he says wildly. “i never meant to hurt you. everyone else, fuck, they deserved it, they were loud and cruel and they didn’t—”
“stop.” you say. “stop talking.”
“i can’t.” he sobs. “you’re the only good thing and now you’re scared and i ruined it.” he did. he really did.
you two stare at each other.
“this is not how i wanted to tell you.” he whispers, beautiful tears running down his cheeks.
you drag a hand down your face. your hands are still slightly damp. you notice this stupid detail and almost cry.
…why the fuck are you worried about him? he’s shaking. ugly, uncontrolled, teeth clenching shaking. the gun wavers in his hands. and something in you decides he looks more like a terrified child than a brutal serial killer. what the fuck is wrong with you.
“hyunjin.” you say softly.
he flinches again, it’s almost like your voice physically touches him.
“can i come closer?”
why would you ask that. why.
he stares at you. pupils blown. breathing ragged.
“…slowly.” he whispers.
you take one step. the barrel follows you. then lowers. just slightly. another step.
he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him. he feels love for you, he just doesn’t know that. his brain doesn’t have a category for that. so it defaults to threat. even when you’re not one.
you reach him.
you’re close enough now to see the way his eyelashes stick together with tears. it’s heartbreakingly beautiful. i was going to say it’s a shame he’s a killer, but thinking about it… it might make him even more beautiful.
“it’s okay. i’m right here. can i?” you ask quietly, gesturing to his face.
he hesitates. then nods. the shotgun slips from his hands and clatters to the floor.
you don’t look at it. you don’t break eye contact. you step into him and cup his face.
he goes still.
your thumbs brush under his eyes. wipe tears away.
“you’re not okay.” you say gently.
he nods. his face crumples, the actual mouth frown and everything when we cry.
“i’m not excusing what you said.” you continue. mature queen behavior. “but i can see you’re not trying to hurt me right now. you’re just… fucking overwhelmed.”
his breathing slows. just a little.
you can sense how confused he is. pairing that with being a killer, your brain comes to the equation of him not being good with feelings. having none at all, even. so you say “i’m not going to leave because you have feelings. it’s simple. you’re scared.”
that’s it. that’s the trigger.
scared.
his entire body goes rigid.
in his mind, scared equals weak. weak equals prey. prey gets hunted.
you’re labeling him prey.
you’re mocking him.
you must be.
you have to be.
because the alternative, that you genuinely care, that you’re holding the face of a murderer and trying to soothe him, that makes no sense. that doesn’t compute. that’s not how the world works.
he jerks back. “don’t mock me.”
“i’m not—”
“don’t!”
okay. cool. awesome. you thought you were getting somewhere.
your instincts kick in.
the gun is three feet to your left.
he runs a hand through his hair again. pacing. back turned for half a second.
that’s all you need. you move. you scoop the shotgun up before your brain can even argue with you.
it’s heavier than you expected.
when he turns back around, you’re already holding it. pointed directly at his beautiful, shocked face.
silence. absolute silence.
his eyes widen.
“…oh.” he says faintly.
“calm the fuck down.” you say. your voice doesn’t shake. not even a little.
he stares at you.
this is new.
no one has ever done this.
no one has ever turned the equation around.
he’s used to fear. to begging. to chaos. he is not used to you. small. cute. hands still slightly damp from the bathroom. aiming a shotgun at him like you were born for this shit.
“you are not the only one who can escalate.” you continue. “and i swear to god, hyunjin, if you take one step toward me without thinking, i will pull this trigger and we will both have a really fucking bad night.”
he swallows.
you’re the fucking boss, y/n.
“okay. you’re going to use your big boy words, hyunjin.”
he blinks.
“clear your fucking head.” you continue. “man up. look at me. and tell me what you feel. now.”
“i—” he starts. nothing comes out.
you wait.
his mouth opens again. closes. his hands clench and unclench. hyunjin doesn’t feel feelings the way people are supposed to. he categorizes. he measures. he controls. emotions aren’t emotions to him, they’re something he sees on other people. you’re demanding something he doesn’t have. and pressure, especially emotional pressure, hits the same place in his head as danger.
“i don’t know. i don’t know what i feel, i don’t—why are you asking me that—”
“because i need to know what the fuck is happening.” you say. firm. shaking. brave as fuck.
“i can’t.” he yells. “i can’t do this, you’re asking the wrong thing, you’re— i don’t feel. i don’t know what you’re asking me for.”
demand + confusion = meltdown.
“don’t corner me.” he whines.
“i’m not cornering you.”
“you are. you’re making me—think.”
he grabs some stupid decorative thing off the shelf. ceramic. expensive looking. fragile. he hurls it at the wall. it explodes. ceramic shards everywhere. dust. noise.
he takes a step toward you. bad move.
your finger jerks. you don’t even mean to pull the trigger. you just want him to stop moving.
BANG.
the sound is huge. violent.
the recoil nearly knocks you on your ass.
the bullet slams into the wall behind him.
everything goes dead quiet.
you stare at the smoking hole in the wall.
he stares at you.
you stare at him.
“…holy shit.” you whisper. “i don’t know how to shoot.”
he exhales, shaky. almost hysterical. “i can see that. do you want me to teach you?”
“yeah, sure. why not.”
he steps closer. “okay.” he says casually. “first, safety. finger off the trigger unless you’re ready to fire.”
you do that. immediately.
“good.” he murmurs. “now, your stance.” he moves behind you. you can feel him. warmth. breath. his hands hover, then gently guide your arms. “relax your shoulders.” he says. “you’re tense.”
no shit.
“this part here.” he continues calmly, pointing. “that’s the—”
you freeze.
you realize what’s happening.
you turn, knee right into his crotch.
he lets out the most undignified sound you’ve ever heard. cursing so filthy it turns you on. before he can recover, you swing the gun back and crack it against his head.
he goes down.
you step back, gun raised, breathing hard.
he groans on the floor, curled slightly, stunned and wheezing, but not out. never out. you underestimated how fast he recovers. that one’s on you.
his fingers close around something sharp. ceramic. a jagged shard from the thing he smashed earlier.
you see it a half second too late.
the glass slices into the side of your lower leg.
“FUCK.” you scream, dropping hard to the floor.
your gun clatters away. useless now. fantastic. great job.
blood starts welling instantly. gushing. it hurts so much.
“shit. sorry.” hyunjin breathes.
“oh now you’re sorry?”
“i didn’t—”
“you CUT ME. with GLASS. what the fuck is wrong with you?
he scrambles backward on his hands, eyes big. “you hit me in the head with a gun!”
“AFTER YOU POINTED ONE AT ME.”
“YOU SHOT AT ME.”
“I MISSED, BITCH.”
you both freeze for half a second.
then you both move at once.
you crawl. he crawls. you kick out with your good leg. he dodges. you grab at his sleeve and miss. he grabs your ankle and you shriek.
“don’t TOUCH me.” you yell.
“stop MOVING.”
you try to scoot away. he grabs your shirt. you both roll.
somehow you end up face to face, breath ragged, both of you shaking and furious.
you shove him.
“get OFF me.” you yell.
he… actually does. crawls back a little, then looks at you with those angelic eyes.
“why?” you say finally, quieter. “why do you do this?”
“do what?”
“kill. what do you think, what? dipshit.”
he rubs his face with both hands. smears a little blood from his temple. doesn’t seem to notice. “…i don’t know how to stop.”
“what do you mean?”
he stares at the floor for a long time.
“when you asked me what i feel, my brain went blank. people say things like ‘i care’ or ‘i miss you’ and it’s like they’re speaking another language. i mimic it. i copy what works. but inside? it’s mostly empty. with you, it wasn’t empty. it was confusing. i didn’t know what to do with it. i think that’s why i got scared.”
you sit there. bleeding. shaking. listening. “…i wanted more. not like, marriage or whatever, just. more honesty. more you. i thought we were building toward something.”
“i liked you.” he says. “i still do. i think. as much as i can like anything.”
there’s a long silence. broken only by both of you breathing and the faint drip of blood onto hardwood.
“well…” you say. “this is not how i imagined you opening up.”
“…you shot at me.” he replies.
“and you look like a woman.”
he stares. horrified. “what does that even mean.”
“i don’t know.” you say. “i’m stressed.”
“that’s incredibly offensive.”
“you tried to kill me.”
“…fair.”
you both sit there.
you’re bleeding. he’s bruised. there’s broken glass and ceramic everywhere. the gun is just… there.
you look at him.
he looks at you.
“…so why don’t we do it?”
“…do what?” he asks carefully.
you gesture between the two of you. the room. the mess. the whole fucked up situation. “this. us. whatever the fuck this is.”
he watches you. his psycho brain all over the place.
“hyunjin.” you say. “i’m fine with you killing people.”
“you’re—what?”
“i mean, not like. yay murder. but i already clocked that you’re fucked up. that wasn’t the dealbreaker. i freaked out because you pointed a gun at me, not because you kill. i don’t want to be scared of the person i’m with.”
his mouth opens. closes. his eyes are glassy. “…i thought you were disgusted.” he admits quietly. “i thought you were going to leave because i was… wrong. i freaked out because i thought you weren’t fine with me.”
you scoot closer. slow. you watch him tense, then force himself not to pull away. he’s trying. badly, but trying.
your leg throbs.
“can you help me with this?” you ask, nodding at the cut.
he snaps into focus instantly. purpose. something he understands. “yeah. yeah. okay.”
soon, the cut is clean. the process was… brutally intimate, to be honest. i don’t have to write it because both of you were quiet, but… damn.
he wraps the bandage. secure. gentle. the gauze is hello kitty print because that’s all he had in the bathroom. you don’t ask why a serial killer owns hello kitty gauze.
“there.” he says softly. “it’ll heal.”
you look at him.
he looks at you.
you lean in. ugh, you’re not wise, y/n. but you kiss him anyway.
the kiss is awkward at first. hesitant. mouths barely touching. then he exhales. and it deepens. careful. hungry.
“next time we talk before the guns come out.” you murmur into his mouth.
he lets out a shaky laugh. “deal.”
kissing keeps on going. his mouth feels so good. he smells good. he’s so… unique.
“i wasn’t gonna actually shoot you.” he mumbles into your neck now. “just… scare you a little.“
“you’re so fucked up.” you whisper back, but you’re already kissing the corner of his mouth.
“mhm.” he agrees. kisses you harder. there’s blood transferring from your leg to his body.
he slowly leans you back so you’re on your back in the blood puddle. it’s warm. gross. kinda nice? you don’t have time to decide because he’s tugging your pants down your legs. underwear? who the fuck knows. probably already somewhere near his dignity when you kneed him in the balls. speaking of…
you palm him through his jeans and he hisses, whole body jerking.
“poor baby. still hurt?” you ask, way too sweet.
“like a motherfucker.” he grits out. but he’s already rocking into your hand, so clearly pain has not killed the vibe.
“should i kiss it better?”
“later.”
you start to pull his shirt over his head. it gets stuck on his ears for a second. he looks like a kitten. you cackle. he growls, finally frees himself, then dives back in to suck a bruise into the side of your throat.
you fumble with his belt. it’s one of those stupid skinny ones with the tiny buckle. fashion asshole. your fingers are slippery with blood. it takes forever.
“having performance issues?” he teases.
“shut up, killer.”
he finally gets it undone himself, one smooth yank, and shoves his jeans down just enough. then comes his underwear. he’s hard, leaking already, and you think jesus christ he’s been hard since he got hit in the head with the gun.
he holds your ass up, then he’s slowly, inch by inch, inside you and it’s… fuck. it’s a lot. he’s careful at first, mindful of the cut on your leg, the blood, the smoking hole in the wall ten feet away. but you hook your legs around him and say “harder, asshole” and whatever leash he had snaps.
he hooks your good leg over his hip. the wounded one goes on his shoulder, and he slams home in one brutal thrust.
you both yell, you because it stings because no prep no lube no protection no morality, him because apparently getting kneed in the balls earlier has after effects.
the floor is slick. every thrust makes this obscene wet slap, blood, arousal, sweat, whatever else is leaking out of both of you. your leg is still bloody. it’s dripping down your ass crack now. great.
when he shifts your legs higher, folding you basically in half, your bandaged calf ends up near his face. he pauses mid thrust, eyes flicking to the hello kitty gauze. then he leans down and presses the softest kiss right over where he cut you.
aw. you clench around him so hard he sees the light.
blood smears on his chest because it runs down your thigh, which touches him. his hands leave red prints on your hips. you’re both laughing between moans.
another thrust. your back slides through the blood puddle. it’s starting to cool. sticky. you don’t care.
when he starts to shake you remember. “pull out. when you’re close. pull out.”
he laughs, breathless. “after that kick? i’ll be lucky if i can feel my dick at all. but yeah. promise.”
he manages it though. heroic, really. pulls out at the last second with this strangled noise, hand flying down to fist himself twice before he cums messily across your stomach. ropes of it hit high enough that one almost lands on your tit. artistic.
he’s panting. collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush your bad leg. kisses your jaw, your collarbone, the underside of your chin, not caring that he got some of his own jizz on himself. then, because he’s nothing if not committed to the bit, he slides down your body, hands gentle on your thighs, and buries his face between your legs.
“what’re you—”
“gentleman.” he mumbles against your cunt. “finish the job.”
bitch u just tried to shoot me.
the tongue game is brutal tho. flat and broad and then pointed and flicking and jesus christ. he eats you like he’s starving. uses every trick he’s apparently been cataloging since the first time he smelled your shampoo. those kitten licks with actual force put into them??? out of this world.
that’s why you’re loud. embarrassingly loud. thighs squeezing his head, hands in his hair, pulling hard enough that he groans into you, hips grinding up. the bandage on your leg rubs against his back and it stings and it’s perfect.
the bullet hole in the wall watches as you cum. loud. embarrassing. back arching off the floor. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, shoving weakly at his head.
he finally pulls back, chin shiny, looking so fucking proud of himself you wanna kiss him again. so you do. taste yourself on his tongue. taste blood. you don’t know who’s so you just deal with it.
“be my girlfriend.” he says. bold as fuck.
you blink up at him. brain still rebooting from the orgasm. “what?”
“girlfriend.” he repeats it slower, like maybe you got concussed in the fight on the floor.
you stare at him. he stares back. unblinking. earnest. fucking insane.
“yeah.” you say finally. “okay. sure. why the fuck not.”
he surges up to kiss you, deep, stupidly sweet for a serial killer, and you’re laughing into it.
he finally pulls away to kneel up to pull his pants back up. the second his ass is in the air you sit up fast and smack it. hard.
he smiles. sighs. finishes pulling his pants back up, not bothering with the belt now, then he tackles you back down to the floor.
you’re rolling now, laughing, cursing, blood everywhere. he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other sliding down to squeeze your ass. you bite his shoulder. he groans.
he starts kissing down your body again. you’re still giggling, half drunk on hormones and blood loss probably.
“wait wait wait.” you gasp, pushing at his shoulders. “stop. i’m gonna be so fucking sore tomorrow.”
he stops. pulls back. props his chin on your hip and looks up at you. “but only because you asked nicely.” then his gaze drifts lower. between your legs. he smirks, slow and filthy. “you shaved.” an observation. proud as hell. no, it’s not creepy, he’s just letting you know that he knows that if someone shaves, then they most likely expect something to happen. he has gotten enough pussy to have a good experience with that.
you shrug. “yeah. thought maybe i’d hit tonight. figured i’d be prepared.”
“and you did hit.”
“damn right i did.” you reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, tug him back up so you’re face to face again.
he kisses you again. softer this time. little fast kisses at the end of the big kiss.
“gonna take such good care of you.” he murmurs against your lips. “no more guns. unless you want ‘em.”
“we’ll see.”
he shifts down carefully, picks up your discarded panties from where they ended up halfway across the room. black lace. cute little bow. he slides them back up your legs slow, gentle.
then he notices you wince when you try to bend your knee.
“cut’s hurting?” he asks, instantly serious.
“yeah.” you admit. “stings like a bitch now that the adrenaline’s gone.”
he nods once. “okay. let’s go check it.”
you end up on the edge of the bathroom counter. in your shirt, panties, socks, watching hyunjin peel the hello kitty gauze off. it looks horrible but at least not actively bleeding anymore.
he hisses through his teeth. “fuck. i really got you good.”
“don’t say that.” you say immediately.
he huffs. “well, i’m not gonna lie to you.” not anymore.
he reaches for the cabinet. antiseptic.
no. absolutely fucking not.
“no.” you say, scooting back instinctively.
he pauses. looks up at you. blinks. “…yes.”
you plant your hands on the counter. “i’m serious. i’ll pass out. or scream. or throw up. or all three.”
“you’re not getting an infection.” he replies calmly, unscrewing the cap.
you try to slide away.
he firmly grabs your thigh. “don’t.”
you whine. actually whine. humiliating. “please don’t.”
he exhales slowly. “i know it hurts. i know. but i need to clean it.”
“need is a strong word.”
“beloved.” he says softly, and fuck you for how that nickname works on you. “look at me.”
you do. bad idea. his face is open. beautiful. he means this. it fucks with your head.
“okay.” he says quietly. “hold onto me.” he steps closer, pressing you against his chest. one arm around your back “i’m going to do it now.” he warns.
“wait—”
he pours.
you scream. there’s no dignity left in you. you clutch him, face buried against his shoulder. he doesn’t stop though.
“I know.” he murmurs, voice calm, not caring about that you probably just shattered his eardrums. “i know. you’re doing so good. just a little longer.”
you’re crying now. shaking. fingers digging into him. it hurts so bad your vision goes spotty.
and he feels… good. he feels powerful. needed. trusted. you’re clinging to him, sobbing into his shoulder, letting him hurt you even though he already hurt you once. his heart is pounding. his breath uneven. this, this is a sensation he doesn’t have a word for. it lights something up in his brain that has always been dark.
he finishes. finally. quickly bandages it again, hands gentle now. “okay.” he whispers. “it’s done.”
you don’t let go. your forehead is pressed to his collarbone. you’re still sniffing.
“you’re okay.” he says softly, holding you. “i’ve got you.”
“you’re kind of an asshole.”
“yeah. i know.”
god, he never wants this to stop.
and it doesn’t stop. you’re his girlfriend now, remember?
your leg heals slow after this. not infected, thanks hyunjin, but tender.
stairs? his arm is already there.
curbs? hand hovering at your waist, ready to catch you if you lean into him.
uneven pavement? “arm.” he murmurs.
and you take his arm. every time.
then there’s the feelings problem (or lack thereof) you notice that he still doesn’t feel like you do. you’ll say “i missed you” and he’ll pause just a second too long before answering. not because he doesn’t care, because he’s translating. what does that mean? what is the appropriate response? what does missing feel like in the body?
sometimes he mirrors you. sometimes he gets it wrong.
you learn not to take that personally.
though there are nights you cry quietly in the bathroom because you want him to ache for you the way you ache for him. because you want to be wanted without having to explain the instructions first.
but then he knocks on the door, opening it a bit, checking in.
“are you sad?” he asks.
you nod.
he sits on the floor with you.
he may not feel automatically, but when he chooses to care, he wants to. he finds that right. it’s sincere when he cares, and he cares about you. and suddenly you don’t mind what you just cried about.
he just… observes you. when you text him “miss u” he replies with a photo he took of you sleeping last week (you don’t ask when or how he got in)
but what makes this work, is that he never lies to you again. not about disappearing. not about why he’s off. not about the fact that he is what he is.
in return, you don’t try to fix him. you don’t say “therapy would help” or “have you tried journaling” because that would get you murdered in spirit if not in body.
instead, you set rules. no disappearing without warning. if he’s thinking bout weird shit, if he’s upset, he says so. if you say stop, he stops. if you’re scared, it matters.
he writes them down. not metaphorically. literally. in a small, neat notebook. his handwriting is brutally attractive.
he respects your boundaries. he tells you when he’s going to disappear. when he comes back, he showers first. always. long and thorough. sometimes he stands in the doorway afterward, towel around his waist, hair damp, looking… wrong. too quiet.
those are the nights you don’t ask questions. you just open your arms. he steps into them every time.
you learn the signs of when he’s dangerous to the world and when he’s dangerous to himself. they’re different. to the world, calm. focused. distant. to himself, restless. tense. touch starved.
you handle the second one.
the first one… you live with.
sometimes he watches you sleep and thinks about how fragile you are. how easily he could ruin this.
and sometimes you watch him wash dishes, sleeves rolled up, humming softly, and think about how strange it is to love someone who contains that much violence and that much care in the same body.
his art is where you really see it. he draws obsessively. sketches. charcoal. ink. sometimes paint. the same hands that do terrible things are capable of absurd tenderness on paper.
his work is intense. not violent, exactly, just exposed.
something is deep in him. it’s just buried under this constant… static in his heart. his art is where they leak out.
there are setbacks. days he goes cold. distant. locked inside himself. you learn the signs, shorter sentences. less eye contact. restlessness in his hands.
you call it out gently now. “you’re disappearing.” you say.
“i am.”
that honesty is new. hard, but a win. you learn quick that pushing him to “talk about it” makes him shut down harder. so you don’t. you just crawl into his lap and kiss his neck until he comes back to you.
sometimes he leaves. but now he tells you where he’s going. when he’ll be back. sometimes he doesn’t come home clean, and you don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
that’s a choice you make.
and slowly, so slowly you almost miss it, he starts to feel more. not all at once. but he gets jealous one day and doesn’t understand why. gets anxious when you’re quiet. feels something sharp and unpleasant when you’re hurt and realizes, with genuine shock, oh. that’s mine.
that’s attachment.
that’s feeling.
he’s affectionate in bursts. sudden. intense. will pin you against the fridge at 3am and make out like the world’s ending then walk away to make tea like nothing happened.
sex is easy, because you two kind of started with that. sex does make dealing with this easier tho.
he still starts gentle because your leg’s fucked up for weeks. but when you’re finally cleared for “full activity” (his words, doctor just said “take it easy”), that’s when the freak shit ramps up.
it’s always his pain he craves. needs. he begs you to hurt him during sex. not playfully. seriously. gross serious.
first time it happens you’re riding him slow on the couch. your leg’s still tender so you’re careful.
he grabs your hand, guides it to his throat. “harder.” he whispers.
you squeeze. his eyes roll back. cock twitches inside you.
“more.”
wtf sure. you press until his face goes red, veins popping, beautiful even like that.
he cums so hard he blacks out for a second. wakes up gasping, smiling ear to ear.
you experiment. because why the fuck not. bite his throat, not just the side of his neck but throat. he cums untouched the first time you do it. just shudders and spills between you with this little whimper that shouldn’t be as pretty as it is. after that it’s game on.
he begs for your teeth on his nipples. your hand around his throat. slaps to his face that leave pink handprints on that porcelain skin. he likes the sting. the humiliation of it.
you call him pathetic once mid thrust and he cums so hard his vision blacks out for a second. you have to hold him through the aftershocks while he shakes and murmurs thank you thank you thank you against your collarbone.
he never asks you to take pain. not once. if you even flinch wrong he freezes. switches to soft kisses and slow rolls of his hips, apologizing with his dick. the gun’s unloaded and locked away. he learned. or maybe he just decided your skin is too perfect to mark again unless you ask. (you haven’t. yet.)
but for him? anything goes.
knife stuff. not on you. on him. he drags the blade across his own chest while you’re bouncing on his dick. shallow cuts. he smears it on your tits. licks it off. “look what you make me do.” he murmurs.
you tie his wrists once with one of your scarves. pink. cute. he could rip it in half if he wanted. he doesn’t. just lies there spread out and gorgeous, cock leaking against his stomach, pupils blown, begging you to hurt him more. you scratch down his chest. red lines come out. he watches them form with this shining look. then begs for your mouth on them. you oblige. he sobs when your tongue drags over them. cums again just from that.
aftercare is where the “no feelings” thing gets… hard to believe. he turns into this clingy, quiet thing. curls into you. lets you clean the bite marks with gentle dabs of antiseptic. kisses your palms after you wash your hands.
sometimes he just wants to be used. lies there passive and pretty while you ride him until he’s crying from overstimulation. sometimes he pins you down and fucks you lovingly.
one night after he’s come across your tits again (his favorite canvas apparently) and licked you clean like a gentleman(freak), he looks up at you with those big soft eyes and says, quiet: “i think this is what happy feels like.”
“yeah?” you card fingers through his sweaty hair. “congrats on discovering an emotion, babe.”
he smiles. small. beautiful.
and he’s there for you. in life. once you went to a job interview, which you were excited about. like stupid excited. when you got home, you were pacing around the apartment, talking with your hands, doing that little bounce.
you were good. you knew you were good.
and then the email comes.
you didn’t get the job.
hyunjin notices it on your face immediately. “you didn’t get it.” he says.
you shake your head. “no.”
he comes closer, slow, unsure because he doesn’t know how to comfort someone.
“i thought i did really well.” you say. quieter now. “i thought i was… good.”
“you are good.” he says.
you scoff weakly. “you’re biased.”
he frowns. “i’m very objective. you prepared. you practiced. you were excited. those are not things people do when they’re bad at something.”
you look at him. surprised.
he shrugs. “i read. a lot.”
you hug him.
then your roommate is moving. sudden. no real explanation. just lots of “it’s complicated” and “i need a change” and “it’s not about you, i swear.”
you’re panicking. you tell hyunjin that night. sitting on his couch, knees drawn up, fingers twisting together.
“so i guess i need to find a new place.” you say.
he looks at you like the answer is obvious.
“you could stay here.” he says.
you laugh. “that’s… not how that works.”
“why not?”
because it’s intense. because he’s complicated. because moving in with a man who once pointed a gun at you feels weird.
you don’t say any of that. “it’s a lot.” you say instead. “and i don’t want to rush.”
he nods. accepts it. but you see the way something tightens in his jaw. disappointment, maybe. or fear.
but you end up moving in anyway. you stay over sometimes as usual, one night turns into two. two turns into a week. your bag stays by the door. then your toothbrush appears in the cup next to his.
hyunjin wants it. really, really wants it.
“you don’t have to go back tonight.”
“your stuff would fit better here.”
“it’s better when you’re around.”
which, honestly, is terrifying coming from a man like him, but also… kind of devastatingly sweet.
when you finally say, “i think i’m just gonna bring the rest of my things over.” he goes very still.
“…okay.” he says. too calm. suspiciously calm.
then, ten minutes later, you catch him reorganizing an entire bookshelf to “make space for you.” which is his version of screaming with joy.
living with him is an experience. first of all, he is a neat freak. not in a cute, wipe the counter way. in a labels inside drawers, everything aligned way. his place has always looked like nobody actually lives there.
and then you arrive. your sweaters end up draped over chairs. your mugs migrate to random surfaces. you leave books face down, half read. your shoes do not line up perfectly and it makes his eye twitch.
but he never asks you to stop. instead, he adjusts.
you find him folding your clothes once and freeze. “you don’t have to do that.”
he looks up, confused. “i want to.”
he likes it. he likes your presence disrupting the system. likes seeing evidence that someone else exists here. likes your hair ties on the sink, your handwriting on sticky notes, your laugh echoing down the hallway while you’re talking to your friends on the phone.
sleeping next to him is another thing entirely. he doesn’t move much. stays perfectly still unless you move first. then he adjusts around you.
sometimes you wake up and find him awake, staring at the ceiling.
“can’t sleep?” you ask.
“just thinking.” he says.
about what, he doesn’t say. but you know.
he starts feeling things out of order. irritation when you’re sad. relief when you’re safe. something unpleasant when you talk about leaving the city for a week to go somewhere with your friends.
one night, he admits it. “when i imagine you not here, it feels… wrong.”
you smile softly. “that’s missing someone.”
he frowns. “i don’t like it.”
“no one does.”
that’s comforting. you’re good at comforting.
one day it’s raining. hyunjin’s in the alley behind that bar you like. hood up. knife already warm from his pocket.
the target is some drunk prick who bumped into you last friday. shoulder checked you hard enough your drink spilled. you laughed it off. hyunjin didn’t laugh, but that has no effect on you because you didn’t know he was there. watching out for you. and he memorized the guy’s face. jacket. laugh. the way he leered when you bent to pick up your phone.
now the guy’s pissing against the brick wall.
hyunjin thinks of you the whole time. how you’d look right now, probably curled on his couch in his oversized sweater that you like so much, scrolling tiktok. wonders if you’re hungry. pasta tonight? that creamy one you like. or maybe takeout. chinese. extra egg rolls because you steal his.
his knife slides in under the guy’s ribs. the guy shouts, hands flapping useless. hyunjin twists once. pulls. blood mixes with rainwater.
guy slumps. dies around for a bit. hyunjin wipes the blade on his coat sleeve. steps back. no rush. calm, like always.
except tonight there’s a flicker. tiny. annoying. he pictures your face when he gets home. you’ll smell the rain on him. ask if he’s okay. touch his cheek while checking for fever. you’ll never know this blood is for you.
and when your therapist cancels an appointment later, then another, then disappears entirely, you text hyunjin immediately.
you: hey
you: can u come home
he responds instantly.
hyunjin: always
you tell him how these things lately have been fucking you up. and about the therapist. he listens. eyes on you the whole time.
“you can talk to me.” he says when you trail off. “anytime.”
you hesitate. “i don’t want to… replace my therapist with you.”
he considers that. nods. “good. i shouldn’t be a replacement.”
you look at him. the angel face. the careful posture. the depth you keep discovering in the least obvious places.
“you help.” you admit.
he exhales. relieved. “i want to.”
a month later, hyunjin goes after a construction worker who catcalled you outside a cafe. loud. “nice tits, sweetheart.” you flipped him off and kept walking.
now it’s 1am in an empty parking garage. the guy’s fumbling with his truck keys. hyunjin comes up behind him quiet. plastic zip tie around the throat before the man even turns. pulls tight.
the man gurgles. claws at the tie. hyunjin thinks about that morning. you in his kitchen wearing nothing but his t shirt. hair a mess. making pancakes badly. you burned the first batch and blamed the pan. he ate them anyway. kissed the flour off your cheek while you complained about the smoke alarm. he remembers how you tasted like the pancakes. how you climbed into his lap at the table.
the guy stops moving. body slumps between two cars. hyunjin steps over it. thinks maybe he’ll make pancakes tomorrow. better ones.
next kill. apartment building. target’s the delivery guy who lingered too long at your door back when you two weren’t dating yet. knocked twice. smiled too wide when you answered in shorts. hyunjin was in the stairwell. heard it all.
now the guy’s in the basement laundry room. folding clothes. alone.
hyunjin steps in. door clicks shut.
this one he strangles. hands around the throat. personal. the guy thrashes. face purple.
hyunjin’s beautiful face is blank except for the eyes, soft, almost sad.
he thinks about your leg scar. the one he gave you. how it’s fading to pink now. how you trace it sometimes when you’re distracted. he wants to kiss it again. lick the raised line until you squirm.
the guy stops moving. hyunjin lets go. body slumps into the laundry basket. ridiculous.
next is some ex of yours from years ago. hyunjin found him on facebook. messaged you last month trying to “catch up.” you showed hyunjin and didn’t text back.
now the guy’s jogging at dusk. trail through the woods. hyunjin waits there. tackles him from the side. pins him face down in the dirt. knee on the spine. hand over the mouth. knife slides in between the little bones of the spine. paralyzing.
then he works. slow cuts. just enough pain to make the man understand that he’s going to die.
hyunjin’s mind drifts again. to last night. you asleep on his chest. breathing soft against his collarbone. felt so good.
maybe this is what people mean when they say love.
hyunjin finishes the guy. one last cut. throat. quick. merciful. almost.
he sits back on his heels. blood on his jeans. looks at the sky through the branches. it’s purple. sunset. you’d like the color.
he wipes his hands on leaves. stands. walks back to the car.
on the drive home he thinks about that the kills used to be empty. satisfying. now they feel… secondary. the real thing is waiting at home in his clothes. looking up when he walks in and smiling like he didn’t just end four lives this month.
he parks. sits in the dark for a minute. hands still tacky with drying blood.
he thinks maybe he’s in love.
he gets out. locks the car. heads upstairs.
you’re on the couch when he opens the door. hair up. legs tucked under you. bowl of blueberries in your lap.
“you’re late.” you say. grinning. “i saved you some.”
he looks at you. and for the first time in his life something inside him doesn’t feel hollow.
it feels full.
he crosses the room. kisses you slow. tastes the blueberry on you.
“sorry.” he murmurs against your mouth. “got held up.”
you laugh. pull him down beside you.
“s’okay. you’re here now.”
yeah.
he is.
you feed him a blueberry.
this is better than any kill.
this is everything.
even when you leave a mess at home. because you do that.
and as i said, hyunjin needs the cleanness.
you leave one (1) coffee mug on the counter? his eye twitches so hard you think he’s having a stroke. you drop a single crumb from your toast? he freezes mid sentence, stares at it before getting the vacuum. you kick off your shoes anywhere next to the door? he just… exhales. long. slow. then he picks them up, places them down neatly, and mutters “there we go”
you start doing it on purpose because the way he freaks out internally is hilarious. pathetic. hot, kinda, knowing that your ragebait was successful.
so you “accidentally” spill a single drop of orange juice on the pristine white countertop. he sees it. inhales sharp through his nose. doesn’t say shit. just grabs the microfiber cloth (he has seven) and wipes it in perfect circles until the spot is gone and the counter is shinier than before.
you watch him do it with this tiny smirk.
he notices. his ears go pink.
“you’re doing this on purpose.” he says. no anger at you. just… despair at the universe.
“maybe.” you say. lick the rest of the juice off your finger slow. his pupils dilate. pathetic.
another time, you eat chips in bed. just one bag. leave three crumbs on the sheet. he comes in to change for work, sees them, and his whole body locks up. cleans it. you lie there watching, legs spread just enough to be distracting, eating another chip loud.
he finishes remaking the bed. smooths it obsessively. then stands there breathing hard.
you crawl over, pat the spot next to you. “come here, neat freak.”
he does. because he’s pathetic for you.
you push him down. straddle his hips. grind just enough to feel how hard he is already.
“you hate mess so much.” you murmur. “but look at me. i’m a mess. crumbs on my tits. juice stain on my shirt.”
he whimpers. “stop.”
“no.” you lean down. kiss him messy. get chip dust on his perfect lips. he licks it off.
sometimes it ends in sex like this, you torturing him lovingly.
you make him watch while you “accidentally” knock over his perfectly aligned stack of books on the nightstand. pages splay. bookmark falls out. he makes this noise, half sob, half moan. you pin his wrists above his head. “look at the mess.” you say. “look what i did.”
he stares at it. chest heaving. cock throbbing against your thigh. “fix it.” he begs. “please.”
“after.”
you ride him slow while the books stay fucked up. every thrust makes his eyes flick to the disaster. he whines. actually whines. “it’s wrong. it’s all wrong.”
“yeah.” you breathe. “and you’re hard as fuck because of it.”
he cums embarrassingly fast. shaking. you don’t let him up. keep him there. pinned. messy. until he’s soft and oversensitive and still staring at the chaos.
only then do you let him go. he scrambles. pulls his underwear up. fixes the books in thirty seconds flat.
you watch from the bed, laughing. he crawls back. kisses your faded scar from calf to ankle. (that’s about how big it is)
sometimes the rage ends in him on his knees. you make him clean you up. tongue only. after he’s already came on your stomach. he licks every drop. precise. thorough. while you card fingers through his hair and say “good boy. make it spotless.”
he does. then he bandages any tiny mark he left on himself during (because he always hurts himself a little, nails in his palms, teeth in his lip, whatnot)
then he vacuums. because crumbs.
you lie there post orgasm, watching your tall, beautiful, neat freak boyfriend vacuum around you. you grin. throw a pillow at him. it lands crooked.
his eye twitches again.
you laugh so hard you almost cry.
he sighs. picks it up. fluffs it. places it at 45 degrees. perfect.
or another time he’s on his knees scrubbing a nonexistent spot on the floor (you may have flicked a pea there earlier just to watch him get like this) and you’re horny and evil.
you slide up behind him. reach around. palm his dick through his sweats. he freezes. sponge still in hand. dripping.
“what are you—”
you squeeze. slow. “keep cleaning.”
he tries. god he tries. scrubs in furious little circles while you stroke him. he’s rock hard in seconds. whimpering. “the floor… it’s still… fuck—”
you yank his sweats down just enough. wrap your hand around him. jerk slow and mean.
he drops the sponge. catches himself on his palms. head hanging. breathing ragged.
“don’t stop.” you whisper. “you’re so close to getting that spot.”
he groans. pathetic. beautiful. tries to grab the sponge again. hand shaking. you rake your nails down his lower back. just lightly, the way we humans like it so much. that tickling one. he bucks. almost collapses forward. catches the edge of the coffee table. knuckles white.
“fuck—please—”
you speed up. twist at the head. he’s leaking all over your fingers. trying to thrust into your hand while simultaneously reaching for the fucking sponge like his life depends on it.
“the table.” he gasps. “there’s… a smudge—”
you laugh. cruel. hot. “then clean it, baby.”
he grabs the cloth that he bought along with the sponge. swipes at the invisible smudge one handed while you jerk him faster. his hips jerk erratic. he’s moaning, soft, pretty. “gonna—shit—gonna—”
you dig your nails into his ass. pull him back against you. “not yet. finish the table first.”
he sobs. actual tears. swipes the cloth again. misses completely. cums anyway. hard. ropes of it hitting the floor he just fucking scrubbed.
he collapses onto his elbows. shaking.
you lean over him. kiss the back of his neck. pat his ass. “look at that. you made a mess again.”
god, he loves this.
later he’ll clean the cum off the floor with the same focus he uses on everything else. you’ll watch from the couch. eating something. throwing little crumbs from it on purpose.
he’ll glare at you. never at you really, just at the mess.
but you like him this way, after all.
and when you’re standing in the quiet apartment, alone for once, and you see it. your mess. the mug you forgot. the sweater slung wrong. the drawer that never quite shuts.
and for the first time, instead of thinking he’ll fix it, you think, maybe i can.
it won’t be perfect. it won’t be his perfect. but it’ll be an attempt. and god, attempts matter to him.
so you pick things up. align them the way you think he would. you hesitate before putting something down, adjust it, adjust it again. you laugh under your breath because wow, is this what it’s like inside his head? exhausting. genuinely exhausting.
you’re mid clean when you open a drawer you don’t usually touch. it’s one of his drawers. inside are neatly stacked papers.
you lift the top stack to slide something underneath, and you see… a photo of your therapist?
you freeze.
her face. printed. on a paper of files. session notes. intake forms. dates. nothing extra.
the address is neatly highlighted.
your stomach drops.
you don’t flip through more. you don’t dig. you don’t confirm the worst thing your instincts are telling you.
because you already know him.
and you already know what this probably means.
your hands are shaking when you put the papers back exactly as you found them. exactly. same alignment. same stack. same order.
you close the drawer.
and you act normal.
he comes home later. he kisses you hello. he notices the place almost immediately.
“you cleaned.” he says. there’s something in his tone. surprise. appreciation. something close to pride, maybe.
“i tried.” you say lightly. “don’t look too hard.”
he does look. of course he does. but he doesn’t correct it. doesn’t move anything back.
“it’s good.” he says. “thank you.”
he suggests a shower. you go with him. the water is warm. his touch is gentle. would be the dream boyfriend if he wasn’t a… killer. yeah. but you got over that by now. this is actually pretty fucked up from you too, but if you want him like this, then you want him like this. that’s it.
in bed, he pulls you close. presses his face into your hair.
“you did good today.” he murmurs.
you almost laugh. you almost cry. you lie awake for a while after he falls asleep, staring at the ceiling, listening to his breathing.
your mind keeps circling back to that paper. that highlighted address. your therapist who vanished without explanation.
the next day, you go to the address highlighted in that paper.
a man answers the door. you ask about your therapist.
“she’s dead.” he says. he’s repeated it too many times. “who are you?”
your stomach drops through the floor.
you stammer. apologize. say you were her client. you trail off, because what the fuck do you say after that.
he sighs. rubs his face. opens the door wider anyway. “come in.” he says.
you sit at their table. her table. he pours coffee he clearly hasn’t tasted in weeks.
“it was violent.” he says. “police say it was… targeted.”
targeted.
you leave twenty minutes later. thank him. apologize again. your hands are numb.
outside, you stand on the sidewalk and stare at nothing.
okay.
so.
she’s dead.
time to move on.
you call your friend. the one who moved away.
she answers on the second ring, breathless. “hey, are you okay?”
“i need to ask you something.” you say. “and i need you to not lie to me. please.”
pause.
“did someone tell you to leave me.” you ask. “and not tell me why.”
silence.
then a sharp inhale.
“…yes.”
your heart sinks, but there’s also this horrible clarity. the world snapping into focus.
“what happened?” you ask gently.
she tells you everything. about a random number. a calm voice. the details they knew. her parents’ address. her sister’s school. how they told her exactly what to do and exactly what not to say.
when she finishes, her voice is shaking. “i’m so sorry. i was scared.”
“i know.” you say immediately. “it’s okay. i get you.”
she sobs. you let her. tell her it’s okay. tell her she did the right thing. because she did. because anyone would have.
after you hang up, you sit in your car and just… think.
you don’t have proof of that. but you have pattern recognition.
you go home instead.
he’s there. folding laundry. your laundry.
“hey.” he says, smiling when he sees you. “i was thinking we could—”
you look at him. the angel face. the hands. the man who hates crumbs but fucked you in a puddle of blood.
you smile back.
“sounds good.” you say.
everything hyunjin did, he did because he needs you dependent on him. he wants a world where choosing him isn’t even a question because there are no competing variables left.
he doesn’t want you torn between him and a job, him and a therapist, him and a roommate, him and a future that might not include him.
he wants him to be the constant.
the safest option.
the only option.
that’s love, to hyunjin.
or at least the closest approximation his brain can produce.
yes, he killed your therapist. and yes, he threatened your friend. and dare i say cherry on top, he absolutely blackmailed the company that you wanted the job at so much. a job would mean coworkers. ambition. confidence. financial independence. a life that didn’t revolve around coming home to him. so he made a few calls. dug up some dirt. applied pressure. the rejection email wasn’t random. it was meant to be. and he felt relief when it came.
because hyunjin is a fucking genius.
so people just… drift away from you. opportunities evaporate. paths close.
and hyunjin is there every time, arms open.
of course you lean on him.
that was the point.
he doesn’t believe he’s doing anything wrong. that’s important. in his mind, he’s protecting you from stress, instability, disappointment, abandonment. he’s reducing harm. optimizing outcomes. making sure you don’t have to choose between him and anything else, because choices hurt you.
he’s seen you hurt.
that’s intolerable to him.
it’s intimate. every decision is for you. your habits. your fears. your soft spots.
and he removes anything that might compete with his role in your life.
once, back when you didn’t suspect that he did this yet, you were sad. just sad. nothing new had gone wrong. that was almost worse. just… job rejection, your friend gone, your therapist mysteriously unavailable, the quiet sense that the world was shrinking around you and you couldn’t tell why.
so when he came home, you hugged him. buried your face in his chest. and then you sobbed. ugly, shaking, hiccuping sobs. really letting it all out.
“i’m sorry.” you choked. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me. everything just keeps going wrong and i thought i was doing everything right and…” you started crying completely.
you were so fucking adorable it hurt him.
hyunjin didn’t say much. words aren’t his strength in moments like this. instead he pulled you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other at your lower back. he rocked you slowly while you clung to him, fingers digging into him.
“it’s okay.” he murmured. “i’ve got you.”
he kept swaying. side to side. back and forth.
your sobs slowly turned into shaky breaths. your body loosened against his. you went pliant, trusting, exhausted.
hyunjin felt something click into place.
this was better than anything he’d ever known.
better than the clarity of killing. better than violence. better than the cold, perfect focus he used to chase like a drug.
holding you while you fell apart in his arms made him feel. the world finally made sense.
you needed him.
you needed him so much.
he rocked you and felt powerful. felt essential. irreplaceable.
he realized, very clearly, that he had never actually enjoyed life before.
not food. not sex. not art. not even killing, not really. those were just mechanisms. stimuli. ways to feel something.
this was different.
he pressed his cheek to your hair and breathed you in, eyes half lidded, mind already working, already adjusting the world around one terrifying conclusion, that this feeling, he couldn’t give it up. and if the world kept hurting you, if people kept disappointing you, if anything tried to pull you away from him, he would remove it.
because you crying in his arms wasn’t just something he tolerated.
it was something he loved.
and hyunjin is a sick fuck like that.
now it’s a stupidly nice day. sun is coming in through the kitchen window, warm on the counter. weekend.
hyunjin is cleaning the shotgun. standing between your legs because that’s just where he ended up, his hips between yours. he’s focused, head slightly bowed, sleeves rolled, looking adorable tbh.
you’re sitting there swinging one foot lazily, hands on his shoulders. you’ve held him like this a thousand times.
and god, you just can’t keep your fucking mouth shut.
“hey.” you say.
he hums.
you swallow. “i talked to her.”
“who?”
you tilt your head, studying his face. “my friend. the one who moved.”
“okay.”
you feel your heartbeat in your throat now. “she told me why she left.”
his jaw tightens. once. there we go. a reaction.
you lean forward slightly. “she said someone threatened her. told her to move. told her not to tell me.”
silence. the gun is reassembled piece by piece. click. click.
you inhale. look straight into his eyes when he finally lifts his head.
“was it you?”
the air changes.
hyunjin swallows.
you feel it through your hands, through the way his shoulders rise and fall.
“…yes.” he says.
“…why?”
his hands come to your hips. “she was an exit.” he says calmly.
“a what?”
“an option.” he clarifies. “if things went wrong. if you got scared. you could go to her.”
“that’s my friend, hyunjin. what are you even talking about?”
he looks genuinely confused by your anger. not offended. just… trying to understand. “you were hurting.” he says. “she couldn’t help you the way i could.”
“so you threatened her? do you hear yourself?”
“yes.”
you shove lightly at his shoulder. he doesn’t move. doesn’t let go of your hips either.
“you don’t get to decide who’s in my life.” you say. louder now. “you don’t get to scare people because you’re… because you’re scared.”
“i wasn’t scared.” he says. then pauses. corrects himself. “…i was.” it’s brutal development, the fact that now he can admit he’s scared.
“fucking hell.”
“i don’t want to lose you.” he says. “and people kept putting themselves between us.”
“she wasn’t between us.” you say, bringing your hands up now to gently hold his neck. not choke, just your palms on either side of his neck. “she was beside me.”
he shakes his head. “that’s still too close.”
you stare at him. “i choose you. or i don’t. you don’t rig the game.”
his breathing is heavier now. psycho brain firing, you can tell. logic tangling with attachment.
“i wasn’t trying to control you.” he says, sounding defensive. his little brain doesn’t know how to deal with this.
his hands stay on your hips. yours stay on his neck. it’s intimate, close enough to feel every shift, every breath. just as intimate as it was fucking in a puddle of blood.
“i need you to tell me.” you say, softer now. “are you going to keep doing this?”
he hesitates.
that’s the real answer.
“…i don’t want to.” he says carefully. “but my instincts are… aggressive.”
lies. he wants to.
“no shit.” you mutter.
“you’re being dramatic.” he says lightly.
you stare at him. “oh my god.”
“i’m serious.” he continues, tone almost amused. “no one got hurt in that situation.”
“you threatened her family.”
“and she’s alive.” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “see?”
you shove his chest harder this time. he stumbles back half a step but doesn’t let go of your hips until the last second.
“you keep saying you’re protecting me, but you’re just deciding things for me. you’re deciding who stays, who leaves, who dies. like my fucking therapist, hyunjin.”
the words hang there.
heavy.
he freezes.
and that’s it.
that’s your answer.
you slide off the counter slowly, feet hitting the floor. “that was you.”
“okay.” he says lightly, too lightly. “let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“don’t.”
“i’m serious.” he continues, calm, almost playful. “you’re upset. you’re connecting dots emotionally.”
“you froze.” you shoot back. “you fucking froze. that’s for a reason, baby. i know you.”
he smiles thinly. “people freeze for lots of reasons.”
“oh my god.” you mutter. “you’re unbearable.”
he steps closer, hands open. “listen. even if, hypothetically, i was involved, it wouldn’t be as simple as you’re imagining.”
“no, don’t… tell me like that.”
“i’m telling you why it made sense.”
“it didn’t make sense. it made you feel safer.”
“yes.”
you shake your head, backing away. “no. i can’t, i need space. i’m leaving.”
you turn toward the hallway.
you barely take two steps.
click.
your blood goes cold.
you stop.
slowly, you turn around.
he’s standing where you left him, shotgun raised, barrel pointed right at your chest.
his face is calm. too calm. voice level. “you’re not going.”
“…put that down.” you whisper, heart picking up.
“no.” he replies gently. “you’re emotional. you’ll say things you don’t mean.”
“you’re pointing a gun at me.” you say. “again.”
he sighs, almost fondly. “and you’re still standing there. see? you trust me.”
“that’s not trust.” you say. “that’s shock.”
he tilts his head. “same outcome.”
you feel sick. furious. terrified.
“hey.” he says. “breathe.”
you are not breathing. your hands are shaking. everything feels loud and wrong and holy shit he’s pointing a gun at me.
“put it the fuck down, hyunjin.”
“you’re safe.” he says gently, smiling a little, beautiful. “i would never hurt you.”
“you already did. you killed my therapist. you threatened my friend. you’re holding a gun to me.”
“i’m talking.” he says mildly. “listen.”
“we’re done.” you say. “i’m breaking up with you. this is over. you’re fucking insane.”
that… that snaps something. inside him. you see it in the way his eyes go distant for half a second.
“no.” he says.
he takes a step closer.
the barrel lifts.
presses under your chin.
you freeze. your breath stutters.
he tilts the gun just enough to make you look at him.
“we were going to be married.” he says softly. “you know that, right?”
“get that away from me.”
“you and me. i’d cry at the altar. not even try to hide it. people would think it’s sweet.”
you stare at him. say nothing.
“then the house.” he continues. “not too big. three bedrooms. one for us. two for the kids we’d make right away because you’d want to start early. you’d be showing by christmas. i’d build the crib myself. sand every edge so it’s safe. paint it whatever color you pick. blue or pink or yellow. doesn’t matter. i’d do it perfect.”
you shake your head, tears running. “stop.”
“you’d be a good mother. i know you would. i’d keep them safe. i’d keep all of you safe.” he says. his face is getting more red, beautiful lips plumping up. he’s crying too. “you’d read to them every night. i’d listen from the doorway. pretend i’m not obsessed with how good you are at it. we’d fight about stupid shit. dishes. laundry. you’d leave crumbs again and i’d lose my mind.”
his grip on the gun is shaking.
“you’d hate how neat i’d be.” he adds, lips shaking as he cries. “they’d be messy. you’d defend them. i’d pretend to be annoyed.”
you’re sobbing now. silent, panicked.
“you’d plant flowers. mess up the rows on purpose just to watch me fix them. we’d fuck in every room. slow in the kitchen at dawn. hard against the hallway wall after a fight. gentle in the bedroom with the lights off so i could feel every inch of you without seeing how perfect you are. i’d go down on you every morning. you’d ride me on the couch while the kids napped. we’d be quiet. careful. laughing into each other’s mouths.”
this isn’t a fantasy. it’s a plan.
“summers at the lake. you in that red bikini. me pretending not to stare. winters with hot chocolate and your cold feet on my legs. anniversaries where i take you back to that coffee shop. same table. same hot chocolate. i’d get down on one knee again just to hear you say yes twice.”
he’s shaking now. whole body. barrel presses harder into your skin.
“you’d grow old first. women do. i’d hate it. but we’d grow old together. you’d get gray streaks and still look like the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen. i’d still trace your scar from that first night. kiss it every anniversary. we’d die close. maybe in the same week. i’d go first. so i wouldn’t have to live without you.”
silence. his sobs hitching.
you look up at him. “don’t cry, hyunjin. this is your fault. you did this.”
“that’s not why i’m crying.”
he closes his eyes. tight. he can’t bear to see what comes next.
his finger tightens on the trigger.
the shot is deafening.
your body slumps. blood sprays. hot. everywhere.
he flinches. but the neat freak doesn’t reach for a cloth. he just drops the gun. lets it clatter. kneels. gathers what’s left of you into his arms.
he curls around you on the floor. wrapped tight. face tucked into the ruined curve of your neck. under what used to be your jaw. blood soaks his shirt. his hair. the rug he spent three hours shampooing last week. he doesn’t care. for once the mess doesn’t register. the only thing that matters is you. still warm. still smelling like you.
he cries into what’s left of you. deep, ugly sobs that shake his whole body. he never had feelings before, and now he’s crying, blood soaking through his shirt, into his skin, sticking his hair to his forehead in sticky strands. he’s already swimming in it. doesn’t matter. the neat freak is gone. there’s no cloth, no bleach, no circles to make it right. just red. everywhere. pooling under you both. he doesn’t care.
he loved you so much.
his face stays buried. breathing you in one last time even though all he gets is iron and gunpowder and the faint ghost of your shampoo, still the same one he used to buy for himself.
he loved you so much.
after a while, minutes, hours, who fucking knows, he lifts his head. slow. eyes swollen. lashes clumped with tears and blood. he looks around. the apartment he kept so perfect. now a slaughterhouse. the rug ruined. walls spattered. the coffee table knocked sideways. your blood on the couch you used to curl up on together.
he loved you so much.
his gaze lands on the shotgun. still warm. lying a foot away like it’s waiting. innocent almost.
he loved you so much.
he sits up. careful. gentle. god, he can’t scare you now. he slides one arm under your shoulders. the other under your knees. lifts what’s left of you into his lap. cradles you against his chest. your head, more like what’s left of it, lolls against his shoulder. he doesn’t fix it. just holds. rocks a little. the way he used to when you fell asleep on him during movies.
he loved you so much.
he reaches. fingers brush the the shotgun. he pulls it closer. slow. no rush. no panic.
he loved you so much.
he hugs your ruined body tighter to himself. one arm wrapped around your waist. the other maneuvering the barrel. he presses it under his own chin. the same spot he held it to yours. mirrors it.
his thumb finds the trigger. steady. no shake now.
he loved you so much.
then the second shot cracks the quiet. into flesh and love that never got to be anything else. his body jerks once. slumps back with yours. arms still locked around you. shotgun clatters sideways. blood mixes. his with yours. indistinguishable now.
the apartment goes still. blood keeps spreading. on every inch he once kept so clean.
two bodies tangled on the floor. his arms still around you. yours limp at your sides.
holding each other even after everything.
he loved you so much.
and this is the end of the two of you.
together.
close.
bloody.
dead.
the apartment stays quiet after that, except for the drip of blood from surfaces it splattered onto.
Admittedly, I don't particularly care for harem AUs largely as a personal preference, but that being said
The idea of Y/N yelling out "Hey baby!" and 50+ versions of Sans all respond is hilarious, especially if it's immediately followed by all of them recreating this
you're sitting on bakugou's bed, scrolling on your phone.
your boyfriend's taking a shower and your eyes are rolling to the back of your head with boredom as your fingers mindlessly scroll a marathon, the small motion the only thing keeping you from barging into the bathroom door and dragging your boyfriend out to cuddle with you.
you feel like a child throwing a tantrum, but can anyone blame you? it's been weeks since you've been in the arms of your personal heater. just as you finally make up your mind to go and pull him out of his shower, the door opens, revealing your explosive boyfriend, looking calm and deliciously wet, clad in a towel.
you sit up on the bed, crossing your arms over your chest, "dude. was this your first shower in twenty years? what took you so long, i was literally about to turn into a fossil in a minute."
bakugou laughs, a deep grumble in his throat, as he ruffles through his wardrobe, looking for something to wear, "dude? you must be really pissed. you missed me that much huh?"
he finally grabs a grey shirt from the drawer and puts it on, following up by pulling his feet through the grey sweatpants that you've sworn should be charged for public indecency.
he climbs into bed, on top of you, placing a gruff peck on your lips as you sigh into his touch. he pulls you on top of him as he lies down, positioning you so that your head is on his chest, your legs entangled with his.
you shuffle closer to him, your eyes instinctively closing on their own, your voice coming out mumbled against his chest, "missed you."
he cards his hand through your hair, letting out a barely audible, "yeah, me too."
you both lie there for a bit when you break the silence with a soft, "kats?" bakugou's half asleep when he grunts in reply, indicating for you to go on.
"...i'm hungry."
"...."
"we just had food like two minutes ago woman," he opens one eye slightly to look at you.
"i know! but waiting for you to come out of your longass shower after, took three hours."
"it was barely thirty minutes-" "can you make me pancakes, please?"
he looks down at you on his chest as you pout up at him. his long-suffering sigh fills the room as he looks upwards, praying for patience. you smile victoriously, which quickly gets replaced by a huff as he pushes your face down.
"fine, but stop making that face. you look constipated." he gets up and you follow behind. he walks up to the kitchen, putting on his 'kiss the chef' apron, before gathering the ingredients and preparing the pancakes, pouring the batter onto the pan.
you go up behind him and hug his waist, peppering kisses over the side of his neck and every part of his face you can reach, "i wonder what your fans would say if they saw such a domestic scene of dynamight. i might just have to wife you up, katsu."
he smirks at your last sentence, "wife me up, huh? so you think you're the one who's gonna propose?."
"oh obviously, i'm the one who wears the pants in this relationship after all." his smirk grows wider as he abruptly turns and picks you up in his arms, tickling your sides until you both fall to the floor in a heap of giggles and limbs, " 'suki stop! b-baby, oh my god! my stomach hurts, ow!"
his smirk grows wider, "uh huh, what were you saying about our relationship again?"
he finally relents after you swat at his hands.
you catch your breath, "tickling me proves nothing. everyone knows dynamight is down bad for his girl. the press can't stop writing articles about it.," you tease. bakugou's grin softens into a smile, "..that's the only thing those brainless extras get right."
you smile up at him, "you're lowkey so cute some-...baby? aren't you sweating a bit too much today? should i turn the ac down?"
bakugou frowns, "what are you talking about? i'm not even sweating."
your frown grows deeper, "what..? do you smell something burning?" bakugou scrunches up his nose.
"yeah..it's not me though...oh shit the pancakes."
first time writing a fic...kinda nervous. 🧍🏻♀️i read so many fanfics, i had to write one. hope it at least passes as mid <33
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