#assassin park jimin
Deaf hitman Park Jimin x vet YN; amnesia AU
YN has only ever dreamed of a world where she gets to care for her animals and sit by the beach, doing nothing but the things she wants.
Jimin has never allowed himself to dream of anything. He is owned. He is someone else’s property. He can’t dream of freedom because to dream is to yearn and to yearn is to be disappointed.
Still, what happens when a woman full of dreams and a man terrified of his own come together?
Masterlist / i don’t have a tag list / find me on twitter / word count: 2.3k
(AU: While I enjoy writing realistic stories, this one has many ‘common sense’ holes that I would like you to ignore for the sake of the fantasy world creation. Future smut and gore. Jimin is a badass. He’s also deaf. This story will only be about 10-15 chapters long. Shorter than my other ones. I’ve already written up 6 so far. I’ll update once a month. Hope you like it!)
(yandere / angst / gore / fluff / smut / violence)
Chapter 3: ‘Newness’
The man wakes up some time later and you walk him into the passenger seat of the car. The inside of the vehicle has some blood stains that twist your stomach. The man notices the blood, and he stares at the patches with an unreadable expression on his face. He only jolts when you put a hand on his shoulder and he allows you to hoist him into the car.
You got him into the passenger seat and try to drive as carefully as possible to get him back to your place. He winces and jolts a little but you can tell he’s trying to put on a brave face, clutching at his wounds tightly. His skin grows pale and sickly-looking during the short ride, and you know that he was going to have to spend some days recovering.
Your place isn’t small, thankfully. You had a house all to yourself; a bathroom and kitchen separate from the living room and bedroom. It wasn’t enough for a family, by any means, but it was more than ample enough for you and the space you wanted to make a life in for the next half a decade.
You get him into the house without being seen, for once grateful for the sleepiness of the town you live in, and when you finally have him in your space, laying on a towel on the bed, you ask, “What am I supposed to call you?”
He shrugs and makes a sweeping gesture.
You take it to mean, Anything is okay.
He didn’t have the energy to write any more. His eyes slide closed but you tap his uninjured foot with your knuckle, making him jerk.
You say, ignoring his vicious glare, “I’ll let you sleep. I’ll wake you up when you’re supposed to eat something.”
He nods, eyes sliding closed and he waves you off, a little more purposefully. I’m too sleepy for this. You read from his behavior.
You close the bedroom door and move into the living room. You were going to have to work half-shifts instead of full ones to keep an eye on the animals until you could hire someone to house-keep. You had been looking for an assistant since even before your old boss had hurt himself, because of his old and your growing responsibilities at the clinic.
It takes you about an hour to send off some e-mails, inquiring about any veterinary assistants in any nearby town or fresh graduates who were interested in studying under you, before you move to make dinner.
The stranger had been sleeping soundlessly for hours, even after you check on him randomly, part of you worried about him somehow getting into your panty drawer or pulling a knife and trying to kill you, even though you know, logically, that he wouldn’t even be able to hold up a pencil let alone a weapon.
You make him porridge, full of nutrients and blended into something smooth and easy for him to eat, and you cook up some bulgogi and quinoa for yourself.
When you walk into your bedroom, you notice the air in the room edging on the cusp of stale so you open one of the windows and let in a gust of fresh Fall breeze. It was going to rain soon, probably later that night actually, from the heavy scent of rain on the wind, so you are grateful to you of days past for having already gone grocery shopping for the rest of the month.
Living with another person was going to burn you through the food you had a lot faster than you had planned so while you set up the food, you make a list of things you’ll probably need for him.
“Hey, Mister,” you say, shaking his shoulder, gently. “It’s time for dinner.”
Groggily, he rouses from his sleep. “Mmmm?”
“Dinner,” you repeat once his eyes are opened and he seems aware of his surroundings. You help him into a more seated position, not ignorant to the pain he must be in from the clenching on his jaw. “It’s only porridge. I tried not to make it spicy or too salty, but you have to let me know if it isn’t to your taste.”
He sniffs the broth and he gets a dazed look on his face. The man’s stomach gurgles, loudly, and he looks away, embarrassed.
“Can you manage by yourself?”
The man exhales before he nods, taking the spoon in a shaky grip. His eyes are big, all lost and frightened, and he waits, patiently, for you to place the bowl in his lap, a thin towel beneath it to assuage some of the heat.
You grab your own bowl of food from the tray on the desk and cross your legs. He stares at you, waiting, glancing between your bowl and your face, before he raises his eyebrows, expectantly.
He was waiting for you to start eating so you could eat together. You give him a small smile, which he returns with his own, kind and innocent.
“Bon appetit.“
The two of you eat in relative silence but whenever you glance up from your own bowl, you see him demolishingthe plate. He finishes long before you even get through half of your meal and he seems to want more if the eager look on his face says anything.
You swallow a mouthful and ask, trying to hide your amusement, “Are you still hungry?”
He chews his bottom lip as he nods, sincerely.
With a satisfied smile, you take his bowl, uncurling your legs to get off the bed and disappear into the living room. You feel his eyes on you from the bedroom, which looks directly into the kitchen area from where he is laying down.
“There’s plenty more if you like,” you tell him as you hand it back. This bowl isn’t as hot, and he takes his time with this one, eating slower and savoring the taste of each bite. His nostrils flare as he eats, brows twitching in interest as he eats.
He’s shockingly beautiful, even like this, bandaged and bruised.
You grab a new notepad, one of the loose-leaf paper ones you stole from the clinic to help you with your late-night studies.
“I can give you this to write in until we figure out a better way for you to communicate with me,” you tell him after tapping his leg to get his attention.
The man nods and excitedly takes the pad from you, putting it next to him before he goes back to the food. Clearly his priorities lay firmly with getting his sustenance before anything else.
Some time later, after you had washed up the dishes and had carefully changed his bandages, you ask, “How do you feel?”
He didn’t put a shirt on on your recommendation, to let the injuries air out, and you have to force your eyes to stop wandering. His chest is so much more impressive now that he’s conscious and in motion. Perfect wash-board abs, his detailed, dark pectoral tattoos shifting as his muscles move when he scribbles his responses down. He was an absolute specimenof a man, something to be studied in a book somewhere.
Suddenly, he turns the notepad around, surprising you, with a tight look on his face. Like I got run over by a semi-truck.
You snort a little, gesturing to his arm. “I took a bullet out of your shoulder. You’re lucky that you’re conscious. I still think being in a hospital would be better for you.”
He doesn’t even answer. The look on his face alone is enough to remind you of his staunch lack of a desire to go the official route.
“I got it,” you comment, exhaling in minor frustration. “I’ve thought of a name for you.”
He quirks a brow in curiosity. What is it?
“Jay,” you respond. “You have a neck tattoo of the letter. It’s pretty big, so maybe your name begins with it, or someone you care about has their initial. And this is a mocking jay bird on your inner arm.”
He gingerly raises an arm to touch the side of his neck, fingers tracing the lightly raised skin. I don’t even know what I look like.
You move to grab a hand-held mirror from your vanity and hold it up for him, at eye-level.
“You’re pretty,” you compliment as he looks at his own reflection in momentary fascination.
I’m handsome.
You roll your eyes at the proud expression on his face. He keeps looking at himself, tilting his head from side to side.
“Being smug isn’t a good look,” you retort, glibly. You remove the mirror, putting it back where it belongs, and stand, putting your hands on your hips. “I’m getting ready to go to sleep. You can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He stares at you, not comprehendingly, almost as if he doesn’t want to be alone. He scrambles to write something quickly. Why? The bed’s big enough for both of us.
“No offense, but you stink,” you tell him with a twist to your lips. “Plus, I don’t feel comfortable sharing a bed with a patient.”
His frown deepens slightly as he takes a covert sniff of his body, but his face twists into a grimace as he realizes you aren’t lying. Jay writes more down. I’m not your patient. You aren’t a doctor.
“I’m the one who stitched you up. I’m the closest thing you have to a doctor, Jay,” you respond, putting a hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. He looks up at you through his lashes before you say, “Get some sleep.”
Jay sighs, heavily, before he acquiesces, shuffling down on the bed and you switch off the lights, bathing him in darkness. You try to be quiet, milling around in the bathroom as you shower and ready yourself for sleep. With still damp hair, you walk back into the living room and stare down at the couch. You would be lying if you said that you hadn’t spent your fair share of nights on the couch, having got too lost in a late night whirlpool and slept there with the tv still playing in the background. You always woke up with a crick in your neck and some kind of new bruise from how you turn in your sleep.
You toss out the blanket on the couch and curl into a warm ball. You fall asleep to the calming sounds of the beginning of Fall rain, body relaxing in slow increments until you’re gone, drifting in a sea of comforting darkness.
In the middle of the night, you are jolted out of your sleep by the sound of thunder, clapping mercilessly loud in the distance. You get out of bed, your bladder calling for you to go to the bathroom. Once you’re done with your business, you wash your hands and come out of the bathroom, but something catches your attention.
A groaning sound.
But the sound was so unbearably sad that it made your heart ache.
You walk into the bedroom, quietly poking your head into the shadowy room to see Jay, his face contorted in agony, biting so hard on his lower lip that he had long broke the skin and was dripping blood down his chin.
Instantly you are by his side, reaching for his clenched fist by his side.
“Shh,” you murmur, patting his head in tender motions. You know he can’t hear you, but you keep muttering soft sounds, running your hands up and down his scalp, rubbing small circles on the back of his hands with your thumb. You used to get nightmares a lot as a kid, easily frightened by the smallest thing, so your mom often had to cuddle you back into sleep’s embrace this exactly way. You whisper, softly, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
It doesn’t stop the nightmare from playing behind his eyes, but you notice a degree of tension leaving his body the longer you comfort him. His moaning and grumbling taper off, gradually, as you rub the crook of your finger up and down the side of his face, back and forth along the side of his jaw.
You keep petting him, shifting onto your side so you could wrap yourself around his trembling body. It felt more intimate than it actually was, knowing that you were only providing physical support to someone in need, but the optics were saying something different. You look into the mirror directly opposite to the bed, observing yourself. Hair messy, sleep still in your eye and lines from the cushion that you had been using as a pillow pressed into the skin of your neck and face.
It appeared too intimate for you to stomach, so you look away, embarrassed.
You move to get away once he had stopped gnawing through his lip, thinking your job done, but he whimpers like a struck animal and grabs your hand tighter.
He mouths words, but no sound comes out. Jay’s thick brows twitch in displeasure as he grabs your hand tighter, almost pulling you back into the pocket of warmth at his side and he settles quickly after.
“You’re going to be such a handful,” you grumble, shuffling a little to get comfortable in his iron-grip.
- end -
