You don’t get to leave - Jungkook
📂summary: Jungkook doesn’t miss you gently. He misses you like a threat. One argument turns into a confession he can’t say cleanly, and you learn the difference between being wanted and being kept.
warnings: just typical toxic jungkook....
likes, reblogs and feedback appreciated ⋆｡°✩
note: this in no way shape or form reflects JK in real life - these fics are made up.
You’re halfway to the door when he speaks.
It lands flat, like he’s bored. Like he hasn’t been watching you pack with the kind of focus that makes your skin itch. Like he hasn’t been standing in the corner of the room, silent and still, letting you do it, letting you prove something to yourself.
You pause with your hand on the handle anyway because you’re predictable like that. Because some stupid part of you still wants him to say the right thing, once, just once, without wrapping it in venom.
Behind you, Jungkook exhales through his nose. He doesn’t move. He wants you to think he doesn’t care.
He always wants you to think he doesn’t care.
“You’re not even going to…” You don’t finish it. You hate the way your voice catches, like your body is embarrassing you on purpose.
Jungkook’s eyes flick up from your bag to your face, slow, heavy, almost lazy. He wears that look the way other people wear a jacket, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t cost him anything to be cold.
You flinch. You’re tired of flinching. You’re tired of learning his moods like weather reports. You’re tired of walking around his ego like it’s a bomb you’re responsible for.
“No,” you say, too quickly. “Just… I don’t know. Act like a human being?”
That earns you the smallest shift in his jaw. It’s the only warning you ever get. His anger is never loud at first, it’s always controlled, contained, as if he’s proud of it. As if restraint is the same thing as kindness.
He pushes off the wall and crosses the room with that quiet confidence he saves for moments like this, moments where you’ve said something honest and he needs to punish you for it.
You can smell him. Clean laundry and expensive cologne and something darker underneath, something that always makes you feel like you’re stepping too close to the edge of a pool you can’t swim out of.
“You want me to act human,” he murmurs, voice low. “After you’ve been acting like that all week.”
“Like you’re above me.” His mouth twists, not quite a smile. “Like you don’t need me.”
It hits you in the chest because it’s so stupid. Because it’s always this. Him making his fear your crime. Him turning his insecurity into a blade and then acting shocked when you bleed.
“You’re not serious,” you say.
He leans closer. His eyes are dark, focused, cruel in a way that feels intimate. Like he’s only ever this honest when he’s trying to hurt you.
“I’m always serious,” he says, and the way he says it makes you remember every time he’s called you dramatic while his hands have been on you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.
You swallow. “I’m leaving because you’ve been acting like an asshole.”
A flicker. There. Just for half a second, something vulnerable slips through his face like light under a door.
“You’re leaving,” he repeats, as if testing the word. As if it’s a joke. As if it doesn’t make his stomach twist.
He hates this part. He hates the moment where you decide, where you choose yourself, where you move in a direction that isn’t him. He hates it because he can’t control it with a look or a touch. He hates it because it reminds him that you’re a person and not a possession.
His hand lifts, slow. You tense without meaning to, and his eyes drop to your throat like he’s noticed the movement and filed it away.
“Don’t do that,” he says softly.
“Act like I’m going to hit you.”
You stare. “Are you kidding? You’ve spent the last two days snapping at me, ignoring me, then showing up at midnight like I’m supposed to be grateful you remembered I exist.”
He doesn’t deny it. He never denies anything. Jungkook doesn’t apologise the way other people do. He doesn’t say sorry. He just changes the rules until you forget what you were upset about.
“You were fine,” he says. “Until you weren’t.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is with you,” he says, and his voice is sharper now. “You’re fine, you’re smiling, you’re laughing at someone else’s stupid jokes, and then you come home and look at me like I’m a problem you can’t stand.”
You feel your stomach drop. The jealousy is always there, coiled under his skin. He never says it cleanly, never admits it’s fear, never lets it be something soft.
“I’m allowed to talk to people,” you say.
He tilts his head. “You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”
That should sound generous. It never does. It sounds like a warning. It sounds like he’s giving you permission in the same way a person gives permission to a dog on a leash.
“And you’re allowed to leave,” he adds, voice even. “I’m not stopping you.”
You look at the door again. Your hand is still on the handle, knuckles white.
Jungkook’s gaze follows the movement. His face doesn’t change, but something shifts in the air anyway. Like the room is holding its breath. Like the second you step out, he’ll become something else.
You hate that you know him this well. You hate that you can feel him unravel before it happens.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you say quietly.
He laughs once. It’s humourless. “You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
That gets him. You can tell because his eyes narrow, because his shoulders tighten, because he takes a step closer until your back almost touches the door.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. He knows his quiet scares you more.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he says.
A cold shiver crawls up your spine. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what,” he murmurs. “Don’t tell you the truth?”
“I mean it, Jungkook.” Your voice shakes and you hate that too. “Move.”
His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. His gaze is a touch, invasive and familiar.
“You want me to move,” he says, voice soft again, and it’s worse like that. “Or you want me to tell you to stay.”
You don’t answer. You hate him for knowing. You hate yourself for being readable.
Jungkook’s hand slides up, not to your face, not to your waist, but to the strap of your bag. His fingers curl around it as if it belongs to him. As if you do.
You try to pull back. He doesn’t let you.
His eyes lift. “I wasn’t talking about the bag.”
Your pulse jumps. You should step away. You should open the door and leave and never come back. You should stop letting him make the rules.
But he’s close. He’s warm. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that can hurt him and the only thing in the world that can fix it.
You hate that it works on you.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you whisper.
His throat bobs when he swallows. He looks away for a second, just a second, like he’s trying not to show you something. Like he’s trying not to let you see how badly he wants you.
Then he looks back and it’s gone, replaced by something hard.
“I can,” he says. “Because you let me.”
Silence stretches between you. Your eyes burn. Your hands shake.
You try to breathe. You try to remember every reason you’re leaving. The way he made you feel small. The way he punished your happiness. The way he acted like your love was something he could spend.
Jungkook watches you like he’s waiting for the moment you break.
He always waits. He always wins.
You whisper, “Why do you even want me here if you hate me so much?”
That stops him. Not fully. Just enough.
For a moment, his face does something strange. His eyes soften. His mouth parts like he might say something real, something honest, something that doesn’t taste like poison.
He scoffs instead, as if you’ve insulted him. As if you’ve asked for too much.
“I don’t hate you,” he says.
The words should be comforting. They aren’t. They sound like a threat.
“You just make me…” He trails off. His jaw clenches. His hand tightens on your bag strap.
You swallow. “Make you what?”
His eyes flash. “You make me want things I shouldn’t.”
A dangerous hush falls over the room. You feel it in your bones. The shift from argument to something else. The way his attention narrows until it’s just you, just the space between you, just the hunger he pretends he doesn’t have.
“You don’t get to blame me for that,” you say.
He steps closer. Your back hits the door. The handle presses into your spine. He’s not touching you fully yet, but his presence is everywhere. His heat, his breath, the weight of him.
“I’m not blaming you,” he murmurs. “I’m telling you what it is.”
You force yourself to look up at him. “So what, you want me to stay so you can keep treating me like shit?”
He inhales slowly, and his gaze drops to your throat again. Like he’s thinking about kissing you. Like he’s thinking about biting you. Like he’s thinking about all the ways he could make you stop talking.
“You always talk like you’ve already made up your mind,” he says. “Like you’re not standing here waiting for me to give you a reason.”
Your eyes sting. “Because I’m stupid.”
His mouth twitches. It’s the closest thing to a smile, and it’s cruel.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You are.”
It should break you. It should make you hate him. It should make you leave.
Instead, your chest tightens, and you hate yourself for that too. Because under the cruelty is something else, something frantic. Something that feels like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing he can grab.
Jungkook’s fingers slip from your bag strap to your wrist. He holds you firmly, not bruising, but not gentle either. As if he’s testing how much you’ll tolerate. As if he’s reminding you he can.
“You’re shaking,” he says, and his voice changes. Lower. Rougher. Intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip.
He swallows. His thumb strokes once over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is racing. The touch is small, almost tender.
That’s what makes it terrifying.
Your breath catches. “Jungkook…”
His eyes flick up. They look almost desperate now, but he holds it in, contains it, turns it into control like he always does.
“I’m trying,” he says, and it’s so quiet you almost don’t hear it.
He leans in until his forehead almost touches yours. You can feel his breath on your mouth.
“Trying not to drag you back in.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The room feels too small. The air feels thick.
He cuts you off, voice sharp again. “Then stop giving me reasons.”
You laugh, breathless and bitter. “You mean stop existing around other people? Stop having a life? Stop being a person unless it serves you?”
His eyes darken. “Don’t.”
“Don’t make me the villain like you don’t like it,” he says, and there it is. The truth, ugly and exposed. “You like it. You hate it, you cry about it, you threaten to leave, but you like it because it means I want you.”
Your throat closes. “That’s not true.”
He stares at you like he can see right through you. Like he knows you better than you know yourself.
“You’re still here,” he says.
Your body betrays you. Your silence betrays you.
Jungkook’s grip tightens just slightly. His other hand lifts to your jaw, fingers spreading along your cheek like he owns your face. He holds you still, not violently, but with certainty. With intent.
“Say you’re leaving,” he whispers.
His eyes don’t move. “Say it again.”
He nods once, almost satisfied, then drags his gaze down to your mouth like he’s punishing himself.
“Okay,” he says, voice rough. “Go.”
But his hand doesn’t let you. His thumb strokes your cheek. Once. Twice. Like a habit. Like an addiction.
You hate him. You want him. You want to be free. You want him to pull you closer.
He watches your face like he’s waiting for you to crack first, like it’s a game he’s played a hundred times.
“You’re doing that thing,” he murmurs.
“Looking at me like you’re hoping I’ll stop being me.”
A sharp, wet breath leaves you. “I’m hoping you’ll care.”
His expression shifts. Something flickers behind his eyes. It looks like pain. It looks like panic.
Then it looks like anger again, because that’s safer.
“I care,” he snaps, and the words come out like they hurt. “I care too much. That’s the problem.”
You stare up at him, stunned.
Jungkook’s nostrils flare. His jaw is tight. He looks furious with himself for saying it.
He lowers his voice, dangerous again. “You walk around like you don’t understand what you do to me.”
“Bullshit.” His thumb presses into your cheek. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind you he could. “You exist and it feels like a threat. You smile at someone and it feels like you’re slipping out of my hands.”
You whisper, “That’s not love.”
His eyes flare, offended, like you’ve taken something from him.
Your chest aches. “That’s… that’s terrifying.”
He leans in closer. His mouth hovers near yours, not kissing, not yet. Like he wants you to feel the almost.
“It should be,” he murmurs. “Because you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel like this.”
The confession sits between you, raw and wrong. It should be romantic. It isn’t. It’s a warning with pretty words.
Your hand comes up, shaking, and presses against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, hard and fast, like he’s running even while standing still.
“Let me go,” you say again, quieter. “Please.”
Jungkook closes his eyes for half a second, like the word please does something to him. Like it scrapes him open.
When he opens them, he looks wrecked. He looks furious about it.
“You don’t get to say please like you’re innocent,” he whispers.
“I’m not innocent,” you whisper back, and it’s the truth. Because you know what you do too. You know you stay. You know you let him pull you back.
Jungkook’s breath hitches.
He stares at you like you’ve just handed him permission.
Then he tilts his head and finally, finally, his mouth brushes yours. Not a kiss, not properly, just a press of lips that feels like a claim. A test. A threat.
You exhale and your body leans into him before your mind can stop it.
Jungkook’s hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck. He holds you there, firm, possessive, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.
“You’re still leaving?” he murmurs against your mouth.
Your eyes burn. Your voice breaks. “I don’t know.”
He makes a low sound, almost a laugh, almost a groan. His forehead drops to yours. He closes his eyes again like he’s losing his mind.
“I hate you,” he whispers.
He opens his eyes. They’re dark and bright at the same time, desperate in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“I hate that you’re the only thing I want,” he corrects, and his thumb brushes the side of your neck like it’s a confession. “And I hate that you know it.”
You swallow. “Then be better.”
His mouth twitches. Bitter. “You don’t want better.”
He stares at you. His voice drops to something almost gentle, and it’s worse than the cruelty because it sounds like truth.
“You leave when I’m mean,” he says. “But you stay when I’m honest.”
Your throat tightens. “Jungkook…”
He kisses you properly then. Hard. Possessive. Like he’s swallowing your doubt. Like he’s trying to erase the door behind you.
You make a sound you don’t want to make. You grab his shirt without meaning to. You hate yourself. You hate him. You want more.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, eyes blazing.
“Tell me you’re done,” he says.
You breathe, shaking. “I should be.”
He nods slowly, like he’s proud. Like that’s the answer he wanted.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not.”
His hand slides down to your bag strap and he tugs, gentle but unyielding, pulling it off your shoulder like it’s nothing. Like you never packed. Like you never tried.
He tosses it aside without looking. It lands on the bed with a soft thud.
You stare at it, heart pounding.
Jungkook watches your face, waiting for you to fight. Waiting for you to leave. Waiting for you to give him an excuse to punish you or a reason to beg.
His gaze softens for half a second, like relief.
Then he ruins it, because he can’t keep anything tender alive.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip like he owns it. “All that talk and you’re still here.”
Your eyes fill. “I hate you.”
He smiles, small and sharp. “No, you don’t.”
He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper that sounds like a promise and a threat at the same time.
“You’re going to stay,” he says. “And tomorrow you’ll pretend you regret it.”
Your breath catches. “And what if I don’t pretend?”
His eyes flicker. Something vulnerable again, quick as lightning.
Then he presses his mouth to your cheek, just under your eye, where your tears are trying to form.
“You will,” he murmurs. “Because if you admit you want this, I’ll never let you forget it.”
The words hit like a shiver.
You close your eyes. You hate how your body responds. You hate how safe it feels to be held by something dangerous because at least it’s familiar.
Jungkook’s arms tighten around you, firm, possessive. He rests his mouth near your ear, breathing you in like he’s trying to calm down.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers again, and this time it doesn’t sound like anger.
It sounds like a man who has no idea how to love without turning it into ownership.
And the worst part is, you don’t open the door.
