Work Header

you are the poison (i'll drink the poison)

Work Text:

she looks pretty like this, he muses. he's never known anyone could look so pretty while crying, but her nose is red, and her cheeks are wet with her tears, and her eyes shine when she looks at him, and she positively glows.

her legs shake as she makes her way to him, the high heels he gave her on her last birthday making her legs seem longer. he lets his eyes roam from her feet all the way up to her thighs, juicy in a way he isn’t used to seeing. her black skirt marks her tiny waist and holds under it her white shirt. her hair is down for once, framing her face, and, as she straddles him, settling on his lap with a leg on each side, a few strands of hair stick to her wet cheek.

she lets out a sob as he lets his open palms settle on her body: one on the outside of her thigh, the other on her hips; and with a careless, cruel grin on his lips, he pulls her closer on his lap, until her tiny hands rest on his shoulders, and her pretty breasts press against his chest, and he can feel on his crotch the pressure and warmth of her covered cunt.

her breath catches at that, and his smile widens, hand on her thigh alternating between rubbing and gripping it tightly, until he can see the red marks on her milky skin. by the time they're done, they'll covered in purple marks, and so will be her hips.

it's then that the hand on her hip wanders higher on her back, never losing contact with her body, until his fingers tangle in her silky hair and he pulls her face to his. their lips touch and he instantly runs his tongue over her bottom lip, salty and pink and so ready to be ruined.

the grip she has on his shoulder tightens and he swears her crying intensifies, but when he presses his mouth harder against hers she responds in kind, touching his tongue with hers, either moaning or sobbing into his mouth. he hardly cares to know which is it, but when the hand on her thigh reaches under her skirt and grips her ass, making her roll her hips against his, he knows the moan she's feeding him is pleasure-induced.

“that's it.” he praises in a whisper against her lips, and smirks at the shudder that takes over her body. “doesn't it feel so good?”

she nods in reply, eyes wide and shining as her bottom lip trembles and her hands can't decide whether to hold on to him or let him go.

“now,” he continues, the hand on the back of her head sliding down her neck and past her collarbone, until the tips of his fingers follow down the dip of the timid cleavage the shirt offers, tugging without intent at where the buttons start. “why don't you take that shirt off for me?”

she takes in a shallow breath and nods, her shaking fingers slowly making their way to the opening of her shirt. button by button, he observes as she exposes herself to him, hands caressing her thighs with fleeting touches, and he revels in the satisfying feeling of seeing her wear one of the lingeries he gifted her. it's pink - not black or red, which are sexy colours, but it suits her. it's delicate, and it's tentative, and it's perfect and in need of some ruining.

he takes the shirt as she shrugs it off, letting it fall beside him on the couch. he feels his cock harden and his mouth water as he watches the display in front of him. her breasts aren't nothing particularly outstanding: they're of a normal size, somewhere between small and big, but they look very appetizing on the shape of this bra. he raises his eyes from her chest to her mouth, parted and bright pink and glinting. her lashes are still wet and he feels like sucking the tears off of it, but he leaves it alone. 'another time, then.’

his hands come up to frame her ribs, then, just under where her bra ends. his thumbs caress the underside of her breasts through the fabric and he looks at it again. “you look beautiful, my dear.” raising his gaze, he pulls her closer once again. “did you like my gift?”

she nods again, her bangs shaking as she did so. “i did, taeoh-oppa. thank you very much.” her voice is shaky, and he wants. one of his thumbs brush against her perky nipple and she audibly gasps, back arching.

he presses his lips to her collarbone and presses an open-mouthed kiss there, following it with a small suck. “you're very welcome, my angel. you can ask me whatever you want and i'll give it to you.” she shivers when his breath hits the wet skin and he thrives.

“i was going to ask you to take it off as well,” he pulls away and starts, referencing the bra, where his hands still rest. “but i really want to see you wearing the full set.” one of his hands wander up, fleetingly cupping her left breast, and eventually settling on the bottom of her neck. there's a light grip there, with not enough force but just enough to be a promise for later. “will you take your skirt off for me, my sweet?”

he can feel her gulp under his touch, and his hands drop so she can stand up, previously wobbly legs only making a slight comeback as she takes a step back. she reaches back for the zipper of her skirt and he shakes his head, stopping her. “uh-uh. turn around for me, dear matilda. i'd like to see how nicely the lace grips your pretty ass.”

her breath hitches and he huffs out a small chuckle, watching as she nods once again. she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, and turns around, reaching for the zipper once again. this time, he doesn't stop her, and her skirt drops to her feet quickly.

it looks even better than he expected. the lace is the perfect fit, her ass standing out against the fabric, and he thinks about how perfect it looks for a spanking; for a pounding.

she looks at him over her shoulder, coy eyes searching his, and he licks his lips. “beautiful.” she steps out of the skirt, and it's proof of how she knows him so much already - so much more than anyone else, it seems - that she keeps her back to him when she bends to take the skirt off the floor, offering him the most tempting view of her behind. he slides his hand to his lap then, giving his cock a tight, placating squeeze through his jeans before letting go.

she turns around, showing him the full set as he so wanted. she's stopped crying by now, and she only sniffles a bit as she places the skirt with the shirt she'd been wearing.

“can i take off my heels, oppa?” her voice is small when she asks, and he doesn't think twice before nodding curtly in reply. she takes her shoes off with a sigh of relief, and gathers the pair on the edge of the sofa.

once her tiny feet are bare against the carpet, she comes to stand in front of him again. “on your knees.” she obeys instantly, sitting on her own legs and placing her hands on each of his knees, but she doesn’t dare to presume what he wants her to do, even though it’s probably very obvious to her already - ingrained in her mind, even. he smiles to himself.

he gives her the go-ahead and she reaches for the buckle of his belt, opening it. she unbuttons his jeans and slides down the zipper, before pulling back carefully so he can slide his jeans and underwear down enough that he can pull out his hard cock. she gulps down when her wide, brown eyes looks at it, and despite the fact that they’ve done this before, her hands still shake when she reaches for it.

her small hands are warm, and her mouth is warmer. he watches through heavy-lidded eyes how her lips wrap around the girth, how her tongue presses against the underside of his dick, how her head bobs up and down, how her hands move to make up for what she can’t cover with her mouth. she’s good, so good for him. he sneaks a hand behind her head and puts in enough pressure to pressure her into taking more of him into her mouth, and he could probably come from the sound of her surprised gasp, from the way her throat tightens around his cock, from the way her eyes well up with tears as though she hadn’t been crying just a few minutes ago.

his hand stays in the back of her head, but he relieves it from the weight he’d been putting, allowing her to pull away to take a breath or two. a tear is already falling down her cheek once again, and his free hand reaches to cup her cheek, thumb brushing the tear away as she leans into his hand, eyes closed.

she comes back to his dick on her own, sucking him into her mouth as though he told her to. he comes just a few minutes later, into her mouth and down her throat. she pulls away after tucking him back into his pants, and whines when he caresses her head, before he cups her soft cheeks with his hands.

he watches her for a few moments. “i should get you a collar.” he leans in closer, taking his time to watch her eyes and how she can’t bear to look at him for more than two seconds at a time. “one that looks like those fashionable necklaces - chokers, isn't that what they're called? - so you can wear it all the time, my name engraved on the inside of the leather. you'd like that, wouldn't you? keep my name on you at all times, reminding you that you're mine, that you belong to me.”

he presses their lips together, then, sliding his tongue into her mouth at the same time he coaxes her back to his lap. pressing two fingers flat against her covered pussy tells him how much she wants it; and if there were any doubts, the roll of her hips and the way she calls out his name when he does so confirms it.

just a few more minutes and he’ll be able to slide his cock into her, to feel how wet and tight and warm she is for him, feeling like the home he never had before. he slides his fingers past the fabric and, feeling them soak nearly instantly, he pulls his fingers out so press them into his mouth, making sure to let her watch through wet lashes and heavy-lidded eyes.

he can busy himself using his mouth on her until he’s ready to fuck her like wants to.


the first year is hard. she’s always crying - honestly, he didn’t know people could cry so much - and it’s not that he particularly cares, but he thinks that if his wife ends up dead or unwell anytime soon, it won’t look good for him, so he makes sure to leave her water bottles so she won’t dehydrate and land herself on the hospital.

within the first six months of their cohabitation, he goes out one night and kills a woman. he chooses at random. she’s on her forties, has short hair and wears a long dress. he doesn’t copy the gap-dong - he’s far from being an idiot. he does choke her, but only because it’s probably the easiest and cleanest way to kill. once the killing thirst is satisfied, he comes back home.

the moment he steps in, somehow she knows what he’s done. she - dramatically so - drops the porcelain plate she was drying and he refrains from mentioning how expensive that plate was. her hands tremble, and soon, she starts crying. he doesn’t refrain from rolling his eyes at that, but he does try to placate her, walking to her, which only makes her step back, jerking away from him. “don’t touch me!” she says, voice shaky and frightened.

he raises an eyebrow at her, but stays away. unaffected, he turns around and makes his way to his room. “i'm going to take a shower. if there isn't any food, order something. i'm starving.”

when he comes out of his room, freshly showered and in his pajamas, he doesn't find her anymore; but on top of the kitchen counter there's the takeout food that he asked for.

japanese. his favorite food. he told her a couple of months into their marriage.

he finds her, admittedly, hard to understand, at times.

after a year of their wedding, however, it's like a switch flips.

for their one-year anniversary, he takes her to a high-class restaurant that he likes. he can appreciate the effort she makes, making sure to wear a beautiful, expensive dress that values her shape, and that was most likely bought with the card he’d given her a month into their marriage.

they have dinner, and it's pleasant. for the past couple of months, they've been acting more friendly towards each other. considering how he's tied to her for at least four more years, according to the contract she signed, that's the most intelligent thing to do, he supposes.

they usually hold hands as they walk together in public, but she lets go when they are in private. however, this night, when they get home, she doesn't instantly let go of his hand. instead, she holds it in her soft one until they close the door of his - their - apartment behind them. then, she steps closer to him and presses a chaste kiss to his lips before pulling away. “thank you for dinner, taeoh-oppa. i enjoyed it a lot.” still holding on to his hand, she hugs him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “happy one year.”

only then does she let go of his hand, turning her back to him and busying herself with taking her heels off, leaving him completely puzzled.

he doesn't have a clue of what she's doing. for a few moments, as he takes his own shoes off, he speculates that she has some kind of plan to get him locked up, but that theory is debunked quickly: in the contract she signed, she is legally forbidden from producing evidence against him or jeopardizing his freedom. she couldn't do it even if she wanted - wants? - to.

once she's done with her heels, she turns to him, smiles and leaves on the way to the room she’s taken as her own, and he's no closer to figuring out the way her brain functions than he'd been seconds before.

sometime as the years pass, she ends up in his bed. it's only to be expected, of course: they were somewhat forced into living together, and cohabiting can lead to things such as this. he welcomes it. she's a caring lover, full of emotions. she kisses him all over, so responsive to his touches and to the things he says, so eager to be good and to obey.

he takes to giving her presents after that. he doesn't think he's in love with her or anything, but it pleases him to see her happy, so he buys her all the high quality drawing material she wants; all the technology that she always wanted but didn't buy, hesitant to spend money even if it's not hers, even if she's no longer poor and most likely will never be again, even if she hasn't been for three years. her face lights up when he gives her the gifts, be it on birthdays, valentine's day, their anniversary, christmas or any time in between, and he soaks it all up. feels something in his chest at the knowledge that he did that.

the extent of his impact on her is something that satisfies him greatly. happiness, sadness, anger, disappointment, fear, pleasure… those are things he makes her feel. the power it gives him… it's overwhelming. it's so appealing, how he's drawn to her and vice-versa. they're each other's moth and flame.

he keeps killing. she cries every time, looking at him with sadness, and anger, and disappointment. like she'd forgotten she's married to a murderer. it's not a deterrent to him in the slightest.

once, after coming home from a killing, he finds her in the kitchen, crying fat, hot tears as she cuts the vegetables for the salad she's making. he steps behind her and, taking her arm in hand, he gives her enough time to let go of the knife before turning her around, holding her in his arms. he's freshly showered; otherwise, she wouldn't let him hold her after what he did.

he holds her against his chest, and she shakes violently, clutching at his sides like she doesn't know whether she wants to push him away or pull him closer. he makes soothing noises, rubbing his hands up and down her arms, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

“you did say you weren't my sonia.” he says, but surprisingly not unkindly.

she sobs harder. “i did.”

he likes her, though. he finds himself growing to like her more than he'd liked dr. maria. because after he kills she still lies down next to him on their bed at night, and curls up under his arm, kisses his chin and rests her head on his chest. and if she trembles throughout the night, and cries herself to sleep, and wets the fabric of his sleeping shirt - well. that's just his dear, dear matilda.


after the wedding, she doesn't speak to detective ha mooyeon anymore. for the first few months, in which she's crying half the time and apathetic for the other half, he regularly uses the detective's name to bring out a different reaction from her.

he wonders what the detective said to her. she never tells him. dr. maria doesn't tell him anything either, in the rare occasions in which they met after he was released. he supposes it wasn't good, especially considering the clear pity in dr. maria's voice when she speaks of jiwool. jiwool does visit the children from the temple a lot, but she seems to make sure never to run into the detective. either way, he stops trying to rile jiwool up when it loses its novelty and he starts finding her predictable reactions boring.

he doesn't meet his mother-in-law regularly, either. he knows jiwool does, but he's glad to see that woman the least possible, and jiwool knows it. he keeps their interactions to a minimum, and he knows the decision is mutually beneficial.

jiwool meets his mother often enough, however. he didn't think they'd meet a lot after the wedding, but they have some public outings - one or two with his presence, mostly to keep appearances - and they have tea together on some afternoons, when jiwool doesn't have class at university.

in truth, he finds it odd, but he doesn't say anything about it to her. he brings it up with his mother once, though, and the silence she gives in reply makes it evident that he doesn't have enough interest in it to ask about it more than one time.


on the contract that binds her to him, it says she's obligated to remain married to him for the following five years to the day she signed it.

so, logically, he expects her to ask for a divorce as the day of their fifth anniversary approaches. the thought makes him feel sad, and it's weird to come to the conclusion that someone's existence makes him happy instead of put him off after five years, but he supposes feelings will remain a mystery to him, and his own even more so.

instead of a divorce wish, he gets his dear matilda coming home from class, wearing light overalls and a heart-covered t-shirt, and flopping sideways onto his lap one day before the day that marks their five years of marriage. she wraps her arms around his neck and asks, “oppa, what are we doing for our anniversary?”

he doesn't bother hiding his confusion. “i wasn't planning on anything. aren't you going to ask for a divorce?”

“do you…” she starts, now the one who looks deeply at a loss, pulling away from him to look at his face. “do you want me to?”

he doesn't reply. he doesn't really know whether he truly wants her to be gone or not, or whether he wants to admit that he wants her to stay. after so long living together, he finds that he likes her presence and he doesn't want to give it up.

after the years they've lived together, he supposes she knows enough of how he works. “well… If you want to divorce me, nod; if you don't, do nothing.”

he stays put. his head doesn't move an inch.

“alrighty, then.” she beams at him, and he reaches to hold her close himself. “i want a good surprise, okay? prove to me you want to keep me.” she teases.

he knows she'll leave one day. and then she'll die. there's no other way. she will get tired of knowing what he does and abstaining, because even if she isn't legally bound to staying silent anymore, he knows she's both captivated and captive of her own feelings for him. she won't give him away, but she won't stay, either.

and he won't let her go.

she should've hated him when she had the chance.

he grins before he leans in and presses a kiss to her lips, chaste like he knows she likes it. “i'll try.” and he smiles once more against her lips when she does so as well.