☆—JAY! @ayetease - Tumblr Blog

“okay, forget me too” ── k.h.j

── established relationship, rockstar!hongjoong x fem!reader

“You’re a dog on a leash. You bark when I come home. You bite when I leave. But you never actually run away.” He knows exactly what to say to make you snap. You know exactly what to say to make him stay. Everything between you is escalation: words that cut, tension that hooks, and a line you keep daring each other to cross. Nobody’s leaving clean. Nobody’s coming out untouched.

Genre: smut, angst Trigger Warnings: (spoilers ahead), extremely toxic & abusive relationship dynamics, adult language, emotional manipulation, infidelity themes, physical violence, blood, injuries, verbal abuse, emotional trauma, abandonment, tobacco use, mentions of alcohol addiction, both reader and hongjoong are toxic to each other, lies, explicit sexual content (MDNI!!!), rough sex, p in v, raw sex, heavy degradation, hair pulling, choking, scratching, bruising, overstimulation, power imbalance, spit, objectification, name-calling, hate sex, marking, face slapping, praise kink (mocking), sensory overload, bloodplay (unintentional), impact play, scratches, open wounds, biting, fighting for dominance, semi-clothed sex, bratting WC: 17k

Mon’s Note: This one isn’t an easy read. It’s triggering, it’s twisted, and yes — it’s filthy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you! It’s heavily inspired by “forget me too” by mgk and Halsey, so if you know the vibe… you already know what you’re walking into! Read responsibly and enjoy! 🖤

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏“Oh fuck no!” you cursed, hearing the key slide into the lock. You grabbed the plate you were about to wash from the sink and stormed out of the kitchen, arriving just in time to meet Hongjoong crossing the threshold.

Without hesitation, you hurled the plate against the wall near his head. It shattered, ceramic shrapnel raining down on his expensive leather jacket. Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. He just closed his eyes for a second, sighed, and kicked the door shut behind him. He looked at the broken shards, then up at you with a look of pure exhaustion.

“Three months,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I’ve been back for ten seconds, and you’re already proving why I didn’t call.”

“Get the fuck out of my apartment!” you screamed, grabbing another plate from the kitchen island, your knuckles white.

“My apartment,” Hongjoong corrected effortlessly, stepping over the mess like it didn’t exist. “My name is on the fucking lease, sweetheart. Your money doesn’t change that.”

“Like hell it is,” you snarled. “Who’s been paying the bills for last three months while you were busy living your rockstar fantasy?!”

Hongjoong’s eyes flashed dangerously as he took another step forward.

“I’m not playing your damn games, Hongjoong! Go back to the hotel. Go back to that blonde stylist you dragged out of the VIP section in Chicago!”

Hongjoong paused. The arrogance slipped from his face for a split second. “How do you—” He stopped himself, his eyes narrowing. “You really are sick, you know that?” a short, sharp sound that echoed in the tense air. He didn’t look guilty; he looked annoyed. He ran a hand through his dark blue hair, shaking his head as if dealing with a confused child. “You’ve been trawling the fan accounts again, haven’t you? God, you’re pathetic. She’s a stylist. She fixes my clothes. She touches me because it’s her literal job. But of course, in your twisted little head, that means I’m fucking her.”

He walked closer, his presence sucking the air out of the room. “You invent these narratives to justify being a psycho. You track my location, you stalk my staff… it’s suffocating.”

You didn’t blink. You just gripped the second plate tighter, feeling the rim dig into your palm.

Let him talk, a voice hissed in the back of your mind. Let him dig his own grave.

He thought you were guessing. He thought you were piecing together shadows from blurry Twitter pictures and letting your jealousy fill in the blanks. He didn’t know about the vibration of your phone at 3:12 AM two weeks ago. He didn’t know that the “stylist” wasn’t just fixing his clothes; she was fixing to take your spot.

It wasn’t a fan theory. It was a direct message. A single photo sent from a number you didn’t recognise, but with a caption that made you wretch: He says I listen better than you.

The picture had been dark, sure, but you could clearly see his blue hair sprawled on the white pillow, the tattoos visible, him passed out. You knew the way his hair looked when he was passed out. It wasn’t the first time he’d strayed—you weren’t stupid—but it was the first time the other woman had reached out to make sure you knew it. She wanted to twist the knife, and now, watching him stand there with that arrogant look on his face, you wanted to bury that knife in his chest.

“You’re a liar,” you whispered, the venom in your voice shaking. “You are a pathological, narcissist liar.”

“And you’re hysterical,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous and low. He was within arm’s reach now. “Put the plate down.”

“Don’t you dare come near me.”

“I said,” he lunged forward, his movement sudden and predatory, “put it down!” He didn’t wait for you to comply. His hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with bruising force. The shock of his touch—electric, familiar, and terrifying—sent a jolt through you.

“Let go!” you screamed, trashing against him, but his grip was iron.

“Stop it! Stop acting like a crazy bitch for one second!” his face was inches from yours. You could smell the stale airplane air and the faint, lingering scent of whiskey on his breath.

“Why don’t I ever fucking see you sober?” you leaned even closer, letting the words spill through clutched teeth.

His hand is still on your wrist. Fingers locked around bone. A grip that says mine without ever needing to say it. You can feel your pulse panicking under his thumb, the stupid animal part of you trying to survive while the rest of you tries to win.

Hongjoong’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something nastier.

“Because being around you requires a damn fucking sedative,” he says, voice flat and cold. “Actually, no—being around you makes me wish I’d overdosed on one. At least then I wouldn’t have to hear you speak.”

You look at him and you see every fight you’ve ever had, stacked in his posture. The way he leans like he’s bored of you. The way he keeps coming back anyway. The way he likes you sharp and rabid.

“You cheated,” you say, and your voice does that thing—soft, terrifying, too controlled. “Again.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes so slowly it’s almost theatrical. “Here we go,” he mutters. “The Greatest fucking Hits.”

You lift your chin. “She sent me a photo.” That stops him. Not completely. But you see the micro-second of it. The tiniest hitch in his breath. The flicker of recognition in his eyes that he tries to bury under contempt. “She’s got a lovely camera. Very high-def. I could see the sweat on your skin.”

“You’re fucking delusional,” his voice lacks the conviction it had thirty seconds ago.

“Don’t,” you warn, and your body lurches forward without permission. You hate how he does that to you. How he can pull you like a hook under your ribs.

His gaze drops to your hand. To the plate. Back to your face. “You know what’s crazy? It’s not the plate. It’s not the screaming. It’s not you stalking me like it’s a hobby.” His thumb shifts on your wrist, a slow stroke that feels like a threat dressed up as tenderness. “It’s that you always act surprised when I treat you like what you are.”

Your vision tunnels.

Say it. Say it again. Call me it.

“Say it. Go on. Say the name you love.”

Hongjoong’s eyes gleam, satisfied. Like you just handed him the blade and asked him to press it in. “Psycho,” it’s quiet enough that it feels like he’s breathing it into your mouth. “You’re a jealous, controlling psychotic bitch.”

Your lungs seize. Your stomach twists in that sick familiar way, like pain and desire share the same nerve.

You lift the plate.

Not to throw—no. Not yet.

Your whole body goes hot, rage blooming under your skin like fever. You can hear the building’s pipes humming. You can hear your own heartbeat, loud as a siren. Somewhere, far away, a neighbour’s television laughs at something. You see, in a flash, the police at your door that one night. The way Hongjoong smiled over your shoulder, polite and charming, while your hands shook and your eyes were wild. The way he made you look like the disaster and him like the calm.

Hongjoong’s other hand comes up—slow, deliberate—and cups your jaw like he’s going to kiss you, like he’s going to bless you, like he’s going to break you. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth. “Go on. Give me a show.”

The ceramic edge bites into your palm. Hongjoong’s thumb is a burn against your lip, smelling of tobacco and the sterile air of a first-class cabin. He’s mocking you with his closeness, his chest rising and falling in a slow, arrogant rhythm that says he isn’t afraid of the jagged weapon in your hand. He wants you to break. He needs the explosion so he can stand in the debris and feel superior.

“You like this, don't you?” the words are muffled by his pressing thumb. “You love having someone to blame for the shit-show your life is.”

Hongjoong’s eyes darken, the blue of his hair looking almost black in the dim overhead light. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours. “I like that you’re predictable, I like that no matter what you’re always exactly where I left you, waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you spit, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Liar.” He says it with that smirk that never reaches his eyes. Those eyes don’t soften, don’t warm. They measure you. He looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved and got bored of halfway through. “You know what you are?” Hongjoong murmurs, voice quiet enough to force you to lean in. His thumb is still at your mouth, pressing, controlling. “You’re a dog on a leash. You bark when I come home. You bite when I leave. But you never actually run away.”

“You don’t get to talk to me like—”

“I get to talk to you however the fuck I want,” he cuts in, sharp. No volume. No screaming. Just authority. “Because you never leave. You never learn. You just keep on waiting for me.” He leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, intimate in the ugliest way. “I can disappear for three months, fuck whoever I want, let them call me baby in hotel sheets you’ll never touch—”

Your throat tightens like you’ve swallowed glass. “—and I come home, and you’re right where I left you. In my kitchen. In my space. With my name on your collar. With your hands shaking around a plate like it’s a weapon instead of a tantrum.” His thumb pushes into the corner of your mouth, forcing your lips apart. “You’re nothing but a stray I let sleep in the bed,” his gaze dropped to your parted mouth.

With a scream that tears at the back of your throat, you wrench your head back, slipping his grip. Before he can react, you whip your arm around. The ceramic plate catches the light for a fraction of a second before it leaves your hand.

It doesn’t hit the wall this time.

The plate connects with a sound that’s too solid to be satisfying.

Not a crash. Not a cinematic shatter.

A brutal, ugly thunk—ceramic meeting bone—followed by a split-second of silence where the whole apartment seems to flinch.

The plate fractures. It spiderwebs across his cheek and explodes, shards detonating outward. A jagged piece skates his skin and opens him up right along the cheekbone, just under the eye—close enough that your stomach drops, close enough that the room smells like dust and metal immediately.

Blood wells fast. Thick. Bright. It cuts a line down the side of his face, disappears into the sharp edge of his jaw, stains the collar of his jacket.

Hongjoong’s head snaps to the side. For one heartbeat, his hand stills on you like he’s buffering, like his body hasn’t decided what to do with the fact that you actually did it.

“You bitch.” ‎

Hongjoong lunges. You try to scramble back, your socks sliding on the floor, but his hand catches the back of your neck, his fingers tangling painfully in your hair. He yanks you forward, hard enough that your neck cracks, hard enough that your vision whites out for half a second. Your back slams against the wall, and suddenly he’s there, all of him, pressing you flat with the weight of his body. His breath is ragged against your face, and you can feel the hot drip of his blood landing on your collarbone, sliding down into the hollow of your throat.

His blood is hot where it hits you, shockingly alive, sliding down the dip of your collarbone like he’s christening you with it. Your back scrapes the wall as you try to twist away, but he’s too close, too heavy, too everywhere.

“You wanted a show,” it’s quiet enough that it feels like you‘re saying it into his teeth. “You got one.”

Hongjoong’s palm stays buried in your hair, fistful at the back of your scalp like reins. He yanks once, just to make you look at him. His cut cheek smears when he moves, blood slicking across his skin, across your skin, across the space between you like a stain you can’t wash out. His eyes are blown wide and dark, not with fear with that vicious, ugly satisfaction of being proven right.

“You hit me,” it sounds almost wonderingly, like he can’t decide if it’s hilarious or holy. His thumb presses into your throat, not choking, just pinning you there, making your swallow a conscious choice. “You actually hit me.”

Your hands are up between your bodies, palms flat against his chest, trying to push him off and failing because pushing him off has never been the point. “Get the fuck off me,” you choke, but it comes out smaller than you want.

Hongjoong’s mouth curls. “You don’t get to tell me what to do in my apartment,” the words are sharp as broken ceramic. “With my blood on you like a fucking necklaces.” He dips his head and inhales near your throat, right where the blood is cooling. The gesture is disgusting. Possessive. Intimate in a way that makes you want to vomit and bite.

Your pulse jumps under his thumb “You’re insane,” you whisper.

He laughs once, breathy, right against your jaw. “No. You’re insane. I’m just the one who knows how to use it.” His knee nudges between your legs, not gentle, not subtle—just an invasion of space that makes your whole body jolt. He watches your face like he’s waiting to see which part of you flinches first: the part that hates him, or the part that wants him. “I could have moved,” his grip in your hair tightens again, a sting that turns your eyes watery with rage. “Do you understand that? I saw it coming.”

Your breath catches.

“I let you,” he continues, like he’s explaining something simple. “Because I wanted you to feel what it’s like to cross the line and realise there’s no way back.” He drags his blood down your collarbone, slow, obscene. The touch is warm at first and then cooling, sticky, a mark that says mine in a language you hate that you understand. “And now,” his mouth is close enough that his words brush your lips, “you don’t get to cry about consequences.”

“I’m not crying,” you spit, but your voice cracks on it, traitorous.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Hungry. Mean. “Say you’re sorry.”

You laugh, sharp and broken. “For what? For finally doing what you deserve?”

His expression shifts. It’s subtle, but it’s there: the click of something turning crueler.

Hongjoong’s hand leaves your throat. For half a second you think you’ve won something. Then he grips your jaw instead—hard—forcing your mouth open just a little, forcing you to look at him like he’s a god and you’re a mistake. “You’re not sorry for the plate,” he murmurs. “You’re sorry you didn’t break my teeth.”

Your stomach twists, heat and nausea braiding together.

“And you know what? I think you should try again.” Your eyes go wide. Hongjoong shifts his weight just enough to free one arm. Without letting you go, he reaches past you—down, down—his fingers scraping along the floor until they close around something jagged.

A shard.

He lifts it into your line of sight, catching the light. The edge is wicked. Still dusted with white, still wet at one corner with red.

Then he presses it into your palm and folds your fingers around it. “Go on,” he whispers, smile slow and brutal. “If you’re going to be the psychotic bitch I keep calling you, at least be a convincing one.”

Your hand trembles around the shard.

Hongjoong’s blood is on your skin. On your collarbone. On your throat.

“You wanted to be fucking brave, so be brave.”

The shard bites deeper into your palm as your fingers twitch around it. Ceramic dust and sweat make everything slick. Your wrist trembles—not fear, not exactly. Something worse. Something that wants.

You bare your teeth. “Get off.”

Hongjoong laughs, a harsh little exhale, and it’s ugly how close it is to a moan. He angles his face just enough for you to see the cut along his cheekbone, still open, still wet. He looks beautiful in the most hateful way. “Make me,” he says.

You try. You slam both hands into his chest, shoving with every ounce of fury you’ve got, and for a second—just a second—he shifts. Not because you’re strong enough. Because he lets you think you are.

“That’s it. That’s the girl I came home to.”

Your shoulder hits the wall again. The frame rattles. A picture on the hallway hook shudders, tilts, and falls face-down with a sharp crack of glass.

Hongjoong’s eyes flick to it like it’s entertainment. Then he grabs your jaw harder, forcing your face up. “You see? Even the house is sick of you.”

Something detonates behind your ribs. Your knee drives up between you, not clean, not pretty—pure spite. It catches him high enough that he hisses, and his grip loosens in a reflex he hates.

You take it. You twist, wrenching free, and the movement tears a strand of hair out under his fist. Pain flashes white. You don’t even get to process it before you’re moving—half stumbling, half sprinting, socks sliding on the floor like you’re running on ice.

You get two steps away before Hongjoong grabs you again—this time not your hair, not your throat.

Your wrist. Right where your skin is raw from him earlier. His fingers clamp down and he yanks you back like you’re not a person, like you’re a cord he can just reel in when you try to run.

You slam into him.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snarls, breath torn up, face smeared and shining with red. “Huh? Running away now? After you finally got brave?”

“Let go of me,” you rasp, and it’s supposed to be sharp, but your voice breaks halfway through because your body is stupid and your eyes are even stupider and the tears show up like traitors with badges.

Hongjoong sees it immediately.

Of course he does.

His mouth curls, nasty and satisfied. “There it is,” he sounds almost delighted. “The tears. You hit me and now you want to cry like you’re the victim.”

“I’m not—” you try, but your throat tightens, and the word dies on your tongue. He tugs your wrist harder, dragging you closer until your faces are inches apart. His cut cheek is right there, split open, still oozing—your fault, your proof—and instead of looking hurt he looks alive. Like you finally fed him.

“You are, you always are. You scream, you throw things, you claw at me like you want to kill me, and the second I bite back you start shaking like I’m the monster.”

“You are a monster,” you spit, and the tears spill anyway, hot and humiliating. “You’re a fucking liar. You’re disgusting.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flash. “Disgusting?” he repeats, incredulous, then laughs—one short, vicious sound. “Baby, you’ve choked on my cock and begged for more. Don’t pretend you’ve got dignity now.”

Your face goes hot. Rage and shame, twin blades. “You think you’re so fucking special,” you yank at your wrist again. His grip doesn’t budge. “You think you can come in here and talk to me like I’m—like I’m nothing—”

“You are nothing,” he cuts in instantly, like he’s been waiting to say it. Like it’s the only line he knows by heart. “You’re a walking mistake I keep fucking because you’re pathetic enough to always be available. That’s it. That’s all you are. A wet hole I come back to when I'm bored of pretending the others matter.” Your breath stutters. Your chest aches like you’ve been punched from the inside. “I leave, and you fall apart. I come back, and you throw plates like it’s foreplay. You don’t want love. You want a cage.”

He leans closer, and you hate that your body leans into him because it remembers the shape of him. It remembers the way he fills space—

So you do the only thing you can to stop yourself.

Your hand moves before your brain can talk you out of it. The slap cracks across his face, sharp and clean, loud enough to bounce off the cabinets. The sting blooms in your palm instantly, a hot imprint of his skin, and for half a second you feel triumphant—like you’ve shoved him back into a distance you can survive.

“That all you’ve got, sweetheart?” his voice is low and filthy with amusement. “You flinch and then you hit me like it cancels out the part where you leaned in.”

“Fuck you,” it comes out broken. It comes out true.

He bares his teeth. “That’s the only thing you say that ever sounds honest.”

Your tears keep coming, furious now, like they’re angry at you too. You swipe at your face with your free hand, smearing them, wiping them away like that’ll undo anything, like it’ll make you less pathetic.

Hongjoong watches you do it and his expression twists—something meaner than contempt, something closer to hate. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Crying because you finally realised I don’t care.”

“I don’t care either,” you lie, and you hate yourself for how fast it comes out, for how desperate it sounds.

Hongjoong’s grip tightens, knuckles whitening. “Bullshit, you care so much you turned yourself into a fucking ghost haunting my life. You care so much you’d rather die than let me go.” He yanks you forward again, hard enough that your shoulder hits the wall with a dull thud. “And I hate you for it,” he says, voice shaking with something raw. “I hate that you make me feel—” He stops, jaw clenching, like the rest of the sentence tastes like weakness.

You laugh, wet and ugly. “Make you feel what? Guilty? Human? God forbid.”

His eyes go black. “You fucking bitch,” he breathes, and it’s not a throwaway insult. It’s reverent. Venomous. Like he’s naming you.

You spit it right back, voice cracking open. “You arrogant fucking dick. You think you can ruin me and I’ll thank you for it.”

Hongjoong’s breath stutters. Blood slips lower down his cheek, darkening at the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it. He just stares at you like he wants to break something and can’t decide if it’s your mouth or his own restraint. “I could leave, I could walk out that door right now and never look back. Is that what you want?”

“Say you’re done,” he demands, suddenly. “Say you’re done with me.”

Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.

You open your mouth.

And nothing comes out.

Hongjoong’s smile is sharp as glass. “Yeah, That’s what I thought. You’d die before you let me leave.”

“Leave, then,” you swallow hard, forcing the tears back like that means you’re winning. ”Watch me die here without you.”

“Keep talking. Keep pushing. I’ll go. I’ll fucking go and you’ll rot in here with your plates and your stalking and your crying and your pathetic little—”

“Do it,” you cut in, leaning forward like you’re daring a dog to bite. Your voice is hoarse, wrecked, but it’s mean again. It’s yours again. “Leave.”

Hongjoong freezes.

You wipe your cheek with the heel of your hand, smearing tears across your skin, and you smile like it hurts. “But you won’t,” you whisper. “Because you need me to be crazy so you can keep being a piece of shit.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

You tilt your head, “I’m talking about your little hobby,” you say, voice quiet. “Your girls. Your hotels. Your backstage bathrooms. Your ‘I’m so free, I can do whatever I want’ act. It’s not gonna be fun anymore.”

His jaw works. You can see him trying to find the angle, the comeback, the exit—but you've already closed every door.

“You can fuck whoever you want,” you continue, and the words taste like poison. “You can smile at them, tell them they’re special, make them think they’re the first person you’ve ever wanted.” You let your gaze drop for half a second, then drag it back up to his eyes. “But it’s not going to work anymore.”

Hongjoong’s throat bobs. He tries to scoff, but it catches.

“You’re delusional,” he says, voice too flat.

You smile. It’s mean. It shakes. “Am I? Because I think you’ve got a problem.”

“You think cheating is about them,” you say. “You think it’s about being wanted, being worshipped, being the fucking Captain of everything, the star, the god.” You lean in, just enough to make it intimate. Just enough to make it disgusting. “But it’s not,” you whisper. “It’s about me.”

“Shut up.”

“You know why?” you continue, voice shaking but steady enough to cut. “You can lie to them, charm them, make them think they’re the only one. But when you’re inside them, when you close your eyes—”

You step closer, close enough that your breath mixes with his.

“—you’re thinking about me."”

“I said shut the fuck up,” he snarls, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown out, two black holes of pure, unadulterated need. The blood on his cheek has dried into a dark, rusty streak.

“You’ll be with them, and you’ll close your eyes—just for a second—and you’ll see this.” You gesture at the mess. The blood. The broken plates. The tears you refuse to hide. “Because it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything.”

His breathing turns uneven. The cut on his cheek pulls when his mouth tightens.

“You’ll get off,” you whisper, voice vile, intimate, truthful. “Thinking about me looking at you like I hate you. Thinking about me screaming. Thinking about me throwing something at your face.”

“You’re sick,” it sounds like a confession, not an insult.

You laugh, wet and furious. “And you’re addicted. You get off on it. Even when you’re with them, you’re thinking about me. You’re thinking about how I’m back here, losing my mind, stalking you, waiting to tear your throat out. That’s the only reason you can even touch them. I’m the ghost in every bed you crawl into. I’m the one you’re actually fucking.”

The back of his knuckles cracks across your cheek, clean and sharp, and your vision flashes white at the edges. The sting blooms hot, immediate, crawling up to your eye.

For half a second, the room goes silent except for your breathing.

You blink once. Twice. Then you laugh. It’s wet. It’s ugly. It’s cruel.

“Oh my God,” you rasp, tasting iron, eyes bright with it. “Look at you,” you tilt your head, letting the burn show, letting him see what he did. “Captain of the world,” you whisper, voice shaking with mockery. “Rockstar. God complex.” Your smile sharpens. “And you have to hit a woman to feel big. Pathetic.”

“I didn’t hit you because you’re a woman,” he spits. “I hit you because you’re you.”

“That’s even worse,” you breathe. “Because that means you’ve decided I’m not a person at all.”

Hongjoong’s face twitches. Something cracks behind his eyes. “Listen to yourself, you really think you’re some kind of curse.” His eyes rake over you—your wet lashes, your shaking hands, the blood on your neck like a bruise you’re wearing on purpose—and his mouth twists. “You’re not that special,” he says, voice flat with contempt. “You’re not that good.”

The words hit hard because they’re aimed. Because he knows exactly where you keep your pride, tucked behind all your rage.

He steps closer anyway, like he can insult you and still claim the space between you. “I’ve had better,” Hongjoong continues, cruel and casual, like he’s talking about room service. “Prettier. Quieter. Easier. Girls who don’t make me feel like I’m babysitting a fucking bomb.”

Your throat tightens but you laugh, it comes out wrecked. “Yeah? Then go back to them. Go back to the ‘prettier’ ones. Go back to those quiet, easy girls who look at you like you’re a god instead of a goddamn mess. Go find someone who doesn’t know that the only reason you act so big is because you’re terrified of being empty.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, the muscle in his jaw pulsing like a drum. He looks at you with a cold, focused hatred, but he doesn’t move.

“They’re just placeholders,” you whisper, leaning in until your nose brushes the drying blood on his cheek. “You use them like white noise. You fuck them to drown out the silence, but even then, you’re failing. You’re bored, Hongjoong. You’re so bored of being worshiped that you’ve started to rot from the inside out.”

“You don’t know shit.”

“I know that the only time your heart actually beats is when I’m trying to break it,” you reach out, your finger tracing his jaw. “You don’t want ‘quiet.’ You don’t want ‘easy.’ You want to be destroyed. You want someone to look at you and see the pathetic, lying piece of shit you really are—and still want to touch you. You’re not leaving me because you’re terrified that without my hate, you’ll realise there’s nothing left of you at all.”

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh right into his face. “You aren’t even a man anymore. You’re just pathetic—a used-up, hollowed-out shell of a person who fucks strangers because even you can’t stand to be alone with what's left of you.”

The air in the room suddenly vanishes.

The sound of his knuckles hitting the studs behind the plaster is a heavy, dull thud that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet. It’s the sound of the air finally escaping a pressurised room. Plaster dust puffs out in a white cloud, settling on his dark sleeves like funeral ash. He doesn’t flinch. He just stays there, anchored to the structure of the building by his own violence. The only sound is the frantic, wet whistle of his breathing and the slow tick-tick-tick of a shard of ceramic settling on the floor.

“Go fuck yourself,” he says.

You blink, stunned for half a second, because it’s so simple. So clean. So dismissive. And then you laugh. It’s ugly. Broken. You can’t stop it. “That’s it?” you choke out, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “That’s your big exit line? ‘Go fuck yourself’?”

When he yanks his hand back, the skin is shredded, the white of his tendons flashing through the red for a split second before the blood wells up to coat it all. He looks at his hand with a strange, detached curiosity. You stare at his ruined hand, at the way the blood drips steadily onto the floor between you, pooling in the grooves of the floorboards. It should horrify you. It should make you flinch, apologise, reach for him.

Instead, it makes you feel alive.

Hongjoong is still holding up that mangled hand, the blood sluggishly tracing the lines of his palm. Through the red smears and the white plaster grit, you see it. On the outer blade of his hand, right along the bone he just used to shatter the wall, is the ink. Your initials. Faded, a little blurred at the edges from years of skin stretching and healing, but stark against his pale skin.

You let out a breathy, taunting laugh that sounds like a serrated blade.

Your eyes fixed on the tattoo. “Even when you’re out there, letting some nameless girl hold your hand, she has to see my name. She has to see who owns the hand that’s touching her.”

Hongjoong’s chest hitches. He tries to pull the hand away, to tuck the evidence into a fist, but you’re faster. You reach out, your fingers slicking through his warm blood to trace the letters.

“Did you tell any of them what it stands for?” you goad, your voice dropping to a vile, intimate purr. “Or did you lie about that, too? Tell them it was a mistake from a life you outgrew? Except you didn’t outgrow it. You just took it with you to every hotel bed. You brought me into every room. You made them touch me every time they touched you.”

“You’re pathetic, Hongjoong. You carved me into your skin so you’d never have to be alone, even when you’re cheating. You’re so obsessed with me that you’ve turned yourself into a walking shrine to our failure.” You look up at him, your smile cruel and jagged. “Does it burn? Knowing that no matter how hard you hit that wall, you can’t break the part of you that’s mine?”

Hongjoong’s uninjured hand moves with the speed of a snapping trap. He doesn’t slap you again; he doesn’t shove. He lunges forward and clamps his hand around your throat, his palm wide and hot against your skin. He slams you back against the wall, the impact rattling your teeth. His grip is firm—not enough to stop your breath entirely, but enough to make every swallow a struggle, enough to feel the frantic, staccato beat of your pulse thrumming against his calloused thumb.

“You think you’ve got me figured out? You think I’m that simple?”

“I think you’re a clichè,” your heart is trying to kick its way out of your throat. “The rockstar with the god complex who needs a ‘crazy’ girl at home to make his life feel like a movie. Without me, you’re just another guy in a leather jacket with a drinking problem and a failing conscience.”

His grip tightens, just a fraction, just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. You can feel the individual ridges of his fingerprints pressing into your windpipe, can taste the panic flooding your mouth. But underneath all that primal fear, there’s something else—something hot and sick and exhilarating that makes your thighs clench together involuntarily.

“Go on,” you rasp, the words scraping past his palm. “Tighter. Do it.” Your lips curve into something sharp and hungry. “Show me I’m right.”

His hand tightens. Not all the way. Just enough to make your breath turn thin and sharp, to make your pulse kick against his palm like it’s trying to escape him. The pressure forces a sound out of you—half laugh, half choke—and Hongjoong’s eyes flare like he hates that your body still knows how to answer him.

Your free hand claws at his wrist—not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself to him, to make sure he doesn’t let go. The ugly truth is your body doesn’t fight it—it recognises it. His hand around your throat turns the whole room into one sharp point: pressure, heat, the scrape of his callouses, the frantic drum of your pulse trapped under his palm. Your lungs burn and your vision feathers at the edges, and instead of panic there’s a brutal, illicit calm that floods in, like the screaming in your head finally got shoved under water. You hate him for how easily he can do this, for how quickly your hands betray you—fingers tightening on his wrist, not to escape, but to keep him there. You could pry him off if you wanted to. You don’t. Because in the squeeze of his grip you don’t have to be jealous or righteous or heartbroken; you just get to be wanted in the simplest, sickest way—held still, reduced to breath and heartbeat and the certainty that he hasn’t left you yet.

And then—he lets go.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. He just releases you like you’ve burnt him, his hand jerking back so fast that you collapse forward into the space he leaves behind. You gasp, the air rushing back into your lungs in a painful, greedy flood. Your throat aches where his fingers were, and you can already feel the ghost of bruises forming beneath your skin.

Hongjoong stumbles back a step, his ruined hand hanging at his side. His chest is heaving, his face pale beneath the dried blood on his cheek. “You’re sick,” he breathes.

“I’m sick? You’re the one who can’t let go. You’re the one who keeps coming back for this.”

Hongjoong takes a step back. Then another. His eyes flick to the door. He stares at the heavy brass key still sitting in the lock, the keychain—a stupid, matching heart you’d bought years ago—dangling like a taunt. He takes a step toward it. The floorboards groan under his weight. He’s moving in slow motion, his hand reaching out for the handle. The ceramic shards from the plates crunch under his boots, a sound like a million tiny teeth breaking.

“Die here, then,” he says, his voice flat and drained of colour. “Rot in the fucking quiet. I'm done playing the monster in your story.”

He grabs the handle. The latch clicks—cold, definitive, unbearable. Your lungs seize. All the venom you’d thrown at him moments ago evaporates, leaving you hollow and freezing. The space between you stretches into an abyss. Through the widening crack of the door, you see the hallway light bleeding in. The stale smell of the building’s stairwell—cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner—drifts towards you, a reminder of the world outside. The world where he doesn’t belong to you.

“Hongjoong,” you breathe. It’s not a command. It’s a leak in the dam.

He stops but doesn’t turn around. He just stands there with his hand on the door, the cool night air hitting the side of his face. “Say it,” his is voice flat. “Tell me to leave. One more time. Mean it, and I’ll be gone before the door even clicks shut.”

You look at his back, at the way the leather of his jacket is scuffed where the plate hit him. You look at the blood on the floor. You feel the sting in your palm where the ceramic bit in.

You take a step forward. Then another. Your feet find the gaps between the shards. “You’re a coward if you go,” you whisper “And I’m a psycho if I let you.”

Hongjoong lets out a sound—halfway between a sob and a laugh. He slams the door shut. The force of it rattles the frames on the walls. He spins around, his face is a ruin of sweat, blood, and a raw, naked desperation that makes the air in the room vanish.

“We’re both going to hell,” he rasps, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying, wild clarity.

“We’re already there.”

He stalks toward you, the scent of fresh blood and pulverised gypsum hitting you before he does. “You don’t get to be right,” Hongjoong’s cut cheek shines wet under the light, blood dragged into a dark smear along his jaw. “Not you. Not after everything you’ve done.” He leans in until his nose drags against yours, the friction sparking heat you hate yourself for feeling. “You know what you are?” he whispers. “You’re a goddamn parasite. You latch on, you dig in, you call it love so you don’t have to admit it’s just hunger.”

A drop of blood falls from his busted knuckles onto your—his— oversized shirt, blooming dark and slow. He watches it like he enjoys making a mess of you. “And don’t ever again start with the ‘I’m the only one’ bullshit,” he continues, jaw tight, eyes too bright. “I’ve had quiet. I’ve had soft. I’ve had easy.”

His mouth curls.

“I’ve had better.”

The words are meant to land clean. To humiliate you. To make you shrink. But something in his face betrays him—one tiny hitch, like he hates himself for saying it. He swallows, hard, and the next words come out rougher, like they’re being dragged up from somewhere he keeps locked. “I don’t feel anything,” he snarls, as if volume could make it untrue. “With them it’s just… Skin. Weight. Nothing. I’m lying there and I’m wondering if I’ve finally gone deaf. If I’ve finally stopped existing.”

His laugh is jagged, broken at the edge. “But you? You’re loud. You’re the only thing that’s loud enough,” he admits, like it disgusts him to say it. “You bite back. You throw plates. You bleed and you still look at me like you want me.” His bleeding hand hovers an inch from your throat—close enough that the heat of the injury radiates against your skin without touching. “And I hate you for it,” Hongjoong whispers. “Because you make me feel real. I need the screaming. I need the plates. I need to see you looking at me like you want to watch me burn, because at least then I know I’m still on fire.”

“Tell me I’m a piece of shit again,” he commands, his voice a low, vibrating hum that you feel in your marrow. “Tell me I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you. Say it while I’m bleeding for you. Give me the fucking truth.”

Your breath hitching, you reach out, your fingers curling around his wrist—right where the blood is wettest. You smear the red across his skin, your eyes never leaving his. “You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me,” for the first time tonight, the words don’t feel like a weapon. They feel like a vow. “And you’re never going to be free of me. Not even when you’re dead.”

Hongjoong’s pupils catch the light, a flash of pure, terrified triumph. He lets out a ragged groan and closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a desperate, crushing force that tastes entirely of iron and the end of the world.

Hongjoong kisses you like a punishment. His mouth slams into yours, hot and bruising, tasting like stale whiskey and iron and the last thin thread of his self-control snapping. The sound that leaves him is ugly—half growl, half exhale—and it vibrates straight through your bones. His good hand fists in your—his— oversized shirt at the waist, dragging you tight enough that there’s no space left for pride, no space left for denial, no space left for anything except him.

Your back grinds against the door and then his ruined, shaking hand slides up the frame beside your head, bracing, trembling.

You make a sound into his mouth that you hate because it’s not anger.

It’s relief.

His kiss turns sharper in response, like he heard that and took it personally. Like he’s offended by how easily you melt and determined to make you pay for it. He angles his head and deepens it, dragging his mouth across yours with a slow, vicious insistence that makes your knees feel useless.

When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. Only enough to breathe. Your lips sting. His eyes are wrecked. Pupils blown wide, dark and wild, like he’s staring at a fire and daring it to take him.

“Say it,” he rasps, mouth hovering over yours again. His breath is hot. Trembling. “Say you want me.”

You swallow. Your throat aches where he held you earlier, and the movement makes his gaze flick down like he can’t help it. “I hate you,” you whisper, and it comes out broken, desperate.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he kisses you again—harder, like he’s trying to erase your mouth before you can cut him open with it. He bites your lower lip, just enough to sting, and you jerk—more from shock than fear.

He pauses with his teeth still there.

His eyes lift to yours, daring you to flinch.

You don’t.

You open your mouth a fraction, breathing him in like you’re making the same bad choice on purpose. Hongjoong’s exhale shudders. His forehead drops against yours, just for a second—just long enough to feel like a crack in the monster mask. “Say it again.”

“I hate you.” Your hands are fisting in his jacket now, pulling him closer even as the words try to push him away. “I hate that you make me feel like this. I hate that I can’t let you go. I hate that you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.”

Hongjoong’s laugh is short and savage. “Good,” he breathes against your mouth. “Because I hate you too. I hate how you get under my skin. I hate that I can’t fuck you out of my system. I hate that every time I walk away, I’m already planning how I'm going to come back.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly—lips swollen, eyes bright, blood drying in dark streaks across his cheek—and his expression turns ugly with want.

“I hate you,” he repeats between kisses, the words dissolving into your mouth like venom and honey mixed together. “And I’m never going to stop.”

And you whisper, right into the space between your mouths: “Don’t. Stop.”

He kisses you again—slower this time, deeper, like he’s decided he’s going to take his time breaking you open until you say something you can’t take back.

Your hand shoots up and grabs his hair at the roots, fingers fisting hard enough to make his scalp pull. Not a cute little tug. Not a “please.” A claim. You yank his head back mid-kiss, teeth clicking against yours, and the sound is sharp—ugly—real.

Hongjoong makes a noise that’s half shock, half something that could’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t already breaking apart.

You use the grip like a handle. You drag him down again and kiss him like you’re trying to start a fire in his mouth. His breath stutters into yours. His body reacts before his pride can. That’s the whole point. You feel it—his weight shifting, the instant, involuntary press of him into you like he can’t help answering.

He tries to pull back.

Not because he wants to stop.

Because he wants to regain the upper hand.

So you pull harder.

His head tilts at your mercy, throat exposed, jawline tight. His busted cheek pulls where the cut is drying, and when his lips part on a sharp inhale, you taste blood—metal on your tongue, warm, intimate and obscene.

“You’re—” he starts, voice wrecked, like he’s about to insult you into submission. You don’t let him. You bite his lower lip—quick, punishing—then yank his hair again to make him feel it. To make it impossible to pretend this is just anger.

Hongjoong’s eyes flash. His good hand comes up to your wrist, fingers clamping down. Not gentle. Not careful. He tries to peel you off him like you’re a problem he can solve.

You twist your wrist just enough to keep your grip and smile into his mouth like a dare.

“Let go,” he growls, but his voice is already too low, too shaken—too fucking honest.

“No,” you whisper, and you say it like a decision.

Hongjoong’s breath punches out of him. His gaze drops to your mouth, then flicks back up to your eyes like he hates that he’s looking. “Christ,” he spits, and then he moves. He shoves into your space hard enough to rattle you against the door again, the impact jolting through your spine. His stupid, ruined hand slides down.

“You want violent? You want real?” His forehead knocks against yours, not affectionate—threatening. He’s breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, dark and feral. He leans in and bites your jaw—hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave something behind—right under the bruise he’s about to give you. You feel the heat of it bloom under your skin, sharp and electric, and your grip in his hair tightens on instinct—pulling him closer even as the sting registers. His teeth drag, releasing slowly, and when he pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s something feral in his eyes—something that says he's done pretending this is anything other than what it is.

He doesn’t bother with finesse.

His good hand drops to your waist and drags you forward—hard, possessive, like he’s pulling you into a fight he intends to win with his body. The movement forces your hips flush against his, and the contact is immediate, you feel his hardness pressing insistent against you, and the friction makes your breath catch in a way that feels like losing.

“Feel that?” he rasps against your ear, voice rough and degrading. “That's what you do to me. Every fucking time.”

He fumbles with the button of his jeans, his movements frantic and clumsy. His zip catches. He curses under his breath, yanking it down with enough force that the sound cuts through the air like a blade. When his jeans fall open, he doesn’t waste time—his hand goes straight under your oversized shirt to your waistband, fingers hooking under the fabric with bruising urgency.

“Off,” he demands, tugging hard enough to make you stumble forward into him. “Now.”

"You’re so desperate,” your hands are already moving—shoving at your waistband, helping him strip you because waiting feels impossible. The fabric catches on your hips and he growls, impatient, yanking harder until it gives.

“Shut up,” his voice cracks on the words, and when your underwear hit the floor, his eyes rake over you like he’s cataloguing damage he’s about to make worse. His hand slides up your thigh, rough and possessive, fingers digging in hard. He hooks his arms under your knees and hoists you up, the cold door scraping against your shoulder blades as he pins you there. You lock your ankles behind his back, your bare skin stinging where it meets the rough wood of the door scraping against your shoulder blades as he pins you there.

“You gonna fuck me in this fucking leather jacket of yours?” you taunt, your voice a jagged rasp. You reach up, grabbing the lapels of the heavy, expensive hide. “Go on. Keep it on. Keep the armour. Don’t want those ‘easy’ girls to think you’ve actually got a heart beating under there, do you?”

He loves it.

You see it in the way his pupils blow out until there’s no light left in them. You see it in the way his mouth twitches, a dark, hungry ghost of a smirk finally breaking through the rage. He doesn’t want a submissive girl who weeps and begs; he wants the one who tries to burn the house down while he’s still inside it.

“You’ve got a real big mouth for someone who’s currently pinned to a wall door with legs spread open.” he grabs both your wrists and slams them against above your head, his leather sleeves creaking with the effort. He hitches your legs higher, his hips grinding into yours.

“I’ll wear the fucking jacket,” he leans in until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll wear it while I remind you exactly why you haven’t leave this apartment. I’ll wear it while I’m inside you, and you’re going to scream my name loud enough that the neighbours call the cops again.”

His hand slides between your bodies, and when his fingers find how wet you are, his breath catches. The sound is involuntary, honest, and it makes you feel powerful. “You’re soaked. All that attitude, all that fighting—and you’re fucking dripping for me.” He circles your clit with deliberate pressure, watching your face like he’s studying for an exam he intends to ace. When your breath hitches, he smirks. “Three months and all it took was me shoving you against a door to make you wet. You’re so fucking easy for me. That’s what I wanted to see. You, coming apart. You, forgetting how to hate me.”

“I could never forget,” you manage, but your voice is threadbare, breaking at the edges.

Hongjoong leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Good. Remember it when I make you come. Remember exactly who’s doing this to you.” He wraps his fingers around himself, positioning at your entrance with zero ceremony. The blunt pressure makes you inhale sharply, and he watches your face like he’s waiting for you to flinch—like he wants you to.

He enters you with a sharp, unforgiving lunge that makes the world go white. You can feel him everywhere. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, your body resisting and yielding all at once, and a moan tears out of you.

His forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours.

A choked, broken sound leaves your throat—half-sob, half-snarl. It’s not soft. There is no warmth in it. It’s a collision of two bodies that have spent months trying to outrun their own rot. He’s moving with a jagged, desperate rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with a bruising force that rattles the door in its frame. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoes through the apartment, rhythmic and violent.

You lean in, licking the sweat and plaster dust off his temple, your voice dropping to a vile whisper. “You might be a pathological liar, a shitty boyfriend, and a mediocre man, but God… this?” You grind down on him, hard, deliberate. “This cock? It’s the only thing about you that isn’t completely fucking worthless.”

Hongjoong’s response is immediate and vicious. His hand releases your wrists only to wrap around your throat—not choking, but claiming—his thumb pressing just enough to make you feel owned. “Keep talking,” he growls, his hips snapping harder, faster, punishing. “Keep running that fucking mouth whilst I fuck the fight out of you.” His leather jacket creaks with every thrust, the sound obscene and raw, mixing with your ragged breathing and the relentless percussion of your bodies colliding.

You dig your nails into his neck, hard enough to make him hiss. “Then do it,” you spit back, your moan breaking through the words. “Fuck me like you mean it. Do your fucking job, Rockstar. Give me what I waited three months for and then get the hell out of my sight.”

Hongjoong’s face darkens. He pulls back, his hips hitting you with a brutal, rhythmic thud that makes the door rattle in its frame.

“They were better than you,” he lies, his voice trembling with the effort of the thrusts. “They were quiet. They didn’t make me want to put my head through a wall.”

“But they didn’t make you hard like this, did they?” You lean in and lick the dried streak of blood off his cheek.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He slams his mouth against yours, a messy, bruising collision of teeth and tongue. You can feel the leather of his jacket—thick, unforgiving—scraping against your bare thighs with every brutal thrust, the rough texture catching on your skin like it wants to leave marks. The cold metal of the zipper bites into your hip bone, a sharp counterpoint to the heat radiating from where your bodies meet.

“Fuck,” Hongjoong groans, the word torn from his throat, raw and broken. His hips stutter, then slam forward harder, and the sound that leaves him is almost a whimper. “You feel—God—”

“What?” you gasp out, your voice cracking on a moan as he hits deep inside you. “Can’t finish your sentences now? Where’s that big mouth?”

The door behind you is unrelenting—hard wood digging into your spine, your shoulder blades grinding against it with every impact. The rhythm is punishing: thud, thud, thud—your body jolting upward with each thrust, your back scraping raw against the surface. You can hear the hinges creaking, protesting under the force, a high-pitched whine that cuts through the symphony of your combined breathing.

He’s got you pinned so hard your spine feels like it’s merging with the wood of the door. As he pulls back to gasp for air, his mouth open and desperate, you lean forward and spit right onto his cheek, the fluid trailing down.

Hongjoong freezes. His entire body turns to stone, the only movement the frantic, jagged heave of his chest. Then, his eyes snap to yours, burning with a light that is purely homicidal.

“Go on. Tell me again how much better they were. Tell me while you’re wearing my spit.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

His hand flies out—the uninjured one—and slaps you across the face. The force of it snaps your head to the side, the stinging heat blooming across your cheek like a brand. Your ears ring, and for a second, the world turns into a blur of grey and red.

He doesn’t let you recover. He grabs your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone until you’re forced to look at him again. “You like being treated like trash?” he starts moving again, but it’s different now—crueler, deeper, his hips hitting you with a rhythmic thud that makes your vision jump. “You want to play the brat? Fine. Let’s talk about how you spent the last ninety days.”

He leans in, his breath hot and smelling of the whiskey he drank to forget you.

“You sat here,” his thumb presses into the bruise forming on your cheek. “You sat in this dark, pathetic apartment, wearing my clothes, staring at the door, waiting for me. Stalking my staff. Counting my breaths through a fucking screen. You’re such a good little bitch, aren't you? So loyal. So desperate.”

He lets out a mocking, jagged laugh as he drives into you, his leather jacket creaking with every brutal thrust. “I bet you even slept on my side of the bed,” he taunts, his teeth grazing your ear. “Crying into the pillows because you knew I was out there putting my hands on someone who actually knows how to keep her mouth shut. You waited like a dog for a scrap, and now you’re acting like you’re the one in control?”

“I’m the one... who’s in your head,” you gasp out, your fingers clawing at the leather of his sleeves, trying to find the skin underneath to draw blood. “You’re... you're obsessed with me. You’re fucking... miserable.”

“Shut up,” he pants, but there’s no venom in it—just desperation. Another thrust and he moans again, louder this time, unguarded. “Shut up, shut up, fuck—”

“Make me,” you challenge, but the words dissolve into a broken cry when he adjusts the angle, driving deeper. Your nails rake down his neck and he keens, the sound high and wrecked.

Inside you, he’s impossibly deep, stretching you until the pleasure borders on pain—a burning, overwhelming fullness that makes your nerves sing and scream all at once. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he drags against your inner walls with each withdrawal, only to slam back in with enough force to punch the air from your lungs. The slick, obscene sound of your bodies meeting fills the space—wet and raw.

“You’re—ah—you’re so fucking tight,” Hongjoong gasps against your throat, voice shredded. “I can’t—I’m not gonna last if you—”

His hand on your throat is firm, the calluses on his fingers rough against your pulse point. You can feel your heartbeat thundering beneath his palm, frantic and wild, and you wonder if he can feel it too—if he knows how completely he’s breaking you. The pressure isn’t enough to restrict your breathing, but it’s enough to remind you that he’s in control, that he could take more if he wanted to.

“You're killing me,” the words cracks like glass. Another thrust, another broken moan. “You're fucking killing me.”

“Then die,” your own voice is breaking, your body clenching around him. “Die inside me, Rockstar.”

Sweat drips from his hairline onto your collarbone, trailing down between your breasts in a slow, ticklish path that makes you shiver despite the heat. Your own skin is slick with it, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist, muscles burning from the effort of holding on. The salt of him is on your tongue when you lick your lips—bitter and human and real.

“Say my name—fuck—say it so I know this is real—”

“Hongjoong,” the sound of it makes him moan so loud you’re certain the neighbours can hear. “Joong, God, right fucking there—”

Every nerve ending in your body is alight, sparking and crackling. The friction, the pressure, the relentless pace—it’s building something violent inside you, something that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out. Your nails dig deeper into his neck, breaking skin, he hisses, and the sound vibrates through his chest into yours, and somehow that makes it worse—makes it better.

“I hate you,” you sob out, but your body is betraying you, clenching around him like you never want to let go. “I hate you so much—”

“I know,” Hongjoong moans, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. “I know, I know, I know— ” His voice breaks completely. “But you're mine. Say you're mine.”

“Never,” you gasp, but the word dissolves into a moan that sounds too much like his name. You’re shaking, your breath coming in high, thin whines, but you force your eyes open. You find his—black, dilated, and drowning—and you spit again, a smaller, jagged spray that hits the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, he leans into it, his hips driving forward with renewed brutality, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the apartment like a war drum. “That's my girl.”

The leather creaks again, a low, rhythmic groan that matches the movement of his hips. You can smell it—rich, earthy, mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and sex. Your vision blurs at the edges, reality narrowing down to this: the brutal push and pull, the way your body yields and resists, the way he’s breaking you apart. Hongjoong looks down at where you’re joined—at the mess of sweat, his blood. It’s the most humiliating, beautiful wreckage he’s ever seen. He’s hitting that spot now, the one that makes your brain go quiet, and you hate yourself for the way your body betrays you—the way you arch into his cruelty, your legs locking tighter around his waist as if you’re trying to merge your bones with his.

“Yours,” you finally choke out, the admission ripping from somewhere deep and primal as the pleasure crests into something unbearable. “I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—” The words taste like defeat and the moment they leave your lips, Hongjoong shatters completely, his moan raw and guttural as he drives into you one last time with enough force to make the door shudder violently in its frame. “It’s always been you, you pathetic, lying bastard.”

He grabs your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force as he hikes you higher, your back sliding up the door until the top of your head hits the frame. He drives into you with a final, unhinged ferocity. It’s not a rhythm anymore; it’s a series of collisions, each one harder than the last, his leather jacket squeaking and straining as he hammers his weight against you. The door is rattling so hard you can hear the brass knocker outside slamming in a frantic, metallic rhythm.

“You... fucking... bitch!” he gasps out, each word a punch.

He’s falling apart. You can feel the muscles in his thighs spasming, the way his heart is trying to kick its way through his ribs and into your own chest. You moan, your head thumping against the wood, your vision tunnelling into a blur of grey and dark blue hair.

He lets out a wrecked, agonised groan as his body finally snaps. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking deep into your shoulder—not a nip, but a claim, a mark that will turn black and blue by morning. He spills into you with a heat that feels like a physical burn, his entire frame racking with long, violent shudders.

You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel the aftershocks rolling through you in waves as your own climax crashes over you—violent and inevitable, your body clenching around him so tightly that he whimpers against your skin. The world tilts, your vision going white at the edges, and for a moment you’re not sure if you’re still breathing or if you’ve simply forgotten how.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays there, heavy and trembling, his weight pinning you to the door. When he finally pulls his head back, his face is a ruin of sweat, tears, and blood. He looks at the red mark on your cheek from the slap, then at the blood on your lips, and he lets out a jagged, hollow laugh.

“You look like shit,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and wrecked.

“Yeah?” He traces the bite mark on your shoulder with his thumb. “You don’t look much better.”

Hongjoong pulls out, and fixes his jeans but he doesn’t let you go. He keeps you pinned to the wood, his forehead pressed against yours. He’s breathing like he’s just clawed his way out of a grave

He slides you down the door until your feet hit the cold floor, but the moment you’re steady, he’s on you again. His mouth crashes against yours, desperate and messy. He’s walking you backward, blind and frantic, heading toward the bedroom.

You stumble through the hallway together, a tangle of limbs and desperation. His hands are everywhere—dragging your shirt up, over your head, the fabric catching on your chin before he tears it free and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. Your hands fumble with his leather jacket, shaking too much to grip it properly, and he makes an impatient sound low in his throat before shrugging it off himself. It hits the floor with a heavy thud.

“Too many fucking clothes,” he mutters against your mouth, voice still wrecked. His hands find the clasp of your bra, and he struggles with it for a moment—fingers clumsy and trembling—before he gives up and just yanks, the elastic snapping against your skin as the hooks give way. You gasp and he swallows the sound with another kiss.

You claw at his shirt, pulling it up, and he breaks away just long enough for you to drag it over his head. His hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts, and there’s a red mark blooming on his collarbone where you bit him earlier. You press your thumb into it and he hisses, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“Off,” you demand, tugging at his jeans, and he nods, his hands already working the button. The jeans are shoved down his thighs once again, and he kicks them off together with his shoes somewhere behind him.

For a moment, you just look at each other. His chest is heaving, his body a mess of bruises and blood and need. You can see the way his hands are shaking, the way his jaw is clenched so tight you think his teeth might crack. “Bedroom. Now.”

He drags you there like a bad decision.

You let him take two steps.

Three.

The hallway narrows, the air colder, the light uglier. Hongjoong’s mouth stays on yours as you move, messy and relentless, like he’s trying to swallow your next insult before it can cut him.

You pull back just enough to inhale. He chases you so you take control. Your hands slide up his chest, and you shove him sideways—hard—until his back hits the hallway wall with a dull, satisfying thump.

Hongjoong exhales like you hit a nerve.

You kiss him again before he can recover.

Not soft.

Not pleading.

A kiss that says mine, and then immediately, worse than mine.

Your palm spreads over his throat—not squeezing, just holding, just claiming the spot he keeps using on you like a button. You feel him swallow under your hand. You feel the tiny tremor of it. You smile into his mouth because he thinks he’s the only one who gets to make people shake. Your fingers trail down—over his ribs, his stomach—slow, deliberate, touching him like you’re appraising a weapon.

His other hand finds your waist but he doesn’t push back. He lets you pin him there, lets you take what you need from his mouth like he’s finally learning what surrender tastes like. His mouth crashes into yours—not a kiss so much as a collision. It’s hungry, a desperate, brutal thing, like he’s trying to swallow your very breath whole. For a second, the world is just the wet, hot pressure of his lips and the frantic rhythm of his heart drumming against your ribs.

Then, the reversal.

His palms slam into your shoulders. He shoves you off him with a jagged, sudden force. There is no gentleness in the motion, no lingering slide of fingers. It’s a rejection of gravity and—

—your socks skid on the polished hardwood. For a heartbeat, you’re weightless—a stupid lack of balance where your heels find no purchase.

“Fuck—”

The word is cut short by the wall. You go sideways, the momentum carrying your weight until your shoulder slams into the drywall with a dull thud. Your head follows, snapping back. The back of your skull connects with the edge of a heavy, framed vinyl.

The frame rattles, tilting on its wire for a fraction of a second before the nail gives way.

The crash is deafening in the narrow space. Glass explodes—a harsh, bright shriek of crystalline shards that rain down, ricocheting off the floorboards and peppering your bare skin. The record pops loose from its housing, a black disc clattering and spinning across the wood like a dying coin.

Pain blooms. It’s a mapping of heat: thin, stinging lines across your forearm and a sharp, pulsing ache at the base of your throat where a shard grazed the collarbone.

You inhale, and the air is different now—cloying with dust shaken from the wall, the metallic tang of blood, and the fading sweetness of his mouth.

Hongjoong freezes. His chest heaves, his mouth is a ruined smear of red and wetness. His eyes, dark and blown wide, flick from the glittering debris on the floor up to the crimson bead forming on your shoulder. His fingers twitch, his body leaning forward as if his muscles are screaming to catch what they just threw away.

Then his jaw locks. The tendons in his neck cord stiffening. He looks at you not with pity, but with a simmering, self-loathing resentment, as if your bleeding is a personal insult to his control.

You shift, pushing off the wall. The movement causes the glass to chime. A shard crunches beneath your foot, a dry, crystalline snap. You let out a laugh—quiet, wrecked, and dangerously delighted.

You lean your head back against the dented drywall, watching the way his nostrils flare. Even with the wreckage between you, even with the blood cooling on your skin, his gaze hasn’t left your face. It’s fixed, starving, pinned directly to your swollen mouth.

“You missed a spot,” you whisper, the words raspy and mocking.

“You're bleeding.” The voice isn’t his—not the one he uses for the stage or the one he uses to command a room. It’s thin, stripped of its armour, vibrating with a frequency that suggests he might shatter if you touched him. He stares at the crimson bead tracking a hot path down your collarbone, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a hard swallow.

“I’m aware,” you breathe, tilting your head. The movement pulls at the shallow cut on your arm, a sharp, stinging reminder of the impact. You don’t wince. “Is that what’s stopping you?”

His jaw works, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He takes a half-step forward, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach out and stem the flow, but he catches himself. His fingers curl into a fist so tight the knuckles turn a ghostly, translucent white.

“You threw me, Hongjoong. You broke your favourite record with my head. And yet...” You take a step toward him and the glass crunches. You stop when you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, the frantic, erratic pulse in his throat. “You’re still looking at me like I’m the only thing in this hallway that matters.”

His breathing hitches. The fist at his side trembles, and for a moment you think he might actually back away—might finally prove that he has some shred of self-preservation left. But then his eyes drop to your mouth again, and you know he’s already lost.

His hand lifts—slow, trembling—and cups the side of your face. The gentleness of his palm against your cheek is more violent than the shove. It’s a surrender. His skin is fever-hot, damp with the sweat of his own internal war, and as his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, he finally stops fighting the gravity of you.

His thumb wanders, catching a stray drop of blood near your collarbone and smearing it against your skin like war paint. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shuddering out in a long, broken sigh.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word a confession, a secret he never intended to tell. “Look at you. Standing in the middle of the wreck I made, laughing at me. You’re a goddamn masterpiece, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand slides from your face to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a possessive tug that tilts your head back. There’s no more hesitation, no more trembling restraint. He stoops, one arm hooking firmly under your knees and the other supporting your back, hoisting you up in one fluid, desperate motion. You instinctively hook your arms around his neck, your fingers digging into the damp hair on the nape of his neck.

“Hongjoong—”

“Quiet,” he commands, though the edge is gone, replaced by a low, vibrating intensity. He carries you through the hallway like you’re something stolen, something he needs to hide before anyone sees. His grip tightens when you shift, fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to bruise, and you wonder if he even realises he’s holding on like you might disappear.

The bedroom is a cavern of deep shadows. He doesn’t even make it to the middle of the room. Hongjoong stumbles, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress, and he brings you down with him in a tangle of limbs and slick skin.

The bed—the one he hasn’t slept in for ninety days—is cool for only a second before the furnace of your bodies turns the sheets into a trap. He pins you down, the light from the streetlamp outside cuts through the blinds, painting his back in jagged stripes of orange and black. A stray drop of sweat rolls from his temple, disappearing into the blue silk of his hair. He looks down at you, his blue hair plastered to his forehead. He looks at the blood on your arm, the bite on your shoulder, and the smear of red on your lips, and he finally, truly breaks. He grabs your wrists, pinning them to the pillow on either side of your head, his fingers locking like iron. He stares at the damage. The thin, red signature of the glass on your arm. The blooming purple of the bite on your shoulder. The way your lip is puffed, stained with a mixture of his saliva and your own metal-tasting blood.

A low, broken sound vibrates in his chest—part sob, part growl.

“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice a jagged edge of ruin. “Look what I did. You’re pathetic like this.”

“You want this?” he chokes out, his face dropping until his nose brushes yours, his hot breath ghosting over your mouth. “You want me to break the rest of you? You’re already ruined, sweetheart. What’s left to destroy, hmm?”

His grip on your wrists is bruising, his thumbs pressing into the delicate pulse points there. He’s shaking, looking at your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“Tell me,” he commands, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that vibrates through your skull. “Tell me you’re not going to leave after this. Tell me I get to keep every scar I just gave you.”

He shifts his weight, his knee forcing its way between your thighs, he’s hard again, his cock pressing into your hip, and the desperation of his body is more honest than anything he’s said in years. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the very edge of the cut on your collarbone. He tastes the salt there, his tongue a fleeting, searing wetness against the wound.

“Mine,” he mutters against your skin. “Everything. The blood, the bruises. All of it. You’re nothing without me marking you up.”

As his hand leaves your wrist to reach for the waistband of his boxers, you don’t let the limb fall limp. You snap your arm up, your fingers tangling into the damp, blue silk of his hair. You yank, hard enough to make his head hiss back, forcing his wide, startled eyes to lock onto yours. The pain of the glass in your shoulder is a distant, electric hum compared to the fire of his skin against your inner thighs.

“You don't get to keep them, Joong, I’m letting you have them. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes.” You dig your nails into his scalp, pulling him down until your lips graze the shell of his ear. “Because the second I decide I’m done with you, I’ll walk out of here and leave you to rot in this empty house with nothing but your gold records and your regrets. You’re nothing. A washed-up, desperate little boy playing at being a man. So don’t talk to me about keeping. Talk to me about begging, like the pathetic dog you are.”

His jaw drops open, a soft, wrecked sound catching in his throat. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might recoil, but then the arrogance snaps back into place—darker, heavier, fuelled by the sheer friction of your bodies. He stops fumbling. In one violent, fluid motion, he shoves his boxers down his legs. He’s thick and rigid against your thigh, the heat of him intoxicating.

“Then beg for my cock, you filthy whore,” he counters, his thumb finding the slick, aching heat of you with a bruising pressure. “Beg for it like the desperate whore you are.”

His hand slides down your body. You gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the first wave of his touch crashes over you. It’s too much—the cold air of the room hitting your damp skin and the furnace-heat of his hand between your legs. He’s not being gentle; his touch is rhythmic and demanding, his calloused palm rubbing against your sensitive skin with a friction that makes your toes curl into the sheets.

“Hongjoong—”

“Say it,” he commands, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder right beside the bruise that’s already blooming there. “Tell me you want every inch of me. Say you’re mine. Say you’re just a worthless little toy.”

He shifts, his weight settling between your knees, the blunt, heavy tip of his cock probing at your entrance. You can feel the twitch of his muscles, the sheer, agonising restraint it’s taking for him not to just lunge into you.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against you. The contact is electric—slick skin meeting slick skin, the friction of his coarse hair against your thighs, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart against your ribs.

“Fuck me,” you choke out, your fingers tightening in his hair until his scalp must burn. “Stop talking and fucking do it, you useless piece of shit.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He lunges forward, a single, deep thrust that fills you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. You cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder, your nails scoring twin tracks down the muscles of his back. He’s buried to the hilt, his hips pinned hard against yours, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your ear.

He doesn’t move. He stays buried deep, his pulse hammering against your internal walls, a frantic, rhythmic drumming that matches the one in his throat.

He begins to withdraw. It’s agonisingly slow. You feel every ridge of him, the friction of skin on skin, the slick, hot suction as he pulls back until he’s barely holding on at your entrance. You whine, a thin, involuntary sound that escapes your throat before you can catch it, and your heels dig deeper into the small of his back, trying to force the contact back.

Hongjoong lets out a soft, jagged huff of a laugh. He catches your wrists again, but he doesn’t pin them this time. He intertwines his fingers with yours, forcing your palms flat against the pillow, his knuckles brushing the damp fabric.

“Look at me,” he commands.

You open your eyes. The orange light from the streetlamp catches the dampness on his cheeks—not tears, just the sheer physical exertion of holding himself back. He thrusts again, but it’s a crawl. A slow slide of fire that inches back into your heat. He watches your face with a terrifying intensity, tracking the way your pupils dilate, the way your lips part to catch a breath that won’t come.

“There,” his hips rotating in a tiny, devastating circle that grinds his pelvic bone against yours. “Tell me how that feels. Tell me what I’m doing to you. Tell me how much you need this, you needy whore.”

The sensation is a slow-motion riot. The blunt pressure of him is stretching you, a heavy, dull ache that blooms into a sharp, electric spark every time his weight shifts. The salt of his sweat drips onto your collarbone, mixing with the cooling smear of blood.

He leans down, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, close enough that you can taste the heat of him.

“You’re shaking,” he withdraws again, further this time, the cold air momentarily biting at the entrance he’s left weeping and open. “Is it too much? Should I stop? Or are you just too weak to handle me?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He rips his hands from yours, and for a split second, you feel the cool air hit your palms before he’s seizing your throat. Not enough to choke—just enough to pin you, the heel of his hand pressing firmly against your windpipe, forcing your chin up and your mouth open. The pressure is a heavy, rhythmic pulse that matches the throb of the blood in your ears.

He pulls back—all the way out—the absence of him feeling like a hollow ache. Then, he slams home. It’s not the slow crawl from before. It’s a brutal, bottoming-out thrust that jars your entire frame against the headboard. The crack of wood against the wall punctuates the wet, heavy slap of skin hitting skin.

He does it again. And again.

The rhythm is jagged, angry, and utterly relentless. He isn’t asking anymore. He’s taking. Each strike is a jagged line of fire, his hips bruising yours as he drives into you with a frantic, punishing strength. The smell of the room has shifted—the ozone and old perfume drowned out by the raw, primal scent of sex and salt.

“Tell me,” he gasps, his face inches from yours, his eyes two burning coals in the shadows. “Tell me you’re still in control when I’m ripping you apart like this. You’re nothing. Just a tight little hole for me to use.”

You try to speak, but the sound is caught in your throat, squeezed out as a wrecked, high-pitched moan. You dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, scoring deep, red crescents into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He seems to thrive on it, his pace quickening, his breathing turning into a series of harsh, animalistic grunts.

He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers find the place where you’re joined, and he begins to play with your clit.

“Look at me, I want to see the moment you break. I want to see you lose that goddamn laugh. I want to see you cry like the pathetic little bitch you are.”

He’s hitting a frantic, desperate depth now, his body a blur of motion above you. Every thrust is a declaration of war. You can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his muscles are knotted. He’s close—you can feel it in the way his internal rhythm begins to stutter, the way his grip on your throat tightens just a fraction more.

“I hate how much I fucking love you,” he gasps, the words coming out as a bruised confession, messy and unpolished. He’s hitting you so hard your breath hitches. “I love you so much it’s rotting me out. Do you hear me? I love you but you’re still just a worthless slut who’s only good for this.” He says it like a curse, like he’s trying to spit the feeling out of his lungs and into yours. He lunges again, his forehead slamming into yours, his eyes wet and wild. “Say it,” he demands, his voice cracking. “Say it before I lose my goddamn mind. Say you love me, you disgusting whore.”

“I love you, Joong” you choke out, the name finally breaking past your lips, stripped of all its mockery and replaced with a raw, desperate truth. “I love you, you pathetic, broken scumbag.”

“There,” he groans, a sound of pure victory. He pins your legs so wide they ache. The world narrows to the point of a needle. Your vision smears into stripes of orange streetlamp and the dark, sweating planes of his face. You can feel the orgasm rising—a wave of heavy, liquid gold that starts in the marrow of your bones and rushes toward the surface.

“Hongjoong—I’m—”

“I know,” he gasps, his teeth baring in a feral grin. “I’ve got you. I’ve fucking got you. God, I love you. My perfect slut.”

He gives you one last, devastatingly deep surge, pinning your hips so hard they crack, and his thumb presses down with a final, kinky firmness.

It hits.

The climax is a violent, white-out explosion that robs you of your senses. Your internal muscles clamp around him in a series of fierce, rhythmic spasms that draw a strangled, echoing cry from his lungs. Your back arches so high only your heels and your head are touching the bed, your breath hitching into a broken, high-pitched keening that you can’t stop.

Hongjoong follows you over the edge a heartbeat later. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body seizing as he pours himself into you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He’s a dead weight, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your own, his skin slick and fever-hot.

The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of spent adrenaline and the cooling iron of the scratches on his back. He doesn’t move. He stays buried inside you, his breath coming in long, ragged shudders against your damp skin.

His fingers, still digging into your hips, slowly begin to relax, though he doesn’t let go. He just holds you there.

Hongjoong stays buried inside you for a long time, his forehead pressed against the dip of your shoulder. The only sound in the room is the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. For a few heartbeats, the air is thick with the scent of spent adrenaline and the metallic tang of the blood.

Then, the heat breaks.

Hongjoong pulls out of you with a slick, clinical sound that feels louder than the screams from minutes ago. There is no cooling-off period, no gentle transition from the violence of his climax back to reality. He simply vacates the space, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you shivering against the damp sheets.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t even check to see if you’re breathing. He just stands, his naked back red from your fingernails, and stalks toward the door.

“Joong?” your voice cracks, the sound thin and pathetic in the cavernous silence of his bedroom.

He doesn’t answer. You hear his bare feet against the hardwood of the hallway, then the heavy thud-drag of his leather jacket being hauled off the floor where it landed amidst the shattered ceramic of the plate you threw. You get up on your shaky legs to follow the sound, wrapping a shirt from a chair standing beside the bed around your nakedness. By the time you reach the foyer, he’s already stepping into his jeans, the denim rough and loud in the quiet apartment. Then he sits down on the bench by the door, pulling on his heavy designer boots and yanking the laces tight. He looks like a man preparing for a war he’s already won.

“Hongjoong, where are you going?” your hands are shaking as you reach for him. “You can’t just—we were just—you said you loved me.”

Hongjoong doesn’t look at you. He looks at the jacket in his hands. His fingers trace a jagged, serrated tear in the expensive calfskin where a shard of your redirected rage—that white ceramic plate—had sliced through the material.

“Look at this,” he hooks a finger through the hole in the leather and yanks it toward you, forcing you to see the damage. “Three months of silence, and I come home to you acting like a psychotic bitch again. You’re a fucking liability.”

“I’m a liability?” Your voice is a jagged wreck, the adrenaline from the bed curdling into something sour and sharp in your gut. You pull the oversized shirt tighter around your frame. “You walked in here after three months like nothing happened! You didn’t call, you didn’t text, you just—"

“I was on tour,” he snaps, turning his head so the smoke drifts into your eyes, making them sting. He looks down at the floor, at the white dust and sharp fragments. “I worked so I could pay the mortgage on this place. So you could sit here and break my shit while you wait for me to come back and fix your life.”

He digs into the jacket pocket. He finds the crumpled pack, taps out a single cigarette, and bites down on the filter. The clack-hiss of his silver lighter illuminates the hollows of his cheeks and the dark, bruised look in his eyes. He exhales a thick cloud of grey smoke directly into the space between your faces. It’s bitter, clashing with the lingering scent of sex. He stands up, the leather of his jacket creaking as he shrugs into it. He looks down at you, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and the expression on his face is one of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. He looks at you like you’re a chore he’s finally finished.

“Move,” he says standing up, the cigarette bobbing between his lips.

“No! You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come in here, fuck me, and then walk out like I’m a service you’re finished with!” You reach out, your hand trembling as you try to grab his arm, to find some shred of the man who was just buried inside you, gasping about how much he loved you.

He recoils as if your skin is caustic. He steps back, his heel crunching a piece of the plate into fine white powder against the hardwood.

“Don’t,” he warns. The ‘love’ he’d confessed in the dark feels like a fever dream now, a symptom of a sickness he’s already over. He taps a long pillar of ash onto the floor, right next to your bare foot. “I told you in there. It’s rotting me out. Looking at you, smelling you… it’s like staring at a fucking car crash. I can’t do it.”

“This is our home.”

“No, this is my apartment. My name is on the deed, my money is in the walls. You’re just the person I haven't kicked out yet.”

He steps toward the door, his movements fluid and cold. He doesn't look back at the bed, or the mess, or the way your knees are shaking. He just wants the air to be clear of you.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from the smell of you,” he says, his hand gripping the heavy brass handle of the front door. He pauses, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the smoke curling around his bruised cheek. “Clean this shit up. I want the shards gone by the time I decide if I’m coming back. And for god’s sake, take off my shirt. You look pathetic.”

“Don’t go,” you whisper, the anger suddenly collapsing into something hollow and sharp. You slide your hands down his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Please. Not like this. Just stay. We can fix it, we can—”

“Fix what?” He doesn’t push you away, but he doesn't hold you, either. He stands there like a statue, letting you weep against the leather. He takes another long, lung-burning drag and exhales it over the top of your head. “The plates? The wall? Or the fact that I love you so much it’s turned into rot?”

He reaches down, his fingers locking around your wrists. He doesn’t pull them gently; he wrenches your hands off his jacket and steps back, his heel crunching a piece of the ceramic into fine white dust.

“I’m going to the studio,” he says, his voice terrifyingly calm as he reaches for the heavy brass handle. “I want the keys on the island by noon tomorrow. If you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the police. I’m done being haunted by a bitch who won’t leave.”

“You son of a bitch!” you scream, your voice cracking. “I hate you. God, I hate you so much.”

Hongjoong doesn’t just leave; he exhales. It’s a long, slow release of smoke that looks like a ghost leaving his body. He looks at you and the flick of his eyes from your messy hair down to his own shirt hanging off your frame is clinical. It’s the look of a man auditing a loss.

“I hate you,” you spit again, the words tasting like the copper from the cut on your lip. You want it to hurt him. You want it to be the thing that finally breaks that composure. “I fucking hate you, Hongjoong!”

He finally reaches for the handle, the heavy brass cold and indifferent. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look angry anymore—just bored. He takes a final pull of the cigarette.

“Yeah,” he rasps, the smoke curling around his teeth as he flashes that sharp, jagged smirk—the one that usually preceded a kiss but now feels like a blade. “I bet you do.”

He steps out, and the draft from the hallway hits you—sterile, air-conditioned, and smelling of nothing. He doesn't slam the door. He closes it with a slow, deliberate click that echoes through the empty rooms.

You’re left standing in the dark, the silence rushing back in to swallow you. You look down at your feet. There, ground into the expensive hardwood by the heel of his boot, is the ash from his cigarette and a smear of your own blood from the bedroom.

You’re wearing his shirt, standing in his apartment, surrounded by the shards of a plates you can’t put back together. He took the only thing that felt like life in this place and walked out into the night, leaving you to haunt a home that was never yours to begin with.

The elevator dings in the distance. He’s gone. And the worst part isn’t the hate—it’s the fact that you’re already waiting for the next time he decides to come home and break something else.

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☆—JAY!