dating a serial killer (gone wrong) [not clickbait!!]
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brunch, with a side of murderous intent by sunderwool
Fandoms: Killer Chat! (Visual Novel)
09 Jun 2025
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Maria de la Rosa vs. your parents (brunch edition), served cold on a tray of mimosas, passive-aggression, and Angel’s eye twitching so hard she nearly slips and falls knives first into your mother. Pure chaos sprinkled with fluff, mixed with sharp tongues, even sharper concealed weapons, and the soft realization that love sometimes means not stabbing your future in-laws... who would've thought?
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She wants to impress them, and god, she tries so hard...
...But there’s a taxidermy falcon on the mantle.
And an antique sword over the dining table.
And your dad just asked why there are “six different emergency exits.”Series
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Angel vs the biggest threat known to woman by sunderwool
Fandoms: Killer Chat! (Visual Novel)
14 Jun 2025
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Maria de la Rosa, the impossibly poised, glamorously dangerous fashion goddess, is now faced with her most terrifying challenge yet…..
…a baby.
And no, it’s not a metaphor, not a spy code, but an actual, wiggly, soft-headed, non-verbal gremlin that gurgles and has no tactical training.It sneezes.
She panics.
You laugh.
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Your fingers trail down the smooth line of her back, catching on the tiny zipper of her dress, tracing the fragile vertebrae beneath skin gone warm from adrenaline, and maybe one too many drinks. She shudders, just barely, a flicker of breath catching in her throat like it surprised even her.
“You’re playing with fire.” You whisper, leaning in, your voice a breath against her neck. Angel doesn’t pull back, doesn’t even blink, her mouth just brushes yours – open, daring, the curve of a smirk blooming right against your lips.
“Mi vida, ” She murmurs, eyes burning, “I am the fire.”
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You counted to three. After that? Chaos.
It was brief. Efficient. Loud in that quiet way bullets are when they're suppressed but not polite, and by the time it was over, Angel had taken down two men with the same precision she used to apply winged eyeliner. Then, as she reloaded, breathless and beautiful and furious, and god, you were so in love with her. You sighed, dreamily, before she muttered:
“God, I hope our kids never see this. ”
You blinked.
“...What?”
Angel froze, her hands stalled over the magazine. You watched it happen in real-time: the exact moment her brain caught up with her mouth, the exact damn moment she went still, like prey.Series
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You didn’t plan on staying the night.
You were supposed to swing by, drop something off, maybe share a drink, and go. But it’s Angel – and her suite smells like jasmine and something faintly sweet, like vanilla tucked in the corners of the air. Her eyes shine in that low, golden lamp light, like they’ve got secrets you want to be let in on. So it just… happens. You stay.
And by the time dawn spills soft and slow through her floor to ceiling windows, she’s tangled around you beneath a duvet that still carries the scent of her perfume – something floral, expensive, unplaceable. She breathes evenly, warm against your neck, like she doesn’t know where she ends and you begin.
You try to move, careful not to wake her, but Angel stirs anyway. Half-asleep, she murmurs:
“There’s fresh coffee. And one of the French news anchors is wearing the ugliest blazer I’ve ever seen. Stay. Let’s mock him together.”
So you do. Just for the morning.
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You thought it was a date night. To say you were painfully unaware of her agony would be an understatement.
Nothing unusual – you knew how Angel had a thing for “surprise elegance”. It was in her veins, she just adored them, and you knew that all too well. Rooftop dinners. Private viewings. A yacht once, where she’d punched a paparazzi drone. You were sure you’ve fallen in love with her completely anew that time.
Tonight? It was a rooftop garden strung with fairy lights.
She greeted you in ivory silk, like a painting you weren’t allowed to touch. Her lipstick was faint, subtle, natural. Her hands were ice.
“You okay...?” You asked, kissing her cheek adoringly.
“Perfect.”
She was lying.
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Angel’s curled on the couch, reading “Your Baby’s First Year”, or at least trying to. She keeps flipping between pages like it’s a codebook of some sort, one she has to decipher and thoroughly consume as if her life depends on it.
“‘Tummy time...’” She mutters. “What does that mean? Why is it time-specific? Is it an event? A warning?” You can just giggle at her antics.
“It just means letting her lie on her belly. Helps her strengthen her neck.” Angel frowns at that, deeply.
“She doesn’t need neck strength. She’ll have minions.”
“She’s seven weeks old.”
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