kibum doesn't know why he does it. he only knows that it’s a necessary part of his being, and he can’t stop.
if you wanted to get technical, you could say that it started with choi minho. tall and handsome, with round dark-chocolate eyes and a wry smile, he was charming, and people liked him. they had said he was going places in life.
he had been a family friend for ages and he and kibum got along well for the most part, though they weren’t close to each other. when minho was eighteen, and kibum was fifteen, minho went off to college, and in his 2
nd semester, he rented a room in the small apartment kibum lived in with his father. they weren't very well off financially, and they were close-enough family friends, so kibum’s father didn’t mind, and kibum supposed he didn’t either.
a few months had passed and they became comfortable with each other. kibum knew enough about minho to realize that minho liked to get high every tuesday and thursday, and that minho liked to bring home girls with runny mascara and keep them locked in his room until it was dawn. and more often than not, minho liked to drink, and some nights, he didn’t come home.
one time, he picked at the lock of the front door at three in the morning, and stumbled into kibum’s room in the dark, and slid under the covers with him and touched him, saying that he was lonely and wasted, and fuck, kibum was so pretty, so perfect. minho pinned him down with his larger frame and had him trapped under his grip, and made him feel awful and disgusting and perfect all at the same time that night and kibum fucking hated it. he cried as he watched his innocence fly away, and it was all so sick and disgustingly tragic. he wanted to burn off his skin, wanted to shed every part of his being... and most of all he felt fucking weak, numb, because it repeated and repeated and repeated, and every time he laid there, taking the hurt, tasting minho's skin, unable to breathe; and he never said a word, never moved an inch.
a few months of this had passed and became a routine, until kibum finally couldn’t stand it anymore. one night, he took the carving knife his father used for chicken to bed with him. he only planned on fighting him off, on protecting himself, but as the night wore on and kibum waited and waited in the still of the night, a darker thought sprung into his mind. instead of shrinking away and crying as he would normally do, he played with minho to his delight.
he stroked him and put to work all of the horrible knowledge he had taught him, and when he was at the highest point of ecstasy he took the knife and sliced ever so carefully from base to tip. minho screamed, his member opened like a gutted fish. he writhed in pain. his blood covered kibum, and kibum glorified in this agony, the agony of someone he had known for years but he hadn’t, really. because minho was minho was minho, and yet he wasn’t. not anymore. he could finally become like kibum. nothing.
kibum left his room quickly and searched through the apartment for the drawer with his father’s gun; and without hesitation, he shot minho in the head. his father’s shotgun had made a ruin of minho’s head, reducing it to mush like a pumpkin wrecked on the day after halloween.
when the gunshot screamed throughout the apartment, his father woke up, and clambered to his son’s room to see what had happened. he stared at his son’s naked body in silence, then his gaze drifted over to minho's, and only made a gesture for kibum to follow him into the kitchen to grab knives.
they had cut apart the body, burned it in the fireplace, and swore to never speak of it again. kibum felt a strange, quiet glee in the way his father acted: so calm, unafraid, and scary, and he felt that his father was no stranger to these kind of things, and kibum had never appreciated his father more than he did that night.
his father died years later in car accident, taking the secret literally to the grave. and now, only kibum knew what he had done to minho, and only he knows what he does to them now.
it usually begins at a bar, some gritty and underground and full of neon hazy lights, some up-scale and fancy with expensive drinks; but one thing is common: they’re filled with wrecked, drunken strangers, who only want one thing, and that’s fine with kibum. he dresses to kill, a thin blank tanktop that dips low; sharp collarbones visible and perfect in the dimmed light, and he wears tight black jeans that accentuate his firm ass and perfect thighs. kibum dyes his hair a lot too, mostly to avoid complications from strangers in these situations, but mostly because he knows how good and innocent the honey-blonde colour looks against his soft milky-white skin.
after so many years of this, he knew how to work every inch of his body like this. he knew how to play with them, how to trap them.
this one comes over to offer him a drink; his name is jonghyun, he’s short, and cocky, and he laughs in a dumb way and brags too much about small things, and kibum thinks it's shame that he's like all the others because he's quite attractive.
and of course kibum accepts the drink, he always does. he spends the night engaging in petty small talk, laughing at jonghyun’s stupid fucking jokes and marveling at his muscles. he leaves with him and touches his thighs in the taxi. kibum snuggles into the crook of his arms, and nuzzles jonghyun’s neck. he breathes in the smell of this warm, real man and feels the beat of his throbbing pulse. he can already taste the blood that's about to spill.
they go back to his place, a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the streets of seoul he bought two months after his father died. it’s strangely isolated from the rest of the building, though that’s exactly the reason he bought it. it sits on the ground floor, which makes it easier for him to smuggle them out of the apartment once he’s finished.
he leads jonghyun in with an enticing finger, beckoning him to taste his beauty. they pant and moan and jonghyun’s ego has inflated tonight because damn, kibum is fucking hot, gorgeous, and hell yeah, he’s to going to get laid tonight. their clothes come off, jonghyun is rock-hard and kibum pleasures him on the black sofa, so black that the blood doesn’t show if the landlord ever stops by.
he puts a gag in jonghyun’s mouth, earnestly telling him that he enjoys hearing his muffled groans, telling him that it turns him on, and jonghyun is fine with that, loves it, plays along. kibum teases jonghyun, leaving light kisses up and down jonghyun’s thighs and then he starts sucking jonghyun off, and he smiles while he’s doing this, because he knows exactly what comes next.
kibum takes the knife from where he’s hidden it between his thighs, and just as jonghyun throw his head back in pleasure, kibum cuts him. he cuts him the same way he did the first time to choi minho, from base to tip, so that the once proud member splits. jonghyun screams until he chokes on the spit and mucus that the ball gags keep in his mouth, and kibum throws him to the floor with a blank expression on his pretty porcelain face.
after the loss of his member, he seems unable or unwilling to fight. they always are.
kibum cuts him deeper and deeper, until he can see his intestines poking out and then he makes one final deep cut, under the left side of his ribs. he shoves his arm through the hole he’s made, under the ribs and feels his way up, up, up. he wraps his hand around the heart and squeezes; watches jonghyun die as he damages his hearts beyond repair. he squeezes so hard that he feels all the pieces rupture like a juicy peach. he laughs in malicious glee, and stares jonghyun straight in the eye as he fades away into death, so that kibum’s the last thing that he’ll ever see.
after jonghyun’s dead, there’s no more reason to play with him. kibum goes to work cutting him apart, using the battery-powered knives that his father once used to carve turkeys to cut his joints apart. he piles his pieces in a bag and takes them to the veterinary clinic where he works during the day. he sneaks in to the crematorium and puts him in the crematory piece by piece. he watches him burn, and after he’s reduced to tiny bits of bones, he puts the bones in a grinder and watches them turn to ashes.
there’s always the one piece that he refuses to burn, however; the proof of their evil; proof of their true demon, their piece of masculinity that they hold so dear.
he takes it home and places the ashes in an violet urn that he’s picked out ahead of time. he places the urn among the rest in the collection, in a lighted glass cabinet. the shelves are mirrored and reflect the urns beautifully. he takes their phalluses and strings them onto fishhooks, and he lets them dry in the kitchen window. he doesn’t worry-- there’s no danger, because the window faces a brick alley with only an abandoned warehouse to see. he makes sure to do his work on a weekend, so he can sleep in the next day.
kibum is smart, of course, and never goes to the same bar twice. he always pays in cash, and he always turns off the cameras in the crematorium before he leaves work.
no one will ever catch him.
he’s caught unprepared at work when a detective comes and collect him a few weeks after his latest hunt (he was an older man named jinki, far, far too easy and far too much fun to play with). he brings him back to the station and tells him that a potential buyer for the warehouse next door had seen his collection of fleshy wind chimes, and called the police. they bring in pictures of his collection of amputated penises, and ask him why.
kibum politely asks them for a cigarette and doesn’t answer for a few minutes. he blows on the end of his cigarette and watches the ash glow a faint orange.
“it’s my job.”
“your job,” the detective, a soft spoken red-head named taemin asks, horrified. “why is this your job?”
“we both do it,” kibum answers after a deep drag. “we both kill people. but you‘re a coward. you lock them in cages and watch them die slowly. i cut them open and watch them die, because i’m not the coward that you are. i have balls.”
kibum pauses and then shakes his head and laughs and stubs out the cigarette. “literally, huh? i take their balls. now i have more than i could have ever imagined. you’re limited to two, and now i have dozens.” a peal of his haunted laughter echoes through the room as taemin watches him in horror and disgust. he prepares to leave kibum there, alone in the room with his terrifying laughter and dark thoughts, when kibum calls out, “detective taemin.”
taemin turns around, slowly, and with carefully marked steps, eyes the completely frightening and strangely calm feline-eyed man. “yes?”
kibum has a request, or, well, more of a recommendation, for the judge, because he knows he’s going to get at least a life sentence in prison for all the things he has done in his lifetime.
death.
ketterings) wrote,