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kosmosguk · 4 years

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You. Me. Us| Yandere Jimin x Reader

[Summary: The handsome guy you meet briefly in a bookstore is intent on intertwining his fate with yours, although his methods themselves are unorthodox. After all, he’s intent on his belief that in the end, it’s you. Him. And the word Us. And it doesn’t matter how he gets to the ending he deserves.]

Type: Horror/Thriller fic

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, masturbation, voyeurism with no consent from one party, brief mentions of alcohol, near-death experience, obsessive behaviors painted as normal

A/N: based on the tv show You, so credit goes to the show and its producers! I didn’t vibe with the second season that came out yesterday so I decided to write a fic based on the first season but with a different ending. This is the first part, and if it goes well, I’ll update other parts!

December 27, 4:33PM

He had met you on that day, a cold gray day in the unforgiving city of Seoul. Two days after Christmas, Jimin remembers how frigid the city was as the warmth of the holiday season seeped away. He remembers every detail about that afternoon, that meeting; hell, he remembers every detail about you.

You’re soulmates. Lovers cast by the stars of the universe and molded with brushings of stardust. It’s inevitable that he had seen you, that he had met you.

Pretty, with wide eyes shadowed by long, curled lashes. Rosy lips arched in a pleasant curve. A scarf--he remembers the color: crimson, like blood roses--loosely circled around your delicate neck. You, you were perfect.

"Hey," you had called to him. Had spoken to him. Did he even deserve to be witnessing you, the you that glowed in this worn down bookstore in Seoul?

"Hello?" he heard you speak again, like cold water splashing on him, and he blinked his vision clear.

You smiled gently, a little shyly as you met his gaze. "Is this book any good?"

He cleared his throat, flitting his gaze to the worn book you had in hand. "Yes. Victor Hugo, a classic. Although it gets a little tedious sometimes to read, it's amazing to see how major issues from the 19th century can still be applicable to modern times. That and the way he manages to describe societal anguish in a poetic manner leaves a feeling of satisfaction."

His voice trailed off. Shit, he did it again; he talked on and on about something that people as pretty as you most likely didn't care about. You must be bored, must see him as boring.

But instead, your smile grew just a little bit bigger. "This sounds interesting. I'll take it."

And Jimin felt his heart speed up a little bit more. This, you, him. It must be destined.

December 27, 8:41PM

You're a writer. He can't help but notice the bundles of paper delicately clipped together in your bag when you open it to find your wallet.

And he also can't help it when he catches your name when you answer a call. It seems that he can't help a lot of things when it comes to you.

He looks you up on social media first. Instagram. Facebook. Snapchat. Twitter. Hell, even Tumblr. It's advantageous for him that you use the same username for each social media platform.

Spending some time with friends to take my mind off of writer's block. The caption follows a shot of drinks, glistening in the low light of a bar, lined up on a table. There are three people tagged. He makes a mental note to look at their profiles later.

Wishing I was back in the sun. It's a shot of you in a bikini, lying underneath the golden sun. He can't help but feel a little jealous that all of these people--218 according to the likes on your post--get to witness your body like this. But it's okay, he tells himself. This was posted months ago, long before you met him, someone who looks past superficial aspects.

He scrolls until his thumbs grow tired. As he turns off his laptop, he can't help but feel a little disappointed that you haven't posted anything, not even a short hinting tweet, about the cute guy you met at a bookstore.

He remembers your latest tweet, posted 2 minutes ago. You're at a bar celebrating your friend's birthday. He decides that a peek or two won't do any harm. Besides, he's only there to make sure you're safe.

His cap is pressed over gray-dyed hair, and he's in clothes that will allow him to blend into the crowd. A girl sidles up to him, resting her hand on his shoulder flirtatiously. He shrugs it off; she's not you after all. The girl, obviously more than a little tipsy, gets up and stumbles away.

He sits in a place that allows him to see and hear you, but he's not too close so that you can see him.

"Minyoung! Happy birthday!" he can hear your voice, high-pitched and bubbly. It's a lot different from the voice you had used in the bookstore. He can't help but feel just a little prideful that he knows the real you more than your supposed friends do.

He remembers Minyoung from her Instagram profile. Minyoung herself, with 2K followers, is pretty with a straight small nose and cropped hair dyed neon green, but in a phony way that leaves him swallowing bile. She doesn't deserve you, and she especially doesn't deserve the expensive gift. You'll be lucky to get something a quarter as expensive for your birthday; he knows your friends almost as well as he knows you. And he also knows that they don't deserve you.

"Bitch, you didn't!" Minyoung tears through your delicate wrapping with sharp and long acrylic nails. Jimin can't help but wince from his seat.

"She did! Flexing on us, huh, babe," your next friend he recalls is named Ji-Ah. She's the kind of phony pretty that Minyoung is too, with long brown curls and glossy lips. Jimin thinks he hates her almost as much as he hates Minyoung.

You smile, though he notices how it's just a little strained, and he feels anger as he watches Miyoung toss your gift on the table without even as much as a thank you. Fuck Ji-Ah, Jimin doesn't think he hates anyone as much as he hates Minyoung.

Your gift, one you poured care in, cast aside. You are an angel. Your "friends" don't deserve to be in your presence, let alone receive a gift from you. Jimin's clenches his hands, and when he relaxes them, there are crescent-shaped indents, drops of blood smeared on pale skin.

"Come on, let's move to a club! This bar is so fucking boring," Minyoung coos after she’s done opening her gifts.

You shake your head. "I have to work early tomorrow and a manuscript to write. I’m so sorry, but have a fun time without me!"

"Boo! Don't be a boring bitch," Ji-Ah sticks her tongue out as she gets up and walks off with Minyoung.

It only leaves you and your last friend. Haeun looks the least fake of your friends, but Jimin knows that she's the same level as them. Rich. Fake. Obnoxious. Only using you.

"(Y/N), why did you buy that for her? You know you can't afford it. Minyoung doesn't deserve that at all. Next time, if you need money, just ask me," Haeun pushes her long black hair fixed in a high ponytail off her shoulder as she gets up to leave. You just force a smile as Haeun sidles away. The smile drops when none of your friends can see you anymore.

Condescending isn't she. You really know how to pick your friends.

You take the nearest glass of alcohol and pour it back rapidly. When you've swallowed it all and wiped your mouth, you pull on your jacket and leave the bar. Jimin follows behind you, your silent protector in a bitterly empty world.

You wander into the train station. A nearby drunkard tries to accost you, and Jimin makes a move towards you. You manage to fend the drunkard off before Jimin can be your hero, but your phone slips out of your already shaky grip and falls onto the tracks.

You stumble into the tracks. Jimin rushes towards you. You grab your phone and stand up as the train whistles begin to grow nearer, and Jimin watches as your eyes blow wide, frantic as tears drip down your cheeks.

"Take my hand!" he yells over the sound of the train. You look up, your eyes bleary, and grab his hand. He hoists you up as the lights of the train glow brighter.

"Um," you manage to sputter as you try to grab ahold of yourself," Thank you."

Your hazy eyes focus on Jimin and clear a little. "Oh! Bookstore guy!"

You look adorable like this, hair slightly messy and lips parted in confusion. Jimin's heart tugs a little. God, he's already fallen for you so deep.

That moment fades as your cheeks puff a little, and you vomit over his shoes and the bottom of his pants.

He finds himself in a taxi cab, his shoes in a plastic bag next to him, as you snore softly by his side, having passed out after telling him your address. He catches sight of your phone, the case dirty from its fall into the tracks.

You won't mind if he just...peeks, do you? He acts before he can think, grabbing your phone and fiddling around with it. Perfect, now he'll be able to watch everything you do on it. He feels a little guilty, but the train incident proves that you need him just as much as he needs you. He sets the phone back down next to you. It looks like nothing has happened, but Jimin knows better.

The taxi rolls to a stop in front of an apartment building. He reaches out to nudge you awake, but you're already blinking glossy eyes open before he can.

"Thank you," you say before your mouth falls open," Oh my God, I threw up on you. I threw up on you; that's so fucking embarrassing! Here, uh, my phone number is XXX-XXX-XXXX. Call me, and I'll, um, get you new shoes."

"It's fine, really. These shoes were getting old anyway, and I needed a new pair of shoes soon. How about a drink instead?" Jimin beams in a way that has swooned the hearts of many, crinkling his eyes into upside-down crescents. You smile back at him as you get out.

"Sounds good! Just text me when!"

The taxi door shuts behind you. Jimin is left temporarily breathless. Just like he thought, you’re meant to be together.

When you get into your apartment and look back out, the taxi is gone. You can't help but feel a little guilty that you hadn't done much for your savior after he had done so much for you.

A knock bangs on your door, and you look at who it is.

"God, leave me fucking alone, Seojun," you spit out, sliding open the door. Seojun’s standing there, his body swaying slightly; he can barely stand straight.

"I'm sorry, babe! I swear to God nothing happened with me and her," your ex-boyfriend sputters out. He smells of booze; you’re not surprised.

"So you tripped and your dick somehow managed to land in her mouth; don't be a fucking lying cunt, Choi," you bristle, making a move to slam the door.

"Baby, baby, listen to me," Seojun steps in closer before you can, sliding his hands onto the curve of your waist," She didn't mean anything. I've missed you. I’ve missed the way you feel, baby. My cock misses the way you squeeze down on me. Aren’t you lonely, baby?’’

You hesitate before pushing him off of you and slamming the door shut on him. "God, don’t fucking talk to me anymore. Just leave me alone, Choi. Don't come back."

You hear boots scraping against the pavement as he walks away from your door and hopefully out of your life. He always was and always will be an asshole. You had dated him for the fun of it after he made a move on you at a party, and all of your friends had insisted that you ‘’try him out,’’ whatever the fuck that meant.

But still, his words make you remember just how lonely and untouched you are.

Sagging against your sofa in front of your window, you push your pants down your hips, spreading your legs apart slightly as your hands slide down your body. Your fingers circle your clit, quick, short movements that leave you quivering slightly and clenching down on empty air.

You think of the guy from the bookstore. His handsome features with his sharp facial structure, puffy eyes, and rosy plump lips. He’s ethereal, a fairy. His voice was soft and just a bit high pitched. You think of how tempting he looked, clad in a soft sweater and dark jeans that showed off his thighs and ass. You bite your lip as your thighs close around your arm.

You come with a cracking moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you shake slightly from the pleasure.

You sail down from your peak, crashing back into sobriety that leaves you feeling more empty and more guilty. God, you really are pathetic, aren't you? Fucking yourself to a guy you barely even know, barely even talked to.

Wiping your fingers on a tissue and pulling your pants back up, you stand up and walk away from your spot by the window, having forgotten that you had left the curtains open.

Jimin had seen the whole thing from his hidden spot across the street, and he softly moans to himself as he rubs himself hard through his jeans. Fuck, you look so, so pretty when you come. If only you weren't thinking about that jerk ass who had come to your door.

Jimin comes hard, groaning softly into the fabric of his coat as images of fucking you and how good he would make you feel overtake his mind. He sags against the rough brick wall of the building across from yours, his chest heaving, and he makes up his mind right then and there.

He would do something to make you forget about that jerk ass. He would do anything for you after all.

Choi Seojun, the man plastered over your Twitter for a solid six months, would be hard to get rid of, with his status as an esteemed rich party boy and your ex-boyfriend.

But for you, Jimin would do anything.

After all, in the end, it was you. Him. And the word Us.

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