Stolen Orbit

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: alien au, yandere jk, dark horror, enemies to lovers,

summary: you were meant for eradication with the rest of your planet—erased without a trace, just another speck in the galaxy's endless purge. but jeongguk saw you. fragile, insignificant... human. and something his kind had long forgotten stirred in him. Instead of erasing your existence, he took you, stole you from extinction and made you his.

now you live in a celestial cage, adored and possessed by something not quite capable of love, but desperate to keep you. he doesn't understand your fear, your resistance, but he craves your surrender all the more because of it. and if it takes breaking you to make you his completely... he will.

warnings: slow burn, mass extermination, alien jungkook forced captivity/proximity, psychological manipulation, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, smut, ritualistic copulation

word count: 5,857

The Beginning

The sky split open the night they came. You didn’t see it at first, no one did.

You brushed your teeth that night. Standing in your tiny bathroom beneath flickering fluorescent lights, humming faintly to music you can’t remember anymore. A song that cut out mid chorus when everything else did.

You paused, frowned, the mirror vibrated faintly, a shiver running across your reflection. Confused, you flicked the light switch. Nothing.

Reach for your phone. Dead.

Outside, the city dimmed as though someone had thrown a heavy blanket over the world. Buildings blinked out, window by window. Cars stalled silently in the streets.

Then came the sirens. Low and unearthly, vibrating deep in your chest rather than ringing in your ears.

You pressed your palms to the vanity, trying to pinpoint the source.

No alarms.

No helicopters.

No dogs barking or people yelling in the distance.

Just… stillness.

Until the sky broke.

You saw it from your window, face pale in the glass as blackness carved itself across the heavens like a wound tearing through flesh.

It didn’t glow or rage, it hummed.

And through that terrible void came beams of sterile white light.

You watched—paralyzed—as they swept through the streets, swallowing people whole. No fire, no blood, they simply ceased.

Your neighbor clutching her husband on the balcony. The delivery boy halfway up the stairs. A child pedaling frantically on his bicycle.

Gone.

Your mouth moved, but no sound came out. By the time your legs remembered how to function, chaos had bloomed outside.

Screams.

Desperate, useless prayers. People running without knowing where safety even existed.

It didn’t matter.

Your chest crushed inward as panic overtook you. You grabbed your phone, screaming into dead silence, dialing numbers that wouldn’t connect.

Your father’s voicemail.

Your sister’s disconnected line.

The beams moved without emotion, erasing everything they touched as easily as wiping chalk from a board. You don’t remember deciding to run. You don’t remember leaving your apartment. You only remember the maintenance tunnels.

You shoved yourself beneath concrete and metal, nails splitting and bleeding as you slammed the hatch shut above you.

And there you stayed.

For minutes.

Hours.

Days.

Time broke.

The silence that followed was not peaceful.

It was dead.

::::::::::::

When you woke, it was worse. Not because you survived. Not even because the world was gone.

But because you weren’t there anymore.

Your eyes opened to sterility. Smooth, seamless walls of faintly glowing white, like pearl carved from bone. No corners or seams. Just endless smoothness in every direction, as though the room itself were grown rather than built.

There were no windows.

No doors.

Only a faint humming, familiar and yet not. Not the gentle whir of an AC or the buzz of old light bulbs. This was deeper, vibrating at a frequency that scraped against the base of your skull. It sounded like something alive.

You sat up too fast, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

The bed beneath you was impossibly soft, molding to your shape like memory foam, but it didn’t feel right. It smelled faintly of something sweet and sterile, like a flower that had never known dirt.

You clutched the sheets tighter to your chest, your head spinning.

“Hello?” you rasped. No answer, just the never ending hum.

You tried again.

“HELLO?”

Your voice echoed strangely, rebounding without substance, as though the room itself were swallowing the sound.

A prickling sensation raced down your spine as you scrambled to your feet. Your legs were weak and shaky, like you hadn’t used them in days. You stumbled toward the nearest wall and pressed your palms flat against it.

It was warm.

Not cold like metal. Not smooth like glass.

Warm, as though the structure around you was some kind of living skin.

You recoiled instinctively.

“What the fuck,” you whispered.

Your chest heaved as you tried to remember.

Where were you?

Where was your family?

Had you died?

The last thing you remembered was hiding. Listening to the world end. And then— nothing. Your stomach twisted violently. Panic set in like lead poisoning, slow but lethal. You began slamming your fists against the wall.

“LET ME OUT!”

“WHERE AM I?!”

Nothing. No doors appeared, no voices responded. But the hum grew louder, though, it didn’t feel or sound angry. Not mechanical.

It sounded oddly interested.

You froze, pressing your back against the bed as a low chime resonated throughout the space. The wall directly across from you rippled, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone, and opened.

A doorway formed from nothing, and something stepped through.

At first, you thought he was wrong. Everything about him felt off in ways your mind couldn’t fully process.

Tall—towering—with limbs too graceful and too fluid to be comforting.

Skin pale and luminous, glowing softly from within, threaded with faint iridescence that shifted as he moved. Hair dark and weightless, littered with braids adorned with glimmering otherworldly metals, drifting as though underwater. Framing features too symmetrical, too perfect.

And his eyes.

They were unsettling, solid black at first glance.

But as he drew closer, they shifted—illuminated galaxies of silver, violet, and deep cosmic blues, swirling softly in patterns that hurt to stare at for too long.

You stumbled backward, your legs colliding with the bed as your pulse thundered.

He did not flinch, but instead stepped closer.

Graceful. Effortless.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Every primitive instinct screamed at you to run, but your body betrayed you. He tilted his head as he regarded you.

Not cruelly, not kindly. Curiously.

His voice slid across your mind rather than your ears.

“You are… fragile.”

You flinched, shaking your head as if a bug was caught in your hair. The words felt invasive, sliding into your consciousness without permission.

He stepped closer.

“I am Jeongguk.”

The name thrums with alien cadence, yet tastes almost familiar in your mind. His glowing eyes flicker faintly, as if pleased by your terror.

“You reside aboard Virexum,” he continues calmly. “This vessel collects and preserves what remains after eradication.”

“Eradication?” you whisper, voice hollow.

“Earth was terminated.”

A pause, as if considering how much you can process. “Your species had reached decay. Pollution. War. Rot. The Kaereth do not preserve weakness. We cleanse.”

The words hit harder than any weapon. You shake your head violently, sobbing openly now.

Your father, your sister. They’re…gone?

“No. No, you can’t— you didn’t—”

“It was mercy.”

His voice softens slightly, but not kindly. “Existence without evolution is entropy. The Kaereth do not allow suffering. We end it.”

You can’t breathe.

You drop to your knees, pressing your palms to your face as the horror swells and breaks inside you.

But he does not.

Tears flooded your vision, hot and blinding as your sobs shattered the sterile silence, ugly and helpless.

He watches you the way one might watch a dying star—quietly admiring, deeply fascinated.

When you finally stilled, he crouched before you, his claws retracting as he reached out. You recoiled instinctively, but he only touched your hair, brushing it back from your damp face with a tenderness that felt foreign.

“I did not erase you,” he murmurs.

You flinch, but his hand cradles your face delicately, tipping it up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You glowed,” he says, softer now. Almost enthralled.

“Amidst destruction, you clung to life. You burned brighter than the dying world around you. You will not suffer,” he said quietly. “You are mine now. You will be kept.”

Kept.

The word echoed as he stood again, gesturing to the room around you. “This is yours. Safe. Nourishing. You will adjust.”

You choked on disbelief.

“Why me?”

He paused.

And for the first time since he arrived, his expression shifted. His eyes darkened. His lips parted just slightly, almost pious.

“Because,” he murmured, as though speaking to himself, “you glowed brightest before death.”

With that, he turned and left, the wall sealing behind him in silence.

Leaving you alone with the hum, and the terrible, hollow truth that you were the last of your kind. And you were his now.

Whatever that meant.

Whatever that would become.

::::::::::::

You don’t remember sleeping, but when your eyes open again, raw and heavy from hours of silent sobbing, the room is dimmer. The walls, once glowing faintly like a moonlit sea, have softened to a deep, low shimmer, as though mimicking the concept of nighttime.

You’re still here.

Still locked in this dreamless nightmare of seamless walls and soundless air.

Still wearing the thin, pale shift you woke up in, neither warm nor cold, but irritating in its neutrality.

Still alone.

Except… you aren’t.

You feel him before you see him. The hum of the room changes. Deepens, sharpens as though the ship itself reacts to his presence.

You sit up slowly, wiping your face, throat dry from hours of ragged breathing.

When the wall ripples open again, it’s almost gentle. Less like a command, and more like the way curtains are drawn back to allow moonlight in.

And there he stands.

Jeongguk.

Alien. Impossibly elegant.

Unfathomably tall, framed in the soft glow as though carved from the bones of dying stars.

You freeze when his eyes meet yours, not because they’re cruel. But because they are intent.

Hungry.

Unblinking.

“You are awake.”

His voice slides across your mind again, as smooth as silk and as cold as space.

You swallow tightly, sitting rigid on the edge of the bed. Your legs are weak, but you fight to keep your spine straight.

“Please,” you whisper hoarsely, the word tasting hollow in your mouth. “Please just tell me what you want from me.”

He pauses.

“I have told you,” he says, moving forward, soundless as shadow. “You are mine. You will be kept. That is what I want.”

His words make your stomach twist violently. You push up from the bed, backing away until your shoulder blades press into the wall behind you.

“You can’t just— keep me!”

Your voice cracks, teetering between hysteria and disbelief.

“I’m not some… some thing you can collect!”

He stops mid step, considering.

His expression doesn’t change and yet, you can feel the weight of his scrutiny press down on you.

“Incorrect,” he says softly, as though correcting a child. “You are precious. Not a ‘thing’. Not to me.”

You open your mouth to argue, to scream, but your breath catches as something changes.

The bioluminescent lines across his body shift subtly. They pulse gently.

You don’t know why, but the sight makes your heart stutter.

Is that emotion?

Before you can question it, he raises one hand.

A low chime echoes through the room, and from the far wall, a smooth panel unfolds. It reveals a strange, device that emits fragrant steam.

Your stomach clenches painfully as your senses recognize what it is before your mind does.

Food.

Or, at least, something meant to replicate it. Soft, pale orbs float in an iridescent broth, giving off a smell not unlike fresh bread and honey.

It should be comforting.

But in this place, nothing feels comforting.

“You have not consumed nourishment in sixteen of your planet’s hours,” Jeongguk says calmly, gesturing toward the offering.

“Your body weakens. This is inefficient.”

You hesitate, eyeing the bowl warily.

“I’m not hungry,” you lie.

His head tilts, faintly reptilian in the gesture, and for the first time, a flicker of something sharper edges into his tone.

“You will eat.”

The words are not barked.

Not threatening.

But absolute.

You stare back at him, shaking slightly.

And when you make no move to comply, he steps forward and takes the bowl himself, walking closer until he is far too near. He crouches, folding gracefully in front of you like a predator settling in for the kill.

But instead of violence, he offers you the bowl directly.

Holding it out, waiting patiently.

“Eat,” he murmurs.

His eyes glow faintly as they fix on your face.

“For me.”

Your lips part helplessly. Something in the way he says it. Quiet, almost intimately, sends your skin crawling and burning at once.

You hate him.

And yet…

Your body obeys. Your fingers tremble as you accept the bowl, lifting one of the pale orbs to your lips.

It tastes… nothing like food.

But it dissolves softly on your tongue, leaving behind warmth that creeps slowly down your throat.

Not unpleasant, not pleasurable. Just… filling.

Sustaining.

You eat in silence, aware of his unwavering gaze as you do. When the bowl empties, he takes it back carefully, setting it aside.

“Better,” he says quietly.

You can’t meet his eyes.

The tears come again without permission, sliding hot and heavy down your face. You curl in on yourself, trying to muffle the broken sounds that escape your throat.

And then… a touch.

Featherlight at first, fingers ghosting against your temple, sliding into your hair.

You tense, but he does not press.

“You fear me.” His words are not questioning. “Good. It is natural. You are fragile.”

Your breath hitches painfully.

His hand slips lower, knuckles grazing your cheek with maddening delicacy.

“But fear will fade,” he continues softly. “In time, you will see. I am not cruel. I am constant. You will not be harmed. You will be… cherished.”

You turn your head away sharply and his fingers slip free, but you feel the weight of his focus intensify.

“You misunderstand your position,” he murmurs. “Earth is gone. You are alone in a universe that has no place for you. No one will come for you. No one can.”

You clench your fists tightly in your lap, the truth cutting deeper than his touch ever could.

“Why me?” you ask, voice breaking. “Why not let me die with the rest?”

He leans in slightly, his presence invading your every sense.

“Because when others knelt and wept… you raged,” he whispers. “You burned. You clung to life with ferocity. That is rare.”

His eyes soften, if such a thing is possible for something so alien.

“I collect what should not exist.” A faint smile, too serene, too knowing. “You are an anomaly. You are mine.”

You bite down hard on your lower lip, forcing back another sob.

“This isn’t cherishing,” you whisper bitterly.

“This is prison.”

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he rises slowly, towering over you once more. His hands fold neatly behind his back. The perfect image of composed, regal authority.

“No,” he agrees softly. “This is preservation.”

He steps back toward the door, but his voice reaches you again as it ripples open to accept him.

“Rest. I will return when you are calmer.”

A pause.

“And eventually… you will thank me.”

Then he is gone.

And you’re eft in the silence once more—but not alone.

Not really.

Because his scent still lingers. His voice still hums faintly in your mind. And worse, you realize part of you is already listening for his return.

::::::::::::

You don’t see him again for three cycles. You don’t know how you know this. There’s no sun here, no night and day, no ticking clock on sterile walls—but your body remembers.

It remembers the ache of hunger.

The slow unraveling of sanity when left in isolation. The bone deep dread that blooms in the absence of any other voice but your own.

For seventy two hours, maybe more, maybe less, you are alone.

The ship hums softly at all hours, the walls glowing faintly like a slumbering beast. Your room, if you can even call it that, remains locked.

No doors.

No windows.

Just blank, seamless walls and a bed that conforms to your every restless shift.

Food appears twice, delivered silently through a hidden panel in the wall, but you ignore it. You sit curled on the bed, stomach clenching painfully, but you refuse to give in.

Not again, not after last time.

He’d fed you like a child.

Watched you with something sickly tender in his eyes while you cried and ate and fell apart in front of him.

No.

You will not make this easy for him. Your anger is all you have left. The only shield between you and the quiet, desperate terror that creeps in when you allow yourself to feel anything else.

So you don’t eat.

You don’t sleep.

You don’t talk to the empty room, no matter how loud the silence becomes.

You wait.

Because you know he’ll come back, of course he will.

Men like him, things like him, always come back.

And when he does, you are ready.

—

He appears on the fourth cycle.

Not like before, there’s no grand entrance. No rippling doors or ominous hums.

You wake to find him already there, standing at the foot of the bed like a phantom who has always belonged in your nightmares. He watches you in silence, arms folded behind his back, eyes glowing softly in the low light.

You glare at him, lips cracked from dehydration.

He says nothing.

“Fuck you.”

Your voice scrapes like gravel against your raw throat, but it feels good to say.

Good to bite, even if your teeth barely graze.

His head tilts slightly, that same alien gesture that makes your stomach turn.

“You are weakening,” he observes softly, almost clinically. “Your refusal to consume nourishment endangers your cellular structure. This is illogical.”

You laugh, sharp and brittle.

“Good. Let me die, then.”

For the first time, his expression shifts, not dramatically, but his brows knit slightly, his mouth drawing in the faintest sliver.

He doesn’t like that.

“Negative,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “I will not allow termination.”

You push yourself up on shaking arms, baring your teeth in something that feels more animal than human.

“I don’t belong to you. You can’t keep me like this. Feeding me, locking me in this—this cage! I’ll starve before I let you win.”

His eyes narrow faintly, glowing brighter. “You misunderstand,” he murmurs, his voice lowering dangerously.

“This is not a contest,” he moves closer, slow, deliberate steps that make your pulse spike and your limbs tremble. “This is inevitability.”

You scramble off the bed, stumbling backward until your spine hits the wall. His presence consumes the room, filling every atom of available space, as though the ship itself responds to his shifting mood.

He stands before you now, towering and still.

“You may resist,” he allows softly. “You may cry, scream, refuse… for a time.”

His hand rises, not threatening, but steady as his fingers gently, maddeningly, brush your jaw. The touch sends a bolt of revulsion and something more complicated spiraling through you.

“But you will acclimate.”

His voice vibrates softly in your bones, dangerous in its certainty.

You slap his hand away, the sound cracking through the air like gunfire.

For a moment, nothing happens.

He simply stares at you, the tips of his fingers still poised where they had been, motionless, as though stunned.

And then…he withdraws, silently. Without anger or words. Simply steps back, gaze unreadable, and turns for the door.

Panic flashes hot and instant through your chest. “No—” you gasp, confused by your own terror at his sudden departure.

He stops just before the wall seals behind him. For the first time, his voice emerges aloud, not through your mind, but spoken.

Low.

Flat.

Cold.

“You have chosen isolation.”

Then he’s gone, and so is everything else.

The hum of the ship fades, the lights dim to near darkness. The temperature drops, not enough to freeze, but enough to chill your skin, to make your breath puff faintly in the air.

The bed retracts into the wall.

The food panel vanishes.

You are left standing in nothing.

Cold.

Alone.

—

For hours—maybe days—you are abandoned to the hollow, oppressive silence.

Your tears dry.

Your voice fades from hoarseness to nothing. Your legs give out, and you curl on the hard floor, clutching yourself tightly as sleep eludes you in the endless dark.

You hate him.

But when the wall finally ripples open again, soft, warm light spilling through and his tall, silent figure appears in the doorway once more, you sob.

Relief.

Humiliation.

Rage.

You don’t understand which emotion is which anymore.

He crosses the threshold slowly, eyes glowing faintly in gentle shades of blue and pink. Soft, careful, like a predator soothing prey after the kill.

Without speaking, he kneels before you, gathering your shaking body into his arms. You don’t fight him this time.

You can’t.

You’re too cold.

Too broken.

His hand strokes your hair as he murmurs something low in his language, soft syllables that sound like lullabies from a galaxy you will never see.

“I will not harm you,” he whispers, pressing his lips against your temple. “Do not make me hurt you through absence again; I ache.”

Your fingers clutch his robe weakly, sobs muffled against his chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper, but it’s empty.

Weak.

He hums softly.

“I know.”

He pulls you closer, cradling you as though you are delicate and rare, because to him, you are.

“And yet you need me.”

You can’t argue.

Not right now.

Not when his warmth is the only thing that feels real in this endless void of stars and silence.

::::::::::::

You don’t sleep, even when your body begs you to.

Sleep would mean trusting the silence, surrendering.

So you lay awake on the strange, pliant surface that the ship has provided. Not quite a bed, but softer than the floor that left your bones aching and cold during your punishment.

You are still recovering from that.

The ache of isolation.

The terror of being truly, utterly alone.

But more than that… you are recovering from the humiliation.

Because when he returned, when he found you curled and trembling, teeth chattering and face raw from tears, you clung to him.

You didn’t mean to.

Your body simply reacted, desperate and starved for anything warm and familiar.

Your fingers twisted into the dark folds of his robes, your face pressed into the cool planes of his chest, and you wept like a creature broken open.

And Jeongguk did nothing but hold you.

No words.

No threats.

No cruel satisfaction.

Just stillness.

Just presence.

His hands stroked your back, slow and repetitive, the way you imagine one might soothe a terrified animal.

His head bent low, his breath ghosting against your temple as he whispered words in a language your mind couldn’t translate, soft and melodic, making you feel drunk with the weight of them.

Even now, hours later, his scent still lingers on your skin.

Warm and metallic.

Alien and oddly sweet.

Like lightning woven into silk.

You hate that you find comfort in it now. You hate yourself more than you hate him, but the truth is suffocating in its simplicity.

You needed him.

And he knew it.

—

The door ripples again, seamlessly and without warning. You stiffen instinctively, heart leaping to your throat.

But when Jeongguk steps through, he does not bring the same oppressive energy he had before.

There is no towering, silent menace, or sharp glint of irritation or frustration in his starlit eyes.

Instead…he looks calm, serene, even.

His robes have changed. Still dark, but lighter now. Softer. He wears no armor, or sharp adornments. His hair hangs loose, gleaming faintly in the ship’s low bioluminescence.

He looks… domestic.

If such a word could ever apply to him.

The ship itself seems to respond, the walls brightening subtly, soft, ambient pulses that make the air feel warmer somehow.

More intimate.

Less clinical.

It unnerves you more than his previous coldness.

“Good,” he says quietly, his voice sliding into your consciousness with practiced ease. “You remain.”

You glare at him, but your body betrays you again, relaxing minutely at the familiar cadence of his presence.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice, did I?” you mutter bitterly.

Jeongguk tilts his head slightly, considering.

“No,” he agrees softly. “But you remained nonetheless.”

The phrasing makes something twist painfully low in your stomach. Before you can respond, he approaches, slow, careful steps as though approaching something fragile.

Which, in his eyes, you suppose you are.

He lowers himself gracefully beside you on the bed like surface, close enough that you feel the subtle hum of his energy brushing against your skin.

“I have observed,” he begins, tone thoughtful. “Prolonged isolation causes distress beyond simple physical discomfort in your species.”

You scoff, wrapping your arms around your knees protectively.

“Yeah. That’s called being human.”

He hums softly, as though filing the information away like a precious resource.

“I have no desire to harm you, little star,” he murmurs, and his hand lifts, pausing in the air between you, as if seeking silent permission.

You don’t give it.

But you don’t pull away when his fingers brush lightly across your hair, tucking it back from your face.

His touch is careful.

Maddening.

“I desire only your peace.”

You choke on a bitter laugh.

“Peace? You abducted me, destroyed my planet, locked me in this ship and act like that’s kindness.”

His expression softens, strangely fond despite your venom.

“You misunderstand,” he says gently.

“I did not destroy your planet. I spared you from its fate.”

His fingers trail down, brushing against the curve of your cheek, the line of your jaw, and you shiver despite yourself.

“You were meant to end,” he continues softly, voice almost hypnotic. “But you burned. You raged. You survived.”

His thumb strokes softly against your lower lip, a touch so tender you forget, briefly, how much you despise him.

“You are rare,” he murmurs. “And rare things are not discarded. They are treasured.”

The words settle in your chest like poison wrapped in silk. You should recoil, should slap his hand away, curse him until your throat gives out.

But instead…you close your eyes.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to feel the soft press of his palm against your cheek, anchoring you in this strange, terrible reality.

He takes your silence as permission.

Of course he does.

“Good,” he breathes, satisfaction humming softly in his voice. “You are learning.”

You force your eyes open, glaring weakly at him.

“Learning what?”

His lips curl faintly, not quite a smile, but something disturbingly close.

“To accept.”

You hate him.

But when he shifts closer, pressing his body flush to yours, wrapping an arm carefully around your shoulders, you don’t pull away.

You are cold.

You are tired.

You are alone.

And he is warm.

He is steady.

He is here.

You rest your head against his shoulder before you can think better of it, disgust warring with relief in your chest.

Jungkook says nothing, but the ship hums softly around you, glowing faintly in shades of rose and gold. Contentment radiating from every surface.

You don’t realize how tightly you’ve curled against him until his mouth brushes the crown of your head.

“You will see soon,” he murmurs, words sinking deep into your bones. “I am not your enemy. I am your only constant.”

You fall asleep before you can argue. And for the first time since Earth fell, you sleep through the cycle without waking to scream.

::::::::::::

You wake to warmth.

Not the clinical, neutral temperature of the ship. That engineered comfort that feels more like a lack of discomfort than real heat but true warmth.

Soft.

Heavy.

Alive.

For a moment, your mind refuses to grasp why.

You are tucked beneath something impossibly smooth and weighty , fabric like liquid silk draped over your body, cocooning you in decadent softness.

And behind you, against the curve of your spine, something solid.

Firm.

Breathing.

A heartbeat thrums, steady and deep, so close it vibrates through your back and into your bones.

Not the ship.

Him.

Jeongguk.

You go rigid before you can think. Your hands clench the sheets, alien and faintly iridescent m, as you strain to control your breathing.

You are being held, no, you are being kept.

His arm is heavy across your waist, claws retracted but still unsettling, his fingers resting just beneath your ribcage with terrifying intimacy. His face is pressed lightly to the crown of your head, long hair brushing against your temple like ghost silk.

For several agonizing seconds, you debate your options.

Pull away.

Wake him.

Escape—if that’s even possible anymore.

But as your heart hammers and your stomach twists, you realize something worse.

You don’t want to move.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever, you are not cold, you are not alone, or terrified of what silence might bring.

You are simply… held.

And that, somehow, feels more dangerous than anything he’s done so far.

He stirs before you can make a decision.

The shift is subtle, the faint tightening of his grip, the softening of his breath, the way the ship’s hum lifts faintly, mirroring the change in atmosphere.

Then his voice slides into your mind, quieter than usual.

Thicker.

“You are awake.”

You flinch slightly, but he does not move away. Instead, he exhales slowly, the sound almost… content.

“You slept well,” he murmurs aloud this time, his voice low and textured, as though speaking in words costs him more effort than using your mind.

“You did not cry.”

Shame burns through you instantly. You twist beneath his arm, trying to put space between your bodies, but his hold tightens slightly.

“No,” he says softly, head dipping lower so that his breath brushes the shell of your ear. “Stay.”

Your heart races painfully.

“Why?” you whisper, hating the smallness in your voice.

His answer is simple.

“Because you do not truly wish to leave.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t say it cruelly.

He doesn’t taunt or mock.

He speaks it as though it is a fact he has long since accepted and is merely waiting for you to do the same.

Before you can respond, he shifts, drawing back just enough to allow you to turn and face him. The sight steals the words from your throat.

Up close, he is devastating.

More than alien.

More than beautiful.

His features are carved from something you do not have words for, too elegant to be called soft, too precise to be human. His silver violet eyes glow faintly in the dimness, framed by dark lashes that cast delicate shadows across high cheekbones.

But it is the way he looks at you that truly leaves you breathless.

Not with desire.

Not with hunger.

With… possession. As though you are the first and only star in his universe.

You turn your face away, pulse hammering.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He does not obey.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m—”

You falter, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

“Yours,” you finish bitterly.

His hand moves, fingers brushing your jaw, guiding you gently to meet his gaze again.

“You are mine,” he murmurs softly, as though stating something as mundane as the time of day. “You remain only because I desire it. You live because I allow it. You breathe because I have given you this sanctuary.”

The words are cruel in logic, yet his voice is gentle.

You tremble beneath the weight of them, but he only continues, thumb stroking softly against your cheekbone.

“But you do not need to fear that.” He leans closer, voice dropping lower, coaxing you like one would soothe a frightened animal.

“You do not need to fight so hard. You are cared for. Sheltered. Treasured.”

You want to scream. Want to tell him how wrong he is, how suffocating this is.

But your body remembers the days alone in the dark.

The cold.

The ache.

The crushing silence that left you frantic and desperate for any presence at all. And your body, traitorous and desperate, does not want to return to that.

So instead, you say nothing.

You simply let him hold you.

Let his touch stroke soothing patterns against your spine.

Let your eyes slip closed, not because you want him, but because for now… he feels safe.

—

The days that follow blur together.

Jeongguk becomes a near constant presence, no longer leaving for long stretches. He is always near. Quietly watching, quietly touching, quietly existing in every corner of your small world.

Meals are no longer delivered in silence.

Now, he brings them himself, sitting beside you as you eat, observing your reactions with soft fascination, as though memorizing every flicker of expression.

He asks questions, though never demands answers.

“Why do you frown when eating this?”

“Does this flavor please you more?”

“Do you enjoy these colors?”

It’s strange. Stranger still when you find yourself answering.

Not out of obligation or out of fear. But because the emptiness left by silence is worse.

You talk quietly, giving short answers at first, but over time, they grow longer. You explain foods you miss. You describe music, books, seasons. You speak of snow and rain and laughter, and though he listens with alien detachment, he seems oddly enchanted by your words.

“You will show me,” he says one cycle, after you describe autumn leaves falling in lazy spirals.

You blink at him in confusion.

“Earth is gone.”

His head tilts.

“Virexum can make what you desire.”

You do not know whether to be horrified or grateful. But when the next cycle arrives, your room transforms.The walls ripple and shift until soft amber light filters through projected trees.

Illusions of wind rustle leaves that glow faintly gold and crimson.

You laugh, startled and disbelieving.

And Jeongguk…

He smiles.

Not wide.

Not human.

But soft, and faintly victorious.

As though every small inch you offer him, every smile, every word, every sigh, is another chain wound tightly around your wrists.

—

It happens one night as you sit side by side on the bed, eating quietly. Your hands brush when reaching for the same dish and you both freeze.

The contact is brief.

Innocent.

But it lingers. His fingers slide softly over yours, slow and intentional as though mapping the shape of them.

You don’t pull away, pulse racing, your cheeks flush, but still, you let it happen.

Something shifts in his gaze.

It’s not hunger, not cruelty…longing.

The moment stretches and the ship grows impossibly quiet, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath. You’re the one who breaks it, pulling your hand away with a nervous laugh that sounds too loud in the stillness.

Jeongguk says nothing.

But his eyes follow you all the same, glowing softly in the dim amber light.

Watching.

Always watching.

—

That night, as you lay down and let him pull you close, his arms wrapping securely around your body as though sealing you in, you don’t resist.

You let him tuck your head beneath his chin, your hands curl lightly against his chest.

And when he whispers against your hair, voice low and factual, “you are becoming mine.”

You don’t argue.

Because deep down, beneath the remnants of your rage and sorrow, beneath the tangled mess of shame and longing—

You know he is right.

two | masterlist

Tags

bts fanfic bts fanfiction bts au yandere bts yandere jungkook stockroom syndrome bts jeongguk bts yandere sci if yandere bts x reader yandere jungkook x reader

Yandere Scaramouche x GN Reader

/// Carved From Dreams - Part 1

Summary:

Slightly inspired by the myth Pygmalion

Your mind still recalls when you were a woodblock printer for the God of Eternity. With Raiden Ei's powers, your prints became those beautiful prototype puppets. But, unfortunately, you foolishly fell in love with your creation, so when he dies, and you are left devastated, The Balladeer uses your sorrow and his appearance, which perfectly mirrors your former lover, to get you wrapped around his finger.

Warnings: Angst, Death, Depression (more to be added in the 2nd part)

word count: 5.8k

Did You Take Request? If So, Can It Be Gn?

Snezhnaya is cold.

Too frigid to relax. One always needs to be on the move, or else the hoarfrost will gobble you up.

Though a fox envoy, your memories of being a servant to the God of Eternity have all but faded into the glimmering snow. Yet for some reason, each night as the heavenly moon peeks a glance at your half-sleeping form shrouded in satin and silken sheets at Zapolyarny Palace, everything seems to come back.

The sea of white. Those poignant kisses that left burns on your beating heart. Never-ending tears. The mikos must have passed on the tale of an aloof kitsune whose robes were stained purple for an entire summer.

Perhaps it is like muscle memory, or maybe all of it became engraved into your mind that afternoon at Tenshukaku. Yes, the experience was akin to red wine tainting a wedding dress. You may try to forget. You may try to scrub out the haunting darkness until your skin peels off and your bones show, but the mark will always be there. Even if it’s just seen by you.

Nevertheless, it is something that lasts for an eternity.

You could recall the way paper became skin, how colored ink became violet eyes and plush lips, how each stroke became strands of hair.

He was sketched by you, carved by you, inked by you.

But honestly, could something so fair and radiant truly stem from a simple woodblock print crafted from your hands? You still ask yourself that very question. Yet one thing that you can be certain about is that Her Excellency, the Electro Archon, really did amaze you. Back then, the scarlet sun was setting; as she examined the nude, slender puppet, her face didn’t show a sliver of awe nor a shred of doubt. It was as unmoving as her goal.

You opened your eyes.

Still nighttime. Still too cold.

A chilling breeze invaded the room and you shivered as you pulled up the silken sheet to your chin and tiredly scrutinized your surroundings. He left the window open again. You shifted your body slightly to look at the Harbinger better.

The eagerness to lock the window and close the curtains was strong; however, in these scarce moments, as he obeys slumber’s will, he appears so insecure and pure. The word innocent crossed your mind. A princely face that lacks nothing except a touch of celestial divinity weeps for a tender heart and glazed dreams. His pale skin glowed in the moonlight.

You breathed lightly and didn’t dare to get out of the bed. A single disturbance would awaken the ruthless man. If you committed the transgression, a severe punishment wouldn’t be a surprise.

Besides, you didn’t really want to awake him, anyway, since in these fleeting moments, the Balladeer reminds you of the crack of thunder and brilliance of lightning.

So bright and clear like Akihito. A mere prototype puppet before him.

___

That summer in Inazuma, it was especially hot.

“Don’t be worried, Ei! If anything, my former ward is a shut-in.” Your master, Yae Miko, was always rather blunt. Even as a fellow kitsune, you couldn’t keep up with her demanding, mischievous personality. “You know I don’t like this nonsense you're concocting, but how could you think such preposterous notions? That I would bring someone who can’t be trusted!”

“Miko. Please.” Beelzebul vexingly sighed at her friend’s behavior and gave a cross response. “Everything must be perfect for my plan to take form. No one besides a few must know.” The Electro Archon monitored your eyes shifting from place to place, taking in the lavishness of Tenshukaku. She walked towards you and lifted your chin. You tried to stop your fox ears from twitching. Her touch was, not surprisingly, electrifying. “Miko tells me you're a skilled artist.” She grabbed your hands and inspected them. “Calluses. You practice your craft often, I see.”

“Yes, Your Excellency, I make a variety of woodblock prints. Some depicting the Shrine, some tales from the past, others mere imaginative scenes. I sell them in the city and during seasonal festivals.”

“Good, good.” You couldn’t really tell if she was pleased or not. She spoke so plainly. “Now, answer this question, and I will see if you are fit for my task as Miko so claims.” Your archon’s lilac eyes glowed brightly like an angelic spring morning, but they were solemn. Hands still being held by her were gripped tightly as if begging for you to speak earnestly.

“What does eternity mean to you?”

Abruptly, memories of lazy days at the Shrine came into your mind. Days when you tried to help your master with utter mischief. Times when you would simply listen to the koto being plucked at dawn or the shamisen being strummed at dusk. Echoes of the jingles from the suzu bells being performed by dutiful maidens in red hakamas and white kosodes rippled in your mind. Those nights when you would venture into the ruins of Araumi and sleep under a cherry blossom tree, dreaming of Kitsune Saiguu, bring sugary nostalgia.

But in actuality, the aftermath of the Cataclysm was your childhood. The ghosts of family members who succumbed to the potent abyss scratch your skin. They craved your innermost thoughts. You were so young when it occurred, but you remember how the shrine maidens would pet your fur to soothe the nightmares that plagued you. Vague images of eyes feasting on your form brought shudders. Faint sounds of talons clawing a wall gifted shrieks. You would only shift back into a more human form when Guuji Yae was around.

One morning as the sakura blooms seemed to float higher and higher into the misty sky, your master gifted you ink as black as shadows, paper as delicate as clouds, and a brush as fine as thread, and instructed you to paint whatever pleased you. Her blush-colored hair in the somber winds of Mt. Yougou blocked her stunning face for a moment. Her gold headdress—just polished— shined excessively.

“Come now, my dear. This will help you.”

You crafted scenes from fairytales. Skillful strokes told the story of a young fox walking through a riveting forest of cherry blossoms. Your family was there. In your work, the branches of the Sacred Sakura no longer wept over the fact that ichor from the one with a feeble heart and an oil-paper umbrella soiled the land that day. The lamentable cries of lightning didn’t startle Narukami Island when you were engrossed by your canvas.

Every piece you made became more beautiful and picturesque as your nightmares became more ravenous. You thought that if you shared your work, you would experience more bliss, so you moved to woodblock printing for faster production. That gullible hope died out soon.

“What a twisted child. The more they suffer, the more exquisite their work becomes.”

Ink stained the tatami flooring. Paper scattered your room. Slabs of wood were unattractively laid everywhere. One would've had to be careful not to step on a carving knife. Blisters, calluses, and splinters littered your hands. Even the shreds of ripped work still created masterpieces.

You transformed and curled into yourself, your tail blocking weary eyes from the light of the dimly burning lantern.

Just as you were about to remember more, an electrifying touch brought you back. You pondered for a moment.

“Eternity, to me, means achieving absolute happiness. Abandoning the waking world for one of euphoric dreams.”

Ei uttered the next few words so softly.

“It’s as if I’m staring into a looking-glass, and for once, I’m seeing myself. Not who I want to be… Not Makoto.”

That night, there was a sorrowful thunderstorm. The mournful tune of tragedy kept all of Inazuma awake.

___

The God of Eternity only had one request for you: The design of the prototype puppet mustn’t have the same appearance as herself. It may look similar, but not exact.

It’s just a test, after all.

After a variety of sketches, the one you presented to the Raiden Shogun was elegant.

Her reaction to some would be considered rather dull. A nod was all that was given. But the approval was thrilling.

The path to eternity had begun.

You remember the way the shrine maidens teasingly snickered as you tiredly hacked down a few sakura trees. Huffs and puffs, your heated face covered in sweat, drew their attention. The pink petals billowed in the air before they landed on your attire. You haphazardly dropped your axe, collapsed on the ground, and sharply exhaled. Pain ravaged your arms and back.

“My, my, not exactly what you signed up for, is it?” You rolled your eyes with slight annoyance. Your master articulated her words so gracefully, but anyone close to her could pick up on the underlying tone of amusement.

“It isn’t every day that someone works for their Archon,” you playfully defended yourself, waving your hand to shoo her away.

“That may be true.” Yae put her hands on her hip and sighed. “I think Ei is acting like a child throwing a tantrum with this ‘plan for everlasting eternity.’” Her eyes shifted to the trees that were victims of your slaughter. All of the fallen petals made exquisite pools of pink. “Yumemiru wood. Good choice.”

___

You stayed up all night making the first print, though not one that would be of much use to Her Excellency; it was a sentimental souvenir. Your heart thumped with excitement and anticipation.

It was second nature to you already. To paste the sketch drawn on washi onto the wooden block, to carve the surface, to repeat the whole process until you had a woodblock for each color to be added.

Your creation would have lavender eyes lined with crimson, lithe arms, and a gentle smile. His black robes loose on his body revealed his bare chest adorned with the lilac emblem of the Shogunate. Proof of his lineage, which stems from the divine, and evidence of his purpose, to house a celestial heart.

As the hours passed, your vision blurred. You didn’t mean to, but you ended up dozing off and dreamt of a young man strolling below tranquil wisteria trees. There was a slight fog on the narrow path. Dark hair flowed as he turned around to greet you. The geta sandals he wore echoed a low click sound as they met cobblestone. Lavender eyes matched the scenery. His chest ignited, his heart pulsated with power. He reached for your rough hands and placed them on his slightly exposed torso.

Gleaming tears spilled down his regal face. He mouthed something to you, but you woke up gasping for air.

Ugh! I fell asleep. You almost spilled the inks you made and nearly cut your hand on your tools.

The heavenly moon lit the room with nightly opulence. A feathery chill ran down your spine, a breeze pecked your cheeks.

Huh… It seems that you had left the window open again.

___

That afternoon at Tenshukaku, you weren’t sure what to feel, but frustration was certainly an option.

The way the Raiden Shogun observed you so intensely became seared into your distressed consciousness. She was like a teacher testing their pupil as you applied the ink onto the paper with the help of a baren. After you embossed your name and the number one onto the print, you handed it to the grim deity.

“It is finished, Your Excellency.”

Ei stared at the work of art for a second. Perhaps examining the youthful face of the man who would aid in her arduous pursuit to be closer to the Heavenly Principles. Maybe she was astounded by the vibrant hues of purple that made up hair and eyes. You couldn’t tell. Her face was as blank as the stack of unused kozo paper laid on the tatami mats.

As fast as lightning, her plum eyes became incandescent, her eyebrows furrowed, her braided hair came undone a bit. A gust of wind nearly knocked you over. The luxurious room quivered. The dendrobiums closed their ruby petals. You hissed at the intense light diffusing from her.

In a second, the print vanished, yet you knew what had transpired. Skin from paper, eyes from ink, but still, he would lack a benevolent heart.

You didn’t have a moment to relish the fact that your art had come to life, because as soon as he opened his eyes, the puppet withered away into dust.

Mouth now agape, hands clenching your clothes, you snapped your head back to Beelzebul to receive much-needed answers.

“It will take some time before one can even last more than a second,” she said, tone completely casual. “We must continue. This is why I chose a woodblock printer. The mass-production aspect of the craft will speed up the process immensely.”

“But–”

“Let’s make haste.”

About fifty prints took their first breath that entire evening. Out of all of them, only twenty prototypes weren’t wholly ephemeral in nature; however, they showed no sign of function. Perhaps you should’ve asked if you were supposed to paint strings on the puppets.

Ironically, though she was someone who should have all the time in the world, the God of Eternity didn’t want to wait until the nonfunctional ones vanished back to dust to further her progress. She cruelly threw their pale bodies onto the floor like a child discarding an old doll for a new toy. They laid there like corpses stacked in a pile. Some had their lifeless eyes still open, as if attempting to resurrect. Even as you continued your monotonous work by applying the ink, using the baren, embossing your name and the number which belonged to that specific prototype, only just to repeat the process, those unchanging melancholic eyes stifled your mind.

You winced as you heard the sickening thud of one of the bodies falling. Their heads and limbs moved unnaturally with the sudden movement. One underneath had disappeared, allowing for gravity to simply follow its laws.

Prototype number forty-three, or so you believe, was one of the ones on top, but he tumbled down the heap and ended up right next to you. A few strands of hair covered his face. His limp arm stretched out completely. A slightly bruised hand was open, as if begging for you to hold it.

You lifted your head from your work to stare at the man you had sketched, carved, and inked. How handsome he is.

A reserved sigh was emitted from the woman with a noble body and amethyst irises. You paid no mind to her as you stood up and cradled the forsaken being in your arms before placing him back onto the morbid mound.

Calloused hands cupped the lifeless face of the prince. “I don’t want you to be alone. Have sweet dreams with your brothers.”

You used your index finger to close all their eyelids carefully. You thought you did it to give them some peace as they decay. But really, that harrowing lavender color prickled your soul for what felt like an eternity.

___

It took about a month before you and Ei managed to create a puppet that seemed to be promising. Unlike the others, you asked if you could give him a name, as you would be the one in charge of watching him to see if he’d be fit to move on to the next stage.

After hundreds of times, the ordeal wasn’t as bewildering as that first afternoon. It became like an everyday chore. Numbness was all to be felt. But the second he gasped for air, took in his surroundings, and grinned excitedly, you blinked. Shock seeped into your heart and mind. Huh, this one is rather distinct from the others.

You decided on the name Akihito. It was fitting. That smile of his was so bright and clear.

Time passed by quickly; you wished the kamera was invented sooner. The burning yearn to go back and somehow capture those moments has disturbed you for centuries. You remember how you brought him to Konda Village and taught him how frail crystalflies are, how warm the day is compared to the dignified night, and how to paint what’s on his mind.

It was the simple things with Akihito. He would ask about someone’s day, how they were feeling, have they eaten yet, have they smiled at all. He made the citizens of Inazuma laugh so easily.

Once, you brought him to the Shrine, and he held your rough hands. You mindfully noted how delicate his were. He stopped every second to talk to passersby. He even gave his spare dango to a weeping child near the torii gates.

“Why must you stop so much?”

“Because the present moment is so fleeting. We must treasure it through our interactions with others.”

He soon knew more about the maidens at the Shrine than you did, and you had spent your whole life with them.

You remember your cheeks heating when you watched his face brighten as the mikos performed the sacred kagura dance.

The realization that you liked spending time with him — not just because he's your artwork, nor just because it's your job — wasn’t as tough to swallow as you thought it would be.

___

Your room was nothing short of a chaotic mess back then.

Inks, most commonly hues of purple, always stained the tatami flooring. Kozo paper was always scattered around. Slabs of yumemiru wood were always haphazardly strewn all over the place. Whenever Guuji Yae came to visit you, she had to be extra careful not to step on your tools.

The word embarrassment wouldn’t be able to properly describe what you had felt when Akihito asked to visit your dwelling. Besides Tenshukaku, your little abode was also your studio.

Without thinking one day, you had told him that the majority of your equipment and original prints were there.

He smiled. Of course, he did. That’s what he’d never stopped doing.

“May I pay your room a visit? I would love to see your process.” Akihito pleaded to you. Well, that’s how the sensation of those handsome, lavender eyes growing rounder with questioning awe felt.

You resigned. You couldn’t say no to those eyes and that enrapturing beam.

You briskly turned your head away from his inquiring stare and looked down at the ground. You attempted to distract yourself by scrutinizing his geta sandals instead. “It’s kind of an eyesore, though…Everything is rather cluttered.” The urge to say no was immense, but you couldn’t shake off the feeling that you felt safe sharing everything with him.

“I don’t mind. I can even help you clean your room! If you want me to. You have done so much for me. It’s the least I can do!”

Courage must have possessed you because you met those bright eyes and fondly brought your right hand to his face.

“No, you are the one who has helped me so much.”

You realized what you had done and tried to pull away swiftly, but he caught your rough hand and tugged you into a warm embrace. The sudden affection caught you off guard.

By the end of the idyllic day, your room was spotless.

You made sure to leave the window open, for there was a pleasant breeze.

___

It was around noon time when it occurred. Another month had nearly passed.

Those breathtaking lavender eyes closed, his eyebrows raised slightly, he chuckled. You rested your head on his lap. You two were under a cherry blossom tree in the Araumi region. The regal young man caressed your skin and pet your fox ears. Akihito’s form was hunched slightly to shelter your eyes from the sunlight that was slipping through the branches. Light pink petals fell on top of his head; they contrasted with his indigo hair. He gleefully giggled, and you joyfully sighed and booped his nose.

___

“Why don’t you paint as much anymore?” your master questioned you one evening. Her hands were on her hips, her white and scarlet sleeves swaying from the movement. There was a hum in her voice.

“I suppose I’ve been happier lately.” You looked directly into her violet eyes. “I took up art so that it could help me like you said it would. It’s just that, now, I don’t need to worry about the nightmares anymore.”

Yae Miko took your hands and drew comforting circles into your skin. “Be careful, dear, those who abandon the waking world for one of enchanting dreams only mourn when they return to reality.”

A frown fell upon your confused face. Shouldn’t she be happy for you?

“By the way, your hands have become soft.”

___

The temperature was searing when the God of Eternity invited you back to Tenshukaku. You gave your report on his progress.

“He reminds me of Makoto.”

She always spoke that name whenever it was morning; it was as if the luminous rays that bring fertile life to Teyvat were as jubilant as her deceased sister. Makoto was her sun. Ei was merely another planet revolving around such brilliance.

“She, too, was gentle and loved by everyone. I believe he will be a fitting vessel.” Beelzebul lifted her hand before closing it tightly and concentrating. She then opened her fist, and a purple chess piece began to float. “This is my gnosis; it represents my divinity and status as an archon. As I will be placing my consciousness into my sister's sword, the Musou Isshin, I will need a place to house my celestial powers.”

You had already been informed about this ordeal, but seeing the gnosis in person was a rather bewitching experience. The sheer energy it radiated was terrifying. Why was it so captivating? The luminous glow of the minute yet potent object was hypnotizing.

Your pupils must have dilated.

However, you couldn’t stop the dreadful feeling of drowning in nauseating darkness as you neared it. The heaviness was too similar to those plaguing nightmares you had.

You didn’t even notice you were about to snatch it until Ei swatted your hand away.

“Apologies. I should’ve been more careful. I know how entrancing it is. A whole war was fought between gods to gain one.”

Your ears fell down. How embarrassing. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, it won’t happen again.” Sheepish words rolled off your tongue as you scratched the back of your neck.

“No need to apologize. Now, let’s bring in Mako—“ She cleared her voice. “Akihito.”

You slid open the shoji door. Inside another room was the one with a pure smile. Akihito was working on an ink painting. Not a single dark drop tainted the chabudai or the tatami flooring. So mindful. Rigid branches, budding blossoms, and a kitsune dressed in a yukata weren’t anything praiseworthy, but there was a splendid air about the focus in his eyes. You mastered many mediums of art as a means of income and as a means to escape the woes that life brings, but in his case, anyone could tell that he did it to experience joy.

He was having fun.

“Far from a masterpiece, but I wanted to capture that memory of us under the cherry blossom tree in Araumi. I didn’t get to finish myself, but I’m more than happy that I was able to draw you. Even if you don’t look as… attractive due to my skills.” Words so timid yet sincere were whispered. “I know I may not have a heart… but I believe I understand what I feel.”

A light thud sounded as you sat down beside him and rested your head on his shoulder.

“Akihito, my love, we mustn't make Her Excellency wait.”

“I know.”

___

The clock signaled that it was already past noon.

It was, yet again, another afternoon at Tenshukaku.

He laid down on a futon placed on the ground and undid his robes slightly to expose his chest. That violet marking, the symbol of the Bakufu, was far too jarring on his fair skin. Indigo hair, the color of the night sky, was sprawled out like lightning scattered throughout a storm.

He shut his eyes and breathed in, then out.

Ei knelt down beside him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and placed her index finger near his hairline. She touched every curve and dip of his forehead, nose, lips, neck, and chest as she grazed her finger down his body. One can tell that everything about him was designed with a purpose. Your deity placed her palm flat on his chest before curling her fingers in, just below the stately symbol. Light scratch marks began to swell.

There was that familiar glow. Looking back, you curse yourself for not having grown used to it after so many puppets, after seeing the gnosis, after this.

But then again, how could you, when the memory that follows is the image of the God of Eternity shoving her fist into his chest.

Piercing skin that was once paper.

There was no sweat, no clenched fists, no furrowed eyebrows. The poor creature displayed no pain so as to not frighten you.

Was it a success? That single thought raced into your mind. You bit your lip anxiously.

The gleaming lilac halted. Her pristine hand left his body. For once, her face bore an expression. Pure disappointment.

Those lavender eyes suddenly shot open and moved around frantically, his lips parted slightly, attempting to speak. You quickly rushed to him and touched his hand.

“Hey, it's okay… It’s over.” A tender lover you were. You rubbed delicate hearts into his palm.

Akihito’s back arched. Those petrified eyes wouldn’t stay still. He harshly snatched his hand from your soothing touch and uncontrollably gripped and pulled his sleek hair. That slender body wouldn’t stop jerking back and forth. That fair skin was turning as white as snow. Fingers contoured into grotesque shapes. His mouth opened and closed desperately.

He’s trying to speak. He’s trying to gain control. He’s trying to survive.

You hastily turned your head to his other creator and shrieked at her.

“Do something! H-He’s dying!” Oh, how big and small you felt that day as you insulted your god. “It’s always like this! You…You monster! You always have to just stand there with that horrible blank expression. You never cared about any of them!” The wretched sentences you seethed were merely the bubbling surface. Deep inside, you felt so much anguish and pain that words couldn’t have even been formed from your mouth to communicate to her. Too many “yous” were wailed that afternoon.

I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be alone…

That phrase flew around and accumulated in your mind like a blizzard.

The Electro Archon looked at the scene with a vacant face. “There is nothing I can do. It seems I overestimated him, this project, and, most of all, you.” Beelzebul tilted her head and pitied your trembling form. It reminded her of that fateful event. “He is malfunctioning due to the gnosis. There is no use in taking it out now. The outcome will be the same.”

You clicked your tongue, annoyed at her indifference. She had nursed that face for so long that it had left her naught but a hollow shell. She was more of a puppet than they were.

You briskly tuned out her words and cradled his body so tightly in your arms, bringing your forehead to his. Akihito’s bright, clear face and limbs were littered with ink-like markings, a sign that his body and mind were yielding to heinous forces. They were devouring the gracious man alive.

You tried to turn his face so that his eyes would look directly into yours. But, even then, he kept staring at the ceiling, as if searching for something more.

“Cel—”

“Celestia.”

Your eyes widened. “Yes, what is it, my love?” A sorrowful smile was plastered onto your face as he began to murmur. Tears ran down. They fell onto his face sloppily.

A weak arm tried to affectionately touch your sobbing form. You brought his hand to your wet cheek, answering his wish.

“I’m...I’m sorry, but now that I have a heart…. I know for certain that I can say that I-I love you.”

That nimble hand withered away.

You hugged him so tightly and wept, “Please, don’t go… I can’t face them without you. Not without the person I love.”

Though his smile was no different than that time at the Shrine, that time napping under the cherry blossoms, and that time watching the mikos dance, the main thing you couldn’t help but notice was how those lavender eyes were the last to fade away. Like always, they still had that shine that defined him. That sparkle that revealed how much he valued the present moment.

You nestled your face into his black robes, bunched them together, and held them firmly like a mother holding an infant. Trying to conserve the warmth, scent, anything.

It was one summer afternoon at Tenshukaku that you realized how transient eternity really is.

___

Your master knocked on your door. She begged you to answer. “Dear, you must come out. It’s been weeks.” Autumn was arriving. Children would soon be dressed in adorable kimonos for the harvest festivities to come. All for Her Excellency's blessings and everlasting reign. Crimson leaves would stain the land.

It would soon be too cold to relax.

There was another knock. Why does it matter if you wallow in your grief or not? Nothing truly changes with you. Your life was set in stone the moment your parents perished to the abyss.

Ink once again stained the tatami mats of your floor. Paper once again was scattered around your room. Those slabs of wood were once again unattractively laid everywhere.

Everything that had occurred with Akihito disappeared. All those happy changes were gone in an instant.

Yet, the only things that didn’t revert back were your hands. They stay changed. You couldn’t bring yourself to draw again. No more rough calluses or blisters; they will forever remain as delicate and supple as velvety petals. Just like they were that afternoon he melted away from your scorching touch.

“The mikos are worried about you.”

Perhaps you were being too harsh, but that flowery, saccharine voice of hers made you gag. A cacophonous ring it had, like funeral bells tolling. You nearly put your right hand over your left on your throat to halt the bile from rising and consuming every waking specimen. But what left did you have to regurgitate? You vomited your singing heart as he mumbled those last words. You yearned for those lazy, scenic days spent with him.

Taunting laughs stung your brain. You scrambled to grip Akihito’s black robes tighter in an attempt to control the heavenly and abyssal images that pester and pick.

“What is it?” You spat it out finally.

The mouthwatering smell of fried tofu delectably laid atop udon started to cloud the vicinity.

Oh, she’s good.

“I figured I’d bring your favorite.” Yae Miko placed the tray outside your room, but she didn’t leave. A deplorable phantom, she was. Was she here to mock you? To once again sabotage your life?

You flung the door open, seized the steaming bowl of kitsune udon, and savagely threw it at her.

But of course, the Guuji was always more agile.

“You could’ve burned me, you know?” That tone of amusement, that laugh of hers that treated everything like a humorous joke, irked you terribly.

Oh, when did you become so unruly and rebellious? Childhood was long gone.

“I hate you! Why did you bring me to her? You knew her plan would end up like this, yet still, you brought me to Tenshukaku!” Tears started to well up. Those skeletons of the bygone times dug their claws into your ankles and wrists. “You were like a sister to me. I was filled with joy when you were placed as my guardian.”

You collapsed to your knees.

“Why did you do this to me?” Those black robes once again became damp from heartache. “I even introduced him to you, and you didn’t do anything!” Each syllable was exclaimed so shakily, so breathlessly.

She hummed as you continued to babble and sob. “Well, I did give you a small warning that one time. But I will shoulder some of the blame if that will pacify you.”

Those violet eyes looked towards the ground. “I suppose I thought that if you, someone I know, were involved, we could lessen the damage Ei would cause with this foolish project.” Your master reached out to hold you. “My bad, my dear.”

Your blood boiled. You gritted your teeth, got up, and stomped closer to her. The broth soiled your attire. The wet fabric clung to your body. The fried tofu became disgusting mush under your bare feet.

You breathed heavily, chest heaving. Your fox ears twitched. Protracted sharp claws unintentionally ripped Akihito’s precious black robes. “Don’t. Patronize. Me.”

Too many unrelenting, intrusive thoughts invaded your head. You wanted to slap the arm that was reaching out to you. You wanted to push her to the ground and bellow out all that mauled what was left of your mind. You would go as far as to say that you even wanted to pierce her chest, snatch her heart, and make her feel what your love with indigo hair experienced.

Yae Miko gazed directly into your eyes. You nearly fell again when you saw the purple color. Everything went away. The bloodlust. The vengeful spirit. Your jaded soul even fled.

All that was left was the kitsune who tried to nap on their lover's lap. All that was left was a child who lost their family. All that was left was the artist who painted their plight. All that was left was the creator who laid those princes to rest and closed their lavender eyes.

All that was left was you.

You stumbled slightly, nearly slipping on the puddle of udon, as you treaded to your master and accepted her embrace. Sharp guilt formed.

“I’m sorry... I miss him. I was an idiot for falling in love.” your voice cracked.

A gust of air blew some of your disorderly papers lying on the ground to the door. From the corner of your eyes, you could tell which one was the one closest to you.

It was a scene of rigid branches, budding blossoms, and a kitsune in a yukata. The artwork was nothing praiseworthy, it was even unfinished, but you bawled and whimpered because you knew that fluttering sensation of felicity you felt when you saw it for the first time would never come again.

Another puff of wind came in.

It seems you had left the window open again.

Thank you for reading!! ღゝ◡╹ )ノ♡

Part 2 is already in the making! This was originally supposed to be one big oneshot, but I decided to split it due to its length

Tags

genshin x reader yandere scaramouche x reader yandere genshin impact x reader

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

3 years ago

A little preview of my Gwi nam's fic

Maybe it will be posted on this weekend.

___________________

"There you are." Gwi nam looked so scary and you knew at that exact moment how fucked up you were. He was no longer just a human, but a monster too. "It was pretty cool playing hide and seek, but that's enough now, don't you think?"

"Fuck you, I'll kill you if you come near me!" you raised the pocketknife in your hand threateningly, although you were trembling a little. Gui Nam's lips curved slightly in a mischievous smile.

"Silly girl, you can't kill me," his voice contained an explicit malicious tone, full of promises of the things he could and would do to you from now on. "Behave yourself and I won't hurt you. Otherwise, it will be much worse."

Tags

aouad x reader all of us are dead x reader gwi nam yoon gwi nam x reader aouad imagines

171 notes View Post

deeprebelsoulpsychic

1 year ago

November Sun | jjk

☆summary: whenever he breaks, the november sun shines on him. and jungkook chases you across the sky - but you've gone some place he can't reach you now.

☆pairing: Jungkook x reader (I genuinely don't think the gender is ever mentioned? please let me know if it is so I can adjust this here), mentions-ish of Namjoon x reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, it deals with heavy themes)

☆genre: grief au/funeral au?, exes au, angst

☆warnings: angst, like. Just angst. OC is dead and Jungkook is grieving her. Curses words, very light mentions of sex, flashbacks of moments when jungkook broke. mentions of christianism (the funerals are held in a church), mentions of alcohol, jealousy. Namjoon is a broken man as well

☆word count: 3.7k

☆a/n: I started writing this tonight because I was sad and then just realized I won't have the strength to look back on it ever again so I'm posting it even tho it hasn't been beta-ed, and even tho the person that makes my moodboards is unavailable rn. Idc. It needed to be out of my system, and now it is.

☆a/n pt2: I know this piece is extremely heavy. If you ever need to speak, please reach out to me. My blog is a safe space for every single one of you <3

☆☆☆☆☆

The church is a tall building. Grand, elegant in its simplicity, though it cuts against the blue sky up above in stark lines, shaped like a prison.

Jungkook thinks life has become a prison a while ago.

It’s a mystery, why your family chose this space for your funeral. You never believed, never practiced. Is it a betrayal to mark your passing in a space that feels so unlike you?

Jungkook thinks it is.

He sighs, chases the heaviness away the same way the clouds chase themselves in the sky up above. He doesn’t know how the sun is shining in the blue expanse of the sky. It’s November, yet the day is warm, the sun is blindingly glowing. It feels like a crime – how can the sun shine in a world deprived of your existence?

Jungkook doesn’t want to know.

Only knows that he’s watched from afar the people that gathered on the front steps. Chatting, heads hung low and shoulders bent forward. He heard sniffles, he heard laughs, and he just waited for everyone to go in to get closer.

Jungkook doesn’t know why he was invited. Why someone from a distant past figured he would need to be here, to share his grief with people that could understand.

Though Jungkook thinks no one can understand.

He remembers you, in all your glory. His first love, when he had been a stupid college kid who didn’t know what he wanted in life. You were two years older, and now... and now one day he’ll be older than you. Because you've stopped aging, you came and went like a moment in time, when he'll still be here for who fucking knows how long.

He chases the thought away with a long inhale, holds the air in knowing that it’s choking him up before he lets it out on a sigh.

You were beautiful. A star that walked the Earth, only to return to the night sky above far too soon. He had loved you dearly, in his own twisted way. Had tried to be what you sought, what you needed, until he had realized he was never going to be enough.

Would you still be alive today, if he had fought harder?

*****

“I’m not doing this,” you said. “I’m so fucking done with your indecision, with your fear of commitment.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Please, you graduated and now you think you’re so high above me. Get down from the fucking horse, Y/n, it’s not going to bring us anywhere.”

He’d said the words hoping that they would hurt you. And they did: he saw you physically recoil as if he’d punched you. As if the words had been a physical blow, and not just letters of the alphabets shaped into words and sound, into arrows to pierce that beautiful soul of yours.

“Maybe I don’t want us to go somewhere anymore,” you replied after a quiet moment of breaking hearts.

“I didn’t mean that.”

“I know.” You sighed, slightly shaking your head as your eyes fell to the floor between you and him. “I know, but I mean it.”

“Please,” was all Jungkook thought to reply.

“You say please all the time,” you told him. “You beg me, and for what? We always circle back to fighting, to hurting each other.” You paused, and though you were avoiding his features he could see you blinking back tears. “Maybe we aren’t supposed to be together at all.”

“Don’t say that,” Jungkook warned. “Don’t you fucking say that. I love you. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“I love you too, Jungkook,” you answered. “I’ve loved you since the first day I met you at that stupid party last year.”

Jungkook felt the tear rolling down his cheek, felt the gravity pulling on his heart until it was shattering on the ground.

“Then why stop now?” he asked. “Give me time, Y/n. I’ll graduate, and I’ll be able to move in with you, and to provide for you and give you everything that you need.”

You sighed heavily, finding courage to finally meet his gaze. At the stark finality shining behind your pupils, Jungkook’s knees weakened. His whole fucking body weakened, ready for the blow.

For the end that was coming for you and him like a car barreling down a dead-end street.

“But I’m tired of waiting,” you answered. “I don’t want to spend my life waiting around for someone.”

“I’m still in college, I just can’t move in with you right now…”

“I know, Jungkook. I know.”

He wanted to fight. Wanted to tell you to stay in his dorm tonight, and to never leave again. But he could tell that you were already gone.

So he steeled himself. Readied himself to let you go even though you were the blood in his veins.

“I’m holding you back, aren’t I?”

You wiped a tear on your cheek, blurring behind those in his gaze. “You are.”

He choked on a sob, hiding his eyes behind his hand as if that would stop the breaking. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” you reassured him. “We just aren’t at the same place in life anymore.”

An empty silence surrounded you, so loud Jungkook could hear every beat of his heart in his ears, could feel the walls pressing in.

“I don’t want you to go,” he softly said.

“I know,” you murmured. “I…” You choked on a sob, and it took you a moment before you managed to continue. “I’m sorry.”

He laughed, a sound so devoid of joy he wondered if he’d ever feel happiness again. “Please don’t be. You’re allowed to want more.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

Anger rose up on the horizon of Jungkook’s conscience, and he pushed it away. He refused to be angry at you, refused to put the blame on you when you made it clear that you wanted him to move in so long ago, and he disregarded it without even once thinking about it.

“I’ll find you again,” he promised, voice strained and heavy with emotion. “I’ll graduate and find you.”

You stepped closer to him, gently cupping his cheek. “Go find someone that loves you for what you are, Jungkook.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t want you to settle for someone that asks too much for you,” you explained, renewed silver lining your eyes. “Find someone that loves you for who you are, right now.”

“Fuck that,” he choked out, and he pulled you flush against his chest. “Fuck this nonsense. ”

“I’m so sorry,” you cried against him.

“Don’t be,” he reassured you, though he was crying too. “Don’t be. Give me a few years. I’ll have it all figured out in a few years.”

*****

The priest at the front of the church is going on and on about something that Jungkook doesn’t care to listen to. It’s impersonal, nothing like you, like the vibrant girl he remembers. So he lets his memory guide him to you, where you’re awaiting him. Your lips on his, your hand running through his hair. Your own hair catching in the wind that time you’d gone hiking, and he’d believed being at the top of the mountain with you felt like he had won in life.

Or that time you’d driven on the coast, windows down, screaming the lyrics to a song he can’t listen to anymore. Now the song is haunted by ghosts of a past he never learned to let go, perhaps because for months after the breakup he’d kept the conviction that he’d find his way back to you. He’d believed it the same way he believed the sun would always rise in the morning. A simple truth of nature, that nothing could ever break.

Except a car accident, apparently. Because all it took was a car accident to wipe you off the surface of the Earth, to take your light and shove it into shadows, into darkness and a void so wide he knows he’ll never find you again.

But he’d believed he’d find his way back to you. Never let anyone in after you, for the months and years it took him to graduate because he always knew he’d find his way back to you. You were his silver lining, the finish line at the end of the race. On a November day, just as sunny as today, Jungkook reached that finish line.

He did find you again, only you never knew.

*****

Jungkook had never felt so light before. Like he had grown wings, like he was soaring in the clouds up above. Though the sun was out, the weather was cold, wind running cold fingers through the lapels of his coat until he found himself shivering as he made his way to the flower store.

He’d get the biggest bouquet for you, and then he’d head to where he knew from a common friend that you lived now. It was Saturday, and he hoped to catch you unaware, to catch you in the middle of cleaning your apartment the same way that you cleaned it back when you were dating.

The image of you, with your hair pulled back in a high ponytail as you danced around instead of sweeping the floor shone in his mind, brighter than the star in the sky above.

He bought the flowers, heart beating fast in his chest. Because it was time. It was finally time to go home, to tell you that he did everything he said he would, that he changed and now had a job that could support what you both wanted. He wanted to ask you out, and in his dreams you had been answering yes every single time since he had decided to go see you.

His heart fluttered as he gently rested the flowers on his passenger seat, careful not to damage them. Memories floated to him, and a smile grew on his lips as he remembered you, screaming out the window that day you had driven along the coast. You had stopped to watch the sunset in the waves, and he’d kissed you stupid on his back seat until every single inch of your skin knew about his love.

He couldn’t wait to create new memories with you.

He drove carefully, enjoying the warmth of the sun now that he was safely hidden from the wind. You actually didn’t live too far from where he did now, and soon enough he parked his car near your building. He got out of the vehicle, almost running to the other side in his excitement to grab the bouquet on the passenger seat. When it was safely tucked in his hand, Jungkook shut the car door, locked it, and started walking to your building.

He didn’t even know which apartment was yours. He believed fate would guide him, and so he crossed the street to your building, trusting the universe for what was to come next.

He heard your laugh before he saw you. Love swelled in his chest, and he wondered if you were laughing because you’d seen him, because you’d known that he’d come back for you.

And then he saw you. The wind was ruffling your hair, which he assumed had prompted the laugh. Your eyes were closed, hands struggling to push the wild strands behind your ears.

You were more beautiful than he remembered. Shone brighter, with the same stuff that stars consisted of. He was struck for a moment, watching you with his bouquet hoping that you’d open your eyes and see him.

The world slowed down to a stop, and time halted, and Jungkook watched you, feeling at home for the first time in years.

The illusion fractured the instant someone else came into view, making him realize that you hadn’t been laughing at the wind. No, perhaps your laughter took root in the dimples gracing the man’s cheeks as he smiled at you, as he pecked your forehead before grabbing your hand.

Jungkook ducked behind a car, clutching the flower bouquet like a lifeline the moment that you turned towards him. Did you hear his heart breaking? Did you hear the mockery in the November sun rays – you’d broken up on a similar day, years ago.

Jungkook couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think around the shattering of his heart, around the blood turning to ice in his veins as he heard you speak to the man – Namjoon, he heard you call him.

He would have rather not known the name.

Still Jungkook drank in the sound of your voice, trying to shape it into the words he was so willing to hear you say today. It didn’t work, and soon enough your voice disappeared, leaving him in a deafening silence of wind and sun and the realization that after all, he had come back too late.

Perhaps he should have known that he'd be too late.

*****

When Jungkook received the call last week, he’d sat outside in the silence until he thought his eardrums would start bleeding. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed, hadn’t done anything other than to stare at the fading light of the sun.

He wonders, why is it that whenever he breaks, November sun is shining high above? As if the universe takes pleasure in his torment, in undoing him until he barely counts as a human being anymore.

He got pissed out drunk that night. Last time he had been as drunk was when he had found out you were dating someone new, that day he had come to find you.

And now he wonders, if he had approached you that day, would you still be dead today? Would life still have put you on that road with its drunk driver so that you could meet your end?

Or would you be laughing at some dumb comment he’d make, telling him that he’s stupid with eyes so full of love he wouldn’t be able to do anything else but agree with you?

It’s hard to tell. So, he doesn’t try to figure it out – he has an eternity ahead of himself to figure out how to live without you anyway.

Maybe in all his misfortune Jungkook actually had some luck. He’s learned to grieve you a while ago already, and perhaps grieving someone that still lives is harder than grieving someone that’s passed. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he knows anything. Just that, so far back in the past he should have said fuck it and move in with you. It was such a simple request, but he had been too young and dumb, and he’d forever live with the regrets of it.

If someone from your family notices his presence at the funeral, recognizes him from your shared past, they don’t say. Especially not as the end of the ceremony comes before he’s had a chance to really take in the picture of you, smiling, over there next to the urn with your ashes.

You’re ashes now. Everything that made you – your laugh, your smile, the way you carried yourself with that simple elegance – all of it is gone to be replaced with mere ashes.

He doubts they can hold the truth of your essence, but then again he doesn’t think anything can, or anything ever will again.

He blinks away the tears as they come, leaving the ceremony like a whisper in the wind. He doesn’t want to speak to your family, doesn’t want to see them coddling the man that you loved, that survived the accident when he should have been the one to go.

Jealousy and selfishness are ugly, Jungkook realizes. But it’s easier to hate the man that took you away from him, no matter how unknowingly he did it.

And Jungkook tried to hate you once. He tried hard, in the months after that fated November day, when you’d laughed to that man’s joke, smiled when he’d smiled that soft dimpled smile of his. He had tried, because hating you felt like it was the only way he wouldn’t hurt. But he still hurt – he still hurts.

All he’s been able to do in his life since you broke up is hurt, and he highly doubts he’ll ever feel differently again.

Perhaps he’ll grow numb. Perhaps he should have grown numb a while ago.

At least that’s what he’s telling himself days later, when he’s looking at the tombstone they picked out for you. The finality of your name and the dates, the ending, is unnerving. He wishes it was fake, wishes it was a joke, and that he didn’t spend most of his life loving someone that moved on to a new love in just a few years.

It’s been over a decade and he hasn’t moved on even a little bit.

He kicks the ground, mad at the leaves littering the ground where you’re buried, as if they’re sullying you. And as if laughing at him, sun rays pierce through the clouds up above, that dreaded November sun making an appearance when it should stay gone.

He allows himself to cry. To break down, to sit on the ground and curse everything and everyone that’s ever been between you and him. He curses his stupidity, curses the sun and the leaves and the etchings on the stone. He hates everything. Hates himself, hates you, hates the whole fucking universe for taking you away, for not giving him the chance to be with you.

That’s how Namjoon finds him. Jungkook’s tears have receded, and he’s just sitting there, an empty shell that once held love and laughter and your lips on his. He hears the scuffle of Namjoon’s steps, of his cane as he walks up the path.

The man’s features are grave when Jungkook can’t help but glance towards him, sees him ambling up the path with that cane, the only indication that he too was in that car accident. And Jungkook wonders if Namjoon knows about him. If Namjoon knows that he wasn’t the first man whose love for you was a bottomless ocean, one Jungkook has drowned in time and time again since you broke up.

Namjoon remains standing, and Jungkook remains sitting. Like there’s an understanding between them, and silence conveys more than words could. Jungkook doesn’t want to move, and Namjoon clearly doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Jungkook thinks the Earth has revolved around the sun at least once before Namjoon scrapes his throat.

“It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, isn’t it?” he speaks, deep voice carrying the weight of the universe.

Jungkook doesn’t deign reply as his eyes fill with tears, though he refuses to let them out right now.

Especially not in front of the man you loved after him.

“You’re Jungkook, aren’t you?”

The simple sentence makes Jungkook lose it. He hides his face in his hands, his whole soul bleeding out under the November sun.

“She told me about you,” Namjoon continues, and Jungkook is convinced he hears pain, tears and grief laced with Namjoon’s words.

What did you tell him, Jungkook wonders? Did you tell Namjoon that you should have waited for Jungkook, that you should have given him a chance to become what you needed?

“She loved you a lot,” Namjoon adds after a silence, and he chokes on a sob. “She never forgot about you.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jungkook asks with that broken voice, raspy with disuse.

He hasn’t been able to speak since you died.

“You deserve to grieve. She loved and loved, and I wish it would have been enough for her to live…”

“Stop,” Jungkook begs. “Please.”

Namjoon falls silent, offering salvation to Jungkook, though Jungkook doesn’t know if he deserves it.

Would he have been able to offer salvation to someone in his position if the situation was reversed? He highly doubts it.

“It’s just…” he trails off when he finds words again. “You got fucking years with her. You got years of loving and-“ it breaks on a sob. “And you were fucking engaged.” Jungkook pulls at his hair. “You were engaged, and all I got was months. Not even a full year.”

“I’m sorry man,” Namjoon answers, voice so broken Jungkook wonders who’s suffering the most.

He doesn’t think it’s himself.

“Was she happy?” Jungkook eventually asks, once he can’t stand the silence hanging around. Once he can’t stand the etchings on the stone, the void in the universe that used to be filled with you.

“I made her as happy as I could,” Namjoon replies truthfully, his voice strained but not as pained anymore. As if he’s reached a conclusion, clarity filling his mind.

Not needing to hear more, Jungkook gets up, dusting himself off.

“Good talk,” he says, fighting against the next onslaught of tears, and then he’s storming off.

Storming away from you, from everything that you meant to him. And maybe the sun rays really are mocking him in that beautiful November sky, because Namjoon says, “I don’t think she ever truly was happy after you, though.”

Jungkook stops, convinced someone just stabbed him right in the heart. He doesn’t think the organ can beat anymore, doesn’t think he can live anymore. He just wants to be dust on the wind, to be forgotten, and to stop fucking feeling all the time.

“She was calling off the engagement,” Namjoon continues. “She…” Jungkook turns, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen such agony as the one that graces Namjoon’s features right now. “She said she shouldn’t get married to me when she still loved another.”

Clouds pass in front of the November sun, and Jungkook remembers the smile on your face whenever you’d catch his gaze. He remembers the way you’d lovingly cupped his cheek even when you were breaking up with him. He still feels the ghost of your fingers on his skin as he holds Namjoon’s broken gaze.

He holds Namjoon’s broken gaze, unable to offer the man salvation. It might make him a monster, might make him selfish and jealous and everything that he finds disgusting about humanity. But Jungkook doesn’t care.

Not when he realizes that perhaps, perhaps he’s the one that you’re waiting for on the other side of the veil, so that you can rest in the eternity of afterlife together.

And perhaps, perhaps there’s some sort of beauty in the thought.

☆☆☆☆☆

I am crying and in pain and I am sending everyone that read this whole thing lots of love and if you need to talk just hit me up bc grief is a bitch and we hate her and I just wish I could take everyone's grief away

Tags

angst jungkook x reader jungkook angst jungkook one shot

400 notes View Post

deeprebelsoulpsychic

3 years ago

Deep Sea Chapter III. Yan Scaramouche x F Reader

>Rating: Mature. >Warnings: Yandere themes, amnesia, manipulation, depictions of anxiety. >Word count: 5k. >Deep Sea Index.

CHAPTER III // DANCE AMONGST CORAL REEFS

“Heading out so soon, General Kujou?”

Kujou Sara, the most stalwart follower of the Raiden Shogun and semi-frequent patron of Shinju-an, acknowledges your passing with a curt nod. She walks in the opposite direction of where you’re headed — the innermost room your establishment offers. It boasts privacy and opulence beyond what the common folk could expect, lined pockets or not. Status is the precursor necessary to enter.

“Unfortunately, I am,” Sara stops long enough to entertain you. “My father is meeting with an esteemed individual. I’m afraid I can’t be present for the negotiations.”

How strange, you think. Is Sara’s high military ranking not enough to grant her access to this conversation? You were looking forward to her company. Nonetheless, what you want doesn’t change the fact that you’re here to work.

Keep reading

Tags

deep sea my faves yandere scaramouche x reader yandere genshin impact x reader

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

3 years ago

Genshin Boys Seeing You in Your Wedding Dress/Suit for the First Time

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Kaeya, Thoma, Xiao, Scaramouche, Itto x gn!Reader

Genre: Bulleted headcanons, fluff, comedic, hints of hurt/comfort

Warnings: Marriage maybe but just pure fluff otherwise

A/N: I’m in the middle of exam week and I’ve written 6 papers in the last two weeks, so this might not be my most eloquent work :,)

Keep reading

Tags

itto x reader genshin x reader kaeya x reader xiao x reader Scaramouche x Reader thoma x reader

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

3 years ago

Scaraday 45

now now pls be fair Y/N cuz u upsetting the poor kitties

and pls dont give him too much catnip

🤣👉👈

messy sketch for the day 😢

Tags

genshin impact fanart genshin scaramouche

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

3 years ago

twst sentience au idea

Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. You have been warned.

Characters: Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Cater Diamond, Trey Clover, Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Ruggie Bucchi, Jack Howl, Azul Ashengrotto, Jade Leech, Floyd Leech, Kalim Al-Asim, Jamil Viper, Epel Felmier, Rook Hunt, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud, Ortho Shroud, Sebek Zigvolt, Silver, Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus Draconia.

Summary: The TWST cast has sentience. They know of your existence, not the lifeless puppet you control named “Yuu,” but they actually know about you. They may not know what you actually look like or act like, but what’s important is that being near your vessel makes them feel at peace, it gives them strength, they feel alive. So naturally they begin to crave the attention you give them through the magicless protagonist called “Yuu.” Whenever you pull one of their cards, they can feel your energy and joy at receiving them. When used in battle, they let you take control and aim to achieve victory in your name. When you get them to attend a class, they feel a rush of motivation to impress you, quickly raising their hands to snatch as many stars as possible to amaze you. However, in this AU, you do end up in the game. When the protagonist, your vessel, Yuu, suddenly shuts down and doesn’t reactivate for nearly a week, they begin to fear the worst. Have you forgotten about them? Were they not enough? Why couldn’t they feel your grace anymore? Little did they know, the player had found the front gates of Night Raven College… but… what happens when they believe you to be an imposter?

All below the cut!

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self aware au yandere twisted wonderland twst fanfic

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

2 years ago

— THE SEANCE

↳ part of the ghouls just wanna have fun collab.

pairing; seokjin/reader ft. ot7 genre; ghost hunters au, demon au, horror words; 8,780 rating; mature

— synopsis; you and your friends go exploring in an abandoned house in the middle of the woods surrounded by mystery and ghost stories; what you find there may not be what you were looking for.

contents; major character death, horror, demons/ghosts, graphic violence, gore, blood. pov switch in the middle. based on the movie “demonic.”

“You really wanna go there?” you asked, skin buzzing. Jungkook looked at you and smiled, nodding his head excitedly.

Hoseok picked at the sleeve of his sweater. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“Scared of some ghosts, Hobi?” you teased, snickering along with the other boys.

“Don’t be a scaredy cat, Hoseok,” Jungkook continued to tease.

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my faves bts fic seokjin x reader horrific

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deeprebelsoulpsychic

1 year ago

The Taste of Deceit: Hyungline Part 2 Finale (Namjoon 2/2)

The Taste of Deceit Masterlist

Hyungline: Part 1, Part 2(Jin and Yoongi, Hoseok), Part 1/2

Warning- Blood, violence

Unedited. Kindly excuse my errors. if you find anything significantly wrong, please let me know.

This has to be my most annoying experience with Tumblr.

The Taste Of Deceit: Hyungline Part 2 Finale (Namjoon 2/2)

The club was packed. Packed to the brim.

Neon lights flickered along with artificial smoke as the beat made the crowd cheer and hoot, raise their hands as the DJs played mash hits. It was the party season and those who could afford to be in any of Lee Henchin's clubs were having a blast.

A shadow moved seamlessly between the dancing and grinding bodies. Smoke, alcohol and even white power on some. As midnight occurred, the beats grew more intense. But the shadow glided towards the underground kitchen.

"We are done for the night." Lee Henchin plopped down on the velvet sofa, throwing his head back.

"Thanks man." He thanked his guest who poured him a drink before filling is own glass.

"My pleasure." the man smiled before taking gulp.

"Now that we are free, we can speak of what is truly important. So, Mr Park. It would have been an honour though, had your boss graced his place with his presence."

"I suppose you have the information what happened with the deal regarding the gulf shipment."

"I have heard about the deal and how terribly wrong it went. It's a joint-loss." Henchin nodded as he took a swig before refilling his glass.

Mr Park observed him. For moments, none of them spoke.

"He wants a favour."

The hallway on the second floor was lit up with neon green and blue, but a certain turn led to a corridor plunged in red. The trolley rolled smoothly though the surface– the three-tire filled bottles of scotch and bourbon, ice– mixers and garnishes. It was a bar on wheels.

Henchin would leave no stone unturned in providing the best hospitality to people important to him– those who could bring him profit.

"Nobody has seen him for a while now Mr Park. There are rumours floating all around."

Mr Park only smiled before finishing his drink.

"Lets get down to business shall we?"

The smooth roll of the three tired tray came to a quiet stop as soon as a hand rose in the air.

"We need to check your ID first." The imposing man loomed over six feet.

"But I work here."

"It's Boss' order. Now, ID please." he demanded gruffly, leaving no room for argument.

"Sure." The waitress nodded and turned her eyes to her side to pull out the exclusive ID Card.

"Why not Gangnam? There are still many clubs waiting for their share– they paid millions Mr Park."

"There is a shift in priority Henchin. You are our most important distributor– you wield influence over the market here like no other. We have expectations for you."

'Well, Gangnam is where most of the money flows from and–"

"Twelve million."

"Sorry?"

"Twelve million, in dollars. Last time it was six right, we offer you a deal of twelve million dollars."

All incoming excuses dried up in Henchin's mouth as she leaned back to weigh his options and profits."

"You can think closely of it for now. Excuse me." With that Mr Park excused himself to the restroom.

The bodyguard frowned.

"This is not—"

His head jerked back before he could finish his words. The bullet was faster.

The other three guards jumped to action even before the dead guard's body touched the ground.

(Y/N) jumped on one of them, locking his head between her head while leveraging the position to shoot down two of the guards in succession.

The man in her hold elbowed her back as they both landed on the ground, struggling to gain control. (Y/N) did not leave his head, her knees tightened around his neck while she blocked another blow from him.

His leg latched on to her arm blocked his elbow, managing to free his hand from her grip. Instead, it stretched and reached for her throat. She jabbed her elbow on his arm with enough force to bend it. He screamed in agony and that gave her all the time to shoot him right in his head.

Blood splashed on the floor as the man lay dead with open eyes.

(Y/N) looked up at the sound of rushing footsteps. Of course...

She fired at the approaching men while unlatching the dead man from her. Three more silenced gunshots fired at the men– mission one, injuring the other and killing one with a headshot.

When they fired, their gunshots alerted the whole floor.

"Shit!"

She had rolled away at the right moment but a bullet did manage to graze her arm. She breathed deeply as pain spread across her arm, but there was no room to rest. Quickly grabbing the dead guard's gun, she shot the attackers dead.

But of course, this was not the end. Cursing, she took the now dead guards' guns. She needed them. And more. Rushing towards the beginning of the corridor, she used the wall as a shield, slowing them down as she fired at them. Two of them down. Four three bullets gone, and the other three had ducked behind walls as well.

Great!

She hissed, narrowly missing a bullet when her injured arm was strained further, drawing out more blood. But she had no time to tend to that.

As soon as another head peeked out, she fired. A head shot– one more down. But there was no time to engage in a gunfire battle for long. Firing another round, she managed to injure another before bolting towards the room Henchin was at.

Quickly grabbing the ID now speckled with blood, she inserted it to a slit and the door unlocked.

She shot the first guard who came into view. Then using the door to shield herself from other bullets, she shot the nearest attacker's foot, earning a pained scream but he managed to swing his arm. She blocked it mid-air, stabbing her feet on his shot foot– but his scream was caught midway when she shot him in the neck while shutting the door lock.

Henchin's scream vaguely reached her ears as he scrambled to get away.

"KILL HER! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"

The muffled sounds of gunshots echoed in the isolated restroom as Mr Park calmly fixed the buttons of his suit. His eyes gleamed with the ghost of a smile as he checked his watch.

She groaned at one of the his men kicked the back of her knee, making her fall flat on the ground. His foot stomped over the back of her knee and she wheezed. She fired her gun, shooting his right on his shin. His leg moved from her and he fell on her and squeezed her injured arm.

"Argh! Son of a bitch!"

It was painful, to say the least. Using all her weight, she flipped him over and pinned him with her knees and a hand on his throat, while firing on the rest of her two attackers. She punched the man underneath her in two successive blows before looking up again.

Her eyes finally found her target scrambling to get away or get a gun. Keeping her steeled and ranging gaze locked with his flabbergasted and terrified one, she smirked coldly and shot the man underneath her dead.

Mr Park's hands were tucked in his trouser pockets. The sound of crashing and breaking reached his ears. He turned his head slightly before checking his watch again.

It was time.

(Y/N) dodged the filled bottle of alcohol thrown at her as she dashed towards him. His hands were faster however, stabbing her on the shoulder right as she reached him grabbing his throat. She hissed, but continued to attack nevertheless.

The sound of footsteps was easily distinguishable in the otherwise deathly silent room. No hurry, no aggression, just slow, calculated steps. Both of them turned to look at Mr Park who stood at a distance.

"P-Park help me!"

Henchin demanded.

"Sure, Lee."

With that, Mr Park fired and they both stilled.

(Y/N) frowned when no bullet reached her, but instead, she turned to see the last of Henchin's men in the room drop dead.

But the distraction was enough for him to spring to action.

"FUCK YOU!"

In a moment, Henchin flipped her down, grabbing his previously discarded tie and wrapping it around her neck while he tried to stab her. He was going for her eye but one hand grabbed his wrist while the other went to poke his eye. The lapse in his strength gave her the perfect opportunity to bend his hand and jabbed the knife into his neck.

She blinked and her face was marred with his blood.

Finally, gaining the upper hand, she flipped him off and before he could move further, fired three shots at him.

Breathless, worn out and beat, she lay on the floor. Her throat parched, her body aching and her eyes filled up with unshed tears. One stray drop escaped through the corner of her eyes. The ceiling above was lit with golden lights but all she could see was her father's face.

"Are you crazy? We can't let you go alone!" Kyong would not relent, no matter what.

"This is personal Kyong. This is my battle."

He shook his head "I know you blame yourself for Dok's—"

"Henchin's men came that night. He was the one behind my father's murder Kyong. I saw it all unfold, hiding. And I could not do anything..."

"You were a child! What else could you do?" Han spoke up this time.

"But now I can...And I will. I can't let you both risk everything this time."

"But—"

"Kyong, please. You both want to help me? Ease my way in. Try to cover up for me...Even if I do not return."

"You are your father's daughter (Y/N). I had only heard of that man." Kyong was finally relenting.

"I am." her eyes moved to the tiger stuff toy sitting behind a shelf.

She understood the meaning behind her father's last gift now.

"If you are not back in an hour, (Y/N), we are coming up. No matter what happens."

"Kyong is right. One hour (Y/N) and you let us know if something goes wrong."

With a long sigh, she nodded.

The sound of sauntering footsteps and the glass shards crunching beneath the shoes brought her back to reality.

"My Lady..."

The voice was mellifluous but held a certain dip to it. His face cam into view before he offered his hand. Begrudgingly, she accepted it and stood up, finally feeling all the injuries hit her now that the adrenaline had left her body. His grip did not loosen though, instead, he turned it into a handshake.

"I'm Jimin. Park Jimin."

She nodded, still assessing him.

Why did he help her? Why was there not any sigh of caution or strain in his body language?

He was confident, calm, collected. He was no ordinary man.

"Oh, sorry, I never had the chance to meet you. Before hyung could introduce you us...You flew away."

Her frown smoothened in recognition.

Of course, he was Kim Namjoon's man. And the way he addressed the Underworld leader, she concluded that he was a part of Namjoon's close circle.

"How is he?"

Jimin smiled "Why don't you find out yourself?" with that, he fished out his phone and dialled a number before offering her his phone. Reluctantly, she took it.

"Hello? Jimin, any updates?"

Her heart skipped a beat. It had felt like an eternity. There was silence when she did not reply before he broke it himself

"(Y/N)?" There was a tremble in his voice.

"How are you Namjoon?" she finally asked.

"Your shot my shoulder when you could aim for my head. It just proves your love."

She shut her eyes and licked her lips.

"We can never be one Namjoon..."

"I could have saved Henchin...But I wanted to prove you my love."

"I don't doubt your love Namjoon...Think of it as wrong person, worst time. And forget me."

She heard him chuckle through the phone.

"You can run...for now. Not for long. I will find you Little Bird. i will reach you and then we can defy time, circumstances and the bloody destiny."

(Y/N) stood in silence as her stare hardened.

"You can try."

With that, she hung up and returned the phone to Jimin.

"It was nice meeting you, Mr Park."

Jimin smiled and nodded.

"Likewise." He replied as he watched her walk away. A bit slow, slightly limping but with a good grasp over her gun.

***

Finally, finished it.

2023 was a year. There was so much happening and going with the flow was the only option.

I tend to let things sink in before I fully assess and feel the intensity of my emotions. And BTS' enlistment was no different. Yes, Jin and Jhope's last MVs brought tears to my eyes, but none of their buzz-cut photos did. Then, before going to bed, I saw Namjoon's Instagram story before he joined the bootcamp...And I burst into tears. There were several reason, several aspects, my loss, my hopelessness, the post just acted as a trigger.

I used to think that I could always comfort myself, that I could handle things on my own--as I always have done. But that night, I realised how battered and tired I were. The year sucked me dry somehow, or maybe it was the final straw. But I realised that now and then, i need another person's comfort too. That sharing my grief with the right people would not make me a burden.

I think this is one of the reasons why this reaction stretched so much. It's 51k words in total (Part 1 and 2)-- only for hyngline. This was the way I found some comfort-- writing, and publishing it here.

So, no matter how the year went, I'm thankful to all of you for reading my stories.

A very happy and prosperous new year ahead my friends.

Tags

my faves yandere bts the taste of deceit yandere namjoon

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