#orv angst

[kalichi09]

(they were doomed from the start)

[reverie123]

were the words on the page always so blurry?

tr: "i miss you.. idiot..."

[slowd1ving]

Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao

HOUSE OF CARDS ゜・KIM DOKJA

"A house made of cards, like the fools we are." In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet. never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon art creds to kim28_dokja on twt! pairings: kim dokja + gn reader warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past wc: 2.4k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Dokja is shit at games. 

It’s clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible. 

It’s clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though he’s just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. He’s not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. That’s why he’s here.

Most of all, it’s clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cards—two seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall. 

Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glass—and Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.

He’s shit at games, but never truly loses. 

Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisis—Dokja, that harbinger of misfortune—yet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything. 

It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, he’s winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreams—an ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae. 

“Dokja.” It’s a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; it’s relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. “You idiot.”

It’s nice to know his long-time friend cares about him. 

No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something you’d rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokja’s life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better. 

In fact, he’d rather keep you away from any front line. 

There’s a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets. 

Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and it’s always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. ‘Why?’ he’d once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words. 

Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it. 

It’s his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They don’t end with bruised ribs and broken noses. 

You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fight—one that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend. 

These are chips he cannot afford to bet on. 

Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest. 

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the head—Dokja, the herald of despair, he is—and finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: “Never do that again.”

All in, his chips go—each and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listen—to stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.

How will Dokja die this time?

You’d rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his life—if you ruin his painstaking ◼◼◼◼◼◼◼, you don’t think you could forgive yourself.

Even if he’s ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader. 

You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. You’ll be safe, he reassured you. You’ve got me. I’ll create an epilogue for you to witness. 

Dokja’s changed. 

Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He’s still got the same facade of the boy you’ve called your oldest friend. If it weren’t for that, you’d think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms. 

Dokja’s changed. 

He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takes—as if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesn’t shatter your heart over and over. 

When will it end? 

You haven’t seen him for months. 

Is it finally time to grieve?

゜゜・

Dokja is shit at games. 

It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. It’s a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now. 

Your eyes meet his. 

Like magic, the house collapses. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. It’s something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind. 

It’s the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. It’s your turn. 

The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokja’s ever-persistent voice in your head. There’s a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smoke—a reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in. 

It’s hard. 

Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokja’s dream is finally being realised—a tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldn’t help but be entangled in it. 

I can do it. That is your gamble. 

You do it. 

You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.

And like Dokja, you begin defying death. 

It starts off small—an arrow that you saw coming but didn’t feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yours—filled with the same distance that Dokja’s were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screen—and she looked away for a brief moment. 

“Idiot,” she whispers. “Don’t treat yourself like Dokja.”

Your chips pile up. 

Except, you don’t quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has. 

You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand. 

“Fool,” Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. “There is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.”

The debt accrues. 

Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, it’s just a dream. 

He bets on it. 

゜゜・

You are shit at games. 

Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear. 

The house has long collapsed—it’s that final card that still hasn’t hit that glass table yet. 

Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You can’t quite accept the reality that he’s gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that it’s hard to conceptualise you’re about to follow him to wherever he’s gone. 

Will I see him again?

Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. You’ve grown tired of the endless fight, and it’s cost you dearly. 

Your chest heaves desperately. 

Dokja. 

“Dokja,” you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concrete—something that doesn’t quite feel like you’re the one puppeteering your strings. 

Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again you’re not really yourself anymore. 

“Dokja?” you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enough—syllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lips—you’ll be able to reach your dead best friend. 

There is a pressure behind your eyes. 

It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head. 

It’s too late, you think. He’s dead, and soon I will be too. 

“Dokja,” you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurts—your pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend. 

You can’t die, you think he says—a quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind. 

“I’ll see you soon, though,” you slur, and the weight in your mind lifts—blurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind. 

Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet. 

“Dokja,” you breathe. “It’s been almost a year since I last saw you.”

His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You… can’t… die, his lips read—but that’s silly, you think. Doesn’t he want you to meet him again?

Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff out—shoulders shaking, with an expression you’ve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over. 

He’s your best friend. He was your best friend. 

Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too. 

“I can see you soon, right?” you murmur—there are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle. 

His lips wobble. 

Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your face—ones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didn’t even notice—too caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain. 

“I did a good job, right?” Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. “Maybe it’ll help with the ending that you wanted.”

Dokja’s face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, I’m scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, there’s a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field. 

Your own wings are rapidly coming apart. 

“Dokja, I don’t want to die,” you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them. 

“Dokja,” you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether it’s from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell. 

There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face. 

“Dokja,” you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. “Don’t leave me alone—please.”

No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remain—this time, those hands brush and cradle your face. 

You cannot tell if it’s him or death itself, but you don’t think death would kiss you like that. 

As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic. 

Dokja, you want to ask. You’re already dead, right?

Right? 

With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls back—his tears pattering across your face—watch as his mouth moves for a final time.

I can’t live without you.

But by then, it is too late.

The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.

[theofficialuriel]

Kim Dokja having never felt parental love after his mother’s arrest and having been neglected (and maybe abused) by his foster home.

Lee Gilyoung having never felt parental love after his parents’ death and having been neglected (and maybe abused) by his aunt.

Kim Dokja taking Lee Gilyoung in after the first scenario and giving Lee Gilyoung a parental figure to look up to.

Lee Gilyoung feeling parental love for the first time since his parents and attaching himself to that figure.

Kim Dokja abandoning him time and time again, either through actually leaving or getting himself killed. Kim Dokja clearly favoring Shin Yoosung and Biyoo over Lee Gilyoung. Kim Dokja being simultaneously the most present and most absent parental figure on his life.

Lee Gilyoung finally getting used to Kim Dokja’s constant disappearing and reappearing act… only for his Hyung to never reappear again.

[justchelleing]

OSW: Week 1

Yoo Junghyuk has loved you since he met you in high school. From the moment he saw you playing with his sister, no- perhaps he has loved you since he saw the beautiful blue skies reflected in your eyes as if the world was in them.

Yoo Junghyuk never admitted how much he loved you, afraid to shatter your relationship that went beyond the confines of friendship.

and most importantly, Yoo Junghyuk couldn't save you.

He didn't know where it all started; he couldn't remember. He regressed, time and time again and he still wasn't able to save you any farther than the third main scenario. Most of the time, you didn't even make it through the first, it was as if Olympus themselves cast fate on you. For you to die is a challenge to his already declining sanity because no matter what he does; from the start, you won't be there and everyone around him will leave too. The last time he tried to save you, you let go of his hand; and mouthed him a few words: "Live for me" but how could he? How could he live in a world where he knew that no matter his struggles you'd die? Didn't you understand? He's done this all over again, and he ended with the same outcome. All. Over. Again.

So, he decided on a goal: he'll finish these damning scenarios. Last round, he fell in love, but it didn't matter since he failed one more time. Again. He had to try again. It all changed once someone he has never seen in his previous regressions came: Dokja Kim.

There are those destined to die, be alive— all thanks to Dokja Kim. Maybe it was him that caused a sword to be pointed at Yoo Junghyuk's throat, betrayal in your eyes as you fought him off in the station, simply defending but with the hurt in your eyes— there was something hidden with the strokes of your blade, anger? Betrayal? No, it was confusion. Why did he leave you in that train? You called out for his name, but he simply turned and left after fulfilling the scenario conditions; all he had to do was leave the station, blood on his hands, and he did.

[swdm360]

ORV—Not Supposed to Happen

➡ 〔Kim Dokja x AMAB! KPOP! Reader〕

➡ Letter Content: Where a kpop idol loves to read webtoon after practice. His group's holiday turns into a nightmare fest and now he struggles to accept his reality.

➡ Messenger Note: If I wrote a fanfic lol, TW: Mentions of death, murder, blood. I mean, it's the first scenario cmon.

---

How could the protagonist of ORV adapt so easily? How could he have thought so fast in the matter of a few minutes? How could he be so lucky?

Well, you weren't him.

You didn't have fourth wall like every fanfiction out there may suggest... Why not? You're just as well aware of this fictional world as Kim Dokja is, so why not you?

You asked these questions because unlike him, you had to follow the rules in the first scenario. You had blood on your hands.

The blood of a friend turned traitor. Now, you're desperate to have a peace of mind. Where else other than by the actual protagonist, Kim Dokja's side?

---

This wasn't how the holiday was supposed to go.

This wasn't a dream, you've tested it. The pain is real, the squeeze in your heart felt real, the blood trickling down from your cheek to the floor felt and so did the multiple wounds on your arms felt real.

【The constellations applaud your tenacity.】

This... Was supposed to be fictional, a fun little webtoon to read after practice.

So why were your friend... Your family sitting in a sea of their own blood? Why did you hold the knife and why was it lodged into your mates' head?

Why are your hands red?

Why are you trembling, crying?

【Congratulations! You're the only survivor in this room!】

【300 coins gifted for completion. 】

A scream echoed in the hotel room.

Was that screaming you?

Was that why your throat is parched?

Shit.

You let out a sob, your hands smudging the large window panes overlooking Seoul with red. Your body felt weak as if you were contracting the worst of covid-19's symptoms kind of weak. The 'running a 5 lap, 1000m marathon' kind of weak, the 'danced everyday, without sleep, without rests and without food for hours on end' kind of weak.

I mean, how could you not feel exhausted? You were roomed with the main dancer in your group who regularly exercised—in addition to that, one of the former gymnast champions in all of Japan.

It's a surprise you survived instead of him.

A weakling, only ever locking yourself in your room despite being the lead dancer just to get a chance of reading the ever-so-popular omniscient reader's viewpoint.

ORV in short.

You were close to the main dancer, someone who you won't name as a friend anymore; He who jumped at the butter knife and launched at you to survive. He who screamed for you to give in because he would make sure to avenge you.

Avenge you?

You weren't even dead.

Of course you'd fight for your life.

How could he attack you in your most vulnerable state? You thought you could trust him. He was your friend after all. He was supposed to protect you. How could he try and kill you?Ha. You didn't even know you had it in you to break his wrist, to pick up the knife and stab it through his head whilst he was strangling you.

You didn't know you had the guts in you to kill.

To kill your own.

You stumbled into the wall, your breathe barely catching the needed oxygen for you to survive as the sobs successfully slipped out through your lips.

Staggering, you approached the doorway. Dismissive that you would regret not collecting the items you needed for survival going forward as all there was in your mind was your other group members.

What about the leader and the youngest? What about the staff members and the assistant trainees? Are they alive? Are they dead? Did they kill to survive too?

Your hand twisted the doorknob, but you didn't open it.

"(Name)...? Y-you're alive?"

It's your leader. Your eyes were getting heavy, either way you willed yourself to look into theirs.

He must've been expecting him...

【The Constellation 'Blind Hunter with Lion Skin' is interested on how you will take care of this one. 】 【The Prophet whose prophecies were not believed bets that you will spare him. 】

"...Sunbae."

Your knees buckled below you. A headache forming in your head from the messages.

Luckily, your leader catches you, his hands trembling as well but his face steeled at your state.

"I... I killed him." You stuttered out, body flinching as his hands gripped your shoulders.

"Shh... It's okay now." His voice spoke ever so softly, as if you would break if handled roughly. He placed your head onto his shoulders as he rubbed your back in a comforting manner.

"He tried to—he went for me."

"I know. I know."

"I'm scared."

"I'll protect you. Your sunbae will take care of you." Liar.

His voice hitched.

He's as scared as you were.

His hands... They're red too.

Flashback? Idk yet, these two constellations are my fav.

[ajax-my-ajax]

If the world was ending, I’d immediately think of you during the last few moments of my life.

If I dwindle and disintegrate—leave nothing but bones, I’m sure that you’d be able to see your name carved on every inch of it.

And if I leave nothing at all, the ghost of my lingering presence among the world would be screaming your name—crying, shouting you to march forward, calling you desperately as it fades in time as well.

No one else may remember you but I will. I will hold nothing but your name—even if it means losing my own voice and face.

In the future, people will still call you by your name and you will call me as your companion as you begin to forget how I looked like.

Can you still hear me, Yoo Jonghyuk?

[whyiseverynametakenpls]

Envy

---------------------------------------------------

Genre : Angst

Tw : Jealousy and implied suicide

Pairing : none

Characters : Lee Gilyoung, Kim Dokja, Shin Yoosung

Story : when will it be my turn?

In a world where power in combat was revered above all else, Lee Gilyoung found himself ensnared, not only with his own flaws and inadequacies, but also by the shadow of jealousy cast upon him by Shin Yoosung.

Shin Yoosung was everything Lee Gilyoung wanted to be--gifted, talented, and effortlessly skilled in everything. While Shin Yoosung's every more was met with praise and adoration, Lee Gilyoung's effort seemed small, feeble and insignificant in comparison to hers.

Amidst the sea of envy, there was one beacon of light--Kim Dokja. Kim Dokja was more than just a friend. He was Lee Gilyoung's pillar of support, his guiding light in times of darkness. Though not blood related, Kim Dokja had been there for Lee Gilyoung since the beginning, a steady presence in his life.

Yet even in the warmth of Kim Dokja's companionship, Lee Gilyoung couldn't shake the feeling of being overshadowed. He watched with a heavy heart as everyone showered Shin Yoosung with praise and affection, him seemingly invisible in their eyes. Despite having known Kim Dokja longer, Lee Gilyoung couldn't shake the feeling that Shin Yoosung held a special place in Kim Dokja's heart, a place he could never hope to occupy.

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, Lee Gilyoung's envy festered like a wound that refused to heal. He watched with a mixture of longing and bitterness as Kim Dokja continued to dote on Shin Yoosung, their bond a painful reminder of his own flaws.

Lee Gilyoung grappled with his feelings, torn between his envy and admiration towards Shin Yoosung and longing for Kim Dokja's approval. Why did Shin Yoosung seem to effortlessly earn Kim Dokja's affection while he struggled in vain to win his approval?

As time passed, the weight of Lee Gilyoung's envy grew heavier, pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. He watched as Shin Yoosung continued to excel, his own achievements fading into insignificance.

And then, one fateful day, Lee Gilyoung's heart could bear it no longer. Alone in the silence of his room, he wept silent tears of despair, the envy crushing him beneath it's relentless grip.

In that moment, Lee Gilyoung made a decision, a decision born not out of malice, but out of a desperate desire to escape the suffocating grip of envy. And so, with trembling hands and a heavy heart, he retreated further into the shadows, leaving behind the world that has only ever served to remind him of his own failure.

As the echoes of his footsteps faded into darkness, Lee Gilyoung vanished without a trace, a forgotten soul lost to the relentless match of time, a tragic casualty of the insidious grip of envy.

In the end, all that remained was the haunting silence of a life unlived, the bitter echoes of a heart consumed by envy, and the whispered lament of a soul lost to the shadows, leaving Kim Dokja behind, forever wondering what could have been.

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<- MASTERLIST

-> uhm if you've read this before in dc no you haven't ☹️☹️

-> Lee Gilyoung needs more attention 🔥🔥🔥